The Narrowboat Girl (25 page)

Flames immediately began to work on the dry curls of wood with a tiny crackle. Maryann stood for a moment, arms tightly folded, watching it all begin to burn.

‘Burn, burn!’ she hissed, her eyes gleaming. ‘You evil, murdering bastard, burn!’

She seemed to do everything automatically, laughing, crying, as she did so, looking round for more things to stoke the fire. There was too much brick down here, too many hard surfaces. But she
hadn’t started on upstairs yet . . .

The smoke was beginning to build up, the flames reaching up towards the chair. She’d have to get out of here, but she needed to drag the trestle table out from the chapel of rest to make
sure it carried on burning, or on the stone floor it might go out. She was coughing now, the cellar filling with smoke.

‘Burn, go on, burn!’ she urged, laying the trestles on their side amid the flames.

She heard a sound that penetrated her concentration. A bang from upstairs.

Norman. She was paralysed. It must be – he was here. Had followed her!

She stood listening, trying not to cough, but it was impossible. The smoke was getting too much. But he mustn’t get her down here! If she was to encounter Norman it must be upstairs, where
she stood a chance.

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and listened, taking in deep breaths. Nothing. Was he waiting, in that spot just by the door? She could see no shadow. The smoke was winding up the stairs with
her and the coughing was impossible to control. Suddenly, unable to bear it, she tore up the stairs into the office, just as there came another
bang
! The front door slammed shut. The office
was empty, but the door was not properly closed, had gusted open. Maryann found she was so unsteady with shaking that she had to sit down at the desk. For a few moments she put her hands over her
face and wept, distraught.

‘I’ve got to try and forget this.’ She knew even then, without time to reflect. ‘Or I’ll lose my mind thinking of it. Sal’s gone – I’ll be gone.
No more girls for ’im.’ She stood up, fiercely wiping her eyes. ‘And this place’ll be gone. I’m gunna make sure of that.’

Trying to hold her breath for as long as she could, she felt her way down the dark cellar steps once more. At the bottom she could feel the heat through the door and she picked up the paraffin
can and ran up again, gasping frantically for breath as she reached the top. She splashed some paraffin over everything she could manage: ledgers, the padded seats of the chairs, the blinds over
the windows, the contents of the desk drawers which she unlocked and took out. On opening the bottom one she paused, looking inside. In this, the deepest drawer, Norman kept his petty cash box. She
quickly searched the bunch of keys for the little one which unlocked it. There it was. She tipped all the money into her pockets.

Striking match after match, she went round the room. The blinds were already ablaze as, picking up her things, she ran out into the street and tore away along Monument Road.

Running along the cobbles which gleamed wet in the gaslight, she headed instinctively towards Garrett Street and the old yard where she’d grown up, past all those
childhood places, the Garrett Arms, dark entries into the back yards, the huckster’s shop on the corner near her house: all so familiar, and yet tonight everything felt changed. Because she
was changed. Nothing now could ever be the same again. She had to go now, to run away. She had no choice.

In the entry she slowed, treading softly. Though it was pitch dark she could remember every lump and bump in the bricks, the big hole three-quarters of the way down on the left where you could
turn your ankle and break it. In a moment she was standing under the lamp in the yard, panting, but feeling suddenly much safer.

There was no hint of dawn, the houses black against the dark sky. She had no idea what the time was. She wondered whether she should wait out the rest of the night in the brewhouse along the
yard where they kept the copper for washing clothes, but there was no telling who might come in and find her there first thing in the morning and there might be chickens and all sorts in there. No,
she’d have to knock up the Blacks and get them to take her in until she could find Joel.

She knocked cautiously on their door. When she’d paused and tried a second time the door opened and a tousled head and indignant face appeared. It was Alf Black, holding a candle. He and
Charlie, now seventeen and eighteen, slept downstairs.

‘It’s me, Maryann,’ she whispered, going up close to him. ‘Don’t make a racket, Alf, will you? I don’t want no one to know I’m ’ere.’

‘What’s going on?’ Alf demanded.

‘
Ssssh
– for ’eaven’s sakes. Can I come in?’

‘Yer do know what time it is, don’t yer?’

‘No.’

