by Milly Adams
He nodded and paid. They pushed through to a table at the back of the bar and sat, waiting. Polly squeezed his hand. He heard strange accents around him. It was hot with the press of bodies. ‘So much is different on an holiday that it fair makes yer tired.’
The girl brought the food. The noise bellowed. Some men played dominoes next to them, while others were playing darts, and someone was pounding out music on the piano. Some soldiers started to sing.
They ate and talked, and sipped their cider, and even that taste was strange. Polly rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I love you. And the soldiers wouldn’t have all their supplies without the boaters, and there aren’t enough of us women to carry it all, so you are doing a necessary job.’
Ah, so she had noticed the looks coming their way in here, too. Saul’s stomach had felt coiled since they entered, and his head was pounding. He wanted to return to his tiny room. He could tell her ’is plans now, cos she had talked of his job. He turned, but Polly said as the clock chimed ten o’clock, ‘Can we go back now? I’m so tired. We can try and get closer to the sea tomorrow.’
They walked up the hill and still the motors passed them, their slit headlights keeping their speed down. The owls were in full voice. A fox screeched – had it grabbed a chook? That was better, the noises of nature. Yes, that was better. Saul walked with his arm around his Polly, trying to notice every moment, every movement, every breath she drew, because after this holiday he didn’t know when, or if, he’d see her again.
The next day they walked down the hill and then up again, to the high cliffs overlooking the sea, but there was barbed wire and more troops, and overlooking Hive Beach was a gun emplacement. So they stepped back from the wire and looked across the sea, hearing the rattle and surge of the waves on the shingle, and the gulls, calling so loud. They walked along the roads, along the edge of fields with green shoots of wheat showing, and larks calling. They sat on a fallen oak and just held one another. Saul breathed in Polly’s lingering scent of the cut and watched the birds, the clouds scudding, and knew at last what a holiday was, and it began to make sense to him. But how did you bring in words that would burst it all apart?
They ate at the pub in the evening and it was sausage and mash – mostly mash – again, and they laughed together. Saul itched to set his traps and bring the pub rabbit or pheasant, but this was a holiday and it was not his business.
The next day ran the same; and as the day drew towards night, their last night, he began at last to feel secure on the firm ground of the land, and at home in his tiny room in the roof. As midnight came and went, he leaned his head on the glass of the window, which was laced with anti-blast tape. He still hadn’t told Polly, but tomorrow he must, before they went home. Home to the cut. Home. He should have told her by now, maybe, but good memories were important.
He stared up at the stars, wiping the glass, which was clouded from his breath. The stars seemed so close, now he was high up. Not a light showed, but of course not; it didn’t even in London except for the searchlights. There were searchlights over Weymouth, dancing like the butterflies in the reeds of the cut. He ached to return. He missed the pat-patter, Granfer, Joe. Ah, Joe, he must see him, too. No, he’d telephone him. Saul felt fraught to his very marrow with it all. Yes, he’d telephone Joe and promise he’d be back, cos he couldn’t say goodbye to his face.
He wiped the glass clear again. Tomorrow, on the train, he’d tell her, his Polly, and she must forgive him; she must.
They caught the bus, then the train the next day, and arrived in the shifting tides of London as wave upon wave of people crashed like the surf on the shingle and made his head dizzy. They caught the train and the bus and as they walked from the station, through Southall to the depot, Saul thought he could smell the cut. Yes, smell it. He almost ran. It should give him the courage to tell Polly, for he had found none yet, and the old shame was on him, cos he had failed her, and himself.
They entered the depot yard, waved to the guard and wove again, as they seemed to have done so often over these last days, though this time it was through the workers in their overalls. And still Saul couldn’t find the words. They were at the frontage, and there it was: the cut, his cut, their cut. Steerer Ambrose pat-pattered past with his pair. ‘’Ow do,’ he called from the motor counter. Saul’s soul ached.
Polly almost sang, ‘How do, Steerer Ambrose, we’ve had a lovely, lovely holiday.’
‘Whatever pleases yer,’ he called as the butty came along now, with Mrs Ambrose knitting, the red, white and blue tiller under her elbow, her long skirt moving in the wind.
Was the breeze still blowing at the beach and in the valley? Were the men still exercising? Well, he’d be one of them soon. Saul’s soul ached further.
