by Milly Adams
Verity said, ‘Yes, do, but you can meet Tom properly over his evening delectation, heaven help us.’
By nine they were fed and watered, and they set out into the freezing mist for the pub, which was just along from the mooring spot. Tom and Verity walked behind Polly and Sylvia. Tom whispered, ‘I should buy them a drink, for all the cabin upheaval.’
‘Great idea.’ Verity still felt astonished to be breathing the same air as him, and to have spent hour after hour with him, as equals – he not a chauffeur, and she not Her Ladyship.
Tom slipped his arm around her. ‘I can’t believe I’m here with you, sweet Verity. I thought this was gone forever, and now I feel I can begin to live again.’
In step, they walked along the road, just for a few hundred yards, and then into the pub, and the noise, and a mixture of cigarette, pipe and wood smoke.
Saul was at the bar, but his ‘Polly’ antenna was working well and he spun round, the love streaming from him. He came across immediately, shook Sylvia’s hand and kissed Polly on the lips. ‘I ’as the drinks ordered. The table’s free; Bet’s trainees ’as the one behind, and Granfer is telling ’em whoppers. Yer must be Tom. Yer got ’ere then, finally?’
Tom nodded. ‘I did, and I’m going to be asked this a lot tonight, aren’t I? But it’s no more than I deserve.’ He shook Saul’s hand. ‘I’ll buy the drinks – least I can do, after fouling up. I owe Sylvia, Verity and Polly anyway, for budging up in the butty cabin, leaving Dog and me to spread ourselves in the motor.’
Saul grimaced. ‘Ah, so yer’ve been recruited, ’ave yer? They’ll work yer t’bone. I’ll help yer carry.’
The two headed to the bar without a backward glance. Polly and Verity looked at one another, shrugged and linked arms with Sylvia, heading for the free table by the fireside. Bet, Granfer and the trainees joined them, moving their table to line up with Marigold’s and adding a couple of chairs for Tom and Saul.
Verity sat by the fire. Sparks burst and flames licked around the logs, which were more like great tree trunks. For so long Tom hadn’t been here, for so long life had been empty. She watched him at the bar: the way he moved, the turn of his head, his khaki trousers, one leg cut perpendicularly to above his knee, so that it flapped on either side of his plastered leg when he walked. She heard his laugh as Steerer Mercy, who had caught them up, teased him about the telephone boxes along the route of the canal. Then he – her Tom, her man – was coming; limping, bringing the tankards of mild, and a sweet sherry for Sylvia.
It was this she would remember when he had gone away to war. It was tonight she would hang on to, if anything happened to him: his smile, his easy acceptance of the boaters who were calling out, ‘Ring-ring.’ And from Thomo, ‘Press Button A.’ She’d remember Tom’s laugh, which she’d all but forgotten in the anguish of his loss, ringing out loud and true. She drank in the look he gave her as he reached them and handed out the drinks, first to Bet and her two trainees, Merle and Sandy; the little bow he gave to Sylvia, and the thanks he gave for making room for his girl and Polly in her cabin; the sigh as he sat down next to her and gripped her hand. ‘I thank God I’m here with you.’
She studied him. ‘God? You were the most godless of individuals.’
‘Ah, but I’ve seen things that I hope you will never see, and witnessed courage beyond belief. It changes us, one way or another.’
She sipped her mild and saw that Sylvia was leaning forward, watching Tom as though she was running his words round inside her head. Verity lifted her glass to Sylvia. ‘Thank you, Sylvia, for letting us share.’
Sylvia looked at her as though she was preoccupied with other things. After a moment she murmured, ‘Verity, we’re a team, like you say, so it’s what we do – share – just as we share one another’s colds.’ They all laughed at her joke, and Sylvia blushed, surprised. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’ve been funny. It feels nice.’
Chapter 7
Tuesday 28 March – midnight: Saul and Granfer in their butty, Swansong
Saul stirred the tea leaves in the brown teapot. They’d been used twice already today, but there was a bit of colour, so the cuppa would still taste. He reckoned cocoa would be better for Granfer, but this is what the old chap liked at the end of the day.
‘Give it another stir, lad. You warmed t’pot?’
Saul laughed, ‘Yer know I did, Granfer. Yer watched me do it.’
‘Aye, maybe, but I might have closed me eyes for a second, yer know. One too many beers this night, but good to see Verity’s lad’s got ’is head straight.’
