by Milly Adams
Her father came to stand beside his wife now. ‘Verity, it was all my fault. I acted like a fool, took advantage of Jenny, when I already had true love. I began to see the truth, but it was too late, because Jenny was pregnant. Your mother – my wife, I mean – insisted that we consider the baby, and only the baby. All hurts and slights had to be reduced to nothing, in the face of you.’
He reached out to his wife, who took his hand.
He continued, ‘We both felt that was an absolute priority, and wanted your happiness above all else. I was – am – your father, so I couldn’t let your mother take you back to that family. Was I wrong? Sometimes Jenny would look after you, but more often she would not. Your mother is right: Jenny was as she was because of circumstance.’ He shook his head. ‘We haven’t done a very good job, have we?’
Verity looked from one to the other. ‘I think my mother,’ and she reached out to Lady Clement, ‘has done a remarkable job. And you, Father, are a very lucky man.’
The day wore into evening and the girls left to catch the train before dinner, as they had to take the boats to Limehouse Basin the next day. They knew the cargo would be steel. ‘There’s a war on,’ Verity told her parents – because that’s what they were.
As she left, her mother pressed the camellia perfume into her hand. ‘Perhaps it will remind you of my love.’ Lady Pamela Clement stood on the step, and Verity’s father brought round the car to drive the girls to the station. Verity reached for her mother’s hand, but instead Lady Pamela kissed her cheek. ‘I love you so much, and am so proud of you. You have the best of your mother in you: her spunk, her energy. Who knows what she would have been, had she had a different life. Never forget that.’
Verity hugged her, whispering, ‘I don’t know how you have coped, all these years. You’d make a boater, you know, Mother, but Father needs a good kick up the arse.’
Her mother gasped and then laughed. ‘What man doesn’t? Even your Tom will. We will try and find out his whereabouts – perhaps Sandy’s father can help – and will keep you informed.’
Chapter 24
Friday 23 June – Mulberry B invasion harbour, Arromanches, and back to the cut
Saul Hopkins felt the shifting and creaking of the flexible floating steel roadway beneath his boots. The storm had finally blown itself out, and the supply ships were once again queuing to moor at Mulberry B harbour. The lorries were stacked up, ready to load, whilst at the same time the storm damage was being repaired by sappers, using material from the Americans’ Mulberry A, which had not withstood the storm nearly as well as the British Mulberry B. Saul beckoned to one of the military lorries, guiding it as it backed up. He refused to vomit again, but before he could count to ten he was hanging over the side, heaving.
He was not alone. A seaman was alongside, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘God dammit, this is worse – much worse – than being on board ship.’
Saul stared past the scuttled ships and the caissons, the watertight structures that had been towed across and then sunk to create a breakwater. It was supposed to ease the nausea to fix your eyes on the horizon. It didn’t. The sergeant shouted, ‘When you’re quite finished, ’Opkins, passing the time of day with your belly and the sea, get back here.’
He did, supervising the loading of supplies, and longed to be going with them along the six miles of roadway to the shore, and then on, joining the advance.
Sergeant Williams stomped up and gave him a sweet. ‘Suck it, lad, try and keep it down. It should help, or even if it doesn’t, it’ll get some energy into your system. Bloody nightmare, eh?’
‘You look no better’n me, Sarge.’
The next lorry came up, the driver shouting, ‘Hurry it up – can’t stand this. Chucked up already, I have.’
Soon the Allies would free up the ports. Antwerp would be best, and they could bring in supplies that way. They worked on, he and the other lads, some of them off waterways, others off farms, some regular soldiers and others conscripts who’d been at Dunkirk. All sorts. Good sorts.
At the end of the day Saul tipped himself into his billet on land, thank the Lord, thinking of her, only her: his beloved girl, his Polly. He remembered her slaps, her fury, her hurt; but she’d realise, he knew she would, cos she wasn’t a daft girl. He felt his eyes closing, and he half laughed at the thoughts he’d once had that he’d never be glad to be off the water. But the sea was different. It turned his stomach, but it made him feel better that it did the same to the sailors, when they were on the Mulberry.
