by Milly Adams
Polly shook her head. ‘Bet’s not well enough, but it won’t happen. I caught her cutting some bread with that hand when I nipped down into the cabin yesterday.’
She took herself for a walk along the lay-by, encouraging Dog to come and stretch her legs, wondering once again if Sylvia was cruel or stupid or just a believer in what she perceived as the truth? Well, she must take care what she told her in the future. She threw a stick for Dog, who roared along, snatched it up, tore back but wouldn’t give it to her. ‘Silly girl, how can I throw it again if you hang on to it,’ she muttered, wanting to go and see Saul, and explain about Reggie, but why would he believe her?
Women were washing as always, and some clothes and bedding flapped on lines. Smells of cooking wafted from cabins, and she saw a familiar figure: Mrs Ambrose, sitting on a stool on her counter, crocheting. When she saw Polly she brought her crochet down to the towpath, working as she talked. ‘Have you seen Jimmy, ’e’s a way down there? Him and his mam is wanting to see yer.’
‘I’ll walk on then.’ She hoped they didn’t want Dog back, not yet. Just a bit longer. She stroked her as she sat at her feet.
‘’Ow’s that lass, the one that fell?’
‘At the doctor. We’ll see.’
‘If’n she says she’s bad, though she looked right perky to me, likely young Joe’ll be yer runabout on yer next run.’
Polly hadn’t thought that far ahead, and surely Sylvia would be fine. Anyway, how could she ask Saul? It would be too hard to ask a favour, too difficult to make him trust her. She touched her mouth. She could still feel the warmth and gentleness of his lips every time she shut her eyes, and see the hurt in his dark eyes, his sense of foolishness. She walked on, and saw Jimmy ahead, playing on the towpath, bouncing a ball. Dog stayed by her side. She said, ‘You’ll have to go back to him if he wants you, Dog. He’s your owner.’
As she approached, Jimmy’s mother, Mrs Porter, was washing, her sleeves rolled up in spite of the bitter cold. Polly was sure there had been ice on the edge of the cut this morning and the last of the leaves seemed to have gone from the trees almost overnight. ‘How do,’ Polly called. Dog barked and ran up. The woman stroked him, but then he ran back to Polly. ‘Jimmy,’ the woman called. ‘Come ’ere, an’ say ’ello to Missus Polly. She and ’er friend did ’ook you out, and pummel yer till yer breathed.’
Jimmy nodded, looking confused, and went back to bouncing and catching his ball. Dog virtually clung to Polly, who said into the pause that had fallen, ‘I am happy to have Dog. That’s what we call her, but I understand if you would like her back.’
Mrs Porter dried her hands on a tea towel, then said, ‘I wanted to see yer special like. You saved more’n our boy. I reckon yer saved oos. We’d a gone mad if we’d lost ’im on top of t’others, so anything I can do, I will for yer, and t’other lass.’
‘I do want some help, Mrs Porter. It’s young Joe, I want to teach him to read, because he seems keen on books, but I don’t want it to be charity.’
The woman nodded, throwing the tea towel into the boiler. ‘He’s keen on letters but not school. None is. We’s always movin’, yer see, an they stuffs ’em at back, and mocks. What I’s think is that yer give me summat yer’d like to give young Joe, to ’elp with ’is letters, and our Jimmy’ll tell ’im yer teaching ’im a bit. He’ll come along then. ’Ow’s that?’
‘That is perfect.’
Polly strolled on a bit further. She had mail to pick up, and perhaps, just perhaps, she would wangle yet another windlass from the blacksmith, so she’d turn back soon. These lost ones were using up the kitty money, though they’d not yet broken into the ‘winnings kitty’.
She drew abreast Seagull and Joe called from the counter of their motor, ‘’Ow do, Missus Polly. I needs a talk to yer.’
She waited while the lad joined her on the bank, his hands behind his back. As he did so, Saul clambered out of the hold, dirty from clearing it of coal. He jumped from the hold gunwale to the bank, lithe and light on his feet. There was coal dust all over him, including his face, and his hair stood stiff with it. He came to her and stood with his hand on Joe’s shoulder. He nodded. ‘’Ow do, Miss Polly.’
She nodded in return. ‘’Ow do, Steerer Hopkins.’ She grinned. His face didn’t move. Dog whined at her side, and moved closer to her.
