The Boat Girls

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘The three of you together?’

  ‘If we all stick it.’

  There were two thick rings and one thin round his uniform sleeve which meant he was a squadron leader, and two medals sewn on his chest – the same as Vere’s. Birds of a feather, flocking together. ‘Have you known my brother long?’

  ‘Sort of. We were at school together, but in different houses and he’s a couple of years older. I hadn’t seen him for several years until we happened to be posted to the same squadron. I didn’t know he had a sister.’

  ‘He wouldn’t mention it. We don’t get on particularly well.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘He’s always trying to run my life.’

  ‘But I’m sure he means well.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He’s just incredibly bossy. Do you have a younger sister to boss around?’

  He smiled. ‘I have a sister but she’s older. She used to try to boss me until I grew taller than her.’

  The hotel dining room seemed vast after the cabins. She had almost forgotten how to sit at a proper table and how to eat in a civilized fashion. They had become so used to grabbing and gobbling – one spoon, one knife, one fork making do for everything. It was an effort to remember how to use the right things and not to slurp the soup. Rosalind, she saw, had finished hers and was wiping a piece of bread round to clean the plate. Vere’s face was a study. Serve him jolly well right.

  She leaned across the table. ‘By the way, Vere, what day is it today?’

  He frowned. ‘Thursday, of course. Surely you know that.’

  ‘No, we don’t. Do we, Ros?’

  A chirpy smile and more cockney. ‘No’ a clue, darlin’.’

  ‘Is this some sort of joke, Frances?’

  ‘Not at all. We lose count of the days on the cut. It’s either yesterday, today or tomorrow.’

  ‘The cut?’

  ‘The canal. It’s called the cut. We don’t know the date either. Or what’s happened in the war, or anything else. No newspapers, you see. And no wireless. It’s rather nice.’

  The frown deepened. ‘It sounds uncivilized.’

  ‘Not at all. We’re very civilized, aren’t we Ros?’

  A wide and innocent smile. ‘Oh, yeah. Ever so.’

  Her brother said slowly, ‘Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here in London, Frances?’

  ‘I already did. We’re celebrating.’

  ‘I meant after dinner.’

  ‘We go off on leave. We’ve got six lovely days before we do the next trip.’

  ‘You’re going home, I take it?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ve invited Ros and Prue to spend tonight at Aunt Gertrude’s flat – I knew she wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I’ve got some leave as well, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh? Are you staying the night there too, then? It’ll be a bit of a crowd.’

  ‘I’m staying at the RAF club and we can both go down by train tomorrow. I’ll pick you up by taxi in the morning.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m quite capable of travelling on my own.’

  ‘I dare say you are, Frances. But we may as well go together.’

  The soup was removed, the next course served. She crumbled her bread roll over the pristine tablecloth.

  Hugh Whitelaw said, ‘So, what were you all doing before you joined the boats?’

  ‘I was doing nothing, Prue was working in a bank, and Ros . . .’ she paused to make sure that Vere was paying close attention. ‘Ros was an actress. Acting.’

  Of course, the squadron leader then wanted to know what she had acted in and where, and Ros was more than happy to tell him about her theatrical life. There was a good deal of pleasure in watching Vere as he listened to the colourful recital with all the funny bits and the different accents – cockney, north country, Irish, Scots. Ros switched from one to another with ease and she tossed in some juicy scandals – illicit affairs, queer actors, lesbian actresses. It was a brilliantly shocking performance.

  At the end of the dinner the waiters brought coffee – dainty little porcelain cups and a dish of lovely petits fours. Vere offered his cigarette case to the squadron leader.

  She said, ‘I’d like one, too, please. So would Ros.’

  He lit Ros’s cigarette and she blew a long plume of smoke up into the air as though she’d been doing it for years, which she probably had.

  ‘Ta very much.’

  Hugh Whitelaw lit hers. ‘My parents’ house is only a mile or two away from the Grand Union Canal – near Stoke Bruerne. If you ever need a bed for the night, I know they’d be glad to have you.’

