Hope on the Waterways

by Milly Adams

  In the morning they headed up the Grand Union Canal, though they were not happy, because not one of them was without a headache, so the moaning was loud and long. The worst was from Verity until Sylvia, who was lock-wheeling as they headed towards Fenny Stratford, yelled as the boat sank down to the lower level, ‘Enough, Ver, you’re making my head worse.’

  ‘Ver?’ groaned Verity.

  Polly shrieked with laughter. ‘Oh, good girl, Sylv. You’ve kept using it, and so shall I. Sylv, Pol and Ver, what could be better.’

  Sylv shouted down at them, panting as she opened the lock gates, ‘Quite, and it’s still all for one and one for all, and don’t forget, we are still four. We may have lost Dog who was given to us by boaters but the boaters have given us Pup now. We’re really lucky people.’

  ‘If mucky, calloused, with sore hands, sore heads and ruddy cold’s lucky,’ moaned Verity.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Ver,’ shouted the other two.

  The next day they headed further north. There were fewer locks, and they relaxed as they pat-pattered through the long Blisworth Tunnel, then, just past the Buckby turn-off they made it through the Braunston Tunnel before mooring up for the night. Timmo had left some rabbits and pheasant on the back of the cabin, and they had let them hang in the cold, to coax more flavour.

  They had hoped to make it to Tyseley, but perhaps tomorrow? At dawn, though, they had to hack their way out of the ice which jammed them into their moorings, and then it was a slow trawl. They put up at Hatton, and finally made Tyseley Wharf at midday the next day, sighing with relief and feeling more grubby than ever before. They weren’t, of course, it was just that they’d forgotten during their recuperation how awful they usually looked and smelt.

  Chapter 16

  Renewing Tyseley friendships and saying goodbye to others

  They liked mooring up at Tyseley because the water was on a level with the wharf, unlike Limehouse, where you had to climb up wall ladders. Otherwise the chaos was the same, with lorries revving and taking away loads, or bringing them. Men bustled, the workshops were busy and above it all was the screech of steel being worked, or wood being hammered.

  Ahead were cranes swinging loads on to queuing boats, the boaters’ wives heading off to the shops with their string bags, or perhaps washing down their cabins while the men found out the details of their new loads. The main relief was that there were no V2s, and hadn’t been since the London environs. On the quay they peered round, and up, and there was Alf Green in the cab of one of the cranes. His wife was Alice Green, an attendant at the public baths and in whose guest house they stayed if they were held overnight. Alf yelled down as they headed for the lavs, ‘The missus ’eard you was on yer way, and ’as three rooms ready for yer, and three cubicles at the public baths. We’re glad you made it through yer troubles.’

  Their spirits lifted. They waved and rushed on to the lavs because using the bucket kept in the store at the back of the cabin was the worst part of their job. Afterwards they rushed back, calling in briefly for any letters. The clerk shook his head. ‘Post ain’t been yet. Try tomorrow, ’cause you’ll be off to the baths now, won’t yer?’

  Sylvia pushed her hand into her trouser pocket, touching Steve’s old letters, disappointment swamping her. But at least she had these, and would post those she had written to him on the journey up. But should she? What if he had forgotten her; out of sight, out of mind?

  The other two called her to hurry, and the three of them headed back to the quay. ‘Don’t be disappointed,’ Polly said. Verity added, ‘He’s busy, so let your heart cut him a bit of slack, eh? Look how he’s written up to now, and never ever forget Ma Porter’s water.’ They all three grinned, Sylvia most of all.

  On the quay they found the foreman looking speculatively at Marigold and Horizon’s holds, and then at his schedule. Polly whispered, ‘Oh no, he’s not going to order it to be done now, surely? We won’t get clean, or have a night on shore.’

  ‘Not if I can help it, darling,’ said Verity sidling up to him. ‘Oh, Mister Roberts, we would be so very pleased if our steel isn’t offloaded until tomorrow. We’ve been injured, just look at this arm, still in a sling, and it’s our first trip back and we must bathe, we simply must. The danger of our wounds becoming infected …’ she sighed pathetically.

