Christmas at Tuppenny Corner Page 2

  It was late summer and the towpath was lit by the large round silver moon which hung low in the ink-dark sky, its bright reflection shining on the surface of the canal. On warm nights like this, when the air was still and all the bargees were tucked up in their beds fast asleep, Rosie would often sit on the deck of the Wild Swan, listening to the symphony of nightlife that surrounded her. Owls hooting their presence while badgers shuffled their way through the copses and, occasionally, a brown trout broke the surface of the canal with a small plopping noise, all of them unaware of their secret audience.

  Thankful that the moon was shining so brightly, Rosie had walked the short distance along the towpath to Daisy’s field. As she climbed the gate a soft nicker of welcome had come from the big mare, causing Rosie’s heart to give a small leap of joy. ‘Were you waiting for me, you daft old thing?’ she had said as Daisy lumbered forward, her outstretched nose nuzzling hopefully at Rosie’s pockets. Knowing better than to come unprepared, Rosie had fished out a couple of sugar lumps, and as the mare crunched them down she had walked towards the old shelter in the corner of the field, calling as she went, ‘Come with me and I’ll run a comb through your mane and get some of those knots out.’

  In the shelter, Rosie had started the lengthy task of combing Daisy’s long thick mane, taking extra care to remove any knots as gently as she could, while telling the big mare all about Ken and Maggie’s plans for a mechanised barge. She assured her friend that if that were to happen, they would find Daisy a good home, with caring owners and plenty of grazing. At last, standing back to admire her work, Rosie had reached forward and run her fingers freely through the untangled mane. Pleased with her efforts, she had returned the comb to the shelf – which was really part of a supporting beam – only to turn back and see that Daisy had sunk to her knees and started rolling energetically, making sure that she rubbed her neck and mane into the soft earth of the floor so that they became well and truly coated in the thick loose dirt. Rosie had given a groan of dismay as she walked back to the mare, who was now settling down next to a large pile of last year’s hay. Resignedly, she had plumped up the hay and lain down next to her friend. She knew it was a waste of time to reprimand Daisy for mucking up her mane – all horses preferred to be dirty – and had started to tell her about the new life she might be leading when a thought occurred to her. Perhaps the mare would prefer being on a farm where she would have the companionship of her own kind. Maybe being a canal horse was not so marvellous after all. She had never considered it before, but Daisy’s life was probably as lonely as her own, for the mare never had company of other horses. Rosie had felt a pang of guilt. She had always turned to Daisy to grumble about how she had no real pals, apart from Tim Bradley, who, before Ken had joined the Wild Swan, had helped Rosie and Maggie when their cargo was too much for them to manage alone. Now she realised that Daisy, too, had been living a life of solitude, and much as Rosie hated the idea of losing her friend she began to think that her reasons for wanting to keep Daisy were selfish.

  She had smoothed her hand over her companion’s newly dirty neck. She would miss Daisy, of course she would, but now that Ken had moved on to the Wild Swan, maybe her mother would allow her more freedom to make some other friends.

  Up until now Maggie had always made sure that when Rosie’s chores aboard the barge were complete the girl would be assigned some other task to do, whether it be fetching produce from the local shop or earning a couple of pennies by helping on the farms. Intentionally or not, she had given her daughter little opportunity to get to know the other youngsters on the canal. Rosie chewed her lip thoughtfully. Perhaps if she suggested that her mother and Ken might like to spend some quiet time together they would jump at the chance, leaving Rosie free to make some real friends of her own.

  Cuddled in the hay in the peace and quiet of the shelter, Rosie was aware that her head had begun to feel heavy. Telling herself that she would only rest her eyes for a moment or two, she placed her hand on Daisy’s side and listened to the sound of the mare’s gentle breathing as she slept. Before long, she too had drifted off to sleep.

