A Sister's War

by Molly Green

  ‘I can’t imagine anything more horrible than Dora’s underclothes against my skin,’ Ronnie said crossly, but when she saw May double up she couldn’t help joining in the laughter.

  When May had controlled herself she pulled out one of the drawers.

  ‘Ooh, look what’s in here.’

  Ronnie tried to see over May’s shoulder. ‘We haven’t got time for jokes.’

  ‘No, look.’

  Ronnie peered in. There were several sets of bloomers and vests, all neatly folded, all spotless white. But what gave her a start of surprise was a lacy brassiere.

  ‘You can’t believe it, can you?’ May said incredulously, gazing at the very feminine undergarment. ‘I’d have thought—’

  ‘And what would yous have thought, miss?’

  No, not Dora. Ronnie spun round, her face hot with embarrassment as though the comment had come from her own lips.

  ‘Mary, yer can go back to the others. I’ll find what Shirley needs.’ Dora glanced at Ronnie. ‘I see yous’ve found the undergarments. They’ll be a bit big but at least they’re dry.’ She thrust her hand into a sack and pulled out a pair of men’s cord trousers and a man’s check shirt. ‘Here, put these on. And these.’ She threw a pair of thick socks at Ronnie. ‘Yer might be needin’ a coupla safety pins for the britches.’ She put two huge safety pins on a shelf by the engine.

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Dummitt.’

  Dora Dummitt grunted. ‘I’ll see yer outside in five minutes.’

  She didn’t mind being dirty and dishevelled, Ronnie thought, as she reluctantly but gratefully pulled on a pair of Dora’s oversized knickers and a vest of equally large proportions. At home she could at least have had a proper wash, or even a five-inch bath. She’d often come in from the garden in a grimy, sweaty state, having dug up potatoes and tended the vegetables, though her mother constantly reprimanded her for looking a sight when she said she’d brought her daughters up to look and act like ladies.

  No time to worry about looking and acting like ladies with a war on, Maman, Ronnie would mutter under her breath.

  ‘Digging is men’s work, Véronique,’ Maman often remarked when Ronnie handed her a basket of vegetables. ‘I wish you did not have to do it.’

  But if she didn’t, then who else was there? Besides, she enjoyed it and it saved having to queue for hours for a couple of onions and a cabbage. But what on earth would Maman say if she could see her now? Ronnie already knew the answer. Her mother would be horrified, especially if she ever set eyes on Dora Dummitt with her disgusting pipe.

  Yes, Dora was a woman to be reckoned with, Ronnie thought, as she removed a hand bowl displaying a painted castle on its underside from a nail next to the range. She tipped the brown water from her soggy boots into it, then bent to fold up the trouser hems several times so she wouldn’t trip over them. She hurried to put the shirt and jumper on, and the dry socks which were miles too big. Perhaps there was a better side to the woman after all.

  ‘Okay, Shirley,’ Dora broke into her thoughts as Ronnie came up to the cabin roof. ‘Let’s not waste no more time. We’ll go through how ter open the lock again.’

  Now bone-tired, and still feeling damp and thoroughly miserable, Ronnie needed the lavatory, but a cursory glance didn’t reveal any nearby pub. She didn’t dare mention it under Dora’s glare but tried to concentrate on the woman’s repeated instructions on how to open a lock.

  ‘What’s this called?’ Dora challenged as she held up an iron handle.

  ‘A windlass,’ a blonde girl called Sally unhesitatingly answered.

  ‘And what do yer do with it?’

  ‘Open and close the lock paddles.’

  ‘That’s correct. Yous’ll all have yer own windlass, but for now just watch me again.’

  After a few seconds listening to the woman’s drone, Ronnie’s glance fell on May, standing a few feet away from the group. Her golden-brown hair was pinned in a victory roll. At this moment May was staring at Dora, but as the girl turned away, she sent Ronnie a wink with one of her big, baby-blue eyes. It was so unexpected and cheeky coming from someone who was as pretty as a china doll that Ronnie couldn’t smother a gurgle of laughter. Dora whipped round, casting her suspicious gaze towards May, but by then May was looking perfectly innocent.

  ‘Can we have a break?’ Angela, a plain-featured, tubby girl, asked plaintively. ‘I’m knackered.’

  Angela was the trainee who’d smirked, Ronnie remembered, now desperate for a drink as well as the lavatory – even a few swigs of water would be welcome, but after the canal dunking she didn’t dare draw any more attention to herself. She licked her dry lips, praying Dora would allow the trainees to stop for a while.

