Hope on the Waterways

by Milly Adams

  ‘Shut up,’ muttered Sylvia.

  Verity looked back at them. ‘Poor Sylv, we do have a go, don’t we?’

  Her father said, as he drew away at a T-junction, his headlights still slitted in the dimout, ‘That’s what a team does.’

  They drove along the narrow roads, the headlights picking out cock pheasants strutting across in front of them, while the moonlight revealed the cows grazing in the fields. Polly relaxed back, her hand still on Pup. It was almost like motoring along the cut, between fields, allotments and woods. Ah, woods, how she loved the beech trees of Cowley Lock. Homesickness pulled at her, as much as the pain of her injuries. They must get back to work, and help finish the war so their men could come back.

  They were turning now to embark on the gravel drive up to Howard House, but the gates were closed. Verity moved, but her father said, ‘No, let me. Injured warriors have some perks, you know.’

  They watched as Lord Henry, limping slightly, clicked open the gates and drew each one back. It was then that Polly realised he was walking without his sticks. In the kerfuffle of the station it hadn’t occurred to her. Verity and Sylvia noticed too, and Verity muttered, ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘He is, in every way,’ agreed Sylvia. ‘What on earth has happened?’

  When he returned to the car, and drove through the gates, Verity asked, ‘No sticks, Father?’

  He laughed quietly, stopped and opened the driver’s door, easing himself out. ‘Must close the gates, to keep in the pigs.’

  ‘Pigs?’ queried Verity. But he was walking back to the gates. ‘What in heaven’s name is he doing with pigs? What’s been going on?’

  Polly thought she probably knew, but said nothing.

  The gravel crunched as Henry returned then closed the door, which gave a subdued click, unlike the cabs they had taken. It was said the only sound in a Rolls-Royce was the ticking of the clock. However, the sound of the gravel beneath the wheels as they set off down the drive was a noise to bury any clock, let alone one in a Rolls-Royce. It was indeed such a noise that it brought back being buried. She felt sweat breaking out. But Lord Henry was saying, ‘Blame Thomas, Polly’s father, eh, Polly?’

  Polly hoped he was smiling when he said that. Clearly he was because he went on to say, ‘Thomas Holmes drew my attention to the waste of a natural resource. Apparently in years gone by pigs rummaged among the leaf litter when released into the woods and basically grazed au naturel all winter, and summer too. So next thing, we had obtained some and they are left to root about, though of course they are also given the kitchen scraps. Tasty our trotter friends are, too, when you can catch the blighters.’

  They were passing the front of the house and heading on towards the garage, above which Tom, now Verity’s fiancé, had had his quarters when he was chauffeur. Yes, that’s right, she told herself. Concentrate on that, and Tom, and Saul. The almost silent engine of the Rolls-Royce ceased. Lord Henry opened her door, and Polly clambered out, wincing and holding her side as the pain caught, and its sharpness pushed aside the remembrance of rubble until the sweat cooled and she saw Lord Henry waiting, looking at her, puzzled. She groped for something to say, and finally asked, ‘But what about your sticks, Lord–– oh sorry, Henry?’ Yes, it was all right. She was back here, safe.

  ‘Ah, indeed. It’s quite amazing how digging and delving in the vegetable garden in obedience to your father’s commands loosens the old joints, my dear. The Holmeses are a formidable force.’

  Polly faced him. ‘Is it a problem having Mum and Dad and Joe evacuated here? I can always try and sort––’ Lord Henry’s hand gripped hers as he peered down at her, his face creased in a broad smile. ‘Bless you, it wouldn’t be the same without them. What we shall do after the war when they might want to return to Woking, I simply don’t know. They are such friends of ours, now, just as you three are friends to one another.’

  He walked round the other side of the car and helped Sylvia out. She carried the basket, with Pup asleep. Thankfully the puppy had not disgraced herself again. Polly found herself laughing slightly at the thought.

  Verity was reaching into the boot to reclaim the carpet bags, but her father took them. ‘We’ll go in the kitchen way as Mrs B and Rogers insisted on preparing pheasant stew, feeling that it could wait for as long as necessary. We will all eat around the kitchen table, as we have taken to doing.’