Granfer was sitting on his cross-bed, which he’d left made up when they went out to the pub. His grey blankets were pulled tight, without a crease in sight. He always said he’d learned to be neat and clean in the first war. ‘Neat and clean, once yer got out t’mud of them trenches. Get’s to be a habit, our Saul. Can’t abide rucked beds, that I can’t; reckon I’m like that princess who weren’t partial to the pea that were where it shouldn’t ’ave been.’
‘Yer being a princess is something I’d like ter see.’ Saul poured the tea and placed Granfer’s on the cupboard-front table.
‘Ta, lad.’ Granfer looked up with a smile. ‘It’ll settle us fer t’night. ’Ow’s our young runabout doing, d’yer reckon?’
As the wick of the oil lamp flickered, Saul sat on the side-bed, cupping the mug and staring at the fire. ‘Our Harry were asleep on the motor side-bed, snug as a bug in a rug, when I looked in. He’s a good ’un. Not sure ’ow long we can keep ’im, though. His da’ll need ’im back. On t’other hand, not sure about a lot o’ things right now.’
Outside an owl hooted, then another. A fox called. The coal in the firebox was burning red. Saul would bank it in a minute, but now he had words that must be said, and he didn’t know how, that was the bugger of it. He sighed. There were other words to her – that ‘someone else’ who made his world turn – that had to be said an’ all, but not yet, not until … He couldn’t find words for any of it, even in his mind, let alone words that’d come out of his mouth. Cos once said, they’d couldn’t be taken back, so he had to be certain of his path.
Granfer took up his pipe and chewed on it. ‘Saw yer talking deep with that young spark o’ Verity’s. Reckon I knows what about, an’ all. Saw yer talking to Steerer Mercy, too, cos it be his Sheila’s Ted who be gone to war. Yer Polly saw yer busy with ’em, too.’ Granfer took the clay pipe out of his breast pocket and chewed on it. ‘Time yer spat it out, lad.’
Saul swirled round the dregs of his tea. He wished he could predict his future from the leaves. ‘Yer knows I read the papers and the things in ’em about the war, and ’ere I am, reserved for the carrying of cargo, when blokes like Verity’s Tom are up and at it, and blokes like Mercy’s daughter’s husband ’ave broken away from t’cut to do his bit. I needs to go, if I can, Granfer. Me leg’s better and it’s shame I feels. Afore I could read, I just didn’t know so much that was happening.’ He couldn’t find any other words, because when he thought about what others were doing he just wanted to punch the wall.
Granfer nodded. ‘Course I knows that, lad. Course I do. It’s why I went t’other war. But what’d Mercy and that young spark, Tom, say?’
Saul reached over for Granfer’s empty mug, washed both and put them away in the cupboard. The oil lamp was spluttering now, casting leaping shadows on the walls; walls hung with plates that his grandma, and her ma before her, had washed and loved; brasses they’d all polished. He had to fight to save all this.
He hunkered down and used the shovel to dig out coal from the coal box under the bottom step, building up the fire good and proper. Then he sat back on the side-bed, trying to gather the information he’d picked up into something that made sense. Granfer waited until at last he was ready.
‘That Tom, he said some bloke in a bed next to ’im in ’ospital had been muttering about some sort of floatin’ ’arbour being built that’ll ’elp with the war when it comes to taking it to the enemy. He said
it were an ’arbour to land trucks and suchlike when they went over the Channel. That Tom, ’e said the lad were all muddled in ’is pain, but it sounded as though it were carried out under the lot who run t’girls’ canal training scheme, cos it’s War Transport. The real ’arbours is under the Nazis so them can’t land there.’
Granfer had taken out his pipe and was turning it over and over. ‘Ah, so yer reckon if yer’s already on the waterway, they could swap yer over?’
‘Don’t know, but worth a try. He said to find someone with learning, like a solicitor, who knew ’ow to break the Reserved Occupation thing, and who’d help me write a letter to them War Transport lot, to get taken on for the war. Steerer Mercy came oop to us then and ’e said ’is Shelia’s Ted had paid some bloke to write ’is letter, but ’e didn’t know who.’
Granfer nodded. ‘So, there’s nought to stop yer tryin’, now yer know t’road, or is there?’
‘Lots to stop me, Granfer, as yer know, and I’m looking at one of the buggers, right now.’ The two men laughed quietly.
