by Milly Adams
Sylvia nodded, sniffed and took the mug in fingerless-gloved hands, her nose a close match to her red hair, which curled around her green woollen hat.
Polly kept her mouth shut.
Sylvia, one hand on the tiller, muttered, ‘Nonetheless, Verity should have coughed into a handkerchief. It’s not fair to give us her cold. Colds are the last thing we need, on top of this horrid weather. If you live in a community, you learn not to—’ She stopped and gulped her cocoa.
Polly gazed ahead as they were towed by Marigold from the bridge-hole, trying to be patient, and replied, ‘We’re hardly a community, Sylvia.’ Then she paused, for perhaps they were – a boaters’ community; anyway, what gave her, Miss Polly Holmes, the right to be so snotty? She began again. ‘I’ve never thought of us like that before, but even so, Sylvia, if one person in a team, or a community, gets a cold, we all get it. We share everything else, after all.’
Sylvia was groping for a handkerchief, dragging it out of her trouser pocket and sneezing into it. She gave a cough for good measure, then said, ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Polly.’
Polly thought for a moment and suspected that Sylvia was right. ‘Sorry, my mouth runs away with me sometimes. You’ll be coming to the pub with us, won’t you, so that I can buy you a medicinal drink as my mea culpa? And maybe there’ll be a chance to sing with Saul. It’s special because Verity is meeting up with Tom at last and—’
‘I know,’ Sylvia snapped. ‘I’m not senile. You’ve told me that already. And don’t mock the Holy Mass – mea culpa, indeed.’
Dog, her shaggy white-and-grey coat spattered with dirty snow, barked as she loped along the towpath towards the next bridge-hole, her tongue hanging out in sheer joy. The Marigold hooted a warning to any approaching pairs, then entered the darkness beneath the upcoming bridge.
Polly drew in a deep breath, her hands clenched in her pockets, as she realised that she had upset Sylvia yet again; but it had been like walking on eggshells ever since she had joined them as their third crew member. ‘I really wasn’t mocking. I just didn’t think, so I’m sorry. And I know you barely drink, beyond a sweet sherry, but a cold requires a large dose of alcohol, so I insist that I treat you this evening. Take it as an apology. Anyway, our trainer Bet – the oracle – used to swear by a brandy. Now, I must get back.’
Polly waved, walked warily along the top planks and then leapt off the prow onto the bank, running, jumping onto Marigold’s stern counter just as she left the bridge. Dog followed and slipped into the cabin, to bask once more in the heat of the range. The cold seemed to bring an early dusk with it, but perhaps it was only a thickening of the cloud base. Polly sat on the cabin roof, leaving Verity to steer, and said, ‘Surely there’s not going to be another snow shower? That will just pile on the misery.’
‘Oh Lord, what if it holds up Tom? We can’t wait, Pol, not even for such an important personal thing. We must keep up with the schedule.’ Polly started to reply, but Verity overrode her. ‘I know – if he can’t get through, because the snow’s so heavy, I’ll leave a note—’
Polly interrupted, wanting to take Verity in her arms. ‘Hey, it’s not going to happen. Tom’s a soldier and was your family’s chauffeur, and he will know exactly how to get where he’s heading.’ But it was no good; she could see Verity’s nervousness and pain and couldn’t bear it. They continued, passing unloaded boats high in the water, heading towards the east and Limehouse. Polly changed places with Verity at the tiller, repeating, ‘It will be all right, I know it will.’ She knew no such thing, but damn it – it had to be.
They travelled on, Marigold nudging aside the drifting ice, while the barrage balloons glinted over the warehouses, houses and trains of London, straining at their tethers. The afternoon drew on and the wind got up. Polly shivered in the cold, her fingers and toes numb, until she finally pointed at Verity. ‘I insist you go into the cabin, there’s no point in both of us freezing.’
Verity shook her head and peered ahead. Polly wondered, for the hundredth time, if Tom really would be there? He could hardly be blamed if he wasn’t, because how could he trust anything Verity or her family said, after the lies that had led to their bitter break-up? Nonetheless, if he didn’t come, Polly would damn well want to … She steered, resting her elbow on the tiller and peering through the drab light. Well, what would she want to do? Pull Tom’s hair out, slap him perhaps; but the person she really wanted to do that to was Verity’s mother, Lady Pamela Clement, who had caused all this heartache.
