by Milly Adams
‘Did you see she’d picked up some mail from the office by the lock yesterday? I saw the envelope on her shelf. It was from Bet.’
‘Ah,’ they both said. Bet hadn’t mentioned that she’d already dropped Sylvia a note.
Within fifteen minutes they were heading off along the two-and-a-half-hour pound to the next locks, through frost-speckled countryside, with the odd call of a pheasant. Had Saul caught any more? Polly wondered. The two they’d plucked, drawn and eaten had been manna from heaven.
‘Perhaps Sylvia sees us as pantry providers,’ she muttered to herself as she steered and drove the motor, while Verity sat in the cabin and wrote a letter to Bet, on behalf of the two of them, keeping her abreast of proceedings and chatting, as well, about the increase in the number of prisoners they’d passed, troops they’d seen on the move, the pheasant and other little bits and pieces. They’d post it from Birmingham.
As they drew to the end of the pound Polly called Verity out. ‘Come on, I’m pulling us in, you can take Sylvia’s place on the butty tiller and let her do her worst on the Knowle locks.’
Once Sylvia was wincing along the towpath bouncing on the impossible saddle, Polly closed her eyes in exasperation at herself. For goodness’ sake, she still had the letter she had written to Reggie. She must post it when they arrived. She stooped, and could see it tucked between books on the shelf. What would he think of her? Then she realised that he’d think probably nothing because, after all, it was only a matter of days. It just seemed timeless on the cut.
She watched Sylvia managing the first of the locks, and she did well and even smiled as they brought the two boats in. They passed under bridges and as they approached they searched for the gobbers, ducking to avoid clods of manure hurled down as they entered a bridge hole. At the next they waved at the troops, and laughed as usual when the Tommies leapt out of the back of the lorry and blew them kisses. They were a sight for sore eyes, and counteracted the gobbers.
Sylvia tossed the bike on to Marigold’s roof, and without pause was washing the cabin floor as though her life depended on it, flapping Dog out of the way. Dog came to sit next to Polly on the counter, then jumped on to the roof. Polly stroked her. The range had warmed her on one side. ‘You are a spoilt princess, little Dog. How will you cope, living outside when you go back to Jimmy Porter? He’s getting much, much better, you know, and you’re the one who found him, you clever girl. Yes, you did.’ Dog licked her hand. She was such a gentle dog.
Polly peered back down into the cabin. ‘Have a break, Sylvia, while you can. Make some tea, perhaps.’ She steered for the centre of a bridge hole, saying, ‘You’ll wear yourself out.’
‘I like to keep busy.’
As they entered, a gob of spittle landed on Polly’s hand. She looked up and received a face full of manure. The boys and girl on the bridge cheered, and yelled, ‘Boater scum, shirkers, you should be fighting the bloody war.’
It was finally too much. ‘You little devils, I’ll come up there and you can say it to my face. Sylvia, stop your scrubbing and take the tiller.’
Sylvia appeared from the cabin, startled. ‘Polly, no, you can’t.’
‘Take the tiller while I get up there and sort them out,’ Polly roared. Dog barked. ‘Why should boaters put up with this? Stay, Dog,’ she roared again, then leapt for the side and off up the slope to the road, coming out as the children ran past. She caught two by their jumpers. With a wrench, one pulled free, but she held on to the other. His friends screamed and ran on. The lad, red-haired and freckled, whined, ‘My dad’ll get you, you see if he don’t.’
‘Then I’ll talk to him too and tell him that you gob us, and the boaters, and that you throw manure. How dare you, when we’re carting supplies to win this war, just as the boaters are doing? What would you think if I spat at you right now?’
The boy fought against her, kicking out. ‘Don’t you bloody dare.’
‘Exactly,’ shouted Polly. ‘It’s disgusting, the behaviour of a toe-rag, and that means you when you behave like this.’
At that moment a man came along on his bicycle and stopped, then flung his bike on the road. His bicycle clips ruined any image of toughness. ‘Hey, what’s going on? What’ve you been up to, Henry Arbiter?’
‘He’s been spitting, and chucking manure on boaters, and if I catch him doing it again, I’ll … Well, I’ll tan his backside. He’s got no idea how hard the boaters work. Look at my hands, Henry, and let me see yours.’
