The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  ‘Ah, but so has Leon,’ said Polly. ‘He’s days ahead by now, and by the time we reach the depot he’ll already be on his way north again.’

  In the bridge hole Verity slung the bike on to the bank, and headed off for a lock, calling back, ‘We’re able to look after ourselves, anyway, so even if he’s on the way back to Birmingham, and passes us, we’re the waterway girls, so we are, and aren’t scared. Tally-ho.’

  Polly grinned, then laughed. Tally-ho indeed.

  At last, on 13 November, they struggled into the London environs, a world of traffic noise, and of red double-decker buses which roared over bridges. Their cargo of coal was unloaded at a factory producing something, but who cared what. All they did know was that they were yet again covered in billowing coal dust, eating it, breathing it, before heading off. Instead of finding it easier, now that the boats were lighter, the engine grew worse and soon it was stuttering, grinding, rasping until at last the depot came in sight. Never had Polly been so grateful to reach a familiar port of call. They backed into the lay-by and moored up. Polly wound the strap around the stud in tandem with Verity who was doing the same for the Marigold.

  Bet jumped off, and headed for the yard. ‘I’m going to have a word about the dear old girl’s engine. I thought it had been sorted, but patently not. Be back in a minute. Polly, I’m surprised you haven’t run off to use a proper lavatory.’

  Polly was too busy trying to spot the Seagull but, at the suggestion, felt the need, and walked off past the boats, knowing her face was the colour of coal, or as near as dammit, if Verity’s was anything to go by. She heard Verity running up behind, felt her arm slip through hers. ‘We could do a bit of a minstrel show, and make our fortunes.’

  ‘You do that, but I couldn’t kick up in the air if you paid me right this minute.’

  It felt good to be walking together, in step, a team.

  They were entering the yard, and now Verity snatched her arm free and set off running. ‘Race you,’ she said.

  Polly shook her head even though it was just like something she and Will would have done. ‘Not with that head start. I’ll wait outside.’

  Verity continued running, while Polly looked to the right, where Joe was coming along carrying a string shopping bag from the town. He saw her and hesitated, but then kept on, his head down.

  Polly walked across to intercept him, barring his way. He stepped to one side, but she blocked him, and then again as he sidestepped the other way. He stood quite still, lifted his head and stared at her. ‘What ya gawping at?’

  Polly smiled. ‘Just wanted to talk, Joe. Let’s walk back together, shall we, a little way.’ It wasn’t a question.

  He set off at a rush, but she kept pace. He slowed, and she slowed. Finally he stopped again.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘I think perhaps you have something of mine. In fact, I can see it behind the carrots in your string bag.’ Joe clutched the bag to him and stepped back. She smiled. ‘It’s all right, I don’t bite.’ He looked confused, and then stared hard at her mouth.

  ‘Oh Joe, I’m sorry, it’s just a saying which tells you I’m not fierce. But my book is precious. It was given to me by someone when we were both children and he even wrote in it. He’s dead now and his writing is the only writing I have left of his. I can see him holding the pen, as clear as day.’

  They were walking on again, side by side. Joe said nothing, and did nothing more than clutch the string bag. They were on the towpath now and a dog rushed past them, followed by a girl of about seven or eight. A temporary brick edifice held a boater’s boiler and the fire beneath burned fiercely. Polly felt the heat as they passed. ‘I wonder what your mother would think about you going into someone’s cabin and taking not only money from a kitty, but a book. And what about dropping a brick from a bridge, because I do think that was you too? Have a look at the mark you made.’ She shoved back her hat.

  He glanced up, but then down, muttering, ‘Can’t see nothing, yer so dirty.’

  She sighed. ‘But answer me, what would your mother think?’

  The boy stopped, and kicked at a stone with his battered boot. ‘She’d ’ave said, Oh Joe, ’ow could you?’

  ‘So, how could you?’

  He kicked the stone towards the cut, and she stopped it with her wellington boot, which had once been pristine. ‘Cos … cos I wanted pencils to draw, and that meant money, then I wanted to ’urt you, cos you made my da angry and that made me scared, so I threw the brick, but that was then. Then I took the book just cos I wanted it. I like the shapes, the animals. I wanted to draw ’em. To try to learn some letters.’

