The Narrowboat Girl (29 page)

As she put the tray down and knocked on Roland Musson’s door, the thought came to her that not once, in all the time she had been at Charnwood House, had Roland ever felt dangerous to her
in this way.

‘Come!’

The door swung open. He had actually got up off the bed and opened it for her. Maryann stood in the doorway, astonished.

‘Thank you.’ She bent for the tray but he said, ‘Allow me,’ and swooped down beside her, looking like a tousled-haired little boy.

‘Another delicious breakfast,’ he said, sniffing at the toast. ‘I’m well ready for it today.’

‘You won’t be needing me then.’

‘Oh yes, do come in. Come and do some of your tidying up or something.’

‘But—’ Usually she worked on his room later, once he’d gone out.

‘Don’t argue. I don’t mind you doing your work with me in the room.’ He closed the door behind them. ‘In fact, you’re one of the few things that breaks the
monotony round here.’

He sat on the bed, pulling the small table close to put the tray on, and began to eat. Uncertain for a moment, Maryann looked round the room, then began to pick up Roland Musson’s clothes
which were thrown on the floor all round the chair. As she was folding his shirt, trying not to watch him eating as it seemed rude, he said, ‘How long have you been here now,
Nelson?’

‘Five years last November, sir.’

‘Extraordinary. Is it really that long? God, what an appalling thought.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Well, here’re you, five years later, grown-up, opening up like a bud and a lovely one at that. Moving on, you know. And here am I, thirty-three years old, stuck here like an old
fossil in a lump of rock.’

Maryann hesitated and looked across into his eyes. She felt she had to be very careful what she said. ‘You had to go through the war, sir.’

‘So did plenty of others. I’m not the only chap in England who’s terrified of sleep, you know. Did you lose anyone in the war?’

‘Yes, sir. My father. At least – no, well he didn’t die in the war . . .’

Roland paused, a spoonful of egg in mid-air. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘He didn’t die in the war. It just felt as if ’e did – in a way.’

‘Yes.’ He pointed the spoon at her. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly. You’re a sharp girl, Nelson.’

After a moment he said, ‘I suppose you find me a useless piece of goods. The way I’ve never picked up.’

‘No, sir.’ Not useless. What was more puzzling to her was that there was no
necessity
for him to work. It went against everything she had grown up used to.

‘Don’t pretend to me, Nelson, please. I have buried myself alive here. Buried in the safety of mother love and a full belly. But d’you know what?’

He waited for her to speak.

‘What – sir?’

‘I almost think that one day I shall leave here. I shall do it. Resurrect myself. Live.’

Maryann said nothing, not knowing what to say. She picked up his shoes and laid them straight on the gold carpet. They were very big, moulded touchingly into the shape of his feet.

‘D’you think I could manage it? I shall go to . . . to, let’s say, Algeciras. Yes. What about that?’

‘I – I don’t know where that is.’

‘It’s somewhere Johnny always wanted to go, you know. Don’t know why now. Its name seemed to have a magic for him. Algeciras . . .’ He drifted off into silence. Often he
couldn’t finish a conversation, lost the thread of it somewhere.

‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s all a great pity.’

That afternoon when Maryann had finished her lunch-time duties she went up to change. Hers was a small attic room, with a rug on the bare floorboards, but with a high window
facing over the drive and she had grown very fond of it. She had few possessions, but over the years had accumulated things to decorate the walls; pictures from magazines of soft-faced, smiling
ladies with silken clothes. She loved to look at them and imagine dressing up like that herself. And now spring was here she had gathered a little posy of flowers from the garden. Last time she had
been out, as she sometimes did in the evening, she had come across Roland, walking up from the lower end pushing a wheelbarrow. Usually if she wanted flowers she asked Sid or Wally. This time
though, she had not even had to ask. Roland had lowered the handles of the barrow, stepped over and picked several sprigs of orange flower which he presented to her with a shy gallantry.

‘There you are. I expect you’d like those. All women like flowers, don’t they?’

She’d thanked him, startled. The flowers were still sitting in the jar in her room and the scent of them came to her powerfully every time she went in. Poor Master Roland, she thought,
smiling at them. His awkwardness had touched her. What would become of him?

