The Woman on the Water

Maggie Finch, aged 48 and originally from Cornwall, left her life on dry land twelve years ago after her second failed marriage and the death of her mother. She now lives on the Blue Sparrow, floating from town to city, trailing through Britain’s best canals. But in this day and age, why choose to live on a barge?

We sat on a bench aside from the canal, overlooking her floating home. “I suppose you’re wondering how a girl comes to live on a barge,” she said, a wisp of smoke escaping her lips. “My life was a mess of failed ideas and abandoned projects until I decided to leave the real world and live on the water”.

“My first husband was my high-school sweetheart. We got married when I was 20 and moved into a flat above a bakery in Newquay. The walls were a shade of brown and the wallpaper bubbled at the edges where it met the ceiling. It was a pit, but I loved it and I loved him. But I grew restless, I felt unsettled, suffocated, even. We divorced after two years of marriage...much to my mother’s disappointment”. She lit a cigarette. “I think we need some wine for this, red or white?”. The barge resembled something of a botanical garden; covered in plants from cacti to lilies, with ivy winding over the edges of her painting desk. Stacks of melted candles dripping wax over stained-glass plates were scattered across every surface. The place seemed familiar, even though I had never been inside before. Piles of cushions enveloped in rich velvets and satins occupied most of the floor space. Big industrial bulbs hung from the ceiling in the corner of the room, illuminating the place with a soft yellow glow. It’s clear from just glancing at this space that the person living here defied all stereotypes of the typical barge-dweller; it oozed culture and style from every crevice.

Maggie took two stemless wine glasses out of one of the oak-varnished cupboards and grabbed a bottle of red wine from the rack. We sat back on the bench, but this time the air around us was tense as if her story was getting uncomfortable to tell. She tapped her black varnished fingernails against the side of the glass as she took another sip.

“By the time I got divorced, I was twenty-two. I got accepted to Leeds College of Art and from ‘91 to ‘95 I indulged myself in a cocaine-fuelled lifestyle. I don’t remember much, but I just remember having a damn good time”. She chuckled. “I don’t talk about this much, I’m not proud of my old habits, I’m just impressed I made it out in one piece”.

She paused. She shuffled nervously on the bench. Her left hand clutched her wine and cigarette, her right hand was gripping the seat of the bench, her fingers curling around the wood so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Then I met my second husband, Raymond. He was tall, dark, handsome and full of secrets. He has always had a mean streak, but he got meaner the longer we were together. I won’t tell you all the gory details...let’s just say I became well acquainted with nursing staff in A&E. But I put up with it; I was infatuated with the shadows and mystery that surrounded him”.

It’s obvious from the first time she spoke to Maggie that she’s always been fiercely independent; it’s part of her DNA. So how does a graduate of Leeds College of Art end up living the isolated life of a barge-woman?

She sighed as if she had to pry her next words out of her mouth. “In 2002, my mum got sick. Cancer, they said. It tore me apart. It taught me that life is shorter than you think and that was I wasting mine being unhappy. I went through yet another messy divorce and moved back to Cornwall to live with my mum”. Her bottom lip began to quiver and her voice cracked under the emotional weight of it all.

“She died on January 1st, 2004. She saw me through my second divorce and held my hand when I was supposed to be holding hers". She paused. "We welcomed in another year together and part of me expected that we would be doing the same next year. We were meant to have more time”.

She drummed her fingers against the side of her empty glass and chuckled nervously. “This was never the game plan”. She refilled it again, pouring the last of the claret-coloured wine into her glass, spilling a droplet or two on her baby blue jeans.

“‘My mum’s death pretty much destroyed me. I didn’t want to live in that house anymore; every inch of that place reminded me of her". She lit another cigarette.

Her eyes welled with tears and her cheeks became a flushed red. "I lived in the stale, painful memories of my mum’s death for a year before I sold the house and used every penny of the inheritance to buy myself a barge. I responded to an advertisement on the noticeboard of my local market and bought the damn thing the first time I saw it. Let’s be real here, not the most sensible time to make life-altering choices right after you lose your mum, but that’s my style! My mum always said I never gave things any forethought, but twelve years later I like to think my mum would be pleased with this decision".

Maggie remembers telling her friends about her plans, to which they, understandably, had concerns. But given her circumstances, the escape that came from living on a barge was everything that she needed.

"There is something satisfying about the quiet nothingness of living on the water. That’s what I love. I think it’s what I’ve always needed. I live floating on a constantly moving surface, but I’ve never felt more settled and secure in my entire life”.