The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  ‘’Ow do,’ the steerer called. ’Is it ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and was gone.

  As they were almost through the flight Polly looked ahead as Verity shouted, ‘Keep her in, for goodness’ sake. Look who’s coming along – but what’s he doing here?’

  It was Brighton, Leon’s motor. Close behind his butty was being pulled by two of his men; both boats were heavily loaded. The speed the men achieved kept the butty so close to the motor that Polly and Verity exchanged a look. It was no wonder men with such strength had been able to kick and punch Saul to the ground, but were they the same ones? It was difficult to tell.

  They kept their eyes on the ground and pulled. Leon drew alongside. Had he steered into the centre deliberately, and what was he doing on the filthy Bottom Road anyway, when he was supposed to use the route they all used?

  He didn’t reduce speed but almost nudged them. Dog barked. Polly screamed, ‘Stay.’

  Leon shouted, ‘Yer best watch the dog, the wash’ll rock yer, see if it don’t. I want me boy back, you tell your fancy man. I ain’t see him forrard of yer to tell ’im meself.’

  She ignored him, but while Verity continued to tow, Polly threw off the tow-line and leapt on to the butty, scooping Dog off the roof. While the dog struggled in Polly’s arms and Leon laughed she leapt back on to the towpath, and let Dog go. She then ran alongside the butty, looking for the tow-line, which had fallen into the cut. She knelt down in the filth and rescued it, wrapping it around her shoulder and waist again, smelling it, and feeling the wet seeping through her sweaters as she ran along to her towing position. Verity was pulling her tow-line tight, and Horizon was riding the wash, as Polly pulled hers shorter and shorter, feeling the suck and tug of the wash fighting her. The butty was rocking wildly, Dog was barking and leaping up at her.

  The factory girls were throwing offcuts of wood at Leon. Some reached his motor, several hit him, and he sheltered his head with his arm as Polly yelled after him, ‘You’re a disgrace to the boaters, a bloody disgrace, and it’s time someone stopped you.’

  Verity shrieked, ‘You should be ashamed, you could have bucked Dog off into the water. You’re a damned murderer, that’s what you are, trying to kill our Dog.’

  Leon’s motor was gone, and the wash was easing the strain on the tow-lines. His butty drew alongside, now towed by the two men, and it was bucking too, but Leon’s men kept walking, pulling their butty to heel as though it was a dog. Their bulging thighs and shoulders made light work of the tow, in spite of the load.

  Polly yelled, ‘You should think of working for someone else. He’s not a boss to be proud of, he really isn’t, so there. So very there.’ One of them snatched a look, and for a moment he seemed familiar, but then he bowed his head and powered on.

  Verity turned and looked at her, then roared with laughter. ‘So very there? That’ll frighten them, I don’t think.’

  The girls up in the factory window were cheering, calling after Leon, ‘You’ll get what you deserve, see if you don’t.’

  Polly shouted, ‘He’s got to be stopped.’ Dog was running between Verity and Polly, loving the freedom.

  Verity was bending into the tow again. ‘But how?’

  At the end of the Brum Bum the Marigold was waiting for them. Verity and Polly tied on the tow-rope while Sylvia watched from the counter, her arms crossed. Polly and Verity stood on the towpath by the Marigold’s counter. ‘Shall we take over the motor now?’

  Dog had already decided and jumped on board, skirting Sylvia and jumping up on to the roof.

  ‘A horrid man passed, going much too fast, and he had a message for you, Polly. He said to tell you he’d get you, and he was to have his boy back,’ Sylvia said.

  Polly explained that Joe was Leon’s son but had been taken away by Saul, Joe’s uncle, and Granfer because Leon had not only caused Joe’s mum to run away because of his cruelty, but had beaten Joe. She also told Sylvia that Leon and his men had attacked someone one night outside a pub and Polly had hit Leon with a stool. She’d hoped he wouldn’t know it was her, but so be it.

  Sylvia eased herself from the counter on to the towpath, heading for the butty, then she turned, shouting, ‘How could you be so stupid as to involve yourself in these people’s problems? They’re all hooligans, gypsies, whatever you want to call them, and it’s not just you who suffers. What about us? It’s time you grew up, and quite honestly, your cabin is a pigsty.’

