Hope on the Waterways

by Milly Adams

  Her mouth was so very dry and her throat seemed full of grit, but … They should be casting off, not lying about in bed. Did they even have a load? She couldn’t remember, and why was it so dark and so still? Why was she so tired, and her ears ringing? And why did she still hurt all over?

  She heard Polly then. ‘Where are we? What’s happened?’ And Sylvia jerked awake. What? What?

  A man’s voice quavered, ‘It’s dark, and I’m cold.’

  A man? Here on the butty? Verity spoke now, her voice sounding faint beneath the ringing. ‘What’s happening? What the hell is happening?’

  Sylvia forced her eyelids open, then shut them quickly because she was covered in dust, and now there was grit in her eyes. More was falling on her face and something hard was digging into the top of her head.

  The man said, ‘We’re in the bleedin’ cellar wiv the whole of the ruddy house on top of us, and I was supposed to telephone my boy to tell him the rocket ain’t got me. Then we had another one, that’s why we’s ’ere.’ He coughed, then groaned, ‘Me chest don’t ’alf hurt, and me leg.’

  Polly spoke now, but there was darkness. Sylvia’s eyes were sore, but she couldn’t rub them because there was something on top of her, a blanket, with corners, heavy, and her arms weren’t joined to her. Don’t be stupid. Arms were always joined to you. Polly had spoken but what had she said? And Sylvia needed arms, because arms had hands and the three of them could hold one another’s hands and feel better. But should they hold the man’s hand too? She didn’t know.

  She heard Verity through the buzzing. ‘I thought I was on the boat. I don’t remember, but we tied Dog up, yes, I remember that, and we were using your phone, Mr … Mr … ?’

  The man said, ‘Solly Fisher.’

  Verity said, ‘But lightning doesn’t strike …’ she paused, wheezed, ‘the same place twice.’

  Polly’s voice grew even weaker as she said, ‘Patently it does, idiot.’ Then she groaned, and they heard her cry, ‘Mum.’

  Sylvia listened. What did it all mean? She heard again, ‘Mum.’ And a sob. She experienced fear like nothing she’d ever known, because Polly was the strongest of them and now she was weeping.

  The man said, ‘Don’t take on so, lass. I ’eard yer dog bark, I’m sure I did, but then I drifted orf, and I ’eard voices, men’s voices, they was. They get the rescue lot ’ere pretty quick, and them was just down the road, wasn’t they?’

  Sylvia gasped, her voice croaky and clogged, ‘Dog, oh Dog, I thought she was here, on me. Oh Dog.’ Then her head began to clear and she began to remember. Her thoughts played around behind the buzzing and she knew they were beneath bricks, and Dog had done what she had done before, found those who were trapped. This time they were people who loved her. They were like a family, the four of them. Yes, that’s right. She was tired, and closed her eyes, but then dust showered down on her. She jerked awake.

  She listened, and tasted the dust, and felt the sharp weight, and said as she tried to move, ‘I’m not on the boat, am I, we’re buried, aren’t we?’

  There was creaking all around. Mr Fisher murmured, ‘Best you stay still, lass. ’Tis ’ard, I knows, but as I said, I reckon we’re in the cellar with a weight of stuff over us, most of it being held off by the shop floor joists, which ’ave broken but hitched themselves on summat. I got me arm loose from under a pile of rubble and stretched, couldn’t reach anything so’s I reckon they’re more’n a few feet above us, but it’s too dark to see anything. Thought I were dreamin’ first off. Stay still, for Gawd’s sake, don’t rock the boat.’

  Polly laughed then stopped abruptly, groaning, as Verity’s hoarse whisper reached them. ‘If only you knew how funny that is, Mr Fisher,’ she said. ‘We work on the canal at the moment, running the narrowboats up to Birmingham, and if I ever get out of this I’ll rock the blasted boat as much as I like.’

  Mr Fisher cackled. ‘Nah, we’re the blasted ones.’ Then he too groaned, from deep in his soul Sylvia felt. It was then that she remembered what it was she should be doing – praying – but the words kept slipping away, and in the end she just said inside her head, ‘If you’re listening, thank you for letting us live, and Dog, and please stop me from hurting.’

