The Boat Girls

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Much. I’ll be back with the squadron very soon.’

  ‘Flying on operations?’

  ‘That’s the general idea.’ He looked very unwing-commander-like in an old tweed jacket with leather patches on the sleeves and the sort of well-worn country clothes that his kind always looked so good in.

  ‘How did it happen – your ankle?’

  She told him. ‘We’ve jumped down hundreds of times. This time, I slipped on the ice. Very careless of me.’

  ‘None of you girls should be doing that job . . . it’s far too risky.’

  ‘That’s what the doctor said. But we don’t happen to agree. And what about your job? I bet that’s risky.’

  ‘With respect, Rosalind, it’s not quite the same thing.’

  ‘You mean it’s all right for you to take risks because you’re a man?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Men have to take physical risks in wartime; it’s expected of them. Women shouldn’t have to, unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  ‘You really are an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud, Vere.’

  He gave her a brief smile. ‘Yes, I know. Frances has told me so many times.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘The war’s going to end soon, isn’t it? So none of us will be taking risks any more.’

  ‘It’s not over yet. Not by a long chalk. We’ve still got to defeat the Germans in Europe and then there’s the Far East and Japan to deal with.’

  ‘That’s depressing. It’ll go on for ever.’

  ‘Not for ever,’ he said. ‘It’ll end one day. Then what are you going to do?’

  ‘Go back to the stage.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I remember you saying.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll probably have to leave the RAF and come home and do something about Averton. Try to get the place back on its feet again. It’s been neglected for years and there’s a hell of a lot to be done.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss the RAF?’

  ‘Very much. But I miss Averton too, when I’m away. And it’s my responsibility.’

  It was getting too dark to see the house properly – only the pitch of its ancient roofs against the western sky, the solid mass of its stone walls. The aunt greeted her like a long-lost friend, pressing her uncomfortably to a necklace of lumpy amber. With the aid of the duck’s-head walking stick – much admired by all on her long journey – she reached the sofa in front of a blazing log fire and Vere brought on the gins. It was rather like coming home, she thought wryly; in actual fact, a great deal better.

  The local doctor called the next day and manhandled the ankle. He didn’t think it was broken, either, but wanted her to have an X-ray. Vere drove her to the hospital in the van, and they sat around waiting for hours. If he hadn’t confiscated her walking stick, she would have made a bolt for it. After the X-ray, another doctor held up a large negative of some bones which, apparently, belonged to her, and announced, tracing bits of them with a pencil, that there was no break. No break but damaged collateral ligaments, whatever they were. Heat treatment was prescribed, massage and exercises.

  ‘I’m not going back there,’ she said as Vere drove her away. ‘It’ll get better on its own.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rosalind. Of course you must. I don’t like hospitals any more than you, but you’ve just got to put up with it.’

  She hobbled down to the orangery and paid a visit to Sir John, who gave her a tour of the orchids and cut off a lovely mauve flower for her. She would have worn it in her hair like she’d done with the one he’d given her before, but unfortunately it clashed, so she pinned it on her blouse instead. Vere drove her to the hospital for the heat treatment and the massage, collecting the pigs’ swill from the hotel afterwards. Otherwise she spent a great deal of time with her foot up on the sofa in front of the fire, playing card games with Aunt Gertrude – poker, pontoon, gin rummy – and a funny old-fashioned game with bits of bamboo and ivory called mah-jong. The aunt usually won, but not always. In between games they chatted and Rosalind thought up more theatre gossip. Once they talked about Vere. Gertrude was worried.

  ‘I simply hate the thought of him going back to fight in this wretched war.’

  ‘He’s not flying Lancaster bombers on raids any more, is he? It must be safer.’

  ‘Far from it. An old RAF friend of mine told me about this Mosquito squadron. Apparently, they’re given all the really tricky targets. He said it’s hideously dangerous.’

  She went on to talk about what a kind little boy Vere had been, and what a good older brother to Frankie.