Joe took the book from behind his back. ‘It’s right you ’ave it back now,’ he said. Saul nudged him. Joe braced himself, and looked her full in the face. ‘I thanks yer for letting me ’old it. I likes the pictures. I like the letter shapes. One looks like an apple, so it do, don’t it, Uncle Saul?’
Saul nodded. Polly squatted and took the book from Joe. ‘Will you let me show you what that apple shape means, and how it sounds?’
Joe shook his head. ‘I don’t need it. I’s a boater, in’t I, Uncle Saul?’
Polly stood, and looked at Saul, who said, ‘’E do need it, Missus, but he don’t want it.’
Polly looked down at Joe. ‘An apple shape is the shape of the letter “a”. The cat sat on the mat, wearing a hat, eating an apple. I will be helping Jimmy with his letters, maybe …’
Joe yelled, ‘I’s don’t need yer giving. I don’t, you sees if I don’t.’ He ran past her, heading towards Jimmy’s boat. Would Mrs Porter talk to him? Polly wondered.
Saul started to move back to the motor; she reached out, and gripped his rolled-up sleeve. He pulled away. She blocked his path, caught hold of both his arms. ‘Please, Saul. Reggie is a friend, and for that he’s important to me. He knew my brother, and me, when we were all children.’
Saul nodded, then looked at the hands that held his arms. ‘What is I?’ he said. ‘Is I a friend?’
She shook her head. ‘No, well – yes, but no, I mean you are more, and you are here in this world, where I am now.’
He was looking down at her, right into her eyes, his forehead furrowed, soot deep in the lines.
‘For ’ow long you be ’ere?’
‘How long is the war?’ She could see their breath mingling in the chill.
‘There be life after the war.’ His eyes were still fixed on hers.
‘Yes.’
‘So which be yer world then?’
She shook her head, gripping his hand now. ‘All I know is that I am here, now, and you are too. I don’t want to let you go, Saul.’ They looked at their entwined hands, his so brown, dirty and calloused, and hers so brown, not quite so dirty at this precise moment, and calloused. When she was with him she felt as though she was returning to life.
There was silence between them, and then she felt him tighten his grip, more and more, and now his eyes were drinking in her face, just as hers were sweeping over his. Still silent, they were in an oasis amongst the banging and shouting of the depot, the chatter and laughter of the children, the pat-patter of passing motors. As she moved closer a cry broke through the moment.
‘Polly Holmes, what on earth are you doing? We’ve come all this way to see you, surely you received our letter?’
She peered past Saul, and closed her eyes, then opened them again. It was her mum, standing on the towpath midway between Polly and Marigold with Verity, who was on tiptoe behind her, pulling a face which quite clearly said, Oh crikey, get over here. Her dad waited alongside her mother, shaking his head surreptitiously. She smiled up at Saul. ‘I must go.’
He held on to her hands, and she didn’t want to go either. He smiled that smile and released his grip. She left but called back, ‘I really want to help Joe read. Can I leave some pictures I have drawn on your counter, to help him understand, and some books that might help? Perhaps you’d copy my pictures, so they are proper drawings.’
He shook his head. ‘Leave ’em a bit further away, then ’e’ll think ’e’s found ’em, and that’ll be better. Then I’ll copy ’em.’
With Dog at her heels she hurried along the towpath, past the boilers, skirting around the children who were playing jacks, and two girls dressing dolls. One woman was wearing th
e hat that Polly had knitted and called, ‘Bob gave me this you done for me. It suits a treat.’
She arrived with Dog at her heels. Her mum asked, ‘Did you read our letter? Surely you did.’
Polly lied, ‘Mum, of course I did. I had forgotten, what with everything else.’ She moved to hug her mother, who pulled back and said, ‘Polly, you’re filthy, and who was that man you were talking to? Were you holding hands? It won’t do, it simply won’t. These people—’ Her mother pointed along the bank. ‘Well, look at them. It’s not what I thought. Not at all.’
‘Hello, Dad,’ Polly said. They all walked back to Marigold where Verity picked up the bucket in which they boiled the clothes. The handle was scorching hot, and wrapped in a towel. She tossed the sludgy water into the cut. ‘Just a minute, Mum,’ Polly muttered. She sank the dipper into the cut, and refilled the boiler, which Verity placed back on the grill. Polly looked at her parents now. ‘Come on board, see what it means to be a wartime trainee.’