As though Verity had read her mind, the girl lowered herself from the cabin roof to the counter and came to stand beside Polly, her fury almost staining the cold air. ‘Oh Lord, how tricky it must have been for my parents, to have a daughter who fell in love with the chauffeur – and he with her. Heavens above, what on earth would they tell the neighbours?’
‘Oh, don’t do this to yourself,’ Polly murmured.
Verity took no notice, but just powered on. ‘Well, they didn’t have to tell anyone anything, did they? Mother saw to that. And I’d never have known the truth, if Tom hadn’t seen me from the bridge when his army lorry broke down, and you heard him yell, “Why did you make your mother pay me to leave you alone?” That’s why Tom left me; not because he wanted to go, as Mother had told me, but because she told Tom I wanted him gone. Such lies, to hurt us both.’
She was pacing the tiny deck, slapping one hand in the other.
Polly reached out and held Verity’s hands still. ‘It doesn’t help to go over and over it, and you are nearly at the finishing gate. Think of this evening instead.’
Verity took no notice, her cheeks wet. ‘But how could Tom believe Mother’s lies, after all we’d been to one another? Why on earth did he think I would offer money to get rid of him? And why would I believe Tom would ask for money to walk away? How could we so easily believe the worst of one another?’ She was sobbing. Every time she revisited the situation, she wept. And every time there was nothing Polly could do to make it any better, except whisper stupid platitudes, which did nothing to ease the hurt and regret.
She had another go, however, steering ahead into the freezing wind. ‘Hush now, it will all be sorted out this evening. Hush, little Verity, you’ve done all you can. You wrote all those letters trying to find Tom, after he saw you on the cut, until finally one letter did. And it was his suggestion to meet. Why would he want to see you, if not to love you again?’
Verity said nothing, but just stood, lifting her face into the icy blast, dragging her arm across her eyes. Polly waited, knowing how lucky it was that Saul loved her, and she him; at least that much in their lives was certain. Together the two girls stood silently, the tiller between them, the ice clunking on the hull. Somewhere a duck quacked, and along the towpath an old man walked a dog, his cap pulled down hard. Finally Verity half laughed. ‘Lord, I’m such an idiot. It’s amazing I don’t have icicles hanging from my eyes. So sorry, Polly Pocket. Must stop being a fool.’
She hauled herself back onto the roof, her shoulders hunched, and pretended to read The Times. At last, quite calmly, she said, ‘I wonder if the Allies will get past Monte Cassino soon?’
Relieved, Polly took up the running. ‘I hope so. At least the Russians are making progress on the Eastern Front. Soon the Allies must surely invade France?’ Were they on safer ground now?
Verity was folding the newspaper; and the answer was no, because she said, ‘I wonder if Tom is about to leave the country to go into action? All he wrote was that he was glad to read my side; nothing about love. Nothing about my mother – only that he’d moved on.’
She looked so sad, and Polly didn’t know what more she could do, or say, except the same old thing. ‘Come on, Verity. Tom’s coming, that’s what’s important and, let’s face it, there’s a great deal to be explained, and a lot of trust to be rebuilt, on both sides – both sides, do you hear, not just his.’
Polly had lost count of how many times they’d been through this, but none
theless she ticked things off on her fingers.
‘It was meant to work out for you both, otherwise why would the Fates make Tom’s truck break down on that bridge? Why would I have heard him, as I headed off on the bike to the lock?’ She knew it was flimsy, but what else could she say?
Polly steered Marigold away from the centre as another narrowboat pair approached, passing left side to left side, as the temperature seemed to drop even further. Verity said nothing, just chewed her lip.
Polly raised her hand to the passing butty. ‘How do, Mrs Mercy.’
‘’Ow do, you lasses.’ Ma Mercy worked on her crochet, her breath puffing like a dragon’s while her small granddaughter sat on the roof. What did Ma Mercy feel when her son-in-law, Ted, wangled his way into the army, despite the RO? He’d handed back his boat and butty to the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company, of course, so at least she now had her daughter as an extra hand.