  Dora took the pipe out of her mouth, then with her free hand drew a chain from her pocket and glanced at the watch face.

  ‘All right. It’s gettin’ dark. We’ll have to split in groups. From now on, you three – Angela, Sally, Margaret – will live in Persephone’ – she jerked her head towards the motorised narrowboat – ‘and Shirley, Jess and Mary will take Penelope.’

  Would May dare tell Dora she was known as May, not Mary? Ronnie wondered curiously. But May said nothing.

  ‘My luggage is in the motorboat,’ Jessica said.

  Dora grimaced. ‘Anyone who has stuff in the wrong boat can change over after we have a cup of char. And anyone who’s been stupid enough to bring a suitcase’ – her gaze fell on Jessica, who Ronnie noticed had gone pink – ‘you’ll find there’s nowhere to store it, ’cept on the roof. Take it home soon as yer can. The boat’ll be very dark inside so yous’ll need ter light the oil lamp. Then get the kettle on … use the flowered water can. I want ter go over a few things to all of yous so we’ll cram inter the butty.’

  As Ronnie was the nearest one to the butty, as she’d learnt to call the seventy-foot unmotorised boat, which was to be towed behind the equally long boat with the engine, she turned without a word and climbed down the ladder-like steps to the tiny kitchen below. The others piled in behind her. It was bitterly cold and smelt dank, and so dark Ronnie wondered how she’d be able to even find the kettle, let alone make the tea for seven women. But there it was, standing next to the Primus stove. An aluminium one that had escaped the governmental plea for aluminium to build aeroplanes. As she filled it from the can and set out the mugs, chipped and with rings of old tea stains inside, she was relieved to see Dora light an oil lamp. It flickered into life but the cramped space was still gloomy. Well, what they don’t see won’t hurt them, Ronnie thought, putting the mug with the deepest stains and a crack to one side especially for Dora. She found a large brown teapot in one of the overhead cupboards but there was no sign of any tea.

  ‘Here, Shirley,’ Dora said, reaching up to a shelf and handing her a tin. ‘Only use three teaspoons of tea. Rationing is stricter here than home. But I take two teaspoons of sugar. Somewhere there’s a tin o’ biscuits … ah, here they are, if there’s any left.’ She took the lid off and peered inside, the smoke from her pipe wafting over the contents.

  Ronnie hid a grin as she thought of Maman’s face.

  ‘Now we’re all here,’ Dora began, ‘I’d better go over some pointers. Yous all got yer ration books, I take it.’

  The trainees nodded … except Ronnie, whose heart did a somersault. She’d had to lie about her age when she’d registered with their local grocer so she’d be given the fawn-coloured one for people seventeen and over.

  ‘Hold on to ’em tight.’ Dora stared at Ronnie. ‘Yous old enough ter have yer own, Shirley?’

  Ronnie drew in a breath as deep as the tight space allowed her. ‘Of course, Miss Dummitt. But my name is Véronique.’ She rolled her r’s, producing a stifled chuckle from May. ‘That’s what comes with having a mother who’s French,’ she added, then gazed at Dora. ‘But except for my mother, everyone calls me Ronnie. When you call me Shirley, I don’t know who you mean.’

  ‘Shirley Temple, o’ course,’ Dora Dummitt shot bac
k with her bark of laughter. ‘With all them curls.’ She grimaced, which did nothing for her plain, weather-beaten face. ‘Cocky one, her.’

  ‘Actually, Shirley Temple is known for her ringlets,’ Jessica, the tall young woman with wavy golden hair and brightly painted lips, spoke up.

  Jessica still looked elegant after a long hard day’s training except for an oily mark on her cheek which she couldn’t know about, Ronnie thought with amusement, and her light brogues were now filthy from the towpath.

  ‘And she’s blonde – unlike Ronnie, who is very definitely a brunette – so calling her Shirley seems rather pointless to me,’ Jessica finished.

  ‘Yer seem ter know plenty about film stars, miss,’ Dora said in a sarcastic tone as she took the mug of tea Ronnie handed her without as much as a thank you, keeping her eyes fixed on Jessica.

  ‘Going to the pictures is one of my hobbies.’ Jessica smiled sweetly. She glanced round, still smiling at no one in particular. ‘And please, everyone, don’t shorten my name to Jess. It’s Jessica!’

  Dora rolled her eyes. ‘Anyone else care to tell me how she would prefer to be addressed?’ she said, mocking Jessica’s upper-class accent.

