Narrow Dog to Carcassonne Read online

  Clive rang when you were out, said Monica—he wanted to tell us about their new boat. He’s having portholes. Portholes? I said—portholes? For cheap good looks he gives away the world. Each of our windows can hold a full cloud. Is it for this that the canal hero Robert Aickman cruised the dying waterways comforted only by his beautiful secretary Elizabeth Jane Howard? Was it so generations to come could sail the silver highway in blind portholed poncing boats, full of washing machines and televisions, never to see the sunset canal incarnadine, and the fish rising like rain?

  Clive says portholes are a good thing, said Monica, they are more secure. Let them steal all I have, I said. I wish them well—I shall not care if I can see the sky. That isn’t what he meant, said Monica. He said that when we are going across the Channel a wave would smash our big windows like an egg, and what are we going to do about it?

  I’VE FOUND THE WHIPPET CLUB BREED STANDARD, said Monica. Balanced combination of muscular power and strength, with elegance and grace of outline. Goodness, Jim, who’s a pretty boy?

  All forms of exaggeration should be avoided. I never knew a living thing that exaggerated more, I said. He is a screamer. He can’t say hello without going for the Oscar. If he wants something he pretends he has broken his wrist.

  Highly adaptable, said Monica. Not on boats he isn’t, I said.

  Free gait, hind legs coming well under body for propulsion. Forelegs thrown well forward low over the ground, true coming and going. True at going, I said—he is no good at coming back.

  Jim was by the door. It was time to go to the pub and he had broken his wrist.

  LEICESTER IS FAMOUS FOR ITS VANDALS, SO IT’S a case of dive at dawn and keep going until you drop dead or get to Kilby Bridge. But Monica and I have been less worried about vandals since we visited the mouth of hell.

  The mouth of hell is in Manchester, where hardly flows the filthy Rochdale through a waste of concrete. The address of the mouth is 111 Piccadilly—Rodwell Tower, which gropes the clouds and broods over its terrible secret. Under it the fire, the pit. This is the fault line, where the newly dead meet those soon to die, and trade in drugs and sodomy. As the boat slips under the tower they stand in the darkness and watch. If you are not currently in the drugs or sodomy business they let you pass.

  One wraith, a boy in a white singlet, stepped forward to help Monica close the lock. He was frail, dying or dead already—his weight on the beam made no difference. Why don’t we go back, said Monica, and save him and bring him up as one of us? I know, I know, I said, but I have got enough on my hands with you and a sixteen-ton boat, not to mention a dog that knows no respect, without getting mixed up with the walking dead.

  So we were not afeared when we moored at Leicester, by Abbey Park, gathering our strength for the six-hour leg the next day. Until there came a knocking and a huge figure in rainbow leathers sprang aboard, a spaceman helmet under his arm. Good gracious, said Monica, he’s come to kill us all. Showing no fear Jim leaped on the giant as he advanced down the boat, ready to bear him to the ground, lick him into submission, and take him to the pub to buy scratchings.

  I am your ranger, said the giant. In fact I am your lone ranger—the other one is off today. I understand you have had your boat let loose. Yes, I said, we had to fetch it back from under the bridge. We have never had boats loosed before, said the Lone Ranger. Yes you have, I said, the security man opposite said it happened on Friday. Ah, said the Lone Ranger, there was Friday. And on Saturday, I said, they let a big barge loose and blocked the whole navigation. There is some truth in that, said the Lone Ranger, but you should not think badly of our city—look how secure this mooring is. But they stepped over the fence, I said. Yes, I suppose you can step over the fence, admitted the masked rider of the plains, but this vandal reputation is not fair. People expect trouble and the kids see the fear in their eyes and take advantage. It’s only fun, with a bit of theft and intimidation thrown in. You must take a positive attitude—ours is a peaceful and beautiful city. What time are you leaving tomorrow? Six o’clock, I said.

  The sun rises at five, said the Lone Ranger, you don’t want to leave it too long.

  TO STEER A NARROWBOAT YOU STAND ON THE back, look forward along the roof, and grip between your buttocks a brass broom-handle which is bolted to the rudder. Every ripple strikes to the roots of your teeth. A moment’s inattention and sixteen tons of steel and crockery smash into the scenery. If you hit another narrowboat you bounce off, and if you hit a fibreglass cruiser you pass through it, making practically no noise at all.