  ‘May I have it back now, or at least the page with the writing?’

  He put the string bag down on the towpath, eased out the book. It had his small dirty fingerprints on the jacket. He opened it at the inscription. He traced his finger along the writing, then tore out the page. ‘There, yer got yer writing.’

  She looked at the page, then squatted beside Joe. His hair was parted on the left, and she wanted to reach out and touch him, soothe him. Instead she said, ‘Will you give me my book back, when you think it is the right thing to do?’

  Joe stuffed it back in the string bag, and ran off. ‘Yer see, I did it, so I’m like me da. I’m like me da cos it just burst out o’me, in a nasty great billow of muck. That’s why I threw it, the brick, that’s why I took the book, cos I’m nasty, not nice like Mam.’

  Polly watched as he ran, the string bag banging on his leg. The boater woman wiping the outside walls of the cabin of her butty looked at her, and shook her head. ‘Kids – who’d ’ave ’em?’

  Her toddler was chained round the waist, the chain attached to the range chimney. Another child of about five was cleaning the cabin doors which were painted with flowers and castles. The tiller had been removed. Polly smiled. ‘I don’t know what goes on in their heads,’ she said, and waved as she turned on her heel and set off for the yard again, meeting Verity on her way to the lavatory.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ Verity asked. ‘I expected you to be breathing on the hinges telling me to hurry up.’

  When Polly returned she stepped on to the butty counter, the cabin doors of which were open. Smoke came from the range chimney. She called, ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Yes, the kettle’s on, and I’m just putting Verity in the picture.’ The warmth was welcome, but the smell of them all was not: a mixture of sweat, coal and, quite simply, dirt.

  As Bet told them that the Marigold was going into dry dock Polly sipped her tea. She could still taste the Spam fritters they had fried up in the Marigold cabin at lunchtime. Perhaps the taste in the air had been absorbed by the milk.

  Bet finished by saying, ‘So, I think you must take your two days’ leave now, and not wait until the end of the next trip. I’ll stay with the boats, of course, but first we’ll give them a bit of a clean.’

  It took an hour of hard work, and then they washed themselves as best they could in the lavatory sink. Polly packed up all her clothes, and one of the blankets to launder at home. She threw on her mackintosh over the clothes she was wearing, stuffing her hat into the bag as well, while Verity sat on the cross-bed and finished The Times.

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Polly when she was almost ready and trying to drag a comb through her filthy hair.

  ‘Who knows, darling. Catch up with some friends, or people I know might be a better way of putting it, as I’ve come to realise. Or just bunk up in the butty. Bet says I can share, just this once.’

  Polly put down her bag. ‘Look, why not go to your parents’, and try to sort it out?’

  Verity didn’t even look up. ‘Darling, you know I can’t possibly do that.’

  Polly hesitated, then climbed up the steps, toting her bag. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days, then.’

  She stepped on to the towpath, and walked away. As she did so, she heard running feet behind her and turned, expecting Verity. It was Joe. He held out Reggie’s letter, which s
he had put into Winnie-the-Pooh. ‘This yers too. It’s got writing on’t.’

  She took it, realising she had not only not missed it, but had also forgotten to read his latest. ‘Thank you, Joe. You see, I don’t think your da would have given it back to me, but your mum would, so what does that tell you?’

  He looked at her, then shrugged and shook his head, and ran back to the Seagull, which had backed into the kerb two boats along. Granfer was standing on the counter. He waved. Saul stood on the butty roof with a broom. He nodded, then mouthed ‘Thank you’. She forgot about Reggie, just looked back at Saul, and nodded. He’d said thank you. The cut folk never did. She felt a rush of such warmth, such pleasure for the first time since Will. She waved, turned, and tucked the letter into her pocket and walked on.

  Back on the motor, Granfer followed Joe into the cabin. ‘You sure she said you could keep the book?’

  ‘She said t’give it back when oos felt it right to give it back. Just as I says, Granfer.’

