by Milly Adams
That was it, it was anger, but before Polly could examine the feeling, the waters closed over it, the trembling stopped, and she was blank again. The foreman stomped off. Bet said, ‘Come on, we need to finish the job.’
The three of them dismantled the planks and stands from the hold and then did the same on the butty as the crane swung inland and a team of men fastened chains around the first bundle of rusty billets. These were swinging over the Marigold in no time, and being lowered into the hold where four men shouted, pushed and waved their arms. The billets were laid to rest with a clang. With each bundle, the Marigold sank further into the water, while on the kerb, Polly, Verity and Bet slackened off the mooring straps.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Bet challenged them for the third time.
‘If we don’t, we’ll tip and sink,’ they almost screamed back in unison, then smiled at one another, panting.
Polly stretched her back, hearing the sounds of men and machinery at work overlaid with the calls of gulls and the siren of a merchantman that was moving away, unloaded. She watched it head off, soon to be out at sea in convoy, destined for America most probably, to reload with necessary cargo. Every second its crew would be facing possible death and disaster. All around the basin was the pat-patter of motorboats towing butties, in and out. Heading to the basin she saw Saul steering Seagull, the tail of his red kerchief fluttering, his eyes on the forward passage, as he towed Granfer on Swansong.
He’d be heading back past Alperton, and the depot lay-by and, finally, the start of the Birmingham run. Joe was sitting on Seagull’s roof, and it looked as though he was colouring. Polly waved. Granfer had turned to check a motorboat that was edging out from the side. He saw Polly and nodded in reply, but he was the only one who did.
Bet called, ‘Polly, get on board and light the motor’s range, will you? Might as well make tea.’
She did, and by eleven they were loaded, which was when the work really began for the three of them. Polly watched the other two as they replaced the beams across the boat, and drew the rigging chains across the holds to keep the sides of the boat together. Then the stands were dropped down to carry the top planks, which were screwed and tied into position. Now, Polly thought, she’d know how to do it next time.
Bet called, ‘Time for the side sheets, girls. Polly, you copy us.’
All three of them clambered over the cargo, untying the ropes and unrolling the tarred canvas resting on the gunwale before tossing the tarpaulin side sheets over the top planks. Bet and Polly threaded ropes through eyelets to secure the sheets, while Verity did the same on the port side.
The top sheets were heaved up next, and secured, and only now did Polly see that they were stencilled with the company initials, GUCCC, and the Marigold number 109. For this they had to stand on the four-inch gunwale which was close to the water, now that the load weighed so heavy.
Polly’s fingers were raw and blistered from the rough, hairy ropes, and there was still the butty to do. Opposite, she could hear Verity’s swearing and she learned new words every few moments, while Bet chuckled beside her.
It was past three when they set off, Bet and Polly on the Marigold, and then had to wait outside the lock for the gates to open. Eventually, when the lock was free, Bet called, ‘Take the tiller, Polly, feel the difference steering with a full load on, and ease her into the lock.’ Polly’s heart almost beat out of her chest. ‘I’d rather not,’ she said.
Bet shook her head. ‘That’s a shame, little one, because you’re doing it anyway. Come on.’ She stepped to one side. Polly took the tiller and Bet shouted, ‘Aim the prow to the wall, then it will swing round, tight against the lock-side. Reversing will keep her from headbutting the gates. You just need to get used to the elephant you’re handling after the gazelle of the empty motor.’
Polly couldn’t quite picture Marigold as a gazelle, empty or not, but under the lock-side’s looming shade she forgot the image while she did as ordered. The stern automatically swung over to lie against the wall, leaving the Marigold to drift towards the gates, until it nudged the sill. ‘Smoothly done, Polly. Slam it into neutral.’ Polly did, her hand slippery with sweat.
Bet had unhooked the short tow-rope from the stud behind Polly, and was coiling it before throwing it on to the bows of the butty as its fore-end slid past. The Horizon glided under its own momentum into the lock alongside the motor.
There was a slight thump as its fender hit the sill at the far end of the lock. ‘Good girl, Verity,’ Bet yelled, and leapt on to Marigold’s cabin top, with the mooring strap coiled over her shoulder, and then up the steps on the lock wall, calling, ‘Up you come, Polly.’
