Love on the Waterways

by Milly Adams

  They pat-pattered on up the Grand Union Canal, their world unchanged. After all, their hands were still blistered, the rain still soaked them, the wind still tore through them, though it was summer. The windlass still rubbed their hands raw, and the beams wore out the seats of their trousers.

  What was different was that they didn’t stop at the pubs, and it was Thomo who brought them pheasant, not Saul. There he was at Berkhamsted, where they moored up for the first night, standing on the towpath, as Dog leapt from the counter and sniffed around his heels as she had done with Saul. Thomo laughed, holding a brace out of her reach and calling to Verity and Polly as they sat on Marigold’s roof.

  ‘A couple of tiddlers for yer, though I wish I were with Saul. I tried again just now, but they wouldn’t let me – too bloody old at thirty, too valuable ’ere, so they says. Daft buggers. Timmo and Peter are out finding the rabbits. Take these and I’ll ’ang t’others on the hook at back of yer cabin as an’ when.’ He turned on his heel, saying as he walked away, ‘Reckon Granfer’s lass is taking steps. Boaters need the cut, it’s where they belongs. Healing, it be.’

  Verity looked at her hands, and at the callouses that had rubbed raw again, and laughed softly. ‘Healing?’ But they both nodded, knowing Thomo was right.

  Then his voice rang out. ‘We’s makin’ a packet on the darts, so best not come back into the game.’

  Verity felt the laughter surging, as the clouds scudded over the moon. ‘Oh, Thomo, Thomo,’ she yelled, ‘dangerous words. We’ll take you to the cleaners very soon now. Mark my words, your days are numbered.’

  His laugh rang out as he trotted down the towpath to his motor.

  They reached Tyseley Wharf on the fourth day, but there was no time to visit the baths, or Mrs Green. Instead they were given orders for Coventry, and coal again. Exhausted, Polly said, ‘Let’s toss to see who takes the motor through Brum Bum’s delightful locks and short pounds, ladies.’

  Sylvia tossed the penny, but it was Polly who won, and when the time came she motored ahead, with Verity and Sylvia shaking their fists in mock fury as they’d tied the haul ropes around their shoulders and waists. They stopped only when they saw Maudie’s face as she stood at the tiller, cringing in fear. Sylvia held up her hand. ‘Maudie, it’s only play. No one will be harmed.’

  Maudie watched them as they smiled and opened their arms. She said, ‘I know ’arm. I know it. I’ve felt it.’ She touched her face and the side of her head, her arm. ‘But I can’t remember it.’

  ‘You steer, Maudie, because we have to take the butty to Coventry to load it with coal.’ They had decided the best thing was for her to resort to work, to ease the ‘knowing’ and not let it overwhelm her.

  They reached Coventry at last and were loaded, and then they travelled on and within three days they were back at Bull’s Bridge. Venus and Shortwood were already moored, and they must thank Thomo, Timmo and Peter for the rabbits that they had hung on the rear of the butty, when Marigold and Horizon had been moored up one night after Coventry.

  First, though, the four girls boiled water in the cabins and took turns for a stand-up all-over wash, then boiled their clothes on the kerb. As they finished, Timmo came over from Venus’s counter onto the lay-by and walked towards them. Dog ran to meet him, and Timmo hunkered down, hugging Dog, who stood quite still suddenly, her tail down, her head pressed against Timmo’s. Verity called, as she and Polly wrung out the final pair of rinsed trousers. ‘Thanks for the rabbits. Tell Thomo and Peter we’re grateful, will you?’

  Timmo stood up and, with Dog by his side, walked the rest of the way towards them, his head down.

  Polly yelled, ‘Oh dear, frightened we’ll be back with our darts, are you? Don’t fret, you tell Thomo it’ll be a while yet.’

  Timmo stopped, squatted, stroked Dog’s head again, then stood, sending her back onto Marigold’s counter. ‘Go on then, Dog. Yer stay with yer owners, eh?’ He looked up and his face was gaunt, his eyes red. ‘Can’t tell our Thomo, Missus. He took the train further east, picking up summat for Granfer. One o’ them damned doodlebugs must ’ave cut out above him and come on down. Missed him, but the blast got him – killed outright, so them say. I got the tool Granfer wanted. I’ll leave it on yer counter. A spanner, it were, and it weren’t ’urt, not one bit.’

