‘He’ll be all right, Frankie. He knows his job.’
‘That’s what I keep telling myself. You keep doing that, Ros.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Scratching your head.’
‘So do you. So does Prue. Do you think we’ve all got nits?’
Dear Prudence,
I’m sending this to the Grand Union Canal Company, like you said to do, so I hope you get it OK. I had a great time on the boats with you – only wish I could have stayed longer. Maybe there’ll be another chance.
They’re keeping us real busy here, so I guess I won’t be able to get away for a while. Don’t forget about Canada. You’ll like it there. Love, Steve.
Dear Steve,
Thank you for your letter. It was waiting for me here at Braunston in the Grand Union office today. We’ve tied up for the night and so I thought I’d write you a letter back at once so that I can try to post it before we leave tomorrow.
It’s been a horrible trip so far. The rain hasn’t stopped since we left London. We can’t get anything dry and all sorts of things have gone wrong. Something went wrong with the engine again and we had to wait for a fitter to come and mend it. If you’d been there, I expect you would have got it going at once – like you did that time when you were with us. Then the butty elum got knocked off in one of the locks – Ros had forgotten to take it out. The pin got bent and we had to crawl all the way to Norton to get it repaired. Then the bilge pump blocked up. The engine room flooded and the fly-wheel sprayed everything with black oil. Frances had to unscrew the pump and poke around with a piece of wire to unblock it. It was a bit of grit, or something. It took us ages to clean up the mess. And after we unloaded at Tyseley, the wind was so bad it kept blowing the empty boats onto the mud. We had an awful job getting them off. Of course, the engine never starts first go in the mornings, like it did with you.
Anyway, we’re on our way back to London at last. We don’t like going there much because of the V2 rockets. One of them hit a factory near the docks when we were down there last time and the blast damaged our boats and smashed things up in the cabins. They’re much more frightening than the buzz bombs. You can’t hear them coming and they blow everything to bits. This is our third trip on the go, so we’ll have six days’ leave when it’s finished.
A Halifax bomber, like yours, went very low over us when we were going along the cut near Leighton. We all waved, just in case you were in it and could see us.
Please write again, when you have time. I won’t forget about Canada.
With love from Prudence.
In November the fogs began – not the skeiny mists of October but clammy clouds shrouding the cut and, in London, pea-soupers. Coming back from leave, lugging her carpet bag, Rosalind groped her way to a theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. She bought a ticket for the gods – the very back row because all the other seats were taken. When the curtain went up it was like looking at the stage through the wrong end of opera glasses.
Ken was even better than in the Coward play. It was Rattigan this time – another of his despised la-di-da playwrights – and he had the lead part. He played it to perfection. Just the right touch and timing, no trace of the Yorkshire accent, oodles of charm and a presence that kept all eyes riveted on him at every appearance on stage. Star quality that was God-given and could never be taught. At the end the audience gave him the loudest and longest applause.
She went round to the stage door where a little group of torch-carrying fans had gathered in the fog. As he came out – coat collar turned up, tousled hair, cigarette in the corner of his mouth – autograph books were thrust towards him, the torches held for him to sign his name. Kenneth Woods. She waited until he’d done the last one and then stepped forward with a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. Her torch battery was almost flat and he had to find his. He scrawled his name with a flourish.
‘You were plain Ken when we last met,’ she said.
‘Last met? Have we?’
‘At the Winter Gardens. You were playing Private Lives.’
He traversed the torch to her face. ‘I remember you. You’re the girl I found in my dressing room, making herself up. The redhead.’
‘That’s me. Rosalind Flynn.’
‘Worked on the barges, or something, didn’t you?’
‘Narrowboats. War work. But I’m an actress. Always have been.’
‘Yeah, I remember that too.’
‘I thought you didn’t like Rattigan. French windows and things.’
‘I don’t. But it’s the West End. And the lead. Couldn’t say no, could I?’ He lowered the torch. ‘Want to come and have a bite round the corner? I’m bloody hungry.’
