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by Robert Corcoran
'I thought you said fish fingers.'
'That's what I said we KEPT having, not what I WANTED to have.'
'Beef burgers, flaming beef burgers.'
'Oh yeah, let's barbecue them shall we for a change?'
Jackie groaned, not sure if Rachel was kidding or just being dim in a nautical kind of way, where
you can dream while the world floats by. She glanced back on her way to the shops to take in the
sight that summed up her life so far -a run-down yet pretty narrowboat, moored next to and almost
touching Rachel's craft, really her dad's, when he was so keen on sailing he would test himself just
for the mental torture of seeing how long he could stand it at sea with no contact with shore, even
for food. After 34 days of that Rachel had happily given in, and this middle-class bliss via a loan
and hundreds of hours of sweat and swotting on cruiser engines and hulls was her entry into the
World of Jackie via a semi-forced retirement where she had made QUITE CLEAR that she hated
the PA's job in the City. Jackie's dreams of marriage to the North Sea rig diver in Inverness
would end in tragedy, a £20,000 payoff for his drowning from the oil company and the creation she
looked at but with no purpose, as if to say 'that's it then.' The narrowboat however was gorgeous,
homely and completely HERS -a girly fiefdom. Two years of sweat, paint, waterproofing and a
donated kitchen had made this home, her castle on the River Stort. Jackie's passport occupation
stated 'student', a catch-all term that had meaning only when applied, her occasional grief coming
to the surface when the idea of a purpose and progression in her life loomed. They were matched,
two peas in different pods, competing but complementary, a kind of symbiotic presence that
seemed necessary in this semi-removed paradise.
Jackie ambled by on the towpath, taking in the sights, changing only with angles and light from
season to season, which is the way it should be. She passed Val and Roy without even noticing
them, like it was an organic reaction to Roy's permanent burrowing in his microscopic allotment,
really illegal but noone needed the spot of land next to his mooring. The happy couple were
retired and settled in as much as houseboaters could be. Roy was seemingly busy most days but
just never seemed to achieve -how much work could be necessary on 25 square feet of soil? Other
than that he was always stuck in a book, gardening or railways. The latter imposed the irony of
this tightest of communities perfectly, the talk being always about Bishops Stortford, or if they
were desperate, London. Roy's and Val's two Pomeranians Gus and Megan were loyal as guard
dogs and would be kneeling by his slippered feet or sat on his lap, watching the world and the
boats go by. He would engross himself in the lore of the dirty, expensive, huge machines that
choked the countryside and brought strangers and the corruption of industry and new money -not
for her. Railways were his life, one of the classic stokers and drivers, now his hobby and
treasured memories. A fake smoke funnel was even atop his double-size slab of luxury, the legacy
of his expertise at Tyseley Locomotive Works, from a different age.
Roy grunted in mere acknowledgement as she passed, more at her shadow than her, and that had
to do. She was getting sick of greeting his backside with the gardening, but the contents of her
windowbox had been rescued by his knowledge once during a frost so the debt hung in the air.
Jackie attempted to affect the usual airline stewardess's welcome but again Roy was poking the
soil with his trowel, probably for treasure this time she thought sarcastically. Val however
distracted her gave a cheery wave from her neat kitchen, head only half visible thanks to the
weird design of this genre of narrowboat, apple pie cooling off on the ledge, jam being put into
pots for another season and maybe some to go to the local primary school. Pie meant she would
be coming round with some bonus slices and a chat. All this for the £300 a year licence. Who
needs London?
The mood had been sour that morning for all on the bank, best to be quiet in case she found
someone who was connected to the bombings. Alienated aliens who bomb for attention, killing to
show off, hating this country but moving here all the same. STUPID BASTARDS. Affirmation for
all time that she had made the right decision to move here.
The Olympics was also theirs -although she was cynical about it could she deny this to others?
Was she not happy in having earned this right from her bookshop in Bloomsbury, to this square of
countryside so far from the urban nightmare? She knew that others wanted the same and could
not. Her purpose was in the offing but perhaps she needed a push to assuage the guilt of a
pollution-free existence, now that Derek's dead, maybe a part-time degree in literature would do
it, certainly something to think about. She wanted her parents to be proud. Live8, G8, Olympics
bid won and now death and wanton destruction 30 miles down the highway. What a week, what a
life.
