by Milly Adams
Her mum was rattling around in the kitchen and called, ‘Don’t forget your sandwiches, Thomas, they’re only Spam, but beggars can’t be choosers, and have you got your flask? I put two biscuits in, one for Anthony Burton too, though how he can concentrate on his soliciting after a night without sleep I don’t know. Don’t be late in the morning, back by seven-thirty, though I know you’ll pop into the allotment first. But no later than seven-thirty, do you hear? I don’t want to be worrying, I really don’t.’
Polly’s father called wearily, ‘Now, Mother, I won’t be late, but there’re no bombs and not likely to be, because the Blitz is over, and the Boche are too busy fighting Russia. It’s boys like Reggie who are taking the raids to them now, so don’t fret.’
Her mother said nothing, but the slam of the oven door was comment enough. Polly closed the door and curtain on the heels of her dad.
Her mother called, ‘Polly, get those wet clothes off and bring them down for washing. You’re to wear trousers, of all things, that Miss Burrows said, so I asked Aunt Olive at Number 16 and she’s let me have three pairs of her daughter’s, the one who’s no better than she ought to be. I gave them a good boil, just in case of germs. I had to pay for them, but not a lot. And Miss Burrows said boots, but you have some wellington boots. You can pack two of your father’s sweaters. It’s a shame I threw away your sailing sweater but it was torn something shocking. But hurry, your pie will be on the table. There’s a bit of bacon to give it some taste, but you like parsnips, don’t you? Of course you do.’
Polly started up the stairs and called, ‘I’ll be down in a minute, and thank you, Mum, for having a meal ready. I really need it.’
Her mum didn’t answer but just continued her babbling which Polly allowed to wash over her as she had done for these past six months. It felt as if the more her mother chattered, the less Polly spoke, and it had become something they both hid behind. Polly stopped on the stairs and leaned over the bannister, waiting for a pause. It came, and she cut in, ‘I could perhaps use one or two of Will’s sweaters?’
Her suggestion was met with a rare silence, so Polly continued upstairs, stripped off her clothes and changed into her dressing gown, before carrying her clothes on to the landing, hesitating outside Will’s room for a second longer than she ought. She continued downstairs.
At the kitchen doorway she said, ‘I’ve brought them down, Mum. I’ll wash them out later, then put them through the mangle.’
‘You’ll do no such thing as to put that poor skirt through the mangle, for goodness’ sake,’ her mum called. ‘It’s wool. I’ll do it. It’ll be dry by morning and you can take one of my hats. You’re not going to be on the boat all hours of the day or night, surely. Go into the dining room. Your supper’s on the table. Then go up into the loft and get the mattress down. Miss Burrows said army blankets were provided. No sheets, mind, or she didn’t mention them.’
Polly sat at the table. The stew was steaming, just as everything seemed to have done today. Suddenly ravenous, she dipped her bread in the gravy.
Her mother called, ‘I hope you’re not dunking your bread? You’ll be with smart people, or at least that Miss Burrows sounded high class, so don’t let yourself down. Remember, it’s lunch, not dinner. Remember your knife is not a pen …’ Polly sighed. Her mother had read all the books, and brought her and Will up to ‘know better’.
On the wall over the mantelpiece there were just blank squares on the pipe-smoke-stained wallpaper, and the mantelpiece itself was empty of photographs. She knew her dad had most of them in his shed on the allotment because her mother couldn’t bear to face such a harsh truth yet.
Later, Polly searched through the loft and found the mattress, the one that was used for camping, though it was what Will also used when he went sailing here, there and everywhere with Uncle Sidney. She was only suitable for day trips, Will had said, pulling her pigtails, but one day … He had left the mattress behind when he joined up but her one day was here. Tomorrow she’d be on water, on the canal. She would be going forward and it might help her begin to heal.
Will had chosen to go into the Tank Corps, or whatever its name was. His friend Simon Barston had called a month after they heard he was dead. He had told her and her dad that Will’s tank had received a direct hit, and there was nothing left of any of them.