‘So am I.’
Last time it had been a self-service caff; this time it was a full-blown restaurant – a theatrical watering-hole with signed photographs of actors and actresses hung all over the walls. She dumped her carpet bag with the coats and the head waiter came forward.
‘Your usual table, sir?’
She recognized some famous faces at the tables and there were smiles and nods and waves, airily acknowledged by Ken as they were conducted to a corner.
‘You’ve gone up in the world a bit,’ she said, pulling off her woollen hat. ‘We had pilchards on toast last time.’
‘They do things like that here, if you want. Good plain grub. They stay open late and nobody bothers you, that’s why I come here. What in Christ’s name have you done to your hair?’
‘Cut it.’ She’d hacked it off with blunt scissors. ‘We caught head lice – from a fair, or the flicks, or somewhere like that. So I cut mine short and washed it in paraffin. It seems to have done the trick.’
‘I’ve had those. Used to get them at school. Mam’d fetch out the carbolic and a fine-tooth comb. They were always coming back, though. What’re you eating, love?’
She wolfed down kidneys in a delectable wine sauce, creamy mashed potatoes and buttery cabbage.
He said, ‘You haven’t got worms, as well, by any chance?’
‘Not that I know of. We’re always starving because we work so hard.’
‘Don’t they feed you?’
‘We feed ourselves – on whatever we can get. By fair means or foul.’
‘You mean you nick stuff?’
‘I do. We’re always passing allotments and fields full of cabbages and sprouts and carrots and things. Sometimes kind farmers take pity and give us free eggs and milk. One of them gave us a chicken once.’
‘Alive or dead?’
‘Dead. But with the feathers on. I used them to stuff a pillow. Nothing’s ever wasted. Have you got a cigarette?’
Offstage, in the flesh, he wasn’t much to look at – nothing like onstage when he was made up and lit up, and wearing nice clothes. But he had loads of sex appeal. That was the secret weapon.
‘So, you’re planning on coming back to the theatre – soon as you’re done with the barges?’
‘Narrowboats.’
‘Whatever the hell they are. Got an agent?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You want to get yourself a good one, when the time comes. There’ll be lots of others like you looking for work.’
‘I was hoping you’d help. When you start directing.’
‘Told you about that, did I? Yeah, a couple more years or so of this acting lark and I’m changing horses.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll bear you in mind, love. If you’re any good.’
The bread-and-butter pudding was the best she’d ever eaten and after it there was real coffee and another cigarette.
‘Where’re you staying tonight, then?’
‘I was going to phone Frankie. Her aunt’s got a flat in Knightsbridge and she’ll be staying there. We have to be at the depot early in the morning.’
‘You don’t want to go wandering about in this fog. Never know who you’ll bump into. Why not come back to my place instead? It’s not far. We could talk some more.’
She’d be a fool not to go with h
im. Hitch her wagon to his star.
The flat was on the top floor of an old building with a rickety lift. Attic rooms without much furniture but, he assured her, wonderful views on a good day. He did the blackout, lit a gas fire and fetched a bottle of brandy. Poured it into glasses.
‘OK. Pretend this is an audition. What do you know by heart?’
‘What do you want to hear?’
‘How about your namesake in As You Like It?’
Funny he should pick that. And lucky, because she knew the play so well. He lounged on the sofa, fag stuck in a corner of his mouth, head on one side, watching her and listening.
I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then, – for now I speak to some purpose, – that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit . . .
When she’d finished the speech, he nodded slowly. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all. And you’ve got the looks all right.’
‘Do you want to hear something else?’
He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Not now, love. Come over here. I’ve got another idea.’
‘Jack Carter’s courtin’ yer, then?’ Molly said. ‘So I hears.’
‘Actually, I hardly ever see him.’
‘Were just the same with me an’ Saul. Passed each other on the cut – a word an’ a wave an’ ’e was gone. If we was lucky, we ’ad the same tie-up an’ then we could go fer a walk, or ter the pictures.’ Molly hitched Abel higher on her hip; her stomach was already swelling with another baby, due in the spring. ‘Yer bin with ’im?’