Polly followed her. Bet roared, ‘Tie her up, take out Marigold’s tiller, if you please, Verity. We should have been doing this from the start, Polly, but it was a step too far for a trainee’s first trip.’ Bet ran to the lock gates behind them. She was shoving at the beam, closing it, as Verity yanked the tiller from the Marigold and stood it by the cabin, before removing the tiller from the butty.
Polly was mooring Marigold as Verity rushed up the steps of the lock wall and wrapped the butty’s strap around the nearest bollard. Then she ran across the narrow bridgeway on the front gates, to reach the rear gate on the other side and close it. Polly followed and together they shoved the beam, pushing, until finally the gate closed. ‘What now?’ Verity panted.
‘Open the front paddles,’ Polly shouted.
‘Go on, then. She got it right, Bet,’ Verity called, and followed Polly, who took the windlass from her belt. Together the girls worked, and it was not until then that Polly realised what a tough job Bet had, trying to teach them everything the boaters absorbed from the moment they were born.
Bet was on the other paddle, and shouted across, ‘Not bad at all, Miss Verity Clement and Miss Polly Holmes.’ Verity turned to Polly, grinning. Her tortoiseshell slide had fallen out and her blonde hair hung over her face. ‘Only another one hundred and forty-nine to go,’ she hollered.
When the paddles were open, she and Polly searched and found the slide on the kerb between the gates. Verity put it in her pocket.
Polly said, ‘It’s too nice to lose.’
‘It cost someone a lot of money, when he didn’t have much.’ Suddenly Verity’s face was inexpressively sad. ‘I think I’ll leave it in the cabin. It’ll be quite safe.’
She smiled at Polly, nodded, but said nothing more.
Polly watched her head back over the front lock gates. Did that mean she was off the suspect list? Who knew, with Verity.
Chapter 11
Friday 29 October – heading for the depot lay-by
The Marigold towed her butty, Horizon, past Paddington, Willesden, Park Royal and stopped again at Alperton overnight, with the butty on a short tow. While Polly moored up the boats, she heard Bet ask Verity to replace the vegetables Bet had used to bulk up the rabbit stew simmering in the butty range. ‘You know where the shop is from last time, don’t you?’
‘More or less – it’s next to the pub.’ Verity stood on the counter of the motor, calling across to Bet on the butty counter.
Bet smiled, and said gently, ‘Of course, silly me, this is the girl that navigates by the pubs, not the shops.’
Polly stood quite still, the mooring strap in her hand. Would this set Verity off again? There was silence for a moment but then Verity laughed. Relieved, Polly finished the mooring and came back on board the Marigold, ducking down the steps into the cabin. She hunted for some cleaning cloths beneath her side-bed. Verity slipped down after her, counted out the money in the kitty, once, and then a second time, but said nothing as Polly watched. She merely checked the amount against figures in her notebook, nodded, grabbed the shopping bag and headed off.
Left behind, Polly set about wiping down the bike on the towpath after she had mended the punctures, as per Bet’s instructions, but it had been on her mind to do so anyway, because already the routine was becoming normal life. Tonight, they w
ere to eat in Bet’s butty, a tradition apparently, to have a change of scene before leaving London behind. She moved on from the bicycle to the Marigold’s chimney, buffing up its brass bands when Bet called her to the counter. Bet was lugging the flat battery. ‘You need to know how to charge this, so follow me to the engine room, if you would.’
In the engine room, she handed it to Polly and heaved out the charged battery from beneath the engine. ‘Polly, if you’d just pop yours into place, please.’
Polly smiled. ‘Not sure about “popping” it anywhere. It weighs a ton.’ Bet laughed, then coughed, and banged her chest. ‘Damned thing,’ she muttered.
‘The battery or your chest?’ Polly groaned, as she bent her knees as Bet had done, and lowered the battery beneath the engine, watching as Bet connected it, and wondering just how her back and abdominal muscles would ever recover. Finished, Bet stood, stretched her shoulders, then slapped Polly on the back. ‘Right, we’re done for the day. Come into my cabin and let the heat of the range do its bit towards relaxing those muscles you never even dreamed you had.’