  Saul jumped down to the counter and stood behind Granfer, looking all the time at his nephew. ‘When d’ya reckon that will be then, Joe?’

  Granfer pulled Saul with him on to the towpath. ‘She be a wise one, lad, like yer ma. No point in rushing ’im. ’E ’as to come right by ’isself.’

  ‘And if ’e doesn’t?’ Saul said, feeling angry and embarrassed, and something else. Something deep in his chest.

  ‘We try summat else, cos we don’t want ’im to give up on ’isself and believe he’s like that bastard Leon.’

  Saul looked down the towpath as Polly turned the corner, swinging the bag as though it were as light as a feather, her head held like she always held it, strong and into the wind. He wanted to run after her, because the lad had taken something precious but she hadn’t torn into him, like she could have, and he had this feeling he didn’t recognise, which grew worse as she went from his sight.

  Once on the train Polly thought that she’d telephone her mother from Waterloo Station and warn her that she was coming for two nights, that she would need to wash her clothes and have a bath, or even two; and that her mum must try not to mind the sight and smell of her daughter. She stood, because the people near her were looking anywhere but at her, and some had their handkerchiefs to their noses. She smelt her arm. Her mac was nothing like the horrors beneath it, but there was, without doubt, a sizeable echo. She watched one station go by, and then another, wondering how she would have the energy to get home.

  She thought of Verity, going to stay with ‘people’, and somehow knew that this would not happen because, Polly sensed, she had seen them for what they were.

  As the train drew into a station and people sidled past her on to the platform, looking back surreptitiously, Polly knew beyond a doubt that Verity would stay in the butty, because there was nowhere else to go, not really. Yes, she had Bet, but she would be busy. That was no way to spend her leave.

  At the next station, she pressed herself against the side as others passed her, and she remembered the feel of Verity linking her arm in hers, and laughing as she had not done when they first met. Well, had Polly? No. So together, somehow, they were helping one another. As the guard blew his whistle, she leapt off, and caught the next train back. At Southall she ran from the station into the yard, waving to the policeman at the gate, and down the towpath, powering past a woman carrying back her shopping, and others washing clothes or chatting. Panting, she leapt on to Horizon. She dumped her bag on the counter. The tiller had been removed and Verity was smoking as she leaned on the cabin, staring into the cut and looking lost.

  Polly called, ‘Oh, come on. Come back with me, and slum it at Woking, why don’t you? You’ll have to share my room but at least we can form a united front when Mum spreads out newspaper just inside the front door, looks at us, smells us, and thinks all her worst nightmares have come true.’

  Chapter 22

  13 November – heading to Woking

  Her mother was all of a flutter when Polly telephoned in the early evening gloom of Waterloo Station, explaining that she had been given unexpected leave, would it be possible to come home for a couple of days?

  ‘Goodness me, leave? For two days? Well, of course, but what will we give you to eat? Oh dear, let me think …’

  Polly interrupted the familiar torrent, her heart sinking, though she grinned at Verity as though all was well. ‘Mum,’ she interrupted, ‘Mum, listen a moment. It doesn’t matter what we eat …’

  ‘“We”, what do you mean “we”? How many is “we”? Oh, how can I feed “we”? It’s wartime …’

  Her father must have snatched the telephone. His voice was hearty and pleased. ‘Of course you must come, and how many others? We’ll just have more vegetables, and we’ve a spot of cheese. I’ll take it out of the mousetrap.’ Polly laughed, hoping it was a joke, as he continued, ‘I brought some leeks from the allotment and we have cabbage. All will be well.’ Then she heard her mum in the background. ‘No, we is too much.’

  Her father reassured Polly. ‘Don’t worry, Polly, we’ll manage.’

  Polly sighed. ‘Oh Dad, do tell her it’s Lady Verity Clement,which should thrill her. Polly’s making nice friends again, now all the others, even my friends from school, are in the war effort.’ He laughed and said, ‘Just don’t worry. Leave it with me. We’ll make up the other bed in your room, if you can bear to share. You know she won’t countenance using … Well, you know.’

