by Milly Adams
Polly was standing on the gunwale, sipping her tea and checking for a sales table outside the allotment that edged the towpath. ‘Yes, she was right. The main cut is an endless cycle, as though we’re like some sort of hamster on a wheel. But yes, it’s like a—’
‘Pause,’ Tom said. ‘Everything these days comes back to pausing with you girls, doesn’t it?’
Polly continued, trying to remember what else Granfer had said about the Arm. ‘It was supposed to go on and link up the main Grand Union Canal with the Thames at Abingdon, but it never happened. As Granfer said, “It’s them damned trains that did it. Took the cargoes, they did.”’
They laid over for the night just outside Tring well behind Saul and Granfer and, to distract Verity from Tom’s departure, Polly told Tom over their spam omelette that no one knew where Maudie was, or even if she was alive or dead. Leon still denied ever hitting her, or Joe.
Her ploy worked, and Verity chimed in, ‘The POW told the police that Leon planned the firing of our butty cargo, and the club manager admitted he’d bought black-market goods off Leon, but of course they don’t keep records of black-market deals, so it’s one person’s word against another’s. The manager has sworn he’ll give evidence, though, same as the POW. But we still don’t know anything about Maudie’s whereabouts.’
Sylvia took up the thread, and Tom was looking from one to the other as they interrupted, finished words and sentences and finally sat back, with Verity saying, ‘And look at our lovely Horizon. You’d never think she’d been repaired. She’s still a beauty.’
He cleared the dishes. Sylvia washed, Polly and Verity dried, Tom put away. Polly smiled. ‘Do you know, young Tom, we might turn you into a decent trainee, if you stayed on.’ Then yet again she could have bitten off her tongue.
But Verity just smiled. ‘When he’s here on leave, he can step straight back into the role – what do you think, girls?’
On they travelled the next morning, Easter Saturday, with Polly cycling ahead until she came to Farmer Elias’s fields, and there, sure as eggs were eggs, was a bag hanging on the fence, halfway up the field where his sheep grazed. He left a bag every month or so, full of children’s books for Jimmy and Joe, and anyone else who wanted them. He had done so since Joe, Saul’s nephew, had seen one of his ewes in trouble and Polly had unhooked her from the fence. She tore up the field now, unhitching the bag from the post.
‘Thank you, Farmer Elias,’ she yelled, as she always did.
Sometimes he was around, sometimes not. He felt the children on the cut should be educated, to give them some choice, because he sensed the cargo-carrying cut was on its last legs as the railways and roads took over. He also felt happy for the boaters to poach pheasants, rabbits or whatever else was on offer, but not his livestock. That was in danger only from the rustlers.
The sheep in the field ignored Polly these days, and she ran back through them. Dog was on the towpath, knowing better than to enter the field. Polly clambered over the fence, then peeped in the bag. He had added vegetables, too. She yelled again, ‘Thank you, Mr Elias.’
She slung the bag over her shoulder and cycled ahead to the locks to Kings Langley, opening and closing them for Marigold and Horizon. On they went, down alongside Cassiobury Park, and at last they unloaded the coal at a Watford factory.
‘What does it make?’ Tom asked.
The girls shrugged. ‘Who knows. When it’s wartime, who knows anything.’
On they went, grimy and tired, working the locks ever downwards; some of the locks were with them, others against. The closer they came to Bull’s Bridge, the quieter Verity grew, standing close to Tom on the counter of Marigold. Polly was still the lock-wheeler and came on board in the longer pounds to grab a cup of tea. As they drew closer to Cowley, Sylvia took over the last of the locks and Polly steered the butty, suddenly exhausted.
Saul would be a good day’s journey ahead, she reckoned, as Sylvia shoved at the beam of the last lock before Cowley. Soon it would be Bull’s Bridge. And orders. Then Alperton. Poor Verity.
As they left the lock, Sylvia cycled alongside the butty, calling across, ‘Cowley’s with us, the keeper said. Polly, does the wind really help turn the boats in the wide winding areas of the cut, like he just said?’
Polly dragged her muffler around her neck, pulling it up to meet her woollen hat, and saw that Sylvia was doing the same, riding the bike ‘no hands’. ‘Show off,’ Polly yelled. ‘You’ll hit a pothole and be bucked off.’
