by Milly Adams
Her mother dragged out a handkerchief and held it to her mouth. ‘Reggie? Poor Reggie, where does he fit into your life? That lovely boy, risking his life in a bomber, while this … well, this boater is here, safe. It must stop. You have no future here, what will you do, live in a cabin?’
At that moment Sylvia came up, shouting at Polly, ‘Look what you’ve both done. I have a chipped bone, or so they think, because I’m in such pain. That’s what comes of a toffee-nosed Lady Wotnot tripping me up, and it’s all because of you, canoodling with that Saul. You’ve no loyalty to your Reggie. Well, I’m going to complain, and what’s more I’ve been laid off sick, so there. Now what are you going to do?’
Her dad stepped between Sylvia and Polly. ‘I won’t have you talking to my daughter like that. Now, be off with you and take to your bed, if you’re going off sick. I dare say there’s something you could do if you stayed; a chipped bone shouldn’t stop you from working, for heaven’s sake. There’s a war on, you know. Best not complain, I always say. It can come back and bite you.’
Mrs Holmes’s mouth had dropped open, just as Sylvia’s had. Mrs Holmes said, ‘Really …’ Polly’s dad said, ‘We’ve heard quite enough from you for one day too, Mother. All I can say is I’m bloody glad I’m not the one sitting on a bucket doing my business, and I dare say that wouldn’t suit you either. Now we’re off home.’
As Sylvia still stood, open-mouthed, Verity came rushing out of the office, waving her order. ‘Come on, Polly. We’ve got to make ready. Go and grab Joe.’
Polly looked from her mum to her dad. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Her dad held her fast, saying quietly into her ear, ‘I don’t like to say so but your mum’s right, you know. This isn’t respectable, not as she or I know it. It’s not your world, and the war will end. What then?’
Polly hugged him. ‘I love you, Dad. And you, Mum. But it is my world, right this minute, and how many minutes more have we got? I’ve got to go.’
Chapter 32
28 November – leaving the depot for Limehouse
The Marigold was ordered to Limehouse to pick up wood destined for Birmingham. There was peace on the Marigold and Horizon without Sylvia, though Joe was no ray of sunshine. They tied up overnight at Paddington, but he barely spoke, resentment in every gesture. He minded the tiller the next day, the 29th, while Polly lock-wheeled. He ate what they cooked, and ignored The Water Babies left out for him.
Saul had given him some drawings of apples, but he wouldn’t look at those either. Polly left others, of a cat sitting on a mat. Verity looked at them, and said she wasn’t surprised he showed no interest. Polly made a rude sign.
When Verity had moved into the butty cabin in order to leave room for Joe with Polly, as Granfer suggested, she found, and brought across, a mouth organ for Joe. Polly had grimaced, and was heartily pleased when he seemed less than interested. Her memories of Will sucking and blowing into one for what seemed like an unconscionable time still resonated. It was only when his lips tingled too much that he grew weary of the thing, and chucked it into next door’s garden. It wasn’t until later in the day that Polly realised it had been a ‘pure’ memory, one that had made her smile, and not withdraw into misery.
They headed on to Limehouse and once loaded, and on their way back, they met Saul and Granfer heading towards them. Saul and Polly waved at one another, looking, looking until they were well past, while Joe sat on the roof and stared ahead. She wondered how anyone ever got to really know someone they loved on the cut, because they so often merely crossed when going in opposite directions.
They finally passed the lay-by and set off for Birmingham on 1 December with Polly steering the motor, and Verity on the quiet of the butty. Joe ran ahead to lock-wheel, but Polly took over at midday. Joe stood on the box Saul had brought when he delivered the lad, and steered, looking over the cabin and the tarpaulin-covered cargo. Polly pedalled on the bike, delighted to see a motor approaching as they climbed through the locks heading for Watford.
She stopped, yelling across the cut, ‘’Ow do, is it ready?’
The boater tipped his hat. ‘’Ow do. Yes, next five is. Traffic’s ’eavy heading south.’
She waved and rode on, as Joe, with Dog sitting on the roof, steered on, and into the cut, as though he was born to it. Well, of course, he was. Verity glided the butty alongside. Its fender bumped gently against the gate. ‘Perfect,’ Polly called down, as she shut the gates then opened the paddles while Joe and Verity ran up the narrow steps and tied up at the mooring studs. As the boats rose with the water they tightened the mooring straps, Joe so quick and sure.