Down the alley, across the street to the corner shop (so glad it was one instead of the ubiquity of a
Mega Mart, even if bread was 20p extra). The smile and smell of fresh produce alone were worth
the extra cash. She entered the corner shop and plonked her semi-full bag on the counter where
Madge nodded and readied the till, still reading her paper. Everything was like clockwork, the
purchase a 60-second excursion sometimes twice a day to match its proximity for impulse
purchases and Jackie's diminutive fridge, most needs memorised, no need even to speak if they
didn't want to.
Talk was thin on the ground anyway but the recent dredging was an earthquake to their termite's
nest and the community had only just recovered. The noise of that blasted metal ogre wrenching
its teeth through their land and water was a Terminator-level disruption, the council-sanctioned
rape of a corner of a corner of a parish, so slight and delicate like a bonsai tree, remote only
thanks to imposing, even majestic willows shielding their space from the street. The media
satisfied its own demonic urges by reporting the devastation of a microcosm as if it were Ethiopia
only serving to amplify the relief once the deed was done after a fortnight of bedlam, an excuse
for drinking to excess, but this time it was just lunch, the Olympic bid (pah!) and the G8
conference with its ready made publicity thanks to Saint Bob's efforts of the week before that
served as a peculiar celebration, as though linking others' activities to the interests of this insular
empire. Jackie didn't concern herself with either of these moments in history, but still, looking
around at all the tins of food with meaningless labels and obsessions with consumption...
No words this time, had to hurry, and Madge looked at her in a funny way even though she was
not expecting a conversation. She surmised that they were to stop talking about the Dredging
Debacle and just gave a big wave like at a football game -no response, Jackie laden with bags and
a 3-foot long baguette, she creaked the door shut as the bell tinkled. 'See yah!' Madge
harumphed and glanced at her companion for the rest of the day, the Mail and its innards,
'Gypsies invade Essex', 'Baked Bean Diet -the new craze', 'Blair up the Creek without a Paddle'.
Oh well.
Jackie was not only not thinking, she was not thinking about not thinking and nearly missed her
last call, to get the supplies which served as a fortnightly chore, still regular but had to be put on
paper and were not just for her but her and Rachel's boats, the wood and coal which managed
their lives for the boiler and cooker. A level of planning had been made last winter that was to be
obeyed like reveille at Sandhurst -they had left the wood till the last minute once, the best stuff
had gone, no other shops were open, and that damp pile of twigs and old furniture salvaged from a
neighbour had had to last over the Christmas holidays, and that was before they had both got
mobiles. They had starved on around 500 calories a day, mainly baked bean sandwiches. The
doctor when called by Roy had confirmed that Rachel had contracted mild hypothermia, and 2001
was therefore the last time she had slept in a bed on land. Never again -even worse than that
bloody dredging, and she couldn't be bothered to get bags all day long, and HE did only live down
the lane in the cottage and he DID have that truck...
'Thought I'd get onions as well.'
'Oh you are a love.'
Jackie seemed to be uplifted by the exchange of words, like a tot of rum after breakfast. Back to
her normality there was a perceived serenity about the place which only had personal worth,
Englishness at its essence, but in miniature form -maybe eight boats all told of various kinds but
mainly the trusty narrowboat (and Rachel's overimposing pleasure cruiser) at any one time,
navigable river (but only after an Act of Parliament had commercialised its use two centuries
previously), friendly ex-security guard and retired cop Doug just down the path, retired school
sweethearts Val and Roy, the gruff but occasionally-famous actor Jack with his recipes and
sporting anecdotes, Rachel with her crazy plans, needs, insecurities and requests for everything
from light bulbs to paper and even Internet access (that was a flat NO because of the cost in that
area), but the permanency that a shoulder to cry on and secrets to share that made this
community a home and a base rather than a watery camp for various characters escaping the grey
and forbidding self-destruction of the city.
Another clear night tonight, thank God, doesn't look too bad. The coal stocks had been low and
they needed wood maybe for a fortnight to be safe -Jackie had gritted her teeth and cheated, but
her back was bad again that morning, she just didn't have the strength to do it and that was why
she was glad that she depended on HIM, and was ready to admit it. She fussed with the bags and
Rachel got the hamburgers in their shared microwave as the mallards pecked expectantly at the
windows, their easygoing friends. They still hadn't got around to naming them yet.
Jackie was glad Bob was around, but he was kind of taboo, unseen but necessary labour, like
having the SAS on your doorstep. But their code was gospel, that there was open disclosure about
that sort of thing, so should she tell or just wait to see if Rachel would figure out how she moved
half a cord of wood in 25 minutes-
'Blimey, we've got all that wood again. I can only just see the bank with that lot on the table. You
must have been keen, Jack -have you been working out while I wasn't looking'?
