The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  Saul let the pain wash over him, let it take him where the sun shone, so he could feel it on his face. He’d go poaching when they tied up. He’d set the traps under the moon, and fetch the booty in the morning, and sometimes, in the summer, when the grass were dry and daisies was out, he’d lie, close his eyes and see the red of his lids, and his body’d soften. He’d hear the larks. Yes, them larks, sky-larks they was called.

  The pain was building and taking him away from them sky-larks, but he dug his nails into his thighs and went back, feeling the sun on his face, the smell of the grass. Sometimes he thought he’d like the life of a banker, them people who lived on the land. Is that what Maudie had done, taken to the land? He’d like to run a pub on the cut, cos he could see the day when they’d not cart loads no more, but them’d be taken by trains … He could paint, an’ all.

  He groaned. Granfer said quietly, ‘Sorry, son.’

  Saul nodded, his eyes shut, lying on the grass, the daisies wobbling. Yes, p’raps he’d take to a pub, when the loads was taken by trains, and lorries, cos they said the cut were too slow. He’d even seen some boats turned into homes. Holiday homes, but what was an holiday? What’d yer do on an holiday?

  He opened his eyes as Granfer set about the stitching business again. ‘What yer do on an holiday, Granfer?’

  ‘Yer rest, son, on ’oliday. See other places, have fun, so Bob at the pub reckons.’

  ‘Fun?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Seems so. No work, just fun.’ Granfer was almost done, the rag he’d been dabbing at the wound was red right through.

  ‘What’s fun?’ Joe asked.

  Saul said, ‘Don’t rightly know, but them’s we sees cluttering up the locks in boats made into ’omes have fun, Bob says, or did afore this war. Eating, drinking, going oop and down t’cut ’aving a look at everything, and not doing their jobs. I reckon there’d be work for us in that, when t’war is done. Sometimes I wish they’da let me fight ’stead of stayin’ on the cut. The more who does, the quicker it’s done.’

  Granfer patted his shoulder. ‘Reckon yer done yer fair share tonight, lad, and we’s needed taking stuff about the place. Time for thinking of after, when after comes.’

  Granfer poured simmering water over the needle, and took the bowl out on to the counter. There was the sound of water being poured into the cut, then a scratching on the roof as he took down the dipper, to collect cut water. They heard him swill the bowl out before returning and pouring boiling water into the bowl, then up the steps and into the cut with it, again.

  Saul leaned forward and flicked his clean shirt off the range bar. Granfer collected the kettle and took it out on to the counter. ‘I’ll top this oop, then we’ll ’ave a mug o’ tea and get our ’eads down.’

  He was back in seconds. Saul was leaning on the side-bed, his eyes shut, listening to Granfer bustling. It was a good sound. A warm one. Saul said, ‘You finished yer castle yet, Joe lad?’

  He turned. Joe was staring at him. ‘You’re looking white, Uncle Saul.’

  ‘Tired, Joe. Just tired. Thinkin’ too. I reckon yer needs to spend more days at school. Need to learn yer letters and numbers.’

  ‘Yer can teach me.’

  ‘Wish I could, but I don’t know ’em neither, and we needs t’know letters these days. The world’ll change quick when the war is done, if’n we win. If we lose then we’ll do as them damn Germans command.’

  ‘Will Mam be back then?’

  Saul didn’t answer but looked at Granfer, who was watching the kettle. ‘It’ll never boil if’n yer do that,’ Saul said.

  ‘Yer got to answer me, Uncle Saul. When’ll Mam be back?’

  Granfer kept on looking at the kettle. Saul nodded slightly and seeing there was to be no help from his granfer turned to the lad. ‘I don’t know, Joe, that’s the ’onest truth. But there’s naught t’be done about that, ’cept going on until she do.’

  ‘Will the Germans come?’

  This was easier. Saul shook his head. ‘I don’t reckon them will now. They done their worst with the bombs. Now we’s just got to keep knocking ’em down till they stop getting up.’

  The tea was ready. Granfer handed a mug to each of them, looking at Joe’s picture and handing it to Saul before coming to sit next to him. ‘Reckon it’s as good a castle as I’ve seed,’ Granfer said approvingly.

  ‘Good enough,’ said Saul. ‘Reckon we got to find a plate for our lad to paint soon as we can. See how ‘e gets on with it.’