Her mum had snatched the cup of tea she had given to Simon, telling him that, in that case, no one could know that it was her son who was dead. She had fled to the kitchen, and her dad had followed. When Polly had led the poor lad to the front door and he’d put on his boots again, she said, ‘I’m so sorry. Mum is … tormented. It will take time.’
The lad, Simon, had nodded. ‘For you too. Twins are closer than any other sort of relationship, I think. You are sort of almost one person, or so people say. I’m sorry, Polly. He talked a lot about you.’
She had shaken his hand, but could not speak. She had pulled back the blackout curtain and opened the door. ‘Break a leg,’ she’d said and he had grinned. ‘Will used to say that.’ Then he was gone.
That evening her mum had talked and talked, until she had suddenly screamed, again and again, and rushed into the dining room where she had stared at all the photos, running her finger around the face of her son. Going from photo to photo, and then to her bed.
The next morning all the photos had gone. Her dad rescued them secretly from the hole her mum had dug in the night, close to Will’s favourite rose, because they did not have Will himself to bury. ‘So,’ her dad had said. ‘So, at least she has accepted it.’
Her dad had given Polly her favourite photograph, of herself and Will together when they were twelve, in their school uniforms. She had hidden it in the third of her bedroom drawers.
Now Polly sat in the loft with the mattress Will would never sleep on again. But she would make sure it was used.
Polly stood up, and dragged it to the loft hatch.
‘You need to get to bed,’ her mother called from the landing. ‘You’ve an early start in the morning, and no doubt you’ll go to see your father after his ARP shift at the allotment. Heaven knows what he thinks will happen to his veggies if he doesn’t pop in every day. I expect that lady will call any minute so you best get down here, but don’t be on the telephone too long. It’s expensive.’
Polly rolled her eyes but said nothing. Her mother couldn’t understand that only the caller paid.
Later that evening, with all her packing done and Bet’s call finished, Polly’s mother reluctantly cut her daughter’s hair to shoulder length, almost weeping to see the ‘lovely chestnut locks’ on the newspaper spread out on the kitchen lino. Polly had begged her mother to make her life easier in what would be endless wind and rain, and give her a bob, but Mrs Holmes refused to go shorter than shoulder length.
‘It’s not proper, and people might think you’re “fast”,’ she told her. ‘And what will Reggie think?’
Later, when her mum was asleep, Polly crept into Will’s room. She pulled open the second drawer where his sweaters were folded, some knitted by their mum, and lifted out one of his old white sailing sweaters. It was too big for her, but that didn’t matter. He was bigger than her; stronger, too. He always had been when he put her in goal at the recreation ground and he and his friends kicked the ball into the net. She tried to stop one, but it stung. She was hopeless. He yelled, then laughed, ‘Move your blessed feet, girl.’
She did and blocked the next one, and the next. That had shown him.
She buried her head in the sweater, and there he was: that indefinable sense of her brother, the other half of her, the loss of whom had left her with a great void, a great nothingness where no feeling lived any more. Yes, she could talk, smile, laugh, but it never touched her, though that wasn’t quite true, because today she had been truly pleased when she knew she was to join the narrowboats.
She hugged his sweater so tightly that it made her arms ache. She listened to check that her mum was nowhere around,
then crept out of the room, carrying it. She put it in her kitbag, her father’s from the previous war, which her mum had cut down to half its size. Then at last she slept.
Her alarm clock woke her early. She listened to the sounds of the house. Her mother in the kitchen, up with the lark as always. Mr Bridges next door was leaving early for London. Soon she would set off for the train too, she thought. She was torn between excitement and nervousness and couldn’t stay in bed a moment longer. She dragged on her clothes, including the trousers which fitted like a glove. She put on the light, standing in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. ‘Shoulders back, stand straight. You can do this.’
After a cup of tea and toast Polly hurried to the allotments in the darkness of early morning, finding her way along the mown path to her father’s shed with the help of a shaded torch. There was a curtain over the window, but he’d be there. She knocked. ‘Dad, turn the hurricane lamp down, I’ve just popped in to say goodbye.’
‘Give us a minute, pet.’
The door opened and he ushered her in, saying, ‘Oh my word, you look just like …’ He stopped, then said, ‘I like your hair shorter, pet, and you’ve pinned it up. Suits you. Now tell me why you’ve had it cut?’
