The Boat Girls

by Margaret Mayhew

‘I’ll put you and the bike off at the nearest bridge-hole. Your job is to see if the lock’s ready for us. If it isn’t, then make it ready so that by the time I arrive, I can go straight in. But if another pair’s coming the other way and get there first, then you’ll need to warn me so I can wait out of their way.’

  Just hop off, Pip had said, with the bike under your arm. As they approached the bridge-hole where the canal narrowed and boat and land came close together, Frances misjudged the hop and fell in a painful heap on the bank. Pip shouted something which she couldn’t hear and the butty went sailing by while she was picking herself up, with Prudence and Rosalind waving encouragement. Pip’s bike was a rusty old wreck without working brakes and a saddle that kept slipping sideways. To make matters worse, the towpath was full of ruts and craters which made steering straight impossible. Several times she ended up in thorny bushes and, once, narrowly avoided plunging into the cut. Finally, she reached the lock, threw down the bike and ran up to the bottom gates.

  All was silent. No lock-keeper. No angry boatman coming the other way to claim priority. Only the lock and the still water . . . waiting for her to do something and do it fast before Pip arrived. She stared at the lock. Was it ready, or wasn’t it? Her mind went blank – refused to work. Come on, it was simple really. Pip had always said so. Think of the steps of the staircase. Think of the levels. Think, think, think. No, the lock wasn’t ready. Of course it wasn’t. It was full, the top gates wide open, the paddles up. Pip would be coming along at the bottom of the step with the gates shut against her, so the water in the lock had to be let out and brought down to her level and the bottom gates opened so she could get in.

  Frances wrenched the windlass out of her belt and ran to the bottom gates and then remembered just in time that, first, she had to shut the top gates and drop the paddles. If the paddles were left open at both ends of the lock, the water would simply go on rushing through and gallons and gallons would be wasted. An unforgivable sin on the cut, according to Pip, since all the water going through the locks had to be pumped back at night up to the summit level.

  Fear of dismal failure and disgrace lent her strength. Hurry, hurry! She put her back against the balance beams, legs braced, heels dug in, summoning all her weight and strength. Down with the paddles as soon as both gates were shut – rattle, rattle, rattle – and then off to the bottom gates to crank the paddles open, feet slipping on the frosty walkway as she hurried across from one side of the lock to the other. She leaned over the lock-side panting and watched the calm surface of the water at the foot of the gates. Oh God, nothing was happening. Nothing at all. Then she saw a little tell-tale whirlpooling movement disturb the calm and grow into a churning torrent as the water rushed out of the open sluices into the cut below.

  As soon as the lock had emptied and the lower water levels were even, the gates could be opened – but not until then. In the distance, she could hear the steady pop-pop of Cetus’s engine. By the time it came round the corner she’d got one gate open and was battling with the other.

  Pip brought the motor in and the butty followed alongside with Rosalind more or less steering. Pip ran up the steps.

  ‘Jolly good, Frances. You can shut them now and drop the paddles. I’ll do the top ones.’

  She leaned wearily against the beam, sucking at a huge blister on her palm. A hundred and something locks ahead. And all the way back again.

  Rosalind was rather proud of herself for steering the butty into the lock, alongside the motor. True, Aquila had banged its nose hard against the sides once or twice, and for a moment she’d thought they were going to keep on going and crash into the gates at the other end, but Prudence had already raced up the steps with a rope and wrapped it around an iron post to hold the boat steady. She lifted the butty tiller out to keep it from getting bashed on the lock-side – another Pip lesson – and waved up to Frances, who was sagging against the balance beam as though the effort of getting the lock ready had nearly killed her. The boats were rising on their magic carpet, Pip was back on the motor, Frances opening the gates, the motor nosing its way out, Pip picking up the butty tow rope as she passed its fore-end, Prudence holding the butty back so it didn’t try to barge out as well and get jammed up. Once the motor was clear, Prudence let go and hopped back on board. For once, it went like clockwork.

