The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

Polly nodded. ‘To have it ready for the boats that are waiting, parked up by the side now in front of ours,’ she replied.

  ‘Gold star for the girl,’ called Bet. ‘This is why we like one pair to go up, and then another pair to come down, taking turns for ever and a day. That way it’s always ready for the next boat. However, it seldom happens, so don’t get your hopes up.’

  All three of them opened the gates, and watched as the pair of narrowboats repeated the actions of the ones before, with the steerer nodding and calling ‘’Ow do.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Bet shouted and waved the girls back on to the boats. Once on their home-bound way, Bet insisted that Polly took the motor tiller. ‘I’ll be beside you, so come on, we haven’t time for you to be precious. There’s a war on, you know.’

  Polly stared ahead, listening to the pat-patter, the slap of water against the sides, the cool wind in her face. Of course she knew, and for the first time in her life she’d worked a lock. She found herself smiling.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday 27 October – at the depot

  The next morning Polly stirred, her shoulders and back aching, her hands sore, her lids heavy, her ribs painful. She groaned, then lay still, wondering when her dad would knock on her door on his way to her mum with the early morning tea tray. ‘Up you get, don’t be late for the office.’

  She felt her hair lift in a cold, cold breeze. What? She opened her eyes, wondering where she was. She turned on to her side. A mere eighteen inches from her the ashtray of the range was cold and dead. Above and behind her the slide was open, the source of the breeze. She shivered, and remembered – of course.

  For a moment she shut her eyes again, her head throbbing, and looked up and backwards at the slide. Why on earth hadn’t she shut it? A cold draught always gave her a headache. She thought back and ah – she had cooked scrambled eggs on toast for supper for the three of them before they went to the pub and on their return the smell of cooking had hit them. As Verity fell into the cross-bed Polly had decided to leave the slide open to clear the cabin of cooking smells.

  At the thought of the food, her stomach heaved. Oh, the pub, what had possessed her? How many beers? She hardly drank. So, maybe it wasn’t the draught. She struggled to sit up, shoving back the stiff army blankets, feeling sick, her head worse. Well, that would teach her, and she’d never, ever drink a whole pint so quickly again. Her mum would be shocked. Half a pint in a woman’s glass was the thing, if indeed a lady drank beer at all. But she’d bought two pints, hadn’t she? Did she drink them both? She must have been mad, and was obviously no lady.

  They’d returned along the hardstanding of the lay-by, past the tied-up boats, Bet hushing Verity, who had wanted to sing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ – Verity, who was well on the way to being plastered – and Polly who was feeling not quite in control of her legs and a million miles from wanting to sing. She had just wanted her bed.

  Polly swung her legs on to the floor, in a panic now to get dressed because she needed to run for the toilet. She dragged on her clothes, refusing to even think of sitting on the bucket in the back-end. She pushed open the cabin doors, crossed the counter to the bank, and rushed as fast as she dared the quarter of a mile to the depot yard and the lavatory, where she sat, her head in her hands, wanting to go home, to lie in a bed, to have a wardrobe, and a kitchen downstairs with her mother doing the best she could with the ration.

  Someone knocked on the door. A man. ‘Are you building the damn thing?’

  ‘So sorry, sorry.’ She dragged up her trousers and hurried out. He shouldered past her in his blue overalls, saying, ‘Go and make a cuppa, you look like hell but you can throw a mean dart, I’ll say that for you.’

  He slammed the door shut behind him. She groaned and headed back to the butty. Darts? Then she remembered that Verity had picked up the darts from the shelf in the public bar, thrown a few and she couldn’t have been drunk because they hit the spot. Soon there had been a bit of a match between the depot boys and the Marigold, for Bet could play too, but not as well as Polly, because Will had taught her. He had learned at Scout Camp, and on returning home had created a cork dartboard which he had set up in the shed, and dragged her dad in to play with him.

  Together they had taught her, in between laughing hard enough to make their mum come out to stand and watch. Then they had given her mum the darts and she had thrown three bullseyes in a row. Into the silence she’d said, ‘I had a brother too, you know. A twin as well and he taught me to play. He died in the war, at Ypres.’ The laughter had faded, but her mum said, ‘He wouldn’t want me to mope, and I feel he’s still with me. You never really lose your twin. Life’s for living, don’t you forget that.’

