Babbs - Adrift : the secret life of Londons waterways

ADRIFT

ADRIFT

A Secrets Life of Londons Water Ways

Helen Babbs

Published in the UK in 2016 by

Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus Business Centre,
3941 North Road, London N7 9DP
email:

www.iconbooks.com

Sold in the UK, Europe and Asia

by Faber & Faber Ltd, Bloomsbury House,
7477 Great Russell Street,

London WC1B 3DA or their agents

Distributed in the UK, Europe and Asia

by TBS Ltd, TBS Distribution Centre, Colchester Road,
Frating Green, Colchester CO7 7DW

Distributed in the USA

by Publishers Group West,
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Distributed in Australia and New Zealand
by Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd,

PO Box 8500, 83 Alexander Street,

Crows Nest, NSW 2065

Distributed in South Africa

by Jonathan Ball, Office B4, The District,

41 Sir Lowry Road, Woodstock 7925

Distributed in Canada
by Publishers Group Canada,

76 Stafford Street, Unit 300

Toronto, Ontario M6J 2S1

ISBN: 978-184831-920-2

Text copyright 2016 Helen Babbs

The author has asserted her moral rights.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Typeset in Proforma by Marie Doherty

Printed and bound in the UK
by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

winter

marshland

River Lea and Lee Navigation

Leyton Marsh to Limehouse

1. storm

I ts dark out. In here its warm and orange-lit, flickering. The smell is wet coal and woodsmoke. The sound, violent: high-pitched whistles and metallic cracks. The boat shifts and shudders, moans and rolls, more like a ship at sea than a broad barge on a narrow river. Dislocated branches suck across the Lea at speed, dragging their claws over the roof before rushing mad into the marshes. Suddenly theres a smash and scraping overhead as the wind grabs hold of the chimneys rain hat, rips it off and carries it, bouncing, away. The fire shudders in the stove, spits and starts, then settles again into its gentle, giving roar. Sometimes its possible to forget this is a home without bricks, that she floats free of foundations. Not tonight. Tonight she is a tin drum, beaten by a thousand furious drumsticks. Tonight she is the weathers toy, to toss and whip at will.

It has poured and blown like this for weeks and weeks, and the world is taking on an underwater aspect. Christmas has been and gone in a tumult. Stowed away against the terrible storms, weve spent the holidays drinking whisky and watching trashy box set television on a tiny laptop. A gaudy noble fir, decked to disappearing in tinsel, slow cooks in the corner beside the red-hot stove. Our existence has shrunk itself into a few woozy square feet. We need to get out.

Next morning, when daylight cracks weak and grey, we dress from head to toe in waterproofs and wellies and air ourselves on the marshes. Water pools on top of the grass and starts to form streams. A moorhen has swapped river for sodden ground and busies itself in a swollen puddle. Leviathans gather on the horizon, promising more storm to come. We pretend they hide mountains. And we walk, bent against the weather, in a slow, looping ellipse, the boat never far from view. Dog walkers follow similar circles. Slapped cheeks flood with colour, cold eyes prick with tears, fur spikes. In a moment of abandon we let our hoods drop and allow the wet wind to catch our hair.

2. boat

I ts early January and were moored on the peripheries of the city, where Leyton Marsh meets Walthamstow Marsh, just downriver from Springfield. The storms that have wracked the country for most of the winter are easing off but the mud remains. London feels swamp-like, primaeval. Dickenss megalosaurus will surely be seen wandering across the marshes at any moment. The boat is brown-streaked and bramble-scratched. Lying in bed with my boyfriend S., we search for the willpower to get up, each urging the other to make a decisive first move. We blow breath rings, listening to a chorus of creaking rope and fender, the Leas particular slap and gurgle, and a crows serrating caws. A boat passes close by. We dont see it but we feel it as we slide forward, back, side to side in its wake. Condensation drips from the brass mushroom vent above us and leaves an accusing dark mark on the covers.

Its been a hard night. We got in late and didnt light a fire, cockily didnt even fill a hot water bottle. We thought single malt was enough and resolved to brush our teeth in our coats. We have been punished. The cold crept in in the small hours, seeping through the floorboards and under the doors. It was so penetrating it woke us up. A crystalline presence in the room that seized at every limb. Slipping in and out of sleep, I imagined my soft organs icing over, my bones splintering into jagged pieces of ice. Sunrise brought some relief and the space between the sheets slowly warmed, but the heat feels hard won and difficult to give up.

The cabin is properly insulated and has a fairly successful attempt at double glazing in some rooms, if you will allow industrial-strength cling film to stand in for a secondary sheet of glass but theres no escaping the fact that our home is made from steel and that that steel is partly submerged in a cold body of water. When standing up inside, the area below the knee is technically underwater. Unless the fire is lit, the temperature inside the boat can easily drop below freezing. That period of indefinite length between getting up and the cabin warming up is an unpleasant one to step into, so we continue to hunker, to extend the conversation that keeps us in bed. These days, we tell each other, its an effort to remember how it felt to wake up on dry land, how it felt to live in the same street, the same borough, for months, maybe years on end. We course through London, following her navigable waterways, cruising ever onwards. Theres always another local to drink in and so many different corners with so many different corner shops. Our journeys home from land to river have to be constantly remapped. Conversations, thoughts, dreams, nightmares; all now have a boating bent. The boat, and the water she traverses, are our obsession.

Braced, we eventually rise and set about making the cold boat warm. We had some foresight last night so there are ready-prepared layers beside the bed to step into: a t-shirt pre-nestled inside a jumper, a hooded sweater, ski socks and sheepskin boots. In the bathroom condensation laces across the window and beads up on the metal frame. The toilet seat is like ice. I shuffle into the kitchen in my too-big boots, and fill the kettle for tea and a wash. I tip porridge oats and milk into a saucepan and put it over a low heat. While both slowly reach the boil on the gas, the stove in the living room can be cleared of old ash and the fire laid and lit. It closed, cast iron, with a glass window is the heart of home and we forget this at our peril.

The boat squats long and low on the water. Flat-bottomed with a gently curving roof and traditional stern, shes a twenty-tonne hulk of metal painted black and midnight blue. Close inspection will reveal rusty war wounds and popped paint blisters; her crannies house snatches of cobweb and leaf. The boats sides are protected by fenders fashioned from old car tyres, her bow and her stern cushioned with more traditional buttons of plaited black rope.