by Milly Adams
Polly left the butty to give their trip card to the old man at the office, just past the lock. He stood shivering in his dark jacket, and a cap that was too large. He grimaced as he marked the soiled card, which looked as though it had been nibbled. Perhaps it had. Perhaps along with everything they had rats, Polly thought. Well, if that was so, the buggers hadn’t left so the Marigold and Horizon weren’t sinking ships. She smiled at her joke. Will would––
No, not Will, not again. Why was he in her thoughts today?
Verity called up from Horizon, ‘Let me have it back, Polly. Then I can return it to the drawer and we will forget it again and again, as we have been doing.’
The man called down, ‘Ain’t no laughin’ matter. Rules is rules, and there’s a war on, you know.’
Polly slipped her arm through his. ‘Indeed we do know, which is why we’ve just hauled this butty as though we are horses – just because there are rules. So I don’t think you need to tell us about rules, do you?’
He patted her hand and said, ‘There ain’t no need to take on so.’
‘Oh, but she does take on,’ Verity called from the counter. ‘I ended up in the cut because I annoyed her. I’d stand back if I were you. Oops, she’s got her arm through yours. Bad, bad sign …’
Polly gripped the official’s arm tightly as he tried to pull away. He tugged, and she gripped, laughing. Finally, she let him go and he laughed, heading for the cottage. ‘Trouble with you incomers is that you don’t ’ave no bleedin’ manners. I don’t ’ave this with the proper boaters. Bloody cheek … Make sure you come and say hello next time you’re coming through though.’ The door slammed on his laugh. Polly winked at Verity, who crossed her arms and scowled at her. ‘Get yourself down here, Polly Holmes. You’re getting too cocky by half.’
Bet blew her hunting horn in a tally-ho from the Marigold, then they heard her great booming laugh.
They forged on and soon the factories were left behind and they tied up overnight beneath trees and by allotments, guzzling the rabbit stew, using water from the kettle to wash their hands. It was useless; the oily soot was too embedded. The blisters and cuts on the hands stung, and Polly even had blisters on her shoulders and round her waist from the cotton-line, but so probably did the others, so why mention it?
They fell into their beds, not bothering to undress, knowing that they would make the blankets black, but the rain had begun so there was no way to wash clothes. Besides, tomorrow they’d become as black again so they could wash everything at the end of the nightmare.
The rain stopped within an hour. Polly turned over and slept again, though the cold oozed through the cabin walls. They were awake with the dawn and set off as soon as they could, cutting through a frost-bleached land, leaving behind the allotments carved as though in white marble, and so too the trees. ‘A hoar frost,’ said Verity. ‘My mare loves it. Father said he’d look after her.’
The wind froze their hands and faces as they continued along the pound, aching all over, but at least they were now on the flat land heading to Coventry and able to remain together more often than not. Never had the pat-patter been so welcome.
As Verity and Polly took turns at the tiller of Horizon, the wind gusted across flat country, and before long, while Verity steered, Polly found herself shafting frantically as the butty caught on the silted-up cut bottom. It happened again and again, straining the snubber as the Marigold kept up its pace. Verity used the electric horn, ran down the top planks and yelled from the fore-end, ‘Motor down, Bet,’ then ran back, grabbing a shaft too. ‘Oh Polly, shove, shove. We can’t be splicing a snapped snubber on top of everything.’
Each time the two girls dug down with the shafts, punting the butty free, the water splashed back over them, freezing but marginally cleaner now. They headed into a bridge hole and only in its shelter did Polly realise how loud the wind had been whistling. They emerged and Polly found herself looking behind for a sight of the Seagull and Saul, because surely with his strength he could have caught them by now – if he’d really wanted to. She also found herself peering ahead more often, in case Leon was waiting round a bend – for them.
The short pounds had not finished with them though, and still Polly and Verity took turns acting as pack animals, hauling, and hating the wind which was icy and gusting, and loathing the needle-like rain. When the pounds were longer and they could both come back on board and enjoy the luxury of a tow, Verity washed some clothes on the range top while Polly steered, and stood by to shaft if needed. It was Polly who pegged the clothes on the line at the rear of the cabin and the bucket shed when the rain had stopped and Verity who took the tiller and hoped she wouldn’t need to shaft. For the next hour, wherever they were on the butty they could hear the washing cracking like whips in the wind.
