Hope on the Waterways
Page 1
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Milly Adams
Why YOU love Milly Adams…
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Map
Broaden your waterways vocabulary…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Copyright
About the Book
THE THIRD NOVEL IN THE UPLIFTING WATERWAY GIRLS SERIES.
When all seems lost, they find strength in each other.
January 1945, West London: Sylvia Simpson is flourishing in her role aboard the Marigold and has quickly become an invaluable member of the crew. But as the V-I and V-2 rockets draw closer, someone from her past is about to burst into their lives. Now Sylvia must choose between keeping the promises she has made, and remaining loyal to the people she loves the most.
Polly and Verity are still waiting for their sweethearts’ safe return, and soon find they have their own battles to fight on the home front. It will take all their resolve to keep their heads above water, but as long as they stick together there will always be hope.
About The Author
Milly Adams lives in Buckinghamshire with her husband, dog and cat. Her children live nearby. Her grandchildren are fun, and lead her astray; she insists that it is that way round.
Milly Adams is also the author of Above Us the Sky, Sisters at War, At Long Last Love, The Waterway Girls and Love on the Waterways. This is the final novel in her Waterway Girls series.
To find out more visit www.millyadams.co.uk or follow her on facebook: @millyadams2
Also by Milly Adams
Above Us the Sky
Sisters at War
At Long Last Love
The Waterway Girls Series
The Waterway Girls
Love on the Waterways
Why YOU love Milly Adams
‘As usual I have thoroughly enjoyed this author’s book – it was absorbing and full of suspense at what Leon may do. The historical information was interesting too and showed a forgotten side of the war led by women. I look forward to the next instalment’
‘I really enjoyed this – I had previously read a little about the ‘Idle Women’ and so was drawn to this as soon as I saw it. It certainly didn’t disappoint – the characters and the way of life are all so very real feeling, and I am really pleased to see that there is a second book about these characters; so pleased, in fact, that I have already pre-ordered it :)’
‘Excellent book what went on then was totally different they contributed so much to the war effort very interesting can’t wait for the next’
‘Excellent read, could not put it down’
‘I loved this book, really good story, was sad when it ended’
‘I enjoyed this and will look forward to the next. Fans of Nadine Dorries and Donna Douglas will find this worth a look’
‘A good story about believable people, combined with fascinating history, and brilliantly accurate descriptions of life on board a narrow boat’
‘Another book that you cannot put down until you have read about what the woman did you have no idea what it was like another great read’
Acknowledgements
My deeply felt thanks go to those who made the completion of this novel possible.
Of course, these are the usual culprits: those who have helped me with canal life, the books I have read and listed in The Waterway Girls, which was the start of this journey, and, of course, the lovely Cass, my editor. I want to thank her for her boundless energy and kindness in laughing at my jokes. She really shouldn’t because it only encourages me. But she’ll learn.
The people, though, who made Hope on the Waterways reach the bank were those who progressed the sale of our house, and the buying of another, throughout the writing of this novel. Their efforts were over and above …
‘Him indoors’ and I are enormously grateful to Wye Residential in High Wycombe, to Darrell and the girls, and especially to Ian. He must have made hundreds of phone calls on our behalf to keep the chain vaguely moving and is now surely bald, as we are now, from pulling out our hair. He is lying in a darkened room as I write this.
And then there’s Joe de Silva, Anne Buckle, and Amy at our solicitors, Blaser Mills in High Wycombe, who did all in their power to solve everyone’s problems, not just ours. Our estate agents, Jill, Patrick and Ben at Luke Miller & Associates in Thirsk were unfailingly patient and helpful. The removals firm, W.H. Cox of Amersham never wavered in their help and encouragement as completion date after completion date came and went, and a particular thanks to someone who offered up her allotment for one particular task I had in mind … but let’s say no more about that! Hayley, our buyer, and I bonded tighter than any buyer and seller in the history of human endeavour as we tried to navigate a way through the problems of the chain.
Hayley, of course, was gracious in the extreme, whereas I frequently used rude language (though in the privacy of my home). The dogs got upset, but ‘him indoors’ just ignored it. Not that any of this was directed at Hayley – it was at the chain. Lastly, huge thanks to Annie, Kris and Miss Delilah, aged one, who let us stay between moving out and moving in to our new home. It was massive fun.
And so, hope played quite a part as we all hung in together – much like Polly, Verity and Sylvia. We all finally made it through to a safe mooring. Will they?
I do so hope you enjoy the last in the series as much as I loved writing it.