Polly sat on the Horizon’s side-bed, relaxing in the cabin’s warmth, which was all-encompassing, even though the slide was open for fresh air. Bet’s cabin looked far more like a home from home than theirs, festooned with pierced floral plates, a crocheted cover on the small shelf, and a far more intricate crocheted curtain hooked up beside the cross-bed. There was floral paintwork wherever possible, and a photograph of Bet with two older people. Her parents? They stood in front of a great big house, with a spaniel at the woman’s feet. ‘Is that your mum?’
Bet, who was making a pot of tea at the range, merely nodded.
‘You look alike.’
‘I like to think so. Now, I’ll let the tea stew for a moment. Verity should be back soon and I expect she’ll like one too.’
Verity returned at 6.30. There was no smell on her breath and Polly realised she had feared there would be. Bet seemed to breathe easier too, as they ate the stew and then drank the tea. When they had finished, they didn’t head for the pub, but fell into their beds, and slept. Polly dreamed of a cabin with photos of Will and her together on the wall, and another with her mum and dad. In her dream cabin there were pierced-edged plates, horse brasses and crocheted curtains.
The next morning, 30 October, they were off before dawn, still on a short tow, one behind the other. Bet steered the motor while Polly pulled up her muffler against the bitter wind, which chapped her lips and made her eyes and nose run. Her mackintosh was flapping in the wind, and she drew up her collar. It was Verity who was cycling this morning, but as they approached the lay-by at the depot she deviated into the yard. What on earth? thought Polly, her elbow on the tiller, as she watched Verity disappear. ‘Now what?’
But within minutes Verity was back again, cycling along the towpath, brandishing letters. ‘For us all,’ she yelled.
Bet called from the tiller, ‘Well done, Verity. Pass ’em over at the next lock.’
Once past the depot they swung right, pat-pattering along, and through the Cowley lock where she had vaguely earned her spurs, but it was only the start of the long climb up the staircase. At the next lock, she and Verity changed roles, and Polly was the one tearing along the towpath lock-wheeling and her hands, already blistered and sore from the previous days, grew worse. She had tried wearing her woollen gloves, but they had caught on splinters and worn through in no time.
As they headed towards distant Watford she was almost beyond pain as she dodged potholes along the towpath, swerved round the odd pedestrian, not to mention fallen branches. Why the hell couldn’t a boat come south, and move away from the lock, leaving it ready and making her totally redundant? As she rode along she found herself using the swear words she was learning from Verity.
Polly threw herself off the bike at the next lock gates which were, yet again, shut against her. This time she yelled the rude words, because there was no unsuspecting civilian to hear, and right this moment she felt she was fighting her own wretched war.
It began pouring with rain as she rode along the towpath, and her two sweaters sagged, the red one underneath, and Will’s no longer white one on top. By the next lock they were both weighed down almost to her knees, even though she’d wrung out the hems. The cut wound from Denham, through Rickmansworth to Croxley Green, and finally through Cassiobury Park, where the beeches were beautiful, and the sycamores were shedding more leaves. At the next lock even the oak leaves, such late shedders normally, were being torn from the branches in the gusting wind. She flung the bike down and tore up to the beams, ratcheting up the paddles, to release the water, checking that Marigold and Horizon were not having to wait.
There was a lock-keeper on duty, who hurried out from his house, and helped her, offering eggs, as his hens were laying well. ‘Strange, cos they don’t really like the dark mornings, but here I’ve got six, just waiting for someone who’d like ’em.’
As the Marigold entered the slimy lock and Verity drifted the butty alongside until it nudged the sill, the lock-keeper closed one of the gates while Polly closed the other, yelling down to Verity, ‘If the kitty can stand it, we have the offer of eggs, off ration.’
‘There should be enough. In fact, there should be fifteen shillings and fourpence farthing. Jump down to the motor and take some.’ While Polly waited for the Marigold to rise just a bit, before jumping, Verity yelled across as Bet wrenched out the tiller. ‘Check it with her, Bet.’
