Death on the Canal

Death on the Canal

“This far off sadness waits on a hill,

Until it sees my burning house.

Then it runs like a mother would, toward the flames.

Screaming my name, over and over.”

I don’t know about you, but I never think a funeral looks right on a beautiful day. It should either be pouring with rain, blowing a gale, or both. Take mine for instance - Not a cloud in the sky, hardly a breath of wind and to top it all, it’s unseasonably warm.

Everyone’s crowded around my little white coffin. I thought white was only used for babies? Isn't it supposed to signify purity and innocence? There’s nothing remotely pure or innocent about me. I know I’m still using the present tense, but after 14 years it’s a hard habit to break.

While the mourners pay their collective respects and the drunken old vicar does his best to remember what Mum told him to say, I’ll tell you a bit more about what brought me here..

My name's Timothy Newton. I’m 14 years old. Or I was. Two weeks ago I suffered the acute embarrassment and misfortune of being ordered to go on holiday with my parents. If this wasn’t bad enough, when they told me the destination I almost died. I can say that now because it’s more of an ironic epitaph than a lame cliche’.

I remember standing in the lounge shouting -

“I’d rather end my own life than spend two weeks on a narrow boat with you two!”

In the end I opted for the slightly less terminal option, running up to my room and slamming the door. After two hours of keyhole negotiations, Dad finally talked me down with the promise of a kindle, a day at Alton Towers and a Lord of the Rings Blue - Ray box set. I would have settled for the kindle, but I sensed he’d offer more.

Anyway, Mother insisted on showing me pictures of ‘our boat’ which had a ridiculous name - ‘Anastasia of Salford’. Part of me wonders if there’s a similar boat in Russia called ‘Betty of Leningrad’? Dad even bought a skipper’s cap, complete with gold oak leaves and crossed anchors – I ask you!

The glossy brochure used words like ‘spacious’ and ‘homely’, which I imagine were code for cramped and medieval. Anastasia or Ana for short, belonged in their ‘heritage collection’. If my father’s vintage Bugatti was anything to go by, the narrow boat would probably be laid out on the bank in a thousand pieces and we’d have to reassemble her before we set off. .

Having spent several miserable weeks in Abersoch in a two berth caravan, living far too close to my nocturnally busy parents, I guessed the narrow boat offered competing levels of humiliation. This is only partly true. Caravans can zip along at up to 55mph. Two-wheeled blood clots looking for places to cause a stroke or heart attack in the procession of cars behind.. Narrow boats all move at the same funereal speed - 3-5mph on a good day. So the likelihood of a ‘canal jam’ is fairly remote. I’ll come to locks later on.

As the name implies, they are fairly narrow. I found it quite easy to stand in the middle of my bedroom, sorry ‘cabin’ and touch both walls. When I got used to living in a waterborne corridor it was almost tolerable. All of ‘Watery Dreams’ , ‘vintage collection’ were entirely wood based. Wooden beds, wooden tables, chairs, mattresses, televisions, showers. Ok, I made up the last two, but you’d think in this age of super -lightweight materials like aluminium and carbon fibre, someone would want to build a cooler, trendier narrow boat with fins and go faster dolphins painted on the hull? I asked Dad why all barges were basically hollowed-out oak trees fitted with lawnmower engines. He raised his eyebrows, put on his captain’s cap and gave me a finger–wagging lecture on the many differences between barges and narrow boats.

I mean, how do you even pack for such a holiday? For some guidance, I sneaked a peek at what my parents were taking. From the amount of Gore-Tex, and fleece being stuffed into their suitcases, I gathered we were embarking on some kind of Polar Voyage. Phrases such as “You never know” and “just in case” kept cropping up. When I asked if there was any Wi-Fi on board my Mother almost had a stroke. She explained this was a ‘gadget free’ holiday so we could indulge in some good old family fun. Mum had only ever used those words twice before. Once, when a freak typhoon turned the Abersoch caravan site into a disaster zone , and second, when we had a power cut on Christmas Day and had to find Grandma by candlelight.