  The boy said nothing, just held his mug and stared into it. Now Granfer did look at Saul, who knew they were thinking just the same thing. Was the boy going dumb again, like he was when they fetched him to them, so bruised and beaten?

  Saul said gently, ‘Yer drink up, lad, then we’ll get yer to bed, eh. New day tomorrow.’

  Joe looked up. ‘He kicked yer, like he kicked me and Mam. ’Urts, don’t it? Really really ’urts. Yer’d a seed him off, wouldn’t yer, Uncle Saul? Yes, yer would, but that woman, she made ’im angry. Real angry. ’E’d get angry when Mam ’it him back, and he learned her not to. Learned me, ’n’all. It were better then, cos ’e got over it quick. But that woman, she made him angry. I know it. A woman banker ’itting ’im. He’ll want to ’urt oos more. She were a bugger to do that. He’ll get ’er, and ’e’ll get oos, yer see if he don’t.’

  Saul walked across, keeping his head low or he’d hit it on the ceiling, and he’d had enough bangs today. He sat next to the boy, fingering the crochet curtain his mam had made. He put his hand on the lad’s knee. ‘See this ’ere curtain. It drops between me and yer on the side-bed, don’t it? I will be between yer and ’im, you ’ear me? Granfer and me will always be between yer and ’im, even when yer mam comes back.’

  ‘But I ’ates that banker woman, because she’s made it worse, ’itting him like that. ’E’ll have plans. That’s what ’e says when yer makes him mad. ’E’ll have plans.’

  ‘Don’t yer worry about her, she looks well and good at lookin’ after ’erself.’ Granfer was cackling, as he looked into his mug of tea. ‘I reckon she did yer Uncle Saul a good turn, I do too. I don’t know if yer da saw who ’it ’im, anyway. It coulda been me for all ’e knows.’

  Joe drummed his heels on the cupboard beneath the cross-bed. ‘He’ll know,’ he muttered. ‘’E knows all things.’

  Chapter 14

  Sunday 31 October – heading away from Kings Langley

  Polly and Verity were knocked awake by Bet at 5.30 in time to hear a boat pat-pattering off. As Verity eased from the cross-bed she muttered, ‘It’ll be that Saul Hopkins setting off to get to the lock first and not even a thank-you.’

  Bet knocked again, and said, ‘Tea on the roof. Get it down quick, and I’ve done you both a slice of bread and honey, then we’ll set off. And Saul’s not the first to leave, Verity. Leon set off in the dark, thank the Lord. We’ll do our best to avoid him. He’ll be raw for a while but get drunk and hopefully forget it was Polly, if he even realises it. It was dark, remember. We’ve a long way to go, and–– saints preserve us, that’s quite some bonnet, Polly.’

  Polly had clambered out on to the counter. Verity followed saying, ‘I think perhaps it was knitted as a tea cosy, and you nicked it.’

  Bet laughed, and handed Verity her tea. ‘You’re on the butty again today, Verity, for some of it anyway. I’ll take a cycling shift when we see how Polly settles after her fisticuffs. But Saul will leave the locks ready, no doubt, especially if he knows it’s us following, so it could be easy-peasy. Chop-chop, got to keep up with the boaters. Got to prove yourselves, ladies.’

  ‘Wasn’t last night enough?’ Verity called as she made her way on to the butty, munching her bread.

  Bet was hurrying along the gunwale to the engine room and called, ‘Ah, word won’t spread. Saul will keep quiet, Leon certainly will, and so will we, and the men from the pub saw nothing, or that will be what they say. Least said, soonest mended.’

  So, that’s that, thought Polly a
s she took the post of steerer once she heard the engine catch, and start. Bet leapt on to the roof, and from there to the bank, letting go the mooring rope. Polly eased open the throttle, feeling Marigold take up the strain of the tow. She snatched a look to the left, at the pub set back from the cut. Would she ever look at it without feeling the thud of a stool on a body, the vibrations up her arm into her jaw? Rage? It was so long since she’d felt anything so strong that she felt invigorated, and almost grateful to that vile man and his vicious kicks.

