by Milly Adams
Verity burst out laughing, but it verged on the hysterical. Again she thought: thank heavens for Polly. But staring at her friend’s smudges on her trousers, she wondered what on earth the immaculate Tom would think of them all; he who used to clean his nails religiously, and scrub the oil from his fingers, and press his trousers when he’d finished tinkering with her father’s cars. But would he care? What did ‘move on’ mean? Move on in general, or to someone in particular?
Polly was washing her hands with carbolic soap and called over her shoulder, ‘Did you get your nails clean?’
Verity shook her head. ‘Don’t be daft, Polly, do we ever?’
Polly sniffed her armpits. ‘I can’t smell myself any more, unless I’m away and amongst the “great washed”. Will I let you down? Perhaps I should wash and change, too?’
Before Verity could shriek that there wasn’t time, her friend was yanking her sweaters over her head, throwing them on her side-bed and stepping out of her trousers. She poured cold water from the jug into the bowl and sluiced what parts of herself she could reach, then scrabbled in the locker beneath her bed, dragging out stained but washed trousers and several tops. These she flung on, the sweaters dragging the hairgrips from her chestnut waves. ‘Bugger,’ Polly breathed, picking up the grips from the floor.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Verity, snatching up her hairbrush from her make-up bag and pinning up her friend’s hair in a frenzied rush. ‘As though you could ever let me down, you silly goose. You look wonderful. Will’s old sweater is just the right colour to set off your hair. Now can we please go?’
They all wore Polly’s brother Will’s cast-off sailing jumpers, which were ideal as they kept the wind and rain almost at bay. Mrs Holmes, who had donated them when her grief over Will’s death had subsided, had knitted more sweaters for the girls, buying old tattered ones at jumble sales and pulling out the wool. It led to strange multicoloured garments, not to mention the proffered hats and gloves, but who cared, because they became grimy within days anyway.
Verity hesitated suddenly. Tom had said he’d been given leave, which is why he could meet her. What if he didn’t come, but was actually somewhere else, dead or hurt, and she didn’t know? No, he couldn’t be; not when she loved him so much, missed him every second of the day. No, she wouldn’t have it.
She felt the tears threaten, and as she watched Polly stroke Dog, she swallowed and made herself stop, right this minute, saying firmly, ‘Come on, Polly, we’re really going to be late, if we don’t go now.’ Verity paused, reached across and dabbed Polly behind the ears with the stopper of ‘Joy’, throwing the perfume back in her make-up bag. ‘There now, we’re both utterly delightful, so you lead the charge.’
The Marigold and Horizon were moored up abreast, lashed alongside one another, rather than one behind the other, and Verity felt the slight movement as Sylvia stepped from the butty onto their counter. There was a knock and Sylvia called out, ‘I’m ready, as ordered, and it’s freezing out here. Let’s get into the warmth of the pub, because if we’re late, your friend will probably leave, Verity, and all the fuss you’ve put us through will have been for nothing. But at least then we’ll have some peace.’
Dog barked. Verity sighed. Polly dragged her out of the cabin and onto the counter. She shut the double cabin doors and slid closed the hatch.
Once outside, the air was so cold it took their breath away; and, worse, heavy snow was falling again, cloaking everything in sight, including Sylvia, who was already on the bank. She had brushed her red hair, but had not changed. Verity tensed. Please, please don’t let her notice that Polly has, or she’ll nip off to do the same, and it will end up like some ridiculous music-hall skit.
But Sylvia was now walking along the towpath, her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched against the cold. Verity felt Polly slip her arm through hers, her voice muffled by the scarf she had drawn up and over her nose. ‘Courage, Verity. Let’s get a drink and bask in the warmth of the pub fire. Besides, I want to see my lovely, adorable Saul. Chop-chop.’
They stepped from Marigold onto the towpath. Along the bank, at the side, in front and behind them, they heard the wives of the boaters chatting as they stirred the clothes boiling in pans on grills over fires. ‘They’re so hardy,’ Verity murmured. ‘It never occurred to me to do the washing on a day like this. Well, it seldom does occur to me, and for once I feel ashamed.’
Beside her, Polly nodded, pulling down her muffler for a moment. ‘Perhaps they’ll come in for a glass of stout later.’
