Another Chance, Another Life Read online

  The manager listened, nodding, to the supervisor’s whispered explanation, his eyes set on Kathy. ‘So,’ he finally said. ‘You want a job?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And you’ve worked the tills before?’

  ‘When I was a student – it helped to put me through the university, then teacher training.’

  ‘Which brands?’

  Kathy blinked: he would mean which supermarket chains, she guessed. She told him, trying to remember how long she had worked for each of them

  He grimaced. ‘You’re a bit overqualified for this. Some of the guys might give you a hard time because of that. . . .’

  ‘I can hold my own.’

  The grimace became a smile. ‘Dare say you can. OK. We’ve no full-time work right now, but you need to prove to us on a part-time basis that you can hack it. I can give you three days a week – probably in half-shifts. You’ll have to fit into the gaps we have in our staffing, and these might not always suit you. And you’ll be expected to help out with the shelf-stacking, when there’s no call for you on the tills.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  The manager rose, shook her hand. ‘Jean here will take you through the paperwork. Best of luck. Any serious problems, bring them to her – or me. Minor problems, you’re expected to sort these out yourself.’

  ‘I understand.’ He meant cat-spats. Kathy gathered her bags again.

  Half an hour later, she was walking home, a broad smile on her face. Her first week’s work already organized, and her first overtime looming. She had no illusions: the work oscillated between boring and being run off your feet. But anything was better than hanging about, waiting for the phone to ring and the post to come. When neither ever did.

  She was whistling when she reached her flat. Going into her kitchen, she dumped her bags on the worktop and filled the kettle. A coffee would go down very nicely. Pity she’d nobody to share her good news with. . . .

  Only, she had. Did mobile phones work on canal boats? So far as she knew, they worked anywhere. One way to find out. She opened her phone, went to contacts and scrolled down to Becky’s number.

  What was her friend doing, she wondered, listening. Had she fallen into the canal yet? Or got seasick?

  ‘Rebecca Calderwood. . . .’

  ‘Well, Becky. Have you met the Ancient Mariner yet?’ Kathy demanded.

  ‘He’s standing right beside me – aren’t you, Noel?’ Kathy heard a gurgle of laughter, then: ‘You’re not old enough to understand what he’s just replied. . . .’

  ‘One last shove,’ urged Mike, as the light faded. He was leaning at her side, his back against the lock gate’s ancient wooden beam, helping her to close it now that the Ella Mae was through.

  Becky felt like she had run a marathon. It had taken them all afternoon to rise through the 22 locks of the Wigan Flight. The first few locks were a total mystery as Mike and the lock keepers told her what to do. Now, she could go through lock gates in her sleep.

  She felt the beam bump slowly against her back: the gates were closed.

  ‘I know,’ she said wearily. ‘Now we wind the paddles down, to make the gates more watertight. I’ll do it. The crank’s here, at my feet.’

  He watched her stubbornly winding down the ancient mechanism. Halfway up the Flight he had seen her study blistered palms. You get callouses the hard way in canal travel. His own hands were tough as leather and rough as sandpaper.

  She would do, he thought. This was a woman with grit and determination.

  ‘Back to your ship,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll moor her a couple of hundred yards up the bank. There’s a decent canal-side pub up there. You can buy a meal – and save yourself the cooking.’

  Becky looked at him gratefully. He had coaxed her through the longest and hardest-working day in her life, never once raising his voice, or sounding impatient, always making sure she could handle everything she would have to face alone, when he was gone. But quietly doing his share, helping out.

  ‘Won’t you stay for a meal?’ she asked. ‘We couldn’t have managed this without you.’

  ‘No, I’ll have to go,’ he replied. ‘I’ll walk down to the bus route, and catch a bus to Burnley. Get another to Foulridge from there – or phone a mate to collect me. I’ll see you safely moored. Noel’s had as much as he can cope with, today – more than he’s done in months, I suspect.’

  ‘He’s more like the Noel of old,’ she marvelled. ‘Not the old man who drew back into his shell when he lost my aunt.’