  Bet was on the gunwale. ‘Good girl, ease her into the centre,’ she said. ‘Horizon’s on a short tow today, but we might put the snubber on later, when we get to a long pound – or in banker language, Polly, a straight long run between locks. But we’ve more than a few short locks to get through again before Fenny Stratford, where I reckon we’ll tie up for the night.’

  They passed an oncoming motor. ‘How do you do, is the lock ready?’ she called to the boatwoman steering.

  The woman nodded. ‘’Ow do,’ she called. ‘I’ll buy that ’at off you, if’n yer like.’

  ‘I’ll knit one for you,’ Polly called, keeping her eyes ahead. The boy steering the butty looked over at her. She called to him, ‘How do you do. Not sure if your mother heard. Tell her I’ll knit her a hat and leave it at Bob’s pub north of Kings Langley next time we’re coming through.’

  The boy stared ahead, not acknowledging her.

  Bet jumped on to the counter, then ducked into the cabin. ‘I’ll make some porridge a bit early. You can eat it on the move. Verity will make hers in my cabin. Take note of all of this. Incidentally, got your knitting needles, have you? On the cut you can’t make promises you’re not going to keep.’

  The wind was tearing at wisps of hair that had escaped from Polly’s hat, her nose was running, her hand on the tiller was freezing. She dug the other into her trouser pocket. Maybe she would put her mackintosh on today after all, she thought, but then shook her head. No she wouldn’t; the boaters didn’t bother, neither did Verity or Bet so she’d look a fool. ‘Well, have you?’ Bet called up.

  ‘Yes, not to mention my crochet hook, and wool, in the bottom of the kitbag, but there’s been no time. We’re either working or drinking. My mum would understand the working, but not the drinking.’ She stopped.

  She shouldn’t have said that when poor Bet had seen her mother killed. What must that be like, especially when it was your father who did it? She wanted to know more, but to ask would be rude. Was Leon really capable of killing? If so, the army should have snatched him up. She made herself grin at her pathetic joke, but it wasn’t funny. Leon wasn’t funny. Poor Joe, how could his mother have left him with that monster? Because that was what seemed to have happened, or so Verity had heard.

  She steered through pretty countryside, beneath tumbling clouds, and was soon approaching the lock. A queue of boats and butties had lined up along the edge of the cut, waiting. The Seagull and her butty were there, at the back of the queue. Polly steered closer to the bank, putting the engine into reverse, the propellers churning up the water as the Marigold slowed. Bet leapt out of the cabin and on to the gunwale, watching Polly’s every move. Finally they were ‘parked’ and Bet tied up. The butty parked behind her, and Bet tied her up too, almost before Horizon had stopped.

  Verity jumped onto the Marigold, and poked her head into the cabin, with Bet in her wake. ‘Oh, well, if you’re brewing porridge I’ll have some too to save myself the bother. It will line my stomach so I can better face the Berkhamsted to Tring locks. I hate them with a passion.’

  They hunkered down in the cabin while Bet stirred the porridge that was thickening into a glutinous mass on the Primus. Verity said, ‘Saul and Granfer are the next in the line. Will he come and thank us?’

  ‘Just stop obsessing about it, you know he won’t,’ Bet said. ‘And who knows if Granfer even told him? We say nothing, remember.’

  They stood on the bank, spooning down the glop, as Verity called it. ‘So it really was a tea cosy, wasn’t it?’ queried Verity.

  Polly flicked her with porridge. ‘I’ve had an order to make another, so very there. I’ll knit you one as well, if you like.’

  ‘I’d rather die,’ Verity laughed. She stopped, and looked sideways at Bet, then shared a look with Polly, who wondered if they might one day be real friends not just a boating team. She also wondered if there would ever be a time when someone or other hadn’t lost someone or other, and those around didn’t have to watch their words.

  They were on the move within half an hour, following Saul and Granfer as the convoy of boats used the locks, with oncoming boats feeding through alternately, leaving the locks ready. Consequently they rose relatively swiftly.

  ‘It’s a bit like clockwork,’ Polly said. Bet nodded. ‘It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s seamless, and you feel you’ve won a prize. But we’re not through yet, and once we are, we’re on a downward slope, so it’s the same thing but in reverse.’

  In the early afternoon the sun was out, the wind had died, and but for the trees with their turning leaves, some green, some edged with red or yellow, it could have been spring. Bet made fried egg sandwiches, and they dripped soft yolk down their sweaters as they moved along and up, and swigged tea and didn’t give a damn as they pat-pattered along the pound.