  They had left London behind and it was very pleasant and peaceful with the butty trundling along quietly. The hatches were more sheltered than the flat steering counter on the motor and if Rosalind opened the cabin doors, the warmth from the stove below toasted her red boots. She could stoke up the fire, put on the kettle, reach for a quick snack, if need be. They passed under bridges, meandered through fields and woods, past houses and cottages and gardens and pubs, with ducks and moorhens quacking and scooting around the boats for any scraps of food they had left. Every so often, another lock had to be negotiated. They got easier, with practice, and after about the sixth one she could bring Aquila in without banging against the sides. No stopping for lunch allowed; they had it on the go. Prudence made tea and some corned-beef sandwiches and passed them up to her from the cabin. She ate and drank with one hand, steering with the other. After a while, she offered the tiller to Prudence.

  ‘Want a turn?’

  Prudence shook her head. ‘No thanks. I don’t want to get us stuck again.’

  Life must have been pretty grim for her at the bank, Rosalind thought. No adventures. No excitement. No fun at all. Her own life had had its ups and downs but, on the whole, the ups had been more than the downs and there had been plenty of fun. She couldn’t imagine how anybody could bear being shut up from nine to five, day after day, chained to a desk, doing some boring work. She’d done her share of ghastly jobs – waitressing, pulling pints, washing-up – but they’d only been temporary while she’d been resting. The same with this boating lark. It wasn’t something she’d want to do for too long. How the real boat people stuck it all their lives was beyond understanding, but for the moment it was OK. As soon as the war was over, though, she’d go back to the stage. Everything would be starting up again. People coming home – directors, actors, writers. There’d be new ideas, new opportunities, new everything.

  She was dreaming happily about this when they came to yet another lock and Pip had decided that she should swop over with Frances and do the lock-wheeling for a bit.

  ‘Think you can manage it?’

  Pip asked that all the time and it was never so much a question as an order to be obeyed, whether or not you felt you could do whatever it was. And she was far from sure that she could. Riding Pip’s beastly bike would be bad enough but that was nothing to the prospect of dealing with a lock, alone and unaided.

  She landed herself and the bike successfully and wobbled off along the towpath with the no brakes and the wonky saddle. The lock was about two miles ahead but it seemed like ten. She found the bottom gates firmly shut, the lock full and the top gates wide open. In other words, she was going to have to get it ready. On her own. There was no friendly old lock-keeper in attendance, not even a cottage where she could have knocked on the door and wheedled some help. Nothing to be done but get on with it. The first thing – if she’d remembered correctly – was to shut the top gates and drop those paddles. Easy to say; a different matter to do. She started with the gate on her side. Luck was with her, because it moved quite easily and when she wielded her windlass the paddle went down with a satisfying rattle. She went down to the bottom gates and crossed over to the other side. The second top gate wasn’t quite so obliging and she was getting her back into the job when somebody started yelling furiously.

  ‘What the bloody ’ell d’you think you’re doin’?’

  He was striding towards her – a boatman with a furious expression.

  She said calmly, ‘I’m shutting the gates. Getting the lock ready.’

  ‘Not bleedin’ likely, yer not.’ He slapped a fist on the other side of the balance beam. ‘We’re comin’ through. One
of them bloody trainees, aren’t yer? The ones they calls Idle bloody Women. No bleedin’ use to nobody. Got no right ter be on the cut. You git out the fuckin’ way.’

  ‘Excuse me, but I was here first.’

  ‘Where’re yer bleedin’ boats, then?’

  ‘They’ll be here soon – any minute.’

  He leaned across the beam, thrusting his stubbled chin at her. ‘And we’re here right now. See?’

  She did see and there was no denying it – the pair of narrowboats were waiting above the lock, all ready to come in. Not Grand Union ones, but with different markings belonging to some other company. The boatman was pushing the gate open again, and her backwards. There was no point in arguing, not unless she wanted to end up in the lock, so she retreated gracefully and watched him undo all her good work on the other gate in a matter of moments. He glared at her on his way back to his motor.

  ‘Don’t yer bloody touch a thing. We’re comin’ in.’

  She watched the two boats sliding into the lock. There were several children of various ages on each one, the smallest chained by its ankle to the chimney on the butty cabin roof – all of them staring as though she was some kind of freak. The woman on the butty wore long black skirts but she stepped gracefully from boat to lock-side and did her part as though there was nothing to it. The top gates were shut, the paddles down, then the bottom paddles up all in the twinkling of an eye. When the lock had emptied they opened the gates and went out. The boatman delivered a parting shot over his shoulder.

  ‘Bleedin’ trainees! Yer oughta go back where yer come from.’

