by Milly Adams
The girls had never seen Timmo move so fast, and the door slammed shut after him. Lettie poured tea, looking at the clock above the sideboard. ‘Yer’ll be staying fer yer lunch. ’Spect yer’ll miss yer Spam but some things yer ’ave to learn to go without, eh Artie?’ She was laughing. ‘We had a letter from our Saul this morning. All about yer, Polly, a bit about Maudie, and summat about a big old river they was eyeing for to get across, but a lot was blacked out.’Tis always blacked in parts.’
Verity said, ‘I expect there’re letters waiting for us back at the depot. That’s the trouble with the boats, there’s no letter box. Or perhaps we’ll have to wait until someone is able to ship them home on the hospital run.’
Lettie pushed cups of tea across the table at them all, then she and Granfer sat down. Granfer fiddled with his teaspoon, stirring and stirring his tea until his elder sister snapped, ‘Whisht, enough o’ that, young Artie, yer goin’ to tell ’em or is I?’
It was about Maudie, the girls knew, and all Sylvia could think was what would happen to Joe. Why was life so complicated? Granfer was talking, and she caught up on his words, which were about Timmo who’d taken to calling. ‘With his pheasant, or rabbit, or just himself, though he knowed I catch the beggars an’ all. On t’way up to Tyseley, and on t’way down to depot, he comes. Reckon Pete and Trev get a bit sick of his lovelornness, but they’s good boys.’
Lettie sighed. ‘Yer does go round that mulberry bush, our Artie.’
Granfer grinned. ‘Well, he comes, and our Maudie starts ’membering more, yer see, not just shapes, or pain, or things she knows but don’t know how she knowed, or things she remembers one day and not t’next. She ’membered Timmo for times gone, from when they was little ’uns, and she ’members kindness, yer see. I reckon she sees kindness all around her, and feels safe to remember that bugger Leon. But ’t’weren’t till Fran takes it upon ’erself to give us tickets to ’er childer’s school play, and says it could do our Maudie a fair bit o’ good, that we sees the window in her mind swing open. Bit o’ a jerk, weren’t it, our Lettie.’
Lettie, who was sipping her tea, looked over the cup and said, ‘I’ll be givin’ yer a bit of a jerk if yer don’t get yourself wriggling on a bit.’
Granfer chuckled. ‘She likes the story an’ all, so don’t you be afeared of the bad wolf, yer girls.’
The girls were actually sitting gripping one another’s hands beneath the table in an effort not to fall on the floor laughing at the double act, but they were also on edge. Where was all this taking them?
Sylvia could see the sky growing darker as the clouds built, sucking the light from the kitchen, and sighed; they would have rain for the onward journey today.
Granfer dragged his clay pipe out of his pocket, but it was snatched from him by Lettie. ‘Only when you tell the tale.’
He sipped his tea instead, his eyes twinkling, and the girls knew better than to hurry Granfer ’Opkins when he held the stage. ‘We goes to the play, but our Lettie and me was disturbed, we was. It had boys that was Joe’s years and they ’ad a cardboard butty they was standing behind, on the counter. They was wearin’ clothes like our Saul and me, and there were a bigger girl, dressed like our Maudie did. They did act mooring, they did act steering, they did sing a song, they did—’
‘And Maudie?’ interrupted Verity.
‘She said naught, she done just sat on her chair, she did, sat and watched but were somewhere else in her ’ead. It finished. People clapped. She ’eld her ’ands to her head, like she couldn’t stand such noise, and walked out, and walked and walked, and we follered, didn’t we, Lettie? She wouldn’t let us be near her, so yes, we just follered.’
Lettie was nodding. ‘We were in a right fright. She went on though ’twas half raining, half sleetin’ and cold, right on to the cut she tore, and we was feared she were to go in. So we ran quick as we could but we’s old and might not have caught her, but our Fran were behind, and we didn’t know that, and she tore on past us, and stood just by ’er on t’bank.’
Granfer had somehow taken back his pipe from Lettie and was furiously tamping down the tobacco he’d dragged from his pouch. ‘We all just stood there, getting wet and cold and I was wondering where we go from ’ere, and ’oping we weren’t all going in t’cut, when she said, “I have a boy. I have Joe, my ’ead ’as quite cleared, and I can remember all my life: Leon; my boy. All o’ them, clear as day, and day after day, and Timmo, Saul, Thomo who is killed as Timmo said. You, Granfer, and you, Auntie Lettie. I knows yer, and I remembers yer.”’
