‘That’s all right, me love, you can explain when you’ve got over that bump on the head,’ the old woman said, her voice thinner than Lottie remembered it, but still the same much-loved voice. ‘Whatever did ee mean, a-jumpin’ across half the canal the way you did? I didn’t see it meself but Troy did. He said you’d have made it, save that you turned your head when the cap’n of the
Lucky Lady
yelled out to you to stop. Old Nat can’t swim, few bargees can, but Troy’s as at home in the water as on land, and he realised what was happenin’. That was how he come to fish you out afore you was drowned-dead, foolish one!’
‘Troy? But I never saw him,’ Lottie muttered, reaching out to grasp the old woman’s hand and holding it as though she would never let it go. ‘Where was he?’
The old woman chuckled. ‘He were right behind me, carryin’ the shoppin’, like the good lad that he is,’ she said. ‘But I reckon you only had eyes for me, same as I’ve only had eyes for you, ever since Troy carried you into my cottage and laid you on the sofy.’
‘Cottage?’ Lottie said dreamily. ‘But you’ve got a canal barge. Nat told me it was called the
Girl Sassy
. . . that was my name, wasn’t it? Only when Louella came and took me away she told me my name was Lottie, like that other girl, and I believed her.’
‘Yes, well, you would,’ a voice said, and Lottie looked past Gran and saw the boy who she now knew was Troy, smiling at her. ‘Mothers don’t usually lie to their kids, but I reckon your mother had a good reason. When you’re well enough you can tell me and Gran all about it, but for now just you rest. I guess you’re warm enough with all the blankets off Gran’s bed piled on top of you, and the fire a-blazin’ in the grate as though we’d robbed a coal barge. You’re in Gran’s best nightgown; I reckon there’s room in there for three girls, but Gran don’t carry spare clothin’ for kids who fall into the water just outside her cottage.’
Lottie laughed rather feebly and tried to sit up, then put a wavering hand up to her brow. ‘My head feels as though it were splitting,’ she said. ‘What happened? And where’s the
Lucky Lady
and Nat Trett? I remember jumping for the shore all right, but after that . . .’
‘After that there weren’t nothin’ to remember,’ Gran said firmly. She heaved herself to her feet, for she had been squatting on a small stool to be closer to Lottie. ‘Your head hit a mooring post and into the water you went . . . and out you come when Troy dived in and hauled you ashore. And now I reckon you’d be all the better for a nice cup of my hot cordial. As for Nat, as soon as he knew you were alive and a-goin’ to be fit as a flea, he got back on the
Lady
and headed for Liverpool once more.’
‘Oh, yes, of course he would. His wife’s having a baby,’ Lottie said. ‘I do hope she’s all right – and the baby too.’
‘Aye; she had a fine little boy a week or more back,’ Gran said at once. ‘I opened me mouth to tell Nat only he shook his head like a dog wi’ fleas in its lugs so I kept me gob shut. A superstitious lot, bargees, but he’ll have heard the news for himself by now I reckon.’
Merle felt the first pains early one morning when the barge was moored just outside Skipton. They had visited the town for supplies the previous day and had moored up under some willows which overhung the canal. They had gone to bed betimes after a hard day’s work and at first she hoped the pains were indigestion, or the result of carrying heavy parcels. She lay quite still in the tiny rear cabin of the
Wanderer
, but after half an hour of increasing discomfort she realised, with a pang of pure horror, that this was the real thing, though heaven knew she had yearned for it long enough. Telling herself that she would soon be her own familiar shape and that birth was a perfectly normal event, she emerged from the cabin and walked with considerable care along the planking, for it had been drizzling during the night and the deck was slippery. She tapped timidly on the double doors which led into the main cabin where Betsy and Maud slept, then entered. Betsy did not stir when the sudden onrush of cold air swept in, but Maud sat up on one elbow and knuckled her eyes. ‘Whazzup?’ she said thickly. ‘It’s the middle of the night, ain’t it? Oh, Gawd, you haven’t started wi’ that perishin’ baby, have you?’
‘I think I have,’ Merle said. She had meant to sound nonchalant, but the words came out in a squeak. ‘It’s me back; it’s fair breakin’. Does that mean what I think it does? If so, would it be all right to wake your mam?’
As it happened, waking Betsy wasn’t necessary. She had shrugged herself deeper into the covers, her head disappearing beneath the blankets like a tortoise into its shell, but she must have been listening for she suddenly sat up, rubbed her eyes and addressed both girls, her voice heavy with sleep. ‘Whazzup?’ she said, just as her daughter had done. ‘Don’t say the perishin’ baby’s started at last?’ But even as she said the words, she was scrambling out of her bunk and reaching for the garments she had taken off the night before.