  She swept to the butty. Verity started after her, but Polly grabbed her arm. ‘Leave her, let’s see if she calms down – again. I need a cup of tea, and put into it some of that brandy Sid gave us, for goodness’ sake.’

  They climbed back on to the motor. Verity, seething with anger, said, ‘Shall I offer some to Miss Bouncing Curls?’

  Polly laughed as though she’d never stop, then spluttered, ‘Best not; she’d probably rather go without than taste anything produced in our pigsty.’ She checked behind: Sylvia was in place. Polly hooted and pulled away as Verity disappeared into the cabin. She came straight back out again. ‘It’s no worse than it ever is, and Bet never said anything about it. Perhaps we need some more plates, and crocheted curtains to make it more homely, but there’s never time.’

  Polly was heading towards the narrow neck of water with the office beside it. The man who marked their card last time marked it again, asking how she was, linking his arm through hers. ‘You all right, me duck?’ he said. They bought some leeks from him, and assured him that they had left their trip cards in the boxes provided along the way. Verity muttered, ‘Liar.’

  ‘Shh,’ Polly whispered. They decided they’d tie up at a pub tonight, and if Sylvia wanted to stay on the butty, that was fine but they needed some fun, a drink, and to win some money for the kitty.

  Chapter 30

  The evening of 24 November – heading for Coventry

  At the Black Dog, near Griff, Seagull and Swansong were moored towards the head of the queue. Polly looked around her but saw no sign of life. They walked down the path and as they neared the pub the girls heard a cheery hubbub coming from within.

  Inside the pub an accordion was playing, the bar was full, and there were some boaters’ wives there too. It was a celebration of Jimmy Porter’s recovery, or so Steerer Ambrose said, while buying Polly, Verity and Sylvia a pint of beer. Sylvia pulled a face when she sipped it. ‘I usually drink a sweet sherry, if I must drink at all.’

  Polly whispered, ‘I doubt very much they have sweet sherry on the premises and besides, you have been bought a beer and to ignore it would be the height of rudeness, so tonight a beer will suit you very well.’

  Sylvia’s lips tightened, and she sat down at the table with three spare seats around it by the fireplace. Verity said, ‘It’s so strange that one fireside table always seems to remain free.’

  Mrs Ambrose was sitting the other side of the fireplace, just for once, and she leaned forward, whispering to Sylvia, ‘The thank-yer will last for ever. So there’ll always be one empty for yer. If others are sitting, them will rise.’

  ‘Thank you for what?’ asked Sylvia.

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Polly, embarrassed.

  There was a bit of dancing at the end of the room as the accordion player was joined by a steerer who sang about the time and tides of life on the cut. He had a wonderful voice. They drank up, wondering if there was to be a darts match for them tonight, but then the room fell silent, and Steerer Ambrose cleared his throat. The crowd parted as though it was the Red Sea, leaving a path from the table by the fireplace to the small stage area. Polly saw then that Saul had been standing with the accordion player, and her heart leapt. She stared, then realised that it must have been him singing.

  Steerer Ambrose stood with Saul and raised his glass to the girls. ‘We ’as news. Jimmy is definitely waitin’ for oos at the depot. ’E’s fit as a fiddle, so we lift our glasses to them women.’ He pointed to Polly and Verity. ‘We ’ope, too, that
Bet be well an’ all.’

  There was silence as the glasses were lifted towards them. Polly and Verity were speechless, then wondered if they should say something, but the accordion began again, the passage closed, and they relaxed. Sylvia muttered, ‘So what was that all about?’

  Verity grinned. ‘Nothing, really. We just hoiked a dripping child out of the cut and Polly pumped him dry.’

  Sylvia looked into her glass of beer. ‘One wonders why they didn’t keep an eye on him?’

  Verity and Polly looked at one another. Polly itched to pour her beer all over Sylvia’s curls. Then let’s see if they bounce back, she thought.

  Saul was singing again; this time it was ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. Sylvia brightened and said, ‘I love this song.’ With that she was up. Winding her way through the scrum, she stood beside Saul and began to sing, her glorious voice melding with his. Verity kicked Polly. ‘Damn, we knew she was good, but she is seriously good.’