Lettie sat back in her chair. ‘And she has, clear as day from then on. Our Fran were right to find that key to unlock it all and make it stay clear for her, instead of Joe and the rest comin’ and goin’ like a pendulum in her head. She remembers Leon, the beatings, and ’ow he ’urt his boy for the love of it, for the power o’ it, and she remembers it all clear, and constant, she do, and the cut, and us.’
‘Good old Fran,’ cheered Polly. ‘Good old Timmo, for putting his foot in the door.’
‘But now, what about Joe? Do we tell him his mother is alive?’ Sylvia asked.
At that moment, the back door creaked open and Maudie peered into the kitchen, her eyes lighting up to see the girls. She shook off her boots, to be followed in by Timmo who did the same, because his were inches deep in mud too. They had picked sprouts and cabbage, and gathered up carrots from the sawdust in the box in the shed.
As they all set about the vegetables, Maudie looked at Polly shyly. ‘I remembers my boy, clear and long.’
Polly smiled, ‘My mum will be really happy for Joe, and for you.’
Maudie cut up the carrot into slices on the wooden chopping board, taking great care, and clearly trying to say more. Timmo beside her said quietly, ‘If yer ’as more to say, that is right, and good, ain’t it, Polly?’
Polly reached across, and pinched a bit of carrot. ‘Here, I’ve had some of your carrot, and let’s have some of your words, shall we?’
How clever, Sylvia thought. Boaters understood a deal, but perhaps everyone did. They waited as Maudie put her knife down, while Timmo looked at her protectively.
Maudie said, ‘I long to see my boy, but I fear to take him from his other families. For they’s his families cos they have given ’im a home, and love, so Granfer tells me, cos them write weekly, one from your ma and da, Verity one week, and one from yer ma and da t’other, Polly, and Mr B and Rogers, t’other week. Auntie Lettie and Granfer reads them. So, I would like a letter from my boy, cos they tells me ’e is at school and knows his letters well. One day, I would treasure to see ’im, but not to cause him worry, nor yer ma and da. If you does see my meaning?’
They all saw exactly. Maudie continued. ‘Granfer is learnin’ me my letters, and p’rhaps I can read ’is letter myself, soon. I tries real ’ard, and Timmo says he do too, so he can help. My boy can’t have a ma who don’t know her letters, or her numbers.’
Sylvia said, ‘He will love you as much as he always has, Maudie, whether you can read or not, but I think I understand why it is important to you. It helps to bridge the gap.’
Maudie looked at her now, her dark eyes as serious as the words were. ‘You be right. It be like my boy is on one side of the cut, and I is on t’other, and we need to reach across it, and clasp our ’ands firm together.’
It was Timmo who spoke now. ‘It be a time of waitin’, it p’raps be?’ He frowned, searching for words. ‘It’s to be patient, to be knowing that you will be together, but step by step on that bridge, till your Joe feels quite certain. And there must be thought, deep thought, as to ’ow it can be done, and mayhap that can be shared.’
The girls knew he was talking about a relationship between Maudie and himself too. Did Maudie know that? Sylvia wondered. Perhaps, because Maudie turned her hand upwards and let Timmo’s rest on hers, her fingers lightly clasped around his for a moment, and then she began chopping the carrots again.
The girls toiled through the
rain, behind Timmo, Peter and Trev, but the locks were with the boys, and the girls steadily fell behind, mooring up for the night at Cosgrove, happy to be alone; they still had so much to talk about, even though they’d been chewing it over all day. The more they talked, the less they knew. In the end Polly slapped the motor cabin table. ‘Enough. We will just telephone Howard House with the news of Maudie’s progress, and her wish that Joe be told, and the possibility of a letter from him to her at Buckby. It’s not ours to decide how and when any of their worlds will change.’
Verity agreed. ‘Then we’ll follow up with the same letter to them all, and explain that Maudie is learning to read, but that in the meantime Granfer will read for her, and that she is mindful of the situation, and only wants the best for Joe. That she has no fear that Leon will return, and best to keep it that way for now. Sylvia, what do you think?’