She thrust out her hand. It was scarred, blistered, calloused. The man, a vicar, she could see now, stood alongside, legs apart and arms akimbo. ‘I’ll help you tan his backside, young lady, if he should ever do it again. Give him to me, I’ll take him home and his mum’ll wash his mouth out with soap and be glad she knows what he’s been up to. On you go now, or you’ll miss your motor.’
He grabbed the boy by the arm, returned to his bike, and together they walked on over the bridge. Panting, Polly shot over the road and down to the towpath, missing the motor, but catching the butty as it came through on a long snubber. She stood on the roof as they exited, and while Verity sounded the horn to get Sylvia’s attention, she waved and gestured that she’d come aboard at the next bridge hole.
She timed it to perfection, leaping off the fore-end, running like hell down the towpath and jumping on to the stern counter of the motor before it left the narrow stretch. Sylvia looked worried. ‘Did you really catch them? But what if they’d turned on you, what if––’
‘Sylvia, go and put the kettle on. If they had turned, I’ve feet as well, and hands that can smack.’
Sylvia gasped. ‘You wouldn’t?’
‘I rather think I would. I object to anyone thinking they can gob on me, drop manure, or bricks.’
‘Bricks?’
‘Yes, young Joe, but it’s all sorted now. Sylvia, we must stand up for ourselves. How dare they treat boaters as they do?’
Sylvia was clinging to the tiller, her knuckles white. ‘I don’t want to be involved in this. I want you to write down what happened and make it clear I had nothing to do with it in case the parents complain. We’re not really boaters, we shouldn’t be fighting their battles, we’re better than them.’
‘Sylvia, we couldn’t hope to be as good, as accomplished, as brave, and as stoic as these people, no matter how long we lived. Now go and make the bloody tea, and listen, a vicar came along and said the mother would be pleased to know about her son’s behaviour. Washing his mouth out with soap was mentioned.’
Sylvia ducked into the cabin and Polly sighed. She shouldn’t have sworn. She could still feel the spittle on her hand. She swept off her hat. Manure had caught in her bobble. Imagine Joe being spat on – imagine Saul? Her mum and dad? Dog barked, sitting on the roof looking at her. ‘Or you, silly mutt.’
Sylvia called from the cabin, ‘But you could have been hurt.’
She knew Will would have done exactly as she had. She stared ahead. ‘We can’t live like that, Sylvia. If our lives mean anything, we have to try to stop that sort of thing when we see it. I won’t put up with people telling me it’s unkind to the little darlings.’
There was silence.
Sylvia popped up the steps, pushing Polly back and slamming a mug of tea on the roof. Polly looked after her as she disappeared back into her warren, then she laughed, long and hard. Wait until it happened to her, and then see how she felt. It simply had to be stopped, but nonetheless she was glad the vicar had come along and would deal with it.
At Tyseley at the end of the afternoon they tied up at D wharf and dragged Sylvia with them to the public baths, not listening to any objections, and not before they’d seen Steerer Brown on Golightly, who had said the men were unloading like the wind today. Granfer and Saul had been in and out on the same day. Must be a day ahead already. ‘Best be back early in the morning,’ he said. ‘Likely you’ll be loaded by lunch.’
Mrs Green was at the baths again, and Polly hugged her after she’d hande
d out the towels, then asked, ‘How is Mr Green after the accident on the wharf?’
‘Oh, Miss Holmes, he’s much better. Things settle, don’t they, when they can’t be changed. The past is the past, and he feels he’s paid his penance.’
‘Do you have any spare rooms tonight? We’re not loading until the morning,’ Verity asked.
‘For you, of course.’
‘We’ll make sure we each have a good bath, today. We’ll pay for two each, and the rooms, of course,’ Polly said.
Mrs Green looked relieved. It’s what Polly and Verity had decided as they walked along today, because Mrs Green couldn’t be expected to give the favour twice.
‘What penance?’ Sylvia wanted to know once Mrs Green had left. They said they’d tell her later.
As last time, Polly sank into the bath, letting the filth soak from her, listening to Verity singing, ‘White Christmas’ until Sylvia called, ‘Stop it, the last thing we need is snow, even if it comes with Bing Crosby.’
