though today she felt anything but, because the blacksmith’s fee had reminded her that she only had enough money left for three or maybe four more months of this way of life. This can’t go on, Matty. The bills came in regularly for berthing her boat as well as for Hercules’s stabling and food and that nagging little voice of worry had been wearing away at her for days now. Some day soon either her horse or her boat would have to go. Then what?
She looked around for inspiration, noting that as usual at this time of day the canal basin was packed with boats being laden with grain and timber for the journey north. ‘One boat drawn by a single horse can carry six times as much as a cart pulled by four horses,’ she remembered her father telling her when she was small. ‘Canals are the future, Matty!’
He had died two years ago and recollecting his voice rekindled her sense of loss, together with her fears. Yes, canals might well be the future—but perhaps not for her.
She realised a woman was calling out to her from one of the nearby boats. ‘How’s things, Matty, love? Getting ready for another trip, are you?’
Bess, one of her oldest friends, had a big soapy scrubbing brush in her hand. She was always scrubbing something—her boat, her laundry or her children. ‘I’m making plans, Bess,’ Matty replied. ‘You know?’
‘You and your plans!’ Bess shook her head and tutted, but in her eyes was nothing but kindness. ‘Just be sure to let me and my Daniel know if you need any help, won’t you?’
‘I will. My thanks, Bess.’ And Matty walked on towards her boat, The Wild Rose, where she tethered Hercules close by.
She’d been only three when her mother died and Bess in particular had taken Matty to her heart, cooking meals for her and her father, offering company when it was needed and easing the pain of loss for them both. Matty counted Bess and her husband among her most loyal friends, but Bess would still be watching her, she knew, and just now she needed some privacy. Making for the solitude of her tiny cabin, she dragged off her boots and sat down on the narrow bed.
She still missed her father, so much. An Oxford graduate, he had earned his living by writing articles for historical journals and occasionally giving lectures. He could have made a comfortable living as a tutor, but he loved the canals as much as he loved history—and Matty always suspected that, well educated though he was, he enjoyed the company of the canal folk as much as that of the Oxford men. There was nothing he relished more than to sit by the waterside with fellow travellers on a summer night listening to their tales and he looked after The Wild Rose as well as any true bargeman, seeing to the tarring and caulking, retouching the paint and polishing the brass work all by himself. From an early age Matty would follow him around, saying, ‘Let me help, Papa!’
‘We’ll do it together,’ he used to say.
Of course, the loss of his wife was a sharp grief, but he’d found a kind of peace, Matty always believed, in travelling with his young daughter from one town to another along the waterways. And everywhere they stopped, he would explore the surrounding countryside for old battle sites or castle ruins. Sometimes, her father unearthed valuable relics—though since the last thing he wanted was to make money out of them, he often gave his finds to museums or to other scholars to assist with their research. ‘Our treasure hunter,’ the canal folk liked to call him proudly.
From time to time Matty heard strangers whisper that it was a lonely and unnatural way of life for her father to inflict on his daughter, but in those days Matty was never lonely, for she had all of the canal community as her family. The women took special care of her and did what mothers do, explaining about growing up, giving her dark warnings about men—and oh, how they yelled at their own sons if they were too familiar with her! ‘Don’t you try anything with our Matty! She’s special, d’you hear?’
It was indeed a special life with her father on The Wild Rose. In the summer months he taught her all about the birds who lived by the canals, the flowers and the water creatures; while on winter nights, when often the water on the canals would freeze over, they’d sit snug in their cabin and he told her enthralling tales of times gone by. He taught her practical things, too, like how to look after the boat and navigate the locks or how to make sure she was never cheated by the innkeepers or blacksmiths. Matty had grown up both capable and knowledgeable—and it was just as well, because two years ago her father had suddenly died.
‘A heart attack,’ the doctor had told her gravely. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself in any way, my dear. There was clearly nothing you could do.’
Her friends had gathered round after the funeral and offered their advice. ‘Maybe now’s the time to give up the boat, Matty, and consider another life.’
They were anxious about her, she knew. ‘A girl her age, on her own in a boat,’ she’d heard them whisper. ‘It’s not right. Not safe.’ More than anything, it was becoming unaffordable—but what other kind of life could she possibly consider, after living so long with the freedom of the waterways?
For the last two years, she’d earned occasional money by carrying light loads on her boat for short distances only, taking on parcels of fabric or chinaware or other delicate goods. Hercules might be old, but he was also well trained—he knew exactly how to plod calmly along the towpath without starting at a flock of ducks or shying at an oncoming barge, while Matty, manning the tiller, dreamed of travelling farther some day and finding the lost treasure her father thought he was close to discovering only days before he died.
‘You’re one of us, young Matty,’ the canal folk were always telling her. ‘You always will be, lass.’
But Matty knew that in reality she was alone, cast adrift somewhere between the world of the Oxford scholars and the community of canal people, yet belonging to neither. She also knew this way of life couldn’t carry on for much longer without a regular income and some day soon—by the autumn, most likely—she would have to sell The Wild Rose. Already the sharp tang of loss was making her cold. She’d told Bess she had a plan—if only she did.
Slowly she went to fetch a tin cash box from under the bed and unlocked it. The money won’t have magically multiplied since you last looked, you fool.
Inside were some things she’d carefully kept over the years—three bronze Celtic brooches, an Iron-Age amulet and two small silver candleholders, Tudor most likely. And, wrapped in a soft piece of cloth, there was a golden coin. A Roman coin.
Holding the coin up to the light, she thought she would never, ever forget the reverence in her father’s eyes as he’d brushed the dirt from it two years ago. ‘Where there’s one coin like this, Matty,’ he’d said, ‘there’ll be more.’
The Roman coin she would never, ever part with. But perhaps she could sell the Celtic brooches to a collector, then maybe have enough for all the extra expenses involved in journeying to find her father’s treasure, though there was yet another problem. It would take three days at least to get to the site where her father had found the coin and for that length of journey she needed someone to help with the boat. But since there were no women for hire on the canals, that someone would have to be a man—and her heart sank at the thought. Sighing a little, she carefully slipped the coin, the brooches and other treasures into a purse, then climbed back up on deck.
‘Matty, lass!’
It was Bess again on the wharfside, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Look,’ Bess was saying, ‘someone’s just handed me this letter. And bless me, I can’t make head or tail of it.’
‘A letter? Let me see.’