Then Granfer sighed and reached out, touching the hooked-back crocheted curtain. ‘Yer grandma made this, but ’tis old now, ragged and won’t do fer much longer – bit like me – so don’t let me stop yer. I reckon, yer see, it be time to move on t’bank. There’s yer Auntie Lettie at Buckby, where all the old boaters go when they pull up their tillers. She says the local ’andyman has popped his clogs, so there’d be a bit o’ work for me. I’m tired, lad, working all the hours God sends, at seventy-eight—’
Saul interrupted, ‘Yer seventy-nine, Granfer.’
‘Aye, maybe I am, and the cold gets into me bones, yer know. And now our Joe’s with Polly’s people on the bank, I doubt he’ll want to come back onto the cut when the war is finished. Will there even be a cut left, with all them trains and lorries? So if yer go, we’ll hand back t’boats to the Grand Union, and I reckon I’ll take me knick-knacks and head to Buckby.’
Saul felt his shoulders relax. He’d been thinking for a while that Granfer was tired, his chest was bad, and Auntie Lettie had written a note to Saul, sending it to the Bull’s Bridge depot, saying it were time the old chap put his feet up. Besides, she needed company. So she must ’ave written to Granfer, too.
Granfer pushed the cupboard door shut and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Don’t get me wrong, lad. It’ll mither me summat rotten to have you at war, but I knows you got to do it, for your soul. But do Joe come t’Buckby, or do he stay with Mr and Mrs Holmes?’
The fire was crackling. Saul lifted his hand, as though stopping Granfer’s words. ‘But what if I don’t get taken for the fighting, Granfer?’
‘Then I’ll see the war oot, o’ course I will, but I can’t move to another boat without yer, and nor can I work the pair with just two runabouts. But look, lad, we must talk o’ Joe.’
Saul knew that, but how could he tell his granfer that he was too old to be having Joe; it weren’t fair on the lad or on the old chap? He said carefully, ‘What d’yer think is the best for ’im? Really, from yer ’eart?’
The old chap still sat, his elbows on his knees, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, his hands entwined, his thumbs tapping out something only he could hear. ‘What’s best for our lad is summat he can’t be having: his ma; cos we don’t know where she be, or even if that bugger Leon left her living on God’s green earth.’
Saul stared. It was the first time Granfer had ever echoed what he himself often thought. That Joe’s dad, Leon Arnson, had killed his wife – Saul’s sister, Maudie. Leon was a basher, and Joe had told them that, after a right royal ding-dong, Maudie wasn’t there any more; and then Leon had locked Joe in his motor cabin, after beating him, too. This was when Saul and Granfer had rescued him, while the beggar Leon was in the pub.
‘So what’s second best, Granfer? Cos for now Leon’s in custody, after egging on that escaped German POW to fire Polly’s cargo of wood, and stabbing Dog, so at least the lad’s safe from him.’
Granfer filled his cheeks and blew. ‘Yer won’t like it, but ’tis fer the boy to stay on the bank with Mr and Mrs Holmes. ’E’s ’appy, they’s ’appy and he’s doing his learning at school.’
Saul smiled inwardly with relief, but all he said was, ‘That’s right good thinkin’, but now I needs to work ’ow it’s all to happen. But ’ush-’ush, cos no one might want me, or them up at the top might not let me go, and I won’t be upsetting my Polly by tellin’ ’er, cos it might not happen, so ’tis a waste of her pain.’ He rubbed his face. ‘They should take me, though, Granfer, don’t yer think, with them women trainees coming along to fill the gaps of us blokes?’
‘Not sure there’s enough coming along, though, lad. But yer go on wi’ yer plans; it’s worth a try and will settle yer, one way or t’other.’ Granfer tapped his watch. ‘Now, I needs me kip, cos we’ve got to push on and get through Stoke Bruerne tomorrer and Blisworth Tunnel, to make up fer the time we spent waiting for yer lass. So off to yer pit, and I’ll to mine, there’s a lad.’
In his cabin, with Harry sleeping on the side-bed, like the youngster he was, Saul lay on the cross-bed wishing that Polly was with him, to talk it all out, but he didn’t want to tell her till he was sure. Steerer Mercy pushed him along that way too, cos his daughter’s chap hadn’t said nought till it were all signed and sealed, to save his Sheila’s heart.