  Her breathing was strange, it was in and out, but not really proper breathing. Then she realised she had only asked for her own pain to stop, and wept silently inside her head, and still inside her head she said, ‘Please stop everyone’s pain, not just mine, everyone’s.’

  Verity said, sounding stronger for a moment, ‘I hope he’s listening, Sylvia. And I hope your fireman comes to rescue you, in shining armour, or …’ She paused, then murmured, ‘At least a tin hat. Was he a vegetable or a flower, Pol?’

  So, she’d spoken and they’d heard, Sylvia thought. Good. Nothing mattered if they were together. All for one and … ah, one for all. That was it.

  She tried to swallow but her throat was too dry and too clogged, so she made herself say, ‘This is only a pause. It will pass.’

  Polly said slowly, ‘You’re right, it’s what we say, isn’t it, and it had better do that sooner rather than later.’ Her voice faded. Then it was as though she rallied. ‘Coppernob’s a dahlia, a deep red dahlia, isn’t he Mr Fisher?’

  Mr Fisher grunted, then said, ‘You girls speak yer own language, but I’ll say yes, to keep yer ’appy.’

  Outside, one of the Rescue Squad had inched up the debris, noting the beams which emerged from the destruction. He spoke quietly, but wasn’t heard against the hoses and the shouting.

  Steve cupped his hands and yelled, ‘Say again.’

  This time the bloke shouted down to Steve and Dodge, ‘There looks to be a lot of structural material in amongst the tiles, bricks and glass, and with luck the girls and Mr Fisher will’ve fallen through to the cellar, with the joists giving ’em a chance. The dog was digging, yer say? Well, she were right at the other site, so let’s try and make contact.’ He called to one of his mates who was poking around at the side of the rubble, ‘The coal hole’s blocked, ain’t it?’

  Another of the squad called back. ‘Yep, no way in there, Stan.’

  Stan seemed to be thinking. He nodded. ‘It’ll have to be through this lot, if we’re going in after ’em. Hang on, I’ll toss this down, so we can burrow in and try to make contact.’

  He made to grab Dog and chuck her down, but Steve shouted, ‘Don’t you bloody dare throw that lass anywhere, Stan. You bring her down with respect, d’you hear.’

  Stan just looked from Dog to Steve and nodded. ‘I reckon you’re right. That’s what ’appens in this game, you just forget about decency. But she’s the one good thing this bloody day has thrown up.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You know she’s a goner?’

  Steve nodded, ‘Of course I bloody know, just bring her down.’

  As Stan gathered Dog to him, her head flopped on to his shoulder, her clouded eyes looking up at him. He looked away, unable to bear yet another body, and murmured, ‘You’ve done well, gal. You’ve done so well.’ He inched down, and passed Dog to Steve, who carried her carefully, stepping over hoses and across puddles until he reached the pump engine. At the cab he wrapped her in a bit of tarpaulin and laid her on the passenger seat. ‘You done good, Dog, and now we’re going to get the other girls out, I promise you that.’

  Back at the debris Stan had clambered carefully back to the top, easing bricks out and throwing them down, letting them shatter, while Dodge went to grab a hose and damp down a smoking pile near to the ambulance point. Steve yelled, as he hurried back to the demolished shops, ‘There’s one over to your left, Dodge, just looking as though it’s smouldering. Keep an eye on it, eh?’

  Stan called down to him when he arrived at the base of the rubble. ‘I tried calling. One of those girls called back, they’re all right, but weak from the sounds of it, and hurt. One asked if Coppernob was there? You I ’spect, Steve. Seems Mr Fisher’s there with them, chap who owns the second-’and furniture shop. His son works at a
firm in the City of London and he wants us to tell ’im, so we’ll sort it as soon as we can. The girl says not to tell anyone about them, just get them the hell out of it, they have a load to pick up. Sounds a bit lardy-da, she does. What load she’s talking about, gawd knows. A new frock with her coupons I ’spect.’

  Stan continued to remove the bricks. ‘We’ll work from the top, creating a chain, so come up carefully behind me, Steve, if you’re not needed on the pump. The rest of the squad are busy back at the first site.’

  He yelled across to another of the Rescue Squad who was dusting off his hands after hauling out a body from beneath the shattered public phone box. ‘Alfred, you get the other side, and get someone else too, then take down from the top to relieve the pressure. You all right to stay with us, Steve? We needs yer til the squad from Poplar gets ’ere.’

