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Authors: Deborah Crombie
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during Christmas week. The truth was that she found herself more and more often drawn back to the scenes of her working life, the very places she had once so desperately wanted to put behind her.
How odd that today she had seen the very family who had been primarily responsible for her leaving her job, and who had also inspired her to take up the boating life. She’d been tempted to tell Gabriel Wain that she owed him a debt of gratitude, but suspected he’d think her daft.
No matter how competent or how experienced she’d become, she’d never really belong to the world of the traditional boat people. Not that there were many like the Wains left on the canals. She’d wondered, in the years since she’d handled their case, if she’d let her fascination with their way of life affect her judgment.
The sight of the children today, so obviously happy and healthy, had relieved any nagging doubts. The mother, however, had looked wan and ill—and frightened. Annie had known better than to comment—she understood the reason for the Wains’ distrust all too well. She’d told herself it was none of her business, but it seemed that once a social worker, always a social worker, like it or not, and she found it hard to let go of her concern for Rowan Wain.
With the boat safely moored in the quiet marina, she’d used her torch to pick her way along the towpath and onto the aqueduct that carried the Shropshire Union over the Chester Road. The Shroppie, as the boaters affectionately called it, was actually a connected system of canals built at different times by different canal companies. It was here at Nantwich that the old Chester Canal met the narrow Liverpool to Birmingham Junction Canal, built by the Scottish engineer Thomas Telford in the late 1820s. While the iron aqueduct was not as impressive as Telford’s stone aqueduct at Pontcysyllte, in Wales, Annie had always loved its soaring lines. This aqueduct and the Birmingham Junction Canal had been Telford’s last projects—he had, in fact, died before their completion—and that somehow added a bittersweet touch to their beauty.
It had been Rowan Wain who had told Annie about the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, which carried the Llangollen Canal across the entire span of the Dee Valley. The first time Annie had taken the Horizon down the Llangollen and worked up the nerve to cross the aqueduct, she’d been terrified and exhilarated. The boat seemed to float in midair like a spirit, high above the valley, and it was like nothing else Annie had ever experienced. Afterwards, she felt she was a true boater.
From where she stood now, she could see the snow dusting the rooftops of Nantwich, and she thought she could just make out the dark shadow that was the tower of St. Mary’s Church. Even as a child, visiting from her home near Malpas, in southern Cheshire, she’d been fascinated by Nantwich. The black-and-white-timbered shops facing the green had made her think of a picture on a chocolatebox, and she’d liked the way the massive red stone bulk of St. Mary’s had balanced the prettiness of the surrounding buildings.
Once, she’d asked her parents to take her to Christmas Eve mass at St. Mary’s. Her mother had refused, with her usual scorn, saying there was a perfectly good church in Malpas that they were expected to attend and it would be idiotic to consider driving twenty miles through darkness and bad weather to go somewhere else.
It had been no less than Annie had expected, but to her surprise, her father had agreed, and they had gone, just the two of them. Annie had known, even then, that her father would suffer the consequences of her mother’s anger for days, but her guilt had not been able to dampen her pleasure. It had been one of the few times she’d spent alone with her busy father. They hadn’t talked much, but there had been a shared sense of adventure between them, spiced by the rebelliousness of defying her mother. She couldn’t remember another
How odd that today she had seen the very family who had been primarily responsible for her leaving her job, and who had also inspired her to take up the boating life. She’d been tempted to tell Gabriel Wain that she owed him a debt of gratitude, but suspected he’d think her daft.
No matter how competent or how experienced she’d become, she’d never really belong to the world of the traditional boat people. Not that there were many like the Wains left on the canals. She’d wondered, in the years since she’d handled their case, if she’d let her fascination with their way of life affect her judgment.
The sight of the children today, so obviously happy and healthy, had relieved any nagging doubts. The mother, however, had looked wan and ill—and frightened. Annie had known better than to comment—she understood the reason for the Wains’ distrust all too well. She’d told herself it was none of her business, but it seemed that once a social worker, always a social worker, like it or not, and she found it hard to let go of her concern for Rowan Wain.
With the boat safely moored in the quiet marina, she’d used her torch to pick her way along the towpath and onto the aqueduct that carried the Shropshire Union over the Chester Road. The Shroppie, as the boaters affectionately called it, was actually a connected system of canals built at different times by different canal companies. It was here at Nantwich that the old Chester Canal met the narrow Liverpool to Birmingham Junction Canal, built by the Scottish engineer Thomas Telford in the late 1820s. While the iron aqueduct was not as impressive as Telford’s stone aqueduct at Pontcysyllte, in Wales, Annie had always loved its soaring lines. This aqueduct and the Birmingham Junction Canal had been Telford’s last projects—he had, in fact, died before their completion—and that somehow added a bittersweet touch to their beauty.
It had been Rowan Wain who had told Annie about the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, which carried the Llangollen Canal across the entire span of the Dee Valley. The first time Annie had taken the Horizon down the Llangollen and worked up the nerve to cross the aqueduct, she’d been terrified and exhilarated. The boat seemed to float in midair like a spirit, high above the valley, and it was like nothing else Annie had ever experienced. Afterwards, she felt she was a true boater.
From where she stood now, she could see the snow dusting the rooftops of Nantwich, and she thought she could just make out the dark shadow that was the tower of St. Mary’s Church. Even as a child, visiting from her home near Malpas, in southern Cheshire, she’d been fascinated by Nantwich. The black-and-white-timbered shops facing the green had made her think of a picture on a chocolatebox, and she’d liked the way the massive red stone bulk of St. Mary’s had balanced the prettiness of the surrounding buildings.
Once, she’d asked her parents to take her to Christmas Eve mass at St. Mary’s. Her mother had refused, with her usual scorn, saying there was a perfectly good church in Malpas that they were expected to attend and it would be idiotic to consider driving twenty miles through darkness and bad weather to go somewhere else.
It had been no less than Annie had expected, but to her surprise, her father had agreed, and they had gone, just the two of them. Annie had known, even then, that her father would suffer the consequences of her mother’s anger for days, but her guilt had not been able to dampen her pleasure. It had been one of the few times she’d spent alone with her busy father. They hadn’t talked much, but there had been a shared sense of adventure between them, spiced by the rebelliousness of defying her mother. She couldn’t remember another
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