by Milly Adams
So Sylvia had promised, because she was Harriet’s friend and they would be so lonely if separated.
‘Sylvia?’ Verity called, jerking Sylvia back to the present. ‘Polly Holmes is such a know-it-all, isn’t she? And it was your fault that she lectured us, Miss Sylvia Simpson, for asking about the ruddy sun in the first place, so there.’
Sylvia swallowed, and breathed deeply, and as she replied Harriet faded, but would come back because she always did. She said to Verity, finding the words from somewhere, knowing that her reply would lift her back to this normality, ‘I quite agree, and I suggest you ask Mrs Holmes to knit a solitary sock, Verity, to pop it into Polly’s mouth in order to give us all a rest.’
She and Verity sniggered while Polly gripped her tiller more tightly and grunted, trying not to laugh. ‘I might remind you both that you can go down into the warmth of your cabins if you feel the need to continue to behave like a couple of five-year-olds. That will leave Dog and me to martyr ourselves by staying on the counter, steering our lonely path. Remember, however, when it is your turn to do the honours, then you too will be the solitary …’
Verity bellowed, ‘Oh, all right, we get the picture.’
Sylvia shook her head, unable to retain her staged silliness. ‘I feel safer, somehow, with the three of us together, counter to counter, even though the rockets are still falling. We’ve been so lucky so far, not to be hurt.’ There, she thought, I’m here, with my current friends, safe from memories, safe from decisions. It’s just a question of going from day to day, on a mission. Yes, a mission to help everyone. She found herself looking up at the sky, and beyond, calling silently to Him that her mission, her war work, was surely enough, at least for now.
Polly murmured, ‘You’re right, Sylvia. We are lucky, much more so than all the poor devils who’ve been killed in the last months.’
Sylvia looked, as Verity said, hugging Dog again, ‘I think it might have been two or was it three V2s that fell around here, today? I try to stop myself from counting but I just can’t.’ She squeezed Dog until she yelped. ‘Sorry, darling girl,’ Verity said, releasing her, and covering Dog’s ears. ‘But talking of numbers, Sylvia, you said we three girls together on the counter, but I believe you mean the four of us? Nod if you agree, and I will release our Dog’s heartbroken ears.’
Sylvia laughed, and nodded so Verity stroked Dog, and crooned quietly to her, ‘There you see, you are one of us, sweet Dog, so you must ignore daft Miss Simpson.’
Polly steered off centre to make way for a laden breasted pair motoring back to the Grand Union to head northward. It was Timmo, Peter and Trev, on Venus and Shortwood. ‘’Ow do,’ Timmo called as the two pairs passed right side to right side.
‘How do,’ the girls replied, wanting to ask how the lads were doing after Thomo’s death in a V1 explosion, but they didn’t. They’d only be told, ‘Fair to middlin’, which was all the boaters ever said, because what was the point of saying anything else, when it changed nothing?
Peter called from Shortwood, ‘Got the rabbits did yer, at Alperton? We ’ung ’em behind yer engine room when yer were in the land of Nod. Yer might let us win just one darts match in return, eh?’
The laughter of the men followed them as the girls continued on.
Verity said, ‘Win at darts? The very idea. Anyway, as you were saying a while ago, Sylvia, about feeling safer counter to counter … Why not let’s say cheek to cheek as the song says? Listen, we should find a dance at the end of this trip. It would do us good to step out, even if we have to dance with one another now the blokes are doing their bit over there.’ She pointed towards Europe.
For a moment they all fell silent. Verity’s Tom was trying to push the Germans towards the Rhine while Polly’s Saul had left the Mulberry harbour and was frantically driving supplies to the front line. Sylvia broke the silence. ‘I merely ask, would we be welcome at a dance with our boater smell and our callouses?’
Verity responded, ‘Oh faint heart, we could have a proper wash before we go, pool our slap, and draw a seam up the back of our legs, then we’d be the belles of the ball.’
Polly piped up, ‘Oh, come now, a bit of rouge and pretend stockings won’t be enough. Besides, we’ll be too cold with nothing else on.’
