“. . . the hull is steel, of course,” Annie was saying. “Wooden boats haven’t been built since shortly after the war. The
As she spoke, she led them through the doors and down two steps into the main cabin. Kincaid ducked automatically, his head just
avoiding the low ceiling, then gaped. He was as enchanted as Kit.
The boat’s interior was paneled entirely in lustrous wood the color of pale honey, and illuminated by recessed lighting set into the ceiling.
A stove was tucked into one corner of the cabin on a tiled platform, while the living area held a small cream- colored leather sofa and matching armchair positioned on a colorful handwoven rug. Book-shelves and storage cupboards had been built into every available nook, and the bits of free space on the walls held china plates with laceware rims. Interspersed about the shelves were a few pieces of traditionally painted canalware, the bright rose patterns of a dipper and water can fitting surprisingly well with the contemporary furnishings.
Beyond the sitting area, a dining table extended from one wall, flanked by two banquettes. The far seat backed up to the galley.
And what a galley! It was state-of-the-art, down to the curved granite worktops and oval stainless-steel sink. Kincaid whistled in admiration, thinking of the money required for fittings of this caliber, while Kit muttered “Wow” under his breath. “It’s bigger inside than it looks from the outside,” he added, still sounding awed.
“A bit like
As they slipped past her in the galley, Kincaid noticed a book on the work top. It was an old but well- preserved copy of
The bathroom was as elegant as the lounge and galley, even equipped with a small bath, and the bedroom held what looked to be a full-size bed covered with a crushed-velvet counterpane in dusty mauve.
It seemed a surprisingly feminine touch for the woman they had met, and roused Kincaid’s curiosity. Her nightstand held a few contemporary novels and a much- thumbed copy of another canal book,
Beyond the stateroom they found a neatly fitted engine and work-room, and the hatch to the stern deck. All in all, it was a very tidily laid out and maintained setup. It made Kincaid think of Gemma’s old flat in her friend Hazel Cavendish’s garage, and he could imagine the boat’s appeal. If, of course, one were resolute in resisting the accumulation of things, and solitary by nature. There was no obvious provision for guests, although he suspected the dining banquettes converted into a bed.
When they returned to the galley, Annie had shed her jacket and was pouring hot water into mugs. “Here, take your things off,” she said. “Just toss them over the sofa. I’m afraid there’s no such thing as a cloakroom here.” The cabin, with both radiator and woodstove, was warm, and Kincaid was glad to slip off his coat and scarf.
“You’ve even got a bath in your loo,” blurted Kit, when he’d added his own anorak to Kincaid’s. “What do you—I mean, you don’t just flush it straight into—”
Annie Lebow came to his rescue matter-of- factly, as if discussing the disposal of sewage was an expected part of everyday conversation. “There’s a holding tank. Marinas usually have pumping stations where you can clean out. Nasty job, but it goes with the territory.”
She set their mugs on the dining table, along with an earthenware sugar bowl and milk jug, then retrieved a map from the nearest bookcase.
The map, like the Gogarty book, was well used, the edges tattered and the creases worn thin. Annie motioned them to sit on one side of the table, but rather than joining them, leaned over from the table’s end and spread out the map, facing it towards them. A net-work of broad multicolored lines snaked across central England.
Kincaid quickly found the burgundy thread that represented the Shropshire Union Canal.
Following his gaze, Annie touched the central section of the Shroppie, then traced a path north to Manchester and Leeds, then south again, down the Trent and Mersey Canal to Birmingham, and
beyond that, London. “I’ve done the circuit several times in the last few years,” she said. “And the Llangollen Canal, of course, down into Wales, but I seem to keep coming back to where I started. Homing instinct, I suppose, like a pigeon.”
“You’re from this area, then?” Having added milk to his tea, Kincaid sipped it carefully, feeling the welcome warmth begin to thaw him from the inside out. “I thought I recognized a local accent.” As he looked at Annie Lebow in the warm light of the cabin, he realized she was younger than he’d first thought, perhaps only in her early fi fties.
Too young for retirement, certainly, and he wondered how she could afford the life she led, not to mention a boat of such quality.
“Southern Cheshire, near Malpas,” she answered readily enough, but went on quickly, as if it were a subject she didn’t want to pursue.
Tapping the map with a neatly trimmed fingernail, she said, “There are so many miles of navigable waterway now, more than anyone could have imagined thirty or forty years ago, when the canals were in their worst decline. Of course, it’s almost all pleasure traffic now.
The working boats are a thing of the past.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Kincaid asked, hearing the obvious regret in her words. “Surely it was a hard life, and the boat people uneducated and illiterate, as well as poor.”
“A hard life, but a good one,” Annie said, suddenly fierce. “They had their independence, and the Cut. Very few would have chosen to give it up.” Then she shook her head and gave a rueful laugh. “But you’re right, that’s rich, coming from me, with all this.” She swept a hand round, indicating the boat and its fittings. “Imagine that the living space for an entire family was seven feet by seven feet, a good deal less than the size of my sitting room. The rest of the boat would be taken up with the cargo. Imagine no electricity, no hot water other than what you could boil on the range, no plumbing”—here she smiled at Kit—“no refrigeration, and the women had to help their husbands with the locks and the cargo as well as caring for their children.”
“No baths?” Kit quipped. “No school? That doesn’t sound half bad.”
“You could probably adapt. After all, the Idle Women did, and most of them came from comfortable homes.”
“Idle Women?”
“During the war the government recruited women to work the narrowboats. They were anything but idle—the nickname came from the IW badges they were given by Inland Waterways when they finished their training. No one had ever seen all- female crews before. They caused quite a sensation, but it wasn’t long before they earned the respect of the traditional boaters. For many of them, nothing else in their lives ever equaled the experience.” Once again a hint of wistfulness echoed in her voice, but she went on with another flash of a smile at Kit. “One of the best- known female trainers was called Kit, like you. Kit Gayford. You should read about her sometime.”
“Are you here for long?” Kincaid asked, and saw her hesitate briefly before she answered.
“A few days, I think. I don’t keep to a fixed schedule. That’s one of the perks of the boating life. You?”
“Just until the New Year. No perks in my job, I’m afraid.”
“What is it you do?”
“Civil servant,” Kincaid said quickly, and saw Kit’s startled glance.
“Quite boring, actually.”
He tried to work out just exactly what had prompted him to fudge the truth. It was not that he suspected Annie Lebow of criminal pursuits—and his instincts in that department were well honed—
but that he still sensed a watchfulness, a wariness, about her, and he didn’t want to rupture the fragile connection they’d made.
But even his innocuous response seemed to startle her. She stared at him for a moment, the pupils in her green eyes dilating. Then she stepped back and began folding the map without meeting his gaze again. Kincaid had