She explained as he sat back down in his deckchair, and she on the stool. He puffed away at his empty pipe and when she’d finished he tamped down the memory of tobacco in the pipe bowl. ‘You make the most of this, you hear me. Try to enjoy it, try to start filling up again, if you know what I mean. Try to care, because I know you don’t – not about anything, not really, since he went.’
Polly looked anywhere but at him, unable to bear the grief in his eyes and the sudden tremble of his hands. All along the shelf were the photographs he had taken from the house. Every time Polly came to the shed, she looked at this record of the pair of them growing up. Always together even when they were with friends. They had even had their own language when they were only about four, her dad had said. A few years later they had ridden their bikes and fished for minnows, had picnics. They were part of a gang by then, which Will led, but she was his lieutenant. Later they had sailed, he had a girlfriend, she a boyfriend, but it was Will she talked to about Robin, when he had not turned up at the cinema but had gone out with someone else instead.
She said, answering her dad at last, ‘I do care, Dad. I love you and Mum.’
Her dad said, ‘You’ve got to cry one day.’
The hurricane lamp was spluttering. Polly lifted the window blackout a fraction. Dawn was breaking. She had a train to catch, a war to win, a narrowboat to steer, and many loads to collect and deliver. She smiled at her father. ‘Dad, I love you. I’ll have leave after every two trips apparently, so I’ll be back in a month, I promise.’
He stood, turned off the lamp, opened the door. ‘I love you too, and thank you for choosing something safe, sweet girl. The ATA could have been dangerous, perhaps? I just don’t know, but it got your mum in a fret.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘I will see you soon. Be good, and write to Reggie. He’s a nice chap, your mum likes him.’
‘Well, he’s been to a posh school, he’s on the bombers, and likely a good income when the war is done,’ said Polly. ‘It’s what she’s always wanted for me.’
Her dad just looked, then murmured, ‘You could do worse, and it will make her happy. Well, happier.’ He stood on the path, holding the door open against the wind. The sky was clear, there were birds flying high, riding the thermals, and others were singing, guarding their space. Bert from the Crescent was pulling up his runner bean poles. It was all as it always had been but today she was leaving.
‘Look after Mum,’ she said as she left. ‘She’s still talking too much.’
He pulled Polly back, and hugged her close. She rested against him, just for a moment, but she must not for long, because she was so nervous she felt she would not let go. Inside, though, she wanted to leave.
Releasing her, he said, ‘Come and see us when you can, and write. But I’m glad you’re going. You need this, and never forget that.’
‘Bye, Dad.’ Polly was torn between relief and guilt. Perhaps she should have stayed to help? But her dad wanted her to go. She clung to that.
Her mum came on the bus to the station, and stood in front of her as they waited for the train, along with many others. She smoothed Polly’s dry mackintosh. ‘There, that’s better, and you have your vest on?’
Suddenly she hugged her daughter as though she’d never let her go, but it was then that the train came chugging into the station. It stopped, doors opened, people rushed from and to it.
‘I’ll be home on leave,’ Polly said as she disentangled herself from her mum’s embrace. ‘I’ll write to Reggie, I promise, to tell him where to write to me.’ It was what her mum wanted, and Polly didn’t really mind, one way or the other. Was it because what she and Reggie had was not important, or was it because … well, what? It wasn’t the right time? He was Will’s friend, one of those who had kicked balls into the goal, and had come to offer condolences. Things had gone from there, but what things?
‘If you have the time, Mum, write as well. I’d love to hear from you.’
Her mum shouted as Polly clambered on board, ‘You must be safe. I won’t have that Mr Hitler taking both my children, I won’t, do you hear me? Do you?’
After the train pulled out of the station Polly’s arm felt as if it might fall off from waving. As she made her way towards the corridor, the seated passengers who had heard her mum looked at her with pity. She clutched the rolled mattress and kitbag to her. For the first time ever she was leaving home.