'Oh just do the beefburgers, Rachel and I'll check the TV. I got a new aerial by the way.'
'But how did you get all that wood on your bike?'
'Oh well, er, just that a passing Good Samaritan drove by and I saw his car and...'
'Oh Jackie not that pest Bob again! You know we're both shot of him and he's still got funny ideas
about you...'
Rachel tailed off and Jackie knew instantly what she meant. The thing is, their community was so
tight, so precise, that any change in the routine was deadly, like a shark's fin through the glassy
smoothness of the Stort -it was too disturbing, life-altering. Rachel knew as well as Jackie that
they were drawn to this oasis by the need to escape as well as belong. The paradox could only be
maintained by community, sharing -and honesty.
'Sorry...', but why say it, the cliche just didn't have the effect required, and Jackie sloped off down
below. A chore like getting the week's wood, essential for their two tiny steam boilers, had never
seemed more arduous in verbal terms even than physically. The latter was a respite from the
usual nautical routine -navigation, charts, constant checking of equipment, the glad offering of
help and advice to strangers in every craft from pleasure cruisers to punts to rowing boats. The
planning was necesary even if they didn't move from one week to another as they had transferred
the Law of the Sea to this area and would help anyone, if they could find them...
It seemed to be always the battle of Rachel's legacy in terms of the starkness of her boat -no two
ways about it, her pleasure cruiser was a step above Jackie's narrowboat. How to define
jealousy? Does she want what her friend has, or for her not to have it? The display, now and for
every morning for two years, was like waking up in a showroom, the gaudiness of metallic paint,
gleaming railings and shiny cockpit versus the Old World charm of hand-painted wood and
sprawing deck. Both different, both reflective of personalities, but both also capable of changing
them when they collide, as seemed to be the case now. It was just another ruction, best to stay
below decks, literally.
Primrose and Carnation danced towards Jackie's lap, ready to be grabbed and petted. The
Persian and tabby cats seemed to sense that they were precious only if they thought so,
personalities clashing as they competed for its own sake, a feline life's purpose to gain human
respect and its prize, a good stroke. The former's tactics were to feign melancholy and loneliness,
the latter to beg for attention signifying an achievement like sniffing rubbish deserved a reward
for attention to detail. But Jackie was thinking too much now, she was perplexed and was not
ready for fun. All she had done was to make sure they'd had enough bleeding wood!
She fed the boiler, polished the wood outside and in, mopped and cleared up lunch then put out her
favourite chair, from her recently departed uncle. Rachel knew this was a sore point, that's why
arguments never lasted long. It wasn't an excuse to be nice, just put everything into context.
Jackie frowned at this fracture in the day's routine. She had been sufficiently angry at being
slighted for even daring to mention their previous love rival that she had concentrated and
scrubbed and rubbed and everything till ship-shape, and now she had all those hours to kill before
the Tube (yuck) trip to Homeless Haven to feed the tramps near Soho. The trip might be cathartic
anyway. She laid back on the easy chair. It was all so peaceful -what was Rachel doing? Probably
reading, she was a real bookworm. They shouldn't argue, this was not the spirit of the river. If it
could talk it would make waves, rock the boat, drench them both in its ire, the cliches were well-
worn, that is why she felt so at home in this corner of England. Ships that fuss in the night, indeed.
Rachel arrived with a start, kicking the boat, mouth agape, jolting Jackie out of her slumber on
the path. 'There's treasure in the Stort!' She didn't knock or ring the (almost redundant) doorbell,
their culture didn't work like that. When a disruption occurred it was literally a shock to the
system. Rachel didn't explain in the first few seconds, which suggested that her impetuous nature
had reinterpreted an observation, like Chinese whispers mutating a rumour till slander and
untruth were all that was left. But on this one occasion her eyes seemed to reflect hope and
expectation, like when she inherited her water-borne baby from Dad. It was as though we were all
idiots if we couldn't guess what she was on about.
Jackie couldn't comprehend, had very good local knowledge, mother never said anything about
treasure. You know the river not from its waves, but as a creature, glistening and inviting like a
murky nightclub entrance. The depths intrigued depending on your memories, sailing and sea
experience, love of the ocean, love of the unknown -it was multi-dimensional and terrifying if your
dreams and traumas let it. But its mood on this balmy summer afternoon betrayed nothing.
Perhaps this was linked to what Roy said a couple of days previously in one of his 'conversations'?