My coffin’s bin lowered into the grave and now everyone’s queuing up to drop a handful of dirt onto the pristine white lid. I understand the significance of the whole ‘ashes to ashes’ thing - but it still feels like a bit of a cop out. When Nana Bostock died I refused to drop a filthy great clod on top of her. Instead, I left my own personal tribute. While everyone was making their way back to the shiny black limo’s I took out a small cling-filmed parcel from my trouser pocket and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was one of her incredibly strong dark brown, home-pickled onions. I remember sniffing it and thinking it was far better than any smelling salts. I don’t recall my last few words, but it was along the lines of ‘something for the journey Nan’. Then I flicked the dark brown jewel into the hole. It made a great noise as it bounced along the wooden lid, coming to rest by her brass name plate. I think she’d have had a good laugh about that..

I’ve got loads of things they could throw into my hole. My fossilised trilobite, Grandpa Miller gave me on my ninth birthday. My signed Duncan Fernley cricket bat, or my incredibly life-like Shark inspired, carved wooden key rack which Dad always referred to as a ‘crap submarine’. Mind you, perhaps they want to look at them a little while longer, before they give them a good home?

Where was I? Oh yes, good old family fun. The only gadget they allowed me to take on the boat was my brand new e-kindle, which I crammed full of all the freebies I could download. Boggle and Scrabble were compulsory, as were my Dad’s ‘holiday binoculars’ and Instamatic camera. According to the ‘Watery Dreams’ brochure, this particular stretch of the Cauldon Canal was teeming with all sorts of aquatic rarities. I think if the booklet had said, ‘watch out for miniature mermaids’, Dad would have believed them.

We arrived at the Marina, which incidentally, is only four miles from my house, on a beautiful day like today. You know, those days when everything’s still and the sky is so blue and bright it hurts your eyes to stare at it. You could almost hear Summer sighing while she sipped some exotic cocktail and admired all her great work. Dave, our Watery Dreams rep was busy inhaling clouds of carcinogenic diesel fumes as Anastasia of Salford put-putted into life.

While I wondered if she was equipped with complimentary gas masks, Dad did his best Captain Pugwash impression, complete with crappy salute.

“Permission to come aboard Sir?” Dave fanned a way through the acrid smoke and beckoned us onto the boat with a lazy wave of his hand. I expect he’s heard every nautical phrase in the book, from “Thar she blows!” to “Splice the main brace.” He gave us the full scripted tour, complete with bad nautical jokes and a very lackluster safety drill. Then he instructed us on the basic rules of canal travel and demonstrated the opening and closing of locks with a big aluminium handle called a windlass, similar to those used to start up vintage cars in black and white films. I don’t think Dad was listening to any of it. He just wanted to start crashing into things as quickly as possible.

I soon discovered narrow boats are essentially scaled down oil tankers. The driver, sorry skipper, needs to think about turning way before a bend appears. Stopping is half close your eyes and pray and half throw it into full reverse and wait for the bang. Dave took us on a few laps of the marina to demonstrate various steering and stopping manoeuvres. Dad insisted on holding onto the tiller the whole time like he was taking Dave on a date.

Eventually, an hour and a half later we were underway. Captain Dad took position at the helm, while Mum and I unpacked and compared fleeces. My cabin smelled like an old mop, so I set about opening all the tiny round windows, sorry, portholes. Out of the three, two were rusted shut, so I wedged open the third with a training shoe and stuck my head out.

Once I’d gotten used to Dad screaming “Locks ahoy!” or “Tunnel’ahead!” Every few minutes, things started to settle down. Mum wasn’t impressed with him at all. She said he was behaving in exactly the same childish manner as he did at home.. She also said he’d swapped the T.V remote for the tiller handle and woe betide anyone who tried to take it from him. After a heated discussion lasting all of three minutes where Mum threatened to insert the windlass somewhere below his waterline, he agreed to let her take control whenever she ‘had the urge.’ I, on the other hand, was only allowed to steer under the supervision of a responsible adult, which I assumed were positioned every few hundred yards along the towpath.

I could tell this holiday was going to be a riot, so I vowed to jump ship as soon as another one came into view. Whereas Dad was Captain Ahab, Mum was ‘Queen of the Locks’. Every time we approached a new one, she’d get me to run ahead and start winding while she put her work shoes on. By the time she’d sashayed up to me in her spotless white trainers, most of the hard work was already done. If she was in a good mood she’d let me swing her round on the gate while she studied the route.