They pat-pattered towards a bridge, over which marched a squad of soldiers. Others were marching two abreast along the towpath. A dog walker stood aside to let the men pass and the old man yelled to the girls, as his dog yapped, ‘You keep going or they’ll be ’aving them boats off you for their little war games, you see if they don’t.’
One of the soldiers called to Polly and Verity on the butty, ‘Give us a lift.’
Verity replied, ‘Strip off and swim over, then.’
The men laughed until the sergeant bawled, ‘This is a bloody war, not a bloody picnic.’
The butty headed under the low bridge in Marigold’s wake, and as the fore-end entered the gloom, Verity and Polly, both on the counter now, with cocoa in their hands, ducked, then looked at one another and laughed. Polly said, ‘If I look like you I know I am black, with bags under my eyes in which I could carry the shopping.’
‘Yes I can see that, but please, please, tell me I am still blonde.’ Verity tore off her woolly hat. Polly shook her head. ‘Nope, and we’ll need detergent to get all of this stuff off, I reckon. We’re little soot babies, that’s what we are. I’m chewing the stuff.’
They were being towed along a pound between ploughed fields now, and while Verity steered, Polly washed down the cabin roof and the sides with water and soda heated on the range. She wiped down the inside of the cabin with fresh hot water, the ceiling too, then mopped up the water that had dripped from her clothes on to the floor and thought she hated this awful cut.
She made tea and took it up to the counter, where the two girls clasped the hot enamel mugs, warming their hands as slag heaps appeared, and the odd cottage. Soon more and more cottages grouped into hamlets huddled alongside the cut. Many more dog walkers were in evidence, and cyclists, heads down, pedalling like mad things while the wind whipped their macs. Single-track railways ran parallel and coal trucks chuntered along them.
Verity called, ‘Coventry isn’t far.’
The bridges were more frequent, always a sign that a town was in the offing, with roads carrying buses, lorries, cars and pedestrians, rather than the odd track leading from one village to another. But then the locks reared their heads again, and they had to shoulder the tow-rope. Polly feared that the sight of a lock would one day cause her to strangle whoever was standing next to her.
They were towed past a coal mine, and saw miners coming off-shift, their faces black, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and were ashamed, because dragging a butty every so often was nothing in comparison.
The day passed quickly and now there was actual coal on the towpath, not just dust, and it even floated on the cut so when they had to queue at the locks, they collected as much coal as they could. Polly still looked behind from time to time, but Saul was not there. She checked ahead. Leon was not approaching – but of course he wasn’t. He wouldn’t have had time to reach Limehouse and set off back again.
The temperature continued to drop, and they kept both boats’ ranges going with impunity, knowing that they could pick up coal from the cut-side.
They reached the top lock of the last flight as the afternoon drew to a close. There was a queue again. They moored up for the night, and aske
d to refill their water cans from the pub which was set back. They were not invited in but waved round to the back, where there was an outside tap.
The three of them lugged the water cans back in the freezing gloom, without speaking. They banked up the grate, absorbing the warmth, and ate bread and cheese; now it was dark they stripped off their coal-smothered clothes, shaking them over the side, not caring if anyone saw their naked frozen bodies in the gloom. Too tired for the pub, they sliced as much of the dirt off as they could and went to bed in their pyjamas, feeling that the filthy trousers and jumpers piled in a heap between the side-bed and range would stand up on their own and walk out. Verity dozed, while Polly thought through the day and, in need of comfort, reached over Verity for Winnie-the-Pooh in the light from the range grate.
It wasn’t on the shelf. She looked again, tearing the books down. Some hit Verity who sat up, shouting, ‘Hey, what are you doing? It’s night-time, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Have you had it?’ Polly shouted at Verity. ‘Have you?’
Verity grabbed Polly, who was frantically searching. ‘Have I had what?’