He called to Verity, ‘Yer need a better hitch. Watch me.’ She looked across the lock as he hitched. She copied. He nodded. Dog was barking on the roof as the boat rose, but knew better than to launch herself into the water.
Polly pushed on the beams, and Joe took the motor through, and hauled the butty. Polly took off on the bike again waving at a boat and butty approaching from the north. Too late she saw it was Leon. He revved past her, rocking the motor and butty, and pointed his hand in a gun shape, his face grim. Each time they’d passed he had threatened. She believed in the promise – but when, and how? She thought of Joe, and how Leon would now see that she had him, that he was without Saul to protect him. She cycled back but it was too late; Leon was passing the motor, and as he did so he spun round, watching his son taking the Marigold on towards Birmingham.
He called to one of his men, who took the tiller. Again, as she had on the Brum Bum, Polly thought she recognised the man, but then it was gone. As the Brighton motored on, Leon ran across the cabin roof and the top planks. Once at the fore-end he stared after the Marigold, every fibre of his being full of rage. ‘I’ll get yer,’ he roared. ‘I’ll get yer and take ’im back, and don’t think you’ll ’ave a boat when it’s over, or a life.’
Polly cycled alongside, keeping pace with the Marigold, calling across, ‘You’re safe, Joe. I promise you’re safe. The whole cut is protecting you.’ Joe stared ahead and didn’t even glance her way, though he had turned pale. The only thing she could do was to carry on lock-wheeling. But then, on a long pound, she took her place back on the motor, steering while Joe stood gazing behind him. She said, ‘What about looking at the book and letting me help you understand it?’
‘Why don’t yer bugger off. Yer no ’elp to man nor beast.’
She shook her head. ‘You can say what you like, but I’m not leaving your side for one single moment, and we have Dog. She’ll look after us.’
Polly continued to steer along the cut past Kings Langley, pointing out the shadowed slope still festooned in frost, though it was early afternoon and the sun had been shining, thin and weak. She pointed out the starlings flocking, late. She talked of Christmas, and a tree with baubles. The roast chicken before the war, with such lovely parsnips, but said that she now preferred pheasant. She heard the pheasants’ call, and pointed out some in clumsy flight, and later, some geese. ‘Has your uncle shown you how he catches them? I reckon he lays a trail of corn, then Bob’s your uncle.’
Joe looked at her. ‘’E’s not. Saul’s me uncle.’
Polly nodded. ‘Yes, silly of me.’
They were passing sheep that were scratching at the frost-spiked grass. ‘They’ll be hungry,’ Polly said, checking behind. She knew that Verity would be doing the same. Had Leon winded the Brighton, turning it around to come after them? Her stomach churned. Bang, his lips had mouthed as he clicked the imaginary trigger. This boy was his son, stolen from him, in his own mind. But there was no way he’d get him back while she was in charge and had Verity in her gang. They were ‘invincible’. Somehow they’d stop him; still, she made a note to find a thick stick when she was next on the towpath. They were heading for a bridge hole. She snatched up the knotted rope and beat at the cabin top, then glanced at the parapet. So many dangers, so many nuisances. Had she said to her parents it was safe? The parapet was clear, they entered the hole.
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She said, ‘I thought there might be an echo, which happens when the sound comes back at you, like another person repeating your words. I sometimes do it.’ She continued slapping.
‘Braunston might,’ he said. They’d come out into the daylight, and the cold wind froze her nose. Was Joe thawing? He reached out to stroke Dog, saying, ‘She’s good. She didn’t bother about yer slapping the knots.’
Polly nodded. ‘I hope Dog doesn’t have to go back to Jimmy one day. I will miss her so much. I really love her.’
He looked at her for a moment, then at Dog.
He turned his back again, and stared out at another field where there were sheep nibbling. Polly noted that some ice had floated free from the edge of the cut. Then Joe screamed, and Polly swung round, shocked. ‘Look, look, a sheep, it be stuck. Look. Caught, it is. It’ll freeze, ’e’ll die. I gotta go.’ Dog jumped down to the counter, barking and leaping up at the boy. Polly scanned the field and saw it, on her side of the cut, halfway up caught against the wire fence on the left.