He turned to tell Polly, at last, but she had dropped her grip and was running along the lay-by, holding the clinking hessian bag they’d lugged back, calling over her shoulder, ‘I want to see if the girls are back, and give Granfer his present, though you said I shouldn’t buy one for him. I hope he likes cider.’ She stopped, turned and walked back. ‘Oh, Saul, I’ve had such a lovely time, and I love you so much, and I don’t care who hears me.’ She faced forward and ran again.
‘Wait, Polly, I must tell yer—’
She was moving too fast to listen.
Chapter 19
Saturday 29 April – late afternoon at Bull’s Bridge lay-by
Polly tore along the lay-by, looking for Marigold, glad to be back and hoping that Verity was there, and Sylvia, too. Yes, they’d gone into London together, but whether they’d stayed there she didn’t know. If not, she’d give Verity a bottle of cider, and Sylvia apples stored from the autumn; otherwise they’d keep. They were rather wrinkled, but still good, because she’d eaten one on the train.
She wondered what Granfer would think of the cider? Much the same as Saul perhaps, who had said, ‘’Tis all right for holidays, but not for normal times.’ She had laughed then, and laughed now as she passed Mrs Porter, who was heading for the town with her string bag. Polly wished she had brought back something for Jimmy, but never mind. She’d listen to his reading. She called after Mrs Porter, ‘I’ll come along later to hear Jimmy read, or he can come to us. Or perhaps he has homework to be marked? I had a lovely holiday, Mrs Porter, a simply lovely holiday.’
Mrs Porter waved and called, ‘That be good news, Polly.’ But she sounded a bit strange.
As Saul approached, Mrs Porter reached out and stopped him. Saul bent to listen and then shook his head. Mrs Porter patted his back and he walked on, kicking aside a stone. Polly shrugged. Oh well, perhaps everyone else was as tired as she’d been. She hurried on and saw washing fluttering on the line above Marigold’s hold. Well, someone was back. She started to run, but the clinking of the bottles would give the presents away, so she strolled, hoping Saul would catch her up.
She glanced over her shoulder, but Saul was talking to Steerer Brown now, who was shaking his hand. How strange. Further along, Ma Mercy on the butty York was calling something from her counter. Saul hurried to her. She handed him what looked like a scarf and gripped his hand, stroking it, before she disappeared along the top planks, while on Lincoln’s counter next to her Steerer Mercy tipped his hat.
She heard Saul call to Steerer Mercy, ‘I’ll cast yer off.’ He slipped the strap from the mooring stud and threw it onto the counter, and watched as Steerer Mercy tucked the tiller beneath his elbow, stood in the hatches, slipped the gear and was off. She heard the pat-patter of the engine from here as Lincoln motored out into the cut, picking up the butty as his stern drew level with the butty’s fore-end. It was all as it had been just three days ago, but it seemed the boaters thought she and Saul had been away forever, such was their attitude.
‘Polly – oh, Polly, how are you?’ It was Verity shouting from the roof of Marigold, along the lay-by, a bag of pegs dangling from her hand.
Polly called, ‘We had such a lovely time. I thought you might be in London, but you�
��re here.’
Verity looked confused, but then laughed. ‘It would seem so, or am I a mirage? We only had a day in town, Sylvia and I, that is.’
Polly shouted over the noise of the tannoy, ‘Did you have a good time? Every day was wonderful for us, and there were troops everywhere, British and GIs. Made me think of Al of Idaho, but I don’t think I would have recognised him if he’d come up and said “Boo” and waved a pair of stockings. Burton Bradstock is so pretty, but there was barbed wire along the cliff. After the war we’ll go, shall we, all of us? So write and tell Tom, thank you, for contacting Mrs Lamb.’
She quickened her pace as Verity slid from the cabin roof onto the counter, calling, ‘Are you really all right? You sound so—’
Sylvia interrupted from the butty-cabin doorway, cutting across Verity. ‘Verity, one of your sweaters is going to blow off – you’ve only pegged one side. Hello, Polly, fancy a cuppa?’
