The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  She could see Verity dragging the long shaft along, while Curly Sylvia just stood on the bank by the Marigold, watching. Lazy wotnot, Polly thought. Verity carried the shaft past the prisoners and guards and arrived at the gate. ‘Right, let’s have a go.’

  She hooked and then prodded with the shaft.

  ‘’Ere, let’s be having it,’ the guard said.

  He took it from her, pulling, stabbing and thrusting. The branch merely disappeared further down. He withdrew the shaft. ‘Let’s give the gate a try, the ruddy branch might just have changed its position enough.’ Together they hauled at the beam, which still wouldn’t budge. The Tommy handed back the shaft and said, ‘Reckon you’ll ’ave to ram it. I’d best get on though, got to get my chicks back to their coop. The ground’s too cold and hard, but it was worth a try, and it’s been good for them to get out of their huts and away from the heaters, cooking up mischief.’

  He saluted the girls, trotted back to his chicks, and ordered them forward. Polly and Verity waited for them to pass by, refusing to drop their gaze and meeting expressions that varied from neutrality, to friendliness, to hate. Bringing up the rear were two who slouched along, out of step, and every inch of them yelled resentment. They were chivvied along but one POW almost stopped and the Tommy thrust him forward with his rifle. The German shrugged him off. ‘Schwein,’ he muttered, glaring at the girls. He had a scar on his cheek.

  Polly watched as they continued on their way. Verity said, ‘I bet he calls that a duelling scar, when it was probably a bar-room brawl.’

  The Marigold’s hooter sounded again, and now there was another boat behind Horizon, waiting.

  ‘Come with me, we’ve got to mutiny and take over the Marigold if she won’t shift her arse,’ Verity said, running ahead of Polly, who pretty soon caught up. Alongside the Marigold, Steerer Ambrose, who they’d met in the pub, was on the towpath, scratching his head. He said to Sylvia, ‘’Ow do? Is yer going to ram ’er, or is we going to be ’ere all night?’

  Polly nodded at the same time as Sylvia shook her head, saying, ‘Certainly not …’ Polly spoke over Sylvia. ‘Yes, we’re going to ram her, Steerer Ambrose. Shove over, Sylvia, or go and make a cup of tea if you can’t do something useful.’

  Steerer Ambrose shoved his hat back on, and turned, his windlass stuck in the back of his belt just as Polly and Verity wore theirs now, though Sylvia wore hers at the front, as she felt all good and true trainees should. Verity walked with him as far as Horizon. ‘We’ll crack on, don’t fret, Steerer Ambrose,’ Polly and Sylvia heard her say.

  Sylvia disappeared into the cabin as Polly was about to pull the Marigold away from the bank, but then Sylvia shoved her way up and on to the top step. Polly kept hold of the tiller as the wretched girl flourished the trip card in her face. She’d written: Polly Holmes overrode my order not to ram, and said, ‘You need to sign this.’

  ‘And you need to go and make a cup of tea right this minute. That means now.’ Polly didn’t know she could shout so loud. Sylvia ducked back into the cabin without another word, taking the chit with her.

  Polly swung round, shouting to Verity who was at her place on the tiller, ‘I’ll rev her, and we might skew round. Be ready.’ Verity threw the end of the short tow on to the motor counter for Polly to slot over the stud on the deck. Polly waited for Verity to run back along the top planks; the sun was out and shone brightly on the tarpaulin covering the load. She turned to the front, brought up the revs, released the accelerator, and with her hand tight on the tiller she drew away, towing Horizon. ‘Stand by, Sylvia,’ she yelled. ‘Put down any hot drinks.’ There was no reply. She drove the Marigold at the gate. ‘Come on, girl, for Bet. Make a good job of it.’

  Her bows hit the gate, throwing Polly forward. There was a crash from the cabin. The gate creaked and shifted a little. With a grinding noise the Marigold shoved her hull against the gate for several minutes as Polly kept her going slow but sure, and suddenly the gate whacked against the side of the lock. Polly thrust the engine into reverse and steered to the left, while behind, the Horizon steered to the right. It bounced off the right-hand wall, then skewed slightly round. ‘Perfect,’ Polly shouted. Verity answered, ‘Of course.’ She threw a mooring rope across to Polly, who hauled back on it, slowing the butty a fraction. The fender glided into the sill of the front gates while the butty came to rest against the Marigold. Polly slammed the Marigold into neutral, as Verity let out a ‘Yeehaw’. It was a cry they had heard a GI on a bridge yell when he waved before disappearing into the bridge hole.

