Water Gypsies (5 page)

If this other pair were determined to push their way in without waiting for them to come up, they’d be back to square one, with all the locks set against them. And besides, there was a principle at stake – how dare they try and steal the flight of locks!

The jossers (nicknamed after Joshua Clayton, a founder of the company) were almost upon them. Their fore end was almost touching the back of the
Theodore.

‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at, you silly sods?’ Maryann yelled, furious, and frightened that the boat was going to ram them.

Seeing Joel had managed to cut in front just in time to take his rightful place in the lock, the man steering the josser motor flung it into reverse, which was the only way to stop a boat apart from driving it into the bank. Joel and Maryann, their skill honed by anger and determination to prove their point, breasted up the boats in quick time and edged side by side into Hatton’s bottom lock. Over the engine they could just hear a trail of filthy oaths and abuse being flung their way from behind. As Bobby swung the gates closed, Joel turned to Maryann, lifted his cap and saluted her for an excellent job of work. Maryann grinned back and put one thumb up and Joley stood on the counter with her laughing and cheering.

‘We beat those sodding jossers!’ he piped.

‘Joley!’
Maryann ticked him off, but she was laughing. It was such a good feeling to beat someone who was trying to put one over on you. She had felt better and more energetic in those moments than she had in weeks.

After that, they were full of energy for the Hatton flight, and always a few locks ahead of the jossers, who had to empty every lock they entered since they were in too much of a lather to get on to wait for anyone else to come down. Every time the crews caught sight of each other there was yelling and sparring, triumphant on the Bartholomews’ part, but with genuine resentment on the part of the jossers. Joel grumbled about them thinking they owned the Grand Union. Thought themselves above an S. E. Barlow boat.

The afternoon stayed warm and sunny, and halfway up the locks they received unexpected help. As Bobby was leaning on a gate to open it and let the boats through, he was joined at the other side by a man in shapeless, ill-fitting clothes, who pushed against the beam with solemn concentration. Bobby called out his thanks in his usual good-natured way.

As they waited for the next lock to fill, Maryann watched the man. It was difficult to guess his age. He could have been in his thirties, perhaps older. The sleeves of his jacket were far too short, barely reaching down below his elbows, yet his trousers were loose and too long. He walked with a strange, lumbering gait. He was a large man with heavy features and a slow, childlike look to him.

He’ll have come from the asylum,
Maryann realized. The Warwick asylum loomed to the left of them, a little further up. On fine days some of the more capable inmates did come out at times and help boaters work the locks.

A couple of locks later she took her turn on the bank, moving from lock to lock with the windlass tucked in her belt. The man kept pace with her, carefully watching her movements to see what he needed to do next. As she crossed over a pair of gates to raise the paddles on the other side, she said, ‘Ta – I could do with some help.’

The man nodded and gave a sudden laugh. He had narrow, dark eyes and his hair was receding at the front, two smooth inlets curving back into his hair line as if water had washed the hair from his scalp. ‘I can help,’ he said in a wooden voice, but she could see the eagerness behind it. ‘I can help.’

‘You from the asylum?’

He nodded, pointed at the high, forbidding building.

‘What’s your name?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Thomas.’ And snickered again.

‘Well, ta, Thomas. You’re doing a good job for us.’

All the way up the remaining locks, Maryann chose to stay on the bank, as Bobby signalled to her that the twins were asleep. Although the lock-wheeling was tiring, it was good to be off the boat, walking the bank. But she was filled with a sense of unease, which increased as the afternoon went on. Her feeling of buoyant wellbeing earlier on seeped away and she felt strange and tight inside, brushed by memory. She knew what it was: the asylum. Seeing the buildings, meeting Thomas, brought to the surface another thing she preferred not to think about. Little Margaret Lambert, the child whom Maryann’s stepfather, Norman Griffin, had brutally degraded. As her sister Amy was helpless to protect her, Margaret had tried to end her tormentor’s life in order to save her own. Margaret had been nine then. Now she’d be fifteen, a young woman. Instead of being sent for trial she was consigned to the asylum in Winson Green. One prison instead of another.