  As they stood to watch, an ache swept over Polly to see them together. Saul was smiling, and he took Sylvia’s hand and twirled her as the song came to an end. Those in the bar clapped. Verity and Polly made themselves put their hands together too, though Polly actually wanted to strangle the girl.

  As Sylvia led Saul down to the far end where people were dancing Verity sidled up to Polly and said, ‘Come on, let’s have a game of darts. The least we can do is to make some money tonight and wash away the taste of little Miss Successful.’

  Polly slipped her arm through Verity’s. ‘I think probably we’re being horrid about her, but honestly, I don’t damn well care.’

  Two young boaters were by the dartboard, waving their darts at them. ‘Come on, give us a game.’

  ‘A bob to the winner?’ Verity offered, quick as a wink.

  The girls won, but too easily. They gave back the money. ‘You let us win, and that’s not fair.’

  They played for real next time, and still won. As the money exchanged hands Granfer came to stand near them. ‘’Ow’s Bet then?’ he asked.

  ‘Getting better, we hope, but she’s not sure she’ll ever be back.’

  ‘Yer lass’s been telling our Saul that Leon made trouble again. She says that some ’ooligan’s been fighting with ’im and you were dragged in. Saul told ’er the ’ooligan were ’im. Shut her up, no trouble.’ He cackled.

  As he spoke, Saul and Sylvia were making their way through the crowd to the dartboard, Sylvia leading, her face set in a sulk. Saul’s face was expressionless.

  They stopped when they reached the girls. Saul took Sylvia’s hand and bowed over it. Then looked at Polly. ‘Yer like to dance, our Polly?’

  She would, very much. The accordionist slipped into a slow number. She followed Saul back to the dance area. He took her in his arms. She knew she was filthy, and her hair was thick with oil and sweat, and the rest of her too. Saul didn’t smell, or perhaps they both did, so that’s why it seemed neither … Shut up, Polly, she told herself. He stared over her head. Will had said she’d need a short-arse if someone was ever to gaze into her eyes, as she was just five foot four. Otherwise, he’d said, he’d be looking at her parting.

  Saul was leading her in the dance, and it was as though she floated. She forgot the filth of herself, the smell, but just danced. It seemed she was wearing sparkling pumps, not boots. He was light on his feet, and the kerchief at his neck was clean; the bobble hat stuffed in her pocket was not. He swung her round, looked down at her and smiled. ‘Right sorry, I am, that Leon bothered you again.’

  There was something different about him. She said, ‘He didn’t bother us. He’s just a pig, and one day he will get his cards marked.’

  Saul looked confused. She said, ‘One day he’ll get what he deserves.’

  It was then she realised he had said you, not yer. Why? She had come to like yer.

  They danced for the next half hour, but then she saw Verity waving from the bar and pointing at her watch, and then at Sylvia. She held up five fingers. Polly nodded.

  Saul had seen too. ‘I will walk you out,’ he said, taking her arm, though the music still played. He led her through to the front door, and outside. The sky was clear, the stars bright. In the distance searchlights waved, probing for the enemy. Saul stood next to her, watching as she was. She asked, ‘Where’s Joe?’

  ‘Safe, with Missus in the kitchen.’

  ‘Surely Leon won’t hurt his own son, not really?’

  ‘’E’ll take ’im, if he can. He would ’ave taken him that night if you ’adn’t whacked him.’

  He took her hand, and kissed it. ‘He’s like me own boy,’ he said. She lifted her head wanting his lips on her. He looked deep into her eyes, bent and kissed her mouth, so gently.

  The door opened, and shut; footsteps sounded. Sylvia’s voice tore through the darkness. ‘I doubt that your boyfriend Reggie would understand this, Polly.’

  Saul jerked up, looked at Polly, his eyes dark. ‘Oh, I’s sorry. I didn’t know.’ He spun on his heel and walked back past Verity and Sylvia.

  Polly watched him go, still feeling his lips. She walked ahead to the Marigold. Behind her she heard ‘ouch’. She turned. Sylvia was face down in the mud. For a moment she lay there, then raised herself. ‘You tripped me,’ she accused Verity.