  ‘He was always taking care of her – making sure she was all right and not doing anything stupid. He still does, of course, and Frances hates that, especially when she is doing something stupid.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll stop soon.’

  ‘Not until she gets married. Has she met anyone yet, do you know?’

  Ros hesitated. ‘Well . . . she fell desperately in love with someone, only it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Oh? Do tell me. Who was he?’

  ‘A boatman – working on the canals.’

  ‘Oh dear . . . that’s rather typical of Frances. What was he like?’

  ‘Very dark and very handsome. Like a gorgeous gypsy.’

  ‘No wonder she fell for him. I’d probably have done so myself, at her age. Awfully romantic. Lucky she came to her senses.’

  ‘She didn’t. He did. He told her it would never work and went off to another canal.’

  ‘That was decent of him. And jolly sensible.’

  ‘I thought so, too. Frances was very cut up about it, though – still is. I wouldn’t mention it to her – or to Vere.’

  ‘Not a word, I promise.’

  ‘There’s another man who’s rather smitten. Someone called Hugh Whitelaw. He’s in Vere’s squadron. He told us that his mother’s an old friend of yours.’

  ‘She is indeed. Joan and I were at school together. And I’ve known Hugh for years. How did you come across him?’

  ‘We met him at the Ritz. We went to have dinner at the hotel and Vere happened to be there with him, so we all sat at the same table. Then we stayed at his parents’ house when the boats were frozen up a few weeks ago. Hugh was home on leave at the same time.’

  ‘Really? What a piece of luck! He’s a charming young man. And he’ll inherit Havlock Hall and the estate, of course, as well as a great deal of money. Not to be sneezed at in these uncertain times. How smitten is he?’

  ‘Very, I’d say. But Frances isn’t interested. She’s still pining for her boatman.’

  ‘That’s a shame. She’ll get over it, though, in the end.’ Aunt Gertrude screwed another cigarette into the ivory holder and lit it. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m more concerned about Vere in that respect. It’s high time he found a nice girl.’

  ‘You needn’t be. He must have umpteen WAAFs falling at his feet.’

  ‘I dare say, but he doesn’t seem interested either – like his sister. On the other hand, he’s very interested in you.’

  ‘Me?’ Ros laughed. ‘Somehow I don’t think I’m quite his type. And I’m not a nice girl.’

  ‘I don’t agree on either count. To be perfectly frank, my dear, I’d always hoped it would be some rich heiress who’d snaffle Vere and bring her money to Averton, but since I’ve come to know you better, I’ve rather changed my mind about that. I’m not a bad judge of people and I think you’d be the very thing for him. Make him extremely happy. Do him the world of good. Didn’t you realize how much he likes you?’

  She frowned. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Enormously. And you bring such a wonderful blast of fresh air to Averton.’

  The clock on the mantelpiece made pre-chiming noises. Cigarette holder clamped at an acute angle, like President Roosevelt’s, Aunt Gertrude scooped up the cards with the dexterity of a Mississippi riverboat gambler.

  ‘Jolly good! Time for our gin.’

  Every nigh
t they listened to the nine o’clock news. The V2 rockets were still raining down on London, but the RAF was busy bombing German cities by night while the American Air Force did it by day, as well as dropping incendiary bombs on the Japanese. Meanwhile, the Allies were forging their way across Europe. The end of the war was nigh and that meant the end of being on the boats. She wasn’t all that sorry. She’d miss Frankie and Prue a lot, but she didn’t think she’d miss the boats quite so much. How could you miss being cold, wet, uncomfortable, filthy, tired, bruised and aching? On the other hand, though, there had been the good bits . . . the sun on your face and the wind in your hair, gliding through miles and miles of the most beautiful and peaceful countryside in the world, meeting the most extraordinary people and – perhaps most of all – feeling free in a way that wasn’t possible on dry land. Vere had once said much the same thing, she remembered – only he’d been talking about flying. She watched him covertly when they were listening to the news, and she could tell by his face that he was desperate to get back into action. Hideously dangerous, Aunt Gertrude had called it, which sounded frightening.