Maryann fastened her windlass onto the ratchet of one of the final set of paddles and pulled it round with all her strength, feeling the muscles work in her arms, stomach and back. She tried to let out the fury and grief which rose in her when she was assaulted by thoughts like these. Margaret in there, locked away all these years of her young life – because of him. Beginning to sob, she crossed the gates and flung herself at the second paddle. Once the gates were open, Thomas peeled off and vanished down the hill again without waiting for thanks. As the pair emerged from the lock, Maryann called to Joel, ‘I’ll walk on.’ She saw he had noticed her tears. But she knew he wouldn’t ask. Joel was cowed by emotion.

Maryann walked slowly behind the boats, glad of time to be alone. Just a few minutes away from the children, from the non-stop demands, the cabin being in a mess and the washing not done – the feeling that she just couldn’t keep up. Now thoughts of the past welled up, raw and bitter, as she walked, pushing weeds and tussocks of grass away with her feet, trying to force the past back to where it belonged: behind her. Hadn’t she come to this life to get away from all of that? To be with Joel and begin again? It was all years ago: there was nothing she could do about any of it now, so why couldn’t the memories leave her alone? But this evening her mind wouldn’t obey her, wouldn’t fold its old emotions away, and dark thoughts followed her all the way to the spot where they tied up for the night.

She had been quiet all evening. The lamp was lit and Joel sat on the side of the bed as Maryann stood undressing, legs straddling the twins, who were bedded down on the floor because she worried about them rolling off the side bed.

She could feel Joel’s eyes on her as she unbuttoned her blouse, loving him watching her, yet dreading what it might mean. She felt desperate. She loved Joel so much, but every time he touched her now she felt worried, angry that he couldn’t see how terrified she was of catching with another baby.
Why does it have to be like this?
she thought.

She had her back to him, and his warm hands reached for her, pulling her back onto his lap. He sighed with pleasure, kissing her neck, watching, over her shoulder, as his hands parted her blouse, lifting and stroking her pale breasts.

Maryann’s mind flailed from side to side like someone locked in a cupboard.

She wanted to … to … She scarcely had a name for their lovemaking. To give in to him, to give him pleasure, give him everything he wanted. But all that went with having babies crowded into her memory. Even him touching her filled her with dread and she felt panicky. She’d never felt like this before with Joel.
It’s just because I don’t want to catch for another one,
she told herself.

As Joel laid her back on the bed, Mrs Simons’s advice rang in her head. ‘Get him to pull away…’ Last time she hadn’t found the courage to say it. But she had to do something or she’d be expecting again, sick and worn out – no, she couldn’t stand it.

Hands under his shirt she stroked his wide, strong back, felt the muscles in it working as he moved in her, his excitement gathering. She struggled for words. Quick, she had to say something or it’d be too late!

‘Joel,’ she burst out desperately,‘don’t go all the way in me – pull out before you finish.’

But her words seemed to have the opposite effect and it was too late. With a low groan her husband completed the act which gave him seconds of pleasure and her weeks of fear. He stayed on top of her, face pressed close to hers.

‘What did you say to me?’ he asked, contentedly.

Maryann’s cheeks burned. She managed to make herself say, ‘I asked you to pull away – before you finished.’

There was a silence. Joel lifted his head at last, frowning. ‘What? You mean – when I’m going strong?’

‘So’s I don’t have a babby every time,’ she whispered.

She saw genuine puzzlement, hurt almost, in his eyes. She was learning about her husband, that while he was the most kind and tender of men there were certain things you couldn’t get past him on: boats and babies.

‘But we’ll get by. We always do, don’t we, eh? And think of little Harry. What if summat happens to them, eh? Then where’d we be?’

‘But I can’t do it again – not yet,’ Maryann said, stroking his face, her eyes pleading. ‘I can hardly drag myself about some days and I never get everything done.’

‘Course you do. You’re a good ’un.’ Joel kissed her. ‘Best wife and best mate a man could ask for. I’ve no complaints, my little bird.’

Tears in her eyes, she looked up at him.

‘Please. Just see if you can!’

Doubtfully he said, ‘Well – I’ll try it. But that don’t sound natural at all to me.’

