The Boat Girls

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘I shouldn’t think he’d even notice. And I’d love to have you.’

  ‘Not much fun here on your own, is it? Not that I’d be much help in that department. You want other young people for company, not old aunts. Any luck yet with the service applications?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing doing. I’ve just tried them all again.’

  The woman in the WAAF recruiting place had been quite frosty. ‘We’ll let you know. Please don’t bother us again.’

  She said, ‘I saw this thing in The Times the other day which sounded rather interesting. What do you think?’

  Her aunt read the article. ‘It sounds right up your street, Frances. Something quite different.’

  ‘Only I don’t know anything about canal boats. I’ve never even seen one. Or a canal either, come to that.’

  ‘That wouldn’t matter. They’d train you. And you’ve done plenty of sailing. It’s all water. I think it sounds rather fun. Probably much better for you than one of the services. You’d be out in the fresh air, cruising along the waterways – very pleasant, I’d have thought, and all part of the war effort. Essential cargoes, it says. Grit and spirit of service . . . that’s what they’re after. You’ve got both those, haven’t you?’

  Frances smiled. ‘Would you say I had a robust constitution? That’s what they want too.’

  ‘I’d say you were fit and healthy. Not liable to keel over or faint at a bit of hard physical labour.’

  She said, ‘I found an old book about the history of the canals in Papa’s library. It was all rather fascinating. Did you know that the Romans built several of them when they were over here?’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I did.’

  ‘Nor did I. Then nothing happened for years until Queen Elizabeth’s reign when another canal was dug at Exeter. Things didn’t get going properly until the Industrial Revolution when people found out canals were ideal for hauling coal and raw materials about the country cheaply, in barges pulled by horses. They built them all over the country and lots of people made pots of money. And everything went swimmingly until the nineteenth century when the railways started to be built. Bad luck for the canals – they couldn’t really compete. I say, you don’t think they still use horses, do you?’

  ‘No idea. Rather nice, if they did.’

  Late on Christmas Eve, Vere arrived unexpectedly. Frances hadn’t seen her brother for months, and there were lines and shadows on his face that she couldn’t remember from before. On Christmas morning they walked over to the church, minus Papa who had escaped to the orangery. There had been a heavy frost during the night and the countryside glistened white. Inside the church, the congregation, cocooned to the eyes, breathed vapour clouds into the air. Vere read the lesson.

  And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem . . .

  Frances watched him from the family pew. He had a nice speaking voice, as good as any actor, and he looked better after a night’s sleep, standing there tall and straight in his RAF greatcoat with the wing commander’s insignia on his shoulders and all the gilt buttons. The local girls in the congregation were paying lots of attention, and the WAAF girls at his station probably paid lots of attention too. He was the heir, the latest in a long line of de Carlyons – the first one, the Spanish Main pirate, lying in his respectable tomb only a few feet from where she sat. Sir Johns and Sir Veres and their wives were under other flagstones marked by brass plates. Mama, though, was buried outside in the churchyard beneath a hawthorn tree. She refused to think about the frightening idea that Vere might be killed in the war and buried here, too. Stuffy he might be, but he was her brother. Her only brother.

  There was a goose from the home farm for lunch, with roast potatoes and sprouts, and Papa had brought up wine from the cellar. Afterwards, Frances and Vere left Aunt Gertrude beside the log fire and Papa back in the orangery and took the dogs for a long walk across the estate. Vere had changed out of his uniform and looked more like a brother, but he was still bossy and interfering. For a start, he didn’t like the idea of her joining any of the services.

  ‘It was all right in the beginning, but you get all sorts of girls now.’

  ‘Sorts? What sorts?’

  ‘Not the kind you should be mixing with.’

  ‘You mix with them, don’t you?’

  He said coolly, ‘I don’t, as it happens. And I’m not joking, Frances. I’d far sooner you thought of something else to do.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There must be plenty of suitable jobs locally – helping out in a canteen, for instance.’

  ‘I’ve already tried that. It was deadly boring.’

  ‘Well, VAD work in a hospital.’

