The Wanderers of the Water-Realm (2 page)

Myra raised her head from her work and she noticed that her twin brother was now awake. She rushed across the width of the kitchen to embrace him.

“Oh Darryl,” she said, clasping him tightly as he attempted to rise from the couch. “Mother gave me the good news and I hope that you keep to your resolve and fight no more in the ring.”

“Have no fear lass,” he replied, as his sister slowly relaxed her grip. “I’ll stay as tight as a tick to the navigations and leave boxing to the other fools who are willing to get their brains addled for the pleasure of others.”

He reached for his jacket, that was hanging behind the kitchen door and took a package from the inside pocket. He tore open the wrappings to reveal two pairs of finely embroidered silk handkerchiefs and presented one to each of the women.

“There you are, ladies,” he said, kissing each one of them in turn, as he handed over the gifts. “Please accept these handkerchiefs as a small memento of my good fortune, a token of my gratitude for all the help and support that you ladies have given me over the past two years. Now, for heaven’s sake, serve up the food before I perish from sheer hunger!”

The little family group enjoyed a memorable dinner and then relaxed before the fire with a bottle of Hetty’s excellent elderflower wine.The afternoon passed quickly and it seemed as though only a moment had gone by before the clock struck four and Myra was forced to depart upon her duties, leaving her mother and brother alone to keep the fire company.

Hetty poured the last of the wine into her son’s glass. “Will you stay the night? She asked. “The poultice will have done its job by now and a good night’s rest will take the last of the inflammation from that bruised chest of yours!”

But her son shook his head, reluctantly rising from his chair.

“Would that I could mother,” he replied. “But my boat is moored alongside the towpath not far from your own front door. I must go aboard and cast-off without further delay, for I’m carrying a load of bricks to be delivered to Thomas Brown, a builder in the town of Ashton-Under-Lyne; he expects us to be lying alongside the Ashton wharves by tomorrow morning at the very latest. It’s my intention to begin the unloading of the cargo, then travel by railway to Manchester and conduct my business with Uncle Robert. George, my regular boat hand, will complete the off-loading of the bricks in my absence. Afterwards, he will load an assortment of Yorkshire bound cargo and work the boat back to Elfencot with the help of a temporary boat hand. He can lay the’ Bonny Barbara’ up in the old mill branch to await my return, that will not be long, if everything goes well in Manchester.”

Hetty wrapped up the leftovers from the meal in a clean linen napkin, together with a loaf of good wheaten bread and handed the victuals to her son.

“That should keep young George going until evening,” she said with a laugh. “He’s a growing lad and he needs plenty of packing in his belly if he’s to keep up his strength. Aye and God knows, you’ll need all of his strength on that boat of yours.” The wisewoman hugged her son fondly. “Give my regards to Robert,” she said, as she escorted him to the kitchen door. “And look after yourself in Manchester!”

Darryl strode along the towpath towards the ‘Bonny Barbara,’ moored about a hundred yards west of the wisewoman’s dwelling. Looking beyond his craft he could clearly make out the crenulated entrance of the ‘Devil Hill’tunnel that lay about half a mile away. The boatmaster knew from long experience that each of the boat crews, who entered its dark mouth, faced a long two and a half hour journey beneath the barren Pennine moors, before emerging on the Yorkshire side of the long chain of hills that were often referred to as the ‘Backbone of England.’

The navigation widened as he approached the mouth of the tunnel and the boat-owner was just able to make out the beginnings of a narrow side-canal. The little waterway branched off from the main navigation running for a distance of about one hundred yards, before terminating at a dilapidated wharf that lay in the shadow of an old and long disused corn mill. The mouth of the half-forgotten branch canal was shrouded by the same tangle of trees and undergrowth that also hid the ruins of the old mill from public view. Indeed, few villagers had ever seen fit to fight their way through the bramble thickets in order to visit the isolated and broken pile. Darryl had known about the Branch canal and its derelict wharf since his earliest childhood, sometimes serving him as a quiet place to temporarily lay up his craft when trade was slack. He also used the wharf as a convenient place to regularly paint his boat and to carry out minor repairs whenever they became necessary.

Darryl turned his attention to the ‘Bonny Barbara,’ which lay moored against the towpath and he noticed that his barge horse was standing in full harness at the water’s edge with the long towing rope attached to the towing post situated just forward of amidships in the centre of the craft. George, his young boat hand had obviously anticipated his imminent return and had prepared the boat for immediate departure and the youth was already standing close to the bows with his hand upon the forward mooring rope in readiness to cast off.