All the regulars from this section of the Stort had had to swallow hard and stump up the £25 each
for a behemoth of a scoop on a boom to clear 50 years' worth of detritus from the bottom of the
river bed, going right down and scooping oil, metal, wood and even animals that had faced their
murky demise. The goodness of the act had been wiped out by the invasive nature of that which
all would agree had been what they were escaping from. For God's sake they could even smell it!
The noise and appearance of this monster with 100' boom, 3MW diesel engine, belching fumes at
eye level, killing their plants, exacerbating migraines, ruining washing and all for the sake of
waterway hygiene -oh the irony. The IMS Dragon Cutter dredge had been overspecified for the
job when all that was needed was a barge with a scoop -the bladed terror with its soot, churning
and spewing had rumbled through their cots, their dreams even, pervading their cooking, talking,
fishing, sleeping, and Roy had cobbled together a cage to house the poor Gus and Megan in
incarcerated safety.
How could it be that what had been hidden could be so near, unnoticed? But that was the paradox
of the deep -you didn't have to be at sea to be immersed in an alien environment. The old fogey
Roy was talkative a couple of days ago and Rachel had mentioned it but they didn't understand.
He had muttered 'They're still not done, it's over there, see'' to Jackie as well. Rachel had not
responded one day as she passed with a bucket full of washing from her line strewn across a
disused lock, she was so unused to his commentary the words had not registered until a trip to the
corner shop was done and the bags had been emptied then she had stared at the kitchen table
thinking about his words. They thought he had lost something, maybe lost 'it' in mental terms, but
he had been there for over 40 years and the girls almost felt like they had to ask permission to
talk let alone do boat stuff with him so they let it pass, it just sounded like he was thinking aloud.
He knew the boat like his wife, his plants, his railway books. Then Rachel had just put two and
two together and made a jumble of conclusions which were literally like what she could now see
thanks to Roy -something bobbing on the surface.
But now things were clearer -Rachel and Jackie both remembered the severed conversations with
Old Roy -they clicked simultaneously and saw that something was up. It was a Scooby Doo kind
of moment -a clue!
Jackie thought on the moment. So the river's giving up its secrets, she wondered what would be on
the list -bottles, coat hangers, shoes, car exhausts, but then sefl-doubt creeps in like some kind of
safety mechanism to spoil the fun, oh get a grip, we've got to go to London to the day centre,
Treasure Island UK can wait till Thursday-
'Let's go, it's four miles upstream. Oh come on Jack love, how often does this happen, I'll cook
tonight, we can even do onshore if you like, the 'semi-birthday' party?' Rachel grinned
mischievously, forgetting completely about the guilt trip of Bob's helping with the fuel for the two
girls, knowing that Jackie would know that this was the day that was half-way between their two
birthdays. Another way of this life, a half-way celebration, like there could be half a wedding, half
a holiday. Such was their connection, they were telepathic in terms of information as well as
moods. Jackie could see that Rachel was sincere. Welcome return to reality. The disturbance this
time was a jolt to action, not from it. The homeless wouldn't starve, granted, she would just have
to serve tea twice as fast next time...
The vision after chugging on Rachel's (faster) craft the four miles was that of a metallic iceberg,
alternately gleaming and desely dark, like a mud cube. The weeds and grass draped like matted
hair were testament to the box's age, and secrets...
They still needed help. A crane or a shopping bag, they knew not what, as anything could be there,
a bit like asking what was in the mirror from one day to the next. Rachel got her mobile, ancient in
gadget years but a status symbol two years previously when she had had the cruiser overhauled -
a concession to the modern world. She called the boating yard.
'Hey, Alex, it's Rachel. What's up? Can I have a favour?'
She explained the situation, like a six-year old assuming that the parent would know the
importance of a toy lost down the back of the sofa.
'Uh, don't know about that, I'm like here while Dick's in town ordering an engine, uh, is it big?
Rachel's eyes rolled up into her skull at yet another failed technical conversation with a college
drop-out, his lack of knowledge of and interest in nautical knowhow bemusing even the locals with
basic demands for rope, candles, guides, spanners. The community was never meant to work like
this, it's not working full stop.
Sometimes Rachel felt like selling out, going to town and just splurging the inheritance for its own
sake, going crazy on a whim, for the seeking of a potential thrill, to give up on the onlooking
residents? She wanted to belong, not to lead. How could she look to Jackie for advice, when as
the elder (by three days) she was giving advice with her phone and stupid overdone cruiser taking
over the watery car park every day? But The Life WAS her life, her friends and her destination
and she knew that she liked to challenge herself, beats working, it always worked out, then her
mechanic's knowledge thanks to Dad's life as a yachtsman and racer at Cowes was second only to
Bob the EX BOYFRIEND in this area, best not to mention him. But her cards were now on the
table and she needed her playing partner to win the hand. She connived far more than Jackie,
they knew that the other knew, it was just unspoken, that was how things got done. Rachel
enjoyed flaunting her efforts, and Jackie often wanted to stay out of the way -it was the way things
worked with them.