  ‘Emptying bedpans? No, thanks.’

  ‘We all have to do unpleasant things we don’t necessarily care for in wartime.’

  She wondered if Vere lectured his squadron about having to put up with unpleasant things, and decided that he almost certainly did.

  They reached the brow of a hill. Beyond, the frosty landscape switchbacked towards the Channel five miles away, and the day was clear enough to catch the steely glint of the sea in a gap. Her brother stood beside her, hands thrust into his coat pockets, collar turned up, hair ruffled by the wind. The irony was that there was a strong resemblance to the pirate’s portrait hanging in the hall – same long straight nose, same slightly hooded eyes, same colour hair – but he couldn’t possibly have been remotely stuffy, like Vere, and he sported a large emerald in one ear to prove it.

  She said, ‘Papa’s not getting any better, you know.’

  ‘I’m afraid he never will. Still, he seems perfectly happy with the orchids. Which is really the main thing.’

  ‘That’s what Aunt Gertrude always says. Did she tell you she’s planning to come and stay for a while?’

  ‘Yes, she did mention it. I think it’s an excellent idea. It’ll be good for Pa and it’ll be some company for you.’

  ‘I may not be here – if I get called up.’

  ‘I told you, Frances, it’s much better if you find something to occupy you round here. There’s absolutely no need for you to leave Dorset.’

  ‘I don’t want to be occupied, Vere. I want to do something useful.’

  ‘You can. Go and be a VAD. That’s extremely useful.’

  ‘And I told you, I don’t want to be one. It’s not up to you to tell me what to do.’

  He said, ‘Frances – you’re only just eighteen. I have a responsibility to look after you – since Mama is dead and Pa isn’t up to it – and I’d much prefer that you stay here at Averton.’

  ‘And I’d much prefer that I didn’t. It’s all very well for you, Vere, you’ve been off having a lovely time – heaps of excitement and adventure.’

  ‘Which shows how little you understand what fighting a war is about. The reality is anything but lovely.’

  ‘You mean people getting killed? I understand that perfectly well.’

  ‘I doubt if you do.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I ought to be getting back. I have to be on duty first thing in the morning.’

  He whistled to the two springer spaniels and they walked down the hill in the direction of the house, the dogs following. It looked very beautiful and serene, snug in its safe hollow with the winter sunlight touching the golden stone and masking all its imperfections – sagging roof, crumbling stonework, wonky guttering, peeling paint. She did love it and sometimes, like at this moment, she envied Vere that it would be his one day; at other times she was glad that she wouldn’t be saddled with the burden of caring for it.

  As they neared the house, she said, ‘As a matter of fact, there is something else I could do. There was an appeal in The Times.’

  ‘An appeal?’ He frowned. ‘What about?’

  She told him. ‘Aunt Gertrude’s all for it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. You don’t know what kind of other women would apply, or what the co
nditions would be, or anything about it. In fact, I think it’s an appalling idea. Working like some bargee! I absolutely forbid it, Frances.’

  He had stopped walking and so had she. They faced each other. ‘Is that clear?’

  He was looking his very stuffiest, his most bossy.

  ‘No, it’s not. You said yourself that we all have to do unpleasant things in wartime. They need women to help move essential cargoes. It’s really important – not just filling teacups and emptying bedpans. I think I’d enjoy it.’ The truth was that she’d been rather uncertain on that point, but now she was determined. ‘Mama would have approved. I know she would.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Well, you can’t actually stop me, can you? So, bad luck.’

  She walked away from him, on down towards the house. He shouted after her, but she pretended not to hear.

  Two

  EVERY WEEKDAY MORNING for the past two years, Prudence Dobbs had left the house in Lime Avenue, Croydon and walked with her father down the front path and out of the gate to go to work at the bank. They left at precisely eight fifteen in order to arrive well before opening time and, as they approached the building, Prudence would hang back a little in order to allow her father to precede her, in deference to his position as chief clerk. Once he had entered the premises, she would then follow to take up her duties.