She changed out of the grey dress and white cap and apron which made up her morning uniform and put on her one summer frock, a cotton dress in a pretty blue floral print which Pamela Musson had
handed on to her, and put some money in her purse. She now earned ten shillings a week at Charnwood House, but apart from a few small necessities found little to spend her money on, and she had
savings of almost thirty pounds which she kept in her room, wrapped in an old handkerchief. She had long grown out of her boots bought for working on the cut, so she kept her black work shoes on,
picked up her cardigan and set off downstairs. She planned to walk into Banbury and post another note she had written to Tony. Of course, the family could have moved house by now for all she knew,
but every couple of months she dropped him a few lines, and included messages for Billy. It was hard to believe that Billy must be nearly ten by now – and Tony was old enough to start work.
Billy had most likely forgotten who she was, but even if that was true, she wanted her brothers to know she still thought of them and cared for them.

Carrying the letter she crept down the attic stairs, then the back stairs to the kitchen, where she found Cook dozing on an upright chair by the window, her head sagging on to her chest. Sensing
someone standing close to her she woke with a start and looked, for a few seconds, quite demented.

‘Oh! Maryann you didn’ ’alf make me jump. Ooh my word!’ she grumbled, clutching her chest. ‘What’re you creeping about like that for? I thought you was off
out.’

‘Where’s Evan?’ Maryann whispered.

‘Oh ’e’s gorn – ’alf ’n hour back I should think.’

‘Oh good. That’s awright.’ She felt she was breathing more easily. ‘I’ll be off myself then.’

She walked down the drive of Charnwood House, along the scented border of flowers, between the tall elms, all pushing out fresh green leaves, and on to the side lane that, after about half a
mile, joined the main road to Banbury. At the road she stopped for a moment, emerging from the shade of the trees, put her head back and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face
and arms. It was a warm, calm afternoon and she breathed in deeply, luxuriating in a few hours of freedom.

She walked quite briskly along the road, bordered on each side by hedges, hawthorn and blackthorn and buttercups, bindweed and blue field madder in the grass beside them. Young blackbirds and
thrushes twittered from the hedges. After a few moments she stopped, moved close to the hedge and looked across to the field beyond. It was a rough pasture and a short distance away she could see
the white tails of rabbits as they bucked nervously around a warren, so far oblivious to her presence. Maryann smiled, watching them. A gentle breeze ruffled the grass, but otherwise it was very
quiet, not a sound except for the birds. Somewhere over there must be the cut, winding through the fields. She looked down, suddenly aware of herself, standing here alone, with time to think. It
seemed very
odd
suddenly that she was here in this life so divorced from her childhood.

How did I get here? she thought. Here am I, nearly twenty – I could be here doing this for the rest of my life. She turned the envelope in her hands and looked at her brother’s name.
‘Master Tony Nelson’. He was supposed to be Tony Griffin, but she would never, never call him that. This was her family now: two boys who she might never see again. She didn’t
count her mom. A great feeling of loneliness came over her. Would she never have anyone to call her own? Would her whole life be spent here? She might become a lady’s maid, but then
wouldn’t she just be a dried-up, middle-aged woman, living through all the events of the Mussons’ life instead of having any real happiness of her own? The bleakness of this outlook
brought tears to her eyes. Until now, Charnwood had offered the haven she needed. It had brought her a sense of calm. But now it suddenly didn’t seem to be nearly enough.

She walked on, wiping her eyes, deep in thought, no longer noticing the beauty around her, and turned on to the main road. For the first time in a very long while, she allowed herself to think
about the events that had driven her to this place. Sal’s death, the fire, Joel . . . Joel’s betrayal of her, the disgust she had felt. She relived that journey down to Banbury on the
cut, the night he had taken her out to the fields, trying to see his face in her mind. The lust in it, the disgusting, frightening emotions that drove men . . . Joel’s face swam into her
mind, lit by the silver light of that winter night.

‘I’ve such feelings for you . . .’ He’d said that. She hadn’t heard, she’d only panicked and fought him off. That face had been full of Joel’s
tenderness and shame and bewilderment.