  It was then that Polly realised it was Sunday. Her mum would have been to church, her dad too, but he would have snoozed through the sermon. Then it would have been a rationed apology for a roast, and later for tea it had always been crumpets and celery. She and Will had not been allowed out to play on a Sunday – to show respect, her mum had said. The rest of the road thought they were daft, but in a way Polly understood. It kept them close as a family. It made the day an observance of things other than everyday affairs.

  Polly removed her hat, and shoved it in her trouser pocket and realised that – yes, she was happy; not happy as she had once been, but vaguely happy, and knew without doubt that she really was slowly, so slowly, healing. Would Will mind? Would he wonder how she could go on without him, when he’d been her other half even before birth?

  They travelled on through more locks with slimy walls, and water with a dank stench, and beams that rubbed their hands and bruised their backsides as they shoved, because they all took turns to roar along on the bike, and to open and close the gates.

  At last they were at the top and coasting the long pound towards Tring, which they passed, and then Bet called, ‘We’re at Marsworth Junction, so flex those muscles for the delightful locks on the way to Leighton Buzzard, dear hearts.’

  Polly thought she’d never be able to work out where she actually was in England while she was on the cut, because it seemed an entity that was enough in itself with no point of reference. So much of the scenery looked the same: the banks, the locks, the towpaths, the tunnels, the bridges – one of which she could see in the distance – the fields, the few dwellings, or the backs of towns.

  And what about the warehouses and factories, and the farms, and backs of gardens, allotments … But hang on, was that an aeroplane landing? She shaded her eyes and stared into the distance, seeing it circling, then dropping. Yes, it was.

  Bet said, following her line of sight, ‘RAF Leighton Buzzard over there but then there are airfields all over the country now, aren’t there? And there are prisoner-of-war camps for Germans all over the place too, of course. I often fear the prisoners will escape and grab an aeroplane, and get back to the war to cause more havoc.’

  Ahead Polly saw another bridge. She was so used to them now she never gave them a second thought, just ducked the manure, gob or whatever descended from them. The children were fair-weather, anyway, and the rain kept them in, and so did school unless they were playing truant. She smiled. She and Will had dipped school only once. It had been the most boring day of their lives, and they’d never done it again. Polly sounded the horn well in advance and only now did she remember Bet’s concerns. ‘The airfields are
guarded though, Bet, so that wouldn’t work.’

  Bet laughed. ‘Forget about that. Look ahead, and be ready to duck, we might be in for some gobbing. It’s a day off school, remember.’

  There was a child on the bridge, leaning over. Damn, Polly thought. She’d have to wash her hat free of spittle once they tied up at Fenny Stratford if their aim was as good as this morning. Yesterday there’d been a few out but she’d ducked well. She concentrated hard, knowing she must take the centre line through the narrow bridge or she’d knock into the sides. She sounded the horn again and looked up, to pinpoint the enemy. The child, a boy she thought, had disappeared and there was no answering horn either so she could enter.

  ‘All clear,’ she called to Bet. ‘But I’m going to buy that umbrella you spoke of before too long, and it’s not to keep the rain off. The little toe-rags.’

  Polly steered the fore-end dead centre into the bridge hole. The walls were as always so close to the motor that a mere couple of feet separated the boat from the towpath. She kept her eyes glued to the exit though the stern hadn’t yet entered, listening hard for a warning hoot. As she was about to go beneath the bridge she looked up again, just as Verity yelled from the stern of Horizon, ‘Polly, Polly, brick. It’s a brick.’

  It was too late. The brick hit the bobble on her hat, slid off and caught her forehead, then crashed to the counter. The pain crashed her mind, she had bitten her tongue, her ears rang, everything went dark and she felt sick, but only for a moment for then she heard Bet call, ‘Pol, Pol.’

  Polly shook her head, Will called her Pol. Will? Her head cleared it, but something was running into her eye. The tiller was snatched from her hand and Bet said, ‘Get in the cabin, wash that blood out of your eye.’

  Polly shook her head, brushed the blood away, and instead leapt from the counter on to the towpath. ‘It’s got to stop, he could have killed someone. I’ll catch you up.’ Her legs were shaking, but still she ran.