  Polly and Verity laughed together, and leapt up the steps on opposite sides with the mooring straps, winding them round the studs. They then snatched out their windlasses, opened the paddles, and the two boats rose like good children while they tightened the mooring ropes. Sylvia stayed in the cabin.

  Once the lock was full she brandished the windlass at Steerer Ambrose who was waiting until they were clear and out on the pound. He hooted the Sunburst’s horn. Polly laughed. This was one to tell Bet. They would telephone from the pub, which was why they needed to press on. There were many more locks to climb before they reached the top of that particular staircase.

  Finally, as dusk was falling, they tied up, with Steerer Ambrose on Sunburst close behind, having climbed the Tring locks, and then on past Marsworth Junction down to Leighton Buzzard. Polly had broken the last two nails that had survived thus far, her callouses had bled, her whole body ached, her lips were so chapped they also bled, but what was new? Verity was much the same; not Sylvia, though, who had polished the range in between taking over the tiller of whoever was designated the lock-wheeler.

  Sylvia had pulled on a pristine woollen hat, wound her muffler round the bottom of her face, and hugged her new mackintosh around her. As Verity and Polly finished mooring up they saw her come from the back-end of the butty cabin, carrying leeks, potatoes and a couple of tins. ‘Please, not Spam fritters again,’ groaned Verity.

  It was indeed Spam, but not fritters, it transpired. Just fried Spam. Sylvia said not one word as they sat down at the Marigold’s hinged table but then she hadn’t spoken since the barging-of-the-gate debacle.

  Verity said, ‘This is nice. Just what we need after a hard day.’

  Polly agreed. ‘It’s just the thing. My dad grows leeks. Does yours, Sylvia?’

  There was just a shake of the head. Polly said, ‘We’re off to the pub. Come with us, you must know it from your other trips.’

  ‘I prefer not to go to pubs.’

  ‘You will truly need booze later on to set you up for the Bottom Road, which we call the Brum Bum.’

  ‘Do stop being coarse.’ Sylvia pursed her lips, and patted them with her handkerchief. Somehow it had remained clean, but, thought Polly, why not. It’s not as though the girl had been out actually battling the elements, and the locks. She took a deep breath. Perhaps Sylvia just needed to settle in. It must be difficult filling in as she was doing. The meal finished, they washed up and headed for the pub, all three of them, because Verity and Polly linked arms with Sylvia, and frogmarched her between them, past the women cleaning and washing. Sylvia said, ‘We should be doing that.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Polly insisted. ‘Tonight we need to telephone the hospital, and have some fun, and a drink. It’s been a successful day and we’ve all learned something about how to open an obstinate lock gate.’

  They pushed open the door as Sylvia said, ‘I certainly have learned something about you two and I will be lodging a complaint.’

  They pulled her into the pub. Verity sighed. ‘Of course you will, but not before we have a recuperative brandy.’

  For some reason they didn’t have to push and shove their way to the bar; instead a path opened. Verity murmured, ‘My word, the sea has divided,’ as she led the way. At the bar, they ordered a small brandy each, paid for by the kitty. Sylvia said, as they sat down at the empty table by the roaring fire which normally they had to wait to be free – ‘We ought to ke
ep a book in which we write expenditure.’

  Verity flashed a look at Polly, then stared into her drink and said, ‘I used to think that, Sylvia, but somehow one has to trust the team. If this wasn’t part of your training, it should have been. It’s the only way to survive all the difficulties.’

  There was silence. Sylvia sipped her brandy, then coughed. ‘I scarcely drink. In fact, I disagree with it.’

  ‘You told us, but this is restorative, medicinal, whatever you like to call it,’ Polly insisted as the flames played around the logs. ‘Absolutely,’ Verity added. ‘And with that in mind I’m going to telephone the Middlesex to find out how Bet is. Everyone think positively; we have to know she is beginning to improve. We have to.’

