Hope on the Waterways

by Milly Adams

  ‘Right you are,’ called Rogers from halfway up the back stairs. ‘Get the old sausage to wipe his feet on the doormat. He never sees the mud, somehow, treads it everywhere, he does.’

  Polly was already answering the door. Into the majestic hall strode Dr Havers, his black medical bag in his hand and his stethoscope hanging round his neck. His jodhpurs were mucky, his boots indescribable, and his tweed hacking jacket had seen better days. Sylvia called from the sitting room door, ‘Good morning, Doctor. Would you mind wiping your feet, or so said Rogers.’

  The doctor, a grizzled old man whose cold red nose was competition for Sylvia’s, laughed, ‘Ghastly old nag, he is.’

  Nonetheless, he had a go, then stormed ahead of Polly into the sitting room, where Sylvia and Verity were now sitting on one sofa. Polly followed him in. He plonked his bag on a rather nice antique side table and looked at all three of them. ‘I received a telephone call yesterday from a Bet Burrows instructing me – I say again, instructing me – to check you three over, on pain of death if I did not. This hot on the heels of a call from your father, Verity. Half an hour ago, I had a further call, this time from Simon Rogers, to say you were up and about and before you got up to no good you were to be checked over and given your orders. I gather you’ve been playing with a V2. Nasty creatures, they are. You should know better.’

  He had moved to stand with his back to the fire, but while he talked, he’d been looking at all three of them, his eyes keen. Verity stood. ‘I’m really sorry, Dr Havers. Bet was our trainer, and still thinks she is.’

  ‘Oh, come along, Verity. You should be pleased you have someone who will go out to bat for you – you all should. Now, this is what will happen.’ He was rubbing his hands together. Sylvia presumed it was to warm them, though he looked so gleeful she wondered if it was because the examination would hurt.

  ‘I will check you over now, and then, in seven or eight days’ time, I will remove the stitches. That will hurt.’ The hand-rubbing seemed to take on new energy. Sylvia watched as though hypnotised. ‘Then you will be signed off to return to your boats. So not only do you have someone who takes care of you, but you can comfort yourself it is merely because you are useful to the war effort.’

  Verity was smiling. ‘You never change, Dr Havers. And how is Mrs Havers?’

  He smiled in return. ‘My dear wife is still making those dreadfully hard scones, dear Verity, that I have to secrete in my pockets until I can safely dispose of them. Thankfully Fred, my horse, still likes them. Now, who’s first, unless you’d like to retire one by one to the privacy of a bedroom?’

  Privacy? thought Sylvia. Since when did boaters need, or expect, privacy?

  Dr Havers started with Polly, pursing his lips at the slash on her ribs. ‘That hurt, but they’ve cleaned it well, there’s no infection and the scar should heal.’ He cocked his head at her. ‘Mark you, you’ll have your fair share of callouses from the hauling ropes, presumably. Those should go, or at least minimise once you are no longer playing silly buggers with it all, but the wound scars won’t. My suggestion is to wear them as badges of honour.’

  He checked her arm, her shin, and examined the others, still with desperately cold hands, and a stethoscope which felt even colder, all the time amusing them with a running commentary. Then he plonked himself on Lady Pamela’s silk sofa next to Verity – Lady Pamela would not be pleased, thought Sylvia, and exchanged amused glances with the other two. He wrote out his notes, saying, ‘I will leave dressings. You must keep the wounds as clean as is already the case, but you will be able to return to duties at the time prescribed by the esteemed Bet Burrows, though gently. Don’t want to open anything up, do we?’

  Verity smiled slightly. ‘Gently isn’t possible, but we’ll do our best, because, no, we don’t want to open anything up.’

  Dr Havers made no attempt to leave, but sat there for a few moments, staring at the fire. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Sylvia wondered.

  He waved a no and started to talk. ‘I dare say Verity’s father has spoken to you about the mind, or one of the other “elders”, or perhaps not. You see, something like this V2 event is most strange. You deal with it at the time, but the mind can’t leave it alone, or other rubbish drifts to the surface. Don’t be frightened, weather it, support one another, and if you feel the darkness reclaiming you too fiercely, talk to someone – perhaps your trainer, because it sounds as though she could frighten away a million shadows, or even a doctor. Finally, remember that each of you can always telephone me.’

