The Navvy’s Bargain by Matthew J. Richardson

‘I’m sorry,’ said the waiter. ‘Do I recognise you?’

‘Shouldn’t have thought so,’ replied Robert. ‘I imagine I have the same face as any other holiday canaller, one whose week has become a search for water points and a battle with the bilge pump.’

Robert looked across to where Sylvie was staring pursed-lipped into the pub’s log burner.

‘Brave,’ continued the waiter, who judging by the empty tables surrounding them was not overworked. ‘Navigating the Llangollen in January.’

The young man paused, steam from the lunchtime soup special rising from the table in front of him.

‘But then,’ the waiter continued smoothly. ‘You’ve got the canal to yourself, haven’t you?’

‘Much as Scott had the South Pole to himself,’ cut in Sylvie, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

The waiter shuffled back to the kitchen.

‘Don’t make this a misery, love…’

‘I’m not saying a word.’

‘You’re saying quite a lot, nonetheless. I said I’d take you away for our first anniversary, I…’

‘Away means a lot of places, Robert, not all of them four degrees in January.’

‘I’m sorry if I perhaps overestimated my budget. You said you wanted to spend quality time together.’

‘Is it such a chore?’ asked Sylvie. ‘You’ve not struggled to find time to spend on business or friends – the training course in Ireland, the stag-do in Amsterdam, walking the Pennine Way with your mates.’

Robert reached across the table and squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘I’m sorry. I miscalculated, that’s all.’

‘These are meant to be the easy years, Robert…’

She trailed off, and Robert was saved having to reply by the reappearance of the waiter.

‘All finished? Should have said, my name’s Dawid. Can I tempt you with a dessert?’

‘I don’t think…’ began Robert, trailing off as he saw his wife’s face.

‘Tidy. Maybe not a bad idea to get moving. You doing the Chirk before mooring up tonight? Longest canal tunnel in Wales, you know.’

‘That’s the plan,’ replied Robert.

‘Right you are. I’ll get your bill.’

Silence, punctured by the sound of wood popping, the tapping of fingers on the table and finally, the returning footsteps of Dawid, who carried not only the bill but two fresh glasses of wine.

‘On the house,’ he said, glancing around. ‘Not as though anyone else is drinking them, eh?’

‘That’s very generous,’ said Robert. ‘But we really must be getting on.’

‘Oh Robert,’ cut in Sylvie. ‘We can surely spare fifteen minutes before returning to that bloody brig.’

‘Come on, mun,’ said Dawid. ‘You’re glancing at that door like you’ve got the Old Man of Chirk nipping at your heels.’

‘I thought I was sitting across from the Old Man of Chirk, no?’ said Sylvie through a thin-lipped smile.

‘You’ve not heard of the Old Man?‘ smiled Dawid, dragging a chair over. ‘Well, what better reason than a story to delay your departure? For some it’s a feeling of unease as they pass through the tunnel, a prickle at the base of their neck, a sense of claustrophobia between the damp walls. Others…well, you hear some odd stories working here…’

‘Is this where I ask what kind of stories?’ asked Sylvie.

‘Right on cue,’ replied Dawid. ‘And where I have the story dragged from me as the fire embers die…’

‘We certainly haven’t got time for that,’ cut in Robert.

‘I’ll go light on the scene setting, then. We’ve heard outlandish tales from patrons who are more…’

‘Pissed?’ said Sylvie.

‘…easily influenced. People have heard the jangling of reins on the towpath, the clip-clop of hooves…When they look there is nothing but the black walls and the black water. The tunnel is nearly half a mile long, so there’s plenty of both. The best story concerns a man from the days when the canal used to be the only way of getting coal out from the collieries. Flat cap, face black with soot, that sort of thing. Depending on who you listen to he’ll either watch silently from the path or hop aboard for a ride, all the while whispering in Old Welsh.’

‘I know it’s frowned upon in ghost stories,’ said Sylvie. ‘But is there a rationale behind this tunnel squatting?’

‘You don’t spoil a good story with rationale,’ replied Dawid. ‘There’s no denying that the tunnel is odd, though. Sort of otherworldly.’

‘All the more reason for us to be through before dark,’ said Robert, getting to his feet and holding Sylvie’s jacket for her.

The waiter waved him off. ‘Safe travels to you both, now.’

The January air was sharp at Robert’s throat during the walk through the gloomy beer garden. He reached out for Sylvie’s hand as they meandered down to the canal. She didn’t pull away, which was something. Foxglove was tugging listlessly at her mooring ropes, the rental company lettering faded and the curtains in the windows dowdy.

‘All aboard once again,’ he said, helping Sylvie on board.

Robert fastened the tiller arm and turned the key in the ignition, the thrum of the engine running through his arm. Sylvie disappeared below, her breath pluming behind her, and Robert had resigned himself to a lonely journey westward by the time she reappeared with two steaming mugs of tea. Sylvie sat next to him at the tiller, smelling of wine, perfume, and Earl Grey. They didn’t speak much, but rather let the Shropshire countryside chunter by as the afternoon wore on and early evening crept up against the sky. A pastiche of hedgerow and trembling canopy, waterlogged field and huddled hamlet was the backdrop for their journey. Robert thought about mentioning that it was as picturesque as any beach resort.