Sylvia sipped her tea. A coal dropped into the firebox, and settled in the ash. The range would be chuntering in her butty cabin, too. ‘Yes, I agree to all of this,’ she said. ‘You see, it really is between Joe and his mother, with the support of the Howard House parents. There’s no rush, I think is the thing to emphasise, but for now, let’s forget about it, or if it keeps going around in my head I will take off, and with the cold, my red nose will light my way.’
They all laughed, a little, and headed for bed.
It took them two days to reach the depot, with the locks past Tring all against them. ‘We’re just out of kilter,’ sighed Polly to Sylvia as they motored abreast.
Verity lock-wheeled all those from Kings Langley to Cowley Lock, with the red buses crossing the bridges the nearer they got to the depot. Sylvia took to counting them, and adding the few army lorries, and one civilian lorry, even a couple of ambulances hot on the tail of a racing fire engine. Sylvia also thought of Steve, but when didn’t she?
She also thought of Timmo and Maudie, and she wondered if there was divorce in the boater world, for was Leon dead or alive? Had there even been a marriage or did they jump over a broom? She knew Romanies were said to do this, but boaters weren’t the same.
She called across to the other two on Marigold. Verity replied, as Polly slowed for the lay-by. ‘Sometimes there is a wedding, but sometimes not – they just live together, or so I gather. Much like on the land.’
As Polly reversed Marigold into a space, Verity and Sylvia took up the boat shafts and nudged Ma Mercy’s York to one side, and Steerer Porter’s Oxford to the other.
There was a slight bump as the stern of the motor eased against the lay-by. Sylvia jumped out, and moored up both boats, as Ma Porter came out on to her counter, standing on the top deck and not pausing in her crocheting in the failing light. ‘’Ow goes it in Buckby, my girls?’
‘Granfer and the family are well, very well. All is nearly normal.’
Ma smiled, and then they heard from Ma Mercy: ‘That be grand news.’
Verity nudged Polly. ‘Go on, see if they know?’
Polly swallowed, and whispered, ‘It’s awfully rude.’ She turned to Sylvia on the bank. ‘It was your question and best you ask it.’
Sylvia stood with her arms akimbo. ‘It wasn’t that important, and by the way, you two are the absolute limit.’
Ma Porter came to stand at the stern of her counter. ‘Best get it out, lass, or ’t’will stick in yer throat.’
Sylvia walked the few paces to Ma’s motor counter, just as Jimmy came to sit on the roof, calling to Polly that his homework was ready to be marked. Sylvia waited for Polly to praise him, then said quietly, ‘We were wondering if a certain person had been married to another certain person or just sort of jumped over a broomstick.’
Even as she was saying it, she could hear Polly start to laugh. Soon all the women and Jimmy were at it. Ma Porter said, ‘There be no jumping over broomsticks, or tillers or any somesuch, yer funny little lasses. And if’n I was to guess which certain person might be attached to another certain person I’d have to say they is like Steerer Porter and me who isn’t, but Steerer Mercy and Ma is. Just what takes yer fancy, if yer see what I mean. It’s what you do with the promise that be important, young Sylvia. You remember that, with your young fireman. ’Ear tell ’e went down on ’is knee like them two blokes of yer mates. So, the promise is made. Words on a sheet of paper don’t make it stronger, nor weaker, does they?’
Sylvia thought to herself how she had said to Verity and Polly after they had accepted their offers in marriage that it was a sacred oath. So, of course Ma was right. The boaters’ gods were the waters, the trees, the seasons, and their pledges to them and to one another were just as valid.
Polly was standing on the counter. ‘Now you’ve got your answer, Sylv, we’ve the hold to clear of sawdust, and splinters, then we’ll get off to the office and pick up our mail, and phone Howard House.
Sylvia jumped back on board the butty, grabbed the broom from Polly, knowing exactly what was going to happen, just as it happened every time.
Polly leapt for the bank. ‘Meanwhile I’m going to grab the lav. I’ll catch up with you soon.’
Verity called, as she always did, ‘Don’t take all day or we’ll come and sweep you out, won’t we Sylv?’
