by Milly Adams
They all heard Bet clearly as she raged, ‘I got them out to keep us busy and stop any fussing. So now we’ll sort out the cabins, but collect and chuck the brooms back, Mabel, if you don’t very much mind.’
Sylvia muttered to Verity as Mabel did just that, ‘She’s totally shaken, but who wouldn’t be?’
The sound of whistles, screams, shouts, and the revs and clangs of the Fire Service pump engines was growing, carried on the wind that was pushing denser and denser smoke over them.
‘Come on, girls, chop chop.’ Bet was dragging out another rolled-up tarpaulin. She threw it to Polly, who hugged it to her. Then Sylvia caught the coiled rope that Bet had hurled from the store. Standing with her hands on her hips on the prow counter, Bet yelled, ‘You never know, Sylvia, it might come in handy and we can’t have you and Mabel toddling along empty handed like Lady Mucks as though you’re out for an early afternoon stroll.’
Bet jumped to the bank, taking an end of Polly’s tarpaulin, and said, ‘The ruddy pheasant stew’s in Hillview’s oven, so that’s bound to be ruined. At least nothing caught fire, or we’d have neither boat any more, just a pile of charcoal.’
Sylvia hoisted the rope over her shoulder and linked arms with Mabel. The girl was shaking from head to foot as she tottered along, then she started shrieking, ‘We heard nothing, just felt this suck. A great big suck that took all the air, then a sort of roar and a wind that shoved us over, tore up the cabin and I didn’t know what the hell was happening.’
‘It was a V2,’ Sylvia soothed her, knowing that she was shaking too but that it must have been far worse to be closer still.
Mabel snapped, ‘I know what it was, of course I do, now, I just can’t get such a dreadful suck out of my head.’
Bet, who was lugging a tarpaulin ahead of them, stopped, turned and yelled a command, treating the sound of the rescue services as though it was a mosquito to be swatted. ‘If you say suck again, young lady, into the cut you will go. We have more to do than have hysterics; we need to make a silk purse out of a ruddy sow’s ear, then the Marigold girls must get on to the Basin to pick up their load.’
They continued along the towpath towards the stern of the boat, examining Sky’s hold as they went, though all Sylvia wanted to do was scan the skies for more rockets. Mabel, still at fever pitch, shrieked, ‘Bet’s a tyrant, that’s what she is.’
Sylvia grinned. ‘Of course she is, but she’ll teach you to be a sort of boater, and then the boaters will teach you to be a good one.’
Mabel seemed unconvinced as she looked from the boat to Sylvia, then at the smoke and noise, and finally up to the sky. She was still shaking. Sylvia said into her ear to make sure she was heard, ‘Best to think of something else, so check the hull as we’re going along. You won’t hear the V2, or see it if it hits you, anyway. It’s going too fast. Only the survivors get that pleasure.’
Mabel looked appalled and shouted back, ‘Well, thanks for that bit of information, I don’t think.’
Sky seemed untouched except for the fenders which had been ripped off and flung into the cut, and into the hold where they lay shredded on the bilge boards. Sylvia squeezed Mabel’s arm, as in front Verity shouted above the noise, ‘A tyrant, you say, Mabel. Well, yes, but we found Bet doesn’t often bite. Still, I dare say she – what’s the word – oh yes, I know, she can’t half suck.’
Polly, walking alongside their old trainer, slipped her arm around Bet, saying, ‘I don’t think anyone will say suck again. What do you think, girls? Anyone about to mutter the magic word – what was it again?’
Bet howled, ‘Shut up’ but was forced to join in the shaky laughter.
Reaching amidships, they saw that the right side above the waterline was completely caved in thirty feet from the stern and parts lay in the bilges. Verity looked over her shoulder at Sylvia. ‘We were in such a rush to check on the grumpy old bag I didn’t see this, did you?’
Polly and Sylvia were shaking their heads, as Bet stepped closer. ‘Thank the Lord we were unloaded, or we’d have sunk and lost the supplies.’
Mabel muttered, ‘Not to mention the three of us.’
Bet was peering closer. ‘We’re replaceable, ducky, the boats aren’t – especially the motor.’
Mabel blanched. Sylvia grinned while Polly called, ‘I don’t think it will work to tarpaulin the hull, Bet. Best just to sort out the cabins and get back to the depot on your motor. If Hillview is still sound enough, that is.’
