Free Water Gypsies by Annie Murray

he was turned out onto the bank to recover by doing some vigorous lock-wheeling.
    Maryann was very uneasy when she heard that they’d been detailed to go to Birmingham again. But they couldn’t turn a load down because of her fears, could they? Fears of a grim phantom from her past life? How would they explain that to Essy Barlow? She said nothing to Joel.
    The journey back was going well until they got to the lovely green stretch at Tring summit. It was a brighter day than the one on which they’d started off, one of sunlit, dazzling cold. The Isla and Neptune had steamed on ahead of them after their descent down the locks the other side of the summit. When they were breasted up to go down, Joel called across.
    ‘There’s summat not right with her!’ He pointed to the engine hole and the chimney, which was issuing blacker, angrier looking smoke than usual. There was a sinister knocking sound.
    ‘She sounds bad!’ Maryann yelled back.
    ‘We’ll try and make it to the bottom and then I’ll see to her,’ Joel shouted.
    As Bobby shoved the last lock open, the Esther Jane’s motor was making ever more bronchial sounds and Joel pulled over and tied up. Darius and Nancy’s boats were already well out of sight, and by the time Joel had spent two frustrating hours leaning and squatting in the engine hole over the ailing Bolinder engine, the other pair were irretrievably lost to them. The cats, Spots and Jenny, strolled along the gunwales of the Theodore as if bemused by the delay. Bobby kept the children entertained on the bank, letting Ezra jump and climb all over him. Maryann was thankful for the umpteenth time for his kindly nature. Ezra was a real handful to keep an eye on and Bobby often helped out. Eventually Joel said, ‘Ah!’ Hands black, oil on his face he started up the engine again and after a couple of coughs, it shuddered into life.
    Maryann kissed his oil-smeared beard. ‘Clever clogs.’
    Joel grinned. ‘Not letting that blooming moty beat me.’
    A mile further along the sound of the motor became clogged and dragging. Joel signalled back to her. He pulled in again and spent a further hour in the bilges, patiently removing thick shreds of rope and what looked like the remains of a wool sweater which were caught in tortuous twists round the propeller. By the time he had done all this they couldn’t go much further before the cold and darkness descended and they had to tie up for the night. Maryann was despondent. They were so far behind now that they’d never catch up, and she missed having the Isla and Neptune tied along the bank just ahead of them. Instead, they were alone in the freezing country silence, under the stars. But as they was falling asleep Maryann heard an engine puttering past outside.
    ‘There go the beer boats,’ she murmured to Joel. The Guinness boats worked fly – they had a larger crew, which meant they could keep going day and night chugging on along the black cut. ‘Glad we’re not working them.’
    Joel, almost lost to sleep, just managed to grunt in agreement.
    The morning was bitterly cold, the grass crackling with frost, and a thin film of ice covered the cut. The bright blue sky of the day before had been replaced by an unyielding grey, which seemed to fit like a lid over the fields. Climbing out through the hatches at dawn, they felt the air sting their noses and their breath left them in clouds of white.
    Joel drank from his steaming teacup and looked round.
    ‘If this keeps up, they’ll have to get the icebreakers out.’
    But the ice was thin enough for the boats to nose through quite easily, cracking it into thin, glasslike sheets. The cold and stillness did not lift all day and the ducks, which usually appeared round the boats looking for food, stayed tucked in the undergrowth and reeds. Only a solitary heron braved the cold and flapped languidly ahead of them, landing at intervals on the bank until the motor grew nearer and drove it onwards again.
    Soon they