Warmest wishes,
Milly Adams
To Hayley, Ryan, Zac and Zoey
We finally made it
And to Jo Bentley
Thanks for the fun
Map of the London to Birmingham Grand Union Canal
Broaden your waterways vocabulary …
Basin – a partly enclosed area of water at the end of or alongside a canal, housing wharves and moorings
Bilges – the bottom of the boat
Butty – engineless boat towed by a motorboat
Canal frontage – land abutting the canal
Counter – deck
Cut – canal
Gunwale – inner ledge around boat
Hold – where the cargo is carried, both motorboats and butties have holds
Lock – the main means of raising or lowering a boat between changes in water levels on a canal
Long pound – a long length of impounded water between two locks
Moor – to secure a boat against the bank
Motorboat – a narrowboat with an engine
Prow or fore-end – front
Short pound – a short length of impounded water between two locks
Slide hatch – sliding ‘lid’ above cabin doors to keep out the rain
Snubber – long strong rope for towing a butty along a long pound
Stern – rear
Straps – mooring and lashing ropes
Wharf – structure built for cargo loading or discharge
Windlass – L-shaped handle for operating lock paddles
Bull’s Bridge, Southall, is the location of Grand Union Canal Carrying Company’s (GUCCC) depot
Limehouse Basin, also known as Regent’s Canal Dock
Grand Union Canal Paddington Arm runs into Regent’s Canal leading to Limehouse/Regent’s Canal Dock
Tyseley Wharf, Birmingham
Chapter 1
Early January 1945, heading along the Regent’s Canal, dodging V2s
Sylvia Simpson leaned against Horizon’s cabin, examining the grey looming clouds, and then the empty fifty-foot hold stretched out in front of her as they headed east along the Regent’s Canal towards Limehouse Basin. Horizon, an engineless butty, was strapped alongside the motor narrowboat Marigold, with both boats under the control of Polly and Verity. All three girls had been recruited the previous year on to the Inland Waterways Scheme set up to replace the boaters who had gone to war.
Their task was to transport supplies from the London wharfs to where they were needed and then the same in reverse. This morning they were pat-pattering east as fast as they could, which, she sighed, didn’t amount to much. After all, four miles an hour didn’t exactly part anyone’s hair. Sylvia scanned the skies again, but what was the use? The layer of swirling grey would hide any V2 streaking towards them. ‘I just wish dear old Marigold’s engine could get a bit more of a head of speed going. I feel as though we’re the ducks at a fairground shooting gallery.’ She snatched a look at the other two standing on their deck alongside.
Polly replied, resting her elbow on Marigold’s tiller, keeping both boats to the centre of the canal, ‘You’re not alone there, Sylvia. It’s an endless dog’s dinner, but what can we do?’
Standing the other side of the tiller, Verity adjusted her green woollen hat and called, ‘We duck, darlings, since Sylvia brought up our little feathered friends.’
The three girls laughed, and that summed it up, really; just keep laughing and get on with the job. So last night they’d moored up overnight at Alperton as usual and made an early start this morning to load up at Limehouse quick as a flash. What’s more, the rabbit and parsnip stew was simmering in Marigold’s tiny cabin range, and who knew, Sylvia thought, they might even manage to gulp it down while the blokes loaded the holds. Then they’d head hell for leather back down Regent’s Canal and finally on to the Grand Union Canal past Hayes to motor north for Birmingham, well out of the danger zone. Again, Sylvia snatched a look at the clouds, listening, always listening, but why, when it just made her irritated with herself?
She called, ‘I need to break the habit of looking and listening because you can’t hear the V2s, as you did the V1s. Which makes me ask, clever clogs Verity, how can we duck if there’s no warning?’
‘Don’t be so picky, darling.’
Sylvia grinned across as Verity moved to lean against Marigold’s cabin, lighting a Woodbine, then waggling the packet at Sylvia and Polly. Polly took one, but Sylvia shook her head as she thought aloud. ‘And, in fact, how can these rockets, or anything come to that, go faster than sound? I just don’t understand.’
Polly, still with her elbow on Marigold’s tiller, replied, ‘I’ve no idea either, and you’re not the only one on edge; if we’re not looking for the rockets, it’s the wind trying to freeze off whatever we’ve left exposed.’ So saying, she pulled her muffler up over her mouth.
The wind gusted, making Sylvia’s nose run. Damn, she thought, wiping it on her sleeve, then feeling suddenly ragingly furious, she shouted, ‘Oh Polly, and you too, Verity, I know it’s winter but I’m sick, sore and tired of this weather, never mind that awful little Hitler sending his ghastlies over to blast everyone to kingdom come.’ Sylvia stopped, scared that she was being sacrilegious; kingdom come? Did that mean our Lord’s Kingdom? After all it was: ‘Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done’.
The old uncertainty which was never far away tore at her just as fiercely as the wind. She could ask Sister Augustine next time she put pencil to scrappy paper, or perhaps not, because she didn’t want to get into a discussion about kingdoms, or more importantly, now the words had entered her head, His will being done. She shifted at the tiller, feeling guilty but even more angry, and now also upset because try as she might to ignore it, she was still in such a muddle about her future – to be a nun, or not to be a nun, as Shakespeare might have said. Her mouth dried, as panic began. Had she really been called as she had thought at the convent orphanage? Was she disobeying God’s will by being here, choosing another path, for now at least?
Unable to bear it she jerked herself from this train of thought, elbowing her butty tiller a tiny fraction, which was pointless, but it might break the chain of agonising questions. When it didn’t she shouted to the other two, ‘I dream of the sun, only the sun, every night. Can you imagine being warm ever again on this wretched cut?’ She even banged the tiller with her fist. It hurt, and she was glad.