  ‘She was one feisty lady,’ Mike smiled.

  ‘She was everything to him – they had no children.’

  ‘But now you and Jonathon have given him a new purpose in life.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Evening was falling on the canal. Already lights were springing up in the dusk below them. They had climbed through Wigan and were now looking down on the sprawling town. Up ahead, she could see two other canal boats moored, lights already lit in the cabin windows. Beyond them, lights were showing at the canal-side pub. They had passed dozens of these on their way here, once watering holes for the boatmen who lived and worked on the canal, now cheerful village pubs or characterful inns in the heart of the docklands.

  ‘I wish you could stay the night,’ she said. ‘Go home tomorrow.’

  ‘No buses – and not enough room in the boat. It’s OK, I’m less than a couple of hours from home. Road travel’s a whole lot faster than struggling through swing bridges and locks.’

  He held the stern rope while she stepped aboard, and she sensed a hand near her elbow, if she stumbled. Typical Mike: considerate, without making a fuss of it. She was going to miss his calm, strong presence. Today had been tough, so much to learn, the terrain the most difficult they would face, up to the Yorkshire Dales. Tomorrow, she would be totally on her own, with her crew.

  Would they remember all their lessons from today?

  They waved him off, once he had helped them moor the Ella Mae. A tall figure, travel bag lost in a huge hand, walking down the lane between the pub and the straggling houses. Then he was gone.

  ‘You don’t often get that,’ Noel said quietly. ‘Three real gentlemen – in every sense of the word – in three successive generations. You would never think that he was once the toughest striker in top-flight football. Hard, but fair. He got his share of English caps, before that knee injury. It happened before we sent our millionaire players over to specialist sports surgeons in America, and it finished his career. Such a shame. He was good.’

  ‘Was he famous?’ Jonathon asked.

  ‘He’s still a living legend to fans in Leeds and Newcastle.’

  ‘You’d never guess,’ said Becky. ‘Right. Hands washed, then we crawl to the pub for supper.’

  ‘Not me,’ Noel said apologetically. ‘I’m knackered. Take young Jon up, and get them to plate three meals for us. It’s common, near the canal. They trust you to bring back the plates – already washed. I’ll set the table.’

  ‘Are you OK, Noel?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Never been better. Go on. I’m hungry. Take Jon as your bodyguard.’

  A gentle jest, but Becky saw her son’s shoulders stiffen, and his head come up proudly. Ready to protect his mum.

  ‘Noel,’ she said. ‘You are a magician.’

  ‘Just a newspaperman. A chameleon. Changing into whatever shape I need to be. Invisible, always watching, always taking notes. Unless from my wallet.’

  ‘This meal’s on me,’ she laughed.

  The pub was quiet, the staff friendly, and the smell of food made her realize how hungry she was, and how long it had been since they had eaten. They hurried back to the boat, the foil-wrapped dishes warm in her hands.

  On the bank, she stopped. Swallowed. Their new home: light shining cheerfully through its curtained windows, the cabin warm against the nip of cold which was coming down. And the table set, neat as any restaurant. With an opened bottle of wine already breathing.


  ‘Are you going to make a habit of smuggling booze in your cases?’ She pointed an accusing finger at Noel.

  He grinned up at her. ‘Only when it’s needed,’ he said.

  She unwrapped the foil and set the plates down in front of them.

  Noel carefully poured wine into their glasses. ‘There’s a Coke in the fridge for you,’ he said to Jonathon. As the lad rose to get it, he raised his glass. ‘To our future, Becky. May it give us not what we want, but what we need, to grow.’

  They gently clinked glasses.

  ‘Noel,’ she said. ‘You’re a wise old bird. Are we really going to make it – cope with locks, bridges, jobs and schools and everything?’

  ‘Why not?’ he answered. ‘The day-to-day stuff is not a problem – we’ll be working through that as a team. It’s the bigger picture which is important. Only you can build your future. Only you can choose where you really want to go. . . .’