Sylvia jumped to the kerb, her blouse sleeves rolled up, and hurried to Polly, who had faltered, looking behind, because something wasn’t quite right. But no, there was Saul walking along with Thomo, who had hurt his hip on his last trip; his limp was bad, or was it just that Saul’s had improved to the point where it was non-existent? She sidestepped Sylvia, looking along the cut for Seagull and Swansong. There was Dog, sniffing. Ah, he must be with Granfer? But no, that was Thomo’s boat. She shaded her eyes, checking the chimneys of the moored boats. Where was Seagull’s with its extra brass ring?
Sylvia called, ‘Dog, look who’s here.’
Dog turned, then roared along, leaping at Polly, licking and whining. Polly handed her bag to Sylvia, and it clinked. Dog was barking and chasing her tail, then leaping at her again. Polly laughed, ‘Oh, Dog, oh darling Dog. You’re just the same, while everyone’s so …’ Dog wanted to play. Polly snatched an apple from the bag, and threw it. Dog roared after it.
Sylvia picked up the bag.
Polly said, ‘It’s cider from Dorset, and apples for you, Sylvia.’
Sylvia held on to the bag and slipped her arm through Polly’s. ‘Come on, tell us over a cuppa, and we’ll tell you about Lupino Lane in Meet Me Victoria.’ She raised her voice. ‘Come on, for heaven’s sake, Verity. You must have finished pegging up by now.’
Somewhere a motor sounded its horn. Elsewhere a child cried, a woman laughed. Polly stepped onto the butty, with Sylvia holding her arm, tightly. The bag clinked as Sylvia put it down on the counter. Verity ran along the motor-cabin roof, jumped down and over to the butty, slipping her arm around Polly’s shoulders as Sylvia carried the bag into the cabin.
‘I have broken biscuits for our cuppa; they were on offer in Southall,’ Sylvia called.
Dog leapt onto the butty roof, and Verity and Polly sat there with her. Polly knew that things only felt different because she’d been away. She listened to the barrage of chatter as Sylvia brought out the tea and biscuits, and she could smell supper cooking in the butty range. She looked again for Seagull and Swansong, but could see no sight of the chimney, and no sight of Granfer.
As Verity and Sylvia talked of the songs they’d heard at the theatre, and Sylvia sang the first verse of ‘You’re a Nice Little Baggage’, Verity shouted over her, telling Polly about Bill Fish, the cheeky, cheerful porter who hoped to marry Dot, but needed a promotion. ‘And oh, we didn’t know if he would get it, did we, Sylvia?’
Sylvia studied her tea, shaking her head. ‘It was really good fun, wasn’t it? I haven’t been to a London show ever, but the singing … It was as much fun as the pub.’
Silence fell for a moment, and Sylvia looked past Polly to Verity, as though asking a question.
Polly said, ‘Did you feel it seemed strange to come back, too? And where’s Seagull? Has Granfer gone on?’
Verity shook her arm, spilling Polly’s tea. ‘Oh, never mind that. It was just so lovely to see live theatre, and such excitement, even if it is just acting …’
On and on the two girls chattered, and now Verity was down on the counter, acting out a scene. But here too was Saul, at last, standing on the bank in front of Marigold. He had her grip, which he put on the motor counter. Polly watched him, not listening to Verity, not drinking her tea or eating her biscuit, because she could see his face.
At last she understood and slipped from the cabin roof, dropping her mug. It smashed on the counter. Dog barked, startled. Polly kept her eyes on Saul, as Dog jumped from the roof onto the counter, whining beside her. Dog’s hair was bristly, warm and solid as Polly gripped her collar, and nothing else seemed solid. Nothing.
‘Shut up, Verity,’ she yelled. ‘Just shut up, all of you.’
Silence fell. Verity was beside her, reaching out. Polly brushed her away. For minutes Saul and Polly just looked at one another. He held out his hand, and somehow she was standing next to him on the lay-by, just the two of them; he taller than her, with his limp gone, with Seagull gone and Swansong, too.
‘Granfer has gone to Lettie,’ she said. It wasn’t a question.
Behind her, on the butty, she heard Verity. ‘Oh, Polly.’
It was all there, in those two words. The truth that she had known, deep inside. How could she not, because she wasn’t a fool, but then again she was.
She looked at the girls, and then at Saul. ‘You all knew.’ She swept her arm along the moored boats. ‘Everyone knew, and no one told me, no one made me see. You can’t go, Saul. How dare you go. They don’t want boaters; you’re needed here. There aren’t enough of us women.’