  She watched them going off down the cut and saw Pip and Cetus already coming up, Aquila trundling along behind. It was only then that it occurred to her that, thanks to the angry boatman, the lock was now ready and waiting and she’d scarcely had to do a thing.

  Frances lost count of the locks they worked through during the rest of the day – some of them so close together there was no time to breathe in between, and each one a struggle with unbudgeable balance beams and lethal winding gear. Prudence – sent to lock-wheel after Rosalind – forgot the drill completely and they arrived to find her sitting on a bollard with her head in her hands and tears streaming down her face. They steered the boats into the mud so many times that Pip lost her saint-like patience and her temper and told them how hopeless and useless they all were. Then Rosalind fell into the cut, trying, yet again, to shove them off the bank with the long shaft, and had to be hauled out and sent to hang her wet clothes to dry in the engine room while Pip found her something else to wear. After that Prudence slipped and gashed her knee which poured blood everywhere until it could be staunched and bandaged and, finally, Frances, doing another stint of lock-wheeling, left her windlass behind. When they tied up for the night they had covered less than twenty miles, and supper was eaten in chastened silence.

  At the end of the meal, Pip lit a cigarette and said brightly, ‘I think it’d be a very good idea if we all go and have a drink at the pub. Forget about today. Tomorrow’s bound to be better.’

  They had tied up alongside other narrowboats, not all belonging to the Grand Union. Two pairs had the name Fellows, Morton and Clayton painted on the side. ‘Known as Joshers on the cut,’ Pip told them. ‘They can be a bit rough. Best to stay well out of their way.’ Another pair of boats at the end of the row carried no company name. ‘Those belong to Number Ones – they own their own boats.’

  The Feathers lay a short way along the towpath – an ancient tavern that had served generations of boaters and stabled their horses overnight. The boatmen were drinking, smoking, and playing darts and dominoes and a Mothers’ Meeting of boatwomen occupied a corner, nursing their drinks on their aproned laps and gossiping. As they entered, faces turned towards them and there was a hush.

  Frances had never drunk beer before and thought it tasted awful. So, by the look on her face, did Prudence, but Pip and Rosalind were downing theirs and lighting cigarettes. Pip offered her one too. Just as well that Vere couldn’t see her now, she thought. Pubs and beer and fags. And boaters.

  They were clearly unwelcome but Frances had the feeling that for all the turned backs, they were being closely observed – that every boatman and boatwoman in the pub had taken note of their presence and that they were watching. One of the boatmen sitting at the bar turned round and she caught her breath because he looked so like the gypsy she remembered in the woods at Averton: glossy black hair, red scarf knotted at his neck, gold hoop in one ear. But there was a difference: he didn’t smile. He stared at her without expression and went on staring until he turned away.

  The beer was making Prudence feel sick but Pip had paid for it and she felt obliged to drink it all. The only alcohol she had ever drunk before had been the half-glass of Christmas medicine at the bank. Father would never have allowed it at home and she had certainly never been in a public house. He would be shocked to the core, and so would Mother, and they’d be even more shocked about other things like the bucket in the engine room and the bugs in the cabin and nobody bothering to wash much. It had been an awful day. She’d done everything wrong and then let them down completely at the lock. When she’d got there, she couldn’t remember a thing that Pip had taught her. The lock had been empty, the dark water down at the bottom of its slimy walls. She had been terrified that she would slip and fall in and flounder around, unable to get out. She could swim, but not more than a few strokes and she always panicked if she couldn’t put her foot on the bottom. The bottom, even if she could reach it, would be thick mud – the kind that sucked you down and swallowed you up. Her body had felt as paralysed as her mind and she had sat there crying. Pip had been very nice about it when the boats had arrived. It happened to lots of trainees, she’d said, putting an arm round her shoulder, and the main thing was not to worry about it or panic. She’d explained locks all over again to her, coaxed her across the gates from one side to the other, helped her raise and lower the paddles and push the balance beam to open and shut the gates.

  Somebody had started to strum on the old piano in the corner of the bar – not very well and rather loudly. It was hard to hear, above the racket, what the others were talking about but she kept nodding as though she could, and taking tiny sips of the beer. After a bit, Rosalind said something and got up. She walked boldly over to a group of men playing darts – all boatmen, to judge by their clothes and their weather-beaten faces, and not at all pleased to be interrupted. But Rosalind didn’t look afraid of them and she held out her hand for the darts. At first they shook their heads but she went on smiling sweetly, and, after a while, they allowed her a turn. Prudence knew nothing about the game, but she could tell that Rosalind did. The boatmen soon saw it too, and they didn’t like it. Their faces grew more and more sullen as they watched her darts thud into the board. To finish, she scored a bullseye, smiled at them again and walked away. She sat down again at their corner table and picked up her beer.