She emphasised ‘wartime’. Her dad winked, and followed, gesturing to his wife. ‘Come along, you insisted on visiting your daughter, the one who chose something safe at our behest.’
Polly flicked a look at Verity, who was looking with great fondness at her dad. Polly realised that Verity never mentioned her own, only her mother, in that voice. As she thought that, she also realised that Sylvia never mentioned either of her parents.
Her mum and dad stood on the tiny counter, staring around as though on another planet. Polly said, ‘This is our palace. We stand here twelve hours a day at the tiller, or dashing along on the bike to work the lock, or perhaps we’re cleaning the hold, or the cabin.’ She pointed up to the roof, where the bike with the split saddle lay, next to the water can. ‘You see those flowers painted on there. That man I was talking to, Mum, is an artist. He paints these as well as running his boat and butty with his grandfather because his mother and father were killed in a bombing raid.’ Was her voice as icy as the wind? She rather thought it was.
She opened the cabin doors and said, ‘Do go in.’ Her mum, her mouth pursed, stared, then ducked down the steps. The range was on, thank the Lord, and never had Polly been so pleased to have it lit. There was the smell of rabbit simmering in the oven. ‘Sit down, do.’ Polly gestured to the side-bed. ‘This is where I sleep.’
Her mother stared. ‘Sleep?’
‘Yes, this is our home. We eat, sleep and read here. We charge the batteries for the electric light in the engine house, or if it is low, we use the hurricane lamp. We use a Primus or the range for food, hot water, heat.’
‘And the bathroom?’
Her dad closed his eyes, sensing the answer. Polly did not spare her mum. ‘A bucket, in the back-end. We wash in here, using that bowl. If we’re very dirty we sluice off in cut water, which is where we empty the bucket, too. We collect clean water from taps as we go along, or from kind pub owners, but we are safe.’
‘Pubs? Women in pubs?’ Her mother was clinging to her handbag as though to a life raft.
Her dad said, ‘We wrote and said we’d take you to lunch.’
Polly’s gaze drifted to the bookshelf. Their letter was unopened, stuck in The Water Babies, with Reggie’s.
Her mum had followed Polly’s gaze.
‘Are those our letters?’ she asked.
Polly nodded. ‘We’re just so busy.’
Her mum shook her head. ‘No one is that busy.’
Polly put Winnie-the-Pooh back on the shelf and insisted, ‘Come with me.’
They followed her out of the cabin, and back on to the bank. Verity called, ‘Polly, just help me here, for a moment. Get the other end.’
She had rinsed the corduroys and hauled one pair out with tongs. Together the girls twisted the water out. Her mum tutted. ‘You need a mangle.’
Her dad muttered, ‘Don’t be absurd, Joyce.’
Polly walked them to the butty, which lay alongside, stern to the kerb as always. ‘These boats are over seventy feet long. This morning I have been cleaning the hold of both to get rid of the remains of our coal delivery. Therefore I am filthy, but this filth is after a wash. Look at my hands, Mum.’ She held them out, and showed the cuts, the broken nails, the callouses, then she rolled up her sweaters, revealing the blisters around her middle from the towing rope, and the cuts, and bruises. Her mum gasped. Her dad nodded. ‘We have to pull this butty by hand,’ she explained, ‘through the locks and short pounds of the Bottom Road, the one we call the Brum Bum running from Birmingham to Coventry. We’re the equivalent of horses, but we are safe.’
Her mum’s face wore that ‘I am not amused’ expression.
Polly said, ‘Listen, Mum.’ She gestured at the depot, where the workers were hammering, the tannoy was playing its tinny music, and every few moments calling ‘Steerer someone or other’ to the office.
‘We’re waiting for orders, and also for one of the team to return from the doctor, as she has hurt her arm. If she can’t work, we will borrow a ten-year-old off another boat; he’s called a runabout. So, today, with you, we will eat in the depot canteen, because we could have to leave at any moment to collect a load from Limehouse Basin, also known as Regent’s Canal Dock. It will be a load which is essential to the war effort, and we will deliver it to Birmingham. We will then collect a load from there, or Coventry, and deliver it somewhere along the way to support the war effort.’ She drew breath. ‘And yes, in the evenings we will tie up and sometimes go for a drink, or sometimes we boil our clothes on the bank, or wipe down the cabin, inside and out and scrub out the bucket. It’s what we do, and above all it is safe.’