As Angel Lock hove into sight, they were laughing hysterically and Sylvia made it worse by shrieking, ‘She’s right, even a Ladyship couldn’t carry that off, Verity, unless she wore a tiara. I suppose you have a few, or if not you, your mum will. Besides, we’d get chilblains in unmentionable places.’
Polly, still laughing, was pulling in to the bank just before the lock. ‘Your turn to lock-wheel, Sylvia. Timmo’s been through so it’ll be ready for us.’ She didn’t expect a reply because it was all second nature now. Sylvia leapt for the bank while Polly steered the boats into the lock. Sylvia shut the gates behind them and opened the paddles to let the water out. The boats sank to the lower level, and she walked the beams back with her bum, opening the gates, wondering how long it would be before her trouser seat had to be patched again.
She jumped back on to the butty as Polly pulled away. Dog barked in welcome as she always did, and they continued past the buildings which still loomed alongside the cut, casting shade across the water. There were gaps now, common to all the cuts in Britain’s cities; a warehouse gone here, a factory there, absences that resembled lost teeth, jagged and dark. Some were old Blitz wounds where rosebay willowherb grew in spring and summer, but since the V1 and V2 rocket campaign over London and the south-east they’d also been passing new gashes, oozing with the smell of cordite, dust, debris and heaven alone knew what.
Sylvia longed for the northern passage, where they identified villages and distant towns from the spires and towers, not to mention the allotments which edged the towpath, and then there were the fields, the hedges, the birds … They entered and left another lock, and motored on, hearing the calls of a formation of geese flying high up, probably heading for the Thames.
Sylvia allowed herself to look at them, and they gave her heart, for not all had changed with the war. Polly was watching them too, her elbow still resting on Marigold’s tiller, her face pinched with the cold. ‘Thank heavens for nature.’
Verity muttered, ‘Damn Hitler, the vicious little pipsqueak. He’s lost his diabolical dream, so why doesn’t he just surrender? These poor, poor people who put up with this murderous mayhem all the ruddy time while we just …’ She fell silent.
There it was, Sylvia thought, one minute they saw hope in a skein of geese, the next they were back in the war. No one replied, and Sylvia contented herself with trying to work out yet again why the buildings lining the cut didn’t protect them from the wind as they pat-pattered along. Even in the shadows beneath the bridges, where the cold was always deeper, there was wind of some sort. Still, she shouldn’t moan, for beneath these bridges it was like an air raid shelter, and they felt protected for a few seconds. But yes, as Verity had said, what about the people out there, living in this hell?
They were approaching a bridge across which gallant red buses continued to pass, no matter what. Sylvia murmured, ‘I thought I’d never say this, but I miss those perishing children who leaned over the parapets hurling abuse and manure at us boater scum. It’s because they were a sort of normality. But they’ve gone, evacuated.’
Verity roared with laughter. ‘So, our Sylvia, those heathens are our normality, eh? Crikey, just about sums up our Inland Waterways war work doesn’t it?’
Sylvia laughed along with the other two. When she joined the scheme she thought she’d never be part of the team, never laugh as they did when everything was such a mess in her head, but … they had saved her reason, because – yes, all right – she was running away from the convent, the orphanage, Harriet, and the dream she, Sylvia Simpson, had finally experienced, just as Harriet said she would.
Polly called, ‘You’ve got that look, Sylvia. How did your telephone call to Sister Augustine go? You did telephone h
er back, after she left the message with the depot office?’
Sylvia shrugged. ‘Yes, I did. She wanted to know if I was going to accept the invitation to the orphanage reunion so they could get some idea of how many could come. I said that I didn’t know where we’d be.’
Verity muttered uncertainly, for the two girls knew of her struggle to put aside her confusion about what she should do with her future, and whether, indeed, she should even be here. ‘Ah, but we could manage the timetable somehow, if you wanted to go, but only if.’
Sylvia stared down at the water rippling away from the sides of the boat.
Verity repeated, ‘We really can work out things if you want to go, dearest Sylvia. But only if. Don’t let Sister Augustine badger you, or make you feel stressed.’
At this, Sylvia dragged herself away from the movement of the water and gripped her tiller and answered, ‘She never tries to do that, quite the reverse, after all she supported me coming on to the scheme to try out the world, as she put it, but seeing her just makes the thinking and fidgeting increase.’