Verity was looking ahead. ‘Saul’s just turned off along the path to the pub.’ They passed an older woman, stirring the pan, her shawl crossed and tucked into her broad belt, her long skirt stained and worn at the hem.
‘How do, Mrs Porter. How’s Jimmy?’ Polly called.
‘Fair to middlin’. Got this cold you ’ad, Miss Verity, so ’e’s tucked oop in bed. I ’ears yer meeting up with yer young man. If’n he comes, that is. Never can tell, these days, can yer? Strange goings-on, ain’t there?’
Verity sighed. She had long suspected that news was carried on the wind along the waterway; either that, or Sylvia had been blabbing. ‘Sorry about giving Jimmy the cold, Mrs Porter, and I suppose one can’t tell with men, these days. They’re strange, as you say. Not sure I’m any great shakes, come to think of it.’
Mrs Porter stopped in her stirring and stared at Verity. ‘I meant the trains, lass. Never can tell, so yer bear that in mind if’n he don’t come. Similar, a cold don’t do no ’arm to man nor beast, and I reckon our Jimmy likes to be at ease in his side-bed on a day like this, reading his books, thanks to yer two teachin’ ’im. Opened ’is world, even though he only be just six.’
Verity felt Polly pulling her along and heard her calling, ‘We’ve got to go. If Verity’s lad comes, we need to be there, Mrs Porter.’
Mrs Porter resumed her stirring. ‘Right yer are. Pong nice anyway, yer do. Bit of smellies behind yer ears, eh?’
The women along the bank had heard, and laughter followed them as they turned off the towpath onto the pub path, seeing Sylvia entering its lobby with Saul and Granfer.
It made them hurry.
They entered the pub’s outer door, closing it carefully to avoid light spilling out and breaking the blackout, before pushing open the lobby door into the smoke-filled room in which the men milled. A few women sat at tables, and an accordion player was giving ‘It Had to Be You’ some welly at the far end. The table by the fire was available for them, as usual, as all the fireside tables were along the cut. It had become a fixture, after they had saved young Jimmy Porter from drowning when they were still trainees.
Verity frantically searched the room. There was no sign of Tom. She bit her lip, then dragged off her scarf. It was pink and grey cashmere, bought by Tom, though it was so stained and dirty that the colours were almost non-existent. She looked at the large station clock on the wall, one that Sid had bought in an auction sale, but then felt her whole body relax; it was only five to eight.
She had written to explain that the pub fronted the canal, but that there was a pub sign on the road frontage. Perhaps she should go and wait beneath it? She watched as Polly made her way to the bar where Saul waited, looking over his shoulder as she came towards him, reaching out and drawing Polly to him. She watched as Polly nestled against him, as though she fitted.
Envy and regret vied in Verity. This could have been her and Tom, if they’d both believed in one another, and not in her mother’s lies. She turned for the door. Yes, she’d wait outside; but then Thomo, a boater, called from the dartboard. ‘Yer giving us a game, Verity? Reckon we’ll be t’winners, so best bet against yourselves, eh?’
‘Maybe,’ she called.
‘Ah, that’s what we ’eard. Maybe ’e’ll play with yer?’
She nodded. ‘If he can make it. The trains … the snow … the war – you know.’
‘Aye, that’d be right.’
It seemed the clientele of the whole p
ub were listening and nodding, but now they turned back to their bitter and resumed their murmured conversations. Verity changed her mind and made for the table. Polly had been right; Tom was a soldier and could find his own way to the door. She sat, watching as Saul kissed the top of Polly’s head and nuzzled her ear, making her laugh. He would never believe such a story as her mother had spun, nor would Polly. Nor would Verity now, because they’d all grown tall in their own belief while working on the canal. She watched Sylvia making her way over to their table, carrying a glass of water. She invariably tried to get to the bar, sort herself out a drink and get settled, so that she didn’t have to pay for a round.
The bar door opened and Verity swung round, but it was Steerer Wise, off July and Midsummer, bringing in snow on his hat. At a shout from Sid, the hat was snatched off and slapped against his leg. Over by the dartboard Thomo grinned at her. She tried to grin back, but knew it was only a weak effort. ‘We best be on for that darts match later,’ he called. ‘Remember, bet against yourselves, eh? Ain’t that right, Saul?’