  The girls looked at one another, amazed. Was this stiff, unbending man who had made mistakes by having a mistress, Verity’s real mother, in his early years of marriage, and who had withdrawn into arrogance in his shame, really talking of eating an evening supper in the kitchen?

  They followed him across the cobbled courtyard, the four of them together, and Pup.

  When they reached the steps down to the basement kitchen, Verity’s father led the way shining his dimmed torch behind him so that they could descend safely. Verity let the others go first, because she wanted to absorb the changes in her father. Eating in the kitchen? Pigs? Digging and delving? Call me Henry? There had been such happiness in his eyes when they had scrabbled down on to the platform. She had thought at first that it was because he was happy to see them alive, but now she realised that bigger changes had been wrought, principally by having Polly’s parents evacuated to keep them safe not only from the rockets, but also from Leon Arness.

  Leon had been a brute of a boater married to Saul’s sister, Maudie, whom he had abused, until she disappeared. He had also assaulted their son until Joe had been rescued by his Uncle Saul and Granfer, and then taken to safety with Polly’s parents in Woking. It was in Woking that Leon had found them, after dodging a court case for trading on the black market, and had attacked Mr Holmes in an attempt to take back Joe, his son. He was now wanted by the police for grievous bodily harm. But would he ever stop tracking down his son as he had promised? They all felt that if he had a breath in his body he’d keep on.

  She shivered at the thought. Heaven knew what he would do with Joe if he ever found him. More beatings, she supposed.

  The others were already in the kitchen, and she hurried after them. In the bright kitchen, her mother and Lady Pamela Clement were hugging Sylvia, which Verity thought deserved a medal because of Pup’s indiscretion, but her mother didn’t flinch. She rushed to Verity when she saw her, and clasped her tightly. Verity whispered, ‘Oh Mum, it’s so good to see you, but now you stink of pee too.’

  Lady Pamela stepped back, laughing. ‘It’s worth it to see you three, and Pup. Dear Mrs B has lots of newspaper, and Rogers has dug out your old playpen. Pup can spend some time in there while we work on her training. How does that sound? Can’t have her wandering off and becoming lost.’

  The Lady Pamela Clement of old would (a) not have eaten in the kitchen, and (b) certainly not have shrugged off a puppy’s tiddles. Verity kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘It sounds splendid.’

  Now Mrs B was with them, wrapping her arms around her, smelling of cooking as always. ‘My, when we heard the news of your ordeal our hearts stopped, but we knew it would be all right because you three were together.’

  Rogers was edging Mr B to one side. ‘So, it was nothing to do with that young fireman who almost sacrificed his life, then, you dear old dumpling? You know, girls, the one who has taken a shine to Sylvia, and she to him.’

  He was hugging Verity now, but gently, and whispering, ‘You three get to bed as soon as these women have stopped clucking and feeding you. You look bloody awful.’

  Just then there was the clatter of feet on the steps and a rushing sound as Joe scorched through the boot hall into the kitchen, all eleven or so years of him bursting with joy. He ran straight for Polly and hurled himself into her arms. ‘Oh Polly, I were so scared that you be ’urt. If you was, what would our Saul do? It would fair break his heart, and Granfer’s, and mine. It would ’ave broken Ma’s heart too, if she knew you.’

  Polly was hugging him, and as Verity looked she saw Polly pale, and tears slide down her cheeks. Verity sides
tepped her mother, but before she could reach her beloved friend, Joyce Holmes was at her daughter’s side. ‘You sit down, my lovely. Thomas – fetch water, can’t you see the staining over her ribs?’

  Thomas had also paled, frozen in distress, and this man who could get Verity’s father to dig and delve and buy pigs looked for a moment like a child that had broken the family heirloom. His wife’s words unlocked him, and he rushed to the scullery and poured water into a glass. By the time he returned Mrs B had simply reached for the water jug on the table and done the necessary. It was Polly who grinned at her father, saying, ‘Poor dad, but thanks.’

  Mrs Holmes gave him no opportunity to answer, muttering, ‘Well, sorry Thomas dear, I was a bit flummoxed myself.’

  Polly sipped from the glass, her colour slowly returning. Sylvia was saying to Mrs Holmes, ‘It’s seepage, probably, Mrs Holmes. She’s heavily stitched and we were warned it could happen. Perhaps we need to eat and get to bed?’