‘I think it is; starting, I mean,’ Merle said timidly. ‘We’re miles from the hospital, ain’t we? What’ll we do, Betsy?’
‘Sit yourself down and I’ll fettle the fire an’ make us all a cup o’ tea,’ Betsy said briskly. ‘And you must watch the clock over the mantel and time your pains, me duck. When they gets to be comin’ every three or four minutes, then that’s a sign the baby’s ready to put in an appearance; we’ll go back to Skipton, just in case.’ She smiled at Merle. ‘Fancy a cuppa now, me luv?’
Gran insisted that Sassy, as she must call herself now, should not tell her story until she was completely well. ‘I aren’t goin’ to blame Louella for tellin’ you untruths because that’s all in the past and anyway, I’m sure she thought she was doin’ it for the best,’ she said firmly. ‘You talked in your sleep last night, a-mumblin’ about never goin’ to Blackpool, and all sorts which didn’t make sense, so I’ll thank you to stay in that bed, quiet like, and give yourself a chance to get over your ducking.’
Troy was in the cottage kitchen, skinning and jointing a rabbit. He turned to grin at Sassy, wagging an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t you argue with Gran, young lady, ’cos I’m tellin’ you, you’ll come off worse. Besides, she’s right; you’ll tell your story a good deal better after a few days’ rest and several good nights’ sleep.’
‘Well, I guess you’re right. To tell you the truth, I’ve still got a crashing headache,’ Sassy admitted. ‘And I feel a bit as though I’ve been put through a mangle.’ She forced a laugh. ‘Otherwise I’m just fine,’ she ended.
Troy laughed too, but shook his head chidingly. ‘And it ain’t as if you slept well last night, young Sassy, ’cos you bloomin’ well didn’t. You had awful nightmares, you talked and muttered and shrieked; I came through twice to help Gran get you back on to the sofa, and you were real distressed. It were a good thing Gran’s nightie was so much too long for you, ’cos your feet kept getting tangled up in the hem when you tried to get out of your blankets.’
Lottie giggled. ‘I remember now; I thought I was back in hospital and they were trying to keep me from Gran and you, Troy,’ she said, rather shyly. ‘And I expect you’re right. It’ll take me a while to recover completely and then I shall be better able to tell you and Gran what happened to me after Louella took me away from you.’
A few days later, Gran helped Lottie to dress in her own clothes, which had been washed and neatly pressed, and then they all sat down to breakfast in the cottage kitchen. It was a good breakfast: bacon and eggs and fried bread, and Gran’s homemade marmalade, the very taste of which took Sassy back ten years. But as soon as the meal was over and the crocks washed up and put away, the three of them sat around the fire and Gran bade Sassy tell her story, right from the time Louella had carried her off until the moment she had spotted Gran on the towpath. ‘Since it’s clear that you’ve recovered from that bang on the head, judgin’ by the way you ate your breakfast,’ Gran said. ‘And you slept sound as a baby last night, which is always the sign of a quiet mind.’
Sassy settled herself more comfortably in her chair and began, glad to be able to tell her story at last, though she had to remind Gran and Troy that the facts as she now presented them had been unknown to her until very recently.
When the story was over, Troy smote his forehead with one hand. ‘That explains a lot,’ he said. ‘You’ve just reminded me of that time in Rhyl, when I saw you trottin’ along the promenade with one of your classmates. I
knew
it was you, Sassy, but when you looked at me as though I were a total stranger, and said your name was Lottie . . . and then there was your hair, such a bright blonde . . . well, I let myself believe that the likeness was just an extraordinary coincidence. They say everyone has a double, and for ten or fifteen minutes after I left you, I thought that really must be the explanation.’ He looked at her quizzically, one brow rising. ‘But I didn’t mean to go back to Gran without finding out where you came from and what you were doing in Rhyl. I turned back to where we’d met and asked folk if they’d seen a pretty little girl in a blue gingham dress, with long blonde hair threaded through with scarlet ribbon. Several people had seen you, or thought they had, but no one could give me any more information, and in the end I gave up.
