Chapter Fourteen
Moving On

WALKING ON FRIDAY MORNING, I was quite surprised to realise that we had been moored for five days and hadn’t expired from terminal boredom – far from it – and it was once again time to phone Salters Lode and see if Mother Nature was going to allow us to continue with our journey.

No authority in March seemed to mind that we had overstayed our 48 hours. All week, other boats had been coming and going and had given us the same worrying news, those that had come from Salters Lode warned that the tidal stretch of the Ouse was running fast, and, without exception, they all cast a worried eye over Happy and had said that we were going to have problems.

One weathered, bearded and be-hatted gent wandered up and remarked, ‘You lot going through Salters in that?’

‘Erm ... Yes.’

‘Got a good engine, has she?’

‘No, not really, more like two matchsticks and a rubber band.’

‘Phew...’ He took his hat off and ran his hand through his thatch of white hair. ‘Hope you got some life jackets, you’re going to be thrown about like a cat in a washing machine – good luck.’ And leaving us with that stunning mental image he turned and climbed back aboard his 40-foot, high-powered boat and puttered away up the river.

Geoff and I looked at each other.

‘Did you know there was likely to be a problem at Salters Lode?’ I frowned at him.

He, at least, had the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘There’s only a problem if the section is running fast, you have to make a sharp right-hand turn out of the lock and if the tide is going out, it’s a real bugger to turn into with an underpowered boat, and if the tide is coming in then you just get picked up and taken, very quickly, down toward Denver Sluice, and with a boat this size and the engine ...’ he paused.

‘So the answer is bloody well “yes” then, isn’t it!’ I snapped at him. ‘We’re all going to die, aren’t we? We are either swept inland or swept out to sea – I’m not sure I want to do this.’

‘Look,’ Geoff soothed, ‘hundreds of boats go through these locks every season; they wouldn’t let us through if there was a problem.’

‘Geoff,’ I assumed the ‘I told you so’ position. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, we have been here for the best part of a week, and they didn’t let us through.’

Geoff grinned. ‘Think of it as going over the falls in a barrel,’ he laughed, ‘if nothing else, it will be exciting and if we survive we will have something to tell our grandchildren.’ He took one look at my panicked expression and legged it before I could pour what was left of my coffee over his head.

I leaned my forehead against the wall and listened to him phoning the lock. Damn. They were going to let us through, first boat through on Saturday. I even gave considerable thought to just staying put and living in March; it seemed like a nice place.

The run to Salters Lode Lock takes about a day and we had been assured it was very pretty. Helen had phoned me that morning and, as she and Dave had found themselves without much to do that day, they had decided to take a leisurely run down a day early and would actually be with us that evening. Good, someone to give my last will and testament to.

Well Creek wanders gently through open countryside interspersed with little groups of nicely kept houses, the sun shone and lots of people waved. With the summer holidays well and truly over, we found that we had the creek pretty much to ourselves. There was only one lock between March and Salters Lode, which, after hearing what we were going to have to face, held no terrors at all.

We were a little nervous that Marmont Priory Lock was possibly closed, having tried to call the lock-keeper on several occasions but getting only a ringing tone. Luckily the lock-keeper, like all the others we had met, was helpful and not in the least perturbed that an odd boat had just turned up unannounced. After a short investigation it worked out that the phone number listed in our old Imray Fenland Waterways map was wrong. He was a nice guy, letting the incompetent nutters through anyway, which was good of him.

There are a series of bridges as you approach the Mullicourt Aqueduct. These seem to take spiteful delight in getting lower and lower, until at one point Geoff was crouched right down on the stern, peering over the roof and reaching up to hold the tiller. I had been getting a little edgy as we closed on the Aqueduct; I’m incredibly terrified of heights and had been having horrible visions of a steel monstrosity along the lines of the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct on the Llangollen Canal, which I had vowed never to cross. The Pontcysyllte Aqueduct stands 150 feet high and your narrow boat has merely inches between you and certain death (a 23 tonne lump of steel, falling that far, is NOT going to bounce... or fly).

The guide book states that the Mullicourt Aqueduct is merely 22 metres high (75 feet). I was breaking out in a cold sweat just thinking about it and had vowed to just stay in the cabin and stick my head between my legs or breathe into a brown paper bag or something.

Geoff was a little confused and kept muttering about the land being so flaming flat, how on earth could they have a rise of 75 feet, it just wasn’t possible.

As we emerged from a very low bridge, I made a break for the bedroom knowing that the monstrous aqueduct was just on the other side. After a couple of minutes, Geoff called me out to have a look; he could hardly speak for laughing.