As he drifted off, he thought of his sister Maudie, as he always did. Where was she? He thought of Leon. His case must come up soon, and how long would the beggar get? What about Joe? Did he ever think of his da and, if so, had he got over his fear, now that Leon was locked away? As he was falling asleep Saul heard a crash, and woke with a start. It was Alex, the corporal, coming in late, falling over someone’s helmet and cursing. But why not, for his mum had been killed by a doodlebug in Wandsworth, poor beggar. Saul was wide awake again.
He felt the shiver of fear that came over him when he allowed himself to think of the doodlebugs and Limehouse Basin, and the Regent’s Canal, and Marigold and Horizon. ‘Keep yer heads down, all of yer,’ he whispered. ‘Just keep yer heads down.’ He forced his mind away from that. It was better to wonder where Tom was; but no, not that, because what if he was hurt or worse? Instead Saul thought of the men they’d offload tomorrow, and the supplies, and the gulls that flew over.
He thought of the men who had dreamed up the harbour. How clever was that, to have such ideas, and have people build ’em? He thought of Granfer at Auntie Lettie’s and imagined how, if he was here, Granfer would be standing on the Mulberry pontoon, scratching his head and saying, ‘Large brains, some ’ave, don’t they, lad? And they use ’em, not like some.’
It made him smile, and Polly made him smile, and at last he slept.
The three girls reached Tyseley Wharf on 28 June and toiled out of Birmingham the next day, consumed with the war, and the Rivers family; and each evening, no matter how tired the day had made them, they talked of both, and of Lord and Lady Clement. Each evening, just before she and Polly turned off the oil lamp, Verity remembered some fragment that broadened out, to wipe away the misremembered past. As they pulled up along the Brum Bum she talked of the sense of protection, confidence and warmth she now recalled. As they carried their coal cargo from Coventry through the flight of locks leading to Blisworth village, past the old mill, she remembered the sense of leaning on others, being part of them, unaware that she was a separate being. Yes, she remembered belonging.
As they worked their way along the lock flight to Marsworth Junction, Polly finally allowed herself to remember her childhood, too, and although she had always thought it was her twin, Will, who had sheltered her, and on whom she had leaned, she admitted that it was in fact her mum and dad. Parents who would not lie, if asked directly, but would protect her if they thought it best.
They turned down the Aylesbury Arm to unload the coal from the butty in the Aylesbury basin, passing reeds, scabious and wild marjoram alongside the towpath; it was the tranquillity of uninhabited countryside. They let Dog run alongside them as they pat-pattered the six miles, smiling as she dipped into the hedgerows, ferreting out the pheasants that flew chaotically into the air. The days were long, the nights short, but both were scorched by thoughts of doodlebugs; and, for Polly, by her harsh and stupid words. When she reached Bull’s Bridge a telephone call must be made, and apologies given, but would that be enough?
Nearing London, with their senses alert to the sound and sight of streaking doodlebugs, they blew Bet’s hunting horn as they approached the paper factory, and again Albert summoned tea for them as the men shovelled the coal ashore. They breathed in the coal dust and ground it between their teeth.
Sylvia asked, as she handed back her mug to Albert, ‘How are your girls, Bert?’
He shook his head. ‘Shirl, the youngest, copped
it when one o’ them bastards came down as she were seein’ her auntie over east. The wife and t’other is picking their selves up. Leaning on one another, we are. ’Tis all we can do.’ He nodded to the East End.
Polly stared into the dregs of her tea, unable just for a moment to bear to look on the old man’s stoic grief. Finally it was Sylvia who laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Dear Albert, dear, dear Albert.’ It was enough, for his arm came around her, and together the young and old stood as Polly took the mugs that dangled from their hands and walked to the canteen. Yes, she must make that telephone call.
A worker came out of the canteen. ‘You all right, pet?’
He reached out for the mugs, then looked past her to Albert and nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Yer dry yer eyes and take your boats on, and we’ll see you again, God willing.’
