The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  The alarm woke Polly at 5.30, just as Verity tiptoed down into the cabin, looking pale and stinking of booze. Polly slammed her hand on the clock she’d put on the floor by the side-bed, silencing it. She leapt from bed, grabbed Verity. ‘Stand there.’

  She stripped off the camel coat, the dress, the laddered stockings, then tore on to the counter in her pyjamas, checking there was no movement from Bet’s butty cabin. The coast was clear. She unchained the water can and carried it to the cabin tipping some into the bowl.

  She washed the girl down as though she was a child. Verity struggled, and now it was Polly who slapped her, whacking her arm, whispering, ‘Stand still. You reek of booze. Bet’ll be here any minute, so sluicing will help. You’re a damned fool. I’ll find you some clothes, then if Bet looks in she might think you’ve been here all night and are simply drowsy.’

  Verity vomited but Polly was ready with a towel on the floor. ‘You can rinse that through when you’re dressed.’

  She finished washing her, and towelled her dry while Verity shivered, saying, ‘You missed a good night.’

  Polly handed her the towel. ‘Finish, while I find you some clothes.’ She shoved the dress and coat in to the cupboard beneath the cross-bed, which she’d made up for Verity on her own return. She bundled up the unused bedding and shoved that in too, digging out underwear, socks, trousers and sweaters from the other end of the storage space. ‘Get these on while I sort myself out, but before you do that, fold up that towel with the remnants of the disgusting cocktails you’ve thrown up and hide it for now.’

  When they had dressed, Polly hissed, ‘Check for Bet, then tip that water from the bowl into the cut while I get the kettle going on the Primus, and for heaven’s sake, pretend to feel human or Bet will have your guts for garters.’

  Verity, still shivering, and saying nothing, staggered up the steps on to the counter. There was a pause, and lowered voices, but Polly heard Bet saying, ‘Well well, I am prepared to accept that you are upright, and alive, and therefore perhaps able to play your part today, Verity Clement, but all the loyalty of friends who wash you down to stop you stinking of stale booze will not keep you on the team if it happens just once more.’

  After a pause, Bet’s voice, louder this time. ‘Polly, get that kettle going. I need a cup of tea, fresh tea leaves. Do not – and I repeat, do not – give me used tea today or I will throw you both in the cut. Polly, you woke me when you came home at midnight, so another time, be quiet.’

  The Primus was hissing, the kettle too, and Polly heard the sound of Verity’s water being tossed into the cut, then a thud as the dipper was taken from the roof, the sound of feet slipping along the gunwale to the back-end. A moment later, she heard the clink of the bucket.

  Finally, Verity appeared back in the cabin. ‘The towel is soaking in the bucket. And don’t feel too pleased with yourself, no one likes a Goody Two-Shoes, particularly me, especially when you and I both know you aren’t. Kitty, kitty, eh?’ She was as white as a sheet and sweat beaded her forehead.

  Polly paid no attention, but it was then that she noticed the letters to her parents and Reggie she had intended to post sticking out of her handbag. Oh, damn. She made the tea, and then shot into Alperton, searching for a letterbox and finding one. She started to head back, then stopped as she passed the entrance to the Underground, with its dog-pee-smelling sandbags at the ready. Perhaps that would be her abiding memory of the war, if it was ever over?

  Though it was early, people were heading into the station and for a moment Polly was tempted to join them. It would be so easy just to leap on to a train and find her way back to Woking, and get away from Verity, the cold, the damp, the accusations. In the distance a siren wailed and a few searchlights probed the gloom that had not yet been lifted by dawn.

  She shrugged and continued to the cut because not even a slapped face bothered her, or made her care. Nothing yet had made her really angry, sad or happy, but the bloke in the canteen had said it would, one day, and she remembered feeling that he was right.

  Chapter 10

  28 October – heading along the Paddington Arm to Limehouse Basin

  As they headed away from Alperton to Limehouse Basin Bet steered, while Polly made cocoa. The butty, Horizon, was close towed so Bet blew the horn and yelled, ‘Run over the planks and have cocoa, Verity. You are forgiven for now, and probably could do with some sweetness.’ She leaned into the cabin and said, sotto voce, to Polly, ‘If you didn’t find out last night, our hung-over friend is Her Ladyship, but this is not used on the cut. Can you imagine the feeling amongst the boaters? They’d never accept us. Besides, no one is better than anyone else here and, to be fair to her, she never, ever uses it.’