  He patted Verity’s leg. ‘There you are then. Must away. Dear old Fred will be wondering how long I’ll be and we haven’t finished yet. Perhaps I could just wash my hands before I go, some patients are so damned fussy. “You wash them ’ands before yer come anywhere near me, Lord knows where they been,” they shout.’

  He was off, across the hall, leaving mud on the silk rug between the two sofas, and more in the hall.

  The girls clustered around the front door, with Polly looking thoughtful. ‘Does anyone talk to Steve about his dreams?’

  The doctor returned and shook their hands. ‘Steve?’ he said, opening the huge oak door.

  Polly replied, ‘The fireman who rescued us, hanging upside down to clear a way through, then joining us in the cellar under a weight of rubble, with the smell of gas becoming worse. He got us out, and we thought he’d gone up in the explosion, but he hadn’t.’

  Her voice was shaking by the end. Verity held her hand, saying quietly, ‘He was so brave, Dr Havers.’

  Dr Havers looked thoughtful. ‘He’s trained of course, but like our soldiers, sailors and airmen, policemen, ambulance men … everyone, really, there is a price to pay. So yes, he will have dreams, he should talk, and more importantly someone should listen. But on the whole, those whose job it is to be in danger will joke their way through it, and chat to their chums, who understand because they have been there too. A bit of shorthand, shared history, whatever you like to call it. I expect you three do that, if only to get through the misery of winter on the canal. I once had to deal with a boater. Lord above, tough? Could have beaten me at one-armed wrestling any day. Her husband could too.’

  He left, almost skipping down the steps, untying Fred, mounting him, and trotting briskly down the drive. The girls swept up the mud, quietly.

  Chapter 12

  Steve and Dodge tackle more V2s

  At the fire station mess table, Steve finished writing his letter to Sylvia. He hardly dared to think she really wanted to hear from him. Well, if not she could rip it up unread, and he would know where he stood when he received no reply. But by heavens, he hoped she did write back, because he’d love to have someone of his own, and a family. It must be strange to belong. Not that he would marry just anyone, it would have to be love. He paused … marry? He’d only just met Sylvia, but yes, marry, he realised, because this was someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He laid his pen down, surprised at the enormity of the thought, and the rightness, then a noise made him look up. Narrow camp beds were scattered around the room, some of the shift, both Auxiliary Fire Service and National Fire Service, were sleeping, some writing or reading, others playing cards, but that would change instantly when the bell went.

  He folded the letter and placed it in the envelope, then dug out his diary with the address of Howard House written in the back. He copied it out and had just licked the envelope and rubbed it down when Dodge stirred in his pit, shouting out, then jerking awake, before sitting up, sweat soaked. The sleepers slept on, the others took no notice because sometimes dreams worked that way, and if Dodge wanted to talk, he’d come across, pour a cuppa, and Steve would listen.

  Dodge pulled up his braces, twanged them, scratched his head, and trundled across, his hair rumpled. ‘You writing to the other coppernob?’ he asked, going to the kitchen counter and pouring a mug of stewed tea. ‘Yer want one an’ all, Stevo?’

  ‘No, you’re all right, Dodge.’ Steve stuck a
stamp on the envelope while Dodge slopped in some milk and came and sat, taking a sip, and grimacing. ‘Tastes like my old woman’s when it’s been brewing for weeks.’

  ‘Stop with your moaning,’ Steve said, patting the letter and handing it to an AFS woman who had just come in from the office and was heading for the counter where she poured two teas. ‘Will you put that in the “out” tray, love?’ Steve asked.

  The girl, a blonde, grinned. ‘Seems our Dodge think’s yer’ve found yer love, Coppernob.’

  Steve opened his hands to Dodge. ‘Can’t you keep that great big gob shut?’

  Dodge grinned, slurped, and put the mug down. ‘Seems not,’ he said. ‘So—’ he began but the blasted bell broke into the room. Those asleep, all wearing their boots, sprang up, automatically dragging on their jackets. The card players threw their hands down, same with the books and pens. They rushed to the pole, where the sub waited at the bottom.

  ‘V bloody 2, out Crewswall Road way,’ the sub-officer yelled.