  But boat-owners don’t go boating—they leave their craft where moth and rust do corrupt, and mink break through and steal, and sit at home watching Star Trek. So we laboured alone down the wide locks of the Grand Union. For days we hit no bridges nor knocked anything off the roof. Then we met the most fearful danger.

  I was filling a lock and a gongoozler leaned over the side—Is this your boat, have you come far? A gongoozler is someone who stares at boaters. Monica answered from the tiller, trying to be polite, holding the boat steady with a rope through a ladder in the wall. But the rope had jammed and as the lock filled the stern of the boat was being pulled under. In seconds water would flood through the engine-room and the Phyllis May would sink. Jim was shut inside; Monica had no life jacket and she can’t swim. Last year four people drowned like this.

  Time stopped and I seemed to watch myself from the outside. I engaged the lock key and dropped the paddle in the lock gate to stop water flowing in. Then I hurled to the other end to let water out. I was barefoot and there were stones and nettles but in my own dimension I was safe from harm. Returning to Greenwich Mean Time and working on my oxygen debt I watched the lock empty and the Phyllis May come level. The rope slackened and Monica pulled it free. The gongoozler had fled.

  We hung a knife under the throttle so next time we can cut the rope, then I will take the knife and Jim and I will go and find the gongoozler.

  NEAR DAVENTRY OUR SECTION OF THE GRAND Union Canal meets the main branch from Birmingham, and together they head south for Milton Keynes and London. The centre of Milton Keynes is black glass and concrete and does not allow dogs or people. Under the flyover the stalls of an outdoor market had sprung, like flowers between the tiles of a urinal.

  We moored for a sunny fortnight among the parks and lakes. In the mornings the swans woke us, tapping politely as they cleaned the waterline. In the afternoons we dozed as the ceiling swarmed with light, and in the evenings the radio played the songs we used to know.

  Before breakfast Jim would come into the cabin and fix us with his burnt gold eyes—Lazy buggers, what about the run? Your dog is taking over, said Monica, he’s gaining control, like it says in the books. No he isn’t, I said, he’s a whippet, they like to run, that’s what they’re for. I don’t like the way he stares at me while he does his stretching exercises, said Monica, and I don’t like the way he sits by the door, lacing up his running shoes and looking at his watch.

  As we jogged Jim did fast interval work, then long slow distance, drifting an inch above the ground. He drifted straight, not sideways like a wolf. If we met other dogs he always raced them and he always won. When he met an obstacle he would take to the air, pausing in mid-flight like a dancer.

  A DAY DOWN THE GRAND UNION TO LEIGHTON Buzzard. What a nice old-fashioned name, said Monica, and a supermarket right by the towpath. As Jim and I sat on a bench a girl in a leather miniskirt lowered herself alongside. Jim began to lick her blubbery knees lasciviously. Suddenly she rose and struck through the window of a passing car, punching and screaming as her victim fishtailed away. Then she swaggered by with a friend—a young man who had been thrown out of Hell’s Angels because of dress sense and body-fat ratio. Jim made a final pass at the knees, but his heart was not in it.

  Later we set out through streets paved with chewing gum and kebabs, to look for a launderette. We found one, but there were people fighting inside.

  Jim added to the sorrow in this strife-torn community by seizing a teddy bear from a gift-shop shelf and jumping on it. I mean, what do you say? What would you say in France? Madame, I am desolated, my small dog has ravished your bear of plush. But madame, I insist, I am going to buy it, because my small dog will amuse himself with it well—oh my God let’s get out of here.

  RANKS OF HIPPIE CRAFT ROTTING PEACEFULLY under the hedges—we were near the capital. At Bulls Bridge we turned left on to the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union. We have reached an historic junction, I said to Monica—it is time to pull out the big one. Faire sortir le grand jeu? asked Monica. Yes indeed, I said, the hour has come.

  We went forward and opened the gas locker, which is the bit you sit on in the front of the boat. It held gas bottles, dead fenders, rusty saws, and the remains of creatures that had crawled in out of the cut, planning to set up home. There was also a bundle that looked like the construction kit for a light aircraft.