  Steve checked around, but there were two AFS crews now, and another National Fire Service sub-officer was there too. Others were helping along the length of the terrace. He cupped his hands and yelled across, ‘Sub, I’m needed here. All right with you?’

  He received a nod, and the sub went back to directing his men as they fought fires in the flats.

  Stan called, ‘Brick by brick, Steve, with me, here, and let’s get a tunnel started. Stop the moment you feel anything shift. The girl said the old boy thinks the shop floor joists have jammed a lot of the bricks just a couple of feet or so above them, but they’re lying on some, and under some. Cor, a bit of luck, if you ask me. Now we have a chance – for one or two of ’em at least.’ This last he said quietly.

  Steve was clambering up, step by careful step, muttering, ‘We just need the bloody rockets to keep their distance and the night to hold off.’ It was only two in the afternoon, so they had a good chance of a daylight rescue, but with the heavy cloud and the smoke, daylight was a bit of a ruddy joke. But never mind that, they’d have to work like demons, because Dog wasn’t going to be let down, if he had anything to do with it.

  Chapter 5

  Brick by brick as the day wears on

  She really should say a prayer, Sylvia thought, waking again, but the words in her head were jumping and crumbling. ‘You know what I mean, though, as Sister Augustine says you are all knowing. Please …’ she finally whispered. ‘Please … help.’ Dust and grit were streaming down, and there were sounds like scratching. And creaking.

  Solly said, ‘I ’spect they’s started digging us out, but careful like. I seen ’em do it so often, cos there’ve been so many bloody bombs, or rockets. I reckon me joists is strong enough, better’n me joints any’ow.’

  Sylvia tried to laugh, but all she produced was a croak. The others did the same. She swallowed; her throat was so dry and gritty it just seemed stuck together, but the buzzing was fainter. She tried to speak, but she didn’t know what was in her head, and what was escaping, so gave up. Verity was right, they had to get back to work. She had said that, but when? How long had they been here? She kept falling asleep: how strange. What would Bet say, and the depot? Probably that there was a war to win, and here they were, lying in bed. But no, they weren’t, they were under the rubble and it was getting harder to breathe.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Fisher?’ she asked finally, forcing out the words though they scoured her throat. ‘Are you all right, Verity? And you, Polly?’ There was no answer. Had the words come out of her mouth? They had hurt her throat, so they must have. But still no one had answered. She was too tired to try again. She tried to think about Horizon, her home. Her lovely home, the lovely cut, the sore hands, and the callouses that were their battle scars, they had decided, laughing. Oh, how they laughed, all the time. And Bet did too.

  Her thoughts stopped. Bet? Her boats, so broken. She, Polly and Verity should have … ? What was it? She said, forcing the words from her mind and out through her mouth into the rubble again, ‘What should we have done for Bet? What? I can’t remember.’

  Polly almost moaned, ‘I can’t either. What was it?’

  Verity drawled, ‘Darlings, we should have phoned the depot. Damn and …’ She faded.

  Solly spoke now. ‘No blast, eh?’ His words ended in a cough and Sylvia could hear his gasps for breath.

  Silence had fallen again, then Verity said, ‘There are mice pithering about or are the rescuers moving bricks? Perhaps we won’t die today.’

  Sylvia let the words tumble. They all listened to the quiet nothingness, then something, then the nothingness and perhaps they slept but then there was the coppernob’s voice, calling: ‘We’re getting closer, girls. Just stay quite still.’

  Solly muttered, ‘Maybe yer posh girl’s right, we’re not going to die today, and me son’s not going to have to say Kaddish for me.’

  Verity hurt everywhere. She had to be right, they mustn’t die today, they had a load to deliver. She tried to shout, but it was a whisper: ‘We have a load, so we mustn’t die.’

  She wondered if she’d been rude to try to shout. These nice people were trying to get them out but did the rescuers realise they needed to get into Limehouse and out, on to the quiet of the Grand Union, with the spires and towers in the distance? Yes, those lovely spires, and the familiar locks, full of water, locks that she could drink dry; she was so very thirsty. Yes, a whole lock full of water.

