The Boat Girls

by Margaret Mayhew

  Other good parts followed: the Princess Katharine in Henry V, Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The nine shillings rose to eighteen. Nadine left in a huff and presently another and younger actress joined the company – another English rose with porcelain skin and Cupid’s bow lips, called Felicia. Like Rosalind, she began by tea-making and sweeping and dogsbodying but, before long, she was walking on, then speaking, then taking minor roles.

  At the restaurant one evening, Sir Lionel let slip casually that he was thinking of putting on a new production of As You Like It later in the year. ‘I’ve always thought that you’d make an interesting Rosalind. Do you think you could do it, darling?’

  She was sure that she could, and do it well. It was the part she had always wanted to play. The part that she had been named after and which perfectly suited her looks, her voice, her style . . . swaggering about in boots and breeches, teasing, mocking, daring. But when the time came to cast the play several months later, it was Felicia who was given the role. Felicia who was being taken out to dinner and to the flat, Felicia who was being given the good parts while she was back to playing minor roles.

  ‘I did try to warn you, dear,’ Beryl said. ‘It’s always like that with him. I’ve seen dozens come and go. They never last long.’

  Rosalind packed up her few belongings, including some clothes filched from the theatre wardrobe in lieu of the three pounds still owed her in wages, and she kept the earrings. She went home to spend Christmas at the lodging house on the south coast. Her bedroom, she discovered, was occupied by an actress playing Dandini in Cinderella at the Winter Gardens, and the other rooms were taken by Buttons, the Fairy Godmother, and one Ugly Sister. She slept on the sitting-room sofa and spent the days walking along the promenade, keeping away from her parents who had not concealed their disappointment that she had thrown away her big chance. The beach, mined and barbed-wired against the enemy, was deserted, the wind cold, the sea grey and rough. She sat on a bench, watching the waves curl over and crash in endless succession onto the shingle, and wondered what to do next. In less than a week she would be eighteen, which meant that she was old enough for war work. They might send her off to toil at a bench in a munitions factory. She’d heard what that could be like from a girl she’d talked to on a bus: twelve-hour shifts drilling hundreds and hundreds of holes, all exactly the same. Or, almost worse, she might be made to join one of the women’s services – put on some horrible uniform and march about saluting. As she contemplated this prospect, a group of khaki-clad ATS girls came striding along the promenade, chests stuck out, arms thrusting away like pistons, feet crunching in unison. At their head stomped a female officer even uglier than all the rest put together. Left, right, left, right, left, right . . . She watched them march away out of sight.

  On the way home, she stopped at a seafront café, bought a cup of tea and a stale rock cake and sat by the window. The oilcloth on the table was smeared with slopped tea and gritty with crumbs, the ashtray full of cigarette butts. Someone had left a dog-eared magazine lying on a chair – a women’s magazine of the kind she never normally read, full of handy home hints and recipes and knitting patterns and romantic love stories with impossibly happy endings. She picked it up and glanced idly through articles which told her the best way to unpick knitting wool, how to patch a shirt and turn cuffs, how to reconstitute dried eggs and how to make Savoury Tripe Casserole. At the end there were letters from anxious readers:

  I have been going steady with an RAF sergeant until he was posted away. At first we wrote to each other every week, but now I haven’t heard from him for more than three months. Do you think he’s stopped loving me?

  And an intriguing response to an anonymous reader.

  To Worried Brown Eyes, If you will supply a stamped addressed envelope, I will send you a confidential reply that may help you with your unfortunate problem.

  She flicked through the magazine again and found a feature on rotating crops in the vegetable garden and how to prepare the soil properly for early plantings, illustrated by a drawing of a jolly-looking woman with her foot plonked on a spade. On the opposite page, there was a photograph of an equally happy-looking girl gripping a very long pole and standing on what seemed to be the deck of some sort of boat. Appeal for Volunteers, it said underneath. There are vacancies for more women volunteers to be trained to work canal boats.

