by Milly Adams
On their last afternoon they sat around the kitchen table, having a cup of tea with Mrs B, Rogers, Henry and Pamela while Thomas and Joyce Holmes collected Joe. Henry said, stroking Pup who was curled up on his lap, ‘So, you are getting the train tomorrow morning, and going straight to the depot office at Bull’s Bridge for orders, with Pup. Will she really be safe with all that water?’
Verity said, ‘She’ll be chained as the boaters’ children are, to the range chimney, and will toddle around the cabin roof until she is just a bit more reliable.’
Rogers said, half laughing, ‘Perhaps that’s what we should do with Joe.’
They all nodded. Mrs B said, ‘Ah, but he needs his freedom. It’s a tricky balance.’
Henry muttered, ‘Life is. I’m wondering, girls, what you all think you will be doing after the war? I mean, the canal can’t continue as a transport system in the face of such road and rail competition.’
The range spluttered in the silence that fell. Pamela placed her hand on her husband’s and squeezed. She said, ‘What Henry is trying to say, girls, is that Howard House must change. It’s so big that even with us all here, we have still closed up almost two thirds, and there are the cottages, the grounds … It could be an hotel or a school, but it needs young people to make something like that work. We have money, but not the energy or hunger. Perhaps it’s worth thinking about – along with your men, of course.’
Again there was silence, and again the range spluttered. Pup yelped in her sleep.
Polly said quietly. ‘Our men might not come back.’
Henry said, ‘I believe they will, but if the worst happens, you three will still need a life. We mention it only for you to keep in the back of your minds, because the war will be over sooner rather than later, you mark my words. Our forces are almost in Germany, the Russians are closing in on it, Japan will take longer but Hitler can’t withstand the might of America.’
At that moment they heard Joe clattering down the steps from the yard and bursting into the kitchen without stopping to remove his boots, his face red from the cold. There was excitement in his every fibre. He was followed by Thomas and Joyce looking pale and stressed. Suddenly Sylvia felt sick. Leon? It was clearly what all those sitting around the table thought.
There was no chance for Joyce or Thomas to explain before Joe slung his satchel on the table and drew out a certificate. ‘I won,’ he shouted, dancing around, waving the certificate. ‘I won the competition, and my story is going to be in the newspaper.’
Polly leapt up. ‘Oh, Joe, that’s so wonderful, let me see,’ she said.
The girls clustered around the certificate, reading over the top of his head his name, J. Clement, and the title of his story, ‘My Life on the Cut’. Sylvia felt sure her heart had skipped a beat. She looked round to see Joyce and Thomas whispering to Pamela, Mrs B and the other two men. Henry jumped up, thrust Pup at Rogers, who clung to the dog as though the old man’s mind was full of imaginings about Joe, and what this piece could reveal about his whereabouts. Joyce had backed close to Thomas; her hat had slipped sideways and the feather was bobbing. Henry rushed to the telephone in the boot hall and was making a call, but his words were muffled. Could he stop the piece? Please, Sylvia pleaded silently, because what if Leon saw it?
He came back, pale, nodding, then opening his hands, as though to say that actually he wasn’t quite sure. He walked to Joe, ruffled his hair, and sat back down as Joe stuffed a slice of cake into his mouth, while Polly, Sylvia and Verity seemed hardly able to breathe with anxiety.
Henry asked, ‘So, tell us about your story. The reporter is going to print it, I gather. How exciting. But you know, the photographer that was coming to take your picture can’t now, his editor says. He’s just so busy.’
The relief in Thomas and Joyce’s faces, not to mention those of Rogers and Mrs B, as well as Henry and Pamela, helped the girls relax. ‘Have you got your story, Joe?’ asked Sylvia.
‘No, the reporter has it.’
Verity said, ‘That’s a shame, because we’re off tomorrow. What did you actually talk about?’
‘Oh, just ’ow yer get through bridges, how t’boats be loaded and unloaded, the cabins, how you women have filled the places of the men. How yer loved Dog and yer saved Jimmy. I didn’t say anything about Uncle Saul, or me, so you can stop worrying about Da. I knows yer do worry, cos of all the sitting on buses, and the patrols. He won’t know I is ’ere, course ’e won’t. Besides, he can’t read, or couldn’t, less’n he learned in prison waitin’ for the trial that didn’t ’appen. So how can he read the newspaper?’
