by Milly Adams
He stared at the list of words, now out of focus, as he realised the courage Verity had shown to cast her lot in with a common chauffeur and look forward to a life over their own garage. How could they have doubted one another? How could he have carried his doubt for so much longer than her?
Bobs said, ‘Would yer like to listen to me read, Mister?’
Tom nodded. ‘That I would, lad, very much.’ But what he really thought was that Verity had to be at Cowley, she had to have received the message and she must forgive him, though he wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself.
Chapter 4
Tuesday 28 March – just before midday at Cowley lock
Verity pulled down Mrs Holmes’s gift of a pink, blue, green and black striped woollen hat, knitted out of odds and ends. Once it covered her ears, she tugged the grey blanket she’d whipped off her cross-bed more tightly around her as she sat alongside Polly on the cabin roof. They had moored up south of Cowley lock. ‘Did you ask Sylvia to join us?’
Polly shook her head solemnly, her arms crossed. ‘Oh no, I sat here with you, staring across at the beech trees, deliberately ignoring her.’
She leaned into Verity, who was forced to laugh, before elbowing her away, muttering, ‘Get off me, you lump.’
Polly sighed, pulling her hat well down, too. ‘Of course I asked Sylvia, you daft thing, and because we’re strapped abreast, she could easily hop, skip and jump over to us, but she’s reading something and said she was quite happy. I have to say, though, she did add that she wished Sid had been more explicit in his message, so that we knew what package we had to hang about for.’
Verity laughed again. ‘Did she really say “happy”? Our Sylvia? Oh, if only she was. We’re failing her somehow.’ She felt herself struggling for the words, which Polly supplied.
‘I know. Sylvia seems almost tormented and, if not that, then preoccupied and quite beyond our reach. Is there any more we can do to get close and be a real threesome, or will we go on being rebuffed, losing our temper and making everything worse?’
Verity shrugged, then winced, as a wave of nausea overcame her. Why had she drunk so much last night? Well, she knew why, but talking about Sylvia stopped the ridiculous thoughts of the non-existent Tom – because that was what he must be, now. A great big nothing. She replied, knowing that dearest Polly was diverting her from that great big nothing, so she would play the game, ‘Polly, lovely girl, we’ve tried everything, and apart from changing ourselves completely, I don’t know what we can do. I think we just need to try and be more patient, until whatever is churning inside Sylvia settles. Unless, my fine friend, we are simply not her cup of tea at all; deeply unlikable, in fact? Well, we can’t please everyone, can we?’
Polly leaned into her again. ‘We most certainly can’t. The fact is that sometimes people just have to make up their own mind about others.’
The two girls looked across the wide stretch of water that lay at the foot of the lock. Verity always felt there was a tranquillity to this particular stretch of the cut, lined as it was with tall beech trees, shrouded now in a freezing mist. In the autumn the leaves shivered on gracious branches, before falling and lying like a cloak on the water. Soon it would be spring, and presumably the fresh green youngsters would shiver, in just the same way. She didn’t know – none of them did – as they had only joined the scheme in the early autumn of 1943.
A sudden gust made Verity shiver too, but if the breeze got up, it would lift the mist. She dragged her blanket more tightly around her shoulders. At least the snow had stopped. ‘Oh, come on, Sid, get yourself in gear; chop-chop, as Bet would say.’ She muttered, ‘Bet’s miles ahead – everyone is – while we’re here, sitting like a couple of grannies chewing the fat. I hope the blasted water isn’t icing up around us, and I hope even more, Polly Holmes, that this little nudge about people making up their minds isn’t some sort of homily about the vagaries of Tom Brown and the need to accept his obvious decision; which I do, really I do. I just wish I hadn’t drunk so much. This hangover is making me want to head down the river to my doom, like the Lady of Shalott.’
Polly was dragging on her gloves, but her forefinger emerged through one of the many snagged holes. ‘Damn. I’ll have to darn it.’ She hunched into her blanket. ‘You, my girl, wouldn’t look anything like as gracious as that rather tiresome Shalott lady who was so bothered by curses; and neither do we have a punt that you can lie in, looking elegant in your death-throes.’
Verity raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’ve quite finished …’ She picked up The Times, looked at the crossword and then gave up.