Apparently, the secret to surviving on a canal boat is to try and slow everything down. I’m not saying you should sit in the lotus position and meditate the whole time, just try and ease into it. Once you realise it isn’t a normal, ‘rush everywhere and see all the sights at breakneck speed’ holiday, you’re fine. I viewed it as a kind of an extended stupor, punctuated with bouts of intense exercise.

There was one day when I actually felt reasonably okay. I was sitting amongst some spare tyres on the bow, watching the canal bank slip by. The reflection in the water was pin sharp and the trees and bushes were held in perfect symmetry. I asked Dad if I could borrow his camera, but he said the batteries were flat. When I was sure no one was watching I leant right over the front of the boat, hooking my feet through the tyres to stop myself from falling in.

I stared at my own reflection, lowering my face, so it almost kissed the murky water. I got a whiff of diesel and something rotten, like a vase of dead flowers left too long on a sunny window ledge. I dropped both my hands in, scooping up the water like a slow-motion paddle steamer. I enjoyed the tickling sensation as the liquid ran down my arms and off my elbows. Feeling slightly more daring, I plunged both arms in, up to my biceps and wondered how deep it went. Occasionally, a piece of weed would brush against my forearms, so I yanked them out, thinking it might be a hungry pike, or a diving duck.

With both arms fully submerged, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. The only sounds I could hear were the faint purling’s of displaced water and the boat’s diesel engine beating out its own steady rhythm. Then it happened. Something grabbed one of my hands. I tried pulling it out, but whatever had latched on, pulled even harder. I tried shouting, and realised that neither my mouth or my eyes would open. I heaved as hard as I could and the fingers – yes, they were actual fingers, loosened their grip a little. Then I used my other hand to try and pull them off, but another one grabbed it and it felt like I was holding onto an enormous, unliftable anchor…

They’ve all gone now - The mourners I mean. Pretty soon the gravediggers will return with their mini-JCB to fill me in for good, like a freshly planted tree. They’ll walk across the heaped earth to bed me down.. I suppose there are worse places to be buried. It’s better than one of those vast inner-city cemeteries with tarmac paths, landscaped graves and a ‘you are here’ framed map. At least I’ve got an infant school on one side and a nice field with shiny chestnut horses on the other. Anne, my sister’s only two rows down, so at least I’m near family.

The end of my story is a little fuzzy, but I’ll do my best. I remember feeling as though the hands dragging me down through the cold, dark soup of weeds and churned mud were vaguely familiar. They were about my size, but whenever I tried to let go or reach up to find a head, it pushed me away- not aggressively, but as a mother lion would if one of her cubs was behaving a bit more rough than tumble. The very last thing I remember was this sort of lurch in my stomach. The same lurch you get when you miss a step in the dark. Then nothing.

The next thing I was aware of is standing here, on this Indian Summers day, looking down on my own funeral from a small hill. The weird thing is I know it’s me lying there in the coffin, but it doesn’t feel like it’s completely me. It’s hard to describe really. If I try to remember things about my life and my family, there are gaps. Big chunks of life are missing. The vessel holding them still remains, but it's as if my memories have been scraped away. What’s even stranger is I have memories I’m not sure are even mine. It’s as though I’m looking down a long passageway and every few feet there’s a door. If I open one, and go inside it’s like I’m walking through someone else’s private thoughts. The more doors I enter, the more the memories start stacking up. Some are so real I can almost taste them. Others, so faint I can hardly remember anything - like a string of tiny sighs, seconds before waking.

Anyway, I’d better go before I really get confused. It’s not exactly how I thought being a spirit or a ghost, or whatever it is I’ve become, would feel like.. I mean, why am I still so wet and stinking? And why do I feel like the canal’s calling me back? You’d think that was the last place I’d want to go, wouldn’t you?

Oh, wait, one of the mourners is looking straight at me .I can’t tell who it is, on account of all the black merging into one giant grief clot. Now she’s running towards me. Yes it’s definitely a she. I can see her skirt flapping. It's ok.. She can’t see me. She’s still running though. Ouch. She’s tripped over one of the gravestones. Oh, wait, she's on her feet. I can’t quite make out who it is. Perhaps she’s had some sort of psychotic episode. I’ve heard grief can do that to a person. She’s getting closer now. Oh God. I recognize her. I recognize her run and her thin bobbed hair. I recognize that sound she’s making. I can see her eyes now. Big and blue. It can't be her though. It just can't…