  The ankle was improving fast, the swelling almost down and she could walk without the duck’s-head stick. The next time that Vere drove her to the hospital for treatment, the doctor told her that there was no need for any more.

  ‘I’m as good as new,’ she said to Vere. ‘You won’t have to take me there again.’

  ‘Back to the boats?’

  ‘The sooner the better. Frances wrote that my replacement is hopeless. I ought to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m leaving too,’ he said. ‘We could travel to London together.’

  They called at the hotel to collect two more bins of pigs’ swill. He said, ‘I’ll take you the scenic route home. There are some rather amazing views.’

  They followed a bumpy one-track lane, climbing and twisting and turning, the pig bins going clatter-clatter in the back. There were early primroses under the hedgerows and buds on the trees. It would soon be looking lovely along the cut, she thought – the willows trailing their long thin leaves, wild flowers dotting the bank, ducks and moorhens nesting, herons flapping around. At the top of a steep hill Vere stopped the van. The land dropped to the south in front of them, sweeping down in soft green folds until it reached the sea, twinkling away in the far distance.

  ‘Averton’s behind us,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to get out to see it.’

  They walked along the ridge, the wind blowing her hair into a wild tangle. He pointed out the chimneys and rooftops of the house, just visible beyond the woods, with the square tower of the little church beside it.

  He said, ‘All the land in this direction belongs to Averton – as far as you can see.’

  ‘All of it? My God!’

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’ She thought: how extraordinary it must feel to own so much of England, and so much beauty. ‘You’re incredibly lucky, Vere.’

  He turned to her. ‘I want you to share it with me, Rosalind. I love you very much and I’m asking you to be my wife. To marry me in that church down there, as soon as the war’s over, and come and live at Averton.’

  For a moment she didn’t speak, because she couldn’t think of a blessed thing to say. Liking her was one thing, fancying her, even, but loving her and wanting to marry her was something else entirely.

  ‘You can’t mean it, Vere. You’re not serious.’

  ‘I do mean it. And I’m deadly serious. I adore you.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since you first came to Averton – after we’d met at the Ritz. I fell in love with you then. Probably before that. Probably when I first saw you.’

  ‘But you couldn’t have done. You disapproved of me like anything. You thought I’d be a bad influence on Frances.’

  ‘I did – at first.’

  ‘You hurt my feelings.’

  ‘It was unforgivable of me. And I was wrong. You must hate me for it.’

  ‘I don’t hate you, Vere. I’ve never done that.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m very thankful to hear it.’

  ‘And, anyway, it was my fault for behaving so badly at the Ritz. I did that on purpose, you know.’

  ‘I realized that. Later.’

  She was silent again. He’d paid her a huge compliment. Made her an offer that, as dear old Aunt Gertrude would have put it, wasn’t to be sneezed at. All those acres, as far as the eye could see, the lovely old house – even though it was falling down – the hundreds of years of family and tradition, going back to that rather gorgeous buccaneer with the emerald earring. To be a part of all that and have a title too, one day: Lady Carlyon. For a moment, she saw herself swanning around, playing the part – charming the villagers, being gracious to forelock-tugging tenants, opening the summer fete, sitting in the front pew. Then she saw the turned-up noses, the snide asides, the sniffy looks.

  ‘Only you were quite right in the first place, Vere. I’m not at all the sort of wife you should have. You’d be shocked if you knew everything about me.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Yes, you would. For a start, I tell lies.’

  ‘So do most people.’

  ‘And I make up stories.’

  ‘They’re extremely entertaining.’

  ‘And I steal things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Clothes, food, coal – anything I need. I do it quite often.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be in need of them if you married me. What else would shock me?’

  ‘I’ve been sleeping with men since I was sixteen – just to get parts in plays.’

  ‘Isn’t that what actresses do?’