Saul was standing so close she felt his breath as he said, ‘Mr Thompson said I can. My leg is well enough, and I is needed.’
Polly was confused. ‘Mr Thompson, what’s he got to do with it?’
Saul shook his head, ‘I don’t rightly know, but he’s War Transport, and Mr Burton—’
Behind her she heard Verity groan, and Sylvia jumped down beside Polly. Her voice was fierce as she grabbed both Saul and Polly. ‘You are to walk along this towpath, and you are to talk, not shout. Then you are to go, Saul, or you will miss your train.’ She heaved them round, her pale face looking stern, her curls bouncing. She pointed. ‘Walk to the end, away from the boats. Walk.’
Without knowing quite what she was doing, Polly put one foot in front of the other, as Saul clutched her hand. ‘I didn’t know how to tell yer, and when I tried something always interrupted us, and I didn’t want to bring yer pain till I knew. I didn’t know how to tell yer, because yer Will was dead, and how could I let you lose someone else? But I were driven, from inside. I asked Tom how I could try again with the officials. ’E said to try and get someone who knew someone …’
Polly stopped. ‘You lied,’ she said.
‘I never said nothing,’ he answered.
‘That’s the same as a lie,’ she muttered, a great and terrible rage sweeping over her. And she pushed past Ma Needson, who was smiling and saying ‘’Ow do.’ The netted bag fell from Ma Needson’s hand, and potatoes rolled along the concrete. Saul stopped and picked them up, while Polly stormed on.
Ma Needson probably knew, too; everyone did. Well, bugger the lot of them; she didn’t have to stay with people like this, who kept secrets, who supported the lie. She’d leave, go home, because Verity and Sylvia knew, too. And Bet? Yes, what about Bet?
She strode on, remembering Fran, who must have known at Easter about Granfer and Lettie, because someone had cut her off when she was about to say something. Yes, she’d go home, that’s what she’d do, and leave this lot behind. They weren’t her people, any more than Saul was. And what would her mother say, left with Joe because Saul was swanning off?
She swung round just as Saul straightened and handed the last of the potatoes back to Ma Needson, who patted his arm. Polly called, ‘Don’t pat him – he’s a liar, that’s what he is.’
She ran back now, heading for Marigold. She’d pack and go home, right now. But then she stopped. Saul had said Mr Burton had helped. Mr Burton? How did Saul know how to reach her old boss?
And what about Joe? Had Saul told him?
Saul caught her up and just stood at her side, Dog at her other. Both seemed to be waiting, Dog’s ears were down, her tail between her legs. And Saul, though his head was held high, looked unbearably sad. Polly’s heart twisted, but a lie was a lie. She whispered, ‘Joe? What’s to happen to him?’
He held her gaze. ‘Yer ma said she’d ’ave him.’
Polly’s mouth went dry, and tears threatened.
Saul reached out, took her hand. She snatched it free. Somewhere a motor was heading out; she heard the wash, the hoot, the geese honking as they flew – where? A distant train screeched. He said, ‘I made her promise not to say. I made ’er, you understand. It were me. I didn’t want yer upset without cause, so I waited until I knew. But I had to try to go. Something’s about to ’appen, yer can see that, and I have something in me that makes me need to help. If I can read about it, I can’t not do something.’
She almost screamed, waving her hand at the cut, ‘What’s this, if you’re not doing something? What the hell are we girls doing – nothing? And the boaters – nothing?’
He shook his head. ‘Yer too good with words, my Polly. But all I can say is—’
‘What about Leon? He might come back? Where will you be? Oh yes, I know, fannying about with a gun somewhere? What about Maudie, if she’s found? You’re just walking away, that’s what you’re doing.’
‘There’s Lettie and Granfer, if Maudie’s found. Yer ma said she’d help and ’ave Joe. Leon’s goin’ to trial, so yer’ll all be safe.’
Polly bit down the tears, let the rage surge. ‘So, it’s all tied up. Mum’s made it easy for you. I expect she got Mr Burton to pull strings, and Dad would have known, too. Anything to split us up, eh? You know she doesn’t want a boater’s life for me, you know it. Saul, how could you do this?’
She was beating at his chest, shouting, hitting that precious face. He grasped her hands. ‘Shh, shh,’ he said.