  She had been named Prudence because it was a virtue much admired by her father, especially in a woman. After leaving school at sixteen she had begun work at the bank as a junior, filing cheques neatly in boxes, in date order, and making the tea for all the staff. After eighteen months she had risen to become a ledger clerk, writing the daily balances of customers’ accounts into a heavy, bound book. It was her job to sort the cheques alphabetically and then post the figures neatly into her ledger – the debit entries and the new balance for each account at close of business for the day. There were five hundred accounts in her particular ledger and she had had to learn to recognize the signatures of all the customers she handled, and to write the figures very clearly and beyond doubt. Mr Holland, the manager, always preached what he called the Psychology of Accuracy. Any discrepancies in the day’s final figures were dealt with as a very serious matter. All staff were required to stay at work until the mistake was found and rectified and her father, as chief clerk, oversaw the investigation.

  In the course of her work she had also learned to match the faces of customers to their signatures, and to spot Mrs Harper, Miss Peabody, old Mr Cuthbertson, young Mr Lewis and so on, whenever they came into the bank. Mrs Harper would have been hard to miss, in any case, as she always made such a to-do at the counter, insisting on being given brand new notes. She quite often demanded to see Mr Holland who came hurrying out of his office at once – probably because she was their richest customer.

  When Prudence had first started work at the bank, the war had been going on for nearly two years and Spitfires and Hurricanes were a familiar sight in the skies overhead. During the summer of 1940 they had watched them dogfighting with the German planes and the town had had its share of German bombs. The first and worst time had been in August, when the Luftwaffe had attacked Croydon airport and made a terrible mess of the aerodrome and houses and factories around it. Her father had been at work and she’d been at home having lunch with her mother. Halfway through the cold ham and lettuce she’d heard a sort of thump in the distance, and looked out of the window to see a puff of black smoke rising from the direction of the airport. The siren hadn’t sounded and when she’d pointed out the smoke, Mother had told her to get on with her food and stop imagining things. Suddenly, there’d been more thumps and more smoke, the approaching roar of the German bombers, and the whistle of their bombs as they fell. RAF Hurricanes had come shrieking overhead and the ack-ack guns had started up. She and Mother had dropped their knives and forks and dived straight under the table. In the rush, the salad-cream bottle had got knocked off and spilled all over the carpet, which had upset Mother more than the bombs. The Bourjois soap factory had been badly hit, as well as two hundred houses, and more than sixty people had been killed. The salad cream had left a permanent stain.

  Since then, they’d all got used to the war. Used to hearing the sirens wailing all during the Blitz and used to going out to sit in the cold, damp Anderson shelter beside the rhubarb patch at the end of the garden, listening to the bombs whistling and exploding and the ack-ack guns booming, and waiting patiently for the long note of the all-clear. They’d got used to the blackout and the rationing and the queuing and the shortages of food, paper, petrol, string, rubber, batteries, coal, material, glass . . . almost everything you could think of, except potatoes. At the bank, Mr Holland had insisted on regular stirrup-pump practices and practices for putting out incendiary bombs with sand, or using a long-handled shovel and rake to manoeuvre them into a metal box. Father had been put in charge of the practices and of the staff Fire Watch rota, and when he went off on duty at night he wore a tin helmet instead of his bowler hat. Mr Holland, as manager, was considered too important to take part.

  On Christmas Eve 1943 Prudence walked with her father to the bank, as usual. Mr Holland had kindly permitted coloured paper chains to be strung above the cashiers’ counter and holly to be placed on the window sills, and, at the end of the day, when work was finally finished – with no mistakes – he invited all his staff into his office for sherry. Miss Tripp, his secretary, dispensed the British sherry from a bottle – exactly half a glassful each – as if she was pouring out a dose of medicine, which was what it tasted like. They stood awkwardly around the room while Mr Holland delivered his annual speech, reminding them of their good fortune in working for the bank and of the vital importance of the Psychology of Accuracy, before he wished them a merry Christmas. Mr Simpkins, the senior cashier, was standing close behind Prudence and when he leaned forward to speak, she could feel his breath puffing into her right ear.