  Rogers nodded at Sylvia. ‘Quite right, bed is the answer, but all you girls must check your stitches. If some have snapped, or whatever they do, we must call the doc, who is at the ready – or so I gather, Henry?’

  Verity’s father nodded. ‘Indeed he is. Come on, it’s been a long day, so, chop chop, let’s get on.’

  The three girls looked at him in horror. Verity sighed, ‘Good grief, you’ve become Bet, Father.’

  Henry looked shamefaced as Joe came to stand beside him, leaning against him. ‘Well, she has rung every evening and given her orders, hence the doc on standby, the bedroom set up with three beds to emulate – well, the cabins, I suppose, and the pheasant stew to make you feel at home––’

  Verity interrupted, seeing things more clearly. ‘Ah, and all of us eating round the table, like the boaters.’

  All the Howard House occupants looked at one another, and then at Verity, as if she were mad. Rogers said, pulling out chairs, ‘Certainly not, that’s been the case for quite some while. Why heat that huge dining room, and even more so, the cottage? So we’ve amalgamated the families here under one roof. We all prefer it, anyway.’

  Verity smiled across at her mother and mouthed wonderful, while Joe grinned at Sylvia, ‘I’s special glad to see yer, Sylvia, cos we’s just tight friends. We can go out drawing together, and yer can tell me what it’s like to be buried.’

  Sylvia laughed aloud, and it was the first time the experience had seemed remotely funny. Joe looked offended, but she said, ‘You’re a tonic, young Joe, and there’s nothing I’d like more than for you to show me where I’m going wrong, yet again.’

  By eight the girls had retired to Verity’s old room, where three beds had been set up. They looked around. Each had a bedside table, and light. Each had a jug of water, and a bell to ring. ‘This could be my dormitory at the orphanage, though there were twelve in that,’ Sylvia said, almost seeing it as she spoke.

  Polly sat on the bed, trying to ease off her jumper. The other two girls helped. Sylvia checked the bandages, and slowly unwrapped the one from around Polly’s ribs. The bruising was extensive but the stitches had held. Verity dumped the soiled bandage in the bag that Lady Pamela had given to them, while Sylvia dabbed the bruises with iodine, ignoring Polly’s fuss. ‘Bite on a bullet, why don’t you?’ she muttered.

  Polly whispered through the pain, ‘I would if I had one, Sylv, or is it Miss Bossy Boots?’

  Verity peered at the wound. ‘Doc Havers should have a look at it tomorrow, just in case. Can you imagine if we weren’t up to taking the boats up the cut? We’d never live it down with the boaters. You know how they continue, come what may.’

  Sylvia wound the new bandage round Polly’s ribs to keep the dressing in place, tucked in the tail and patted Polly’s shoulder. ‘Tickety-boo, madam.’

  After they had checked and dressed one another’s wounds they collapsed into bed. Sylvia usually slept alone in the butty, except for the two weeks when Tom had needed to recover from his broken leg, and had shared Marigold’s cabin with Dog before reporting for duty. The girls had shifted into her butty cabin then and perhaps that’s when they had really started to form their friendship, Sylvia thought now. Would Verity tell him that Dog was dead? Probably not; why distress him when he had his own problems? She tried to find a comfortable position, but it was impossible, and instead she looked round the room, feeling that at least she wasn’t alone.

  Verity called, ‘Shall we turn out our bedside lights? We can use our bells to wake one another if there’s a problem, and if it’s a huge one we can yank the bell pull by the fireplace and it will ring through to Rogers’s quarters.’

  Polly murmured, half asleep, ‘Yes, understood Lady Verity, over and out. We need to sleep.’

  They all laughed, and turned off the lights. Within half an hour they were turning them back on. In the ward the nurses’ desk had a light on all night. Here, the darkness was like being buried again. They plumped their pillows and tried to settle, leaving the bedside lights on, comforted by the soft pools of light. At last Sylvia’s body loosened, her lids growing heavy as she heard the sound of breathing, of Polly coughing. But then, ouch, a moan, and the sharpness of rubble, the dust, the pain, the darkness. The loneliness, the sticky eyes, the sucking that had taken the breath from her body. She screamed and woke to find the other two sitting up, staring around the room.