  Now, Rosie chastised herself for doing so. As she sat upright next to Daisy, she knew that she should get back to the Wild Swan before she was missed. It was still dark outside, and she was relieved that she had woken before Ken and Maggie were likely to stir. The mere thought of her mother’s reaction to finding her daughter missing was more than she dared contemplate. She was halfway to her feet when the sound of voices from outside stopped her in her tracks. What if Ken or Maggie had woken prematurely and come looking for her? Her heart plummeted. She strained to see if she could pick out their tones in the mixture of voices, and gave a sigh of relief when she realised that, from what she could hear, neither of them were present. Continuing to listen intently, she tried to make out the gist of the conversation.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ It was a young voice, not that of a child, yet not quite grown up either; he sounded unsure of himself, Rosie thought. Someone from one of the barges? It had to be at this hour. No one in their senses would leave their warm and comfortable bed in the village to come out here for a chat in the middle of the night. Yet Rosie did not recognise the voice. There was something odd about the way he sounded, though she could not think what it was, and while she was still wondering another male voice cut in. This was a deep gruff tone; the sort that was used to giving commands and having them obeyed.

  ‘Aye, lad, I’ll give you that; you’ve chosen well. It ain’t too far from the canal, and in daylight the view must take in just about everything we need. But more important, no one can see us all the way up here, tucked up out of sight in this crumblin’ old … what did you call it?’

  The young, hesitant voice said, ‘Stable. Well, it was once, but the door’s fell off so it’s more of a shelter nowadays. Farmer Pank owns the field, but only the bargees use it – they come up here to graze the horses and tack them up – so no fear of any snoopers …’

  Rosie frowned. There it was again. Something was odd about the way the man spoke. As she tried to think what it was, the older man broke in impatiently. ‘You say only the bargees use this field, but I thought that all the barges were engine-run nowadays. You tellin’ me there’s still some using horses?’

  ‘A few of the old timers still got horses, but most of them graze’em by the towpath. As far as I know there’s only the Wild Swan what still uses this field, though from what I’ve’eard they’ll be gettin’ rid of theirs soon an’ all.’

  Rosie was baffled. Whoever this was knew not only the Wild Swan but their plans to sell Daisy, which must mean that he knew either Ken or Maggie, or both. Rosie concentrated as she tried to place the speaker, but the gruffer voice cut in once more. ‘That’s good. We don’t want people walkin’ round willy-nilly,’cos when war comes—’

  ‘You mean if war comes. There’s no guarantee …’ a third, grumpy voice cut in.

  There was a grumble of protest, which apparently amused another member of the party who gave a short bark of laughter. ‘It isn’t “if”, it’s “when”. Maybe not this year, but come it will, and when it does we shall be ready.’

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  Rosie leaned in further. Judging by the way they were talking it was as if they would welcome war! She did not know a lot about men, but in her understanding they were a far more bloodthirsty lot than women. Craning her neck, she was trying to see if she could take a sneaky peek at any of the speakers when a sharp voice caused her to freeze.

  ‘What was that? I thought you said no one was up here?’

  There was a stirring among the group and Rosie was sure she was about to be discovered when another man gave an impatient snort. ‘If you’re goin’ to jump at every shadow you won’t be much use to us,’ he sneered. ‘He told you this place is used by the bargees; I seen the Wild Swan down by the towpath so I reckon that big ol’ mare o’ theirs is probably in there.’

  To Rosie’s horror, and bef
ore she could duck down completely out of sight, one of the men produced a lamp, which he held aloft in the doorway, causing not only his face to be illuminated but also the contents of the shelter. Rosie, who had been curled up behind Daisy when she fell asleep, held her breath as she waited to be revealed, and could not believe her luck when the lamp was lowered and the man continued, ‘There, see? Just that big ol’ mare. Satisfied?’

  Slowly, Rosie breathed out. She had been able to see the face of the man holding the lamp aloft quite clearly; broad across the cheekbones, with piercing blue eyes set beneath a thatch of thick, black hair and a black beard speckled with lines of grey. She had not been able to see his clothing, but his expression resembled that of a Number One, although she could not recall ever seeing him before. In fact, she could not imagine which of the boats anchored below could support such an authoritative person without her knowledge. As she carefully lay back down, Rosie continued to listen and speculated that there were probably four or five men on the other side of the thin wooden partition. Having spent her lifetime on the canals, she thought she had encountered nearly every single person amongst the motley collection of barges, yet she could not put a name or a face to any of these.