Five

‘Ah – Mrs Bartholomew, how nice to see you. I’ll be with you in just a moment!’

The woman in front of Maryann in the queue at Osborne’s turned and gave her a nasty look.

Maryann, her shopping bag in one hand, Sally’s hand in the other, gave a faint smile, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. It was embarrassing to be singled out like that, but at the same time she couldn’t help being pleased. It was nice to find such a welcome. It almost gave her a sense of family.

‘Come on, let the ladies off the cut through first, they’ve got work to do!’

‘Well, so’ve the rest of us,’ someone grumbled from by the door.

Maryann and another boatwoman in the queue gratefully produced their ration books and the butcher served them straight away. As he put together Maryann’s rations, he was full of questions. Tied up at Tyseley Wharf again, were they? Loading up this morning? Pity the weather wasn’t nicer for them, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t be staying tonight then?

Handing her the bag of meat, he said, ‘And how are those two fine babbies of yours?’ As Maryann answered, he winked at Sally and beckoned her closer, slipping something into her palm.

‘One each for your brothers as well – and mind you hand them over!’ he whispered.

‘Oh – say thank you!’ Maryann instructed her daughter, and blushing even more deeply. ‘Mr Osborne’s ever so good to you.’

By the time they stepped out into the cold and rain clutching the meat rations, Sally’s cheek was already bulging with the lump of toffee Mr Osborne had given her.

‘Well – wasn’t that nice?’ Maryann said to Sally, stopping to retie her scarf round her head to keep out the wet. ‘Though I don’t know what those other people must’ve thought.’

The child wasn’t taking in anything she was saying, but was gazing dreamily round her at the street, the shops and houses. She was a sturdy, solemn little girl. Her coat, which Maryann had made herself out of a piece of wool tweed, was too big and trailed almost to the ground.

I never was much good at sewing,
Maryann thought gloomily.
At least I remembered to wipe her face before we came out.

You could only just see her little boots below the coat. Sally’s thick blonde hair looked as if it had long been stranger to a comb and her hands were grimy with coal dust, but her face was round and glowing pink in the cold. Maryann suddenly bent over and pressed her lips against the chill, peachy skin of Sally’s cheek.

‘You’re my little bab, aren’t you?’ she said fondly.

‘Why don’t we live in a house?’ Wide eyes looked up at her, topped by a slight frown.

Maryann took her hand. ‘Oh – because we’re a boater family. We don’t live in houses. But when I was a little girl I lived in a house. Over there – a few miles away. In a place called Ladywood.’ Your grandmother lives there even now, she could have said, but kept the words to herself. Her children had never met her mother.

‘Can we go there? See your house?’

‘One day. D’you remember your uncle Tony? We’ll go and see him one day soon.’

Sally and Joley were intrigued by life on the bank. She could see Sally excitedly drinking in the sights around her, even though they were in the drabbest back end of Tyseley. On Maryann the streets of Birmingham had quite the opposite effect: they filled her with a profound sense of anxiety. The later years of her childhood here had been so unhappy, tainted by experiences which robbed her of her innocence. When she went to live on the cut, hard as the life was, it gave her back something of herself. She found love, a sense of safety, enchantment even, out in the open air, with nature all round them once they were away from the cities with their soot and grime. The routine of the cut and the birth of her children had given her back something of her own childhood sense of life again, before it was spoilt and corrupted. But back here in these grey streets shadows of the past seemed to lurk, waiting to pull her down again, breaking through the peace that she’d struggled for. She liked to come back to Birmingham, but there was always a sense of relief, too, when they slid out again from between its black, confining walls. Instinctively, she took Sally’s grubby hand as they turned back round the corner into the wharf.

‘Mrs Bartholomew!’ The voice cut through her thoughts, and the clattering of chains on the hoists, the heavy thud and rattle of cargoes being loaded and unloaded around the wharf. Maryann smiled in recognition as one of the men from the toll office came over to speak to her. He was a friendly fellow, a few years her senior, with arched eyebrows which gave him a perpetually humorous look and a grin from which every other tooth seemed to be missing.