by Milly Adams
Verity stepped onto the butty counter, then opened the door into a dark cabin, illuminated only by the light from the firebox. She could see Polly sitting on the edge of the cross-bed, and tiptoed down the aisle.
‘You sleep well. Five-thirty start, remember,’ Sylvia muttered, turning over on the side-bed to face the wall.
Verity whispered, ‘Thank you for this, Sylvia; really, really thank you. Tom will have the kettle on, he said, when we wake, so we will nip up and out of your way. Make sure you come for toast and a cuppa when you’re dressed.’
Sylvia sat up and pulled out earplugs. ‘What was that? I use these because I can hear you snoring when you’ve had too much to drink. Not that you have tonight, but who knows what Tom’s nocturnal habits are.’ Verity flushed. Sylvia tapped her arm. ‘I failed to hear what you said. Tell me again; and hurry, I’m tired and need to sleep.’
Polly repeated, ‘Tom will have the kettle on, and you’re to remember to come for toast and a cuppa. Now do come on, Verity; you’re on the inside, so I can’t settle until you’re in place.’ She inched out of the way, and Verity shoved over against the back wall and dragged the blanket over her and Polly. ‘Throw yours over, too, and we’ll keep warm.’ Polly groaned. ‘Your feet are freezing. Put them somewhere else.’
‘Do stop moaning,’ Verity grunted, poking Polly, who shrieked.
Sylvia called, ‘I’ve dropped an earplug. Settle down or Sister will—’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, never mind.’
Verity and Polly lay quietly. Polly whispered, ‘Who is Sister?’
Verity stared up at the ceiling. ‘I have no idea, but who knows, one day Sylvia might tell us.’ Tonight she felt different, full of caring, full not just of happiness but of completeness. Tom was back, and they were making their way towards one another. In the motor cabin they heard Dog bark, once.
Polly whispered, ‘She just wants us to know she’s all right.’
Verity gripped her hand. ‘We know she is, because she’s with Tom, and one day I will be where she is.’
Sylvia said, ‘I hope not. She’s on the floor, isn’t she?’
Verity gripped Polly’s hand even tighter, and then they both burst out laughing, Verity managing to say eventually, ‘Oh, well done, Sylvia. That really was a good one.’
‘Goodnight,’ Sylvia said. ‘Earplug has been found and is going in, right now.’
The other two said goodnight, whether or not Sylvia could hear. ‘And thank you.’
Chapter 8
Wednesday 29 March – Marigold and Horizon continue north
Verity and Polly arrived in the motor cabin at five-thirty in their pyjamas, boots and each with a blanket wrapped around them against the cold. Tom had been true to his word, and the kettle rattled as it simmered on the range. He was fully dressed, and they turned him onto the counter while they dragged on their clothes. They were quick, because their vests and three sweaters went on as one, and their socks, pants and trousers took mere seconds. Face and teeth were washed, the water in the bowl was chucked over the side, toast was spread with a dab of margarine, and a knife showed the toast a whisper of Polly’s mother’s marmalade. All within ten minutes.
Sylvia joined them, sitting on a towel on the icy roof with Polly, while Verity and Tom clustered around the tiller. Verity had half feared that Tom would have limped off, with his grip over his shoulder. He was staring up at the sky, his tea forgotten. ‘Would you look at that.’
Above them Hurricanes and Spitfires were milling about, then roaring higher and higher until they disappeared. ‘Probably from Leighton Buzzard. Everywhere seems so busy these days,’ Verity muttered, shading her eyes against the cold wind.
Polly swung round, ignoring the aeroplanes and concentrating on the boats that were still moored up. Verity followed her line of sight and saw that Saul and Granfer Hopkins had already left, and Polly’s shoulders slumped. Tom said, as though he could read Polly’s mind, ‘I saw Saul heading for the postbox by the pub, and then they took off.’
‘Probably writing to his nephew, Joe,’ replied Polly, the disappointment heavy in her voice.
Verity sighed. It wasn’t easy loving someone these days, but perhaps it never had been? Beside her, Tom touched her arm, taking her empty mug. ‘What’s the plan for today?’
Verity looked from Polly to Sylvia, both of whom pointed at her. She laughed and pulled a face. ‘Seems that I am to lock-wheel this morning, while you, sir, lounge in the heat of the cabin, or do some housework chores for the two bullies. They will steer.’