‘The middle of the fucking night, that’s what.’ All the same he stood back. ‘Lucky I got up for a piss or I’d never’ve ’eard yer – and
’e’d never’ve neither.’ Charlie was snoring on the old lumpy sofa. Maryann looked down at him with very mixed emotions. He must have lain beside Sal like that, handsome, his
dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, long dark lashes. He had loved Sal, Charlie had, or so Nance said. If he hadn’t gone off and left her, maybe she’d be alive . . . Alf stood at
a loss for a minute. ‘I’ll get Nance, shall I?’

Nancy appeared a few minutes later with a candle.

‘Maryann? What’s going on? Flamin’ ’ell, you stink like Smoky Joe. What’ve yer been doing?’

‘Can I stop ’ere for a bit?’ Maryann heard her voice turning tearful. ‘I don’t want them to know where I am. I’ve done summat terrible, Nance.’

Nance eyed her brother. ‘Come up and yer can bunk down with me. You go back to bed, Alf, and keep yer trap shut about this, awright?’

Nance shared one of the two upstairs rooms with Percy, William, George and Horace. Maryann snuggled down with Nance on her single mattress on the floor.

‘Come on then,’ Nance whispered. ‘Out with it.’

‘Cross yer heart and hope to die yer won’t tell no one?’

‘Cross my heart.’ Maryann felt Nance going through the motions of crossing herself in the dark.

‘I set fire to Norman’s offices – I ’ope I’ve burned the ’ole bloody lot down!’

‘You
what
? What did yer do that for?’

‘Because ’e . . .’e . . .’ Maryann felt a sudden lurching inside her, as if she might be sick and she sat up, gulping. She was still shaking.

‘You awright?’ Nance sprang up again as well.

Maryann fought back the feeling. She felt so strange. All the time since she’d found Sal she’d felt peculiar, as if disconnected from everything around her, from her own feelings.
She didn’t know she was in shock. She just felt as if she was living behind a glass wall which she couldn’t reach through.

‘I can’t tell you, Nance. I just can’t. But Norman Griffin’s not like what ’e seems at all, you know, kind and a gentleman. It’s all lies. ’E killed our
Sal, Nance – ’e did . . .’

‘Maryann! What’re you saying? You’ve ’ad a terrible time with Sal . . . dying and that. But that can’t be right, can it? Yer stepdad daint
kill
’er
– she . . .’ Nance paused. ‘She ended ’er own life, Maryann.’

Maryann was shaking her head. ‘I ’ad to do it. I ’ad to get ’im somehow. ’E killed our Sal . . .’ She was gulping again. Nance’s arms came round her,
warm and comforting.

‘Oh now, Maryann, there, there. I know yer in a state – and yer can stop ’ere with us for a bit if it’ll make you feel better. Our mom won’t mind . . .’

‘I’m going away—’

‘Are yer?’ She could tell Nance was humouring her and didn’t really believe her. She was stroking her arm. ‘Where’re yer going then?’

‘I can’t tell yer.’

‘Awright then, Maryann. Look – you lie down ’ere with me, eh? We’ll get some kip and see ’ow things look in the morning.’

‘They mustn’t know I’m ’ere!’ Maryann was still rigid, resisting lying down. ‘The coppers’ll be after me.’

‘Awright, awright . . .’

‘I
mean
it! I need ’elp, Nance. This ain’t pretend, you know. If them lot see me’ – she jerked her head towards the sleeping boys –
‘they’ll be gabbing away to everyone.’

‘No they won’t – we’ll just say yer’ve come to stay for a bit. They ain’t interested. Come on – lie down.’

Maryann tried to sleep, but felt by the morning that she hadn’t had a wink. The bed was cramped, there were mice scuttling round the room and she was too churned up with emotion. She got
up to face the mayhem that was the Blacks’ household.

Nance told the boys Maryann had just come round to ‘stop for a day or two’ after which they lost interest. Maryann met Blackie on the stairs, clad in a greyish singlet and trousers,
who said vaguely, ‘Awright? What’re yer doing ’ere then?’ but he didn’t stop long enough to wait for an answer.

Cathleen noticed she was there sure enough. In the midst of all her sons guzzling down bits of bread, she sat feeding Lizzie who was kicking her legs enthusiastically as she suckled. Cathleen
had a cold and a hacking cough and kept wiping her red nose on an old rag. When Maryann and Nance came down she squinted with her lopsided eyes, the rag halfway to her nose, then let out a huge
sneeze.

‘Oh – oh . . . atchoo! Jesus, Mary and Joseph – where did you spring from in the night?’

‘Maryann just wanted to stop ’ere for a bit,’ Nance said, making faces that indicated she’d tell more when her brothers were out of the way.