Polly shook her head but said nothing, because Bet said it for her. ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort, you silly girl.’
Polly jumped on to the motor counter as the Marigold rose, and pounded down into the cabin, snatching up the kitty. She grabbed a shilling and raced out on to the counter, up the lock steps, then across the narrow platform of the gates. She haggled with the lock-keeper, who complained she was ruining him. She stuck to her guns and got eight for eightpence.
These she handed to Bet when the lock was full and left the pink docket in the box near the lock-keeper’s house, to show that they had been through. The paper was so wet it almost disintegrated. Then she was off again on her bike, and passed a boat coming towards her. When it was within earshot, she balanced her bike between her legs and called, ‘How do you do. Is the lock, by any wonderful chance, ready for us?’
The steerer nodded, then called, ‘Seagull’s ahead o’yer, by quite a ways, but I’s been through the last few behind ’em so they is ready. How many yer left ready for oos?’
‘Most of them – no one else has passed us going south.’
He nodded, touched his hat, and went on his way, butty and motor riding high, both with no loads. Perhaps he’d offloaded coal on the way, Polly thought, but he wasn’t a Grand Union boat, so maybe he’d been out of luck for any sort of return cargo, poor man.
As she mounted her bike and cycled along the towpath the rain was easing and Polly was aware of the beauty of the canal they’d passed through, the countryside, the fields, and trees, the bridge holes where once so many men had walked their boats through. In this weather the parapets were free of children gobbing them, or throwing whatever they could find, so perhaps she should be grateful.
The next lock-keeper stayed inside his house, but so what? She shrugged, shivering, waiting for the Marigold as it entered, and closing the gates behind it. Once she’d ratcheted the paddles and the lock was filling she jumped down on to the counter. Bet said, ‘I’ve cocoa on the go.’
Verity grinned across at her from Horizon. ‘Tough old shift. Bad luck. Don’t know where the lock-keeper is today.’
Polly searched for sarcasm and found none. She smiled back as the boats rose. ‘He’s probably hiding from the bloody rain.’
Verity raised her eyebrows, and said quietly, ‘I’m not a good example, Polly. Don’t change yourself.’
Polly laughed, ‘I’ll bloody change if I want to, so there.’
The girls grinned at one another. Verity shouted, loud enough for
Bet to hear, ‘We won’t need our trainer soon.’
Bet came out from Marigold’s cabin with three enamel mugs of steaming cocoa, into which the rain spattered. She handed the mugs to the girls. Polly warmed her hands, sipping as the steam warmed her face and the cocoa warmed her stomach.
So it went on, taking turn and turn about until the afternoon became evening as they headed north and the gathering gloom became darkness, though the rain still hadn’t stopped. Exhausted, they tied up where Bet always did, alongside many others at a spot between Kings Langley and Berkhamsted, near a pub. Polly could make out a few scattered houses near the cut, but as she looked more closely she could also see a built-up area fading into the darkness.
They ate a rushed supper of Spam fritters, cabbage and baked potatoes, and listened to the rain on the cabin roof. Suddenly it ceased. ‘Just like that,’ Verity muttered. ‘I can hear the rain god saying, let’s make them utterly soaked, utterly miserable and then, when they’re in the dry and warm, I’ll call a halt to it.’
Bet and Polly laughed. Bet brought out her cigarettes. ‘Here, little storyteller, have one of mine and be thankful it’s not going to be soaked before you can draw breath.’
Polly shook her head, then accepted one. Verity tutted. ‘You’re so easy.’ Again, there was no venom. ‘Always,’ Polly murmured.
Chapter 12
30 October – evening, moored north of Kings Langley
After they had washed up, Bet insisted they went to the pub set back from the canal. ‘Life can’t just be work, girls. We need a life, however tired we are.’
As they emerged from the cabin Polly saw that there was a bombers’ moon, and by its light they spotted the Seagull, Granfer Hopkins’s motorboat with its butty, Swansong, moored a bit further along, beyond another Grand Union boat and butty. And surely that was Leon’s right at the front of the queue?