  She left Polly with Sylvia, who had taken another sip. The publican came over to Polly, a brace of pheasants hanging on a loop over his fingers, and said, ‘You were left these by Granfer. Saul’s been doing what Saul does. He was out getting one of these when young Jimmy was hurt, and got a few more along the way through to Leamington. Was ’oping to see yer at the pub by Kings Langley, when they came along last night but that’s the way of it. A boat a day ahead, stays a day ahead. Reckon these little beauties be nicely hung by the time you cook ’em.’

  Polly took them, and smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Sylvia tutted and said, ‘But they’ve got feathers on. What on earth do we do with them?’

  The publican turned away as Polly said, ‘Oh, our Verity’s done a course as all young ladies do, or her sort of young lady. She’ll manage, and probably rather well.’

  Verity was weaving back to them, through the men, who were nodding, and tipping their hats. She smiled at them when she reached their table and sat, and Polly relaxed. Surely that smile meant Bet was improving. Verity gripped Polly’s hand. ‘Darling Polly, you’ll never guess. Bet is out, yes she is, a huge improvement, lots of bad behaviour, so they’ve agreed she can recuperate at her home, which is, believe it or not, at Buckby. Not that they told me that. I telephoned the office at Mayfair. Miss Fancypants had gone home, but I know her cousin, and finally ran Miss FP to ground and dug it out of her. Bet went home by ambulance looking like death, but they waved the bunting to see her go. Such a grump, apparently.’

  Polly grinned. ‘You are actually totally impossible – poor Miss Fancypants. But that’s extraordinary news. Bet’s such a tough old bird, I can just imagine what she was like, causing merry hell. She’ll do better at home. We’ll go, as we pass, shall we? We won’t stay but oh, to see her would be so lovely. Any news on Jimmy? Would the hospital say?’

  ‘Not a word, we’re not family.’

  Steerer Ambrose, nearby, said, ‘’Ow do. Just ’eard I ’ave from Granfer Brown, him with the motor Golightly. ’E say that Jimmy Porter’ll be back on his dad’s motor when he calls in at depot for him, for orders. Bright as a button, ’e’ll be.’

  ‘Jimmy?’ asked Sylvia, her brandy glass empty.

  ‘The lad these two saved from t’cut. Pumped ’im like an ’andle, them did. Pumped, pumped till the water comed out. We’s all pleased for the lad. Yer playin’ them darts then?’

  Polly and Verity smiled at one another, and nodded at Steerer Ambrose. ‘Thank you, all. And yes, we’ll be playing darts, indeed we will, and probably winning.’

  Steerer Ambrose guffawed. They did play, and win, having bet on themselves. They pocketed the money, putting a third aside for Bet. Sylvia had tutted at the pheasants, tutted at the darts, tutted when the girls had a second brandy, and refused to play, and neither would she accept any share in the ill-gotten gains. Before she left she said, ‘I do wish we worked with a better class of person. Poachers? It’s not right. We should obey the ration.’

  Verity had said, ‘I’ll remember that when I’m carving it, and you have Spam again.’

  As Polly and Verity walked back to the butty, the pheasants hanging from Polly’s hand, she said quietly to Verity, ‘I wonder what home means with Bet? Is it where her mother was––’ She stopped. ‘Well, you know.’

  They turned on to the towpath and Verity said, ‘I’m not sure, I wondered that too.’

  In mid afternoon two days later on 20 November they took the turn-off for Leicester instead of heading into Braunston Tunnel, and just before Crick Tunnel they moored up near Buckby. For almost a mile, Polly and Verity followed the directions a lock-keeper had given them the day before, heading for Spring Cottage, walking at a fast pace, with Dog on her rope, trotting at their heels. Finally they knocked on the door of Spring Cottage, on the outskirts of the village. As they waited Verity whispered, ‘I couldn’t live in a place where a murder had been committed, could you?’

  ‘Be quiet,’ hissed Polly, who had been thinking the same thing.

  The door was opened by a woman of about Bet’s age. One who wore trousers and sweaters and had the tan of a boater. Her voice told them she wasn’t. ‘Hello, can I help?’

  Polly said, ‘We’re Bet’s trainees, and just wondered how she was.’

  Bet’s voice called from deep within the house. ‘Good grief, can’t a woman get any peace? Let ’em in, Fran.’

  Fran looked at their boots. ‘I have to put up with Bet’s, but three of you is just too much – and tie up the dog, if you will.’

