Drowned Lives

20

‘It might be what Samuel wanted, but really...’ said Sally Chaplin as we were ferried back to Whittington Wharf.

The boaters were enjoying themselves now, chatting more loudly as they got back on the boat for the rest of the journey. They knew they were headed for the funeral lunch.

Soon we’d passed through Streethay and under the A38 and were approaching Fradley Junction. For want of anything else to do, I looked for the names of some of the boats moored on the final stretch of the Coventry. There was Lily, Excalibur — and, for some reason, Billabong. One of the men jumped off our boat to operate a little black and white swing bridge that gave pedestrian access to the opposite side of the canal.

Then we’d emerged into the junction and the canal widened out into a rectangular basin, with an enclosed dry dock on one side. Ahead of us was the Swan Inn, a white-walled pub overlooking the junction with the Trent and Mersey. It had china swans in the windows and an Ansells brewery sign over the door, with wooden rails lining a concrete landing area. Benches were set up outside under the arches of a former warehouse where Swan Line Cruisers had its offices. Several more boats were moored in front of the warehouse, painted with green roofs, white cabin sides and red gunwales. They were the Swan Line’s own boats, built for holiday hire.

The scene was peaceful, with no more than the soft lapping of the water as the wind blew it towards the gates of Junction Lock. Some of the people who’d been at the church in Whittington were waiting for us on the mooring. They’d come by car, driving up the towpath side from Alrewas or Fradley.

Inside the pub, a buffet had been laid out in a side room and a crowd of people swarmed around the tables. I held back for a while to allow others from the boat to get in before me. I was still feeling like an unwanted stranger, a sort of Banquo’s ghost at the feast. I had the ridiculous feeling that if I pushed myself forward a bit too hard, if I presumed too much or spoke to the wrong person, then the whole mass of them would turn round and hound me out of the place. They say there’s nowhere more lonely than the middle of a crowd.

So I kept to myself, circulating round the room discreetly, clutching a plate of food and keeping my distance from Caroline Longden and her companions. The boaters I’d spoken to smiled as I passed, but they were mostly concerned with catching up on gossip with acquaintances. The Chaplins saw me, but lowered their heads self-consciously to their plates of sandwiches and sausage rolls. As bottles of wine were opened, the room gradually filled with animation and noise, leaving me isolated on a tiny island wherever I happened to be standing. Some sort of impenetrable bubble surrounded me, separating me from everyone else. I longed for the end of the whole charade. Although I was a Buckley, I didn’t belong here.

Inevitably, I soon found that I was drinking too much wine. Who could resist it when it was free — paid for, presumably, from Great-Uncle Samuel’s will? Each glass I picked up seemed to empty itself in minutes as my hand moved regularly to my mouth to give the appearance I was fully occupied. I’ve never been accustomed to drinking wine in any quantity. It was that, I think, which made me talk too much.

I’d attached myself to the periphery of a group of boaters. They were talking about flights and staircases, lift bridges and stop gates, and something called the West Midlands Ring. I stood and listened, and nodded wisely at everything they said. They didn’t exactly welcome me into their circle, but the way they ignored me was less threatening than the deliberate shunning of Caroline’s group. Conversation turned to the restoration of the Ogley and Huddlesford and the evils of the South Staffordshire Link Road. A woman near me expressed the opinion that the MP, Lindley Simpson, would make a big difference to the campaign. ‘He’ll stir them up in Westminster,’ she said.

‘You’ve fallen for the famous Simpson charm,’ said a man opposite her. ‘He’s not married, of course, which makes him highly eligible. They say the constituency party membership has doubled in the last few years, with all the Simpson groupies joining up.’

‘He backs the project all the way,’ protested the woman.

‘Oh come on — he’s just another clever politician. He’ll ride the bandwagon for a while if he thinks it’ll help his popularity with the voters. He’ll work hard for the canal project for as long as he can get something out of it. But as soon as it looks like getting into trouble, he’ll abandon it and we won’t see him for dust.’

‘A bit like William Buckley,’ I blurted.

There was an immediate silence as members of the group turned to stare at me as if I’d just broken wind.

‘He was the resident engineer on the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal,’ I said. ‘When the canal company ran into financial problems, he took the opportunity of embezzling money and disappeared completely. He even abandoned his family.’

In my half-oiled state, I imagined myself to be a unique authority on the fascinating subject of William Buckley, even though I’d never heard of the man until a few days before. So I was annoyed when members of the group turned aside and began to drift away, the way they might from some drunken bore. In a moment, I would have lost my listeners.

I leaned towards the woman who’d praised Lindley Simpson and spoke to her in what I thought was a confidential tone.