  They had played on all summer until something else took their fancy.

  Polly had forgotten all of that, and her mum had forgotten to live. But the memory of those days made her feel that her mum would remember, one day, and so, too, would Polly. She hugged the memory as she hurried through the yard. All around, men were busying themselves. She ducked and wove through them. What on earth was the time? She tried to hurry once she reached the start of the lay-by, but steadied down as her head swam.

  As she walked she looked down at her dirty trousers, grubby red jumper, muddy boots, and became painfully aware of her unbrushed hair.

  The boats she passed were alive with activity. Women were washing down the cabin sides. The tillers had been removed from some, and others were turned like theirs; children and men were splicing rope while their wives made breakfast or washed clothes. Polly kept her eyes on the way ahead.

  Bet had reminded her how to splice when they returned to the lay-by from Cowley yesterday afternoon, reversing into their spot. Polly had felt she’d shafted like a professional, but Verity had put her right, muttering, ‘Don’t butter your parsnips yet, ducky, you’ve a long way to go.’

  Now she passed the Seagull and Swansong, but didn’t look. She hopped on to the Marigold. Verity was up, laying kindling on to the cold ash, calling to Polly as she stood on the counter. ‘Kettle’s on for a pot of tea. I have a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage so I fancy something tasty. We’ll have bread and your mother’s marmalade – so quaint of her to beaver away doing little things like that. I bet she knits too, probably that sweater? Well, watered-down beer or not, the pub did the job. I slept the night through, and now I’m off to the lavatory, which I imagine is where you’ve just been. Get your bed put away and finish laying the fire.’ She dusted off her hands, leapt up the steps, across the counter and off down the lay-by.

  Polly took her place in the cabin. The smell of the Primus, and its hiss as it heated the kettle, reminded Polly of a charabanc journey to the seaside with her mum. They’d sat behind the windbreak and Mum had pumped up the pressure on the small camping stove. Polly cleared her blankets and pillow, wishing it was Verity she was stuffing in the cupboard beneath the bed with the bed covers.

  She shovelled coal from the coal-box beneath the bottom step of the cabin, washed her hands in the painted bowl, brushed her hair, cut the bread, dug out the marmalade from the cupboard, checked her watch. It was 8 a.m., much later than the 5.30 a.m. Bet had spoken of last evening.

  The kettle had finally boiled, so she turned off the Primus and poured water on the tea leaves they were reusing from yesterday. She smeared a minuscule portion of the rationed butter on her bread, and showed the knife to the marmalade so it would last longer. If there was a complaint, Verity could go and boil her head.

  She poured her tea, adding evaporated milk, carried her breakfast outside and left it on the cabin roof, then dashed down the steps and found her pen and paper. She must write to Reggie, and to her parents. This she did, leaning on the cabin top as the wind flipped the corners of the paper and she sipped her tea. There was little she could say except that everything was going well, though they hadn’t yet been given orders, and that she hoped they were all right. On Reggie’s she added, ‘and do try and be safe’. Then thou
ght what a daft thing to say.

  She put both letters in envelopes, licked them down, and stuck on a stamp. She turned Reggie’s envelope over and over. Reggie’s presence in her life lifted the shadow from her mum a little and, after all, he was nice and kind, but Polly didn’t know if that was enough. Shouldn’t you miss the man you were stepping out with? Shouldn’t you go to sleep dreaming of him? But that was probably because she didn’t really think of anyone …

  ‘Writing home, that’s what I like to see, Polly.’ It was Bet, who was dragging her hand through her hair as she stood outside the butty, Horizon’s, cabin door. ‘I felt we could all do with a bit of a break, so I let us sleep on. It’s the last late morning we’ll have until the end of a second run, when you will both have a couple of days’ leave, while I interview a few more trainees.’

  Polly was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘But that means Verity will do three runs before she has leave. Is that fair?’

  Bet grinned. ‘She had two days while I sorted out Phyllis, so it’s quite fair, don’t worry, but nice thought. Now, may I join you? We usually eat together.’