  Polly thought of last night, and Bet was right – it wasn’t Verity who had used the term, just everyone else. She watched from inside the cabin as Verity made her way along the planks and dropped down to the butty’s fore-end deck, then leapt on to the Marigold’s counter. As Verity stepped on to the gunwale Polly emerged from the cabin with the cocoa, but at the sight of Verity’s face, pale and drawn, she ducked back down the cabin steps and added another spoonful of honey. She turned to see Verity peering down at her from the cabin doorway. ‘I’m perfectly sweet enough, thank you very much, Polly.’

  Polly merely handed her the mug. Verity backed out, then turned to lean against the cabin door, gulping it down quickly while Polly placed Bet’s cocoa on the cabin roof. She took her place on the gunwale, sipping hers. Verity slammed her empty mug down on the cabin roof and leapt back on the butty.

  Polly called after her, ‘Drink lots of water – lots of it.’

  Bet snapped, ‘Here, take the tiller for a bit and don’t tell me a word about last night. You should have made her come home. I’m cross with you both.’

  Polly gripped the tiller. Bet said, ‘The cut from here to the loading dock is a rehearsal for the Birmingham run. It has everything, but in a truly acceptable form. I will lock-wheel, you will steer.’

  The motor pat-pattered as Bet pedalled away on the bike. They met locks which Bet dealt with. Some were ready, some had lock-keepers taking over the paddles. Polly manoeuvred alone round S-bends, and as the early morning became just morning, the tunnels cut out the sun, not the breaking dawn, and the pat-patter seemed to echo in the darkness. Even the bridges were miraculously free of gobbing children. Instead, London red buses trundled across them, and pedestrians hurried, looking neither to left nor right, quite unaware of the canal world beneath them.

  There were narrowboats in front of them, and behind, riding high in the water, and others passing, heading heavily loaded to Birmingham. Some steerers called, ‘’Ow do.’ Some didn’t. Some boats were pulled by horses, some weren’t. They passed houses, factories, warehouses, allotments. There was the smell of smoke from the belching chimneys, there was the noise of machinery, the revving of buses and lorries across the bridges. Polly steered throughout, gripping the tiller less tightly as the hours passed.

  Bet returned, and sat on the roof, smoking, as the lock-keepers did their bit. ‘See the barges, big and ugly, and too wide for where we go, but you know that, Polly,’ said Bet, waving to one of them. ‘How do you do, Steerer Evan,’ she called. ‘’Ow do, Missus,’ called Evan. The barge loads were massive. Polly muttered, ‘I expect their cabins are palatial.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Bet muttered back. She had not stopped coughing in the cold, damp wind.

  They passed a few independent boats in colours of their own choosing, festooned with flowers and castles, all on a black background with one or two who had broken the tradition and inserted birds or animals, and Grand Union boats in the same red, white and blue colours as Marigold and Horizon. Slowly, Polly realised she was beginning to feel part of something huge, something that she vaguely understood.

  On the towpath children on bicycles waved and it was as they entered a tunnel that Polly, on Bet’s instruction, slipped the bike from the cabin roof. As Bet edged up to the side i
n the gloom, Polly dragged the bike on to the path. ‘Your baptism of fire as a lock-wheeler,’ Bet called. ‘Keep calm and remember Cowley Lock. Get pedalling, fast, reach the lock before we do, get it ready if no lock-keeper’s on duty. Once we’re through, get on to the next, and do the same thing. Time is important.’

  She cycled like a woman possessed towards the locks, trying to still her nerves. The back tyre was flat, the saddle split and pinching her bum, and she was tossed over the handlebars into the hedge within twenty yards of leaving the Marigold. The branches dug into her, and broke under her.

  Verity’s laugh reached her as she dug herself out, kicked aside the branch which had somehow found itself on the path and brought her down. She headed off again, leaves in her mouth as well as her hair. Will’s sweater was no longer white, it hadn’t been for some time, and the fall had finished the job.