Verity came to stand alongside Polly, nodding. ‘Yes, it is what we do, and proud we are too, because we’re becoming better at it, but never will we be as brave and stoic as these boaters; they’re wonderful people, Mr and Mrs Holmes.’
She waved her arm up and down the lay-by. ‘Now I suggest we go for lunch while the boiler is cooling, and before we are given our orders.’
Mrs Holmes allowed her husband to take her arm, and they walked with Polly and Verity along the lay-by as people called, ‘’Ow do’ to the girls. Dog stuck at Polly’s heels as she explained that after they had helped some boaters, Dog had adopted them.
In the canteen it was warm; there was still the smell of boiled cabbage and the hum of talk, the layer of smoke from cigarettes and pipes. Mrs Holmes’s lips tightened, but Polly led her to the canteen counter as the women in their white caps and overalls slapped liver and bacon on their plates. One woman, their friend, grinned at Polly and Verity and asked, ‘So, how much you won on this trip, girls?’
‘Won?’ her mother whispered faintly.
‘Dab ’ands they are at darts, and beats a good many of ’em. I’ve warned me old bugger off ’em.’ The canteen women roared with laughter. Polly said, ‘Come on, Mum, we’re holding up the line.’
They chose a table with a few free places, and sat down, listening all the while for their names to be called. Polly whispered to Verity, ‘I haven’t had the chance to actually ask Saul about letting us have Joe, if Sylvia goes off sick.’
Verity whispered back, ‘I reckon, from the look of the hand-holding, he’d give you the skin off his own back, so don’t worry about that.’
They smiled at one another as her mother poked at the liver and complained, ‘It’s overdone.’
Polly’s dad said, ‘Eat it and be grateful we’re here with our girls.’ He winked at Polly and Verity. Verity leaned over and clasped his hands. ‘I like to be called one of your girls; it’s comforting. Thank you both for coming.’
‘Yes,’ Polly agreed. ‘It is lovely, and you both look well. Much better, actually.’
The feather in her mother’s felt hat was wobbling as she chewed. Opposite her a man said, ‘Come to keep them girls on the straight and narrow, then? Well, no need for that; the cut is pretty much straight and narrow, Missus.’
The men laughed, including her father. Her mother’s smile didn’t reach h
er eyes. She ate the spotted dick with more relish than the liver. The girls hoovered up both, because a meal they hadn’t made was a meal in paradise.
They drank tea out of thick white cups, and stirred it with the teaspoon chained to the serving counter. Verity held out a packet of cigarettes to Mrs Holmes, who sat back as though she’d been burned. Without thinking, Polly took one, and her father did too. Her mother stared at Polly and said, ‘A lady doesn’t smoke in public.’
Verity smiled, and patted Mrs Holmes’s arm. ‘This Lady does, Mrs Holmes; it keeps her going. Don’t be tough on Polly when she’s working so hard, as are we all.’
The man across from Mrs Holmes tipped his tea into his saucer to cool it, then back into his cup, slurping it. ‘They do an’ all, work ’ard, you know, Missus.’
Mrs Holmes’s feather danced wildly as she looked from side to side. All through the meal the tannoy made announcements, and now they heard, ‘Steerer Clement to the office. Steerer Clement.’
Verity shot up, gathered her own and Mrs Holmes’s plates, her cigarette wedged in the corner of her mouth. ‘I’ll take these, you take your dad’s. So nice to see you but we have to go.’ She hurried out, dumping the dishes on the trolley. Polly was gathering up the plates, and standing. ‘So sorry, we have to make ready the boat and butty.’ Her mind was saying, thank heavens, thank heavens. Nothing had been said about Saul yet and now there was no time.
She hurried them out into the yard. Verity was queuing outside the office, talking to Sylvia, who was gesticulating with one hand. Her other was in a sling. Verity, moving to the doorway, waved to Polly. Polly said to her parents, ‘So lovely to see you, thank you so much for making the effort, but we have to go, really we do.’
She pointed to the gate, and kissed her dad, and her mum, though Mrs Holmes couldn’t bring herself to hug her. Instead she said, ‘That man, that boater, you were holding his hands, and … you smoke. It’s … Well, none of it is respectable, and it must stop. And darts, betting on darts …’
Polly shook her head. ‘Mum, Will taught me to do that. Will. If he was doing it I expect that would be all right?’