  ‘Of course. Tea is brewing,’ Polly said. ‘There’s bread and Mum’s marmalade.’

  Bet stepped on to Marigold’s counter. ‘How scrumptious. I love home-made marmalade, and I bet it’s been hoarded for a couple of years, and will be heavenly. Clever woman, your mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly agreed, though she had never thought of her mum like that, and it cheered her.

  As the next couple of hours wore on there was still no order for them, though the tannoy boomed out every so often, calling for Steerer Mercy, Steerer Stennings, Steerer Ambrose, and so it went on. Polly was half relieved because the whole thing seemed so daunting and Verity so difficult, but was also half disappointed because she wanted to learn.

  While they waited, Polly was given another lesson in splicing rope, weaving the strands together, binding them until her fingers felt on fire, but at least her head was clearing. Then it was time for both trainees to polish the brass in the cabin – the range bar again, the horse brasses, the knobs on the stove – and wash down the walls and the ceiling. They dusted the pierced plates, and cleaned the porthole. They heated water on the kerb and washed their clothes, hanging them on the line behind the back-end. They refilled the water can.

  At 10.30, Verity made porridge, which they ate on the counter, putting the bowls on the roof. Verity said, ‘You’ll normally be eating mid-morning breakfast as we go along, so enjoy a moment of peaceful grub while you can.’

  Bet called from the butty, ‘I’ve put together a shopping list. Verity, you nip off into Southall please, while Polly is introduced to the delights of wiping down Marigold’s external cabin walls.’ She waved the list, and sent it across from the Horizon as a paper dart. It landed at Verity’s feet. ‘Good-oh,’ Verity muttered. ‘Anything to get off the bloody boat on to terra firma. My head is still swimming.’

  She nipped down to the cabin, and Polly heard the rattle of the kitty jar, then a bellow, ‘Get down here, Polly.’

  Polly left her porridge, which was cooling rapidly, and leaned through the doors. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I think you already have, but not me – you’ve helped yourself to the kitty money, haven’t you? It’s short.’ Verity brandished the jar containing the coins at her.

  ‘Hang on, what do you mean?’

  ‘Some has been taken.’

  ‘Well, not by me. Why on earth would I?’ Polly made her way down the two steps and, feeling suddenly strange, sat on the side-bed.

  Verity shook the jar in her face. ‘We’re five shillings short and you said you couldn’t afford to come to the pub, and then you came, and I believe you bought two pints. What’s more, the kitty hasn’t ever been short in the past. Work it out, why don’t you.’

  There was a heavy silence, which was broken by a knock on the cabin door. Bet stood there. ‘If I can hear you from the butty, Verity, so can others.’

  Verity shook the jar at Bet. ‘But Bet, no one locks their doors, because there is a code of no stealing, so it has to be––’

  ‘Let’s just sort this out quietly, Verity.’ Bet looked from one to the other, but her gaze lingered on Polly, who said stiffly, ‘I have never stolen in my life. I have money, but I have to make it last, which is why I said that last night. I brought money from the locker.’

  ‘Calm down, Polly. I was just thinking, not accusing.’ Bet was in the cabin now, her back against the unlit range.

  Verity grabbed a bag and pushed past Bet. She dashed up the steps to the counter. ‘Bugger that for a load of rubbish.’

  Bet shouted, ‘Verity, come back and let’s just think this through.’

  Verity stood at the entrance to the cabin. ‘Well, go on then. You stood up for Phyllis all the time, and now you’re doing it with Polly.’

  Bet looked from Polly to Verity. ‘I’m not standing up for anyone, Verity. As I’ve said so often before, I’m just trying to think it through. You’re right, the boaters don’t steal, neither do the blokes in the depot, but who knows, there’s a war on, we never know who anyone is and the depot takes on new people all the time. But what we don’t do is turn on one another. Verity, you must stop seeing favouritism where there is none. You simply must or how can we pull together as a team? You simply do not accuse people, you wait––’

  But Verity had gone. Bet shook her head, and climbed up the steps on to the counter. Polly heard her say to herself, ‘I have to try harder to make this work. She’s scared off one girl, and I’m not having it again. What on earth is it that has made her so defensive, so volatile, so angry?’