  As the men continued to talk, they dropped their voices once more. Despite not wanting to be accused of eavesdropping a second time in less than twenty-four hours, Rosie found herself straining to hear what else was being discussed. Tim had once said that if you closed your eyes your hearing got better, so Rosie tried it. Promising herself that she would not fall asleep this time, she concentrated on what was being said.

  But the small snippets of conversation that she did manage to hear did not make sense to her, and despite her best intentions she found herself drifting into a strange dream of drunken nuns floating out of the sky, carrying treasures and trinkets that were hidden down their jackboots.

  When Rosie next awoke, bright sunshine was pouring through the slats of the shelter. Scolding herself for being silly enough to fall asleep in the wrong place twice, she ran through the dew-wet grass, calling a greeting to Daisy who was now grazing peacefully under the boughs of a large oak tree. When she reached the gate, she swung herself over the top and continued to run until she reached the Wild Swan. She gingerly trod the path towards the barge and climbing cautiously aboard she found, much to her relief, that she could still hear the gentle snores coming from the main cabin. Telling herself how lucky she was to have reached the barge before Ken and Maggie woke up, Rosie hurriedly began her tasks as she did every day, by making a cup of tea for the newlyweds. She stood the stove on the towpath, pumped up the primus, and lit it, then placed the tin kettle on the ring, taking care not to spill a drop of the clean water with which she had filled it the previous evening.

  Feeling secure in the knowledge that her disappearance had gone undiscovered, Rosie turned her thoughts to the previous night. Something had happened, something weird and quite out of the ordinary. She sat down on a small three-legged stool beside the stove and waited for the kettle to boil, and let her memories of the previous night take over.

  She remembered going to tell Daisy her woes, that was real enough, but then she had fallen asleep. Rosie frowned. Had she dreamed it? It was perfectly possible, and yet … the kettle hopped on the primus and Rosie began to make the tea. She usually had a cup herself, but this morning her thoughts had been so full of the odd conversation that she had filled only two of the tin mugs before recalling that she, too, was thirsty. She stirred sugar into the two mugs and picked them up, then hesitated. She couldn’t very well tell Maggie that she had abandoned the boat while her mother and Ken slept because she was not supposed to set foot off the Wild Swan once darkness came. Anyway, what would she tell them? That a group of men may have been having a meeting outside Daisy’s shelter? There was no law against it, and her mother would say it was Rosie who was in the wrong, first for sneaking off and second for listening to a private conversation, something which she had already been reprimanded for the previous day. Besides, she had not heard much, after all, and it might have been a dream; no, telling Maggie would simply bring her mother’s wrath down upon her head. Sighing, she put the mugs down on the decking, and knocked perfunctorily on the cabin doors before swinging them open and picking up the mugs once more. Maggie and Ken were already sitting up, hands held out to receive their drinks, and at that moment Rosie knew that she had made the right decision. Her mother would probably use her story as an excuse to get rid of Daisy as soon as possible, so that Rosie would have no reason to go wandering off again. So she simply smiled, said ‘Good morning’, and handed over the mugs and left, closing the doors behind her.

  It occurred to Rosie that she might ask Tim Bradley whether there was a Number One with a short, thick black beard and sharp blue eyes among the people on the boats anchored nearby, then chided herself with an inward laugh. Even if it had not been a dream, the men had done nothing wrong by gathering for a private conversation. If anyone was in the wrong, it was her for not announcing her presence. Instead, she had listened like some sort of spy. That’s if she hadn’t dreamed up the whole episode, which was quite probable. Rosie shook her head. Best forget it ever happened and go about her tasks as she did every day.