  She heard the trams, the trains, noted the blocks of flats, factories, a hospital. She nodded thanks to the lock-keeper who sorted the first lock gates and sluices, as he called the paddles, winding the ratchets with his windlass. She cycled on as the Marigold entered the lock, leaving the lock-keeper to finish the job. She cursed the saddle, and the dog that yapped at her heels then sank its teeth into her trousers. ‘Go and pee on the sandbags, why don’t you,’ she yelled, kicking it away.

  A woman walking towards her with a lead in her hand called, ‘Your sort shouldn’t be allowed on the footpath. Leave my Rover alone.’

  Polly snatched a look behind. Marigold had left the lock – she must hurry. She pedalled harder, swerving past the dog walker as a laden boat and butty pat-pattered along going in the opposite direction. The woman shook her fist and called her a hooligan. She shouted back at the woman, ‘Why do you think there’s a towpath in the first place – for my sort, you silly old bag.’

  Her mother would be mortified.

  She looked ahead, leaving the outraged walker and Rover behind, but within fifty yards her front wheel caught on the edge of a pothole and she flew over the handlebars, skidding along the muddy path. She lay for a moment winded, but then heard barking. She leapt to her feet, gathered up the bike. The front tyre was flat too, now. She mounted, snatched a look behind. It was a tiny dog this time, but it was gaining on her, ignoring its owner who was whistling to it. Polly pedalled and left the dog behind, every part of her sore. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and her runny nose. Her mother would be even more mortified.

  After an hour or so, she changed places with Verity, taking over the butty tiller, steering when it was so close-tied that it was really not steering at all. Without the engine noise the butty was so quiet that there was just the breeze, and time to watch the world that carried on above them, hurtling over bridges, or alongside them. It was a world that continued to ignore the cut. It suited her.

  After another hour Bet blew her horn, and slowed the Marigold as she entered a bridge hole. On the towpath Verity waited, threw the bicycle on to the motorboat’s cabin roof and jumped on herself, as the Marigold continued to glide on slowly. Polly changed hands, easing her shoulder as she steered, but then heard a thumping along the top planks and Verity appeared on the butty cabin roof, panting. Her colour was better. She sat on her heels, slapped down some sandwiches on the roof, and an enamel mug of tea. She also handed Polly a newspaper from two days ago. ‘Wrap yourself round the sandwiches and you can borrow my newspaper. Borrow, I said.’

  She turned to run back. Polly said, ‘Thanks. And Verity, I respect you for not saying you are a Lady. It must be difficult.’

  ‘Why should I want to remember where I came from?’ Verity snapped. ‘And don’t, for God’s sake, ask me why I said that. And don’t you dare call me by that title. It’s in the past, got it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Polly knew about not wanting to think about things.

  Not long after midday they were heading for the lock at the entrance to the docks, and Bet chatted to the lock-keeper, nodding and laughing as a second bloke did the work. Polly waited on the butty’s counter, realising that the last couple of days had given her an understanding of locks, mooring and steering, or enough not to feel totally lost, anyway. Finally, and at last, they headed out of the massive gates into the huge pool with its cranes, its buildings, its boats and ships, overflown by crying seagulls weaving in and out of the barrage balloons.

  Verity appeared, having run along the top planks. ‘Your turn to run the planks – the boss wants you on the motor. Chop-chop.’

  Verity took the tiller while Polly told herself there was nothing to it. After all, lots of pirates had done it, and she wasn’t having to jump to her death, she hoped. She set off across the cabin roof, and then the planks, though not running, conscious of the drop to the bilges. She reached the stern counter of the Marigold.

  Bet was looking ahead. ‘Well done, Polly. Now concentrate. We’re to head for E wharf as instructed back at the lock. Did I tell you we were picking up steel billets?’

  ‘Rusty steel billets, Ted said.’

  The massive pool was quiet and as Polly looked around, Bet said, ‘The lads are off on their lunch break, so even the cranes are taking a nap.’ They were, indeed, Polly thought, as the arms were still, their chains and hooks dangling uselessly. What on earth would the troops think about a dock stopping for lunch?