  ‘Yes. One day you will learn to grow up, be kind, and mind your own bloody business.’ Verity walked past the girl, leaving her in the mud, and linked arms with Polly. ‘Come on, don’t worry. It’s not the end. There’s something there, with you and Saul, and you said the other evening to me that Reggie was a friend. It won’t rest here, I promise. Saul’s not a weakling.’

  Chapter 31

  28 November – at Bull’s Bridge depot lay-by

  At the depot, Saul stood on the counter of Seagull, looking across at the trees, their branches free of leaves as they shut down for the long winter. Is that what was the matter with him, was he shutting down? Whatever it was, something were wrong. They’d arrived late last night, on the heels of the girls, herding them in, but finding a mooring well past them and he’d thought once here, he’d feel he’d want to eat something; p’haps some toast. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t sleep neither. Granfer had said, as they cleared the hold of coal dust after they’d moored up here, that it were worry about the boy, cos Leon hadn’t given up.

  Saul nodded but it weren’t that, cos he could fight for his own, but ’ow could he fight for ’er. Not if she wanted someone else – this Reggie. She’da been laughing at him, he supposed, and why not, he were a bloody fool, just a boater, not a landsman, a banker. He were a boater who ’ad tried to talk proper at the pub, tried to remember his ‘h’, his ‘you’, not ‘yer’.

  He peered into the cabin. Joe was pulling out Polly’s book from beneath the cross-bed mattress. Saul said, ‘Yer lookin’ at the pictures again?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘I’s givin it back. It’s the right time.’

  Saul looked at him. ‘’Tis, is it?’

  ‘Jimmy Porter’s back. She been good to ’im, she and Verity. Time I was good back.’

  Saul nodded.

  Joe said, ‘But yer got to come with me. I can’t do it on me own.’

  Saul shook his head. It would be too hard, hurt too much, and he’d had enough of hurt. Mum, Da, Maudie … He still looked, wherever they were, but nothing.

  Joe said, ‘Yer must, or I isn’t taking it back. Is yer shamed of me, is that why? Is yer?’

  ‘Course I ain’t. Never that.’

  The Marigold had arrived late at the lay-by the evening before in the dark, its headlight at the fore-end shrouded. Sylvia maintained all the way that her arm hurt though she wouldn’t let either of them examine it. Instead she had dripped about just managing to eat heartily, and to steer the butty tiller; though nothing more. She was insistent that she needed a Southall doctor, and that he would probably sign her off on the sick.

  Each evening they had broken the blackout as they kept going past dusk, but there were no ARP wardens
to shout at them while on the cut, and still Saul and Granfer followed, shepherding them in. Once they’d arrived, Polly and Verity had thrown themselves into bed, after rushing to the lavatory, followed by Sylvia who had fashioned a sling for her arm as they approached the depot.

  This morning she was at the doctor’s, still blaming Verity, who had apologised once, but then said that people tripped if they kept putting their feet in their mouths. For a moment it had cheered Polly.

  Verity had set up a fire on the bank, once Sylvia had trotted off to the doc, and was washing clothes, while Polly had drawn the short straw and was cleaning the hold. Coughing, she walked along the bottom boards, trying to see it through Bet’s eyes. Finally satisfied, she pulled herself up and out. She had collected up the remnants of coal in a couple of buckets and hauled them up earlier. These would keep them going for a few days.

  She deposited the coal in the box beneath the bottom step of both boats. Then she shot off to the lavatory and washed as best she could. It probably got right up the boss’s nose, but who cared. He’d not say anything as long as they cleaned up after themselves. Back at the Marigold she changed into a couple of Will’s sweaters, those she kept for best, and her one pair of relatively clean trousers.

  On the bank, Verity was poking the Brum Bum trousers which were so clogged with coal they’d need several goes in the boiler. Her hair was streaked with sweat, or perhaps it was steam? Polly dumped her load of sweaters with the others at the side of the boiler, for a cooler wash. Verity muttered, ‘Give us a hand wringing these little devils, Polly. I think I’ve shrunk one of Sylvia’s sweaters, it sneaked into this wash.’

  ‘Call me when you’re ready.’

  ‘I wonder how she’s getting on at the doc? I can’t believe he’ll sign her off, though perhaps Bet would then come back,’ Verity said, prodding as the trousers bubbled free of the water.