Sylvia slid from the roof. ‘It’s too cold up here, and time to get on.’
They each took a boat shaft and stabbed at the ice around the hull, sweating and swearing. Tom took the stern counter, for he was too much of a liability to stand on the roof and jab. Finally they were free, and Polly shouted, ‘Come on, Verity, let’s get this wretched engine sparked up and moving. Tom, into the cabin with you. There’s yesterday’s Times on the bookshelf. Take Dog with you, if you please.’
They trod carefully as they crossed the roof and went down into the engine room, fiddling about and talking nicely to ‘the beast’, as they called it. Polly heaved the flywheel, and the engine coughed and caught first time. She dusted off her hands and grinned at Verity. ‘This will be a good day.’
As they emerged, the engine’s idling pat-pattering was music to their ears. Verity muttered, ‘I felt sure the beggar would mess us about in this cold.’
Polly had heaved herself back onto the roof, avoiding the bike they kept for cycling ahead to the locks. ‘Who do you mean: the engine or Tom?’
Verity laughed, following her friend as they eased themselves down from the slippery roof. ‘You, Miss Holmes, are not funny.’
‘Course I am,’ Polly replied as she took up her position at the slide hatch, her elbow resting on the tiller. She engaged the engine and they were off. She steered out towards the centre of the cut, avoiding Steerer Mercy’s pair, moored just along from them. Steerer and Ma were preparing to leave.
‘How do,’ Verity called as they passed.
Ma, on the butty, nodded, and Steerer tipped his hat, his empty pipe clenched between his teeth.
Very soon they approached a bridge and looked up; the parapet was clear of children, but not of transport; a military convoy was revving itself up and over the cut. Some soldiers waved from the back. Verity wished Tom’s injury was more severe; but fractures healed, and soldiers became well enough to fight.
She shut her eyes against the thought, and as they heard someone hooting on the other side of the bridge, Verity said to Polly as they slowed, ‘You keep your Saul here, on the cut, where he belongs, Polly Holmes, or I’ll want to know the reason why.’
Steerer Stanley came through from the bridge-hole. ‘’Ow do.’
The girls replied, then Polly muttered as she put the Marigold into gear, ‘I’ll try to keep Saul here, but something is on his mind … I’m not imagining it, am I?’ She didn’t wait for a reply as she steered through. ‘Sometimes he’s somewhere else. It might just be … well, I don’t know.’
Verity muttered, ‘It could be Granfer. His chest isn’t good, so don’t imagine things until you know. After all, Saul’s been refused for military service, on the basis of the Discretionary Reserve, and not a lot’s changed.’ The trouble was, Verity wasn’t sure what Saul was thinking and why he’d talked so much to Steerer Mercy and Tom in the pub.
Polly pulled towards the edge. She snatched a look at Verity. ‘Go on, grab your bike and take off, little speedy lock-wheel girl.’
Verity hauled the bike off the roof, telling Tom, ‘Stay in the warm, and do what Auntie Polly says.’
She heard his laugh as she set off along the towpath, looking over her shoulder and calling, ‘We might catch up with Bet and the girls at the lock. They left really early, but will be slower than us; or so Bet said last night, with that voice she uses when things aren’t going well.’
Polly’s answer followed her
along the towpath. ‘Well, you should know, after her experiences with you.’
Verity grinned as she cycled in and out of the icy ruts, especially when she heard Tom call, so that Verity could hear, ‘Tell me more, Polly.’
She pedalled, head down, watching the snow and ice, and steering for the grass where there was more grip. The wind was unforgiving, but it would be, at this hour of the morning. The damned mist still clung to her, and the hedgerows and the trees. The birds still sang, though, and so did her heart as she caught sight of a pair approaching, heading south. She braked, stood with her legs on either side of the bike and waved her hat. ‘How do, is the lock ready?’
‘’Ow do. So far ’tis, but there’s a pair before you – Bet’s, it is.’
‘Right you are, thanks.’
She pedalled on as the sun came fully up, and everything seemed to brighten. Even the snow trapped amongst the tussocks in the fields glinted. She sped on, because it would be good to see Bet putting the girls through their paces, but when she reached the lock, she saw they were only just about to enter it. That really was slow; even slower than Verity and Polly had been, surely? But then she hesitated – no, probably not, as she remembered some of their mistakes and cringed. There was that time they had been stuck across the width of the cut … Poor Bet.