She shouted, ‘No, not you, I’m bigger and stronger. Take over the tiller as we go under the upcoming bridge. I’ll jump off, then I’ll catch up. If another pair approach, remember to steer to the inside but not too close.’ Oh be quiet, Polly, she told herself, he knows this.
She shot down into the cabin, found a sharp knife and leapt up on to the counter as Joe steered under the bridge, his hand ready to slam Marigold into reverse.
‘No, do not, I repeat, do not, slam her into reverse, or you’ll have the butty up your rear. You should know that. I said I’d catch you up.’
He looked at her, his face screwed up between anguish and hatred, but he did as she said. She hooted, then blew Bet’s horn.
Had Verity understood the warning that things were afoot? She leapt off, on to the towpath, yelling, ‘Remember, I’ll catch up, and, Dog, you stay.’
She heard Joe: ‘Don’t yer kill ’im. Don’t yer bloody do that, with that damned knife.’
Polly took no notice and ran back along the towpath, waving a hand at Verity, who shouted, ‘What the hell are you up to?’
‘A sheep in trouble.’
‘Bloody hell, catch us up, for heaven’s sake; I’m not fit to be in charge of a child, and––’
The rest was lost to Polly as, panting, she reached the field and followed the barbed wire along the edge of the towpath, clambering over near a post she could hang on to. The barbs hooked her, she tore free, ripping her trousers and slicing her thigh. Damn and blast. She ran on over the slippery grass, slid, fell, the knife spun from her hand, the sheep were scattering, baaing as though she was flaying the lot of them. It was tempting, but even more so was the urge to just walk away. She struggled to her feet, found the knife, and with freezing hands continued her run towards the fence.
The sheep were gathering on the crest of the slope, bellyaching, and grizzling. A rook cawed and she shouted at them all, ‘If I had mint sauce or a shotgun I’d deal with the lot of you.’
As she ran she was torn between laughing and breathing. Finally she reached the animal, and while it kicked and butted she saw that it was indeed snagged on the barbs and there could be no untangling. She hacked at the fleece. She knew it contained lanolin so perhaps it would help heal the latest of the broken blisters. She was clumsy because her hands were numb, and her nose ran as she bowed over the animal, but finally she sawed through the fleece.
The sheep fell, then struggled to its feet, and scampered after the others, baaing with never a thank-you. But after all, it was an animal from the cut, so how could there be?
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. Her mum would tut. She sighed. She must write to her, but what could she say? Nothing her mum would want to hear. It would likely be, mind your own business, Mum, for heaven’s sake, so best to say nothing, do nothing. She wiped her nose again, regaining her breath. She had written to Reggie, though, her usual friendly letter. Why not? It was comfortable.
She snatched some of the wool off the fence and stuffed it in her pockets and was heading back to the towpath when she heard, ‘Stand still or be shot.’
Leon? She remembered the sign of a gun he’d made. She stood, barely daring to breathe, but then heard, ‘What the hell did you do to my sheep?’
Of course it wasn’t Leon. She turned in the direction of the voice, to see a man storming down from the crest just as Dog appeared, running and barking towards the sheep. The farmer raised his gun. She yelled, ‘No, please don’t. Dog, Dog.’
Dog wheeled, and charged towards her, leaping into her arms as the farmer lowered his shotgun, and now the man’s sheepdog appeared over the crest and almost crept on its belly to its master. Another was circling the sheep, gathering them into a whirling mass. As he approached, the farmer yanked his cap from his head, slapped it against his corduroy trousers, and put it back, shouting as he broke his shotgun, letting the barrels hang harmlessly, ‘You’ve no right to be on my land, and if I see you on it again, I’ll shoot. I’m not having you lot poaching my sheep. Don’t mind my pheasants but my sheep are out of bounds, d’you hear? Not out of bounds just to the boaters, they’re out of bounds to everyone so don’t feel hard done by. I’m a reasonable man.’
‘Well, I don’t think you are, shouting at me like that, when I’ve done you a favour. My lad saw one of your sheep caught on the barbs. I cut it free. You owe him a vote of thanks. And me.’
The farmer was close. He stopped a few feet away. He was middle-aged, florid, and his breath billowed, much as that of one of his bulls might, or so she thought. ‘You’re one of the women canal trainees, aren’t you? You’re doing a good job.’