Rachel muttered to herself, worrying then deciding, biting her lip, and dialled. Just stay cool girl.
Jackie looked on and her furrowed brow was like negative inspiration. Rachel turned her back as
though negotiating a secret African debt deal during the G8 conference.
'Oh yeah that's cool, I mean great. Uh huh, oh you kept that winch from the snow season. Yeah we
can definitely use that. 450 watts -wow, oh you mean it's not that powerful, sorry, OK then let's
hope it's not the Loch Ness monster eh?'
Rachel put the phone down as though she had just refinanced Kenya. Her satisfied demeanour in
thinking that she had technical knowledge about this Raising-the-Titanic scenario was a picture,
false ambition for a life not of privilege but of following her father's greatness. Jackie was now
confused. Was there smugness in deceit, or was there method in her dotty friend's madness?
Rachel said that the winch was available, for rent but it had to be installed then taken by vehicle,
or both at the same time preferably. And the only one to do that was-
'The Great Bobster'. Rachel seemed to be teasing Jackie, she was always like this in a self-
imposed crisis, she knew that Jackie was sorry to have got rid of him, what with the rugged side
easily overwhelming intellectual pretentions. Jackie grunted as though in recognition of who she
would have been arranging to arrive, as though regressing into cavegirl speak, like selling a baby
to go on holiday, the last vestiges of self-respect evaporated over the canal with its glistening and
serene innocence.
They waited, Rachel's nonchalance, playing games to count the fish and butterflies as both
frolicked in their respective environments, Jackie far more pensive and hesitant, waiting for the
Return of the One. Was their last meeting really eight months ago?
Bob drew up in the expected Jeep, repainted and with over-shiny wheels, stickers removed
suggesting a greater maturity, the bed of the truck with its scratches proclaiming its use as a
workhorse for his mechanic's business.
He half-saluted, some sarcastic gesture given the relarive hell all three had been through.
Jackie had been in bliss having seen Bob working on the accommodation trucks at a boating
show. They had talked then carried on like that, all their dates having a sailing/river/nautical
theme. This bliss had been stolen from her by Rachel just because her outboard motor got twisted
on a broken quayside and 'he just happened to be available Jack' -he was available all right, 24/7
from then on. Then Rachel had gone to the Cannes film festival on her newly-acquired boat (blew
£5000 of the inheritance, tan to die for and champagne for one month solid for them both and the
neighbours on her return) but Jackie and Bob had reconnected behind her back and you couldn't
make it up. The love triangle had turned into a Mobius strip of confusion and suspicion.
Bob rolled into action, stooping more than necessary whilst looking at The Box, his prey, as
though to avoid the eyeline of both exes. He turned to his beefy 4x4 truck, everything was so
slick, getting the gate down, hefting the huge winch onto the side of the truck and bolting it into
position, like Jackie turning on the toaster in the morning. He winked at Rachel who blushed then
straight away stared at Jackie as though for approval, with a smirk of mischief. The silence was
maddening, she knew he would have to speak sometime.
'You see where it is right, I think we can snag one of those hinges and-'
'How are you doing, Jackie?' He brandished his new phone, the Noblia SuperSX multi-phone
(company slogan, 'Your wallet wants to nobble you for a Noblia!') as though to say two things, that
he was the same gadget nut, and why didn't she call once in a while?
'You what -oh, er, fine. SO -it's about eight feet long I reckon.' Jackie stared into space like she
was a nautical astrologer, peering into the heavens for her romantic future.
Rachel had had enough of this love triangle, smoothly evolving into three-way jousting.
'Oh for God's sake, get a grip you two. Let's start again. Jackie meet Bob. Bob, Jackie. Now can
we all get the freaking treasure as I'm feeling greedy then we can celebrate with hot dogs?!?
'What does it look like I'm doing', Bob gulped to save face, with about as much sincerity as David
Brent doing a motivational seminar in The Office. He heaved and grunted, not even asking for
help to remove a rag, as he twisted the mechanical beast into position then stared at the nuts and
bolts as he rhythmically tightened them in turn, keeping his eyes off the two Boat Birds who had
been the bain of the last two years.