  Verity dropped the trousers onto the kerb, as Polly rocked back on her heels. Sylvia jumped down from Horizon’s counter and ran to the girls. They clung together, as Timmo tipped his hat and walked back to his motor, and only when he was back on board did they weep, soundlessly, because Maudie must not be disturbed.

  Later he brought them the spanner to leave with Granfer at Buckby. ‘’Tis more’n we can bear to take it, fer the time bein’,’ he said.

  Marigold and Horizon motored on to Limehouse Basin, and the girls refused to look up into the sky, or listen, because what could they do if a doodlebug’s motor stopped and it dropped? They were loaded as quickly as possible at the wharf, because the dockers were frightened, too. Everyone was, because bloody Hitler was killing as many as he could, before he gave up.

  They travelled up the cut, with their quietness and their tears, which they tried to hide; but they failed and, magically, they were comforted by Maudie, who brought them tea and whispered, as they climbed the Tring locks, ‘I knows your tears. I knows them, and they come after the fists when yer ’eart does ’urt, too. I knows the face of the man with the fists, but I don’t know who ’e is ter me.’

  At Norton Junction they turned right for Buckby: they had a spanner to deliver. They moored and, accompanied by Dog, they all walked into Buckby. There was no one in Lettie’s garden. They opened the picket gate and walked along the crazy-paving path, where camomile grew. It oozed its scent beneath their feet. They knocked on the door. It opened. It was Granfer. Sylvia held out the spanner.

  Granfer said, ‘I knows about Thomo.’ His face was as sad as theirs.

  Maudie reached out and touched his cheek. ‘I knows you, too. I knows yer sadness, but not who yer is. But I knows there is kindness ’ere, not like ’im, the man with the fists.’

  Granfer let her trace his features. Then he said, ‘I know yer too. Yer belongs to us, like yer belongs to the cut.’

  Auntie Lettie came from the side-garden. ‘I have laid out tea in the garden. Come.’

  She led Maudie to the table set in the warmth of the sun, and Maudie turned and gripped Granfer’s hand. ‘I knows I belongs, but I can’t remember. I just knows, but there is another …’ She stared round the garden, as though searching, and then allowed herself to be pressed onto a chair by Lettie.

  Polly pulled from her pocket the picture of Saul that Joe had drawn. She kept it with her always. ‘Is this who you know?’ She laid it down on the table, then stepped back.

  Verity gripped Polly’s hand, hardly daring to breathe. Sylvia walked quietly to sit beside Maudie, and Granfer sat on the other side. Runner beans wound around bamboos, but as yet it was too early for a crop; lettuce flourished in neat rows, and tomatoes would soon glisten with red fruit.

  ‘Yes,’ breathed Maudie. ‘I knows ’im, too, but there is yet another … I can’t see ’im, not in me head. I can’t feel him, I can’t smell him, but he is kind, too, but he knows the fists …’ She was crying, and although Sylvia sat on the seat next to her, Maudie turned to Granfer and sobbed into his shoulder.

  ‘Granfer’s shoulder,’ Polly breathed. ‘She has chosen him.’

  Granfer whispered, ‘Yer is safe from them fists. They will never come near yer no more.’

  Verity and Polly moved closer. Was Sylvia all right with this transfer of attention? Sylvia smiled at Granfer over Maudie’s head. The girls relaxed, thinking of the sharp-tongued, competitive young woman Sylvia had been, and the compassionate person she now allowed them to see.

  The three of them made their way quietly to the gate, led by Lettie, who shut it behind them, waving and calling softly, ‘We will get a message to yer if yer needed. We will
, too, get a message ter Timmo and Peter at Bull’s Bridge. God speed, keep yerself safe, our dear beloved girls.’

  Chapter 27

  Thursday 27 July – Marigold and Horizon return to Bull’s Bridge

  The cargo haulage trips were relentless and merged one into the other, but while the doodlebugs flew, crashed and killed, what did exhaustion matter? They were alive, and the army must be supplied, and so must the country. Marigold and Horizon reversed into the lay-by, next to Venus and Shortwood, which were now crewed by Timmo, Peter and their uncle, Trev.

  The girls cleared out the bilges, which were deep in coal sludge. Polly shook it from her hands. ‘I’m just about sick, sore and tired of the feel, smell and even the taste of this muck.’