‘Winnie-the-Pooh. Will wrote in it. It’s gone.’ She pulled away from Verity, who was looking through the books too. ‘You’re right, it’s not here. Did you take it down earlier? Is it in your bed, or beneath it?’ Verity lit the hurricane lamp and held it up as Polly dived down and searched the cupboard. Still on her knees she wailed, ‘It’s gone. Someone’s taken it.’
‘You can buy another,’ said Verity, placing the other books back on the shelf before turning off the lamp. ‘Come on, into bed. We’ll find you another at the depot.’
‘We can’t find another, not that one. There can’t be another of that one.’
The tears were flowing now, hot and endless, carving their way through the ingrained soot and the grime, and Verity was on her knees beside her, holding her as at last she sobbed for Will. Someone had taken the last thing she had of him, the only words she had written by him, the only thing she still had that they had loved, and now she was alone. Now she felt the awful pain of understanding, and accepting, that she would be only half of a whole for a lifetime. That Will would never return, he was truly gone, and it was too much to bear.
Verity soothed her, stroked her hair. ‘Oh Polly, don’t cry. It’s a book, that’s all. I promise we’ll find who’s taken it, or find another. Oh, please.’
‘But it’s not just a book. I’ve had it for so long and he wrote in it.’
‘Who wrote in it, Polly?’
Polly couldn’t say, she could only weep. Verity rocked her, soothing her, whispering, ‘There, there. Whoever it was … Whatever it is about, you can bear it. You are brave and kind and strong. I will help you. Let me. Talk to me when you’re ready. Until then, I’m here.’
Polly rested against her and still she couldn’t say the word, Will. But one day she would, she knew that now. Her tears were quieter, Verity’s arms around her were strong, and she let herself be held by this girl, who also knew pain.
Chapter 20
7 November – arrival at Coventry
In the morning Polly’s eyes were sore from crying, but when Bet knocked on the motor’s cabin door she called as usual, ‘Come in.’
Bet just looked at Polly, and said nothing. Verity said nothing either then or when they had woken. Now, however, as she made morning tea, with extra honey for Polly, she gave it to her, patting her shoulder. Now, when Bet took hers outside for a smoke, Verity said, ‘When you need me, I am here.’
Polly nearly cried again, but instead sipped her tea, and ate the bread and honey that Verity shoved into her hand. ‘Eat the crusts, it’ll make your hair curl,’ Verity said. ‘It’s what Nanny used to say, and look at mine.’
Her hair was straight, with just the same two looped curls she manufactured with grips. Polly laughed, her throat raw. Verity grinned.
They approached Coventry on a cut whose only view was of slag heaps either side. When they were almost at the loading yard Bet sent Polly cycling along the towpath, saying, ‘Go ahead and pick up our orders, if you would, Polly.’
Many boats were tied up along the bank, and she pedalled past checking their names, looking for Leon’s Brighton, or his butty, Maudsley. Neither were to be seen, and her hands relaxed on the handlebars. She checked for Saul’s but again, no, of course not.
Her back tyre was soft, but it would have to stay so. She stood in line outside the office, keeping her bike with her, moving it along. The boater behind said, ‘Yer can rest it against office, Missus.’
She smiled, pulling her hat down round her ears against the chill wind, but told him, ‘I’d rather hang on to it.’ She didn’t know who had stolen her book, or the kitty, and she wasn’t going to lose anything else.
She dragged it through the door into the office. The manager, still wearing his hat, shook his head. ‘That should stay outside.’
‘Well, it’s here now.’ Polly rested it against her hip and blew her nose on her sooty handkerchief. She had never felt as filthy as she had during these last heaven knew how many hours. It felt like a million. The manager looked at her. She put her handkerchief back into her trouser pocket, and stared at him. In the end he raised his eyebrows. ‘You trainees get more arsey by the day.’
‘Indeed we do. Must be something to do with the bike saddle.’
The man flushed, and looked down at the form he held. She dragged the nibbled trip card from her pocket. He took it, checked the names, and handed her a packet of letters. ‘Here you are, post for Holmes, Burrows and Clement, sent to the depot and forwarded to us. We do our best to look after you, arsey though you are.’