Cowley lock was with them, and Polly took in the Marigold, while Sylvia swung Horizon in beside her. Verity wound the paddles, the sluices opened and the level dropped, the walls as slimy as always. Verity opened the gates, shoving at the beams, and out they pat-pattered as Polly nudged the tiller and steered for the centre, finally reading her mother’s letters, which dealt firmly with her nonsense.
It made her smile, made her regret her anger. After the first letter the subject had been ignored, as her mother wrote of Joe’s progress at school, his talent for art; and with one letter was enclosed his pencil drawing of Saul. She smoothed it out on the roof of the cabin and called Verity. ‘Come on out, look at our boy. He’s got the likeness absolutely.’
Verity thought so, too. Polly refolded it and placed it in the back pocket of her trousers. Verity grinned, ‘Close to your heart then?’
‘Shut up,’ Polly laughed.
Bull’s Bridge was in sight now, and Verity picked up the hunting horn and hooted. Over to the east they saw a doodlebug streaking, but could not hear it, for it was too far away. They passed the dry dock, the frontage to the yard, the moored boats, looking for a spot, and finding one. They moored the boats, tying up next to Cambridge.
Mrs Porter came out onto the counter. ‘’Ow do?’
‘’Ow do, Mrs Porter, how’s our Jimmy? Has he homework to show us?’ Verity called.
Mrs Porter said, ‘When yer done.’
‘We’ll never be done,’ Verity laughed. They were home once more and, as always, the tiredness seemed to drench them for just a few moments, but then they rallied. They grabbed brooms and swept out each of the holds, shovelling up the sludge from the bilges, because this was their life and they were bloody lucky to still have one.
‘Race you to the lavs,’ Polly cried, after she’d snatched three of the shabby towels from beneath the side-bed, brandishing them on the kerb. The other two leapt after her as they raced along to the yard, dodging the wash boilers, the shoppers, the children, with Dog at their heels, barking. Polly reached the door first, panting, and turned, her arms outstretched, barring the way.
‘Me first, so very there.’ They were all three laughing too much to talk. She turned, opened the door and the other two barged through in front of her. ‘Hey, that’s not fair,’ she yelled after them.
‘Ah, but what is?’ Verity called back. ‘Come and share the sink, idiot.’
Sylvia added, ‘Hot water, for once, can you believe it? Quick, Polly.’
All three of them crammed around the sink, washing everywhere that showed, even their hair, and leaving with towels tied around their heads. They nipped into the Orders Office, but Ted said there’d be nothing before tomorrow and to come back without the headgear, if they didn’t very much mind. They laughed and marched through the yard, in step, singing, ‘You must have been a beautiful baby …’
They heard a baritone joining in behind, and Polly felt someone take her arm. It was the blacksmith, in step with them, singing. Behind was a welder and he was joined by his mate. They sang and marched to the frontage, with other workers in overalls weaving around them, just this once. The men laughed and peeled off, and the girls went on singing as they ran now, back to the pair, with Sylvia yelling, ‘We’re in time for a canteen lunch. Come on, let’s try and sort out our hair and get there. We’ve got thirty minutes.’
But at the Marigold they skidded to a halt. Polly’s towel came undone and slipped from her head as she stared at her mum and dad, with Mr Burton, all crammed onto the counter. ‘Saul?’ she cried.
‘Don’t be dramatic, Polly,’ her mother said firmly, her lightweight hat perched on the back of her head, her ancient summer skirt and twinset fluttering in the breeze. ‘Any notification would come to you – surely you realise you are down as Saul’s next of kin? It is not quite factual, of course, but it is how he thinks of you.’
Her mum was stepping down onto the kerb, and the other two followed, much as goslings will follow a determined goose. Dog leapt off the roof of the cabin and clung to Mrs Holmes’s side.
Polly had never loved her mum more and, as Mrs Holmes held her arms open, she rushed into them. ‘Oh, Mum, I’m so—’
‘Hush, I knew you’d see sense and understand we’d done only what we thought was best. No point in distressing you unnecessarily, was there? But on to more serious matters than your tantrums.’