She understood the meaning very well. Like all boatwomen, Molly loved a gossip. ‘Of course not.’
‘Wouldn’t blame yer if yer ’ad. But courtin’s different. Gettin’ wed. Yer don’ know what it’s like, livin’ on the boats.’
‘We’ve been working on them for almost a year.’
‘That’s not livin’ on them, like we does. Wouldn’t be right fer yer, an’ that’s a fact.’
‘But I love the boats, Molly. And I love Jack.’
‘I dare say.’
The manager in the company office at Coventry handed Frances a telegram and she tore it open.
Vere wounded on ops and taken to hospital at Northampton. Can you go soonest to see him. Aunt Gertrude.
Ros said, ‘Off you go. Prue and I can manage.’
‘Two-handed? We’ve never done that before?’
‘We’ll potter along slowly. You can catch us up somewhere later on. You ought to go, Frankie. It says “soonest”. That means right now.’
The cross-country train journey took hours. During it, her imagination painted all sorts of horror pictures: Vere hideously burned, horribly mutilated, lying unconscious at death’s door – perhaps already dead. At the hospital, she followed a nurse down a long linoleum corridor. Swing doors led off into gloomy wards with rows of beds filled with sad-looking patients. They’d put Vere in a small room on his own at the far end of a corridor. He was lying with his eyes closed, so still and so white that at first she thought he must, indeed, be dead. There was heavy bandaging across his chest and over his right shoulder.
‘He’s been sleeping a lot,’ the nurse whispered. ‘But I expect he’ll wake up now you’re here. You won’t be able to stay long, though. He’s not up to it.’
She sank down on the chair near the bed, numb with fear. Vere wasn’t dead but he was obviously very badly hurt. A chest wound was never a good thing – not from all she’d ever heard or read. In films, if people got shot in the chest, it was almost always the end. She spoke his name and he opened his eyes slowly.
‘Frances? What on earth are you doing here?’
She pulled the chair closer. ‘Aunt Gertrude sent me a telegram. She said you’d been hurt.’
‘Damned nuisance . . .’
She wasn’t sure if he was referring to her being there or to being hurt. ‘How are you feeling?’ What a stupid question.
‘I don’t feel anything much. They keep giving me stuff. Where am I, by the way?’
‘Northampton Hospital.’
‘You shouldn’t have come. What about those boats of yours?’
‘Ros and Prue are looking after them.’
‘Can they cope?’
‘I should think so. We’re quite good at it now.’
‘You’re doing a very good job. I’m sorry I tried to stop you.’ There was a pause. ‘But I still think you shouldn’t be doing it.’
He closed his eyes. She waited but he seemed to have drifted off again, and presently the nurse came back and said that her time was up. Out in the corridor she bumped into an RAF squadron leader whose face seemed familiar.
‘Hugh Whitelaw,’ he said. ‘We met at the Ritz, remember? I’ve come to see how your brother’s getting on.’
‘He doesn’t look very good. In fact, he looks dreadful. What happened?’
‘His Mosquito was hit by flak, that’s all I know. And he managed to fly it back. God knows how.’ He took her arm. ‘You don’t look so good yourself. There’s a canteen here, if you’d like a cup of tea, or something. It might make you feel better.’
He sat her down at a table and fetched her a cup of tea – the stewed kind that she used to dispense from the urn in the Bridport canteen.
‘Cigarette?’
‘Thanks.’
Her hand was shaking as he lit it for her.
He said, ‘Try not to worry too much. Vere’s incredibly tough, you know. He’ll pull through all right.’
‘We’ve never got on very well . . .’
He smiled. ‘Yes, you told me when we first met. Big brothers can be a drag – from the best of intentions. He told me once that he’s worried about you since your mother died, and that your father isn’t up to things. He feels you’re his responsibility. Responsibility is a big thing with him, you see. Looking after people he’s in charge of. He’s a hero to his men; they worship him in the squadron.’