Polly said, ‘Sid wouldn’t be sending your scarf, would he? That’s absurd; anyway the flyboat boys said it was something essential.’
Verity leaned forward to check on Sylvia, who had jumped from the roof of the butty onto its counter. The boats nudged one another. Dog barked from the motor cabin, then settled again. Verity called, ‘You all right, Sylvia?’
‘No, because this is quite ridiculous, and I’m going into the warmth of the cabin. Why on earth you two always leave something wherever we go, I do not know. If it’s not your scarf, it’s your hat, or your newspaper. Sid must have had enough, and thought to teach you a lesson. There’s a war on, you know. People are relying on us, but what do you care, scattering yourself all over the place.’ She slammed the cabin doors behind her.
Verity sat back. ‘Crikey, that’s the last time I stick my head above the parapet for a while. But she’s got a point. How’s your cold, by the way, Polly? Sylvia’s seems better; she’s not sniffing so much and I gather, from the shouting, that her throat’s no longer sore.’
Polly laughed and checked her watch. ‘Mine’s on the wane, too, and I haven’t a clue as to how long we should wait. It’s midday now, and we want to get through the Berkhamsted-to-Tring locks, and even try to make it as far as Fenny Stratford by dusk. Should we give it another half hour?’
Verity thought of Sid, and his kindness to them, and despite her hammering head she felt a qualm. ‘But if we let him down, I’d feel bad. Perhaps he owes someone a few bottles in return for a favour or two, and they’ve called it in.’
Polly waved to a pair of passing narrowboats heading for the opened lock and called, as their wash rocked them slightly, ‘How do, Steerer Wilkins.’
The steerer waved back. Verity said to Polly, trying to make herself more comfortable on the roof, ‘On the other hand, if we don’t go soon, you’ll not catch up with Saul, or will he wait at Fenny?’
She knew the answer before Polly spoke. ‘Granfer and Saul will try and keep to the schedule, come what may, or they’ll feel they’re letting down the war effort. We’ll catch up with them south of the Braunston Tunnel if we rattle on. So what shall we do – wait an hour?’
While she was speaking, Sylvia had clambered out of the butty cabin and stood glowering, arms crossed, shivering. ‘I’ve banked up my firebox, wiped the pots and I think we should only give Sid’s package another few minutes. Why on earth did he insist on us waiting at Cowley, when whoever is bringing it could have caught us up anywhere?’
Verity and Polly looked at one another. Verity’s hangover was banging and she couldn’t think straight. Polly said nothing for several moments, but then it was as though a thought had occurred to her. She started to speak, but then stopped. She began again, sounding preoccupied. ‘But … but … Oh, I don’t know, Sid might need us to take the parcel somewhere just past Cowley? If it is a parcel, that is.’
Sylvia tapped her foot, dragging her blanket ever tighter, and puffing out breath so full of irritation that it positively billowed into the ether, slapping her hand on the cabin roof in time with every word. ‘Don’t be silly – what else can it be? An essential package, the flyboys said. Why on earth can’t the steerer bringing it take it on? The whole thing is absurd, and I insist we should leave within ten minutes.’ The girl stopped. Verity promised herself she’d never let even a smidgeon of mild pass her lips ever again, but then
Sylvia yelled once more, ‘The flyboat boys probably got the message wrong. Package, indeed.’
Verity winced. And Polly’s shouted reply to Sylvia didn’t help. ‘We will stay as long as it takes, Sylvia. We owe Sid; he took Bet to the hospital when she had pneumonia, which was before your time. So is that quite clear? We wait, because it’s what Sid wants.’
Verity pulled at Polly’s arm. ‘Calm down. Sylvia’s right, and will you both stop making so much noise?’
Polly turned on her. ‘You can shut up, too. Are you deaf as well as hungover? I’ve just said: we owe Sid and therefore we wait. Go inside your cabin, Sylvia, and keep warm. You, too, Verity, if you’re going to grizzle.’
Verity felt quite sick with shock as Polly slipped from the roof and stood by the tiller, staring down the cut, trying to see through the deepening mist. Verity muttered, ‘Well, someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning, if I’m not very much mistaken.’ For some reason she wanted to cry, which was ridiculous. She’d cried all the tears she was going to shed – ever – last night. But Polly was her loving friend, one who hardly ever turned on her. ‘Polly, I’m sorry,’ she murmured, joining her at the stern of the counter, but Polly hushed her, holding up her hand for silence.