  Polly’s head throbbed. Poor Bet, how could she be so patient with them all, how on earth could she keep giving chances, and yes, what was wrong with Verity? Or perhaps she, Polly Holmes, was just bloody wet and irritating? Language, Polly, her mother would say, and quite frankly, Polly couldn’t care less because her head ached, she felt sick and who on earth took the money?

  By the time Verity returned there was still no call for Steerer Burrows, only the scratchy music the tannoy played in between calling others to the office. Verity packed away the shopping, what little there was of it, while Polly washed the outside of the butty cabin as well, to keep out of the way, shoving up the sleeves of her red jumper. Bet stayed in her cabin doing paperwork and then headed for the depot at midday without a word to either of them. At midday Bet called to them from the bank, ‘I’ve been to the office. No orders for us yet awhile, so we’ll eat in the canteen. Chop-chop, let’s get in the queue.’

  Just then a call came over the tannoy for Steerer Hopkins and almost immediately Saul and Joe left the Seagull and hurried towards the office as Polly joined Bet on the bank, pulling Will’s white sweater on top of her red one. She needed the barrier it would provide between herself and Verity. ‘I could do with some dinner,’ she said.

  Verity jumped down beside her. ‘Dinner? Surely you mean lunch.’

  Polly flushed. She had forgotten her mum’s lessons. It must be the headache, the sense of every noise being too loud. Bet said, ‘Verity, remember you’re not the only one struggling to cope with the fallout of the war, or a headache from too much beer. You know very well it’s called dinner at the depot, so, please, just go ahead and save us a place.’ Bet turned away, but not before squeezing Polly’s arm while Verity flounced off.

  Quietly they traipsed past the boats, and the women washing down the cabins or hanging up washing. Bet said softly, ‘I’m right in thinking the kitty is nothing to do with you?’

  Polly said, ‘I’m sorry you feel you had to ask.’

  ‘As a trainer that’s exactly what I do have to do, and I have already asked Verity, though I am absolutely sure there is quite another answer to all this. I just don’t know what.’

  Silence fell between them. They strode into the ever busy yard heading towards the canteen, just as Saul and Joe came out of the office, talking together. Saul nodded to the tw
o women, hands in his pockets, his red kerchief tied at his neck. His eyes stayed on Polly for a moment, his disgust visible. Joe’s hands were also in his pockets and he studied the ground as he hurried to keep up with Saul.

  Polly lifted her head, ignoring them both, just saying to Bet, ‘So, people did hear. How very lovely. And now let me answer your question loud and clear so there is no misunderstanding by anyone. The loss of money from the kitty has nothing to do with me, but if you think it has I will leave.’ She was shouting, because she wanted Saul and Joe to hear, but why? What did it matter what they thought?

  Bet said, ‘Then the matter is completely closed, and it will be written up as such. There are procedures I have to go through, you see.’

  Nothing further was said, but Polly thought of Mr Burton’s office, the calm and courtesy of the work, the conveyance documents and wills she had typed up. She almost turned around and headed to Marigold to pick up her things, but somehow she kept on walking. Why should she give this lot, especially Verity, the satisfaction of chasing her off?

  Polly dug her hands in her trouser pockets and lengthened her stride, her head up, but she couldn’t rid herself of Saul’s expression, those dark eyes, his thick hair, so curly, his strong tanned arms, his sleeves rolled up as though he was impervious to the wind. She turned and snatched a look. He was almost at the lay-by turn-off, walking with that easy stride that was almost a prowl. Suddenly he turned, and for a moment their eyes met. She spun round, feeling the heat in her face, and nearly stumbled.

  ‘Steady,’ Bet said, reaching out a hand.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Polly snapped, confused.

  Bet patted her arm. ‘Yes, you are, of course you are.’ They walked on. The yard was quieter as it was lunchtime, and they headed straight for the canteen, seeing Verity emerging from the lavatory, more lipstick on and her hair tidied, the tortoiseshell slide in place.

  Bet sighed. ‘She’s been dawdling, so I’m afraid there’ll be no place saved.’ She shoved open the door into the canteen and they were met by the smell of cabbage and a blast of warm moist air, overhung with cigarette smoke.