Verity was hugging Mr Holmes and then Mr Burton, who almost managed to evade capture. Sylvia was swept into Mrs Holmes’s arms, and then it was Verity’s turn. ‘Tea?’ Polly asked.
‘Mr Burton will explain,’ Mrs Holmes ordered, as her husband, Thomas, and Mr Burton, Polly’s former boss, winked at the girls. She gestured to Mr Burton to step forward, which he did, rescuing his briefcase from the ground beside him. He placed it there again, warning Dog with a look not to go near it.
He said, ‘You will remember that when Leon had the temerity to burn Horizon’s cargo of wood – an action for which he is awaiting trial – the police were called, and Joe was removed to a young offenders’ place of correction.’
Polly clutched Sylvia’s hand and squeezed it, because Sylvia had wrongly implicated Joe in the arson.
Mr Burton continued, ‘We explained the fact that Joe’s mother Maud, Saul’s sister, was missing, and his father was Leon Arnson, who had organised the crime. It resulted in your mother being allowed to retain Joe, if I, as a solicitor, guaranteed the behaviour of the boy. Even though Saul and Granfer are relatives, the authorities thought, as is their wont, that this domestic arrangement would lead to a more stable environment. This arrangement was, of course, agreed to by Granfer and Saul.’
Mrs Holmes was tapping her foot, and Polly felt Verity press against her, knowing that soon Mrs Holmes would snatch the reins from this man and take over. Within seconds it happened.
‘Come along, Mr Burton, this is all old hat, and you know the girls need lunch in the canteen, and we might as well enjoy it too, so do get on.’
Mr Burton tipped his hat and continued. ‘I pressed the police to maintain some level of search for, or at least distribute information about, Mrs Arnson as a missing person.’
Polly’s father wrenched at his collar and looked too hot on this balmy day. He muttered, ‘The long and short of it is: they think they’ve found her. And now I need me dinner, and less chat. I could eat an ox, me fist or, hopefully, liver and bacon, if my memory serves me right from last time. We can pick up on this later.’
‘It was overcooked liver, Thomas, but warm, I grant you.’ Mrs Holmes sniffed, jerking her head towards the boats. ‘Go and sort out your hair, girls, and we’ll tell you more, but it requires your participation. Hurry now.’
Polly shook her head. ‘No, Mum. Tell us now. Has Maud been found, alive?’ She knew the other two were waiting to hear, too. Could it be? After all this time? Where the hell had she been? How could she have left Joe?
Her mum nodded. ‘Yes, alive, but not quite well. The details can be relayed after lunch, because we need the help of all three of you to bring about a satisfactory outcome.’
Polly could have screamed, but from the set of her mum’s face she knew that nothing else w
ould be forthcoming until they’d all eaten. She muttered, ‘You are a cruel and wicked woman.’
Her mum laughed. ‘Perhaps, but we have to feed the ravening beasts or we will get little co-operation. And I don’t mean from you girls, but these two men. Rest assured, I have thought of a way to bring our Maud back into the world, and to her son.’
‘Into the world?’ Polly felt the joy at the news of Maud’s survival replaced by confusion. ‘Oh, Mum, it sounds serious?’
‘All will be well.’ Her mother’s chin was up, and Polly knew that look well. Yes, Maud was found, and was not dead; and she would be all right, but not yet. Polly couldn’t stop smiling and then frowning. But how would her mum manage without Joe?
Verity clutched Mr Holmes’s arm, saying, ‘It’s unbelievable, Joe will be overjoyed. We must tell him.’
Mrs Holmes swung round. ‘No, we must not, yet. There is work to be done.’
Verity, Sylvia and Polly exchanged a look, knowing they were to be the foot soldiers, and glad of it, but wanting to know more. They walked into the canteen, their hair sorted, Polly alongside her mum. They didn’t need to talk; it was enough that they were together, and her mum was in charge, and Maud was found, and although the war was awful and people were dying, sometimes miracles happened.
The muggy warmth enveloped them, the clatter of dishes and the roar of men’s voices burying all possibility of conversation, but not of thought: was Maud in prison? Disabled? What?