  He tucked his clipboard beneath his arm, staring at her. ‘You can toady up and whine all you want, Miss Verity, but how much do you expect to alter my schedule when the rest of the time you call me rude names?’

  The girls’ hearts sank. Sylvia wanted to kick Verity because she had called Roberts a lazy arse a month ago, and a few other choice words, after which he had told her to shift her own arse and be quick about it.

  Then he smiled. ‘But on pain of death from Alice Green, I have scheduled you in 8 a.m. tomorrow, but no later, mind.’

  Verity flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. The other two raised their eyebrows and all three rushed off to collect a change of clothes, and then tore for the tram, then tore back for Pup, accidentally left in the cabin. Would Mrs Green allow her in? Would she be safe on the tram or would she pee?

  Mr Roberts was watching their antics from the quay, shaking his head and sighing as they stopped near him, Pup under Sylvia’s arm. He shouted, ‘Leave her in the office, for Pete’s sake. We have newspaper we can put on the floor. We’ll need her lead because I’ll take her home with me at the end of the day, and if she chews the furniture, it’s not just her guts that will be garters, the missus will have mine an’ all. After which, Miss Verity Clement, I will have yours, with mustard on ’em.’

  Verity made as though to throw her arms round his neck again, but he held her off with his clipboard. ‘That’s quite enough for one day. Go and drop her in at the office.’

  They did, and flew once more for the tram, finally arriving at the baths and running in because early afternoon had become late afternoon.

  Mrs Green was in the foyer, talking to the receptionist. She opened her arms to hug them all, seemingly uncaring for once that they would besmirch her starched white overalls. She said, as she held them close, ‘The starch’ll have to cope this time but let’s not make it an ’abit. Seems we might not ’ave seen you all again and that wouldn’t have done at all cos yer our cross we must bear, so there.’

  She led the way and Sylvia was given No. 3, ‘because yer clean yer bath proper’.

  Sylvia smirked at the others, who pulled rude faces as she entered, shut the door, and filled the bath to the eight-inch line. It was the biggest bath cubicle, with a mirror, which wasn’t altogether a plus as none of them were exactly oil paintings. She stripped off her clothes and checked her wounds. They were all healed, or as good as, and quite clear of infection. But then they had made sure they had a stand-up wash every evening, just as a precaution. Whereas normally they just tipped themselves into the cabin beds and slept.

  She heard Verity sink into her bath with cries of relief, which changed to, ‘What a swot you are, Sylv. A nice clean bath indeed, and that cubicle isn’t that much better than ours anyway.’

  Sylvia leaned back, letting the water cover her body, feeling the muck disperse, not to mention the way the aches and pains eased in its warmth. ‘Oh, Ver, it is, though. It’s got a mirror, and such a lovely young man to towel me down.’

  Verity hooted with laughter. ‘I will tell Coppernob.’

  But Sylvia was already sliding down beneath the water, feeling happier and more sure of herself than she had ever done in her life. He might not have had time to write, but she would see Steve at the reunion, she was sure she would, and the mere thought of it made her want to sing, and, anyway, there might be a letter from him when they returned to the dock in the morning.

  She surged out of the water and broke into the song ‘You’ll Never Know Just How Much I Love You’.

  There were groans from the other two girls, until they joined in.

  Later, hair washed and bathed, they walked to the Bull and
Bush pub on the corner of Mrs Green’s road. Nothing had changed. ‘Most peculiar,’ muttered Polly. ‘I feel we’ve been away for ever, but somehow, not, if you know what I mean?’

  Sylvia said, ‘I think it’s because we nearly died, then had to recover so we have been away further and longer than it seems.’ She stopped. ‘I’m talking rubbish.’

  Verity slipped her good arm round her friend’s shoulders and almost hung there. ‘No, just for once you’re not, dear heart.’ They entered and watched as Frankie and Old Cedric played dominoes with their friends, while Boris wiped down the bar with what seemed the same grubby cloth as always. This he tucked in his apron, as always, whistling as he so often was, until he saw them. ‘Well, well, ’eard you three had a lucky escape but Dog didn’t. Gettin’ on with Pup, are yer?’