Saul was approaching, carrying a couple of tankards of mild. Polly was chatting to Granfer, who carried a tray with tankards of bitter, and a sweet sherry for Sylvia. She remembered that Polly had promised the girl a drink. Saul said, ‘Don’t yer be too sure, our Thomo; them girls know their bullseyes from their near-misses, as yer damned well know.’
Sylvia looked suitably surprised when the sherry was placed in front of her. Granfer grinned. ‘From our Polly, says ’tis for yer cold, and no arguments.’ He then winked at Verity. ‘Come on, lass, cheer oop, bear with ’im, wi’ this snow – and he be barely late, yet.’
By nine o’clock Verity was on her second pint of mild, and beyond bearing with anyone. Tom wasn’t coming. She sat staring into the remains of her drink. Sylvia had returned to the butty, complaining that she was too tired to be hanging about, and needed some sleep to get over her cold. Saul was poring over The Times, which Verity had slipped out earlier to collect from Marigold, taking time to walk to the road and wait for a while.
Polly leaned forward, chatting to Granfer, who sat next to Verity and was sucking on his empty pipe. ‘So is your runabout, young Harry, doing a good job, Granfer, while Joe’s with my mum?’
‘Oh aye, opens the locks for us, quick as a wink. Right little demon, ’e be, our ’Arry. Rush-rush, but likes his painting, like Saul and our Joe. ’E just painted Steerer Bent’s water can. ’E be my cousin’s grandson, ’e be.’
At the sound of the door opening, the murmur of voices dropped a gear, as Verity and everyone else turned to look, but it was their ex-trainer, Bet Burrows, and even through her desperation, Verity felt a shaft of sheer joy. She nudged Polly, ‘Do look.’
The two girls rushed over, talking over one another as the woman they adored opened her arms, laughing and coughing. ‘My girls, my lovely girls.’ She enfolded them and they clung to her, almost as though she were a mother hen.
Verity heard the wheezing of Bet’s chest and pulled away, her hands on her hips. ‘Just why are you here? I can hear the rattle, hear the cough, and you said you wouldn’t be back until you were quite better.’
Polly chimed in, ‘What on earth does Fran say about it?’
Bet, her face thinner than it had been in October when they started as trainees, but fuller than in the darkest throes of pneumonia, which she had developed a month or so later, shooed her two new trainees before her to the bar, with Verity and Polly following. Verity got there before Bet, barring her way. She called, ‘Sid, don’t you dare serve this woman until we hear that she has the go-ahead from her “nurse” to be back on the cut.’
It was Bet’s turn to stand with her hands on her hips. ‘The Ministry of War Transport, in the form of Potty Thompson, needs me back, to try and train more women and release a few more men. The doc has passed me fit, except for my flat feet. What’s more, Fran has stood down for now. She’s busy anyway, teaching at the village school. I didn’t send a note because I knew you’d both nag.’
Granfer called from their table by the fire, ‘Not just the lasses; us’ll all be at it, if’n you’re not right. I got yer a chair, and yer trainees can take a seat near as dammit.’ He pointed to the chairs that he’d gathered around their table.
Thomo called from the end of the bar, ‘Good to see yer back, Bet, and yer can be the girls’ third for the darts.’
Bet laughed and reached forward, gripping Verity’s and Polly’s hands. ‘It’s good to be back, and the moment the snow gets into my tubes, I’ll call it a day. Does that sound fair to you?’
One of Bet’s trainees came up with a tankard of stout. ‘The publican said to get that down you. Do you the world of good, so he says. I think my mother said it’s good for breastfeeding women as well.’ Verity felt Polly nudge her, as Bet’s mouth dropped open. The girl said, ‘I don’t know why I said that. How embarrassing. I think it’s tiredness.’
They all laughed, and Verity felt a great weight fall from her. She was here, amongst friends, and if Tom didn’t come, she would just have to get on with it. She wouldn’t be the first to cope with a broken heart and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. She snatched a look at the clock, but … but there was still time.
She gripped Bet’s arm. ‘You’re going to take your place on our darts team again – no excuses allowed.’ Anything to take her mind off Tom.
Bet looked from her to Polly, then at her trainees. ‘Girls, off you go and sit with Granfer; we have some brothers to beat. Make sure you place your bets, gentlemen and ladies, because the girls are back and are about to teach these boys from Venus a lesson or two. Get your money on with Sid.’