She sat Maryann down and gave her a jam jar of weak tea and a slice of dry bread, which made Maryann feel a bit better. She had scarcely eaten all week.

Cathleen stirred herself from her chair to chase her husband and children out to work and school. As soon as she moved she began coughing again, doubled up with it.

‘Oh—’ she groaned. ‘I got through four pair of bloomers coughing last night – I’ll be washing all morning . . .’

‘Is it awright if I stay for a night or two?’ Maryann said, hesitantly. ‘I can give yer some money . . .’

‘Don’t be daft, course yer can,’ Cathleen said, shooing the youngest ones out of the door. ‘So long as your mother don’t mind.’

‘They mustn’t know I’m ’ere.’

Cathleen turned, Lizzie under one arm. ‘Ah now – I’m not so sure about that. Why’s that then?’

‘Please,’ Maryann begged. She searched round for a reason. ‘Mom and me ’ad a bit of a ding-dong. It’s only for a while.’

Cathleen gave a wan smile. ‘Ah well. Can’t say I ever liked yer mother, she’s a stuck-up bit o’ stuff if ever I saw one. So she won’t get nothing out of
me.’

Nance grinned. ‘Thanks, Mom.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Black,’ Maryann said. ‘I’d best get off to work now.’

The light was fading as Maryann waited at Camp Hill Locks, later that week, her bundle of possessions in her arms. She was waiting close to the cut, as she had waited now for
most of the time since she had run away. The Blacks thought she was at work. Each morning she left the house after breakfast and went to the cut. That first day she said goodbye to Nance when she
turned off to go to the laundry and hurried to the toll house where she thought the
Esther Jane
was most likely to come through.

‘You back again, are yer?’ the man said. ‘Darius Bartholomew? S’far as I know they’re still working down the Oxford, tekking what comes. I’d say they’d
be through ’ere soon if they’m coming. I ain’t seen ’em in a while.’

She spent the days walking to keep warm. She had enough money to buy food and cups of tea to keep a bit warmer. The coins in Norman’s cash box had added up to four pounds, eleven and
sixpence and she felt great satisfaction in spending it on her own comfort. She was afraid of missing the
Esther Jane
but knew she could ask at the toll house. Most of the day she walked
along the bank, sometimes sitting down for a while or leaning against a bridge to watch the activity on the cut, but it was too cold to rest for long. These were cold, brittle days. You could see
your breath on the air all day long. Under her coat she had on a warm dress and woolly jumper and stockings, though her heels were through them like potatoes and her shoes were too small and
pinched her feet. On the second day she went up into Small Heath and looked round the pawn shops for another pair, but she could find nothing but battered old shoes that were all too big. In the
end she decided to spend fifteen shillings of Norman’s money on a new pair of brown boots with sturdy soles.

These’ll be good for on the cut, she thought, walking along, breaking them in. She kept looking proudly down at her feet. She felt no guilt whatever at having stolen Norman’s money.
The boots were like the sign of a new life. But she was very, very lonely. The ache in her to see Joel was almost overwhelming. Joel, who was the only person left who felt like family, who had
shown her real affection and tenderness. If only they’d come and she could climb on board with them and feel safe and warm at last!

That evening, as the sun was setting, the night growing even colder, she was standing at Camp Hill Locks, where a conglomeration of bridges crossed over the cut as the road, railway and canal
all met. She was hungry, her hands and feet were frozen and she felt low and desperate. The sun was setting and the cold becoming more intense, the air sharp and smoky. A line of joey boats was
queueing to get through the locks and into basins for the night, all in a hurry to get tied up, and Maryann watched as a fight broke out between two men when one tried to barge in ahead. The loud,
cursing voices and snarling expressions jarred right through her, making her feel all the more lonely and desolate as if they were attacking her. It seemed to stand for all the anger and meanness
in the world and she turned and walked away, her arms folded across her chest, her head down and despair in her heart.

She longed to go back to the warm, fuggy atmosphere of the Blacks’ house, but it was only about six o’clock. If the Bartholomews were putting in a long hard day it could be ten
o’clock before they came into Birmingham. She walked on, past the dark backs of warehouses.

She had walked up and down for another half-hour when a family boat came out of the darkness, its dim headlight moving steadily towards her. Her heart began to race. Surely she could make out
the faint glow of white patches on the horse! She tried to keep her hope at bay – she couldn’t bear the disappointment if it wasn’t them.