It was all as it always was, but at least a possible obstacle to a union between Timmo and Maudie did not exist. That was a good omen for the future, wasn’t it? Sylvia jumped into the hold and began work too tired to think any more, but when she slept she dreamed of promising Harriet she would be with her when she left, and they would become postulants together. Sacred oath? Sacred oath was the phrase that was chanted over and above them.
The six adults drank brandy in the kitchen of Howard House once Joe was in bed. They needed it as they absorbed the girls’ telephone call just after their supper of lentil and vegetable soup, with cheese, pickle and bread to be eaten alongside. Together, they tried to work out how to tell Joe of his mother’s existence, for a start, and that she would like a letter from him, before they even thought of a meeting between them.
Mrs Holmes said, ‘That poor woman. When you think what she’s been through and now she has to try and get to know her son again.’
They all turned, as the kitchen door creaked. In the half-open doorway, hanging on to the handle, wearing his slippers, pyjamas and dressing gown, stood Joe.
He said, his hair tousled, ‘I thought yer were cross wi’ me, at supper, cos Uncle Henry didn’t eat his cheese and pickle, and he loves cheese and pickle. An’ he didn’t look at me, and now I’s ’eard what you was saying, so is it that yer cross that my ma is alive, and that we will need ’spensive stamps if’n I write to ’er?’
Henry slid back his chair and came straight to the boy, hunkering down and holding him tightly. Joe felt the comfort of those arms, and they reminded him of the comfort of Saul’s. All these people were like the comfort of Saul and so too them girls, and he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them, because on his da’s boat there’d only been pain, and misery and shouts, and his ma wrapping her arms around herself, not him, because she was more pained than he, and more often and more bad.
Henry said, ‘No, no, not the price of the stamp, but how to tell you the wonderful news that your mother lives. That she didn’t die as we all thought. She loves you so much, young man, and she wants to meet you slowly, but she has a waitin’ love, which is what she called it. So there is no rush to meet, to write, to do anything.’
Henry stood up, ‘Lord,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about the door creaking, but I certainly did just then.’
Joe looked up at him, and laughed aloud. ‘I ’eard the crack in yer knees, too,’ he said, then he leaned into Henry. ‘I don’t want t’leave yer comfort, ’tis a feeling I get with all o’ yer. I have Maisie, I ’ave school, I ’ave my world on land while Saul be away at t’war. I know I is safe ’ere, from me da, should he still be alive, cos you have men around, you come wi’ me on the bus, though you think I don’t know why. But I do. But near the cut he can get me, if he do b
e alive, but we don’t know, do we? The men is all just in case, so my thoughts tell me.’
Mrs Holmes called from the table, ‘Heavens, Joe, and we thought we were being so clever. You are correct. It is all just in case.’
Joe continued, looking round all of them, ‘But while I is ’ere, in the house wi’ you all, I is safe, I feels safe whether he be alive or not, and I never is with me ma, and Da. You is all like my Uncle Saul and Granfer. Yer ’olds me close, and the girls do too. Yer know our Polly took a chair to me da when he were hitting and hitting Saul, with his men doing it too, and kicking ’im. She saw ’em off, she did. And Verity, she be there, strong and tall, and Sylvia, she writes and draws, and feels bad that she thought it were me who burned the butty, but I knows she made a mistake, and her heart is vexed, and for her I have a special caring love, cos she needs it an’ all. She draws better’n she did, too.’
The six of them laughed a little, and let him talk until he was done. At last he began to slow, and to remember the sunlit times with his mother, when his da was away on ‘his business’, as he called it. Then they would laugh, and talk, and she would braid her hair so that it hung heavy down her back like a rope. Ma Ambrose had said it was her ‘crownin’ glory’.
‘I had forgotten about Ma Ambrose. She were kind, and Steerer Ambrose come between me ma and da more’n once, and Timmo was there when he could be. He be kind, do Timmo. He watched over us, like Saul.’
Joyce Holmes slept on the side-bed in his room that night, so when Joe turned over, he could see her by the light of the little bedside lamp. The next night it was Uncle Thomas, and the next Mrs B, and so on, and so on. His comforters were always there for him, and they said, each of them as they kissed him goodnight, that his ma and granfer would be his comfort again. Well, he thought when these words were spoken; perhaps they would, but this was his home now. Here at Howard House, and he didn’t know how he could tell his ma and granfer that.