  Dodge and Steve ran to the pump engine with some AFS, others headed for the towing unit with a trailer pump, while the rest pounded to the turntable ladder unit and followed Steve out of the fire station, still dragging on their kit in the cab.

  Crews were already at the scene when they arrived, including a turntable ladder from the other watch working about a hundred feet further up at the top of the street. The sub waved them to a halt. ‘Get down the other end, it’s a ruddy hospital.’

  Flames were roaring skywards, patients and staff were evacuating. Steve drove the pump engine as close as he could, the others following until flagged down. The noise and heat roared – the paint on the appliances was bubbling. Steve jumped down in time to see a wall collapse on to the other watch’s turntable ladder, taking it down and the firemen with it. He wouldn’t watch. He couldn’t, he had work to do. The heat took his breath away. Gas? They’d have to find the valve. He swung round to the sub. ‘The valve, guv?’

  ‘AFS is on to it. Tell that bloody hose-layer to get back, Dodge, he’s far too bloody close.’

  Dodge ran towards the lorry and there was an explosion. It took out the lorry, and Dodge. Steve stared, then started to run, but was grabbed by the sub. ‘No, you can’t do anything. Get back to your pump, sort out the AFS wallahs.’

  Automatically Steve obeyed, running to his appliance. There were two divisional officers on the scene and four superintendents, and several AFS women who had driven them in staff cars. The only good thing about the bastard rockets was the light from the fires. It had been the same in the Blitz, but then the fires had also guided in more bombers. At least the ruddy rockets were pilotless.

  At the pump engine, the AFS were rolling out the hoses and the firemen at their turntable ladder were doing what they should. He spun round but couldn’t see the sub. ‘Where’s he gone?’ Steve yelled.

  ‘To the roof,’ Sonny Jim called back, directing his hose at the fire. ‘AFS has cut off the valve.’

  ‘Right you are. But the whole bloody lot’s caught, so it’ll go on, whatever.’

  Steve was directing his hose at the flames. The stream of water seemed pathetic against the massive soaring flames and the screams. The nozzle sprayed out the water. He was so damned hot even though it was January. There had been frost this morning, but the sun had come out for a while this afternoon. They’d been out all the previous night too, just an ordinary fire. How could anyone leave a pan on a cooker, and burn down a whole terrace? His mind was full of fragments of thoughts. It’s what happened, it kept them sane. He wouldn’t think of Dodge, not yet. The job had to be finished.

  The staff and patients were filing past him, and then the wall to the left of him collapsed. A section of the Rescue Squad was directed to it because there had been patients and staff passing along the street to safety as it fell. He thought of Sylvia, safe. Thank God, thank God. And the girls. He wasn’t going to think of Dodge’s missus and her stewed tea. He’d have to go and see her, course he would. He directed the jet higher. Was the sub still up there? Quite right too, working out what the hell was happening. Not sure he’d like that burden. Give an order and be left wondering whether it was right or wrong.

  Another wall fell. The ground shuddered and the bricks flew through the air. They hit him, one on the mouth. He tasted the blood. He directed the water higher – the flames were roaring from the window, there was so much dust.

  So much noise. Was she coming to the reunion? He had to think of that, not Dodge his mate, his mentor, who’d had him in his home for meals, to stay, and been a father. Yes, that was right. Dodge was like a dad – or was he? He didn’t know what a dad was. Like the priest? He barked out a laugh. A dad didn’t sit the other side of the confessional grille.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Sub shouted in his ear: ‘Step back. If that wall comes down, you’ll be done for.’

  He’d been given an order so he stepped back. The heat was more than heat. It was sharp, deep, and the appliance was still blistering, his face was so hot it would blister too. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Who would take Dodge’s place? Someone, because someone always did. But not for the missus. Who’d work his veg plot at the back of the long, thin garden, and the shared allotment? Well, he, Steve, could.

  His hands seemed stuck on the nozzle, like claws. Sometimes the watch were like this all night, and as the fire died they would start to feel the cold and their hands would freeze even more solidly in place. He looked at the AFS bloke who’d taken Dodge’s hose: it was Alfie, who nodded. Yes, someone had taken Dodge’s place, because they always did; it was a chant in his head.

  As the turntable ladder blokes turned their hoses on the upstairs windows Alfie called, ‘You ’ear that, Steve?’