She cycled up the slope and let the bike fall onto the grass, close to Bet’s trainee, Sandy, who was a nice girl, with her hair pulled back in a French pleat and a friendly smile. She was closing the gates behind the butty. Well, that was all right, she thought, waving at Bet, who called, ‘Nice to see you, Verity. Help my lock-wheeler if she needs it, would you?’
‘Of course.’ Verity checked back down the cut and there was Marigold coming into view. Well, they’d wait, without hooting and panicking the trainees.
She prepared to help close the lower gates, but Sandy had already done it and was running towards the top gates, her wellingtons slapping against her trousers. She’d be better wearing short boots, as she, Polly and Sylvia did, but probably the trainees weren’t prepared to invest in some, until they knew if they had passed their training. As she stood on the kerb above the lock, Verity closed her eyes, straining to remember the girl’s real name. She’d been told last night. Ah, that was it: ‘Sandy’ was a shortening of ‘Alexandra’. She called, as the girl started raising a paddle on the far gate with her windlass, to let the water in, ‘Need a hand, Sandy?’
‘Oh, if you don’t mind. I’m rather slow.’
‘We all are, at the beginning.’ Verity crossed the narrow platform that ran along the top, feeling her feet slide on the ice. She dragged her windlass from the back of her belt and wound the paddle.
‘Gosh, you’re so fast,’ Sandy said, her hand slipping as she lost purchase on the spindle.
Verity looked down as the water gushed through her own paddle. ‘Take a deep breath and attach it again, then wind steadily.’
Sandy did so.
‘Steady, steady,’ Verity soothed her. ‘It’s not a race.’
Sandy didn’t look up, but said, ‘The trouble is, it is a race. We all have to get there as fast as we can, and not hold others up.’
Verity itched to take over, but that was no way to help. She returned to the bank and, once there, she looked down. The paddle on Sandy’s side was lifting, and water was gushing into the lock. ‘Good,’ she called. ‘Keep going, nearly open.’
Sandy wound and wound.
‘Your hands will be sore, but keep going – go on, go on,’ Verity shouted. ‘All right, it’s wide open, come to the kerb, and I expect that there’s a brew being made in Bet’s cabin. As the water rises, nip down those lock steps rather than jumping down onto the boats today, as the roofs and counters are really icy.’ Sandy came to stand beside her, watching the water rising, as though mesmerised, while Verity called down, ‘You all right, Bet? Is a cuppa on the cards for your worker?’
Bet gave the thumbs up as the boats began to lift. Verity looked back along the cut. Marigold and Horizon were both waiting patiently. Polly obviously realised it could be some while, because she was mooring up and, before Verity could count to fifty, Tom, Sylvia and Polly were alongside, looking down at Bet, who pointed to Tom. ‘So, your apprentice is getting stuck in. Doing the housework, is he? Nice to see you, Tom. Got a nice pinny, have you?’
Tom called, ‘A white one with frills. I’ve wiped down the ceiling, the floor, taken some ash from the firebox, refilled the coal box … Need I go on?’
On the other side of the lock, the lock-keeper was standing at the door to his office. Sometimes he had eggs for sale and, as he kept pigs, occasionally a few slices of bacon were available. Verity was just about to call and ask when Polly yelled, ‘No, don’t jump, Sandy – use the steps.’
Too late, for Sandy had jumped down onto the motor-cabin roof while Verity sighed in exasperation.
‘Why didn’t you listen to us?’ she yelled, then realised she sounded just like Bet. The four of them held their breath as they peered down. Verity clutched Sylvia’s hand, but Sandy seemed to have made it safely.
‘Lucky girl,’ whispered Sylvia.
At that moment Sandy’s feet went from under her and she slid sideways, shrieking in terror, before crashing into the gap between the motor and the lock wall, sinking beneath the surface.
Bet, who had tried to reach her as she slid, crouched on the counter and leaned along, managing to grab Sandy’s jacket. She started to haul her towards the stern counter and out of the freezing water, but slipped herself, falling backwards. Sandy sank down again, as the butty nudged the motor into the wall.