I was only a child, she thought, clinging bitterly to her anger. He shouldn’t’ve done that to me.

But now the memories came to her of the feeling of being held by him, the comfort and power of him, the sense of safety he had always given her. Had she made a mistake? Had she got it all wrong
and twisted because she was young and in a terrible state? She stopped, looking up the road. Joel was long gone now, of course – she couldn’t say any of this to him. But she needed to
admit it to herself. There was a gateway up ahead and she decided to go and rest on it, to let herself think for a little while, however much it hurt.

On her usual visits to Banbury what Maryann normally liked to do was to spend a couple of hours strolling round the town, along the Horsefair, past the famous Banbury Cross,
looking in the windows of shops, perhaps buying a few small things, sometimes more notepaper to write to Tony. She would often treat herself to a cup of tea and a Banbury cake in one of the
teashops. Today she bought a stamp and posted Tony’s letter, first kissing the envelope.

‘Hope yer get this, Tony,’ she murmered, slipping it into the posting box. Her hand was shaking as she held it out. ‘I hope yer awright, you and Billy. God bless yer
both.’

She began her usual wandering, peering in the window of a china shop at the beautiful Wedgwood cups and saucers, the pretty ornaments, little vases and painted animals. Further along was a
dressmaker’s and haberdashery store. Should she buy a length of poplin to make a skirt? But her heart wasn’t in it. She wasn’t very good at sewing, even with all the help and
guidance Mrs Letcombe had given her, and today she couldn’t seem to keep her mind on anything. She found herself wandering purposelessly among the Banbury streets, across the Market Place
amid the clamour of the busy vendors and shoppers and smells of food.

Before she realized it she found warehouses growing up around her, the scents of bread and fruit fading to be replaced by more grimy smells of coal and dust, wharf buildings growing up around
her and the sudden sight and smell of the cut. She had only once been back to the cut before, further along, when she wandered there by mistake a few years earlier. Since then she had kept away
deliberately.

The sight of it flooded in on her. A pair of narrowboats were gliding towards her, towed by a stringy mule, his reflection shimmering in the grey, murky water. A great rush of memories flooded
into her mind. The cabin of the
Esther Jane
, the beauty of the Oxford Canal when she had seen it in glorious summertime and with the white frost of winter. And the steady, tranquil glide of
the boat, with Joel at the tiller, his great strong arm guiding her. In her mind she heard his laugh, the way she had heard it that first time she met him, then later, when she ran to him in the
dark by the lock. She found tears welling in her eyes again at the thought of him, at the love she had for him that she had rejected, that she had run from and turned her back on.

‘Oh Joel,’ she whispered. ‘Wherever you are – I shouldn’t have run away from you like that!’

She went back to Charnwood House to start work that evening. When she walked into the kitchen Evan was there, leaning nonchalantly against the table talking to Alice.

’’Ello, Maryann,’ Alice said. ‘D’you ’ave a nice afternoon?’

‘Yes, ta,’ Maryann said abruptly, walking past them both. ‘I’ll take the water upstairs,’ she added.

One of her tasks in the evening was to carry up the heavy brass cans of hot water which the family used for their evening wash before dinner, draping them with a towel to keep the heat in before
the water was poured into the porcelain basins. Polishing the cans was also one of her daily duties. Once they were down having their dinner, she and Janet, the third housemaid, had to scurry round
tidying rooms, picking up dropped clothes, plumping cushions and, in winter, brushing round the grate and refuelling the fire. In the summer the workload was lighter.

She took Pamela Musson’s water to her room and found her lolling on her bed. ‘Oh my – is it that time already?’ she said languorously. Next, Maryann went down and fetched
Roland’s water. Once the cans were full they were quite arduous to carry. She felt herself starting to sweat. She hoped Roland wouldn’t be in his room as he always seemed to want to
delay her these days. But when she knocked he called, ‘Come!’

‘Your water, sir.’

‘Ah – it’s the lovely Nelson again.’ He’d clearly just come in from the garden and was still dressed in his working clothes. There was a glass of whiskey on the
table and she could smell it in the air. ‘Very civil of you, Nelson,’ Roland said. ‘Pour it in – usual place.’ He held out his arm expansively.