The boatmaster jumped down into the cockpit of the craft, a sheltered area situated in the extreme stern of the vessel that housed the tiller and also gave access to the small cabin accommodating the boat’s crew. His first act was to take hold of the tiller and order the waiting youth to cast off without a moments delay. He placed two fingers into his mouth and blew a piercing whistle, the barge horse instantly responding by throwing the entire weight of its body against the padded collar encircling its neck. The towrope whipped taunt and the cargo vessel slowly began to gather way and started its journey down the Marquises canal; a journey that would take the narrowboat to the waterway’s junction with the Peak Forest Canal and to its eventual destination, the commercial wharves at Portland Basin in the industrial borough of Ashton-Under- Lyne.

Only when the heavily laden narrowboat was making steady progress did the boat hand join his employer in the cockpit of the craft. Darryl immediate handed him the parcel of food prepared by his mother and pointed towards the door of the tiny cabin that served as communal accommodation for the young boat-owner and his crewmembers.

“In you go lad and get some food and rest, I’ll give you a shout if I have need of you.”

The youth nodded in reply and disappeared into the cabin, leaving the complete management of the craft in the hands of his master. Indeed, Darryl anticipated little need for the lad’s assistance until the craft arrived at the junction with the Peak Forest canal, near the village of Bugsworth. He would only need the lads help if they unexpectedly met a boat coming in the opposite direction and were forced to cross the towlines in order to allow the craft to pass one another; but this was extremely unlikely, for the old Marquises’ navigation was seldom used nowadays by commercial craft, due to the bitter competition from the trans Pennine railway companies, that had driven freight charges down to rock bottom. The few narrowboat’s still using the waterway were now forced to eke out a miserable living by carrying low value commodities such as limestone and building sand. Darryl knew that he would also have been in desperate straits, but for a precious agreement with a Yorkshire brickworks, allowing him to carry bricks and roofing tiles across the uplands and deliver them to their customers in Manchester and to other towns situated upon Lancashire plain.

The young boat owner had further bolstered his financial position by purchasing boatloads of a reeking organic fertilizer manufactured at ‘Corporation Wharf’ from the contents of the privies of Manchester; this he took aboard as back cargo and sold by the ton to the farmers who cultivated the Pennine uplands. Even so, Darryl fully understood the financially precarious nature of his occupation and he knew perfectly well that his ability to continue carrying goods cheaply depended upon the blind loyalty of George, the young boat hand, who toiled relentlessly from dawn to dusk in return for only a few small coins per calendar month. However, the Sixteen year old youth’s loyalty had been well earned for Darryl had originally found the lad, some two years before, lying upon the towpath of the Peak Forest canal, delirious with enteric fever and as close to death as mattered.

The boatmasterhad taken the lad aboard the ‘Bonny Barbara’ and delivered him to Hetty’s cottage, where his mother had saved the youth’s life by a near miraculous exhibition of her healing powers.

“Aye, near miraculous indeed!” Darryl reflected as he clung to the tiller of the boat. For the lad had been cold as a stone by the time they reached Elfencot and his pulse was almost undetectable. Fortunately, both his mother and twin sister had been at home and not for the first time, he had been bundled unceremoniously from the kitchen, as the two women began practicing the most secret of their healing rituals. Once again, he had heard his mother singing a strange but haunting melody and again had smelt the acrid stench of the smouldering herbs that eventually forced him to leave the cottage and take refuge aboard his narrowboat.

He remembered returning to the cottage, some two hours later, and had re-entered the kitchen to find the youth breathing easily and obviously far from death.

Even so, it had required two months of careful nursing and a great many nourishing meals before the lad had been returned to full health and was able to leave the wisewoman’s care. George had subsequently come aboard the ‘Bonny Barbara,’ taking up the post of boat hand and had proved to be a diligent worker and a true and loyal friend.

The ‘Bonny Barbara’ progressed steadily along the line of the Marquises’navigation and by early evening the craft had finally arrived at the head of the flight of locks marking the waterway’s junction with the Peak Forest canal. Darryl then called his young assistant from the cabin and the two men had spent the remaining hours of daylight in working the narrowboat downwards until it rode safely upon the surface of the lower waterway.Afterwards, they secured the boat to its night mooring and attended to the needs of the hardworking old barge horse before gratefully retiring to their bunks for the night.

“Agood day done,” the boatmaster concluded, as he closed his eyes. “But tomorrow will be far better. For the remainder of the debt to my Uncle Robert will be fully discharged and the deeds to the ‘Bonny Barbara’ will be mine and mine alone.”