Polly felt her agitation begin to rise to match Verity’s and slapped it down, but all she could think of were the envy and shame in Saul’s eyes when they heard the news of Ted’s departure and Saul said, ‘It not be fair, sweet Polly, for ’im to go and do ’is bit, but they said no to me.’
Verity said, ‘What will I do if Tom doesn’t come?’
Polly had run out of reassurances and said nothing, as she realised the snow was falling heavily now. Oh no, please no. She waited, and sure enough Verity tapped her with her booted foot. ‘Reassure me, Miss Polly Holmes. Say he’ll force his way through snowdrifts ten feet high.’
Polly smiled and came up with yet another different take on her answer. ‘Don’t be daft. This is London, not the north of Scotland, so the snow won’t be deep. Besides, remember that Tom said he had moved on? Well, so have you. After all, you’re not the same spoilt, flouncy Lady Verity Clement you were when I first met you, so why shouldn’t it work out well?’
Verity stared at her, then burst out laughing. ‘And talking of moving on: you’re not the prissy, uncertain girl I first knew.’ They grinned at one another.
Verity picked up the newspaper, drawing out a pencil from her trouser pocket and starting on the crossword. She’d leave some gaps for Saul to attempt, when she passed it on to him. Saul had learned to read, with their encouragement, just as they had taught his nephew Joe and a few other children.
Joe, who was now staying with Polly’s mum so that he could go to school, had said that reading had made him know so much more. It was what Saul said, too; but perhaps if he hadn’t learned, he wouldn’t want to go to war, because he wouldn’t know what was really happening? Polly knew where this was taking her, so she lifted her face to the snow. It was falling in large flakes, and through them flew a skein of geese with a great swishing of their wings – heading for where? The Serpentine? St James’s Park? Who knew? Who knew anything any more?
She must have spoken aloud, because Verity leaned forward. ‘Dearest Polly, what the hell are you talking about?’
Polly smiled, patting her friend’s leg. ‘I wish I knew. What is certain is that we’re nearly at Alperton. Sid will have the fire crackling in the pub, and the beer will be weak but warm; Saul will catch us up, having been loaded quickly at Limehouse; I’ll buy Sylvia a large sweet sherry as an apology for I’m-not-quite-sure-what; and Tom will come on the Piccadilly Line, as arranged, or we’ll wring his neck, because I can’t go through your second-guessing for much longer. Look, the snow is lighter already.’
Verity slipped down and hugged her. ‘Oh, Polly, I’m such a frightful bore, aren’t I? But I’ll listen to you, if you’re ever grizzling on and on, I promise.’
‘I bet you don’t. You’ll just give me a sharp smack and tell me to stop my hysterics.’
‘How did you guess?’
The two of them stood firm, their heads up into the wind, on either side of the tiller. The storm was over – for now.
Chapter 2
Monday 27 March – Marigold and Horizon moored up for the evening at Alperton
Verity sat on her double cross-bed at the rear of Marigold’s typical seven-foot by nine-foot cabin, her magnifying mirror in her hand. She looked into it, then groaned, noticing Polly grinning from her perch on the narrow side-bed opposite the range.
‘What’s so funny, Polly Holmes?’
‘Nothing. I’m just pleased we’re moored up in plenty of time and supper is finished – all right, it was rabbit again, but it’s …’ Polly conducted with both hands. Verity grinned and joined in, ‘Off-ration.’
‘Exactly,’ said her friend. ‘Now I’m off to the counter for a cigarette, but shall I roll you one while you put on some slap and make the best of a bad job?’
Laughter burst from Verity. What would she do without Polly in her life, and how many times a day had she thought that recently?
She tossed the mirror down onto the bed. ‘My heart’s beating too fast, darling. I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my life. And why on earth did I ever buy a magnifying mirror? My pores are like grubby craters, and my skin’s so dreadfully chapped and weather-worn, it’s depressing. Best not to have a fag, thanks. No time.’ She knew she was wailing and didn’t give a monkey’s. ‘It’s already twenty to eight and I have much work to do, if I’m to make any sort of a silk purse out of this sow’s ear. Thank you for washing my hair. Look, it’s almost dry.’ She ran her fingers through it, then pinned it up so that it fell in loose curls. ‘How’s this?’