  Suddenly she heard a sort of laugh. It came from her because she hated opening and shutting the gates, filling or emptying them using her windlass to wind the paddles, or sluices as some people called them. But there they were, pat-pattering along in Marigold with Sylvia in the butty and Dog asleep by the stove. Heaven. Bliss, and it was there that she could breathe air into a chest that didn’t hurt.

  On the cut they were home and it wasn’t just locks, there were the pounds: the long straight stretches, or even the short ones, which ran between hamlets, towns, the spires and the towers. Such lovely spires, so English, so much their home. And smoke from the village chimneys perhaps fed by coal they transported. She smiled. And what about the Aylesbury Arm? Now that was a piece of heaven. Maudie, Joe’s mum, and Saul’s sister, loved the Arm with its wild flowers and otters. She coughed, and forgot what she had been thinking. It was so hard to hold thoughts.

  She tried to open her eyes, but they were stuck. What had she been thinking? Oh yes, the cut. There were fields which changed with the seasons. There were kingfishers that Joe had tried to teach Sylvia to draw. Oh dear, how bad the drawing had been. There were owls that called in the dusk, and bats that flew, and foxes that shrieked. And the pubs, don’t forget the pubs where they usually won at darts. Sylvia wouldn’t play darts when she first joined Marigold and Horizon. Lordy, she seemed such a sourpuss and crosspatch, but now she’d drink with the rest of them, and laugh. How wonderful to hear Sylvia laugh, but her battle wasn’t over, they all knew that. To be a nun, or not. Gosh, what a problem. How on earth did God call anyone? In a dream, Sylvia had said, but she couldn’t remember the dream, just what her friend Harriet had said she’d called out in her sleep.

  She kept breathing, counting her breaths, pondering a call made in a dream Sylvia couldn’t remember. How could she be so sure then? But she wasn’t, that was the problem, and that was why she was here, wasn’t it? Well, not here, here, below the bricks as they were now, but on the cut. To get experience of life, as Sister Augustine had said. She was all right, was that Sister, but that Harriet … had she really heard dearest Sylvia call out? She didn’t think so. The thoughts faded again, dipping in and out to the cry of the night-time owls, and the lapping of the water against the hull …

  She opened her eyes in a flurry, snap, just like that. All that she could see was darkness, all she could feel was dust in her eyes. She shut them again. Yet the snap was still in her mind, but why? Ah, ‘The winnings kitty,’ she gasped. ‘It’s in the cabin. What if it’s taken and and, what if Marigold is taken?’

  Polly’s voice sounded over to her left, and then Sylvia’s to her right, not far away. She hadn’t realised they were so close. Polly croaked, �
��Don’t be such an idiot. Who’d run off with a boat?’

  Sylvia just said, ‘They wouldn’t run off with a boat, they’d motor off in it, idiot, and don’t be so selfish, it’s not just Marigold. What about Horizon? They’d take her, too. Then Bob would have a lot to say, you mark my words.’

  Suddenly the three of them were trying to laugh again, and Solly chipped in. ‘Don’t know what yer’s talking about, but seems to me no one’ll be running orf with a bleedin’ boat, and won’t yer dog stand guard?’

  Verity let his words jumble and toss in her mind. The tiredness was dragging at her. She tried to clench her fists, so she could concentrate, but her left hand was slimy and gritty. She had to sleep, but she wanted a drink of water so much; cool cool water, and it was cold here. And getting colder. She tried to call, ‘Tom’. But nothing came out, and she couldn’t remember him, couldn’t see him.

  Polly tried to ease her hip. Solly groaned. ‘Stay still, gal. I’m at yer side, it’s just a piece of brick. I can just feel it wiv me left hand.’

  She muttered, ‘It might be a piece of brick to you, young man, but it’s a ruddy boulder to me.’

  He laughed, but said, almost in a whisper, ‘It’s cutting into me hand, yer see, that’s ’ow I knows what it is.’ Polly listened for the others to tell her she was an idiot, and to sympathise with Solly, but there was nothing. She shouted, ‘Wake up, we shouldn’t sleep. Wake up.’

  A man’s voice called faintly from above, ‘Good girl, you tell ’em. Try and stay awake, keep breathing, talk a bit, we’re coming for you. We won’t give up, so don’t you either.’

  Polly’s eyes began to sting. ‘Don’t cry,’ she told herself. ‘You can’t afford to lose the moisture.’