He tossed and turned. Trouble was, it felt like he was lying to his Polly, but each time he had thought to say what was in his head, the sight of her precious face, the touch of her hand in his, made the words dry in his throat.
‘Yer all right, Uncle Saul?’ Harry called from the side-bed, his voice heavy with sleep.
‘Yer get back to sleep, our young ’un. There’re the Fenny Stratford locks fer yer to wheel tomorrow, and right good of you and your da to give us a lendin’ of yer.’
There was no reply, just the slow, heavy breathing of a sleeping lad. Saul remembered the days when he was thirteen and on the boats with Ma, Da and Maudie, in convoy with Granfer and Grandma, who had a runabout in their pair. There seemed nothing to worry about then, no choices to make. Again he sighed. Was it better not to know yer letters? Not to know more than travelling the cut, and where the kingfisher might swoop and the otters would breed?
Would Joe ever come back to the boats? Saul felt he wouldn’t, except for a holiday. Could he stay with Mr and Mrs Holmes while Saul was gone, and until he was finished at school? Well, the only thing was to write, and that he’d do tomorrow, and by then he might have thought of someone who could write that letter to the war people, so that this load of shame could slide from his back.
Before they left the pub the girls had used its facilities, and on the walk back Sylvia murmured, ‘I have to admit there are some very good points about spending a couple of hours in a pub – namely the toilets.’
The others laughed and Sylvia looked taken aback. ‘That’s a good joke,’ said Polly.
Sylvia smiled and half laughed. ‘Oh, I see.’
On their return, Verity and Polly took turns at a stand-up wash in the motor cabin, while Tom was banished to the counter.
Polly called to him, ‘Hey, you on the counter, I do hope you used the facilities at the pub, or you’ll regret it, young man.’
Tom replied, ‘Ah, I’m not a soldier for nothing, Polly Holmes. First you work out the lie of the land, find out what will make your life easier. And what’s more I have a torch, should I need to totter to the bucket along the gunwale – that’s what you call the strip running either side of the cabin and hold, isn’t it?’
Verity and Polly were sniggering as they dragged on their boots and pyjamas. ‘It is indeed, but do not – and I repeat, do not – go that way, for heaven’s sake,’ laughed Verity. ‘Go over the roof and onto the engine cabin, then drop down to the store. Otherwise Polly will get drenched when you slip off the gunwale and she has to dive in to get you out.’
‘Oi,’ shouted Polly, ‘it won’t be me, I�
�ll have you know. It’ll be little Miss Verity, and she’ll take so long putting on slap, to look good for you, that you’ll drown.’
They put the darts kitty into the cupboard, having won again. Verity looked at Polly. ‘Right, we have a blanket each. You can have the outside, so you don’t have to clamber over me if you need to go to the bucket. How’s that for fair?’
‘Sounds good to me, but please, please don’t snore. Sylvia’s being really good to let us do this.’
Verity shook out her blanket and wrapped it around herself. ‘I don’t snore.’
‘What rubbish, you’re like a roaring train.’ Polly was clambering up the steps, calling back. ‘You’ve banked the firebox for Tom?’
‘Of course, bossy. And we’ve got to hurry. Sylvia wants to get to sleep, and I don’t blame her.’
On the counter Tom was smoking as a light smattering of snow fell, looking as though it was falling upwards. Some trick of the wind? Verity wondered. Polly stepped across to the breasted butty, calling softly, ‘We’ll be up at five-thirty, Tom, trying to make it through Blisworth by the end of the day. It’s a mile-long tunnel, so sometimes you get an echo that you can wish on.’
Verity stood by Tom, who said softly, ‘Goodnight, Polly, and thanks. Dog’s just on the bank, so I’ll wait until she’s ready.’ All the time he was pulling Verity closer. She heard the butty cabin door open and close, as Polly disappeared inside. Dog bounded onto the deck. Tom kissed Verity, his hand in her freshly brushed blonde hair. ‘I love you so much, Verity Clement.’
He said it against her mouth, and she replied, ‘And I love you, and have since the day I first saw you.’ Her mouth was on his. Dog yelped at their side, pawing Verity’s pyjamas.
Verity pulled back, laughing. ‘Time for bed, I believe, and you’re shivering.’
He pulled her to him once more, kissed her and, as he let her go, he whispered, ‘I will have the kettle on at five-thirty. I have a sort of alarm clock in my head. Tea for four persons, madam.’