‘Come and have a look at this,’ he shouted down.

‘What do you mean “come and have a look at this”?’ I shouted back. ‘You know I hate heights, don’t be so mean.’

He laughed some more. ‘I think the book got it wrong, come and have a look.’

Wondering what was going on, I emerged into the sunlight and looked around, frowning.

‘Where is it?’

I had been expecting an extended, slim, water-filled channel heading off over some huge expanse of nothing. What was actually there was a bridge with rails. Happy was going to have trouble fitting entirely on it without having one of her ends hanging off onto normal waterway and the wretched thing was only about six foot off the ground.

‘I think they missed a decimal point in the book,’ Geoff snickered. It was difficult to categorise the emotion, but I think I will label it ‘cheated out of an opportunity to be really terrified’. I looked ahead to where Happy’s nose was gently ploughing its way over the bridge.

‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ I sighed and wandered off.

We moored up outside Salters Lode at three forty-five. Helen and Dave arrived at ten past four, fantastic timing. Helen leapt out of the car and bounced into the boat, leaving Dave to sort out all the bags. She wandered through the boat making appreciative noises and putting the kettle on as she went. Dave on the other hand peered through the doorway, gave me a wave and then backed out again to talk to Geoff.

After the hugs, I asked, ‘Is he all right?’ indicating Dave who was still chatting away to Geoff and casting anxious glances at the boat.

‘What?’ Helen glanced up at her other half and frowned. ‘Oh they’re probably talking engines and things, he’s OK.’

Helen and Dave are both paramedics. Helen is small, with long dark hair and a mouth that never stops, she is full of nervous energy and is constantly on the move, even when sitting down, arms waving in time to the conversation, legs jiggling, feet tapping, most of the time she wears me out just looking at her. Dave, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. A paramedic of long standing, he says he may have fallen in love with her at the moment she left him standing on the side of the road. He was training her in advanced techniques for ambulance drivers. All Helen remembers him saying is, ‘Go over there,’ and pointing to the opposite side of the field about half a mile away, so she did. Dave had got out of the ambulance to open the gate and she had driven straight past him and stopped just where he had indicated. By the time he caught up with her, he wasn’t happy, but he could see she might be interesting to get to know a little better.

Dave is the sort that you definitely want to scrape you off the road after ploughing your car into a tree. Solid, calm, huge grin, about six foot tall with a reassuring girth; a truly lovely guy. However, this is not a man that fits easily into a narrow boat. He finally joined us and stood awkwardly in the gangway, head tilted and body wedged sideways between inconvenient bits of furniture. He looked uncomfortable and worried. Helen, giving his tense body and worried look the once-over, pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then stated with her usual tact and empathy: ‘I didn’t know you were claustrophobic.’ Poor Dave, two days of hell coming up for him (well he married her!)

As it was a lovely evening, we headed outside with a large amount of meat, alcohol and cushions stolen from the boat. Sam didn’t actually get to eat much, poor boy, as Helen made him laugh so hard, he kept choking on his dinner. I finally had to call a stop to it all after one particularly vigorous tickling and screaming moment had left him laughing so hard he had actually wet himself slightly for the first time in two years and had to go and have a shower. Helen did have the grace to stop after that.

That evening is still one of my favourite memories. It was warm, the stars were out and the evening was made complete with burnt, unidentifiable barbecue food and good company; we laughed a lot, drank quite a lot (except Geoff who doesn’t drink at all – he spent the evening relaxing with numerous cups of tea while regarding the rest of us with amused tolerance) and finally staggered off to bed in the small hours, well, in all honesty, Helen and Dave staggered off to bed – I had to be carried, whoops.

The next morning, while, yet again, I was nursing a niggling hangover, it was decided that Geoff and Dave would take Happy to the mooring, and Helen and I would go ahead and make sure that everything was ready for them to arrive.

Sam elected to stay with Dad, and we all headed off in separate directions. I would really like to be able to insist that I’m not entirely sure why we did it this way, but I know that Helen and I wanted to have a day shopping, drinking coffee and chatting. Getting rid of all the lads was at the forefront of our minds. I have always felt a little guilty about this as I was fully aware that Dave and Geoff didn’t actually know each other very well, Dave had never been on a narrow boat and they were just about to face that nasty turn on to the fast-running, tidal section of the Ouse.

I was dreading it far more than I had let on to Geoff, so when Dave offered, with only slight hesitance and a fair amount of prodding from Helen, to go with Geoff, I completely leapt at the idea and walked (we almost ran actually) away without a backward glance. How mean is that?