  Steve looked across. ‘Hear what?’

  ‘I heard someone crying.’ He nodded towards a wall that had plummeted to the ground, the bricks sprawling across the kerb, skidding from the heap of rubble at their centre.

  Steve looked for the Rescue Squad. No sign of them. ‘Take me hose under your other arm, I’ll have a dekko.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Steve dragged the hose across and pinioned it beneath Alfie’s arm. Alfie directed both nozzles at the fire which, Steve saw, was waning just a bit. He headed towards the rubble and saw an arm and the starched cuff of a nurse. The fingers were moving, as though she was waving. They were so small, so white. He felt sick. He didn’t want to remove the rubble to see what he feared.

  ‘Hang on, Miss,’ he said. ‘We’re getting to you.’ He pressed her fingers, she pressed his, and he heard her weeping.

  Piece by piece he lifted the rubble and was joined by a Rescue Squad lad. ‘Quick, quick,’ the boy said.

  ‘No, careful, careful,’ Steve replied, wondering how he could sound so calm, so normal, when inside, he was sobbing. His dad was dead. His real dad from years ago, and now Dodge. Two dads. Careless, not careful. He barked a laugh and it sounded parched and strange.

  The boy looked at him. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Course I am. What’s yer name, son?’

  ‘Tim, and yours?’

  ‘Steve.’

  They picked at the rubble, dug into it, then shoved a great wedge of it over to the road with a crash. The heat from the fire was beating on them. ‘Not long now,’ Steve said to the nurse, who was quiet. Her fingers weren’t moving now; even her starched cuff seemed limp and grubby. Steve felt for her pulse. It was thready but there. He yelled for the medics. Alfie passed on the call. An AFS bloke had taken Steve’s hose.

  Steve worked with Tim, tossing bricks and beams to one side, until finally they reached her. She was lying quite still, her uniform torn; only the cuff was complete, but by now without a vestige of white. ‘On three,’ Steve said. They eased the nurse out and laid her on the ground. Her hair had been pinned up, Steve supposed, but half of it now hung down, stained red. Her hat was nowhere to be seen. Or didn’t you call a nurse’s headgear a hat? Was it
a cap – or perhaps a veil? He called again for the ambulance. He smoothed back her hair, saying, ‘Why hello there, wake up, come on, lass.’

  The Rescue Squad lad was feeling her limbs. She moaned. One leg was crushed. Steve smiled. ‘There you go, good girl. Any minute you’ll be on a stretcher and taken, not to your hospital, but to another. Nice clean sheets, kind nurses like you, busy doctors.’

  Her eyes opened and she gasped, ‘Thank you, but what about the rest?’ Her eyes closed again. Steve’s heart sank. They’d been busy all night, and now there were others. Tim looked at him. ‘How old are you, son?’ Steve said, as the ambulance blokes ran up.

  The lad said, ‘Twenty-three.’

  Steve shook his head slightly: they were the same age. ‘New to it?’

  ‘A bit, but it doesn’t seem it.’

  Steve sighed because a sub was pointing at him to keep digging and leave his hose to the AFS bloke. ‘Come on, then.’

  The two of them worked on. It took two hours to clear the rubble, and everyone else was dead. It wasn’t unusual. Steve left Tim to it now that others from the Rescue Squad had arrived. He dusted off his hands. The sub ordered, ‘Take back your hose, Steve. We’ll be here for hours yet. Just so you know, the ambulance crew thought the nurse would make it. That’s something.’

  Steve supposed it was. ‘Tell the lad, would you?’ He nodded towards Tim, who was sweeping up the road, then took his hose and directed the jet at what had once been a hospital. The rocket had actually come down further along the street, so this end was blast damage, gas and fire, and so it went on day after day. Vengeance bloody rockets, Herr Hitler, eh, keeping on until your last gasp, and until your own bloody empire is in ruins as the bombers come over because how else can we stop you? And how the hell was any of it going to be rebuilt?

  The turntable ladder had been moved along to Steve’s sector, which meant the far end was under control, but here it would still take some time. He took up his stance, gripped the nozzle tighter, and held his jet of water steady. The heat was still intense, the smoke billowing, the air choking. He and Alfie were coughing. Alfie spat. Steve laughed. ‘That’s disgusting.’