Polly looked up at the vaulted ceiling. Good heavens, Sylvia had made a joke. Later Sylvia joined in with ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me’. She had a glorious voice and soon they were all singing. When they finished, Polly said, ‘I wonder if I showed Joe an apple, would he think the shape was like an “a”?’
Verity, taking her second bath, answered as she splashed. ‘You could try it, but also don’t forget cat, sat, mat as Fran said. Perhaps he thinks in patterns as well as shapes, and the “a” will be tucked between other shapes, forming a pattern. Now I’m going under the water and washing the worst of the muck from my hair, imagining I am sitting in the sun, doing very little, so I don’t wish to hear anything more from either of you until we’ve finished.’
At last they were out in the cold air, cleansed, hungry and happy to head for Mrs Green’s. They called into the corner pub, the Bull and Bush, first, where the publican recognised them and called, ‘Put away your darts, boys, here are the money-grabbers.’
They explained to Sylvia as they ordered fish and chips to eat. Fish was off ration, and sometimes available, sometimes not, and who could blame the trawlermen, who not only had the weather to contend with, but the enemy?
Fish was ‘on’, and they ate sitting by the fire. Steadily Sylvia’s damped-down curls bounced back again, but they still weren’t dry until they reached the guest house. Verity found the key under the gnome with the red hat, as per Mrs Green’s instruction. It was past nine o’clock and not the same without Bet.
‘Time for all good girls to be in bed,’ Polly murmured.
‘And for all bad girls too,’ Verity added. Polly laughed along with her, but Sylvia did not. Instead she followed them upstairs in silence. She had refused to drink beer, choosing tap water instead, and as the evening had worn on, and Verity and Polly beat the two-man team at darts, she had become quieter still.
At room number three, she said, ‘Goodnight. You won’t go without me?’
Polly shook her head. ‘We’ll never leave you behind, Sylvia. You’re one of us.’
Sylvia hesitated. ‘Why was Mr Green doing penance?’
Verity glanced at Polly, who shrugged. ‘He accidentally killed a woman. His crane chains on the wharf let go a sack of grain and that was that.’
Sylvia opened her door and entered. ‘I’m glad he has left it behind,’ she said. Then she shut the door in their faces.
Polly scrambled into bed and pulled the covers around her. Lying in the warm flickering firelight she smiled at the thought of the money they’d won. They had put it in the ‘winnings kitty’ though what they’d do with the money she and Verity weren’t sure. She tossed and turned, missing the warmth of Dog on her feet.
Dog was staying on Mrs Smears’s motor just along from them on the wharf, tucked up in the warm cabin with her two older children. ‘She should be missing Jimmy, but she ain’t,’ Mrs Smears had said. ‘She’s ’appy with you. I reckon they’ll want you to keep ’er. A sort of thank-yer.’
Polly stared at the fire, which was dying down. It was what Bet had said, and she hoped both women were right, but only if Jimmy was happy with it. She lay down, and remembered Reggie’s letter. It was in her trouser pocket. She must remember to post it tomorrow on the way to the wharf.
She turned over. Would Saul be roaring along, or were they still just that one day ahead? Maybe they’d slow up a bit, maybe they’d meet at a mooring, maybe … She wondered how Reggie was, and hoped they’d always be friends, and that one day he’d meet someone who made his heart beat faster, as hers did when she was with Saul. But more than that, she hoped Reggie lived for many years in which to feel such love.
Chapter 29
23 November – heading to Coventry for a cargo of coal
The butty, Horizon, looked as bedraggled as Polly felt as she hauled her through the Brum Bum on the way to Coventry just after sunrise. Soon she would be able to make the journey with her eyes closed, and judge where she was just by the taste of the filth she kicked up from the towpath.
She had tied her tow-line to the butty mast, and Verity had hitched one to the fore-end stub to share the load and try for a better speed through the cut from hell. It had been worth giving it a go, and it did seem to make the load lighter.
They took it in turns to throw their lines back on to the butty and rush ahead to the lock, to open and close it, to wind up and drop the paddles so it was ready when Horizon reached its gates. The only downside was Verity’s commentary as they set off in pursuit of Sylvia, who was taking the motor through ahead of them. With each step Polly heard Verity furiously shouting, ‘What’s the point of a lovely bath when this is the result? What is the point?’