It was Polly’s turn to flush. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered. He gave her a loading order. ‘You’re one of Bet’s babies, but growing up quick, eh? The cut, especially the Bottom Road, makes you fight your corner, or if you don’t it’ll take you down, sort of drown you, but not with water, if you get my meaning. You’ll do all right, I can see that. Bet’ll be reversing up the arm right this minute, so remember to turn off the main cut on your bike, not to mention that uncomfortable saddle.’
She laughed, and left, then following directions cycled alongside the rails which were carrying coal trucks. Across the narrow cut, threadbare hawthorns carved by the wind into hunchbacks lined the path. Her hat was riding up again. She pulled it down, clutching the loading order in her teeth. She passed some men with shovels. ‘My old lady’d like that for her teapot,’ one called.
She snatched the loading order from between her teeth, and called back, ‘You’ll have to join the queue because it’s reserved for the first person to come bearing a fur hat in exchange. Until then this little miracle of a tea cosy stays on my head, pom-pom and all.’
She cycled on, followed by laughter. Coal dust was everywhere. Black gold, it had been called, but she remembered the exhausted men they had passed who paid the price. She coughed as she passed the trucks piled high with the stuff, crunching the grit between her teeth. The workers must live all the time with this grit in their throats, between their teeth, and probably breathed it in. She saw Bet then, shafting the Marigold into place, and Verity doing the same with Horizon. Polly waved the loading order. Bet shouted, ‘You can wipe that smile off your face, you’ll be shafting next time we’re here.’
Polly laughed. It was a deep, real laugh and surprised her, as had her sound sleep last night, after those hours of crying all over patient and caring Verity. This must be the real girl, so Tom was a fool, and Mother Clement horrid. This morning, as she slung the bike on to the towpath, Verity had repeated, ‘Remember, I’m here when you want to talk.’
She had accepted Polly’s nod, and as Polly had mounted the bike and set off along the towpath she’d called after her, ‘I’m sorry about the kitty and the fuss I made. Whoever took the book, perhaps took the money.’
Bet had swung round asking, ‘What’s this about a book?’
Polly had left them to it. Now she waited o
n the wharf and caught the mooring straps that Bet threw, winding them around the stud. She then caught both straps that Verity threw from Horizon, and tied up, then lifted the bike on to the roof of the butty before joining Bet on the Marigold.
Bet said, ‘You’re feeling like an old pro, aren’t you?’
Verity landed on the counter beside them. ‘I beg your pardon, boss?’
‘An old professional,’ Bet laughed. ‘Not an old––’
‘Enough,’ shouted Polly just as trucks of coal arrived, with four men covered in coal dust riding them. They set the trucks alongside Marigold’s hold, where a chute was positioned. Coal gushed out and the men guided it into the chute with the backs of their spades. Polly thought she’d experienced all that coal dust could throw at her, but she was wrong, and from the counter she breathed black dusty billowing air.
One of the men was smoking. Polly just stared. How could he breathe, smoke and shovel?
Another crew had begun loading the butty. The noise, the dust, the rattle and roar of the coal, and the occasional shout, created a frenzy of noise.
Bet yelled, ‘Polly, pump up the Primus and produce a mug of tea for the lads.’
Polly opened the Marigold’s cabin doors but didn’t slide back the hatch. Anything to keep the dust out. She doubled up and almost crawled into the cabin, but the hatch hadn’t kept anything out, she realised. She poured methylated spirits around the Primus gutter, trimmed the wick and lit the stove. While the kettle heated she sat on the side-bed, looking at the bookshelf.
She could remember him writing in it. Remember the way his tongue stuck out. It was then she pictured herself writing in The Water Babies for that same birthday, for him. Her mother had bought the books, and asked them each to write the dedication, as a surprise. It would be something to treasure, she had said.
The kettle was simmering. She dug her hands in her pockets; in the left one was the packet. She opened it and took out a letter for Verity, and another two for Bet. Polly had one from Reggie, and another from her parents. Later. She laid them all down on the cross-bed, then remembered the letter she had left in Winnie-the-Pooh. Thank heavens Reggie hadn’t put in anything the censor could care about.