  Sylvia whispered, ‘Sorry, so sorry I screamed.’

  Verity shook her head. ‘No, it was me.’

  Polly eased herself up on her pillows. ‘It was me. I was buried again.’

  The girls heard knocking on the door, and it eased open. It was Lady Pamela and Mrs Holmes, both of whom had apparently kept their doors open, and lain awake, on alert. Lady Pamela rang the bell pull, ignoring the girls’ protests. ‘Mrs B will have my guts for garters if I don’t let her know. She has the makings of cocoa all ready and will be bustling into the kitchen to brew up. Rogers will be bringing it up any second.’

  The girls looked at one another. Verity asked, ‘How on earth would Mrs B hear it in Rogers’s quarters? Her quarters are upstairs.’

  Her mother was busy folding their clothes, which they had just flung on to the chair. ‘Oh do mind your own business, Verity. You young ones are not the only ones who … Well, who … You know what I mean.’

  The girls were exchanging looks as Rogers appeared in the doorway, in a checked dressing gown and slippers, carrying a tray of cocoa, his grey hair awry. He set it down, and carried mugs to the girls, each of whom was wearing a pair of Verity’s old pyjamas. About to leave the room, the silver tray tucked beneath his arm, he halted as though he was thinking hard. He turned, looking at Lady Pamela.

  ‘If I may, madam?’

  Lady Pamela nodded, ‘Oh really, Simon, you know you may, just as you always do.’ She glanced at the girls. ‘We’re long past all that butler nonsense.’

  He addressed the girls. ‘I saw many things on Flanders fields. I heard many things. Many things happened to me; hurting me, frightening me. On my return I had dreams, but they were more than dreams. It was as though I was there. I woke crying out. It is natural. Just remember that you are not there now. You are safe. Of course, you will have to go to Limehouse again, but you now know to go in and out like streaked lightning, though that might only be at four miles an hour.’ He smiled at them all. ‘I also killed, just as your father did, Verity, and yours, Polly, and perhaps yours too, Sylvia? That is also something one has to dream out, or think out, or work out, or talk out of yourselves somehow, just as your men will have to on their return. So trust in the fact that you are safe, and together.’

  He nodded to them all, then added, ‘Henry and I served together throughout the war, but we could talk. It helped. Even so, it took some years of peace to settle us down. You have experienced an afternoon. You will recover because you have one another.’ He left.

  They drank their cocoa, and Lady Pamela sat on the end of Verity’s bed while Mrs Holmes sat with Polly. The talk was normal, de
sultory, homely. They kissed the girls goodnight, and suggested they might like to leave a light on. Verity explained about the nurses’ desk. Her mother pointed to the lamp by the window. ‘Why don’t I put that on, then it is dark enough to sleep, but if you wake, you can see the light, and know that all is well?’

  The girls settled, talked in the dim light of the years of war their fathers had endured, and the years their fighting forces and rescue services were enduring, and their own single afternoon, and then they slept.

  Chapter 11

  Their recovery continues

  Sylvia heard shouting and dragged herself awake, seeing the other two girls asleep, and the curtained window through which light slid. There was a painting of bluebells above the opposite bed, and a fire glowing in the grate. But, she thought, confused, they hadn’t had a fire in the dormitory. So where … She looked for Harriet, but no, she had done as she promised and become a postulant nun at St Cecilia’s convent attached to the orphanage. Sylvia wished she didn’t keep remembering how she had wept the morning she found her best friend dressed and leaving the dormitory. Harriet had held out her hand: ‘Come on, it’s meant to be, Sylvia. We’ve been called. I told you we had when you had that dream. I told you we owed it to the sisters, to God.’

  Sylvia shut her eyes. The two of them had been a family within a much larger family yet she had let Harriet leave, alone, even though they were so close that there was no space between them, as one of the nuns had once said. ‘No,’ Sylvia had said to Harriet. ‘Not yet, I can’t even remember the dream, not really.’

  Harriet had stood by her bed, leaned over and said, ‘But I remember you calling out to God. One day you will remember and join me.’

  She had walked silently to the door, and Sylvia had hid herself beneath the bedclothes, because––

  ‘What on earth is that shouting?’ murmured Polly.