  When the lavatory tank on the Phyllis May is full we call at a marina, which attaches a hose to the boat and pumps the tank out into a green lorry, which drives off and empties itself over the head of the man who runs Railtrack. But in France everything has to go into the cut. So we had bought our own pump-out kit, which we laid out on the bank next to the sanitary station. It looked like a sixty-foot brown snake that had died in congress with a lawnmower, gathering up in its final convulsions other gear and tackle and trim, including a stout hose.

  An hour and a half later we had fitted most of the parts into each other. We laid the brown snake down the towpath and put the stout hose in the cut. There was a pump handle and I started pulling on it. The hose reared up out of the canal and stared at us, spitting and hissing. We wrestled it back and started pumping again but once more it appeared, coughing and f
arting and thrashing, until we twisted it down and it drowned. It was strong and it died hard. Sixty feet away water started coming out of the end of the snake.

  Now we wound open the hole on the gunwale and screwed in the hose. Monica went into the sanitary station with the end of the snake and I threw myself into pumping. The little platform on which I stood was flexible, and I was losing my power. When I had lost all my power there was an old man with a face like a doughnut, looking at me with concern. I have been thinking of getting one of those, he said—do they work? I’m from Leighton Buzzard, he added. I’m sure it’s a nice town, I said, but personally we found it a bit violent. Violent? he said, well I suppose it is a bit violent. To be honest when I was there I was a bit violent myself.

  He stood on the other end of the platform and held on to me. We rocked back and forth, while the snake bulged and Monica’s cries of encouragement and success echoed from the sanitary station. I do hope no one was watching.

  THE NEXT NIGHT I RANG OWEN IN FRANCE. Owen was once a sergeant major in the South Wales Borderers—we had met on the cut and exchanged visits. Hiya, yelled Owen, as one consummating a bayonet charge upon a terrible enemy.

  We’re under way, I said. You can steer it can you? shouted Owen. Not quite, I said. But next year we could be over—how are things down there in the Midi? Fine, cried Owen. I had a disagreement with Valmai, so me and Ianto are down the café.

  Ianto is a three-year-old white and brown Jack Russell terrier, who shares the inside pocket of Owen’s combat jacket with a couple of hand grenades. The love between Owen and Ianto is wonderful, passing the love of women.

  When are you coming over, boyo? cried Owen. Next year about this time, I said. How are you going to do it? he asked. The lorry, the crane, I said. There has been talk of sailing, I added with a laugh. Sailing? Owen shouted. You beast, you beast, sailing! He spoke off-mike and there were shouts and cheering. I could hear a table fall over.

  You know, said Owen, when I met you I thought you were the biggest wally I had ever seen. I mean you are old and a coward and no good at doing anything. We only put up with you because of Monica. Thanks Owen, I said. In Montgiscard a dog-fight had broken out. Sorry, said Owen, Ianto bit someone. He seemed to think this was very funny. Deep down you are OK, he gasped, go for it, go for it I say, and Terry I shall be there, standing by your side at the tiller, breathing the fresh sea air with you my old boyo, riding the Channel swells my old darling, because Terry you are OK, I have made up my mind about you; you are not a fucking wally after all.

  Next morning the phone rang. Terry, last night—did I say you should sail the Channel? Yes, I said. Look, said Owen, I want you to be quite clear about what I actually said. Men have died because they misunderstood my orders. I am not surprised, I said. Now listen, said Owen—I had a word with my friends Gérard and Benny who are matelots and we talked it over and I may have misspoke myself. You mean all previous statements are inoperative? I suggested.

  Exactly, said Owen—do you know how long you have got before a narrowboat goes down?—two minutes. Do you know the temperature of the Channel in May? No, I said. Fucking freezing, said Owen. Twenty-five minutes and your core temperature has gone and you are dead. Look, I’ll be straight with you, I was pissed last night. Really? I said. Yes, said Owen, got carried away. Don’t do it Terry, I beg you—take the advice of one who has stared death in the face a thousand times.