  Pip said grimly, ‘You seem to know the game rather well.’

  ‘I do,’ Rosalind said. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time in a lot of pubs.’ She accepted another cigarette. ‘I thought they needed teaching a lesson.’

  ‘Well, I hope they won’t decide to teach you one. Those are Joshers and they won’t have taken kindly to it. You’d better keep well clear of them in future.’

  On the way back to the boats Prudence tripped in the dark and banged her bad knee, which started it bleeding again. She sat on the side bed, mopping at the trickle of blood with a handkerchief and still feeling sick from the beer. After a while, she got out her curlers, started to wind one in and then gave up; she couldn’t be bothered. It would mean straight hair in the morning but she didn’t care. It didn’t seem to matter much how they looked – not the way it had mattered at the bank. On the cut, they could wear what they liked, look as messy as they liked, and be as dirty as they liked and nobody noticed or minded. Except the boater people – they minded all right. Not how they looked, but about them be
ing there at all. She’d seen the way the men and the women and the children stared at them – and it frightened her. After the light was turned out, she said, ‘Do you think they’ll come after us?’

  Rosalind said sleepily, ‘Who?’

  ‘Those boatmen at the pub – the ones playing darts – the Joshers.’

  A yawn. ‘Oh, them.’

  ‘They looked evil.’

  ‘They’re just pathetic.’ Another yawn. ‘God, I’m so tired . . .’

  ‘Pip said we ought to be careful of them.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Supposing they do?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Come after us.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie, they won’t.’

  ‘But if they do?’

  ‘Just leave them to me.’

  Eight

  THE NEXT DAY they went by the Ovaltine factory at King’s Langley where the company boats were unloading coal – beautiful, clean boats painted with roses and castles, and Drink Delicious Ovaltine for Health on the sides. The cut ran parallel to the railway on its right with a busy road on the left. Cetus pop-popped along between the two, hauling Aquila in its wake, overtaken by roaring trains and traffic. Five more locks followed, close together and called the New ’Uns though they were many years old. They took turns to steer butty and motor, with Pip bawling instructions, and when they weren’t steering they were lock-wheeling. Thanks to the boaters just ahead, it was a bad road with every single lock against them. The frosty weather had turned to driving rain that soaked their clothes, made rat’s tails of their hair, turned the towpath to mud and the ropes to slithery snakes in their hands. Pip kept up their spirits by promising fish and chips when they tied up for the night at Berkhamsted but by the time they got there, the shop had sold out of fish and they had to make do with soggy leftover chips.

  It was still raining hard when they let go in the morning and their clothes were still wet. They had been climbing steadily since they had left the depot at Bulls Bridge and had worked through thirty-nine locks. There were six more locks before they reached Cowroast lock which marked the beginning of a three-mile flat stretch known as Tring Summit – a long stretch of water without a single lock, protected from wind and weather by high banks lined with trees and bushes. The butty, put on the sixty-foot snubber rope, trundled quietly along far behind the motor and they ate their dinner on the move – fresh bread bought from a lock-side shop, sliced thickly and spread with margarine and fish paste, and mugs of hot tea. But the peace and the rest lasted only an hour. Out of the shelter of the summit, they were back in the teeth of the wind and facing more locks – this time going downhill. Downhill locks, as they had already learned on the way to Limehouse, meant going into deeper water which required a different and slower technique. And there was a variation on the ever-present danger to the boats in locks. Going uphill, sterns could get wedged under the gate beam if allowed to drift too far back, so that the boat filled up with water as the nose rose. Going downhill, they could get caught up on the stone cill hidden under water, leaving a boat dangling helplessly as the bows sank. Almost as frightening, the motor steerer had to wait above while the boats were sinking, to open the gates, and then launch herself through space down onto a cabin roof far below. Not that an uphill lock was necessarily any safer when it involved standing on top of the cabin and springing onto the lock-side without falling between the lock wall and the boat to be crushed to strawberry jam.