  All she heard was the pat-pattering of the Marigold as they headed towards E wharf, passing many other wharfs containing narrowboats, some half loaded, some not at all. They passed a merchantman which threw them into shade as it waited to be unloaded, and then a medley of barges, some half unloaded. Finally they reached their destination, where they moored, and climbed up the iron ladder on to the wharf. ‘Dinner,’ Bet announced, pointing to a canteen across the yard. She set off.

  Verity groaned as she caught up with Polly.

  Polly said, ‘My bro––’ She stopped. ‘People say food helps a hangover, something to do with blood sugar.’

  Verity said, ‘Be quiet, will you.’ But there was no venom. Polly grinned. Not for one moment had Verity slackened or complained on the way to Limehouse. She nudged Verity. ‘Well done.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  Verity strode after Bet, her hands in her pockets. Polly followed as Bet gestured for them to hurry. They followed her in, to the familiar smell and noise of a workers’ canteen. Verity groaned again. Bet muttered, ‘Be a man, Verity.’

  The dockers wore overalls and white kerchiefs round their necks. The talk, the smoking and the scrape as they shoved back their chairs or the bench was the same as at the depot. Verity slumped into a space on a bench, waving her hand at Bet, who was staring down at her. ‘Would you please just bring me something hot, which doesn’t taste and doesn’t smell?’

  The men sitting at the table laughed. ‘Ah, one of those days.’ Verity sat with her head in her hands and said nothing. Bet raised her eyebrows at Polly and jerked her head towards the queue. Polly said, ‘For a friend in need …’

  ‘Just go,’ snapped Verity. Polly and Bet did.

  The three of them ate sausage, mash and bacon, and slowly Verity sat up straighter, and even smiled, though she shook her head at Bet’s offer of a cigarette. ‘A step too far.’

  As they walked back to their boats they saw Granfer and Saul on Seagull and Swansong, moored further along E wharf, washing down the cabins. Many narrowboats were queuing, and right at the front was Leon on Brighton, and his butty Maudsley, the steel billets half loaded. As one, the women looked elsewhere. Polly whispered, ‘Do Granfer and Saul know that Leon’s here? Will there be a do?’

  Bet shrugged. ‘None of our business, you’ve got to get that through your head, Polly.’

  As they headed for the Marigold, the dock was awakening again as the dockers’ lunch hour ended. They passed the foreman, and when Bet asked when loading would begin on the Marigold he said, knocking his cap back, ‘It’ll be tomorrow now, ladies.’ He sauntered off, shouting to one of the crane drivers, ‘Get a move on, Will, for Pete’s sa
ke.’

  Polly swung round. Will? She saw him suddenly, as he’d been on their fifteenth birthday, leaning down with her, blowing out the thirty candles, and laughing while their mum said, ‘No spitting on the cake, mind.’

  She swallowed, her eyes stinging. Bet called, ‘Come on, slowcoach.’ Verity was climbing down the ladder to the Marigold, Bet following. ‘Coming,’ Polly called, astonished at the swift pain she had felt, the need to swallow, the stinging of her eyes. Would she cry one day?

  Bet called again. ‘Polly, no point in cluttering up the place, so we’re off to a bed and breakfast I’ve used before but only after we’ve given the old dears a good wash-down, and covered up the hold to stop it filling with rain. Look at the clouds.’

  The next morning, they overslept at the B & B they had reached after walking through bomb-damaged streets. All three had shared a room, all three had used the bath in turn, soaking for half an hour. They had thought they might go for a drink, but instead had slept from eight until eight, and then run to the dock, past the policeman on the gate, waving their loading instructions as he grinned. ‘You’re not the first to be late, and won’t be the last.’

  They tore towards the boats, clambered down the vertical iron ladder, and stripped off the tarpaulin sheets. There had been a bit of rain in the night, which slid off into the pool. Above them the foreman called, ‘Come on, ladies, you’re holding up the war.’

  Polly snapped, ‘Nonetheless, we never, ever stop for lunch on the cut, and shouldn’t think the merchantmen bringing in the loads do either. They’re too busy dodging the submarines.’

  The foreman stared. Bet raised her eyebrows at Polly and whispered in her ear, ‘Steady, we don’t want them all out on strike.’

  Polly felt the tremble that had taken over her body, and the heat, and for a moment she couldn’t recognise what was happening, but then Verity said, ‘You look so angry and I thought you were Miss Stony-heart.’