  ‘We always sleep on the boats.’

  ‘Well, bear it in mind. Havlock Hall.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, instantly forgetting it.

  In the taxi that Vere had insisted on ordering for them afterwards, Ros said in her normal voice, ‘I don’t think your brother approved of me very much, do you? Still, it was very nice of him and that other chap to pay for our dinner and for all the champagne. We might have had to wash up.’

  Vere had paid for the taxi, too, but Frances was still cross at the way her brother had taken over their evening and spoiled it. And her leave would be spoiled by him being down at Averton.

  She slept in Aunt Gertrude’s room while the other two shared the spare room. After her side bunk on the Aquila the bed seemed too big, the mattress too soft, and she missed the warm glow of the stove and the gentle creaking of the boat.

  Rosalind phoned her parents in the morning. Her mother sounded harassed.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you home for a while, darling. It’s a bit of a problem at the moment.’

  ‘You mean somebody’s in my room?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. He’s playing at the Winter Gardens all this week – I can’t really turf him out, you see.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to sleep on the sofa, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s occupied too. Only a walk-on, but she’s very nice. We’re terribly busy. I’m sorry, darling. If you can let me know well in advance next time, I’ll make sure we keep your room free. Is there anybody you could stay with just this once? Otherwise, we’ll manage something.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find somewhere else.’

  Frances said at once, ‘Come and stay at Averton, if you can stand my brother being there too. It’s not a bad place and you’ll like my aunt.’

  Prudence went off with her suitcase to catch buses to Croydon and Vere arrived in a taxi.

  ‘Ros is coming as well,’ Frances said without further explanation.

  He took Rosalind’s tatty old carpet bag and put it beside the driver. He didn’t show it, but she knew he wasn’t thrilled at the idea. Actresses were immoral and a bad influence, everybody knew that. You went to see them act on the stage, at a safe distance, but you didn’t associate with them or invite them into your home – not if you were someone like him. She sat in the back of the taxi with Frances, and very comfortable it was too. The brother was sitting on one of the tip-up seats, staring out of the window, which gave her the chance to take a closer look at him. Nice eyes, nice hair, nice hands – men’s hands counted a lot, so far as she was concerned. They had to be lean and strong, not plump or pasty. And the RAF uniform looked impressive. He didn’t approve of her, or like her, but she didn’t hold it against him. In fact, it was a relief. She’d had plenty of attention in her life, never a shortage of admirers of all shapes and sizes and ages and, more often than not, they were a nuisance. Sometimes a real pest. Right now she wanted nothing more than to do as little as possible and sleep as much as possible for six blissful days. She decided to abandon the cockney accent. She could have kept it up indefinitely, if necessary, but it really wasn’t fair to go on teasing him.

  At Waterloo station there was another argument. Officers of His Majesty’s Forces were apparently expected to travel first class, not slum it.

  ‘Ros and I can’t afford that, can we, Ros? We’re going third.’r />
  ‘No you’re not, Frances. I’m paying for both your tickets.’

  ‘We don’t want you to, do we, Ros?’

  He won, of course, by simply going off and buying them. Not that she was going to protest. It was a treat to sit in style and comfort instead of squashed into a crowded compartment hopping with fleas.

  When they arrived at the station, they took another taxi to the house which was much as Frances had described – sprawling, old, beautiful and run-down. Stone griffins guarded the entrance gates and inside it was stuffed with antique furniture and family portraits. It was also freezing cold. The aunt, Lady Somebody, was a nice old girl, straight out of the twenties. She chain-smoked and drank gin and since she loved going to the theatre they got on famously. What gossip Rosalind didn’t already know about well-known actors and actresses she made up to amuse her. The father – another title there – was an old sweetie but rather weird and spent all his time in the orangery, growing orchids. Frances took her there on a visit and when she told him, quite truthfully, that she thought the blooms were lovely he cut one for her. It had no scent but its pure white frilled petals were perfection, and she wore it in her hair for dinner that evening. She slept until late every morning and bathed in a bath as big as a rowing boat. The water was never more than lukewarm, but she gradually scoured away the grime and grease from her skin and scrubbed her nails clean again. She washed her hair every day. The cuts and scratches started to heal, the bug bites and bruises to fade. Sometimes she practised speeches aloud to her reflection in the bedroom mirror – just to keep her hand in.

  ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

  Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.

  What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,

  Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

  Belonging to a man. O! be some other name;

  What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet;

  So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d . . .

  She needed to remember it all. To keep rehearsing different parts. This was only an interval: the interval before the curtain swished up again, after the war.

  ‘She’s not the right sort of friend for you, Frances. You must know that.’

  ‘I don’t know anything of the kind, Vere. What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘She’s an actress. From quite a different background and with quite different standards. And since when did you start smoking and drinking champagne?’

  ‘Actually, I usually drink beer.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Yes, beer. In pubs. When we tie up for the night. There’s nearly always a pub nearby.’

  ‘You mean you three girls go to pubs alone?’

  ‘Not exactly. Pip comes with us. The woman who’s training us. She’s very nice and very respectable indeed, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘I dare say she is, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘What is the point, then?’

  ‘The point is that I want you to give this whole thing up. Do as I suggested originally and find some other war work near here. Something much more suitable.’

  They were walking across the fields with the dogs. Ros had stayed behind to play gin rummy with Aunt Gertrude beside the fire. She wished she’d stayed indoors too and avoided the inevitable lecture.

  ‘I’m not going to give it up, Vere. Whatever you say. And I’m not giving up Ros as a friend, either. Or Prue. Or anyone else, just because you say so. I’ll choose my own friends, if you don’t mind.’

  He was silent, striding along. She braced herself for what was coming next. At last he said, ‘All right, Frances. If that’s the way you want it, fair enough. I’ve said my say, and we’ll leave it at that. I won’t interfere.’

  She wasn’t deceived. ‘You don’t think I’ll be able to stick it, do you, Vere? That’s what you’re hoping, isn’t it?’

  ‘Frankly I don’t and, yes, I’m hoping you won’t.’

  They walked on up to the crest of the hill but it was too misty to see the sea.

  She said, ‘You’re quite wrong about Ros, you know. She’s a lovely person.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’

  ‘So’s Prue. We all get on awfully well.’

  ‘You’re going to need to, by the sound of things.’

  She went up into the attics again, taking Ros with her on a hunt for sensible boat clothes. They foraged through more old trunks and tea chests and discovered a man’s riding mac. It was a stiff and crackling affair with belt and straps and buckles – too big for Ros, but she could turn up the sleeves.

  Frances wandered about the attic rooms – dusty repositories of the past. Boxes of letters and photographs, skittles, Vere’s train set, her dolls’ pram, an old steamer trunk covered with fading labels, a dressmaker’s dummy. In one dark corner, she came across a crocodile suitcase stamped with her mother’s initials. The knobbly skin was dull and cobwebbed but when she snapped open the clasps, the colours inside were as bright and fresh as when they had been worn. Evening gowns and day dresses, hats and shoes, long white kid gloves, silken wraps, a white fox fur . . . she fingered them.

  Behind her, Ros said, ‘Beautiful things. Whose were they?’

  ‘My mother’s. I’d no idea they were up here. I suppose Father kept them after she died.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Smiling. Lovely. Kind. My father worshipped her. He’d had a breakdown when he came back from the war and she helped him get over it. When she died he more or less gave up.’

  ‘How sad.’

  She replaced everything carefully in the suitcase and they went downstairs. In the hall she pointed out the portrait of the first John de Carlyon.

  ‘He made his fortune looting galleons on the Spanish Main. I always think I’d like to have met him.’

  ‘So would I.’