  ‘I wonder if you would care to go to the picture house on Boxing Day, Miss Dobbs? They’re showing an American film, but I understand it’s quite good.’

  It wasn’t the first time that he had asked her out and she always refused him. ‘It’s very kind of you, Mr Simpkins, but my aunt and uncle are coming to visit.’

  ‘Another time then.’

  She suspected that he mistook her reluctance for shyness and awe of his position at the bank, talking directly with the customers. It would never do to tell him the truth – that she found him repulsive – in case he found ways of making trouble for her. He was years older than her, with thin, scurfy hair and eyes that glinted at her through wire-framed spectacles. Whenever his hands touched her – which they did if he got the chance – her skin crawled in disgust. Once, he had hinted at his good prospects at the bank. A senior cashier could expect to rise, in time, he told her, to become chief clerk and, one day, manager. Father, she knew, had his own sights set on taking Mr Holland’s place in the private office behind the big leather-topped desk, dictating letters to Miss Tripp, issuing orders and delivering the Christmas Speech.

  As usual, she left the bank a little before her father and waited for him outside in the dark. Miss Tripp passed her with a sharp ‘Goodnight’ and walked away, her lace-up shoes with metal bits on the heels ringing loudly on the pavement. Nobody knew where she lived or anything about her life outside the bank, and nobody much cared. She had never been known to smile – maybe because she had nothing to smile about after working there for thirty years. Prudence shivered. Thirty years! It was like a prison sentence. All those days and weeks and months spent shut up in a place where the windows were made of frosted glass, so you could never see what was happening outside or even what the weather was like. If she wasn’t careful she might end up just like Miss Tripp, with only retirement to look forward to and a presentation clock to go on the mantelpiece.

  There was a way of escape, though, now that she was eighteen. She could leave the bank to join one of the services, the ATS or th
e WRNS or the WAAF, or go and work in a munitions factory. Making bullets or guns, or aeroplane parts to fight the enemy seemed a lot more useful than posting endless figures about other people’s money in a book. But when she’d suggested it to Father on the way to work one day, he’d told her he’d never allow it. Over his dead body, he’d said, striking the pavement with the steel tip of his rolled-up umbrella . . . a daughter of his mixing with common servicemen or with girls of loose morals. And, in any case, working in a bank was of vital importance to the war effort. Banks were needed to make everything run properly, he’d said. Where would the country be without them, he’d like to know? In chaos, that’s where it’d be. When the conscription age had come down from nineteen to eighteen years old, she’d hoped that she’d be called up, whether he liked it or not, but so far it hadn’t happened.

  Father came out with Mr Holland and the bank door was locked as carefully as if it was the Bank of England chock-full of gold bars. Mr Holland went off towards Chestnut Drive where he lived in a detached house with a big garden and a gravel driveway, and Prudence walked home with her father to the semi-detached in Lime Avenue with a sun-ray gate and a crazy-paving front path.

  Christmas Day was the same as it had been for as long as she could remember. In the morning they went to church before they sat down for lunch in the dining room – Mother, Father and herself – with the best dinner service and the silver-plate cutlery and cruets brought out specially and polished for the occasion. Mother had queued for a small joint of beef at the butcher’s, and roasted it with potatoes and boiled cabbage and Yorkshire pudding, and she’d made a sort of Christmas pudding out of breadcrumbs and dried fruit and carrots. Afterwards they sat down in the lounge to listen to the King’s Speech and when the drums rolled for ‘God Save the King’ at the end of it, they stood up – Father ramrod straight as a soldier on parade. Then it was time to open their presents. Mother and Father had given her a book on the Royal Family and she had given Mother a pair of woollen gloves and Father a pair of socks. Mother had given Father a grey scarf that she had knitted and he had given her a marcasite brooch. After that, Mother got out her knitting bag and carried on with a balaclava helmet for the Forces Comforts, while Father read The Illustrated London News and Prudence opened her Royal Family book and looked at the photographs of the King and Queen and the two Princesses doing their bit for the war, including stirrup-pump practice. In the evening they listened to the Home Service on the wireless and to the nine o’clock news before they went to bed.