  ‘And I want to go on acting. I’d hate to give that up.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to give it up. Actresses get married, like anybody else.’

  ‘You’d want me to have children to carry on the family name and I’m terrified of childbirth.’

  ‘Only one’s necessary – a boy called John.’

  ‘He’d probably have my colour hair, you realize that?’

  ‘I hope he would.’

  ‘So might any others.’

  ‘I hope they would, too. What else?’

  ‘My parents run a boarding house.’

  ‘I know they do.’

  ‘And I’ve got an uncle who’s a bookie.’

  ‘He could give us some good racing tips. And Aunt Gertrude would be especially delighted. Well, is that all?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘So, what’s your answer?’

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks; shook her head fiercely. ‘I don’t know, Vere. I’m not sure how I feel. About you. About anything. I’m not sure I could ever belong here. You must give me time.’

  ‘You can have as much of it as you need.’

  They walked back to the van. She was silent as they bumped down the hill to another clattering chorus from the pig bins.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, Rosalind.’

  ‘They’re worth much more than that.’

  ‘A shilling, then.’

  ‘Still not enough.’

  ‘Five shillings.’

  ‘Done.’

  She held out her hand, palm up, and he dug out two half-crowns from his pocket.

  ‘But no fibs.’

  ‘No fibs,’ she agreed.

  ‘So, what were these expensive thoughts?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘A deal’s a deal.’

  ‘Actually, I was just thinking to myself that I’ve never gone to bed with anyone who was in love with me. And I was wondering if it’s any different. If you see what I mean.’

  He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘You could easily find out, you know. If you wanted to.’

  Twenty

  THEY HUGGED ROS when she came back to meet them at Bulls Bridge. They carried her carpet bag, offered tea and her favourite ginger biscuits. Prue had cleaned the butty stove, polished everything a
nd swept out the cabin, and Frances had bought her a brass vase to put wild flowers in.

  ‘You’ve no idea how much we missed you, Ros. The other girl was useless, wasn’t she, Prue? Never did a thing right, and bone idle with it. All she did was sit around and eat all our food. She got off at Rickey, thank heavens. If we had a flag we’d have run it up.’

  Ros looked more beautiful than ever: she seemed to glow. Her hair was growing long again, all the usual cuts and bruises had healed, as well as the ankle, and she looked wonderfully clean – skin, hair, clothes. A normal human being from another land – except perhaps for the clothes. She was wearing a strange assortment of garments. Aunt Gertrude had given her one of her jumpers and unearthed some plus-twos in the Averton attics, as well as a pair of long green shooting socks. With her leather jerkin and the belt round her waist, the overall effect was pretty striking.

  Vere had apparently donated his old RAF battle jacket and Ros wore it slung jauntily across her shoulders.

  ‘How was he?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Fine. He’s gone back, you know.’

  ‘Not on ops, I hope.’

  ‘I’m not sure. He wants to, as soon as they’ll let him.’

  ‘He would. I hope they don’t. And I hope he was nice to you, Ros.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘He must be improving.’

  ‘Yes, I know him much better now.’ Out of Prue’s hearing, Ros asked, ‘Any news of Steve?’

  ‘None, unfortunately. Prue keeps ringing that pub to see if they’ve heard anything, but they haven’t. She hasn’t given up hope, though. She’s still convinced that he’s alive.’

  ‘Well, he could be.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem very likely though, does it? One piece of good news, though: Molly’s had her baby – a girl.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Seems to be fine. They’re back working on the cut. She said the second one’s easy. Like popping peas in a pod.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘They’ve named it after me.’

  ‘That’s quite a compliment.’

  On the last trip, when they’d stopped at the Hawkesbury office to get the coal loading orders, Frances had met Saul who’d told her that the baby had been born the day before. They were tied up round the back of the sheds on a quiet stretch of the cut which acted as a sort of boaters’ maternity ward, with a midwife and local doctor in attendance. Molly had been sitting up in bed with the baby tucked beside her and Abel bouncing around at the foot.