Sylvia saw the grown-ups push aside their worry with hearty smiles. ‘We aren’t worrying,’ Joyce said. ‘We’re just so proud.’ And they were, but if only he hadn’t mentioned Dog, and Jimmy, and the women who ran the boats, because there were others who could read, and they might be Leon’s friends.
In bed that night, the three girls went over the plans that the aunts and uncles had made the moment Joe had gone to bed: the patrols were to be tightened, and Henry was trying to find some sort of bodyguard who could be paid for discreet surveillance. They knew of the contents of his phone call to the editor, a golfing pal, who had promised to cancel Joe’s photo shoot, along with an article on the winners themselves. So, there was just the story, which had already been typeset and if that was pulled it would cause more gossip amongst journalists than if it was just left.
Verity said, after tossing and turning, ‘After all, why would Leon’s tentacles stretch as far as deepest rural Dorset? And if they did, why would they take any notice of a short story competition in a local newspaper?’
But none of them slept very well, jerking awake at the slightest sound.
In the morning, on the bus to the station with all the ‘grown-ups’, Henry told them that indeed there were to be more men hired, the expense to be covered by him of course, because no toe-rag was going to come and take their boy away.
Henry finished in a fierce whisper, ‘All quite unnecessary, of course, for the wretched man is probably long gone, or blown to smithereens by a rocket with his name on. After all, why should it be the good ones who get blown apart? If he’s elsewhere, and has friends in London, they won’t read local newspapers from around the country. I know we’re being absurdly careful, but one likes to cover all flanks. Summerton’s words can’t be erased from our minds and must be acted upon if we are any sort of guardians.’
By the time they reached London after trundling along for several weary hours nipping out at the stations to let Pup do what she had to on the flower beds, the girls had genuinely felt reassured by Lord Henry’s measures. Good grief, it was enough that the V2s and a few V1s were still smashing into a London which was freezing in a bitter January. Smashing so that they blasted windows, bringing frostbite to those who had to live within their walls. And what about the tiredness that was sinking into people now that they were on the last leg?
On the top of the bus back to the depot they talked of Howard House because they had given no thought to the end; not really. Sitting on the back seat Verity leaned into Sylvia. ‘You do understand, our Sylv, my father meant you, too, and whoever your man is. I mean by that Coppernob, what say you, Pol?’
Polly smiled, as Pup sat at her feet and tugged at her lead, yelping at the people who came on board. ‘I say, just think, all the families together, because I rather think that Rogers and Mrs B have decided that you are theirs. We could all set to and make something – anything – work.’
Sylvia was more relaxed than she had ever been. As the convalescent leave had drawn on she’d felt she was no longer an extra in life. Steve’s letters, which had continued arriving, and her replies had cemented that sense.
She had settled herself on the bedroom window seat to reply to his letters, pen in hand, writing of the view from their window, or of Joe and Maisie, and Joe’s tin hat, and how he had corrected the drawing she had made of him standing with his hat on, preparing to mount. She
had enclosed the drawing and Steve had replied, saying that he thought it was wonderful.
She had written back, to tell him that was because of Joe’s efforts, but he had replied by return, saying that it was a joint effort, she and Joe together, which was the best sort of picture. Sylvia smiled to herself and touched all his letters, which she carried in her trouser pocket, and returned to the present in time to hear Verity discussing the future.
‘We could have an hotel, but we could also have a place where men can stay who can’t get rid of the nightmares,’ Verity said. ‘Even if our men can’t be with us – for we have to consider it, girls – we could manage that ourselves. For heaven’s sake, if we can get a load of aluminium to Tyseley and back, we can run an hotel.’
‘But only with the help of the older ones,’ Sylvia said. ‘We’d need them, and they’d need to be doing something.’
Polly muttered, ‘But I don’t think Saul would ever leave the cut, and I’m staying where he is.’