  Jessica flushed, but Ronnie was sure it was from annoyance and not embarrassment.

  ‘Well …?’ Dora stood with her hand on her hip. ‘Mary, you got another fancy name?’

  ‘Only that I’ve already told the others me mam and all me friends call me May.’

  ‘Well, we in’t family nor friends,’ Dora shot back, ‘though that could change for the good or bad, dependin’ how yer get on with the other wenches.’ She puffed on her pipe, then nodded. ‘All right, May it is. But I’m not goin’ to keep spoutin “Jess-i-ker”.’ She threw a look at Jessica. ‘Afraid you’ll have to put up with Jess – from me, anyway,’ she told her. ‘And while we’re on the subject, I’m Miss Dummitt to you lot. Got that, all of you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Dummitt.’

  ‘Good. Now, if you’ll all allow me to carry on—’ Dora Dummitt took a mouthful of tea and spluttered.

  ‘What the hell—?’ She rushed to the hand bowl and with a horrible retching, spat it out. She spun round to Ronnie, her eyes streaming with tears. ‘What did you put in my tea, miss?’

  ‘Two teaspoons of sugar, like you asked.’

  ‘Show me,’ Dora demanded.

  Ronnie picked up a small dish.

  ‘That’s SALT!’ Dora practically screamed. ‘You stupid girl.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Ronnie said, looking contrite. ‘I don’t know how it could have happened, but it was difficult to see what I was doing in this light.’

  ‘Well, see it don’t happen again.’ Dora flung the contents of the mug in the hand bowl. The girls silently watched as Dora poured some water from the kettle into the mug and swished it round before taking up the teapot. She turned and glared at Ronnie. ‘If yer can’t see, stick yer finger in the bowl and taste it next time, ter be sure.’

  Ronnie hid a smile. That was exactly what she had done.

  Chapter Six

  Wearily, Ronnie followed the other trainees as they climbed up the cabin steps and onto the dry dock to listen to Dora issuing more instructions. If anything, it was raining even harder now. Ronnie turned the collar up of her still wet raincoat as far as it would go, but heavy drops remorselessly found their way inside and dripped down her neck. Dora didn’t seem to mind that she, too, was getting soaked.

  The old bat is probably used to it, Ronnie thought. She probably doesn’t even notice.

  ‘The boats have the same blackout rules as cars and buses, so always pull the curtains over yer portholes at night,’ Dora was saying. ‘And in winter when we’re workin’ we have ter learn ter see in the dark. The headlight on the front of the boat – always make sure the dynamo’s charged the battery. We need all the light we can get through the tunnels … and we get quite a few of ’em,’ Dora added with a malicious laugh. ‘So where were we? Oh, yes. The locks. We’ll go through the procedure once more, and then again, until everyone feels they can be trusted ter work one theirselves.’

  Ronnie thought the day would never come to an end. She was frozen and her stomach was rolling from only the tea and a cheese sandwich from the canteen at noon, the cheese so thinly sliced she could hardly taste it. How could Miss Dummitt possibly show them anything more in the pouring rain?

  ‘All right, that’s enough ’til mornin’,’ Dora said, making Ronnie jump. ‘Weather should be drier then. We’ll call it a day as it’s yer first one and if no one objects, we’ll get a fish ’n’ chip supper as I don’t suppose anyone feels like cookin’. I’ll pay in one go and yer can all pay me back termorrer when yer can see inside yer purses.’

  There was a delighted murmur of assent.

  ‘But first I’m goin’ ter show yer how ter light the fires,’ Dora said. ‘If we don’t do it before we leave, you’ll find out how cold it’ll be when we come back – enough ter freeze a bat’s balls off.’ She gave a throaty chuckle.

  As soon as Ronnie stepped inside the fish and chip shop the fat-filled warm air from the two deep fryers greeted her. What a comforting smell! Even better were the tables set out with knives and forks on the wooden surface where a dozen people were already eating. She almost cried with relief that she would soon be eating a delicious meal. She took her place in the long queue, noticing Dora was at the front.

  ‘Salt and vinegar?’ the boy behind the counter asked when Ronnie finally moved to the front. He didn’t even look up but carried on filling another order.

  ‘Oh, yes, please,’ Ronnie said. ‘I’m with Dora Dummitt’s group.’