The match was tense, and close, but the women won, promising Thomo, Timmo and Peter a return match at the next pub. Polly collected their winnings from Sid, after he’d divided it up on the counter: £2 for Marigold’s darts kitty and £1 for Bet. Then Polly leaned forward, asking Sid something. When she heard the answer she beckoned Verity across.
‘What’s up?’ Verity called, standing up.
‘Just come over.’
Verity reached Polly, who called to Sid, ‘Tell her what you told me.’
‘Give up a minute. High finance going on ’ere.’ He’d moved to the other end of the bar and divvied up Saul and Granfer’s winnings, and then the next steerers’, ticking off their names on a scrap of paper. Polly was tapping the bar and called again. Sid nodded, tucked the stub of pencil behind his ear and came over. ‘Good deal, that was, girls. No one knew who would win, for the teams were so close to one another, so I did all right. Now, what was it you wanted?’
Polly sighed. ‘Stop teasing, you know very well.’
Sid, his shirt collar open, and his black apron darkened with beer splashes, put his hands on the bar. ‘Ah yes, young Verity. Your Polly asked if we’d had any telephone calls. The missus took a few, which she reckons was either from ruddy kids messing about in a phone box or some poor bugger who tried pushing Button A, only for it not to work. Polly’s right – could be yer lad, I reckon. Never gave it a moment’s thought until she asked. Course, it might not be.’ He snatched a cloth from his apron pocket and wiped the beer spills on the counter, then went over to Steerer Ambrose from Sunburst for his order.
Verity closed her eyes for a moment. Could it be? She gripped Polly’s hand, saying, ‘But even if it was Tom, surely he could find another telephone box that worked? They’re so close together in London.’ She didn’t know whether to hope or not.
‘Come and sit down, and let’s think about it,’ Polly said.
‘In a minute. I need another drink.’ With another tankard of mild in her hand, she followed Polly to their table, but, really, there was nothing more to be said. If it was Tom, he’d given up too easily. If it wasn’t, he still wasn’t here, so she didn’t listen to any of their ramblings. At ten o’clock Verity knew it was all over and just drank steadily, replenishing her tankard and snapping at Polly, who wanted her to come back to the boat at a quart
er to eleven.
‘You go. I want to be alone for a bit,’ she said, her lips almost numb with drink. She could hear the slurring of her words. They left her – not just Polly, but Bet and the trainees, and Saul and Granfer, too. She was alone and she felt lost. She drank on; after all, why not?
At eleven fifteen, Polly and Saul returned and sat with her, not drinking, just waiting. At twelve, Sid called time on the lock-in, and Verity, her eyes half shut against the world, couldn’t work her legs; how strange – only it wasn’t. She used to drink like this when Tom left her; it had made everything, including her heart, numb. She felt Saul haul her upright, putting his arm around her. She wished she was Polly: so safe, and loved. She couldn’t get her legs to work on the path, but Saul half carried her. The cold hurt her face, her neck. She had left her scarf on the back of her chair, but couldn’t find the words to tell them; her friends, the ones who had found love.
Her world lurched and then they were on Marigold’s counter. Sylvia must have heard their boots, or felt the shift of the boat, because she slid back Horizon’s hatch, opened her doors, looked out and tutted. Verity heard Polly say, ‘Not one word, Sylvia. Really, not even one more tut. Summon some compassion, please.’
The butty’s doors shut with a bang, followed by the hatch. Saul murmured, ‘That be tellin’ her, though she be another lass with a ’eap of misery stuffed inside her.’ Verity heard the doors of Marigold open and Dog’s bark. She was almost home, almost warm. She heard Saul say, ‘Yer not to give up hope, our Verity. Coulda been ’im on the telephone, and not another anywhere nearby; or if there was, it were broke, too. I’ll take yer down into the cabin.’ He shifted his arm slightly.
Verity opened her eyes wide. The snow was still falling, the wind across the counter was freezing. She formed a reply, carefully and only slightly slurred. ‘He must have lost the use of his legs, then. There are many, many other telephone boxes, our Saul. Thank you for your help. I can get into the cabin.’ She shook him off, but the next moment she felt the whack of the counter as she fell face-down onto it. It was cool, and wet with freezing snow. Perhaps she would drown? She hoped so.