Sandy’s shrieking became a scream as she was crushed, a scream which chilled the blood. Verity snatched a look at the paddles, at the same time as Polly said, ‘Should we shut off the water? The boat’ll be grinding her.’
Verity tried to clear her mind. Should they? ‘No, we just have to keep the boats off her. The sooner we get her to the top, the sooner we can get her to hospital. Sylvia, get the lock-keeper to call an ambulance.’ They set off for the lock steps. The screaming they heard now was of sheer agony.
Bet was yelling to her other trainee, as she reached for Sandy again. ‘Get over here, Merle; don’t stay on the damned butty like a stuffed dummy. Shaft the motor off the wall. Girls, get down here and help her.’
The screams were endless, but now at last Merle was shafting the boat away.
Verity and Polly were already on the steps and had reached the motor, inching along the gunwale, not the roof, followed by Sylvia.
Tom yelled, ‘Sylvia’s right: she’s of more use with you. The lock-keeper is getting the ambulance.’
Verity had reached Bet, who was face-down on the counter now, her hands white as she clutched the shoulders of Sandy’s jacket; the girl’s hair was soaked, but her screams had stopped, her head had slumped sideways and blood swirled in the rising water. Verity grabbed a motor shaft from the roof and helped Merle on the counter, and together they pushed against the weight of two laden boats. Polly rushed to the butty and returned with another shaft, and this time, stood on the cabin roof, close to the chimney whose heat had thawed an area, she shoved, too. Bet yelled, ‘Hurry, I’ve still got hold of her.’
Sylvia had joined Polly and they all worked to Verity’s shouts: ‘One, two. Come on. One, two. Don’t get tired, just count.’
They shoved, easing the motor from the wall. Bet, kneeling now, dragged Sandy up, up, but the shafts slipped on the icy wall and the butty swung back, smashing against Sandy’s legs. The girl’s screams cut through them all.
Polly yelled, ‘Come on, come on – shove, shove, get it off her.’
The two boats moved away, bit by bit. Bet was coughing, hanging onto Sandy’s jacket and trying to pull her up as a gap was created, but Sandy was no longer responding. ‘She’s a dead weight, and she’s stuck. Her boots have snagged on something, or are full of water. She’s unconscious or …’ Bet paused. ‘Oh dear God, she can’t last in this water
, it’s too cold. I’m going in. Verity, get down and hang on to her.’
Bet wasn’t waiting to unlace her leather boots, but hauled off two of her sweaters. Verity and Polly shouted as one, ‘You’re not going into that water – it’ll kill you.’ They exchanged a look.
Polly nodded and Verity shouted, ‘Sylvia, Merle and Polly, keep shafting, and don’t let the gap close, whatever you do. Bet, keep a hold from the counter, and do as you’re bloody well told.’
Before she had time to think, Verity plunged down the gap into the water. The cold took her breath away and the shock paralysed her. But what about Sandy? Was she even alive? Panic urged her forward, and somehow she kicked and dragged herself along between the motor and the wall, her hands slipping on the icy hull, catching on the fenders. The motor surged towards the wall, the fenders slamming her into it. She bit down on her scream.
She heard Polly roar, ‘One, two.’ A space was created again.
Verity hauled herself towards Sandy, as Bet clung to the girl’s jacket. Polly shouted to Verity, between pants, ‘Be careful, idiot girl, for heaven’s sake.’
From the lock kerb she head Tom shouting, ‘For God’s sake, get a move on or you’ll freeze up and go under. Polly, keep shoving.’
Somewhere she could hear sirens. ‘Idiot, yourself,’ she called to Polly, and found that speaking made her breathe. She made a huge effort to kick forward and lunged at the girl, grabbing her hair, holding up her head and shouting, as Bet was doing, ‘Sandy? Sandy? I think she’s still breathing, but it’s hard to tell.’
‘Bugger that – get her free,’ Polly screamed. The boats were grinding together, as a shaft slipped and screeched against the wall.
Verity drew in some sort of a breath. ‘Sandy’s stuck, she’s not moving.’ She breathed in deeply and forced herself right down into the water – deep, deep, as they had done with Jimmy. Yes, she could do this; she had done it before. She opened her eyes, but the lock water was cloudy. She felt down the girl’s legs and found her waterlogged wellingtons, caught on a fender that had broken free.