  Rosalind took another bite into the rock cake. Were there indeed?

  Four

  Dear Madam,

  In response to your letter, I enclose an application form and an explanatory letter about the Women’s Training Scheme for work on canal boats. I should advise you that before continuing with an application it will be necessary for you to consult your local Labour Exchange.

  I should be pleased to interview you if you could come to these offices next Thursday at 2.00 p.m. The necessary medical examination could take place on the same day to save you two journeys. Kindly telephone to confirm your attendance.

  Yours faithfully,

  THE LETTER HAD been sent from the offices of the Ministry of War Transport in Stratton Street, London. Frances took the train to London and at two o’clock presented herself at Stratton Street. She was shown into an office where the writer, a grey-haired woman who looked like a schoolteacher, was sitting behind a desk.

  ‘Do you have any experience of boats, Miss Carlyon?’

  ‘Well, I’ve done quite a bit of dinghy sailing.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t help you in this case. Work on narrowboats is completely different.’

  ‘Narrowboats?’

  ‘That’s what they’re called – not barges. Barges are much wider – at least a fourteen-foot beam, or more. The narrowboats are seventy-two feet long but under seven foot wide and specially designed to travel through narrow canals and locks.’

  ‘Do they use horses?’

  ‘Some of them do, as a matter of fact – old traditions die hard on the canals – but the Grand Union Canal Company narrowboats that you’d be working on are all fitted with diesel engines. The Company have been good enough to cooperate in the training scheme for women. There’s a shortage of men, you understand. Canal work is a reserved occupation, but, nevertheless, a number of boatmen have joined the services and meanwhile the narrowboats have become an important means of transporting vital war materials, especially coal. Using the canals saves space on the railways, and keeps supplies out of the reach of the U-boat attacks at sea. Tell me, Miss Carlyon, why didn’t you apply to join one of the women’s services?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to for ages but they kept turning me away. I got fed up with waiting.’

  ‘I see.’ There was a pause. The woman was looking at her closely. ‘The idea of going on the canals probably seems rather romantic and attractive to you, Miss Carlyon, but, in fairness, I should warn you that the work is very hard, very dirty and more or less continuous. Do you think you’d be up to it?’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose I won’t really know until I’ve tried.’

  ‘Very true. Well, so far as the training is concerned, the hard work begins immediately. You will train under a woman trainer with two other recruits. You will be required to do a trip from the London docks at Brentford or Limehouse, carrying supplies up to Birmingham for delivery. You will then go on to Coventry to load up the empty boats with coal to bring back for delivery at various destinations. When you have completed two trips satisfactorily, you will be expected to be capable of working your own pair of boats.’

  ‘A pair of them?’

  ‘Narrowboats work in pairs, usually with a crew of three. The motor boat, which has an engine, pulls the butty which is without one. Did I mention pay? You’ll be paid two pounds a week while training and are then entitled to a week’s leave without pay. After that you’ll receive three pounds a week and one week’s paid holiday a year, with a short leave after every three trips. Light and heat are provided free and you receive extra rations of tea and sugar. There’s no
uniform provided and no extra clothing allowance, I’m afraid. By the way, can you swim?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Believe me, there are many who can’t. Have you any questions you’d like to ask?’

  Given time, she could probably have thought of plenty, but at the moment her mind was blank. ‘When would I start?’

  ‘As soon as possible. Assuming you pass your medical.’

  The doctor was brisk and raced through the examination, listening to her chest, peering down her throat and into her eyes, firing off questions. ‘Have you had any serious illnesses? When did you have your tonsils out? Appendix still present? Any other operations?’

  She passed and there was another encounter with the schoolmarm in the office.