Chapter 3
Tuesday 26 October – the canal at Hayes, near Southall
Miss Bet Burrows had instructed Polly to arrive at 10 a.m. at Hayes Station, near Southall, and so she did, to be met by Verity who was wearing a navy sweater with a hole in the left sleeve. On top she wore a pair of faded blue overalls, and wellington boots. ‘Come along, chop-chop.’
‘Hello,’ Polly said, adjusting the rolled-up mattress under her arm; at least it wasn’t raining, or she’d have been sleeping on a soggy mess tonight.
Verity stormed ahead, leaving Polly struggling in her wake, jostled by others who were leaving and entering the station. She called to Verity, ‘Any chance of a hand?’
Verity didn’t hear, or perhaps pretended not to, but flung over her shoulder, ‘Bet’s waiting on Marigold, the motorboat. She thought we should introduce you to the joys of life à la cut, hence meeting you here, and taking the motor along to the depot.’
Almost immediately, it seemed, they were at a steep bank that led from the station level to the canal side where Bet stood smoking on the deck, the slide hatch pushed open, the breast-high tiller at her back. She was reading a book that lay on the cabin roof next to the water can. Polly could hear the engine ticking over, pat-patter. Verity called, ‘Ahoy, sailor.’
Bet spun round, and flicked her cigarette butt into the cut. ‘Yet again I remind you, Verity, that it’s the deepest insult to call anyone on the waterways a sailor. If one of the boaters heard they’d think you were mocking their culture.’
Polly heard Verity sigh and mutter, ‘Everyone’s so damned touchy.’ She raised her voice and said, ‘Sorry, I suppose I forgot. Here’s our lost soul, with bag and baggage.’ She headed down the slope to the motor, leaving Polly to follow.
Bet stood legs astride on the deck waiting for Verity to approach, and then she put up her hand as though stopping traffic. ‘Listen, Verity. You’ve chased off one vulnerable girl, and as I said, I won’t tolerate much more. Now go back, and help Polly by taking the mattress. We’re a team, and you simply must get that through your head.’ Though Bet had spoken quietly the wind carried her words to Polly.
Bet lifted her hand to Polly and raised her voice. ‘I like your hair, Polly. It suits you a bit shorter and won’t be such a nuisance. Very well done. Nice cut, too.’
Polly reached up. Her hair had come
free from its grips, yet again, and fell in waves to her shoulders. Verity stormed up the slope and snatched the mattress. ‘Who’s a smarty-pants, then?’ she hissed.
Polly followed her to the motor with her kitbag, calling to Bet, ‘My mum’s a hairdresser and I convinced her it was necessary, or I’d be combing out knots all the time.’
Verity said, for Polly’s ears only, ‘My word, father a store-man and mother a hairdresser, how one’s heart sings.’
Polly stepped on to the Marigold. Verity’s words should have wounded her. They didn’t.
Bet was standing on the far side of Marigold’s deck. A narrowboat with a butty at its side pat-pattered steadily alongside. Bet said, ‘I’m glad you’re here, and while you are, please note that passing traffic slows to go by any boat at its moorings, or the wash could suck it away from the kerb and break the mooring strap. If you hear anyone using that term it means a rope. That passing butty and motor are strapped abreast. Strap, got it? Might as well pick up what you can, when you can, but don’t worry about it. Rope will do, or change and change about. It’s how you work that matters.’
Polly nodded as Bet added, ‘Stow your bedding and clothes in the locker beneath the side-bed, which is to be yours. As you know from your visit yesterday, it is narrow but will be thine own. Verity has the cross-bed as she was here first.’
She checked that Polly was listening before continuing, ‘You’ll find pots, pans and army blankets in the locker as well, so move those to one side and put your mattress and towels and that small kitbag to the other side. How clever of your mother – she told me she’d adjust the size. The Grand Union Canal Carrying Company has fixed a shelf into every cabin of every boat or butty that we women are to crew. They feel that our books and trinkets are all that’s needed to keep us happy. That is, if anyone should have such things as trinkets. The regular boaters on the Grand Union boats don’t have a shelf because, of course, they can’t read. Why is that? It is because there’s no time to stop anywhere long enough for regular schooling. They just pop the children into school for the odd day and then these children have the unmitigated pleasure of being mocked and derided as scum of the cut.’