Tears were trickling down her cheeks. ‘I’ve been pretty foul to him, one way and another. Now he’s going to die and I won’t get the chance to be nicer.’
He handed her a very clean handkerchief. ‘He’s not going to die, Frances. He’ll go on bossing you about and you’ll go on being foul to him – until you get married and he can hand over the responsibility to somebody else.’
‘He won’t approve of my husband at all.’ She mopped at her cheeks.
‘You’ve someone in mind?’
‘Yes. And he’ll disapprove like anything.’
He found her a room in a hotel for the night – a depressing place with elderly residents dozing in wing chairs and run by staff almost as decrepit – and then took her off to dinner in a nearby pub. After a large gin and tonic she began to perk up.
‘Do you mind telling me the latest war news, Hugh? We don’t hear much on the cut.’
‘I assume you know that President Roosevelt has been re-elected?’
‘No. I’m afraid not. What else?’
‘Let’s see . . . RAF bombers sank the German battleship Tirpitz.’
‘We haven’t heard that either.’
‘Our army has been doing amazingly well in Burma.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘And the Yanks have been steamrollering across Europe.’
‘So the war’ll be over soon, won’t it?’
‘Don’t count on it. We’ve still got a good way to go, I’m afraid. In Europe and the Far East.’
‘How much more?’
‘Impossible to say. Will you stay on your narrowboats until the bitter end?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She twiddled her glass. ‘Actually, I might stay even longer. Perhaps for ever.’
He didn’t ask why, which saved her having to lie about it in case he spilled the beans; he wasn’t the sort of person it would be easy to lie to. Over dinner, she took a closer peek at his face. Grey eyes, firm mouth, strong chin, but marked with the same lines and shadows as Vere.
She said, ‘Do you fly Mosquitoes too?’
&nb
sp; ‘I do, indeed. Fantastic planes. Mostly made of wood, you know.’
‘Wood! Isn’t that a bit dangerous?’
He smiled. ‘War is dangerous.’
‘Vere will never tell me exactly what he does.’
‘I can’t tell you either, I’m afraid. But it’s all pretty routine and boring.’
She didn’t believe him for a moment. It was hideously dangerous – whatever they did – and he could easily be killed doing it.
‘Don’t forget about my parents’ house at Stoke Bruerne,’ he said when he dropped her back at the depressing hotel. ‘If you’re ever in need of some decent food and a bed. Havlock Hall. It’s easy to find.’
She stayed in Northampton for two days, spending most of the time at Vere’s bedside. It would be a long haul, the hospital doctor told her. A large piece of flak had entered his chest and done a lot of damage. But there was every chance that he would make a full recovery – eventually. Predictably, Vere, whenever he woke up, still tried to give her orders.
‘Time you went back, Frances. There’s no point in hanging about here.’
‘I’m not hanging about. I’m making sure you’re all right.’
‘Well, I am – as you can see. I’m in perfectly good hands, and you’re needed on your boats. You’re the captain, or whatever it’s called. It’s your responsibility.’ He shut his eyes again.
She caught the boats up at Berkhamsted, where the railway passed close to the cut and the station was only a stone’s throw away. She wriggled through the fence onto the towpath and presently Orpheus and Eurydice came trundling along in smooth and stately fashion towards her – Ros steering the motor, Prue the butty. She wasn’t quite sure why but the familiar and beautiful sight made her start crying, and when they saw her face they thought, at first, that it was bad news until she tried to explain.
They’d been quite OK, they assured her, except for getting stemmed up once, but the Quill brothers had come along and given them a snatch.
‘The Quills?’
‘They were charming about it – for them,’ Ros said. ‘And we gave them mugs of tea as a thank-you. We’re all friends now.’ She put an arm round her shoulders. ‘I’m so glad Vere’s going to be all right.’
The Boat Girls Page 22