Together they looked down the cut, the trees motionless in the bitter mist, snow still on the hedgerows, and somewhere there was the cry of a fox. They heard a motor, but realised it was approaching downhill, from the north. It was Steerer North. Once through the lock, he tipped his hat at the girls. ‘How do. ’Aving a breather, is yer?’
‘Something like that,’ Polly yelled.
Verity wished with all her heart she’d whisper. Ma North waved from the butty, Burton. As the pair passed, the smell of rabbit stew wafted from the butty’s cabin, and Verity knew that she would have to eat soon or her head would burst. Ma North called while doing her mending, the tiller under her elbow, ‘You still waiting fer Sid’s package then, as we heard yer was?’
Sylvia barked, ‘Yes, and it’s wasting time.’
Polly smoothed the moment. ‘Still waiting, thanks, Mrs North, but we’ll have to move on soon.’ She and Verity had become used to the boaters knowing all the news almost before it had been created.
The boats pat-pattered past. Their kettle, and the dipper which collected the water from the cut for washing, both of which were kept on the roof, had probably been painted by Saul, and sure enough there was his special red flower, and the tiny blue bird. ‘He’s such a good artist,’ Verity said.
Polly nodded. ‘He is indeed.’
Verity murmured, ‘Tom carved wood, you know. He had a passion for it, said that each piece of wood grain is different. I wonder if he still carves? Not that it’s any of my business.’ Yes – that’s what she must remind herself.
Her thoughts were brought to an abrupt end by Sylvia, who almost shouted, ‘For heaven’s sake, you two, we must get on. And just look at you, Verity, all pale and sweating, and I expect you stink of stale beer. If last night has taught you anything, it is surely that it’s time to stop turning to drink when something goes wrong. And think of your lungs, not to mention your poor wretched livers – and I mean you, too, Polly. They must be in a frightful state, with your smoking, and your pint of mild. And what about your souls?’
Verity and Polly spun round. ‘Souls?’ Polly queried.
Sylvia flushed, her hand up. ‘It’s just a saying one of my teachers used to trot out. Forget I said it.’
At that moment Verity heard a motor approaching from the south. ‘Hush, is this it?’
Sylvia and Polly peered down the cut, too. Dog barked from the cabin. ‘Quiet, Dog,’ called Polly.
They watched the pair emerge from the mist, the smoke from the chimneys of the motor and the butty hanging in the air. Verity couldn’t make out which boats they were, and there was no sign of them slowing. ‘All right,’ she called to Sylvia. ‘We’ll go, if this isn’t the delivery.’
Sylvia said, ‘But we’ll miss the lock if we let them through first.’
Polly was adamant. ‘We’re not scrabbling to get in front of them; it’s rude, and that’s an end to it. We’ll wait until they stop or not. If it’s “not”, we’ll set off up north in their wake.’
She dragged out her cigarettes as Sylvia said, ‘But—’
Polly snapped, ‘Oh, do shut up, Sylvia, just for once in your life.’
Verity lit their cigarettes. Sylvia was taking up position at the butty tiller, her face down towards her knees. ‘Will we go on up north on short tow or abreast?’
Verity could now make out Steerer Porter approaching on Oxford, with Mrs Porter on short tow behind. ‘Let’s do the same as the Porters; the damned ice has built up between the wall and the gates, and they didn’t open properly for the Norths.’ She raised her voice. ‘Sylvia, perhaps you’d get us set up for towing, please.’
Steerer Porter, Jimmy’s dad, was slowing. They heard, ‘Toot-toot.’ Then again, ‘Toot-toot.’
Polly stepped forward, replying with three toots, peering even more intently through the mist, and sounding relieved and excited. ‘At last.’
The Oxford came alongside, and Steerer Porter pointed to the bank. Polly nodded. Oxford and Cambridge steered in. Mrs Porter called as she passed. ‘’Ow do – we got Sid’s bit of doings.’