  ‘Of course I do, Dad. But be warned, we smell, and look like nothing on earth. We’re also very tired, so food isn’t an issue, but please, please stoke up the furnace for hot water. Have you extra logs?’

  As the pips started she heard him say, ‘Yes, to the furnace. Reggie is home on leave too––’ The line went dead. She replaced the receiver and walked over to Verity, who was leaning against the wall, smoking. Her mother would tut that it wasn’t proper for women to smoke in the street, any more than it was for them to eat. She smiled at Verity. ‘Mum’s in a bit of a do, but Dad’s taking over.’

  They checked their watches against the station clock. Even this had anti-blast paper strips stuck across it. There were sandbags dotted about but those couldn’t smell as awful as the girls did. ‘Come on, seven minutes,’ Verity said, taking a last drag and scrunching out the stub beneath her boot. They walked into the Ladies and tried yet again to wash off the worst of the residual coal dust, but it was too greasy. As they made their way to the exit they heard the announcement: ‘The train on Platform 4 will be departing in two minutes.’

  ‘Chop-chop,’ Polly muttered. They were both laughing as they ran for Platform 4, their kitbags over their shoulders. They showed their tickets at the gate and were waved through. They clambered on to the train, deciding it would be more merciful to everyone if they stood in the corridor. They squeezed in amongst a group of sailors, whose ship must have come in, or they were off somewhere only they knew, for the corridor was lined with them. There were soldiers at the far end, some sitting on their kitbags. Polly said to their neighbours, ‘We’ve just come off the canal boats, and smell to high heaven.’

  One of them yanked the window down. ‘Get downwind, love, and the breeze’ll shoot it on to the pongos, as our army brethren are called – by us, anyway.’

  A squaddie shouted, ‘I heard that. We’d rather have the smell than pneumonia, so shut it, darlin’, there’s a good girl, and let the matelots enjoy the whiff. You know matelots are the people God made out of leftovers, so they’ll be used to it.’

  Verity shoved up the window, laughing at the usual inter-service rivalry. When the train started, the girls also sat on their kitbags. Verity drew out her cigarettes and handed them round. The sailors leaned across one another to snatch one, saying, ‘For self-preservation, it’ll drown out you two.’

  One said, ‘That must have been some awful canal.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ Polly muttered, inhaling.

  ‘What’s been your cargo?’

  Polly said, ‘
Steel billets to the Midlands, coal to London, can’t you guess?’ She held out her grubby hand.

  The train drew into a siding only once, to let a goods train get ahead, so they arrived in Woking in forty minutes. As they stood waiting for the train to finally stop, the sailor next to Verity handed her a couple of packs of cigarettes. ‘Take ’em. We get troops’ comforts, and you wouldn’t want the other sort.’ The sailors around guffawed. He said, ‘You deserve the fags. We’re on the water too, and know the bloody hell of it, day after cold bloody day.’

  Verity took them and said, ‘I won’t kiss you.’

  ‘Thank Gawd for that,’ he grinned. The two girls eased their way along the corridor to the door while the sailors flattened themselves, holding their noses. Verity and Polly were laughing too much to say goodbye.

  Once on the platform their kitbags seemed heavier than ever, the wind too cold, the walk to the entrance too far on legs that had absolutely no energy. As they dragged themselves out of the station, past the sandbags, two men loomed out of the darkness. The girls hesitated, then in the moonlight Polly recognised her father beneath his muffler and hat as he said, ‘Reggie called in, so we thought we’d come to carry your kitbags.’

  Polly had almost forgotten what Reggie looked like, but could make out the RAF uniform as her father flashed his torch about the place. As the slit of light played across Reggie’s features she saw the deep lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth, and the thinness of his face. He had changed, but so had she. She felt pleased to see Will’s friend, but that was all.

  Polly put up her hand in a stop sign. ‘So lovely to see you both, but please do not approach, do not think of kissing me, or shaking Verity’s hand. We’ve had a long coal-dusted trip and are utterly disgusting to behold, let alone smell. We’d better carry our own kitbags, as they are pretty much as bad as us.’