They set off again towards the stern. Reaching Sky’s cabin, Bet said, ‘Too far gone. I reckon it was from being whacked into the bank by Hillview.’ She kicked at the wood. Her precious pierced plates were smashed, and her horse brasses too, no doubt, were buried beneath the splinters. What about the hunting horn from Bet’s father? He had two and Bet had given the Marigold trainees one. Sylvia nodded to herself. If Bet didn’t find hers, they’d have to return theirs. It didn’t matter a jot, because possessions in the face of all this were absurdly unimportant. They stepped across the counter, on to Hillview.
The breeze clutched at their sweaters as they examined the damaged cabin roof. Half was in place, the other half floating on the cut, drifting towards the far bank. Any approaching narrowboat would use boat shafts to force it aside, or barge it with the prow, so there was no need to do anything about it. Smoke was thickening now.
‘Oh,’ coughed Bet, dragging out her handkerchief and holding it over her face, having scooted along to the engine, giving the thumbs-up on her return. ‘We can sort this enough to get back for the cabin and hull to be repaired, and if not, at least the motor’s still useful. It’s up to the company to decide what to do with the butty. Let’s chuck the debris and one of the tarpaulins in the hold, then fix the cabin. Oh, bravo, the hunting horn.’ She stooped, then brandished it at the smoke. ‘There you are, you V2 buggers. Missed us, you did.’ She hooted it once, and then again.
Sylvia caught Verity’s grin and shrugged to herself. All right, so possessions weren’t important, but it would have been hard for Bet to have lost something that had belonged to her parents.
Extraordinarily, the stew in the tiny stove was untouched, though the fire was out. They set to, creating a sort of tent over the damaged areas, obeying Bet’s commands until Polly slapped her hands together. ‘There you go, Bet, shelter from the cold, and should it rain as you toddle along to Bull’s Bridge Depot, you’ll stay vaguely dry. As for Sky, I have to say you’re not going to be Miss Popular, but it would have been worse if they’d had to scoop bits of you all out of the water. Just too messy for words, and it could kill the fish, if there are any.’
Everyone was relaxing – lightning didn’t strike twice. They gobbled down the stew Bet was forcing on them, though each of the Marigold girls kept an eye on the time, until Polly said, ‘Enough of this dawdling, we’ve got to get on to the Basin.’
They jumped on to the bank, with gravy-soaked pieces of bread in their hands for Dog. It was still freezing cold, and their eyes were stinging as Polly called, ‘Dog, come on, playtime’s over but we have a treat for you.’
They waited but she didn’t come.
‘Dog,’ they called as the Hillview crew joined them on the bank. As they called again and again looking up and down the towpath, Mabel said, ‘Damn, I forgot to tell you, I noticed her take off after a cat about ten minutes ago, heading over there; I thought she’d come back.’ She pointed to the bridge across the canal, in the direction of the blast. ‘I should have said. I’m so sorry. My head’s such a mess.’
Polly snapped, ‘For heaven’s sake, Mabel …’ She looked at the other two. Sylvia and Verity said together, ‘We’ve got to go after her.’ Bet yelled, ‘She’s got a good head start. Oh, really, Mabel.’
The girls, already running off down the towpath, heard Bet call after them, ‘I’m so sorry, girls, Mabel doesn’t realise Dog’s not just a dog. In fact, she doesn’t realise very much.’
Polly waved, saying, ‘Poor girl, I remember that tone, d
on’t you? She’s in for a right ticking off any minute now.’ She called over her shoulder, ‘Not to worry, Bet. Mabel wasn’t to know. Be gentle with her.’
Bet bawled back, ‘Blow that for a game of soldiers. Contact the depot for me when you see a phone box and tell Bob we’re limping back if you will, but point out Sky needs rescuing. I’ll leave her moored. Don’t listen to his mithering. Just put the phone down. Never met such a grump.’
‘Well, we jolly well have,’ the girls heard Mabel and Evelyn shout.
Polly, Verity and Sylvia didn’t laugh as they reached the bridge, because they were too busy calling for Dog. They left the canal behind, as they jogged through the billowing black smoke. Polly shouted to the other two, ‘Damned cat.’
Verity replied, ‘Damned Dog.’