Bob finally turned round and 'Voila!'. All done with the installation of the winch, but no response,
the chicks didn't know that it was a performance to be applauded and savoured in girly chats in
the coming weeks. He frowned then turned a switch leading to his generator -the beast hummed
into existence. Aha, got a smile from one of them, I'm on a roll here. He concentrated as it was
too hard going, he had an appointment in Bishops Stortford at 3pm, didn't know whether he was
impressing the chicks or wooing them, best not to get distracted.
He deftly angled the makeshift crane over the truck, threw the heavy duty cable straight into the
canal like fishing for Jaws. He started lowering the cable and it simply slid down the side of the
big murky box until it disappeared from sight in the mud. This might take some time. It was going
to be a matter of trial and error, but he had to think laterally here. He thought and looked over
beyond the truck where the girls were seated close together on Rachel's cruiser, expectant and
anxious like awaiting the arrival of a ransom note. They knew he didn't want to be bothered, or so
they thought. He would even enjoy the original dumb questions about engines and trucks, but who
was he to judge -he couldn't even sail. Thus the match between them was tied.
He took a deep breath then withdrew the cable. Tied it into a knot, then literally tossed the huge
loop into the river, watching it settle, draping all over the shape. It was definitely a trunk or a
case. One piece was lodged round a hinge and a twisted-off handle. It was time to go fishing.
He switched on again and the whole truck groaned with the strain. It almost reeled and the girls
were shocked -Jackie looked intently at Rachel as if to say 'Well this is great fun but how could
you embarrass me with this show?' to which Rachel could only beam a flat smile like they give you
at trade fairs.
The winch had almost run out of cable because of the extra length going around the box. It eased
into view and all gasped, none knowing why. It WAS a box, just very heavy duty, for travel or
storage but almost too heavy to carry, the thing must have weighed half a ton as the truck was
seriously leaning over and that was the labelled limit of the winch on the mechanism.
They had to do something as it was like a stalemate between the Holy Grail and the Devil. Rachel
knew that Bob's protocol demanded that they just stay there and look pretty, but...
She gulped, threw a clean Andrex on the ground then her flip-flops, then 'Kersploosh!' into the
Stort. Jackie gasped, like her friend had just volunteered for death row. The river was there to be
admired, not tasted.
'What the f... -oh sorry but you just got soaked you silly cow!!!'
Rachel got mad when she was expecting admiring glances for her diving to help. She scooped her
entire arm and drenched Bob's designer jeans then stared hard at Jackie for approval with her
matted hair and flimsy cotton dress drifting in the current.
'God just get on with it you lunatics!'
They heaved again, the box rolled near the bank. It was ready to be tugged, but the audience
needed goaping, agape like fish waiting to be fed. Rachel shoved and grimaced at Jackie as
though to patronise her for her seeming apathy and induce guilt. Whatever it was, Jackie got the
message and virtually leapt onto the hulking slab of slime as though meeting a relative at a
reunion. The leverage swung the metallic monolith round and Bob's winch was loose, then tight,
then loose as he attempted to compete as well as synchronise with the girly shoving, groaning and
even kicking -what gymnasitc dexterity. The smoothness of the lifting encouraged more of the
same, suddenly the bos cleared all the obstacles, and it glinted like the Holy Grail being extracted
after centuries of hiding, exposing history and secrets in one. They gasped at the biblical nature of
this, in awe but looking for the next step. Even Bob hesitated.
He paused as though in reverence, then gradually lowered the Box until it rested uneasily on the
bank. The cable was off once the seaweed and matted grass had been torn off, implying playing
hard to get for humans. He scraped the top as though doing an Indiana Jones impression, surely
this is how it works, you just wipe and -nothing. Now HIS groaning was not physical but asking,
'what the hell now?' And he had an audience, not exactly catwalk-ready, like James Bond girls
hanging on to his actions and words, but soaked and bedraggled.
Rachel simply shunted over on her backside, she couldn't be bothered to walk to Bob's side, was
tired enough but had to see this through. She wiped her face but her long hair just dripped over it
again, as she looked all round the case. She thought then looked pensively at Jackie, who just
shrugged -she had never felt so useless. Rachel tried to think, about anything, and looked at the
sky, alternately beaming then casting grey shadows onto the twinkling Stort. It was a mystery. All
mysteries have clues. All clues are there to be found. She rolled the box single handed, with her
feet -she just leant over and shut her eyes, grunting like Sharapova at Wimbledon, she knew the
clue was hidden and this was her moment, with a slightly smaller audience, wetter for sure, and a
few miles north as well. The box seemed to hesitate and almost suggested it would roll back down
the bank. It overbalanced then 'Wham!' it thudded onto its side, exposing the bottom and the
remaining two sides that were against the sun, unseen probably for decades even by the barnacles
and fish. Out of instinct Jackie tapped on the bottom -it was hollow, and the mystery deepened to
become three-dimensional -how could there be no contents with all that weight. The looks went
from Jackie, this time to Bob, who sheepishly returned the gaze, then switched to Rachel, who
breathed as though preparing for something to come as well as recovering from what had just
passed, mentally and physically.