  The two girls left their boots in the lobby, and Dog too, who sat looking stoic. Polly rubbed her ears, and told her, ‘We won’t be long. Be good.’ Dog cocked her head; her ears were long and flopped, her coat was short. They’d tried working out the mixture in her but given up. They followed Fran along the tiled floor, horribly conscious of their sweaty socks leaving equally sweaty footprints. Polly said, ‘I expect we smell as well.’

  Fran marched ahead. ‘Of course you do, but I can open a window when you’ve gone. I just draw the line at boots since I have no intention of mopping the floor. I have quite enough to do looking after this wretch without any extra work.’

  ‘Have you come far to nurse the wretch?’ Verity asked.

  Fran barked a laugh. ‘Not at all, this is my home too.’

  She opened a door and ushered them into a room with a huge inglenook fireplace. A rich red rug filled the space between the fire and a bed, and a sofa had been pushed back against the rear wall, leaving two armchairs either side of the fireplace.

  Fran said, ‘Sit down, do, the seats are leather so your ghastly filthy trousers won’t make too much of a mess, and it can be wiped down anyway. Don’t excite the wretch, and don’t stay long. She thought she was leaving hospital and the crosspatch sister for a smoother ride. That was her first mistake.’

  She left the room. In the bed, elevated by piles of pillows, lay Bet, almost as white as the linen. She said, her voice weak, ‘Well, she likes you.’

  Polly nudged Verity, who leaned sideways into her. Both laughed. Verity said, ‘Crikey, and what if she doesn’t?’

  ‘You don’t step over the threshold.’

  There it was, vintage Bet, Polly thought, however weak the voice, and however sunken the eyes. She beckoned them across, and her hand seemed to have lost all its tan, and strength. Worry tore at Polly, and at Verity too, judging by the way she gripped Polly’s hand, fleetingly. Bet murmured, ‘Stand close to the bed, if you will, I haven’t the voice to shout. I need to thank you for sweet-talking Sid and getting his help to cart me to the hospital. I had excellent care, a rather splendid little room, and I imagine it took a fair whack of money to make that possible.’

  Polly said, ‘It was Verity’s doing.’

  Bet gestured to Verity to come closer still, and Polly to take the other side of the bed. She took their hands, and squeezed them. Her skin was hot and papery, her voice thin and tired. ‘I’m more than grateful, and the Porters will be too.’

  Verity shook her head. ‘Money is nothing if you have a lot, and you are important to us.’

  Bet smiled weakly. ‘When I left, the nurse said that Jimmy would be back on the boat when Steerer Porter brought Hillcrest to the depot at the end of the run. T
hey’ll not want Dog until then, if at all. Depends if the animal is happy with you. They’ll want to give something to you. It could be Dog. So think if that would suit you.’

  Polly knew it would, and Verity was nodding. They smiled at one another, and then Polly said, ‘You’re looking so much better.’

  ‘No, I’m not, but now I’m home it won’t be too long before I’m sort of on my feet, but in the meantime, how goes it?’

  Verity launched into a catalogue of grumbles concerning Miss Sylvia Simpson, and was almost panting when she finished.

  Bet looked at Polly, who nodded in agreement. Bet closed her eyes for a moment, then said, ‘You look as though you’re standing to attention. Do sit on the bed, for goodness’ sake. Fran doesn’t bite.’

  Polly snatched a look over her shoulder, then said, ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Well, she takes a gulp from time to time, but only if the month has an R in it.’

  They laughed, and sat down. Bet looked at the grandfather clock to the right of the inglenook. ‘I’m sending you on your way in five minutes, because I’m tired and you have quite a way to go. One o’clock means you should be lock-wheeling, or cleaning, or––’

  Polly put up her hand. ‘The range is perfect and one cannot be accused of causing self-inflicted damage, Miss Bet Burrows.’

  Bet laughed again. ‘Look, she needs time to shake down, and you might just have to help her do that. Firm but fair, I’d normally say, but I happen to know she comes with a reputation. She is not a team person, apparently, but I think if anyone can sort her out, you two can, or so I told the office. Give her a chance if she starts softening, but if she doesn’t, try to sort her out. She won’t want another failure on her record, so mutiny if you need. It might just turn her, or “wind” her, if you think in terms of the cut, get her going another way. Or if worst comes to the worst, you can refuse to work with her and wait for another, but will she be any better?’