Sylvia said nothing, because the same anxiety that had hold of Verity and Polly, in spite of their tone, had hold of her. Dog couldn’t be lost, not really. Perhaps she was confused by the smoke. How long could they search? There was a war on and goods to transport. Oh Mabel, Oh Dog. Damn and blast the bloody V2.
They drew in to the side as an ambulance tore past, heading away from the centre of the blast. Polly sounded as despairing as Sylvia felt as she shouted, ‘If they’re careering around like that, they wouldn’t see a dog in the road, would they?’
‘Oh, shut up, Pol,’ shouted Sylvia. They ran on, calling and calling for Dog as they passed houses with paper criss-crossed over the windows, and gaps where summer hollyhocks probably grew amongst the ruins. There were broken bricks in the street, and rubble where a house had been this morning, with rescuers now working like men possessed.
‘Damned Hitler,’ Sylvia panted, feeling real hate but it was just disguising the panic. Where was Dog? ‘Dog, Dog.’
Polly nodded, calling, ‘Dog, oh come on Dog, we’ve a load to collect. Don’t do this to us today. Dog, darling, come back. Dog.’
Verity joined in, ‘Chase whatever you like in the countryside, away from the rockets. In fact, do it anywhere you like, but come back to us.’
They had slowed and were crunching on debris. They passed a woman entering a terraced house. ‘You looking for yer dog, are yer? There’s one over there where the rocket came down. Helping ’em out, she is. A mongrel, brown and ’airy?’ The woman, wearing a headscarf and carrying a string bag bulging with potatoes, pointed off to the left. ‘Just got back from the air raid shelter, swapped me leeks for spuds with Mrs H, not that the all-clear’s gone, but I need to get on.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ shouted Polly, almost hugging the woman, who just smiled, and kept pointing. They ran on, past more blast damage that had cut a swathe through houses, and a factory. They thought of Mabel’s ‘suck’. They could have lost Bet, and Dog was alive, and they could live here instead of the cut, so what had they to moan about? They ran faster.
In the heavy smoke-drenched air they struggled for breath, fighting stitches, wanting to bend over and take a moment, but there was no time. They ran even faster, the air increasingly hot and damp, the smoke so much thicker they could taste it, like a foul soup. They reached the centre of the blast, or so they supposed, because a tape had been stretched around a crater which was surrounded by destruction. A couple of policemen guarded the tape as neighbours and relatives waited, some swearing, some weeping, but most just watching. One of the constables, his arms outstretched, seemed to be daring anyone to break through, and yelling every few moments, ‘Get yourselves to the shelter, the all-clear ain’t gone.’
‘Lightning don’t strike twice,’ an old boy shouted back. ‘Reckon this is the safest place.’
Behind the policeman dust and smoke rose from the crater, and the rescue squads were digging steadily amongst the debris of ruined and damaged houses and shops, some of which were burning. Over these the firemen were playing water, their pumps roaring, the water hissing as the fire officer shouted directions.
The girls stood together, handkerchiefs to their faces, searching for Dog. A wall crashed to the ground behind them. They swung round and saw dangling floors, and fireplaces just like those in the bombed house in Birmingham they had passed for months as they headed for the Bull and Bush pub. There was an explosion on the other side of the crater and the crowd ducked. Strangers clutched one another as flames whooshed. More dust filled the air. A woman next to Sylvia gripped her arm. ‘It’s the Pig and Whistle’s booze going up.’
‘Please, let it not have fallen on Dog …’ groaned Polly.
As the Heavy Rescue Service arrived, the woman next to Sylvia said, ‘The Pig’s got a basement. Maybe someone’s down there? There’re basements all over the bloody place, and poor buggers fall through with the blast, but sometimes the joists hold up the rubble. Saves ’em, it do.’
Shouts and whistles directed the firemen. The air grew damper and heavier with moisture.
It was pointless to run around like demented beings calling for Dog. So the girls questioned the watchers, working their way round the area circling the tape until they were at the other side of the disaster area. ‘Have you seen our dog?’
‘Please, she’s brown and hairy.’
‘Please look out for her, we’ll be here until we find her. A lady said she was here.’
Polly was crying, clutching the arm of an old woman. ‘She’s our girl, you see.’
The old woman muttered, ‘Reckon I saw a dog over there, see, through the spray from the hose.’