Sylvia laughed and tucked her muffler into the neck of her sweater, before gripping the handlebars. ‘So, what do you think about “winding”?’
Polly yelled again, ‘I don’t know. Bet said that was why that term was used, but I think the whole of the cut is windy. And just feel the wind’s edge today.’
Sylvia nodded. ‘If you look to the left, you’ll see a bluebell. Just one, but it’s always cheering to see them.’
Polly followed Sylvia’s finger and saw it between two large beech trees, battling the wind. ‘There you go,’ she shouted. ‘What did I say? Never mind the bluebell, see that wind, eh?’
Sylvia’s laugh reached her. Polly looked ahead again, as Horizon followed Marigold. They had cleaned the holds as best they could at Watford after the unloading, thinking what a way to spend the Easter Saturday, and had replenished the coal-store box from the gleanings. They would pick up more after they’d swabbed out the bilges at the lay-by when they finally arrived. Did it ever change? Any of it? Here they all were, lock-wheeling, cleaning, loading, unloading. Could she do this for the rest of her life? With Saul, yes.
Sylvia was roaring along now to the Cowley lock and yelling, ‘It’s with us, Polly. Look, you two lovebirds, the lock is with us.’
Polly heard Verity’s and Tom’s laughter.
They were into the lock in what seemed just seconds, and the lock-keeper checked their docket, peering down to the motor. ‘See yer’ve still got yer ’itch-’iker. Leaving yer at Alperton, I ’ear. You should all go up west and ’ave a drink or two to wish ’im well. Right on the Piccadilly Line, i’n’t it?’
Once they set off again, almost at Bull’s Bridge at last, with Sylvia back on board the butty, Polly thought that probably Verity wished they had been caught up in the worst queue in the world – anything to prolong her time with Tom. It’s how she herself would feel, if it was Saul leaving.
Saul stood on the train back to Southall as it creaked, groaned and swayed on Easter Saturday, thinking that Polly would be reaching Bull’s Bridge today and glad that she hadn’t arrived before he left, or he’d actually have had to lie to her. As it was, he would see her soon. People were crowding around him, too close. He longed for the loneliness of the cut, but then stopped – perhaps soon he would no longer be there. He still didn’t know, though.
Mr Burton’s letter had been waiting for him at Bull’s Bridge yard office yesterday, late Good Friday afternoon. Mrs Holmes had kept her promise to say nothing to Polly, too, or he’d have seen it in her eyes at Buckby. What had been in her eyes was relief that Tom was going, and not him. It made Saul feel sick in his stomach, and he wondered if he and Granfer were right to hide it; and to ask Tom too, as well. Granfer still said it was right, cos what was the use of pain if it was never goin’ to happen?
Mr Burton’s letter had given Saul a telephone number to phone as soon as he arrived at the depot, if he was serious. Mr Burton explained that he had been to school with an official who had agreed to see Saul. Alf in the Administration Office said he could use the office telephone, if he left fourpence on the counter.
He had been told by a lady with a proper posh voice to come first thing on Saturday. He had caught the train, after telling Granfer, and had found his way to Mayfair. It was war, and there were so many people in uniform, of different uniforms, that he hung his head, because he was young and not in one.
He saw a bloke called Mr P. O. Thompson, who sat behind his desk twiddling his thumbs as Saul stumbled through his
thoughts. Mr Thompson’s thumbs were clean, his nails too; and Saul put his hands down on his lap, covered by his cap. Could the bloke smell him? Well, his office could do with a window open, so stuffy it was, and Saul wanted to loosen his kerchief, but that’d show his hands, so he didn’t.
Mr Thompson said, ‘I’m an official concerned with War Transport, and it is I who set on the trainee girls – amongst other things. I am seeing you, even though it’s the day before Easter Sunday, because Mr Burton has asked. And besides, there is a war on.’
Mr Thompson hadn’t seemed ever to draw a breath as he talked.
Saul listened as the bloke kept going, saying that people were needed on the cut for the war, especially those who had failed the medical. Saul said what Granfer and he had worked out he should say: ‘Granfer be old, and is set to live with Lettie, and Joe be living with a banker and goin’ to school, and that only leaves me to run the boats. I be fit and ’ave been working me leg, and it be strong and better, and I ’ave a longin’ to be serving; and if Granfer be gone, and Joe be gone too, I ’ave no one to help, and the boat must go back to the GUCCC.’
