The boat bobbed slightly as the sluices let in water and the level of the lock rose. The process seemed incredibly slow that day, although he knew well enough that the lock was filling at its usual rate and it was only his own impatience that was expanding time. He needed to get back to Salton, and everything, human and natural, seemed to be conspiring to prevent it. The clerk at Wolverhampton had taken an age to process the acquisition forms, the lorries which collected the salt had not been on time, then his engine had failed. He had spent an hour, up to his elbows in grease, fixing it. The boat had risen high enough for McLeash’s head to be above the level of the lock. He could see the lock-keeper’s Wellington boots. Only another three feet to go. Shouldn’t be long now. McLeash didn’t own a watch – he didn’t need one. He glanced up at the sun and judged that it was roughly half past five. The pubs would just be opening. A mile up the canal was the Oddfellows’ Arms. He could moor by the side of it and sit in the garden, sipping cool pints of bitter.