The bus drew up at their stop and as they walked down the stairs, Pup in Sylvia’s arms, Verity said quietly, ‘The cut might leave them, you know, high and dry. Father was right, it’s as though the war is the last real time that cuts will be needed, and a whole way of life will end.’
Chapter 14
Back on the cut at last
The girls walked towards the depot as the freezing evening fell, cloaking the leafless trees with yet another level of frost. Their steps quickened, and Polly lifted the flagging Pup and carried her under one arm, her carpet bag in the other hand as they swore to one another they could sense the cut. It was the longest they had been away, and it was only now that they truly realised how much they had missed it. They skirted the war memorial, not looking at the shrivelled Christmas wreath that had been placed by someone in memory of a son who would not come home.
They passed the pub, hearing the piano playing, the voices raised in song. It was ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ and Vera Lynn’s voice stayed in their heads as they walked along the lane. There was a bright moon; they could no longer call a bomber’s moon, because the rockets were sent man-less from the Continent and it didn’t matter how much light there was, or wasn’t. One of their carpet bags contained clean clothes from Verity’s wardrobe to share amongst them all, and knitted hats, scarves and gloves from Joyce.
Another bag contained spuds washed free of soil by Pamela, and sliced cured bacon from the pigs, enough to share with whoever Marigold and Horizon were moored between. The third had books for Jimmy Porter, the seven-year-old they had saved from drowning when they were trainees, and whose family had given them Dog, whom they could just about think of now without weeping.
At last they were at the entrance to Bull’s Bridge Depot and could let Pup down. The guard came out of his hut tipping his hat. ‘Well, by all that’s holy, the girls are back, bloodied but unbowed. We ’eard ‘ow you’ve been doing from Bet Burrows.’
The girls grinned as they passed, waving a hand in his direction. Pup danced about on her lead. ‘Just tick us off on your clipboard, Vernon. We’re not hanging around while you find our names, because you’ll take all day about it, and give us pneumonia.’
His laugh followed them across the yard, busy with bustling men against a background of narrowboats heading east and west. Polly said, as they headed for the Administration Office, ‘Can you imagine this falling silent?’
‘Stop it,’ snapped Verity. ‘Let’s just take it a day at a time.’
Sylvia opened the office door, which caught in the wind and slammed back against the wall. Bob looked up from behind his counter, getting to his feet and grimacing. ‘Might ’ave guessed it were you three. Put the bung in the ’ole, and bring your troublesome selves in.’
Sylvia walked up to the desk. ‘Is that any welcome for wounded warriors, Bob?’
‘Cain’t see no warriors, ’ere. Just three lasses who didn’t complete their ruddy run. There’s no pay, yer know, and make sure that dog don’t pee on me floor.’
Sylvia slapped her hand on the counter. ‘She won’t, and of course we know, and you needn’t look so pleased about it.’
The other two stood either side of her. ‘Just reporting for duty, you little ray of sunshine,’ Verity said.
‘Bet around, is she?’ Polly was reaching across the counter, pinching one of Bob’s sandwiches neatly stacked on greaseproof paper. ‘Hey,’ he said slapping at her hand. He missed, deliberately. Polly knelt down and gave Pup a crust, crooning, ‘Enjoy this, it’s the only thing you’ll get off tight wad, let me tell you.’
They were all grinning, as he signed them in. Then they turned to leave, but he called them back. ‘Hey, not so quick. ’Ere yer go.’ He handed them one of his buff envelopes. ‘What’s this?’ Verity asked. ‘Make us happy and tell us we’ve been sacked.’
He shrugged, sitting back down and ramming a sandwich in his mouth. ‘Just summat the lot of us put together. Can’t ’ave yer going round with a beggin’ bowl being more of a nuisance than you already are.’ He splattered sandwich crumbs over the countertop, and wiped it clean with his hand.
Sylvia and Polly waited as Verity opened the envelope and looked in. She pulled out pound notes and coins. ‘That’s as much as our pay.’