He realised he hadn’t drawn breath, either. He didn’t tell Mr Thompson that his leg still ached like the blazes, because that was nothing, in the scheme of things.
Mr Thompson had put his fingers together under his chin, like the steeples they spied far distant on the cut.
The train screeched to a halt now and people pushed past Saul to leave; one woman shook her head at him and held her scarf to her face. He knew he smelt, of course he did. More passengers got on; they were like sheep, all fretting at a gate. It was too hot, too crowded. Some read newspapers, and he could read and all, thanks to Polly. Darling Polly. He closed his eyes. She would be right hurt if he went, but it was something he had to do, or how could he live with himself, how could he be upright? It was pushing at him, this need was, cos he had to keep her safe.
Mr Thompson had put his hands down, flat on the table, as though he was trying to push it through the floor, but he couldn’t push a boater out of the pub with those hands. They were soft, and his shirt cuffs were white, and Saul bet they could be seen in the dark. Mr Thompson then straightened the blotting paper on his desk, and at last he looked up.
‘Of course we have need of many men for different types of jobs, at this stage of the war. And you are young, and you are right: you alone on a narrowboat is not a lot of use. Mr Burton spoke well of you. But you would need a medical. Fancy going off there now? You are, after all, under twenty-five, and the Discretionary Reserve is something I can overturn if I wish to release you.’
Saul kept an eye on the stations, cos he didn’t want to miss Southall. Mr Thompson had said lots more about training, something called ‘aptitude’, and how necessary it was to obey orders and complete the basic training. He ended by saying that Mr Burton had vouched for Saul, and it was therefore important not to let him down.
Mr Thompson had then stood and he was a straight-up bloke, cos he held out his hand, even though his own was clean. His handshake was firmer than the rest of him looked. His eyes were sharp and steady. Perhaps he was one of those who was not what he looked on the outside?
The doc was in the next office, creating paperwork – or was that clearing it? Saul couldn’t rightly remember. But he’d had a good look at Saul’s eyesight, his leg and his feet, which weren’t flat. He’d listened to his breathing. He’d let Saul know in due course, the doc had said, or Mr Burton would, sending the decision to Bull’s Bridge depot.
The train drew in to Southall. He forced his way through to the platform and then out of the station, where he laughed, because the smell from the sandbags made him seem like a bunch of violets. He ran now, cos Polly might be moored up and he didn’t want her to ask questions, when he had no answers, yet.
Saul headed down the road beneath gathering clouds, across the crossroads and on to the green. He walked on past the war memorial. All them names, and here he was, safe and sound. He passed the pub, where they went often enough. Then the Methodist chapel. He saw a notice saying it was Easter Sunday tomorrow. He’d forgotten, but the boaters would head off when they had their orders, whatever day it was. Then past houses, hedges and finally the cut, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he nodded at the depot guard, who grinned. ‘Been shopping, ’ave yer, Saul?’
‘I have an’ all.’ He felt for the chain in its box in his pocket. It was for the ring. Polly could get the size changed when she was ready. He wove between the men working extra shifts, hearing the tannoy calling steerers to the office with orders.
He walked along the lay-by. He wanted to see his Polly, of course he did, but he didn’t want to lie, although with the chain in his pocket, it would only be half a lie. He passed Ma Mercy washing on the bank. The steam made her face drip as though it was sweat. She waved her tongs. ‘Yer want to put something in my boiler, our Saul?’
He shook his head. ‘No, thanks, Ma. Right kind, but got a heap to do anyway.’
She called after him, ‘Your Polly ain’t back yet. Locks against them, I ’spect.’
He smiled. ‘Aye, I reckon so. We got through right quick, but ’ad a quick unload, as well as keeping going into the dark. Verity ’ad longer going slower, with ’er bloke.’
He strode past the boats with their sterns to the kerb, but she called after him. ‘They’ll be ’ere any minute, though, now the sun’s going down. Steerer Porter were just in front, and ’ere he is comin’ in.’
Sure enough, Jimmy’s da was pat-pattering along, looking for space to squeeze in. Saul knew Polly had some books for Jimmy, and for Joe, and he slowed, deep in thought. He’d need to go and see Joe, if he got taken on. For a moment he faltered and nearly stopped, his mouth dry because there’d be so many people who’d fret at his news, and again he wasn’t sure if it was a kind thing to do, but do it he must.
