Fit For Purpose, Julian Parrott [most recommended books txt] 📗

overnight at the wharf there. Nia had followed the road that ran roughly parallel to the canal’s meandering path, stopping at overlooks and the occasional bridge to see if she could find the Periwinkle. Now that she knew where the boat was and where it was heading, she returned to the Porsche and settled back into the deep, leather bucket seat. She pushed the start button and the three-litre, flat-six inter-cooled engine fired into throaty life. The car’s media centre blinked on. She used the on-screen commands to move to playlists and found the playlist she had labelled ‘Boat Songs’. Elvis Costello’s ‘Shipbuilding’ began to play. Ironic she thought. Nia gunned the motor and whipped the car around the overlook’s lay-by. The Porsche’s nineteen-inch wheels sent arcs of gravel flying, and then the car headed back out on to the main road.

On the canal, Tom positioned the Periwinkle to go under another bridge. Although scores of bridges traversed the canal, he never tired of them. They were obvious and gentle reminders of the history of the changing nature of canal life and landforms. Tom slowed the elegant narrowboat, the engine so quiet that the boat appeared to almost glide along the canal, slightly faster than the ducks and geese who occasionally swam alongside. The brick bridge approached and Tom felt the connection with the bargees of another era who would have gone through the same routine umpteen times a day. He gently leant on the tiller and looked to the towpath to his left. On such a quiet day he could imagine a boy guiding the boat horse along the towpath and hear the hooves click and clap as the horse walked on the brick pathway under the bridge. He wondered whether his Victorian narrowboat kin ever took the time to stop and behold each tree and field that was presented for viewing.

The Periwinkle nosed under the brick bridge. The bridge had remained relatively unchanged since the day it was completed one hundred and fifty years before apart from where the generations of ropes that once connected horses to canal boats had worn smooth and deep grooves into the masonry. Once these bridges connected neighbours’ farms, provided paths to church on Sunday, or eased the shipment of goods to the nearest village for market day. Tom felt a sense of melancholy knowing most of the bridges, were now bridges to nowhere. As the Periwinkle emerged from under the bridge, Tom noticed that no footpaths remained leading up to or down from either side of the bridge, that it was no longer walked or ridden over. Yet, it still stood, a testament to its simple design and quality craftsmanship. He thought about pulling to the canal side, mooring up temporarily, and taking Jack for a walk up and over the bridge but it would be a pointless and futile gesture. He thought of Nia and whether more attempts to call and text her would be as futile.

Tom pushed the engine control forward increasing the revs and the Periwinkle responded by moving a bit faster. Tom checked the stern of the boat to make sure he wasn’t causing too much of a wake. He rounded a long and gentle bend as the Cheshire countryside gently sloped upwards to his left. An hour later, he approached the entrance of the wharf. Tom pushed the tiller to the left and steered the Periwinkle into the right-hand side of the canal. He then swung the tiller far right to bring the forty-eight-foot narrowboat around to make the sharp left turn. He normally liked the meandering nature of the canal as it cut its way gently following the imperceptible contours of the Cheshire and Shropshire countryside. His heart ached at the memory of the last time he had travelled on this part of the canal with Nia in the boat, with Nia in his life.

Tom was nauseated at the emptiness he felt knowing that, without Nia, his life would never be as vital, as bright, and as fun as he once, prematurely, thought it was going to be. He would be like the brick bridges he frequently passed; sturdy, resilient, fit-for-purpose, but forgotten, lost and unloved. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said to himself trying to snap himself out of his unhealthy reverie. Tom squared his shoulders, he would just have to get on with it. He knew he would love Nia always and he knew that the pain he felt at her leaving would now follow him forever. He would be as emotionally broken as his right leg was physically. Yet he wasn’t sorry that he had met her, for the last few months burned with a light and an energy and a fervour that he would savour always. It was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Yeah, he told himself, not really a comfort at the moment.

Jack’s barking from the bow brought Tom back to the present. He stretched to see over the boat’s length as to what had caught Jack’s attention. There, up ahead, on the wrought iron bridge that spanned the canal was a solitary figure. The Periwinkle nosed into the marina’s channel and Tom brought the revs down and the boat slowed to walking pace. He looked at the figure as the bridge inexorably approached. Jack ran through the boat’s cabin and joined Tom on the stern deck. Tom could see that the figure was female and leaning with her arms on the bridge’s balustrade. His pulse quickened. He was sure it was Nia, but he swallowed that thought in fear of disappointment. The woman wore a green, waxed coat, tight jeans, red bobble hat and a blue and white scarf. A small overnight bag lay at her feet. She removed her hat and her thick hair whipped in the wind just as the boat nosed under the bridge. She waved down at Jack and Tom. It was Nia. Jack