  The boy glanced towards the table where Jessica and Angela were tipping their suppers onto large white plates. Dora was eating hers straight out of the newspaper. He nodded and tossed a piece of fish and a good shovelful of chips onto a thick white plate, shook some salt over the meal and dribbled vinegar on the chips.

  ‘There y’are, miss.’

  Ronnie thanked him and joined the others.

  ‘We’ll eat first,’ Dora said, her mouth full of chips, ‘and then I want ter run through a few things while we’re all here together in the warm.’

  For ten minutes there was very little chatter as each of them tucked into the fish and chips. Dora was the first to finish. She wiped a sleeve over her greasy mouth.

  ‘Right, you lot. I need ter go over the bed situation again for the next few weeks of trainin’. As yer know, there’s really only room to sleep two in the motor and the same goes for the butty, which yer now know is mainly used for carryin’ cargo. But while we’re trainin’ there’s just about room to put three of yous in each boat.’ She paused, a triumphant gleam in her eye. ‘There’s a small double foldin’ bed so two of yous’ll have ter get cosy in that – just pull it down from the cupboard next to the foldin’ table.’ She grinned. ‘The third one – choose the smallest of yous – sleeps on the long bench. Yer head goes in the open cupboard. Should be some pillows ’n’ all in there.’

  Jessica grimaced.

  ‘Anything wrong, Jess?’ Dora pounced.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Jessica said quickly. ‘I was just wondering where you’ll sleep.’

  ‘Me?’ Dora pointed to herself with that grin again. ‘There’s barely room fer three, let alone four of us, in the boats, so I allus put up at the nearest pub. They all know me by now.’

  Letting us all know how comfortable she’s going to be, Ronnie thought scornfully, even though it wouldn’t appeal to her at all to sleep over the top of some smoky pub. She’d prefer the boat any day of the week.

  ‘Termorrer we’ll have another lesson goin’ through locks,’ Dora said. ‘It’s one of the trickiest things yous’ll be doin’ and often one of the most dangerous. And don’t make the mistake that when you’ve mastered one yer know how ter work all of ’em. They don’t handle all the same.’

  Ronnie groaned inwardly. Dora might not have thought she was paying attention when she�
��d fallen into the canal, but she had been. She just couldn’t seem to keep all those instructions in her head.

  ‘Yous’ll all have yer own windlass,’ Dora was saying. She opened a canvas bag and put six windlasses on the table. ‘And woe betide anyone who loses hers because it’s the most important bit of kit you can have. Without it, you’re stumped. No one lends theirs so don’t lend yours nor ask ter borrow one. They’re as valuable as diamonds to boat folk.’ She glared round at everyone.

  ‘Now who’s going to be doin’ the cookin’?’ Dora went on. ‘You can take it in turns but it works better when one person is in charge as she knows what she’s goin’ ter prepare and what food ter buy.’ There was a pause. ‘Anyone like ter volunteer? If not, I’ll do the choosin’.’

  Ronnie was silent. At home she did most of the cooking as Maman not only wasn’t very good but she wasn’t in the least interested, so there’d been no option when Raine and Suzy had left home. But she didn’t want to volunteer to cook in the cramped conditions of the boat. Sure that Dora was about to pick on her, Ronnie was surprised and relieved when Jessica spoke.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Any experience cookin’ on a boat?’ Dora said, her eyes narrow with scepticism.

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Oh. How’s that?’ Dora’s tone had become steely.

  ‘I’ve done loads of sailing,’ Jessica said in just as firm a voice. ‘My father had his own boat and I often cooked. I obviously know quite a bit about boats as well.’

  Ronnie glanced at Jessica with new respect.

  ‘Humph. Any experience on sailin’ boats you’ll soon find is no use whatsoever.’ Dora lit her pipe, the smoke mingling with the smell of fish and chips. ‘But until yer trainin’s finished, when each team of three will be in charge of a pair of boats, yous can cook for all of us.’ She threw Jessica a challenging look. ‘All right?’

  ‘Perfectly all right,’ Jessica answered in a cool tone.

  ‘Good. We stop ter buy food every three days unless there’s somethin’ really urgent – like my baccy,’ she smirked. ‘Sometimes when we tie up, the shops’re a coupla miles away, so be prepared. When we get back yer need to have unpacked and used the toilet. I’m usin’ the fancy word, but when I say “toilet” it’s not what yer used to at home. And we can’t always use a pub bog like we did earlier as there in’t allus one when you need it. So we use a bucket in the engine room for that very purpose. You go behind a curtain. Those in the butty have yer own bucket kept under the counter.’