'This is it, no more mucking about then, OK girls?' Bob rushed back to the truck, escaping the
sickly female ambiance that was too cloying at that moment. He brandished his super-size Mole
wrench and uttered, 'Are we OK if this gets a bit busted?' They could only nod. He looked at the
ornate, detailed hinges, suggesting a shipping trunk from way back -in a canal? He hit one and
nothing was returned. Hit again, just dented a corner, glancing a nail -even that looked solid. He
had to think laterally, rushed back to the Jeep, this was getting tiring. The engine in Bishops
Stortford had to wait. Discovery was more important than money at this juncture, he wanted a
diary entry to be more interesting than 'aligned block with lateral valve'. He shoved in his new
crowbar, more suited to demolition work, that beauty was chromed steel. He felt like a vampire
hunter. He took one breath and, using the Mole wrench as a fulcrum against the hinge, virtually
stood on the shiny length of steel. He got into position then closed his eyes and, teeth gritted,
pushed down on the box and looked like he was diving like a body surfer, such was his angle. The
box groaned in unison as though to show displeasure at this invasion of its existence. The hinge
snapped suddenly, sending Bob sprawling -he got straight back up and attacked the other hinge,
twisting the lid and wrestling with his inanimate opponent. He glanced at the inside, partially
exposed -it was dark, light, papery, documents, another box or two, office tools, someone's life
work. He was distracted by this and even he was thinking, not usually necessary in his occupation.
The other hinge not so much broke as exploded. 'Oh shit!' he screamed as he slid and fell into the
Stort, like Gus and Megan seeing a duck for the first time. He was under the water for a few
seconds, then a mixture of embarrassment at this breaking of the Code for proper behaviour,
relief and even a smile. He stayed in the Stort, big arms resting on the bank, looking at the girls
and the box, Bob 1, Box 0 so far.
Rachel whooped and attempted to high-five Jackie, failing as she was grinning too much, and she
stooped to peek at the box like like her prized pussy Primrose on a stranger.
The box gave up its mysteries -some strange old documents listing 'Hertfordshire County
Council', deeds (only recognised by Jackie since Derek's demise) alluding to property, some
ancient office tools like a brass guillotine, mechanical calculator, hand stapler, heavy duty paper
folders. My God that was some trunk, to keep all that lot waterproof.
'Hold on, this is like a contract. This is starting to make sense.' Of all the people to analyse legal
papers, and the mechanic was waxing lyrical.
'See I did this job for the council about ten years ago. They wanted a truck rebuilt but didn't know
who owned it, so I didn't know who was paying me, see, because the truck had been bought in
Cambridge but used here, right?'
'Er yeah, sure.' The girls nodded like the last act of a Charlie's Angels episode. They preferred
the analogy to Scooby Doo as the three girls were prettier.
'So this big wheel who did contracts between the councils twisted the annual budgets because of
his friends, etc. by doing all these odd jobs for them, and he took the whole bleeding budget from
Cambridge for recreation that year -no wonder I didn't get paid. Christ, I mean golly.' He laughed
and so did the girls, nervously, out of politeness.
'I know he got caught but the deeds to all the sites etc. were original. They were never found,
like..' He touched one of the documents and was amazed that he had worked on one for the same
yard. 'Look I even did the school buses there! Amazing.'
'But how come all the stuff is so old? You never worked in 1956 did you? I mean I know you're
mature and all that Bob', sniggered Rachel, Jackie barely keeping herself composed.
A quick knowing sneer from Bob. 'The deeds, young ladies, are always signed with the other
deeds to prove eminent domain. The older ones are essential to prove ownership, so he just
amassed them then altered them then could use managers in his pocket to literally give and take
contracts like he was his own private council. Some scam, eh?'
The girls still had their mouths open. It was just paper and office stuff, but also a mystery,
corruption involved -and maybe their futures. A wait ensued, long hours staring, the routine
disrupted and suspended like a death sentence on hold. There was nothing bad going on, but the
silence of unaddressed concerns shattered the local tranquillity. They just had to wait till Monday
and Bishops Stortford town hall here we come.