Helen and I were appalled at our horrific ability to abandon our loved ones and run away giggling but as we were discussing it, while sitting in the sun, outside Starbucks, over a large Peppermint Mocha, I really couldn’t find it in me to care. Anyway, I figured that if they got into difficulties Dave could fix them up and, as Helen said, you should never let guilt get in the way of a coffee and chocolate fix.

An hour later, Helen and I were still sitting in the sun with yet another obscene, cream-covered coffee and I wondered if I should phone Geoff and see how he was getting on. I decided that, if he was in difficulties, a phone call would probably make it worse, so I bravely and charitably decided to leave him to it.

After a couple more hours shopping and a quick trip to the pub, we decided that it was probably time to check out the mooring. I had only been there once before and the 15-minute journey between Ely and Stretham took us over an hour because I kept getting lost and dragging us off down side streets.

We finally managed to locate our mooring just in time to watch Happy, luckily with Dave and Geoff still in attendance, pulling around the corner. Grabbing ropes and hammering in stakes, everybody rushed about ‘doing things’ and it was at least another half an hour before we finally sat down to take stock and ask Geoff and Dave how their day had gone.

I noticed that Happy had huge smears of mud all over her roof and down her sides; Geoff and Dave had it in their hair, down their backs and all over their shoulders. It transpired that Salters Lode is another guillotine lock, but unlike all the others we had been through, this one, instead of dripping a gentle rain of water and weed, embeds itself into a muddy silty bottom so, as it comes up, it drips huge dollops of mud, water and weed. I can’t say I was sorry to miss that, but I did manage to keep a straight face, mostly ... I had to go and find an important job to do – out of sight.

Later, I asked Geoff how the turn had gone. He told me that it had been pretty horrendous but not as bad as he had feared, the tide had been coming in and had whipped Happy’s nose out of the lock and into mid-stream, she had travelled a little faster than Geoff was comfortable with for a while, but then had settled down and they had entered Denver Sluice at a pretty normal pace. When asked how Dave had coped, Geoff’s expression grew thoughtful.

‘I don’t think he’ll ever do it again; he certainly didn’t enjoy it, and oh ...’ he looked at me sideways. ‘How was your day’s shopping?’

I winced at the emphasis he had managed to put on the word shopping but decided to play dumb.

‘Oh, you know same old, same old.’ Damn, hadn’t got away with that one either.

For the first time since he had arrived, over 24 hours previously, Herbert finally took an interest in proceedings, hauling himself out of his already stinking pit and spending a good half hour pottering up and down the riverbank sniffing and exploring. Herbert, as I have stated before, is old. He smells and dribbles and when introduced to friends and visitors the first question they always ask when they see him is ‘what exactly is that?’ but however old and stinky he is, we have had him a fair while and he is part of the family (like an ageing, incontinent aunt who you would like to put in a home but no one will take on).

Usually, he will rouse himself for one of only two reasons. One: food in; and two: food out. With these two important things taken care of, he usually flops over in whatever comfortable place he can get away with (we don’t allow him on either the sofa or the beds, you can’t get the smell out for weeks) and within seconds starts to snore. It was nice to see him obviously enjoying himself.

He had managed to successfully navigate the gang plank the previous evening (he’s too old to learn new tricks fast) and we were cautiously confident that he could now manage to get on to the bank on his own.

I still don’t know whether it was just a senile moment or he was actually a lot blinder than I thought he was, but on this occasion, he completely ignored the gang plank and tried to get back into the boat by jumping onto the bow … he didn’t make it.

There was a rush of fur and feet, accompanied by four adults screaming as we all worked out simultaneously what he was about to do. There was then a complete kerfuffle of people leaping to their feet and tripping over each other as we all tried to move 70 foot in 0.3 seconds. All of this noise and motion ceased abruptly as, with a muffled grunt, Herbert took off.

He jumped and splattered himself, legs akimbo, on the raised bow of the boat, then sliding down the side of Happy, he hit the water with a loud splash. Sam howled with laughter and there was a horrible moment in which I didn’t know whether to laugh with him or tell him off for being so unfeeling.

Dave was the first to reach Herbert, and flipped him, soaked and shaking, on to the bank. Geoff smothered him in a towel and poor Herbert was subjected to a thorough rubbing down, which left him looking like a huge, dirty, yellow and grey puff ball with an ugly little face stuck to one side; he was a very sad sight. We sat him in the sun and waited for him to dry out, all the time trying to keep upwind of him (river water mixed with natural eau d’Erbert does not a perfume make).