  Verity shrieked with laughter. ‘Stop eating it then, idiot.’

  Polly laughed. ‘It’s not that I’m eating it, but it gets in your teeth – surely you find the same thing.’ She felt so tired that her head was throbbing. And no, she grinned to herself, it was nothing to do with the darts match, and supping too long afterwards on their winnings.

  The tannoy sounded. ‘Steerer Holmes to the Administration Office, chop-chop.’

  Polly raised her eyes at Verity. ‘That Bob is getting too big for his boots now he’s been taken on full time. Bet’s been talking to him, I bet. Chop-chop, indeed.’

  The tannoy crackled again. ‘Steerer Holmes, a Mr Burton is here for you.’

  Polly was up and out of the hold, tossing the broom into the store cabin and running off down the lay-by, followed by Verity and Sylvia. They sped past the shoppers, the washers, the children, but Dog easily outran them, thinking it was a game, although it wasn’t. Mr Burton? Polly’s mind was churning: Mum, Dad, Joe?

  Verity drew alongside Polly as they sped into the yard and over to the Administration Office, yanking the door open, letting it slam against the wall and bursting in. Sylvia was a beat behind. Mr Burton sat on the bench, his briefcase on his knees. He was immobile.

  Bob called out, ‘Blimey, you got on a turn of speed, you three.’

  Mr Burton looked up and lifted his hat momentarily. ‘Ah, the Three Musketeers. Excellent. Perhaps we could take a little walk.’ It wasn’t a question.

  He clipped out of the door, immaculate as always. Polly heard her own panting replicated by the others as they followed him. Dog jumped up at Mr Burton, but one word from the solicitor was more than enough to have her walking quietly to heel. Mr Burton gestured towards the frontage. ‘Down there.’ Again it was not a question.

  Good heavens, thought Polly, he’s been taking lessons from Mum. He was never like this when I worked for him.

  He stopped at the kerb, and the cut lapped as a passing pair caused a wash and Steerer Porter called, ‘’Ow do?’

  ‘Lord,’ whispered Sylvia, ‘the whole cut will know.’

  ‘But know what?’ Verity whispered back.

  Mr Burton snatched a look at his watch. ‘I have bad news.’

  Verity groaned, ‘Mrs Holmes … the doodlebugs?’ She was holding Polly.

  Mr Burton snatched at his hat, as the wind tried to remove it. His grey hair was cut in a short back and sides. The sound of normality was all around: the blacksmith’s banging, the carpenters’ sawing, while somewhere a welder was hammering; but for Polly it seemed far away. Mum, Dad, Joe, she thought again.

  Mr Holmes was shaking his head. ‘Forgive me for alarming you. It’s nothing like that. But prior to the Leon Arnson case, which was to be heard any minute, the German prisoner of war has withdrawn his statement, and now says that Arnson had nothing to do with sabotaging your butty. He insists that he acted on his own initiative for the – and I quote – “Glory of the Fatherland”.’

  Polly shouted, ‘What?’

  Mr Burton stared at the two boats passing abreast, but wasn’t seeing them. ‘“What?” indeed. Police Inspector Hodges thinks the doodlebugs have rekindled the prisoner’s belief in the ultimate victory of the Fatherland, so he is prepared to be imprisoned as the great Nazis’ saboteur, until the even greater victory, and his subsequent release. I fear he hankers for an Iron Cross and is as deluded as the rest of the Germans.’ He sighed. ‘All too tiresome, and this is by no means all. I have to inform you that, most unfortunately, a V-1 rocket saw off the nightclub owner, when it hit his bungalow in Kent. He had agreed to give evidence in return for his own immunity, and was on bail.’

  Polly was following Mr Burton’s words, seeing the fury in the working of his jaw muscles. She said, ‘So that leaves Leon.’

  ‘The police have had no alternative but to release him.’

  There it was: Leon was out. Leon who had beaten his wife and son. Leon who had fired their butty and threatened them, who had hurt Dog. Leon was free.

  Sylvia clutched at them. ‘He’ll come after us.’