The girls peered between the rescuers, firemen and ambulance crews who were rushing backwards and forwards but couldn’t see Dog. They moved a few yards to the right trying to see past the base of the turntable ladder – and there she was, digging frantically on top of a heaped pile of bricks and beams. They could see her barking, but not hear her. A small team of rescue workers looked on as a squad member sat on top with Dog, cupping his hands and shouting to the workers. As they watched, the man turned and gave a thumbs-up, patted Dog, and taking hold of her collar, eased himself from the pile, taking her with him. The squad took over.
The girls called, but Dog was being walked away from them. They looked at one another. ‘Come on, we’re not having that,’ ordered Polly, and led the way towards a policeman who was busy arguing with a couple of old men. Verity stopped and said, ‘Excuse me.’
The policeman put up his hand to tell them to wait. Polly said, ‘Oh come on, while he’s busy.’ She ducked beneath the tape, and the other two followed, dodging past the firemen and workers and leaping the hoses, feeling the spray until they reached Dog. Polly hauled her from the rescuer. ‘She’s ours,’ she yelled. ‘She ran off. We have to get to Limehouse to pick up our load. Come on Dog, come on.’
Dog followed. The man, his tin hat strapped on tight, yelled after them, ‘Give ’er a bone, she’s saved a good few today, just like she was born to it. Smells ’em, she do. Fancy leaving ’er with us? We could do with ’er. I’m serious, mind.’
The girls shook their heads and continued to back away, crashing into a fireman playing a hose on the warehouse. Sylvia lost her balance and fell backwards on to the ground. Dog barked and licked her face, then gulped water that was dripping from the edges of the nozzle as the young fireman looked down at Sylvia.
‘No need to fall at me feet. I’m only doing me job.’ He was laughing, but the tiredness in his voice was as heavy as the atmosphere.
The water dripped off Sylvia’s clothes, and her bum was soaked. A yard away Dog barked at the fireman, and he snatched a look. Dog was straining against Polly, who now had hold of her collar. He said, ‘A right good sniffer. We’ll take good care of your dog if you leave it here.’
Verity muttered something. Polly nodded and told the fireman, ‘We’ve already been asked that and if we could split Dog between you and us, we would, but we couldn’t leave Dog. Do you agree, wet bum?’
‘I think you should shut up,’ Sylvia said. The fireman laughed and continued to play his hose on the building, but it was Sylvia he was looking down at, his eyes kind and ful
l of laughter. As she began to scramble to her feet he hooked the nozzle beneath his arm and held out his hand. ‘Grab hold, I’ll give you a hand. Well, a lend. I want it back.’
She started to shake her head but slipped again. He grabbed her and hauled her upright. For a moment they stood close, and his smile was weary, but somehow … She realised she was still holding his hand. ‘Thanks for the lend,’ she muttered.
‘Any time.’ He let her go and took the nozzle in both hands, still looking at her, and for a moment she almost forgot the chaos and activity around them – then Dog barked and clawed at her trouser leg. Sylvia and the fireman looked down at her.
‘Did Dog save that person over there in the ambulance?’ Sylvia asked, loitering for a moment, unwilling to leave as Dog drank again from the dribbling hose. They watched the doors shut and the ambulance shoot off. The fireman replied, smiling at her, ‘Yes, such a good ’un, the dog I mean, though I dare say …’ He stopped, his face becoming serious as he looked at her, puzzled, and then confused. ‘Sorry, I just meant.’ He stopped again. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I meant.’ But it was Sylvia now who muttered, ‘It’s all right …’ She stopped, because she didn’t know what was all right, just that she couldn’t quite look away. It was he who did, directing the hose higher.
As Dog sat at Polly’s feet, a fireman hosing further along called, ‘Hey, Steve, try and get them girls to pass the hairy search expert over to us, will yer? Tell ’em he just took over when he got here, like he’d been popped from inside a cracker, God bless ’im. Tell ’em he saved that bloke who’s just gone off to hospital, alive and kicking. Well, not kickin’ but bloody angry ’e was. ’E had a nice bit of chop that’s gone up in smoke, and not a lot left on ’is ration.’
‘Do me best, Dodge. You just concentrate on hosing that lot down, eh?’
Sylvia watched Dodge, the other fireman, now, and the rescuers who were still working in a chain on the huge pile of rubble behind the girls. The people behind the tape were drawing closer together, chatting furiously. One man cupped his hands and bawled, ‘That’ll be old man Smeeth. Been saving up ’is coupons, ’e ’as. It’s his birfday.’