Sister Augustine had sat quietly in her study when Sylvia confessed that she had applied to, and been accepted for, the Idle Women scheme, as the Inland Waterways girls were called. But Sylvia had confessed she feared she was running away after being called in that dream she’d had a few months before.
To her surprise Sister Augustine had smiled that smile of hers. ‘Is this sense of a calling imaginary, and the dream too? You have always told me you can’t really remember it. Don’t forget that I came to the dormitory when I heard you shout out loud enough to wake the whole orphanage. I too heard Harriet say you had called to God, but I also heard Rosemary from the bed opposite say that you had been talking rubbish. Dear Sylvia, it happens, you know, that girls who have lived with us wonder where their duty lies after we, with God at the helm, have enveloped them in love. I say to you, what I say to them – please, please experience life outside this world and be kind to yourself. Only you, and God, can decide what is the right path. We are your parents while you are here, and after you leave us too. You may return to stay whenever you need, but, dearest Sylvia, what we have done here at St Cecilia’s does not imply any obligation towards us, or God.’
What could have been kinder, she thought; she had shared this with Verity and Polly, and also told them of the dream which she couldn’t remember, and Harriet who had heard her call to God, but what she couldn’t bring herself to share with them, or Sister Augustine, was any mention of the promise to Harriet, for she, Sylvia Simpson, was the betrayer, while Harriet was a postulant, for Sylvia had watched Harriet leave the dormitory to fulfil her calling. Her friend had looked back at her as she walked down the centre aisle and beckoned, but Sylvia had not followed. She just wasn’t sure enough.
Verity was still waiting, and Sylvia said, ‘I want to go and see them all, in a way but—
A piercing howl cut right across her words. She and Verity spun round to see Dog sitting bolt upright, ears pricked, the hair raised along her back, still making that dreadful sound, and then the boat lurched, and tossed in a buffeting sucking of air, different, harsher, much harsher than the wind. Hats were ripped from their heads, and scarves pulled from their mouths, and they gasped, trying to drag air into their lungs. They clung to tillers or cabin roofs, their ears popping, trying to understand, their minds in chaos. Nothing was firm, nothing was safe. Dog was howling, howling. Finally, Verity, still on the roof but lying flat, her voice strained, held Dog close, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’
Sylvia was hugging the tiller, her ribs aching, as the boats rocked, just as Polly was doing. ‘It’s all right,’ Verity repeated as their breasted boats were driven into the bank by some primeval force. The jerk almost knocked Sylvia off her feet, and Polly too, and after a while, it was almost all right, but Sylvia wished Verity would shut up, because her voice was rising, and rising, and now Dog was howling again. At last the world slowed to a fevered rocking as they looked from left to right, searching the area ahead for the V2 which had exploded. Polly pointed over to the south of the cut; Sylvia and Verity followed her arm, and saw smoke rising. The V2 must have scorched into the ground there, but the silent blast that had caught them was still taking down buildings near and far.
They spun round and saw that the warehouse to their left was cracking; would it crash on to the cut, and them? Was the cut going to burst its bank? They smelt cordite, and dust, and now they heard the blast – rolling on, and on, and on over the crashing of buildings. The warehouse nearest the bank collapsed on to the one behind, but the one to their left was still standing as it cracked from top to bottom.
Verity gasped. ‘It is a damned rocket, isn’t it?’
‘Course it ruddy is,’ yelled Polly, cutting the engine, to stop the Marigold from driving again and again into the bank. She was coughing, pointing ahead and to the right at the smoke which had turned black. It was perhaps a hundred yards away beyond the warehouses. Or was it much less? Sylvia wondered but what did it matter, for the blast was crashing on as the water bubbled and the boats rocked, tilting ever more fiercely. They fought for breath as the warehouse debris rose into the air, scattering bricks into the cut and into their holds.
‘Duck,’ screamed Verity. As they did, bits of brick hit the bank. ‘Not us, not this time, it’s those poor beggars over there,’ Polly coughed, pointing to the smoke. ‘And not for Timmo and the boys either.’