  ‘Can you start at the beginning of next week, Miss Carlyon?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Your trainer will be Miss Rowan. She’s very good and I’m sure you’ll like her. If you report to the Grand Union Canal Company depot at Bulls Bridge, Southall, they will tell you where to find her. Take as little luggage as you can – there won’t be much room for storage on board. You’ll need some bedding, towels and sensible clothes . . . thick jerseys, a waterproof jacket, warm socks, stout shoes, and a good strong leather belt, if you have one. I don’t suppose you happen to have trousers of any kind?’

  Frances caught the train home. Aunt Gertrude had already moved down to Averton and helped her assemble the sensible clothes. There was the dark-blue guernsey that she’d worn sailing and Vere’s school trunk up in the attics produced old skiing trousers, a cricketing sweater and some thick grey woollen socks, while she still had most of her old school clothes – a belted gaberdine raincoat, Viyella blouses, striped pyjamas, Chilprufe vests and a pair of brown lace-up walking shoes. It was all serviceable and undeniably sensible. Some more ferreting round the attics unearthed a canvas kitbag from her father’s army days and a padded sleeping bag of Vere’s from his scouting ones. There were plenty of towels in the airing cupboard and she raided spare-room beds for a blanket and a pillow, and snaffled a leather belt from Vere’s chest of drawers, punching an extra hole in it with a kitchen skewer to make it fit.

  Aunt Gertrude gave her the keys to her London flat so that she could stay the night there before travelling out to Southall. ‘I gave Vere a set as well so he could use it if he wanted whenever he’s in London.’

  ‘Well, I hope he doesn’t turn up while I’m there. He’ll throw a fit when he hears what I’m doing.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much. Your father seems to approve.’

  Approval didn’t exactly describe Papa’s reaction to the news. He had barely listened when she’d told him, his attention being entirely fixed on a new orchid that he had acquired.

  ‘Stanhopea tigrina – gold and blood-red six-inch flowers with a very strong scent. Very special, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely.’ She had marvelled politely at the dormant, flowerless thing in its pot. ‘You think it’s a good idea, then, Papa?’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘For me to go and do war work on canal boats . . . like I just said.’

  He was examining his new possession intently from all angles. ‘Yes, I should think so. You like boats, don’t you?’

  ‘Aunt Gertrude will be staying here – to keep you company.’

  ‘So she will. That’s good.’

  To her relief, Vere didn’t arrive at the London flat – the ground floor of a house only a stone’s throw from Harrods – and she had the place to herself. Rather disappointingly, there was no air raid that night – nothing at all to disturb the peace except some drunken American servicemen stumbling about in the blackout and swearing loudly.

  In the morning, as instructed, she caught a suburban-line train out to Southall, complete with her kitbag and a bundle of bedding tied up with rope. It was a cold three-mile walk to the depot at Bulls Bridge and she carried the kitbag over her shoulder and the bundle clutched in one hand. The kitbag kept slipping off and the bedding kept tripping her up. At the depot she found corrugated iron sheds and brick buildings, offices and workshops, boiler-suited men hurrying about. There was no sign whatever of any canal. One of the workmen directed her to a door marked Enquiries, and she sat on a bench in a room for a long time until a man appeared to tell her that she’d find Miss Rowan down at something called the lay-by.

  ‘You’ll see a row of boats tied up at the wharf. Hers are Cetus and Aquila. She’ll be there.’

  She followed the directions given and lugged her luggage past more sheds and buildings and out across a big yard and on and on, arms aching, until she saw the canal for the first time. It lay before her. Not exactly the willow-lined, sparkling waterway of the sunny recruitment picture and of her imagination – more a trough of scummy water bordered by scrubland, cinders and mud. She also had her first view of the narrowboats.

  They were moored by their sterns to a long concrete wharf, tied with ropes to iron rings and packed together so neatly and closely that it looked easy to walk all the way across the row, from one to the next. The magazine picture had only shown a part of a boat but now she could see the whole. They were not only very narrow, they were also very long and painted in bright fairground colours with highly polished brass trimmings. Smoke curled up from chimney pipes, washing was pegged out to dry on lines rigged across empty holds and, ashore on the wharf, women in long black skirts, with shawls and scarves over their heads, were scrubbing away in zinc tubs. A man stood smoking a pipe on the stern of one boat and ragged children were playing a noisy game on the wharf, screaming and running about, mongrel dogs barking at their heels. They all looked like gypsies.