Polly nodded. ‘Most certainly the start of a silk purse. Now, I’m off. Use my non-magnifying mirror.’ She dug it out of her bag at the end of her bed and tossed it towards Verity. ‘It will show you as you are: just gorgeous. Much like me, in fact. Just think: two silk purses; but let’s be fair and make it three. I must make more of an effort to include Sylvia.’
Verity thought deeply then said, ‘It’s as though she really does prefer her own company. Perhaps we are a pain – have you thought of that?’ She heard Polly’s cough as she gathered up the makings of her cigarette.
‘Never let it be said,’ Polly muttered, before coughing again.
Verity reached out and pulled down the painted cupboard front on her right, to make a table, dabbed on just a little of what was left of her face powder, then clicked shut her compact; its mirror had been broken years ago, so she was well clear of the seven-years-bad-luck phase. She smoothed on the remains of her rouge to highlight her cheekbones. ‘What do you think?’ she called, as Polly disappeared up the steps, shoving open the doors, her tobacco pouch and cigarette papers in her hand.
Polly bent and peered back. ‘Perfect.’ She disappeared, shutting the doors behind her.
Verity double-checked in Polly’s mirror. The oil lamp didn’t give the best light, but that was a blessing, and the pub’s was dim too; so yes, all would be well. She applied what was left of her lippy. It was called ‘Passion Pink’. What she really needed was something called ‘Courage’ that would sink into her and give her just that. What would Tom think of the stuck-up Lady Verity Clement living in a space far smaller than his rooms above the garages of her family home, Howard House? She looked around the cabin. Who on earth would have thought, a year ago, that she could think of this as home?
The range was crackling. Dog was lying on Polly’s side-bed. Verity eyed her tobacco pouch. But no, there was time enough for that. Instead she sat quietly, trying to compose herself. The two letters Tom had written were in her make-up bag, well thumbed. She latched up the cupboard front and stood, smoothing her trousers. Should she have worn a skirt? No, it was time Tom met her as she now was.
She sniffed her armpits, but while they weren’t exactly sweet violets, they were pretty neutral; she had, after all, strip-washed, so that all body odour would be muted. Usually they just moored up, crammed some food into themselves, wiped down the boats, flicked a bit of water around the gills and then dashed for a drink, a game of darts and a meet-up with Granfer Hopkins and Saul.
Sometimes, when they’d run out of things to wear, they’d
wash clothes in their boiler on the bank, but although cleanliness might be next to godliness in the real world, it was not on the canal, or not for these particular ‘Idle Women’, as they were called – with fingers pointing to their Inland Waterway badges. Things weren’t helped by the absence of a bathroom on the boats, with just a bucket for the necessaries, unless they used the pub’s toilets. Her parents would faint, but she didn’t see them any more, so why would they know, or care?
She heard Polly calling from the counter, ‘Come on, Verity, we should be getting there, in case Tom’s early. Did you mention in your letter never to use your title?’
Verity scrabbled in her make-up for her precious perfume and dabbed a little of Jean Patou’s ‘Joy’ behind her ears. ‘I’m not sure, Polly.’
The cabin doors opened. Polly peered in. ‘Righto, I’m going to top up the firebox; don’t you dare touch it or you’ll have to start washing all over again.’ Polly almost leapt down the steps, and used tongs to build up the fire.
Last thing this evening, Verity reminded herself, they must bank it with ash as well as coal, to stop it dying before morning. Where would Tom sleep? Did Sid do rooms? She hadn’t thought of that. Or would he just appear, say what he had to say and leave? Verity’s mind was racing along with her heartbeat, but then she stopped. What was she thinking? Tom might not come at all. Her hands were sweating with panic. She said, ‘I hope he doesn’t come. It’s all too difficult. Really it is.’
Polly straightened, dusting her hands free of coal and then wiping them down her trousers, leaving smudges. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll come, or I’ll want to know the reason why. It’s been a ruddy circus round here lately, and I’m almost ready to throw myself off a bridge.’