  Sylvia braced herself, but surely out here they wouldn’t have heard of Steve? She rushed to say, ‘Yes, she’s a sweet little thing. What’s on the menu today?’

  He took his pencil from behind his ear, licked the lead, then brought out his pad from his apron pocket. ‘Well, we have fish ’n’ chips, or sausage and mash, but the fish is orf.’

  Polly as always said, ‘Ah, hard choice, girls. I suppose it will have to be the sausage and mash, Boris.’

  Boris laughed. ‘You girls crack me up.’

  They smiled, because no, nothing had changed. He turned away, then back again. ‘No coppernob fireman with yer, then?’ He was looking at Sylvia.

  She sighed, giving up. ‘Unless he’s invisible, no, Boris.’

  He laughed again. ‘Killin’ you are, you girls.’

  He took the order through to the kitchen, came back and poured three half-pints of mild without waiting to be told. They took the drinks to a table near the fire. The same dingy print of ancient Birmingham hung on the wall. The coals gleamed red in the grate. The same three women as always sat across from them, wearing hairnets. They nodded at one another. ‘’Ow do,’ the women said. ‘Better, are yer?’

  The girls smiled. ‘Almost perfect,’ Polly said.

  One of the domino players called, ‘We knows that, but are yer better?’ The men cackled.

  While they did so Verity whispered, ‘I’ll bet a bob on Gladys’s ash falling on our very own coppernob’s sausages.’

  The other two took her bet. Gladys arrived with the tray, her cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth, the ash as always an inch long. It fell. She put the plates of food in front of each girl, and a large plate of bread and butter. She retreated to the kitchen. Sylvia looked at her plate. The ash had fallen on her mash. Verity, crowing, held out her hand. Sylvia shook her head. ‘You said the sausages. It fell on the mash.’

  Verity looked stung. ‘But you know I meant your plate, not ours.’

  Polly winked at Sylvia. ‘You said the sausages, so cough up.’

  Verity did so, grumbling as she ate her meal.

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Everything’s just the same, even misery guts Ver.’

  When they had finished, they passed the table of domino players on their way to the door. ‘Yer take care,’ said Frankie, still wearing his black armband in memory of his son’s death just a few months ago.

  ‘You too,’ insisted Verity.

  They slept like children in Mrs Green’s bedrooms, ones that didn’t rock, and around which no wind blew and no owls hooted. They had forgotten how tired working on the cut made them feel, and how sore it made their hands, shoulders and back, especially when their wounds were healed but echoes of them remained. And how the chilblains itched, created by standing on the counter steering in the bitter winter winds.

  They ate scrambled egg and toast for breakfast in the dining room, looking at the photos of the repertory theatre actors who stayed here when performing. They paid and rushed out along the street for the tram, to be back at eight. They were, and even had time to check for letters at the office and pick up not just those that waited for them, but Pup from the foreman’s office. Apparently, her behaviour had been exemplary, and he hoped they’d learn from their pet.

  Polly stood on Verity’s foot as her mouth opened for a sharp riposte, so she closed it again, and smiled sweetly. ‘We really are very grateful, Mr Roberts,’ she insisted.

  Mr Roberts looked worried. ‘Get out of here. I feel as though you’re softening me up for something. Probably to eat me, raw.’

  They placed the half-dozen eggs they’d bought from Mrs Green on his desk, blowing him kisses as they left. He grinned, throwing a screwed-up ball of paper after them. They shut the door just in time. ‘Thanks for the eggs,’ he yelled.

  ‘Thanks for having Pup, Mr Roberts,’ Verity called back through the door. ‘Really, you’re a pal. Thanks so much.’

  His voice followed them down the corridor. ‘I’m not your pal, don’t ever think I am. You three are more trouble than all the other Idle Women and boaters put together, so help me.’

  They were all laughing as they hunched their shoulders against the freezing wind of the yard, but they didn’t care. Each of them had a letter from their man and their parents, or sort of parents, for Sylvia’s was from Rogers and Mrs B. They tucked them away on the bookshelf the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company had installed in all the IW’s cabins, to read once they were ready to go again.