It wasn’t just the dirt, the dust, the slog and the futility of a bath that was getting to Verity, it was Sylvia and the ease with which she had returned to setting their teeth on edge. Polly laughed quietly to herself. The girl was like the wretched niggling coal dust they were grinding between their teeth.
But it wasn’t really anything she had done that was dreadful, it was just that when they seemed to be getting on better, she went all quiet on them; today she had even smirked. Polly gritted her teeth at the thought, then wished she hadn’t as she tasted the dust even more. Yes, it was the smirk when she won the toss as to who would drive the Marigold through the Bottom Road which had so totally grated.
Polly sighed, knowing she and Verity were being childish, but … but …
It was colder and smellier in this strip because buildings towered on either side, trapping the stink and excluding the sun. Polly shivered, and pushed against the tow-line, keeping the butty going. Yes, it was the smirk, the tossed head, not to mention the bouncing red curls that annoyed Polly. Did they ever do anything but bounce, when hers, thick with grime, looked dull and heavy?
Yes, the smirk, and then Sylvia had said, ‘Never mind, could be you next time, or not. And I’m usually as lucky with raffles as I am with a toss.’
Verity had said, ‘If you win twice, surely you refuse, and put the ticket back and let them draw again to give someone else a chance?’
‘No, why should I if I’ve won fair and square?’
Polly found Sylvia’s selfishness strange; it was different to how Verity had been, because there had been a reason for Verity’s. She paused; perhaps there was with Sylvia’s? She must try harder with the girl. She shouted to Verity, as the noise of a saw and a jackhammer ricocheted off the walls, ‘Do stop moaning, just for a moment, you’ll get a raw throat in all this dust.’
‘But it’s not just the dirt, it’s her. She’s so … so …’
‘We need to think of Bet.’
‘What, tucked up in bed in front of a belting inglenook? You are a cruel and horrid girl.’
‘No, idiot, think of what she said.’
The buildings acted as a wind tunnel, and it was getting colder and colder. This morning Mrs Ambrose had said, as the Marigold left the wharf, ‘Could be ice soon. That’s bad for boaters
. Locks us in, stops deliveries. Don’t ’elp ’gainst Mr ’itler, neither.’
A crosswind cutting through between two factories ruffled the water and caught the butty, knocking it away from the side. Hadn’t this happened before? Polly couldn’t remember as she put one foot in front of the other. The girls groaned and leaned into the tow. In spite of the gloves she had bought in Birmingham, Polly’s hands were numb, which was as well, because blisters were forming between her fingers, of all places. Why on earth was that? She adjusted her hands on the tow-line. That was better.
Verity called, ‘I do think of Bet, and all she said to us, and I know I am being childish but honestly, darling.’ She coughed. ‘Is it my imagination or did she improve, perhaps after Bet wrote to her? But the thing is, I just can’t make her out, and never know where I am with her. Sad to say, darling, I just don’t feel I will ever trust her, or like her.’
‘Ah, we’ll make something of her. Look at you, quite human now.’
‘All I have to say to that, Miss Perfect, is this.’ Verity threw up a rude sign, laughed and, dropping her tow-line, ran ahead to the lock, so that the butty could get on without too much waiting around. Some girls at a factory window cheered. Verity swung round, bowed, and ran on.
Polly felt ashamed as she tugged and tugged at Horizon, aware that they were actually a three-girl team, and she and Verity were ganging up. They must try harder. She reached the lock, which Verity had already made ready.
They trudged on through the Brum Bum, not thinking of the other locks they had to wheel through in order to get to the bottom of the flight, and Polly realised that though she had posted the letter to Reggie and her parents at the postbox outside the wharf, she had completely forgotten to read those she had picked up from the office, along with the orders. There had also been two for Sylvia, and one for Verity which she had delivered. Verity had said, ‘Dear Aunt Beatrix, she always likes to keep in touch. I’ll read it some time.’
They had cast off. She would read hers this evening, when they picked up the coal. On they plodded, passing a horse-boat rushing along at speed, or so it seemed, towards Birmingham.