Polly and Verity laughed from their deck, or counter as it was called by the boaters. Sylvia joined in, not sounding quite right, but muffled enough by her scarf not to cause comment. She began to feel calmer, keeping her thoughts on the cold, cold cut and pondering how working the canal boats had become such a different world that it required its own language.
‘How many of the people we pass on the towpath know that a cut means a canal, and a counter is a deck?’ she called.
Verity, wisps of blonde hair slapping her eyes, ignored her but asked Polly, with a wink, ‘What’s the daft girl going on about now, eh?’
The icy wind increased to the point where the waters of the cut rippled as they passed Camden. Sylvia felt her thoughts being left behind as she listened for rockets and Polly replied, ‘Who knows, we’re all as mad as a mad hatter’s tea party after all.’
All three were hunched against the wind, which had ratcheted up more than a few notches. Sylvia called, ‘You speak for yourself, Polly, and just answer me this: why does my nose always go red enough in the cold to rival Rudolf’s?’
Verity called, ‘Not sure, darling, perhaps to match your hair, but just think how useful you could be on a dark night. I’m surprised the RAF don’t stick you on top of a Wellington and use you as a pathfinder.’
Dog, sitting on the roof of Marigold’s cabin, barked, wanting to be part of the laughter. Polly wagged a finger. ‘No one asked your opinion, Dog, so settle back down or no treats for you when we load up at Limehouse.’
They pulled in to the bank and changed to a short tow to travel single file through Islington Tunnel after hooting their intention to any oncoming boats. Once into it and subsumed by darkness, Polly bellowed back to Sylvia, ‘Come on, Rudolf, flash away and guide us through.’
‘Shut up,’ Sylvia yelled. Their laughter echoed.
When they were out into the light they lashed abreast again and Sylvia pulled her woollen hat further down over her ears, and her scarf, which had slipped, up over her nose. She squinted ahead while Verity eased herself up on to Marigold’s cabin roof, sitting alongside Dog, cuddling her. It was probably for warmth as much as out of love, Sylvia thought, then ticked herself off, knowing she was wrong; it was always out of love in the case of that particular animal, a love felt by them all for Dog, who seemed to sense their moods, and lighten them if need be. Poor creature, she was frequently overworked.
As Sylvia watched, Verity straightened, clearly struck by a thought. As the breasted boats pat-pattered along between the warehouses which lined both banks, and under a bridge, Verity called, ‘As you’ve brought it up, lovely red-nosed Sylvia, remind me about this sun that so obsesses you? It is beyond memory as far as I’m concerned and seems to have given over its control of the skies. Quite frankly, darlings, there has to be more to life than freezing on a bloody narrowboat’s counter hoping we’re not going to be blasted to smithereens.’
Polly, steering lightly, grinned. ‘Now, now, Verity, “bloody” indeed. If my mum was here you’d have to wash your mouth out with soap. Let me explain in
language simple enough for even someone as daft as you, Lady Verity Clement: the sun is a little yellow orb which sometimes peers out between the clouds over Britain, but not nearly often enough, and is known to give off heat. Is it simple enough for you both to understand or shall I draw you a picture?’
At the mention of Polly’s mum, Mrs Holmes, Sylvia grinned, but didn’t answer because she was too busy silently thanking that wonderful woman for knitting all their hats, socks, mittens and scarves. Admittedly they were strangely colourful but if you had to pull out the wool from old sweaters bought from jumble sales, they would be, wouldn’t they? It was still wartime after all, but surely it would end soon and then … what then? She saw the orphanage, the convent, the nuns. No, she pushed it away, but back it came, because now Harriet was there in her postulant’s dress, as clear as day. Sylvia reached for Horizon’s tiller, needing to ground herself in the present, but slowly, inexorably, Harriet continued to force her way to the forefront of her mind.
Harriet who was her friend from their early days in the orphanage, Harriet who had the bed next to her in the dormitory and with whom she had talked and laughed when school was over as they walked back to St Cecilia’s in the crocodile, hand in hand. The sisters on point duty, front and back, looked like penguins, one of the older children had mocked, only to be smacked across the hand with a ruler by Father O’Malley for being cheeky.
As the years went by their class grew too old for holding hands, or hopscotch, or skipping, but not too old for chatting. They would sit in the common room, talking of this and that, all of them. But when they were sixteen something happened, and Harriet grew serious, and in the darkness of the dormitory she began to talk to Sylvia, in a whisper so as not to disturb the others, of God, for she had had a dream and heard His voice, and knew she, Harriet Wilkes, had been called to serve.
In that dream, Harriet had said, Sylvia had been spoken of by God too. She had whispered on the longest day – June 21st 1942, ‘He says we are to be postulants together, Sylvia. Just as we are now friends. We can stay here, in this convent, and devote ourselves to Him, and teach, or look after the orphans. But He said also that He will call to you, too. So, we must promise to enter as postulants, together, mustn’t we? Won’t that be good?’