  The next hour or so was spent untying the hold tarpaulins so the loads could be heaved out by crane, then brushing out the empty holds, counting their blessings that they were to be loaded with a clean product – wood, here at Tyseley – and so they did not have to go to Coventry for coal, just this once.

  At last they were on their way south back down the Grand Union Canal, not the Brum Bum where they’d have to haul the butty by hand through the short pounds because the banks were too decrepit to deal with the wash, and the locks, which couldn’t cope with two boats in them at once. Instead they pat-pattered along, tied up abreast so they could at last relax, and read all the news from their men, and Howard House.

  They shared this over several cups of tea, huddling on their counters, Polly and Verity smoking, Sylvia not. Apparently Tom and Saul were taking a few deep breaths and relaxing at a village they had captured, and were guarding some very old, and very young, Germans who had held it. These young and old warriors were still defiant, certain that Germany would win the war, that their Führer would subdue or kill the British with his Vengeance rockets, and sure also that their Führer had another weapon to unleash on the pathetic Britishers.

  Verity drew on her cigarette. ‘Vengeance for what, one wonders. Being beaten by the nations who have real cause for vengeance?’

  They had not told their fiancés of their own meeting with a V2 and had no intention of doing so. Why worry them unnecessarily?

  Sylvia told of Steve’s battle against the hospital fire and numerous others, and the loss of Dodge. She said nothing about the reunion, which he called the bright spot on the horizon in his last letter and how he longed for her to return to Bull’s Bridge in time to make it. His words had made it real, and the thought jangled every nerve in her body, because what if Harriet … ? She shut her mind. Slam, bang. Shut away. Just think of Steve, not where you will be seeing him, she urged herself.

  They read their letters from Howard House, and all said much the same: apparently the paid guard was working well, but they had added another couple of men so they each did an eight-hour shift. The remnants of the Home Guard were perfectly happy to patrol and poach the odd pheasant. Joe was well, there had been no more articles, and the one on the competition had been buried near the back amongst the advertisements, so was not obvious.

  Sylvia lock-wheeled them towards the Braunston Tunnel and as they finally travelled through its darkness Verity muttered, ‘Oh, for more of these on the dash to Limehouse. It would be smashing to have a roof over our heads every few minutes on that particular bit of the cut.’

  Sylvia called loudly, enough for her voice to echo, ‘Must you say smashing?’

  ‘Quite,’ Polly agreed. ‘It’
s a blasted nuisance.’

  ‘Shut up,’ yelled Sylvia, ‘I will tell Solly of you, and he’ll slap your leg.’ But even she was struggling not to laugh.

  Once out in the open air of the dull grey afternoon, they turned left along the Leicester Line, stopping before Crick Tunnel, and mooring up for Buckby. They dragged poor Pup out from the warmth of the motor cabin, clipped on her lead and set her down on the bank where she barked at some ducks who flapped their way to lift-off along the cut. The girls set off down the rutted track to Fran and Bet’s house. Once they had seen Dog, they would go on to Granfer and Maudie, because the letters from Howard House had also asked them for an update on Maudie’s condition, with reference to Joe.

  They walked alongside grass verges still spiked with frost and the track puddles still frozen just as they were between the ploughed furrows of the fields either side. Winter wheat was showing green, but struggling to survive in this harsh weather.

  ‘Our poor boys,’ Verity murmured. ‘They’ll have to bivouac in this hard earth, I expect. At least we have the cabin and the range fire to keep us warm.’

  Pup skittered about as they walked. Sylvia said, ‘And at least Steve has his fires to keep him warm.’

  There was a pause, and then they all laughed so loudly that the sparrows in the hedges flapped up into the air in a rush.

  ‘Oh, Sylv, you are such a hoot. Thank heavens you’re in love, because you’d be wasted in a nunnery, eh Pol?’

  Polly frowned at Verity. ‘I’m sure nuns laugh. Sometimes they seem very jolly if you see them walking along the street.’

  ‘Oh, I know, but it’s surely not for our Sylv? Not now she has a mirror coppernob. Not now she’s so happy. Look at her, she’s glowing, and we’d never see her and I couldn’t bear that. We have an hotel, or a school, or something to run, perhaps even an orphanage, all of us. One for all, remember.’