‘You look cold. You want to put the dinner on if I take us through the tunnel? We can’t be far now.’

Sylvie planted a kiss on his cheek and went below. Robert knew that his wife had stayed out to make peace. It was good of her.

Boats coming from the west were fewer, their tillermen huddled and their lights like glowing parchment in the gloom. They gave him the curt nods and indistinct grunts of people looking for a mooring berth. The evening air was sharp with coming snow. Robert took the throttle down and let Foxglove drift to the bank. He leapt across to the towpath and secured her with mooring pins – no need for them to be too tight. With a last glance at the rough towpath in either direction, Robert went below, blowing into his hands. He locked the door before putting the key in his pocket. The small kitchen smelled of cottage pie, and Sylvie was fussing over an unfamiliar oven.

‘Are we the other side already?’ she asked. ‘I was getting worried we wouldn’t make it through before dark.’

‘We’re not through the tunnel,’ replied Robert, opening one of the hopper windows and listening to the silence. The light had all but gone, their narrowboat an island of illumination in the pitch and inky blues of a winter night. ‘I’m sorry about us not going abroad, Sylvie. I really am.’

‘Oh, Robert,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t mean to be such a bitch…’

‘No Sylvie,’ said Robert, moving past his wife and sitting down at the dinner table with a sigh. ‘I really am sorry.’

His tone quietened Sylvie, who perched at the other end of the table.

‘You remember the stag-do in Amsterdam?’

‘I do,’ she said as the boat shifted in the wind. There was a low, easing groan of ropes pulled taut and then slackening.

‘I’ve never been good at organising – left it too late, of course. No flights to Amsterdam, or anywhere else you’d want a stag-do. I hit upon the idea of taking the lads on a narrowboat instead. It was great – stopping at every pub on the waterfront, doing the locks, playing poker in the evening. One afternoon, we were at a pub…the same pub we visited today…’

‘That waiter – he did recognise you,’ said Sylvie, her hand moving over her mouth. ‘Robert, you’re scaring me.’

‘I’d had a few pints, and I thought it would be funny to sneak back to the boat and move on for a few miles. They’d have to hitchhike, and it’d be a fantastic story – a great way to end the stag.’

Robert glanced out of the window.

‘Then I got to Chirk Tunnel. One minute it was June sunshine, the next only darkness. I grounded her, hard on the side of the tunnel – a horrible, screeching sound she made. It was when I was on the towpath, levering the keel away from the side that I first became aware of him. He was behind me, leaning against the dank walls and watching me, with pitch-black eyes and skin stretched tight across his face like he was ill. Before I knew it, the man was leaning into the boat alongside me, helping me push off.

‘I didn’t think anything of it when he stepped onto the gunwale when I got moving again. Least I could do was give him a lift through the tunnel, seeing as he’d helped me out of a tricky spot. By the time I’d got out of the other side and my eyes had adjusted to the light, he was gone. I tied up and went below to find my phone and give the lads a ring. He was sitting on one of the bunk beds, waiting for me. What he was wearing…it was ragged, frayed, filthy, from his flat cap to his too-short trousers.’

‘Robert,’ said Sylvie softly. ‘If this is a joke…’

‘It’s no joke,’ Robert insisted, cocking his ear at the window for a moment. ‘And he’s not your waiter’s friendly navvy chancing a ride, either. When he spoke, it was in a thick Welsh accent, struggling over words. All the time he was fiddling with something in his hand, something whose clacking sounded familiar but which I couldn’t place. I could barely put words in order, I was so frightened, but I thought it would be safer to try and make conversation. He told me that he used to run coal to Chester down the canal. He talked about the mines, the Welsh mountains, and the inns along the Llangollen in such a way that made me sure he wasn’t from the modern world, and all the time playing with whatever was in his hand.

‘He started up about the English, about how they’d come and sucked all the wealth and youth out of Wales before letting the canals silt up, about how they’d get country lads drunk in the inns and make sure they lost their hard-earned wages gambling. It was then that I recognised that sound – it was dice clacking together. Whether through drink or fear I’m not sure, but I found myself sitting on the bunk opposite, playing dice on the musty carpet. Just for fun, he’d said, just to pass the time. Soon my debts rose a little, and then a lot.’

Robert braced himself against the table as the narrowboat lurched in the water. There was the sound of furtive footsteps on the towpath outside. He stood and pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘Robert, how could you be so stupid?’

‘That’s the thing, Sylvie,’ said Robert, buttoning up his coat. ‘It might have been stupid to dice with him, but it was simple to bargain my way out. Said I had someone better for him as payment, a Sassenach as arrogant as he’d ever come across, a prissy little bitch who thought she was marrying beneath herself.’

Robert patted the stern door key in his breast pocket. He walked towards the front of the boat, away from where Sylvie sat at the table, white as chalk. Robert didn’t look back upon leaving the bow door, nor upon stepping off onto the towpath, nor even when the sound of the engine sputtering into life disturbed the still, cold night.

Matthew J. Richardson

Image was taken from the Geograph project collection. See this photograph’s page on the Geograph website for the photographer’s contact details. The copyright on this image is owned by Jeff Buck and is licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 license. The inside of the Chirk Tunnel – a dark hollow with the glint of water and light in the distance.