‘Bet?’ Sylvia groaned. ‘She’s a bit ahead with the new trainee crew.’ She could taste blood in her mouth and realised she had bitten her tongue.
‘She was well ahead. She must be at Limehouse,’ shouted Polly. The cut was settling, the rocking becoming less violent but still enough for them to hang on to the tillers. Polly continued, ‘If the girls handled the locks without mishap, that is. Come on, let’s get out of here, what the hell did I cut the engine for?’
Verity and Sylvia checked the boats for damage but there were only superficial scrapes as the fenders had taken the worst of it. Verity restarted the motor in the engine house, and ran back across the roof of the cabin, doubling over, while debris still rained down. Within seconds they headed under another bridge, safe for those few seconds, then out again while Dog remained on the roof, dusty hair still standing up along her back, small bits of debris caught in it. She was sniffing the air, for they were heading nearer the black smoke that the breeze was carrying across the cut. It was pungent with destruction and mingled with the looming clouds.
Distant cries reached them, and the bedlam of rescue vehicles which set Dog barking, but there was no more of her unearthly howling. Polly yelled, as she motored on, ‘Hang on to her collar and keep her with you on the roof, Ver. Sylvia, keep your eyes peeled for any warehouses about to fall, and for Bet, of course.’
Polly needed both hands on the tiller to steer them almost straight as the boats bucked against the unsettled water and they all peered ahead, and then there they were, Bet’s breasted motor and butty crashed lopsidedly into the bank, both cabins damaged, and no sign of life. Verity wailed, ‘Bet? Oh no! No, dammit. No.’
Dog leapt from the roof to the counter, barking frantically. Sylvia felt she could hardly breathe. Not Bet. Not their old trainer, their best friend. Please, God, not Bet.
Polly steered into the bank too, then cut the engine, her face deathly pale; Verity held back Dog. ‘Wait, Dog.’ Her voice shook. Sylvia leapt on to the towpath, her eyes fixed on the damaged boats. Were the girls hurt? Please no, Bet had just got over her latest chest infection, but how stupid, what was a chest infection here, now?
She moored up the prow while Verity hauled on the stern mooring rope, securing it on the bank stud as the bucketing cut slapped the boats backwards and forwards against the bank. ‘Think it’ll hold, Sylvia?’ she yelled.
‘It has to,’ Sylvia called as Polly jumped from Marigold’s counter on to Horizon’s and then to the bank. They all began running along the towpath, desperately calling Bet a
s the smoke and dust thickened, engulfing them so that it stung their eyes; they choked and coughed. Still they ran, calling Bet’s name, but there was no reply from the butty and motor.
Chapter 2
Does the waterway girls’ luck run out?
They were still calling for Bet within a hair’s breadth of reaching her butty Sky, when all three of the crew emerged from the prow’s store, coughing and carrying brooms. Bet, her scarf up round her mouth and nose, hurried Mabel and Evelyn on to the bank just as Sylvia, Polly and Verity increased their speed. Dog beat them all and sat leaning against Bet’s leg until the girls reached them.
‘You’re safe,’ gasped Polly.
‘No need to state the ruddy obvious,’ Bet snorted over the sounds of the rescue services to the south. ‘Just help us haul out a couple of the smaller tarpaulins, to sheet over what’s left of the cabins.’
Polly took no notice and held her close. ‘Stop being such a grump. I don’t know what it is with you; if you aren’t having a bad chest, you’re bringing rockets down to destroy your boats. Are you after another bout of shore leave?’
Bet’s grin was shaky as she shrugged free. She said something, but the girls struggled to hear her over the increasing noise of fire engines heading towards the locus of the smoke. Taking a deep breath, she began again. ‘Enough of your cheek, my girl. Come on, everyone, we’ll check Sky’s cabin first, and the hold, then nip across to Hillview. It bore the brunt of the blast, after all, but the butty was the one that crashed into the bank. First though the tarpaulins.’
She handed her broom to Verity and leapt back on to the prow. Dragging out a neatly rolled tarpaulin, she chucked it at Verity and Evelyn, who were standing on the towpath, forcing them to drop their brooms. ‘So, aren’t we going to sweep after all?’ Evelyn called.