  You mean you don’t want to crew for us then? I asked. You don’t want to stand by my side at the tiller, riding the Channel swells with your old mate? The trouble with you, said Owen, is you are a smart-ass.

  HOW GRAND LONDON WILL BE—WHAT WATER-SIDE boulevards, what rich craft, what shining people tripping along the towpaths, pursued by yelling paparazzi! We drifted under the M40, and then over the North Circular like Mary Poppins at rooftop height. Harlesden smelt of Lamb Rogan Josh, with ladies’ fingers and two poppadoms.

  But the London canal world is a poor shrivelled thing. There are more canal pubs in Stone than in all London town, more chandlery, more boat-builders. Little Venice is a token, a publess wonder, a fraud.

  We stole away on the Regent’s Canal in the dull heat of the afternoon, leaving rows of boats looking at each other and wondering where you could get a pint round here, or a bottle of gas or a piece of rope to hang yourself. As we slid through the Zoo, a scream arose from a vulture in its abolished tower—widowed, unconsoled.

  In Camden thousands of gongoozlers from the Sunday markets leaned over the walls, overflowing on to the grass, staring as we sweated through the locks. Many were drunk or worse. I had to brush them off the lock beams like flies—we were on the run. There was only one place on the Regent’s Canal where the boat would be safe from attack by vandals, and that was Islington, and there were only six moorings in Islington.

  Through a tunnel and into a dark cutting, overhung with trees. Plenty of room—there were not six boats on the move in London. A gentleman calling from the bank asked Monica to marry him. Perhaps I should reply on her behalf.

  …slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

  I am going a long way

  With these thou seëst—if indeed I go

  (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

  To the island-valley of Avillion…

  So clear off, wino.

  It was four in the afternoon when we climbed out of the cutting. Empty side streets, roadworks, grey houses, grey heat. A café bar with stained shutters. Tin cans, litter. Graffiti: hopeless, inarticulate—Fuck off. City Road raged with traffic. Most of the pavements had been dug up. A line of faded trees had lost its way among hoardings and gaps. By my troth, quoth Lancelot, this is a dreadful place.

  Going back we pushed at the door of the café, which was cool and spacious and sold thirty-eight Belgian beers. A barmaid with skin like Guinevere brought a bowl of water for Jim. He began to work the tables, beginning with the couple next door, who were dressed for the Tour de France. Then he vaporized and I pulled him by the loins out of a bin in the lane outside. This raised some laughter among the few couples present. They were friendly in their cautious southern way—not much was going on in Islington that afternoon. Look at his little face, someone said, and his big ears, like a mouse. He’s a very narrow dog, said someone else.

  A young man with a guitar began to sing about how his love was making him suffer, but as he was only about seventeen I imagine everything will sort itself out in the end. Scattered applause—he had a nice voice. He sang another song to make it clear he had suffered even more than he had told us the first time. We paid our bill. It gets very busy later on, said Guinevere, and we believed her.

  Back at the boat the cutting was darker than before. Monica’s suitor had departed. Good evening sir, madam—a man in green rushed by with a set of keys to lock the iron gates that protected us from the loyal citizens of Islington.

  NEXT MORNING THE GRANDEUR OF LIMEHOUSE Marina, once Regent’s Canal Basin. Tall apartments full of bankers shaving before they shuffle on to the Docklands Light Railway. Here we go, here we go—a million desks, all in a row. The tower and clock of St. Anne’s standing back a step, the castle walls of the old basin, a great pool, yachts, cruisers. A few narrowboats in the corner, their roofs piled with herbs, flowers, and bicycles.

  From his tower of glass, momentous in his British Waterways overalls, Joe the lock-keeper, God’s green deputy, watched over us all. He kept the gateway between the quiet inland waters and the Thames Tideway—turn right for Westminster, Hammersmith, Reading and Oxford, and left for the vasty deep. For a Midlands canal-boat skipper the Thames Tideway is vasty enough, and deep enough too.

  Joe said practically all his inland boaters who went out of Limehouse lock on to the Thames lived through the day. I wondered if they were all as frightened as we were and Joe promised they were. Run at normal speed, he said, let the tide do the work, don’t push your luck, don’t hammer the engine just because you’ve got some water under you. It’s not used to the vibration and something could break.