  Chapter 3

  For the very first time since they had started out, three days before, there was real warmth in the sun. They basked, rather than huddled, in the steering well, as the Ella Mae slowly putt-putted along the canal. The flatlands of the Lancaster Pool dropped behind them, then the seven-lock stretch of Withnell Fold – child’s play, after the Wigan Flight. They found themselves navigating eastwards through a steep and thickly wooded valley to Blackburn, the noise of the motorway drumming down through the trees.

  ‘Why is there a path at the side of the canal?’ asked Jonathon.

  ‘An echo of the past,’ said Noel. ‘Diesel engines were only put into canal boats from the 1930s. Before then, they were towed by teams of horses with one of the canal family leading them. There were stables in all the villages, for the horses overnight – or the horses were simply tethered to feed off the grass at the side of the towpath.’

  ‘Cool!’ said Jonathon.

  ‘Not if you were a horse,’ smiled Becky. ‘Pulling forty tonnes was sheer hard work.’

  ‘At least forty tonnes,’ corrected Noel. ‘Some canal boats were up to twice as long as us, and sixty to eighty tonnes.’

  ‘Did the Ella Mae have a team of horses?’ Jonathon wondered.

  ‘Probably one, maybe two horses.’

  ‘Did they eat hay?’

  ‘They were thin and hungry. They ate anything – grass, weeds, even leaves from the bushes as they walked past.’

  ‘Cool!’ Jonathon said.

  ‘From the Waterways Guide, that was Millfield Bridge we just went under,’ Becky muttered. ‘We’ll soon be in Blackburn. There’s a half-dozen locks through the town and I think we should stop now for lunch.’

  ‘There are some moorings up ahead,’ said Noel. ‘Let’s have a break. And I think there’s a nice place to moor, near a lake, just before we reach Norden. It’s about as far as you can get from the M65 . . . so it should be more peaceful there.’

  ‘I see it,’ said Becky, studying the map. Bridges and locks meant even slower travel than before. She calculated, ‘Then that will take us to supper time – you’ve done this route before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Often,’ said Noel. ‘Blackburn’s about halfway along the length of the canal. It’s only about forty miles further – four days’ sailing – to where I’m planning to take you.’

  He studied her face: its worry lines were already fading, her skin browning from constant exposure to the wind. Another Romany in the making, he thought wryly. ‘Well, lassie, how do you like living rough?’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Becky.

  ‘And you, Jon?’ smiled Noel.

  ‘It’s cool,’ said Jonathon.

  ‘We’re going to have to increase that vocabulary,’ Noel sighed.

  The wind across the Ribble Estuary made running a physical challenge. Kathy had her iPod on and was humming along with it. Then the mood changed, and one of her favourite tracks started playing. Her humming broke into song and she started giving the lyrics big licks.

  Suddenly, her voice faltered, as she became conscious of someone running alongside her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, taking out the earpiece. ‘Didn’t know anyone was there . . . where have you come from? Been short-cutting across the fields again?’

  The suntanned face broke into a grin. ‘No. I’ve been overtaking you, from way back, and decided to slow down and share a mile or two.’

  Kathy was outraged. People didn’t overtake her – she did the overtaking. ‘I must have got caught up in singing, and slowed down,’ she muttered darkly.

  ‘Then it must have been a very long song. You were only a tiny dot on the horizon, when I saw you first.’

  ‘You’re fibbing!’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘But you’re not even panting,’ she accused.

  ‘These last two races we’ve had have got me back into shape.’

  They shared a wry grin, knowing the other brought out the worst – or was it the best – in them. Three times they had tried to run each other into the ground, without succeeding. Two fit athletes, enjoying the contest.

  ‘You weren’t out running yesterday morning,’ he said.

  ‘I was working a half-shift at the supermarket.’

  He looked surprised. ‘I didn’t know you worked at a supermarket,’ he said.

  ‘Only just started. I was a teacher. Now I’m out of work, looking for another teaching job.’

  ‘That’s tough,’ he said. ‘Not a good time to find a new job.’

  ‘Meanwhile, working at the tills makes ends meet.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He hesitated. ‘My name’s David. David Harrison.’