  ‘Everybody thinks Vere looks a lot like him.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Ros cocked her head to one side. ‘I can see the resemblance. But your brother doesn’t wear ringlets or an emerald earring. And somehow I don’t think he’d ever have been a buccaneer. Do you?’

  ‘Not likely. He’d never do anything like that.’

  She turned to see that Vere had come into the hall.

  ‘We’ve been up in the attics,’ she said before he could cross-question them. ‘Looking for things to wear on the boats.’

  He was looking at Ros dressed in the riding mac. ‘That’s Father’s, isn’t it?’

  ‘He wouldn’t mind. He never goes riding now. Ros needs it for the boats.’

  He was still staring at Ros. What on earth was the matter with him?

  ‘It suits her. She’s welcome to it.’

  When Prudence arrived home her mother took one horrified look at her and sent her to the scullery, where her clothes were put straight into the wash. The bath was filled with hot water, Dettol poured in, carbolic soap and nail brush handed over. By the time her father came home from the bank she was wearing clean and neatly pressed clothes, hair curled with hot tongs, the bedbug bites camouflaged beneath dabs of pink calamine lotion.

  ‘I ought to tell him the state you were in,’ her mother had threatened. ‘But it would only get him all upset and I don’t want that this evening. I’ll have to talk to him later, though.’

  Her father didn’t notice the bites or how her hands looked, and, naturally, she didn’t say a word about the bugs or the bucket in the engine room, or anything else like that. She sat listening dutifully to him talking about the bank and the rumours that Mr Holland, whose health had seemed poor lately, might be retiring early. In which case, of course, her father would hope to be made manager.

  ‘There’ll be a position for you there after the war, Prudence. You don’t need to worry.’

  She did worry, but not in the way he imagined. The idea of going back to the bank made her feel sick.

  She took her tweed overcoat to be cleaned and repaired and d
rew money out of her post office savings account to buy a pair of boy’s lace-up boots and workmen’s overalls which needed a lot of turning up and taking in. At a jumble sale she found some old woollen vests, thick socks and a cable-knit jersey.

  There was nothing much to do at home except help her mother with the housework and the shopping and the cooking. They went to the pictures one afternoon to see Deanna Durbin. The Pathe News showed British soldiers fighting in Italy and American marines landing on an island far away in the Pacific Ocean, and the King and Queen shaking hands with American air crews. Afterwards, they had a pot of tea and toasted teacakes in the cinema café. Her mother kept on asking questions about the narrowboats but she only told her the good bits – like what an excellent teacher Miss Rowan was, and how nice the other two girls were. She mentioned that Frances lived in a big house in Dorset because she knew her mother would like to hear it, but not that Frances had said it was falling down. And she told her about them having dinner at the Ritz Hotel in London and meeting Frances’s brother who was a wing commander in the RAF. She didn’t mention the smoking and the drinking or the pubs, or that Ros was an actress. Her mother looked quite pleased about the good bits.

  To please Father, she went to the bank one morning. Mr Holland happened to come out of his office when she was there, and actually stopped to speak to her. They would see what could be done about finding her a position after the war was over, he said. He couldn’t promise anything, of course, but he would bear her in mind. Meanwhile, he hoped that she would never forget about the Psychology of Accuracy. It was very important. He looked perfectly well, and she thought that the rumours might have been wrong and Father’s hopes falsely raised. To her relief, Mr Simpkins was away ill with influenza. She peeped through the door at her old desk below the frosted-glass window. The girl who had replaced her was sitting entering figures in the ledger, one after the other. Her head was bent so low that her nose nearly touched the paper.

  The weather had been cold and dull, but the sun came out on their last day at Averton and Rosalind, wearing Sir John’s riding mac and her red boots, took herself off alone for a walk – not the energetic hike up the windy hillside to admire the distant view of the sea, but a gentle amble along the valley. She crossed a stream by a little plank bridge, climbed over a stile and followed a pathway into the woods, wandering along until she came to a grassy clearing with a convenient fallen tree trunk. She sat down and discovered a brave little clump of violets growing in its lee.