  Mr Burton patted her arm. The police have said they will be keeping an eye on him, and have warned Leon against making approaches to you. He doesn’t know where Joe is, or indeed that his wife, Maud, has been found. He will assume that Mr Hopkins the Elder is still on the canal. I implore you to be alert from now on, in the unlikely event that Leon will reappear. I suspect that, after his incarceration, our Mr Arnson will not wish to return to the confines of a cell. And since he has been refused work with the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company, he is no longer in the locality. Indeed, he has been given work on a farm in Yorkshire – the police have their ways, especially in wartime.’

  Mr Burton left almost immediately, patting Polly’s shoulder.

  ‘I have things to do, dear Polly, as indeed have you. Perhaps a letter to Granfer, as you call him, to update him with the latest news? I gather our Maud is with Mr Hopkins.’

  ‘Yes, yes, she is. But what about Mum and Dad?’ said Polly.

  ‘They know, but I repeat that Arnson has no idea of Joe’s whereabouts and has been warned against making enquiries. Joe does not know, and the police will be keeping a weather eye out in the area.’

  He shook hands all round and hurried off. Bob let them telephone Fran with the news. Fran said, ‘You are not alone, remember that. The boaters will look after you, and the villagers will keep an eye on Granfer and Aunt Lettie, who I will of course inform. They will not tell Maudie, that’s my guess.’

  That evening the girls went to the pub in Southall and drank a glass of mild, and played darts against Timmo, Peter and Trev, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing was. That night they locked their cabin doors, and Dog slept on the floor in Sylvia’s butty since security took priority over perceived lack of hygiene. Verity tossed and turned, and Polly lay awake, worrying about Joe and her parents. But Mr Burton was right; Leon had no idea where Joe was.

  What’s more, there was no one in Woking, or at the school, who knew Joe’s true identity. He was a relative of the Holmes’s, that was the fiction, which had not been questioned. And his surname had been given as Hopkins, not Arnson.

  Chapter 28

  Early November – with Mrs Holmes in Woking

  It was early November, and a dim-out, rather than blackout had been in operation for a short while, which allowed lighting if it was no greater than moonlight. But it was a relief, no matter how limited, and stopped Joyce Holmes worrying so much when Thomas cycled home of an evening. She rubbed her arms against the chill, which was so harsh it seemed to soak through her coat and into her bones, as she set off to meet Joe at the school gates.

  The new V-2 rockets had been pulverising London and the south-east since September; she had thought the V-1 doodlebugs were bad enough, but the V-2s were silent killers. They made no noise and just dived and exploded with no warning, causing many deaths. Would this war never end, would that maniacal country ever surrender?

  She looked both ways, and again, as she arrived at the main road: all clear. She hurried over, relaxing a little because there was still no sight or sound of Leon, and she dared to think that he too had been killed. She shook her head and tutted; how dreadful to wish for the death of someone, b
ut it was the thought of Leon finding Joe and taking him from them – to what? It was something she had not prepared herself for. She had been too busy bracing herself for Joe’s return to Maudie, which was only right and proper, however painful it would be. But for Leon to take him … No, that was insupportable.

  There were very few mothers waiting at the school gates these days. Mrs Holmes prepared to cross the final street, looking right, left and right again, and behind. Checking, always checking, because she suspected that someone like Leon had ways of finding things out. Perhaps they should have used Holmes as Joe’s surname, not Hopkins, but he hadn’t wanted that, and why should he? The bell sounded, the school doors opened and those children who hadn’t yet been evacuated spilled from the building and set off across the playground. Weeds were growing through the asphalt.

  Mrs Andrews, whose son Philip often played with Joe, murmured, ‘We’re evacuating, Mrs Holmes, and staying with my family in Shropshire. So many are dying from the V-2s, I can’t take the risk, not any more.’

  Mrs Holmes nodded. Bernard, Joe’s friend, had already gone to Somerset after a doodlebug landed just outside Woking, and she had been thinking and talking and trying to decide, but where would they go? It had to be ‘they’, because Joe mustn’t go alone, unprotected; and she didn’t like the idea of her Thomas being left here, without her to take care of him. But he’d never leave the allotment, or his job. ‘Some must stay,’ he’d said last night.

  Joe was kicking stones across to Philip, who returned the favour as they approached. Mrs Holmes smiled and waved.

  ‘See you when you come back, Philip,’ Joe said.

  ‘Good luck,’ Mrs Holmes said to Mrs Andrews.