  ‘Kathy Woodford.’

  ‘How long have you been teaching? Like the work?’

  ‘Love it. I love watching a kid improve, and thinking: I did that . . . I made the difference. . . . But if they’re not willing, you can’t teach them, so the first thing you have to do is get them to accept you. Treat them as equals, let them see you’re human. Never talk down to them, or at them, treat them like another adult almost. . . .’ She stopped. ‘You’re trying to get me out of breath before we start,’ she accused. ‘That’s cheating.’

  ‘Me? Do I look like somebody who would cheat?’

  ‘You’re a runner. You would make your granny climb three flights of stairs, before you raced her!’

  David laughed. ‘Absolutely. Otherwise, she’d beat me.’

  ‘We’re two of a kind. What do you do for work, yourself?’

  ‘I’m an architect. Have my own small practice, working from home.’

  ‘So you run when you need to take a break?’

  ‘Just about.’ A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he gently increased his stride, moving away from her. ‘Bye,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Good try.’ Effortlessly, she came level. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, and accelerated.

  He stayed with her, then, when she eased off, crammed on more pace.

  For a second, she was stranded, then gradually fought herself back alongside him. ‘That was sneaky,’ she panted. ‘Race you to the pier. Last one’s a. . . .’

  She found herself talking to his back.

  ‘Right!’ she said indignantly. ‘If that’s the way you want it. . . .’

  Fifteen minutes later, they were hunched side-by-side, hands on knees and whooping for breath to feed oxygen into their aching, burning muscles.

  ‘We’re going to kill ourselves if we go on like this,’ he finally gasped.

  ‘I won,’ she wheezed.

  ‘In your dreams!’

  They grinned at each other.

  Kathy was a modern woman. When the idea came to her, she didn’t waste time weighing it up. ‘I’m off-shift tonight,’ she panted. ‘How about meeting for dinner? I’ll fill you full of rice pudding, then race you again tomorrow.’

  A shadow crossed his face.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t do nights.’

  Kathy’s face burned. ‘Not a problem,’ she said brightly. ‘Well, I�
��m off – there could be fifty letters waiting, all offering me a job. See you.’

  She turned, and ran blindly through the tourist shops towards the Arcade, her stride and breathing ragged, her body not yet recovered. Running hurt. More than it should have done.

  ‘Rats!’ she thought. She’d blown it. Too much in-his-face. Pity. She liked the man, as in really liked, as in was interested in exploring what this strange, racing friendship could build into.

  David watched her go, and shook his head.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he said quietly. ‘Not like that at all. . . .’

  With heavy legs, and a heavier heart, he began to jog across the town.

  They left the industrial landscapes behind, crossed the small aqueduct at Nelson, and climbed through the locks into countryside again at Barrowford. Another long day, with more than its share of locks – they were reaching the Pennines summit of the canal towards which they had climbed steadily since leaving Ormskirk.

  ‘Where’s Mike Preston’s boatyard?’ Becky asked casually.

  Too casually, she thought, and frowned.

  Noel didn’t notice. ‘At the Wharf, just beyond the Foulridge Tunnel,’ he replied. ‘On the edge of the village.’

  ‘And he’s definitely coming over to take us through?’

  ‘Yes. Only experienced skippers are allowed to navigate the tunnel. It can be seriously tight, if you meet another canal boat coming in the opposite direction – no place for amateurs. Let’s get to Wanless Bridge, before we phone him.’

  Jonathon climbed into the steering well.

  ‘Have you finished your homework?’ Becky asked sternly.

  ‘All done. When do we get to the tunnel? Tell me about it, Noel.’

  ‘It’s a mile long, right through the hill. Dug out with picks and shovels and human sweat and the odd blast of black powder, that’s what people used before they had dynamite. It’s the only stretch of the entire canal where there is no towpath. That would have meant too big a tunnel for engineering knowledge back then – and they’d never have got horses through it anyway. Only pit ponies would ever tolerate that amount of darkness.’ He paused. ‘Have you heard about the Foulridge cow, Becky?’