Bob shrugged again. ‘Bet and her two trainees ’ad yer pay, cos they did the run in yer boats, not that they wanted to ’ave it, but rules is rules. So the lads at the depot just put in a bit ’ere and there fer yer envelope, cos we knew yer’d be going on summat rotten the minute yer got back, and that were more than we could take. Best you go and find yer boats, and take that hound with yer before she christens me floor. Yer make sure yer take her to see Maud in the canteen afore yer go. Yer know ’ow she felt about Dog. Bet’s at Marigold to do the handover and will tell yer the orders.’
With that he rose and walked into the rear office with his shoulders slumped and the girls remembered that Maud wasn’t the only one who’d adored Dog. As they reached the door, Bob called from the rear office doorway, ‘Glad yer back, girls. We was right worried, we was. Never bloody ends, do it?’ He slammed the office door behind him.
The girls were almost overcome but Verity tucked the money into her pocket and they set off again, Verity waving the envelope, through the weaving men, who grinned, and shrugged off their thanks. The girls turned right at the canal frontage along the lay-by and it was as though Pup knew they were on their way home and strained at the lead, pulling them on. They passed all the narrowboats moored stern first against the kerb but no one was about. They arrived at Marigold and Horizon.
In the moonlight they could see that the holds were already loaded, and the tarpaulins tied down. The centre-line running boards were also in place along the top, linking to the metal stands spaced at intervals down the length of the holds. Smoke was rising from the cabins, and as they stared Bet emerged from Marigold’s cabin grinning and saying, ‘Bob and the new orders clerk, Marty, felt it might be a kindness to have the trainee team run the Limehouse gauntlet to load up, just this once, black-mailing us because we nicked your fee. Just this once, mind.’
Bet jumped down on to the bank, and hugged them all. ‘Timmo’s rabbit is stewing in the range, we’ve tidied the cabins after our nightly wild parties. I suggest you eat, get to bed, and toddle on up to Tyseley early in the morning. For your information, the Bottom Road is no longer used, but you’ll pick up coal from Coventry on the proper cut. Why? Because all the Idle Women put their combined feet down, plus numerous others, and now that arm is defunct.’
She grinned, then snatched at Sylvia, towing her forward by her carpet bag. ‘Come with me to sign out on your cabin, young lady.’
Sylvia let herself be led, feeling much like Pup on her lead. Surely Bet knew that she wasn’t fussy like she used to be? They leapt on to the counter of Horizon, then Bet entered first, waving her hand around. It was immaculate, and the range was spluttering, as a piece of coal dropped into the firebox. ‘I just wanted to let you know that your fire
man left me a message with Bob the moment you left hospital. I telephoned the fire station as he asked, to give him your address in case you didn’t. He wasn’t taking no for an answer, you see. Was that okey-dokey?’ Sylvia sat on the side-bed smiling. ‘More than okey-dokey, Bet. We’ve been writing to one another.’
Bet was grinning. ‘Of course you have. Life can be short, Sylv. Grab happiness where you can. I also gave him Tyseley’s address, so you never know, there might be a letter waiting for you at the office when you arrive. Come on then, don’t know why you’re sitting down, you layabout. You need to get back on to Marigold, eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you work.’
Bet was scooting up the steps on to the deck. Sylvia laughed. Honestly, Bet was incorrigible. She followed, almost shouting, ‘You didn’t have to drag me here to tell me this. The girls know he wrote, and that I replied, and if I have to listen to any more teasing I will pull their hair out by the roots.’
Bet was standing on the bank. ‘Not a bad idea. They have enough woollen hats to keep their bald heads warm, I presume, after a week or so with Mrs Holmes and her clicking knitting needles. I do love that Joyce Holmes, salt of the earth. Now I have to toodle-pip to get back to my girls and make sure they’re behaving. Guess what, we have two new boats. Well, not new, but would you believe they’re Swansong and Seagull, Saul’s old boats. Another reason for a quiet word. Break it to Polly, if you would. I don’t want her thinking he’s back, which would possibly lead to a bit of a do.’ With that, she waved and headed further down the bank.
Over the rabbit stew Sylvia mentioned the news about Swansong and Seagull. For a moment Polly looked sad, but then she ate some of her baked potato. Eventually she said, ‘Well, it’s good that they’re in Bet’s care, but it’ll be strange, and not just for me. The other boaters will look a bit sideways for a while.’