Rachel blew her hair from her face and pulled weeds from her hair.
Bob scratched his backside and fondled his new phone.
Jackie was still bamboozled, picking grass out of her cleavage.
Not really a Scooby Doo or Charlie's Angels moment.
Monday morning and Jackie, Rachel and Bob were dressed up like museum exhibits and feeling
like them, starched and spotless. The council was in session and the girls and Bob felt out of place
in the huge hall with marble floors, mirrors, mahogany, chandeliers -Bob, Jackie thought, took her
to a stunning restaurant in Cambridge once where they went punting. Wonder if he remembered?
He stared dumbly ahead as always, but now they both knew he had something under the bonnet.
'Sorry ladies and, er, gent, come on through please.'
The council leader Robert Ellis, imposing yet genial in his dark suit and Jermyn Street shirt,
beckoned them into his office, plants and family photos aplenty. Tony Blair's grinning visage was
next to his in some awards shindig, like a Macleans advert.
'You... are... in... luck..., yes thanks Mabel.' The efficient looking PA strode away.
Baffled looks all round.
‘Yes, this was voted on last November in the budget, you're in the clear.’
From what, a public flogging?
Robert Ellis smiled at their ignorance and apparent fear, from under half-moon spectacles like an
attentive headmaster.
'The idea of eminent domain is supposed to protect land owners. Our former head of enginering,
dealing with canals, bridges and the like, alas a former colleague, went on the run when all our
contracts were stolen, at least from a couple of departments. He knew that if he just hid the land
titles however it would only be underhand deals on the mechanics and maintenance stuff, not on
land theft. If he had proved ownership he would have made more money, but he was caught and
might be doing 15 years instead of the five that he now is doing in Parkhurst.
The land was public, bought as compulsory purchases way back when, which is why you lovely
ladies are able to frolic on the canal, heh heh.'
The 'lovely ladies' did not return the smirk.
'So you are in the clear, as you are now landowners because the statute of limitations passed a
couple of years ago. You found it, please just don't put a power station there, girls -and sir.'
Now they smiled -it was all about fiddling taxpayers, they had helped them, got land which was
unbuildable except with stringently -applied permits, and the silly sod who acted like he could take
a few acres and put it into his pocket was inside. What a result.
They left the town hall after another two hours of form-filling, ID check, new titles, and the
strangest thing, their names on the mooring documents as they were made out. Holy mackerel,
Queen Jackie, Princess Rachel and Bob as the court jester. What a royal family, 40 acres of land
to be indulged in next to their watery world, unbuildable except with difficulty, but their domain.
TWO DAYS LATER
Bob relaxed between the two revitalised Ship Chicks, on their recliners, stretched out, Bob
looking like a retired timeshare crook on the Costa del Sol as he chomped on his cigar. Primrose
and Carnation frolicked on and off the decks, daring each other to dive in, sniffing but never biting
the flowers which now adorned both boats, even Bob's truck looking like he was going to an
Indian wedding.
'Wow.'
'Say it again Sam', Jackie retorted, also lost for words and decent quotes.
'Er, another Pimms?'
'Yeah that'll do Rach, less ice this time.'
'No YOU get it, that's what I meant.'
They had mutually decided to go to France on Bob's newest gadget, the Beneteau Antares, a 10m
beauty, bought through a 'friend of a friend'. Bob had had to sell his other old truck, the
workhorse, but he was getting rid of a couple of acres of his share of the land to sell to Roy who
now had a king-sized allotment -easy money for this impulse purchase. They had decided to follow
Rachel's route and paint the sea red so to speak, hang out in Nice, maybe even do Monaco. Bob
could just about steer, even though one Saturday night he had crashed Rachel's cruiser into a lock
which almost ended up in a nightmare claim for damages from the council.
Jackie sighed, this time with pleasure. She had agreed to Bob’s request to the trip with no
resistance, which surely had nothing to do with his wanting to toast their adventure with Czech
absinthe….
All was done and dusted, she had apologised to Homeless Haven for being late to volunteer, she
was making up with a couple of free extra volunteering sessions then having a writing competition
for some of the homeless residents at the shelter, prize being a couple of days' camping on her
patch. Means little to those wage-slaves with bricks and mortar, it would be a home away from
home for those in need. And yes, finally, she would get that degree, she had decided -there was so
much to write about in this world, so much to communicate and describe in this idyll and elsewhere.
So two ex-girlfriends of the same bloke, going to France on a craft bought from a horse-trading
gypsy, piloted by someone who has a conviction for criminal damage to canal property and
drunkenness-
what could go wrong?
THE END