Verity yelled, once the Porters had stopped, tight against the bank, ‘I’ll go. I could do with some exercise.’ She hopped onto the bank and trotted forward, along the length of the Marigold, keeping to the grass at the edge of the towpath, where there was less hidden ice beneath the snow. She waved as she ran past Mrs Porter on the butty counter. Mrs Porter called something, but Verity carried on, barely able to see Steerer Porter on the Oxford through the thickening mist. Her head was protesting, but Steerer Porter would want to get away before someone else pinched his place in the lock.
She reached the Oxford. Jimmy must have been on the roof, because his book lay next to the empty chain. He was probably hunkering in the warmth of the cabin. Steerer Porter was laughing as he jerked his head back to the Cambridge. ‘Ma’s got t’package, di’n’t you ’ear her call?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Verity said. She turned, cupped her hands round her mouth and shouted, ‘Mrs Porter, ask your runabout, young Bobs, to put the parcel on the towpath, and I’ll pick it up, so you can get straight off. Sid’s addressed it, I hope?’ She was trotting back as Bobs flew along the top planks of the butty and leapt off the prow counter onto the bank, heading for the lock. ‘Hey, where’s the parcel?’ she yelled.
‘See for yerself,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Back yonder.’
Verity ran on as Oxford and Cambridge pulled away, seeing through the mist an old man emerging on two sticks in a long coat. But there was a bag or grip, or something like that, on the bank. So that was what all the fuss was about. She trotted on, keeping to the verge. She heard a shout, looked over her shoulder, but it was all right – Bobs was on the top of the rise, shouting to Steerer Porter to budge up in the lock, as he shut the gates behind the pair.
She swung round and almost collided with the old boy. She swerved, skidded on the icy path, almost fell, but was caught by a pair of strong arms. All she heard was the clatter of his walking sticks as they rattled to the ground, but then his shout, ‘Bloody hell.’ They skidded, arms flailing, and finally fell together in a tangle of limbs.
For a moment the breath was whacked from Verity’s body, and as she struggled to rise, something heavy and unyielding weighted her left leg. Beside her the old boy levered himself up on his elbow and groaned, ‘This isn’t how I thought it would go, Verity.’
She fell back and stared up at his face – his face. She shrieked, ‘Tom?’
‘The very same,’ he said quietly. ‘I tried to telephone, but I couldn’t get Button A to work.’
His eyes were the same, those brown eyes. His face was thinner, his hair short now and free of the infantry beret, which had fallen onto her chest. ‘There are other telephon
e boxes,’ she said, sounding calm, though she could barely breathe with confusion, joy and, finally, hope.
‘I know, and you’re right, I could have walked on to another telephone box, but I’m a fool. However, there was no need to barge me, Your Ladyship. It’s not as though we’re playing rugby.’ He was laughing at her. Laughing, after all this time, all this agony. Your Ladyship? Was Tom sneering? Is this why he’d come?
She shoved him away, kicking her legs free of the weight, whatever it was, and scrambled to her feet.‘It’s not funny – none of it is,’ she yelled down at him, seeing him pale visibly and his lips become thin. ‘You, Tom Brown, left me waiting for you, breaking my heart all over again. And how dare you call me “Your Ladyship”? I’ve never been like that with you. Never. And what’s more, I’ve whacked my bum, and my head. And I have a hangover. In fact everything about you and me hurts, so why don’t you just bugger off.’
She didn’t know where the words were coming from, but they were loud and strong, until suddenly her voice broke. She’d hurt him, and he’d hurt her, and here Tom was, lying on the ground, and how could he laugh as though it was a game? Well, it damn well wasn’t, any more than it had been a game to love him. He was as bad as her mother. And why the hell had Sid said it was a package, instead of a damned great lump of a soldier who couldn’t be bothered to walk to a phone box and just thought it was funny?
It was then that she realised sweat was beading Tom’s forehead and he was groaning. He was also half lying on the walking sticks. Walking sticks? Why? He rolled slowly onto his back. Then she saw the cast on his lower leg.
‘Give me a chance, Verity. I’m sorry, but after all this time, we crash and bring one another down, and it’s just so typical of the whole bloody mess. But look, I’m not laughing now, and especially not in my heart.’
Verity stared from him to the Marigold and Horizon as she tried to sort out – what?
She said, ‘Why are you here? Did you come just to take the mickey? You have to tell me why you didn’t walk to the next phone box. It’s only one leg you’ve hurt, after all.’