Chapter 16
Saturday 8 April – Bull’s Bridge depot
Polly ran along the kerb of the lay-by to Seagull and Saul, but he didn’t wait for her to reach him. Instead he tore towards her, dodging the steerers’ wives, who were busy like Ma Mercy washing and gossiping, and picked her up, holding her tight, kissing her eyes and her mouth. She said, ‘I’m covered in coal dust.’
He laughed, ‘And I’m clean like driven snow?’
He set her down, because Jimmy Porter was pulling at Polly’s sweater. ‘We moored just ahead at you, so look at me words, Polly. Do look. Got ’em right, ’as I?’ He waved his exercise book at her.
Polly and Saul just laughed. Saul ruffled the lad’s hair.
‘Come on, walk back with us,’ Polly told the boy, taking his hand. ‘I’ve books from Mr Elias for you, and we’ve looked at the work you’ve done.’
Jimmy walked between them. Polly carried his exercise book and they swung him high in the air, each holding a hand. He shrieked with laughter. ‘More,’ he called. More he got.
When they arrived back at Marigold and Horizon, Sylvia was waiting for her, a broom in her hand. ‘Come on – bilge clearance, Polly. Then it’ll be time for Saul.’ She squatted in front of Jimmy. ‘Shall I find a broom for you?’
Polly said, ‘You see, Jimmy. She wears a pointed hat and uses a broom to ride on, when the moon is high.’
Tom and Verity laughed from Marigold’s counter. Too late, Polly remembered how strange Sylvia had been, when witches had been mentioned before. Sylvia stood now, looking down at Jimmy. No one moved or spoke, not even Jimmy, who sensed something was wrong. Finally Sylvia said, ‘Ah, but I only take flight when it’s not raining.’
Polly relaxed, took the broom from Sylvia and asked Verity to grab Jimmy’s books from the shelf. They waited and Sylvia chatted about his homework, taking the exercise book from under Polly’s arm and flicking through it. ‘My word, how you’ve come on, but let’s leave Polly or Verity to mark it. They’re really good with a red pen and keeping people on the straight and narrow.’
She smiled gently at Polly, and c
lambered back on board the butty, which was riding high in the water. Polly watched Sylvia, disturbed by the sadness and conflict that had flickered across the girl’s face.
Saul slipped his arm around Polly’s shoulder. ‘The lass has much in her ’ead. But it’ll be spoken of, when she be ready. Or so Granfer said. Best that way, to speak when things is ready, don’t yer think?’
Jimmy was reaching up to Verity, who had arrived at Polly’s side, the books in a hessian bag. Polly said, ‘Sorry, Saul, I wasn’t listening. What did you say?’
Saul just shook his head. ‘Just mithering.’
Polly smiled and turned back to Jimmy. ‘Perhaps you’d like to write a note to Mr Elias to thank him, Jimmy. I know you did last time, but here are some more. He’d like to know which books you like, and something about your life. I know that Joe is still writing his storybook about the dog on the cut, and on each page he draws a picture too, so when it’s finished we’ll show Mr Elias that, as well.’
Jimmy took the bag. ‘Thanks, Missus. I’ll do that now, cos I ’ave more words and sees things better.’ He turned to Polly. ‘I’s trying to help Timmy Stevens to read. I uses yer lessons. He ’as a book, so maybe you could mark his work. You, too, Missus Verity, but Ma said not to bother you none, as yer was busy with him.’ Jimmy pointed to Tom.
Verity hid her smile and said, ‘Bring it. I’m not that busy with him, except when he’s really naughty.’
Saul walked back with Jimmy, and Polly watched them go, thinking that one day it would be their own child that Saul was walking with. Would they still be on the cut? If not, where?
Sylvia called, ‘It’s no good standing there with the broom. It’s not going to fly into the hold and sort out the mess. It needs a handler. Come on. The sun is going down, we have work and are hungry. After checking with Alf in the office, Verity, what about sorting out spam? We could fry it with the onion that’s left, and boiled potatoes. There’s cabbage, too, but cook it in the motor, then it’s Tom who has to put up with the smell.’
