When they came to locks, Paddywack had a routine – Joe thought it was because he didn’t like being left behind on the barge. Paddywack would jump out and go and sit up by the lock gates. From there he would oversee Joe at work, as he opened and shut the gates, manoeuvring The Lady Marion in and out. Then, as Joe throttled up again Paddywack would spring back on board, and at once resume his lookout post on the bow.

In the evenings they’d tie up somewhere, mostly in a town or a village if they could, and he would sit there beside Joe as he served his customers their baked potatoes, but he was still on lookout. Any cheesy potato skins dropped on the towpath were very quickly discovered and snaffled up. And when the weather was too miserable to travel, then they’d hunker down in the warmth of the cabin and while away the hours with sleep or bacon butties – and knitting, Joe’s new hobby. Paddywack was fascinated with Joe’s knitting. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the clicking needles. “Marion taught me years ago,” Joe told him one evening. “She said it was good for mind-eye coordination, keeps your brain alive, she said. But I never really took to it. But then, after she died, I found her needles one day and her wool. So I thought I’d take it up again, and make more bobble hats like mine. We’ll sell them, like the tatties. Every little helps.”

For a year or more, Joe and Paddywack drifted through the seasons in peace and contentment. Hardly a boat passed them by on the canal without some flattering comment about Paddywack, about how beautiful he looked standing there on the bow, or how graceful and powerful he was as he streaked along the towpath. Joe could have wished for a few compliments about his beloved barge, that he had so painstakingly and meticulously restored. But barge owners, as he was discovering, were rather too proud of their own boats to have much enthusiasm for anyone else’s.

For Joe there were still moments, usually late in the evening, when memories of Marion would come flooding back and his grief took hold of him again. But Paddywack would always be there beside him through these difficult times. He seemed to sense Joe’s need for comfort and company and would settle close to his chair, or rest his head on Joe’s knee. “I bless the day I found you,” Joe told him one night as Paddywack climbed up on to his bunk beside him. “Or did you find me? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, will we, old son?”

It happened on an afternoon much like any other. The Lady Marion was cruising along the canal into a town, with Paddywack at the bow as usual. Joe called out to him from the wheel. “We’ll go under that bridge and the next one, and that’ll bring us just about into the centre of town, I reckon. Not far Paddywack. We could do good tatty business here. Might even sell a bobble hat or two.” As they passed under the first bridge Paddywack started barking, the echo of it loud all around them. Joe knew there was nothing unusual about this. Paddywack loved barking as they went under bridges, but this time he didn’t stop when they came out into the sunlight again, and Joe thought that was odd. There was the sound of children playing nearby. Joe looked back over his shoulder and saw a school playground by the bridge, full of raucous children running around. By now Paddywack wasn’t just barking, he was yelping and tearing up and down the deck, frantic to get off.