  After they had breakfasted, the crew of the Wild Swan set off for Liverpool. When they arrived, they moored by the canal offices, where Ken would be told what their next cargo was before it was loaded up. Before he had joined the Wild Swan, it was always Maggie who had negotiated the fees for cargo, but Ken was far better at negotiating than she was, so it was he who now handled the paperwork and payments for their various deliveries, while Maggie and Rosie cleaned down, making sure that every single item, including the barge itself, was scrubbed until it sparkled, ready for their new load, whether it be cotton or coal.

  When Ken returned he reported that their next cargo was going to be sugar from the Tate and Lyle factory. With the workers standing by ready to load, Ken stored the money and papers in the log book before they started the heavy task. Rosie listened whilst the men passed the sacks to each other with apparent ease as they transferred the sugar from the loading area into the hold of the Wild Swan. They were chatting excitedly about horse racing, for they were anxious to get out to Aintree and put their money on what somebody had described as a dead cert.

  ‘It’ll be getting out there in time that’s the problem, not choosing which horse to back. I reckon we should get a runner to place our bets.’

  Someone laughed. ‘We’ll have to choose a feller who we trust to give us our winnings; my nephew’d do it, but I can’t get word to’im before we’ve finished this lot,’ he said, heaving a sack on to his shoulder. ‘So come on, youse lot, get shiftin’ if you want to see your fancy beat the field.’

  Rosie could not stop her thoughts straying back to the previous evening. She scolded herself. Why on earth was she so interested in a few bargees who’d wandered up to Daisy’s field? She could not explain how, but to her mind they had been acting suspiciously, and not just because they had been meeting in the dead of night by what they had believed to be an abandoned shelter. It was more than that. But perhaps she was wrong, and anyone else would say she was being silly.

  A voice called out, bringing Rosie back to the present. ‘That’s it, Tim, there’s no more to come.’

  Upon hearing Tim’s name Rosie looked round to see where her friend was, only to realise that the worker was talking to someone else, but all the same she made a lightning decision. If she were to confide in anyone, it would be Tim Bradley. Out of all the canal folk it was Tim whom Rosie trusted the most. It was Tim who had persuaded Maggie to let him teach Rosie to swim in the Scaldy when she had been much younger.

  ‘I promise you, Mrs O, I’ll have her back home and safe before you can say knife, but my mam has allus insisted us kids learn to swim, livin’ on the canals an’ all. It only takes one slip—’

  He had got no further, as Maggie had reached a decision. ‘You make sure no
harm comes to her, Tim Bradley, or it’ll be you I hold responsible.’ Her face had been set in a warning grimace and as she spoke she had been wagging her finger at him. ‘I agree with your ma, a kid should be able to swim – whether they live on the canals or not – but I’m not sure I’m happy for the two of you to go off on your own …’

  Tim had shrugged. ‘You’re more than welcome to come too if you want, only you know what the kids are like …’

  Maggie had shaken her head dismissively. She was not a natural mother by any means, and she found children to be a nuisance, always getting in the way of work, or being infuriatingly cheeky or rude. She would much rather Tim took Rosie off for an hour by herself than have to tolerate a bunch of unsupervised, and to her mind uncivilised, children.

  Rosie had fond memories of that day, the one and only time she had been allowed to stray from the barge without her mother. Tim had assured Maggie that Rosie would be fine in her vest and pants, which was more than some of the children wore to go swimming in the Scaldy, and before Rosie knew it she was tentatively dipping a toe into the warm waters which were pumped out from the sugar factory, while Tim began to demonstrate the doggy paddle. He had been a good teacher and Rosie had made an excellent pupil, learning how to keep afloat in just an hour. Tim had admired her abilities, causing her cheeks to blush pink under such unfamiliar praise. Maggie had been anxiously awaiting their return, and even though her face was stern, Rosie knew that her mother was grateful for Tim’s attention. After that Rosie looked forward to loading up days, because once Tim had finished his work aboard the Sally Anne he would come over and ask if they needed a hand.