‘Actually, I’m writing a book about William Buckley, you know.’

She took a step back from me, wrinkling her nose at the gust of pickled onions and wine-laden breath that reached her. Obviously I hadn’t spoken as quietly as I thought, because faces turned towards me, and I suddenly had an audience again.

‘William Buckley was my great, great, great, great, great grandfather,’ I said.

I had no idea whether I’d used the correct number of ‘greats’. Once I’d started, they just seemed to keep coming. In any case, I’d never bothered to work it out. I only knew he was a long way back. But these people seemed impressed by the information, and their attention made me feel wanted.

‘That’s fascinating,’ someone said. ‘When is it coming out?’

‘Didn’t you say you were Samuel Longden’s great-nephew?’

The last question had come from my friend Eric, who was looking at me suspiciously, as if I’d been telling him tall stories.

‘That’s right. Didn’t you know Samuel was actually a Buckley?’

‘No, I can’t say I did, old chap. It sounds a bit unlikely, to be honest.’

‘It’s true. It’s his book. Well, he started it. He changed his name, you see.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Well...’ I floundered for an answer, and saw them turn and smile knowingly at each other.

Then I noticed Andrew Hadfield standing behind Eric. He hadn’t been on the boat, so he must have come directly to the service, or to the pub.

‘Andrew! Andrew knows about it, don’t you?’ I said.

But Andrew grinned and shrugged apologetically at the remaining boaters. ‘A good spread they’ve put on, isn’t it, Chris? But I think it’s probably time for you to go home.’

Then I was standing alone again. Caroline’s fiancé, Monks, gave me a long stare across the room. I flushed, knowing that I must look a complete fool.

I wandered around for a while longer until I noticed that the room was beginning to empty as the mourners dispersed. I clutched my glass of wine tighter, aware that I was more than slightly drunk. I wondered how I was supposed to get back to my car at Hopwas, and guessed that it probably wasn’t a good idea to try. A taxi home would be the right thing. Or maybe I could cadge a lift from one of the waterways crowd who’d skipped the boat trip.

Then I heard voices nearby and turned to see if it was someone I could ask. I found I was looking at Caroline Longden and Simon Monks.

Since my mouth was already open, I was unable to close it again without uttering some inanity.

‘Oh, hello. I’m sorry.’

They looked at me as if I was some vagrant off the street who’d gatecrashed the wake. Monks gave me a menacing snarl that sent genuine tremors of fear through my befuddled brain. Caroline, though, had a nice line in supercilious eyebrow lifting.

I addressed her directly. ‘I’m Chris Buckley.’

‘Yes, I know who you are.’

‘We’re related,’ I said, knowing I sounded completely pathetic, but unable to stop myself. ‘Long-lost relations.’

‘I hope, after today, that you might stay lost,’ said Caroline.

I thought this was rather unkind, and told her so.

‘Unkind? Do I need to remind you that we’re at my father’s funeral? Do you think you were kind to my father? Don’t you think that your unkindness contributed to his death?’

‘Well, I—’

‘No, don’t answer. I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I know about the meeting he’d arranged with you on the day he died. He told me about it on the phone. He kept me up to date with what he was trying to do. I thought he was making a mistake from the start by approaching you, but I was unable to persuade him against it. He had such faith in you. And purely because you were a Buckley.’

‘It was you who told the police then,’ I said, a light dawning at last.

‘Yes, of course it was.’

‘I’m sorry about the meeting. I mean about not going through with it. I know it must seem awful to you.’

She waved aside my excuses. ‘When you failed to turn up, he must have thought you were refusing him the right to continue with his family history.’

‘The right? No, I don’t see it that way. He’d asked for my help, that’s all.’

‘He needed your help, yes. But he also desperately needed your approval. Don’t you see that? Perhaps my father was naive in some ways. He expected the same effort and consideration in return that he always gave to others. He would certainly have thought you’d take the trouble to read the manuscript, at least. He couldn’t have conceived that it would be so unimportant to you that you wouldn’t even have looked at it.’

She was growing more angry as she spoke, and I could only lower my eyes and fidget nervously. ‘So naturally, he would have taken your failure to show up as your considered answer to his plea. He thought you’d snubbed him, that you’d rejected his appeal outright. Perhaps he was convinced in the end that you knew who he really was and you were turning your back on him, that he was still unwelcome in the Buckley family after all those years. That you, too, saw him as a traitor. It must have been a very bitter blow.’

Monks took her arm, and urged her away towards the door. But Caroline couldn’t resist one final, wounding shot. ‘My father had pinned his hopes on you, Christopher,’ she said. ‘And you let him down. It must have been his dying thought.’