‘Gran and me were with a fair what sets up every year on the outskirts of the town – she were telling fortunes and I ran the hoopla stall – and when I told Gran how we’d met, she was convinced you really were her little Sassy. She knew Louella bleached her own hair and thought it very likely that she’d bleached yours as well; a disguise to stop us finding you, she thought. But when I told her you’d not seemed to know me, she was . . . well, she was a bit cast down. We thought your mam must have brought her act to Rhyl, so for a couple of weeks we haunted the theatres and went round all the lodging houses. Believe it or not, it didn’t occur to us that you were a day tripper for ages, and by the time it did – occur to us, I mean – it was too late. You had disappeared, and our time in Rhyl was almost up. So back we went to Burscough and the
Girl Sassy
, and set off with a barge full of cotton, heading for Leeds. After all, we didn’t know you’d lost your memory, so we thought that if you wanted to come back to Gran, you’d mebbe make for the canal.’
‘But I didn’t remember the canal at all . . . I mean it was never in my dreams,’ Sassy explained. ‘I had it firmly fixed in my mind that Gran told fortunes and went round the fairs, so of course when I started looking, I never even thought of the canal. But you know all that; I’ve told you already.’ She turned impulsively towards the old woman. ‘If only I’d realised! At one time I was actually in the cabin of the
Girl Sassy
in my dream, but I’m ashamed to say I thought it must be the inside of a caravan. You see, I mainly dreamed of woods and meadows because I suppose that was what I missed most. But now it’s your turn, Gran, to tell me what’s been happening to you and Troy for the past ten years.’
‘Oh, we just got on with our lives, you could say, though I think the both of us were always searchin’ for you, my love,’ Gran said comfortably. ‘We soon found out that Louella never was, and never had been, in the show at the Palace theatre, but at first we just thought she were boastin’ a bit and was appearin’ somewhere not quite so well known. We wasted time combin’ Blackpool before we realised that neither of you were there. So we went back to the canal and gradually, over time, I came to believe that we’d see you again when you were old enough to break away from your mam.
‘Then, four or five years ago, I had a good offer for the caravan, so I sold it and we took to the barge full time. Tellin’ fortunes is all right when you’re young, but as you get older it takes it out of you, and the money ain’t regular, not by any means.’ She beamed at Sassy. ‘So now we’re up to date, except for one thing. What’s been happening to that there little pal o’ yours? When were her baby due, d’you know?’
Sassy felt a stab of guilt. She was truly fond of Merle, but the sheer wonder of finding Gran and discovering her past had put the other girl’s plight out of her head. She said as much, adding that the baby was due any time and saying, rather reluctantly, that she supposed she ought to return to Leeds now that she was feeling more like her old self. ‘Only I’ll have to borrow some money, Gran . . .’ she said. ‘The fact is, we were pretty well spent up by the time we reached Leeds and I had to pay Mrs Piggott to keep my room while I came in search of you. To tell you the truth, I don’t imagine that poor Merle is still working at the bakery. The work was horribly hard but it was the long walk through the dark streets that we both hated, and I can’t imagine Merle doing it by herself.’
‘I should hope not!’ Gran said rather sharply. ‘As for lending you money, flower, I’ve got a nice little nest egg put by which will be yours and Troy’s one day, so you’re welcome to borrow whatever you need. However, I still don’t think you’re well enough to undertake a long train journey, even though Troy would be happy to go with you, I dare say. Give it another day or two. And then of course you must go back to Liverpool. You’ll need to discuss your future with Louella – don’t shake your head, my love, you know very well that you owe her an explanation at the very least, because although she lied, you are her daughter, and I’m sure she loves you deeply in her own way.’
‘Yes, I’ll go and talk to her, but I want to be with you, Gran,’ Sassy said wildly. ‘You’re in charge of the
Girl Sassy
; couldn’t you find me some useful work to do aboard?’
Gran opened her mouth to reply, but Troy cut in, his eyes sparkling. ‘Ah, but Gran won’t be
Girl Sassy
’s number one from now on, that will be my job,’ he said proudly. ‘You know she’s been in hospital? Well, the doctors there told her she’d got to take it easier, steer clear of the hard physical stuff. She’ll arrange for our cargoes and do the paperwork, cook the meals and so on, but she won’t tackle the locks, nor move the cargo; she’ll stay aboard in the warm. We talked it over and agreed I should hire a lad as soon as she was well enough to leave the Burscough cottage and come back aboard the barge; then we’ll go off down to the docks to pick up our next load, which is bales of cotton. But of course employing a feller raised another problem, because Gran has to sleep in the main cabin with the big bed and the fire and that, and there ain’t room in the rear cabin for two lads; we don’t have a butty boat, you know. But if you’re serious, Sassy, and really will come aboard, I reckon we’ll manage just fine. You and Gran can share the main cabin, leaving me the little one in the stern, and I’m sure you’ll soon do as well as, or better than, any lad we could employ.’