At that, Polly lowered Dog to the ground. ‘Sit,’ she commanded. Dog obeyed. Polly pulled out the wool from her pocket, gesturing back to the wire fence. ‘This is what I took after I’d cut him from that barbed wire.’
‘A her, actually.’ He settled his cap yet again, then smiled. ‘She’d have frozen stuck there, because there’s going to be a sharp ice-up tonight. Early for it, but it happens here. Get yourselves tied up near a pub. You can always warm the cockles over a beer. Keep the wool, rub it on your hands. Might rescue them.’
He slung the gun over his shoulder, then dug in his pockets and brought out a shilling. ‘Give this to the lad, and take half yourself.’
She shook her head and thought for a moment. ‘No need for that, but if your children have early-reading books – you know, for beginners – would you leave them on the fence, on the opposite side of the cut? We’ll pick them up on our way back. Got to get our lad – this runabout we’ve borrowed – to learn to read.’
She looked down the cut, to the end of the butty which stuck out from the bridge hole. They hadn’t moved on, then? They’d lose time.
She started to walk away, and the farmer called, ‘Right you are. Time your runabout learned to read, as there’s not going to be much for them when this bloody mess is over. Shame, it is. A right shame.’
He nodded, and headed back up the hill, which is when she noticed his limp. Perhaps he’d been in the war? Dog barked after him, and Polly gripped her collar and kept her close until they were the other side of the wire fence.
She still carried the knife, her pocket bulged with wool, her trouser leg flapped where it had torn. What a sight she must make.
She let Dog go once they were on the towpath and they ran together towards the bridge. From the butty counter Verity called, ‘Mint sauce needed?’
‘Oh, do shut up. You are watching for Leon, aren’t you?’
‘Of course, Skipper. He pretended to shoot at me and yelled something about the boat going down too, so I’m watching for him, all the time.’
Polly nodded. ‘And me, but I’ve just met a man with a much bigger gun, and all I had was a knife, and Dog. Dog’s our secret weapon, you know; she’ll rip out Leon’s throat, I reckon.’
She ran on towards the motor, hearing Verity calling after her, ‘You sounded as though you enjoyed that
thought. Shameless, you are.’
Dog arrived first. Joe had held the engine in neutral, mooring Marigold up, and to give credit to him, he hadn’t left the motor for a single moment, as far as she knew anyway. ‘The sheep is all right, Joe. The farmer was pleased. I’m going on to wheel the next lock.’ She dragged the bike down. ‘Verity is watching for Leon. You are safe. Put the knife back for me, then pull away. You should really have kept going, you know. Let’s try and catch up on time. Hoot three times if you need me.’
She held up three fingers, and counted out three. Joe nodded. ‘I knows some of me numbers.’
But this time he didn’t shout, or glower.
She pedalled off, and the motor pulled away and headed for the centre. The tow tightened and the butty headed past her too. Dog was with her, and as she kept pace with the Marigold Joe called, ‘I thought yer would ’urt the beast.’
‘Then you don’t know me, Joe Hopkins.’
‘Me name ain’t ’Opkins, but I wish it were. It’s Arnson, like me da.’
‘I’m sorry, Joe Arnson.’ Her hands were frozen on the handlebars.
Joe called again, ‘Mayhap we could go over them letters tonight, and you could show me the cat on the mat.’
She grinned. ‘Maybe we could, Joe.’
She cycled on and as she did so Verity hooted. The wind was in her direction so she had heard too.
Every evening Saul pored over the lessons Polly had left with Mrs Porter, and which she had given him for Joe. He had copied them, and passed them on to Polly when she asked to borrow a runabout. Granfer sat with him, of an evening, and so they learned their letters together. Saul wanted nothing more than to walk past Verity and Polly one day, with the newspaper beneath his arm, having read it. He’d offer it to Verity, that he would.
Chapter 33
15 December – the Marigold’s return trip to the depot
They were north of Kings Langley, days later than they had thought, because not only had they had to wait two days to be loaded, but the engine had yet again needed work near Braunston Tunnel. They had called in at Saul’s friend, Mikey, for a new gasket for the exhaust manifold. Once all was well they headed south, with a few vowels tucked under Joe’s belt. As they drew near the spot where Polly had released the ewe, she and Joe saw a tarpaulin bag strung on the fence. The farmer had fixed it halfway up the field, out of the way of passing boaters. ’Let me off at the next bridge hole, Joe,’ Polly said.