  Years ago, when Frances had been nine, gypsies had trespassed at Averton. They had set up camp in a clearing in the woods, close to a stream, and she had ridden by on her pony and spied on them from behind a tree. Spied on the dark-skinned, black-haired people in strange clothes with their painted caravans, skewbald horses, chickens and goats and lurcher dogs, the big black kettle suspended on a hook over a wood fire. She’d watched for some time, her heart thudding with a fearful fascination. If they saw her, they might catch her and carry her off against her will to live with them for ever.

  She’s gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!

  Her pony had whinnied at the horses and one of the men who was standing by the fire, smoking a pipe, had turned, caught sight of her and smiled. She’d been hypnotized by his handsome looks and by his smile and by the golden hoop in his ear and the red scarf knotted round his neck. He’d beckoned to her and she’d got off her pony and walked towards him as if drawn by invisible silken threads. Close to, he had been even more handsome. Glossy black hair, dark eyes, teeth gleaming as he smiled and beckoned. The other gypsies had fallen silent, staring as she had followed him up the wooden steps into one of the pretty crimson and green caravans.

  My mother said

  I never should

  Play with the gypsies in the wood . . .

  A woman had been sitting inside, stirring something in a pot on an iron stove. She’d worn long black skirts, a yellow shawl and a purple silk scarf tied round her head; there had been golden earrings in both her ears and golden bracelets on her wrist. Her eyes were black as sloes and she’d talked in a strange language as she’d showed Frances the flowers painted over the woodwork, the bunk bed with its patchwork cover, the gingham curtains at the little window above. She’d opened cupboards and then a big locker under the bed, motioning to her to bend down to look inside, just like the witch in Hansel and Gretel. Given her a push.

  She’d fled in terror from the caravan, bursting out of the doorway, down the steps, past the man, scrambled onto her pony and galloped away.

  The memory still haunted her; still made her heart thud faster; still fascinated and frightened her, both together. And she still dreamed of her dark and smiling gypsy.

  After a moment, she collected herself and started down the slop
e towards the wharf.

  When she reached the boats, she could see that there were pictures painted on them – pictures of fairy-tale castles, of trees and rivers and mountains – and patterns of hearts and roses and diamond shapes. The company initials GUCCC were written along the sides and the number and name on the sterns: Andromeda, Auriga, Delphinus, Libra, Pegasus, Polaris . . . all constellations, unless she was mistaken. As she walked along the wharf, searching for Cetus and Aquila, the women looked up from their washtubs and their gossiping and fell silent. They had lined and dark-skinned faces like gypsies, but they were unsmiling. Neither hostile, nor friendly; they merely stared. The sensible thing would have been to ask them where to find Miss Rowan and her boats, but their silence and their stares were unnerving. One of the dogs ran up and bared its yellow teeth at her. She reached the man she’d noticed standing on the stern. He wore a flat cap and a dark jacket with cord trousers and heavy boots, and his face was sharp as a weasel’s. He watched her with the same unreadable stare as the women, and in the same silence. As she passed him, he took the pipe out of his mouth and spat over the side of his boat.

  She came across the Aquila first, and a woman poked her head out of the cabin doors. She was youngish and wirily built, with short brown hair and wearing what looked like sailor’s serge trousers, a navy pea jacket and peaked cap.

  ‘You’ll be one of my new trainees. Come aboard!’

  Frances scrambled clumsily over the side, hauling kitbag and bedding bundle after her. There was no real deck to speak of – just a small well at the stern which also accommodated a large wooden tiller and led to some kind of cabin.