After about an hour it was decided that, apart from being a little scared, he hadn’t suffered major damage and it would be all right to let him go back to his bed. Helen carried him over to the gang plank and placed his front paws on the wood and pointed him in the right direction. He tottered two or three steps up the wide plank and then, obviously deciding that he wasn’t quite dry (or that he had been dried beyond endurance), he stopped on the plank and decided to give himself a good shake.

Herbert is not what anybody would describe as graceful, and when he shakes, he does it with all the energy at his disposal. On this particular occasion, he started shaking with his normal enthusiasm and the momentum carried him sideways in tiny little jumps, straight off the side of the gang plank and back into the river. It took us another hour and another towel to dry him off again, and this time we physically carried him up the plank and put him back in the boat. He didn’t come out for anything other than the necessary for three whole days.

Other than mud-covered husbands, a stunt-double dog and a small boy who had laughed so hard he had actually made himself physically sick, it was a pleasant afternoon. Martin the marina owner had come down and connected us up to the electricity point, only to find out that it wasn’t working, so he’d kindly connected us to another one for free, while he organised for the installers to come back and swap ours for a new one; he assured us it would be done within a week.

It was an odd evening, the family were feeling a bit down, brought on, I think, by knowing that the travelling was finished and now the hard work had to begin. Helen and Dave took us out and treated us to a lovely Thai meal at a restaurant in Ely. We, however, paid them back poorly I fear, by being quiet and contemplative company, except for Sam of course, who, being fed late and having to eat unfamiliar food, went into manic mode and then dissolved into tears as he was told off repeatedly for poor behaviour. Helen understood, but I still felt guilty.

Sunday dawned, complete with beautiful sunshine and mixed feelings. On either side of the river the flood defences rise so high nothing can be seen from the water level. A short climb to the top, however, reveals miles of man-made landscape which stretches flat and featureless to the horizon. Having spent the last five years wandering the wooded Herefordshire hills I felt as though I was on the moon, exposed and strangely disconcerted by the expanse of ‘land’ around me.

Dave and Helen left after lunch. We had spent the morning turfing out some boxes and getting them ready to go into a storage unit we had already booked in Littleport, about ten miles away. All the tidying had been done in near silence.

Over elevenses, Helen had stated, ‘I’m not going to ask how you feel, because if I do you will probably tell me and then cry all over me, and that’s not going to do you any good. Dave and I were going to stay later but we are actually going to leave in about half an hour, to give you all some time to come to terms with what is going on.’ God, I hate insightful friends.

‘I think it’s just me,’ I griped, staring into my coffee. As if to prove my point, Geoff wandered past the window sporting a huge grin, followed by Sam, wearing a matching grin and asking an unending stream of questions. ‘They seem quite happy.’

Helen lit a cigarette and stared at me through the smoke until she was sure I had become uncomfortable and I was forced to snap, ‘What!’

She tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray and finally said, ‘I’m going to work tomorrow, what are you going to be doing?’

That threw me and I had to concentrate on what I actually was doing the next day.

‘Um ...’ I stuttered, ‘I don’t know, find the closest launderette, find out where the nearest supermarket is, get some shopping in, take Sam to school, pick him up from school – you know, just stuff.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘And the next day?’

I thought again … ‘I honestly don’t know. At some point we will have to start ripping all this out.’ I waved an arm vaguely at the sad and dilapidated furnishings around me.

Helen stubbed her cigarette out and leaned back with the air of a spider that has just successfully trapped dinner.

‘So what you are saying,’ she paused for emphasis and I winced, knowing exactly where she was going with all this but unable to stop her kicking my blues, ‘is that, while 80 per cent of the population are trapped in boring jobs and doing things that they “have” to do, you are swanking around pleasing yourself.’

I know when I’m beaten, and it suddenly dawned on me that she was absolutely right; no wonder Geoff had such a huge grin, he had worked it out. No responsibility, nothing we ‘have to do’, just get on with it and do what you like for a while – hey, this might actually be some fun. The idea so turned my feelings around I even let Helen wallow in smug righteousness for a while.

Helen and Dave left about an hour later and, after waving them off, Geoff, Sam and I were left feeling slightly self-conscious in the peace and quiet to contemplate the next phase of project life. It wasn’t so bad; this was going to be easy. All we had to do was rip out all the old woodwork in the boat and replace it with new, move all the electrics and put in new plumbing – piece of cake. We should be finished in about three months.