‘Yer’d got ’er in ahead, miss. Should’ve put ’er in reverse, see.’
In her panic she hadn’t noticed, but all the watchers would have done.
The boy said kindly, ‘I’ll take ’er up aways for yer. See yer safe round the bend.’
She perched on the gunwale, furious with herself, while he manoeuvred the motor and the butty effortlessly under the bridge and round the sharp right-hand bend. He was thin and scrawny, with bowed legs, like many of the boat children – the size of an eight-year-old, though from his speech and manner she judged him to be about twelve. His eyes were the colour of dark treacle, his face dirty, his hair wild black curls, his clothes a grown man’s cut down or turned up to fit, or, in the case of the cap, simply twisted to one side. He wore his windlass stuck through a rope belt that held his trousers up, together with braces and hobnail boots. His name, he told her, was Freddy. Freddy Carter.
She thanked him. ‘It was very kind of you to come to the rescue.’
‘Me bruvver told me ter do it.’
‘Your brother?’
He nodded. ‘Me bruvver Jack. Back there at the wharf. Yer was oldin’ us up, see. Get that bleedin’ woman out me way, ’e says.’ He grinned at her. ‘’E’ll be by in a tick.’
With that, he slowed the motor so that the boats drifted to a stop. Round the corner, with the steady putt-putt of an engine, another pair approached and as the motor drew close alongside the boy leaped across the gap between them, and they were off and away down the cut. The motor’s name was Snipe and a small black dog stood on the cabin roof. The steerer had ignored her wave of thanks, as had the woman sitting in the butty cockpit behind, her face hidden under a frilled black bonnet. But Frances had seen the man’s face beneath his cap and recognized him. He was the one at the Feathers on their first training trip: the one sitting at the bar who had turned around to stare so hard; the one who looked so like her childhood gypsy.
Prue wobbled back from the fore-end. ‘Who was that boy?’
‘That was Freddy. I’d left the engine in ahead. All my fault. Sorry.’
‘They weren’t Grand Union boats, that pair, did you notice? There was some other name on the side.’
She hadn’t noticed, any more than she’d noticed her stupid mistake. All in all, it had been a very bad start to the day.
Prue joined Ros on the butty where they had nothing much to do since the empty Eurydice, towed close behind Orpheus, needed no steering. After a while, they disappeared down into the warmth of the cabin to make cocoa. Out on the motor counter, it was miserably cold under sullen skies. Frances dared not relax her concentration for a second for fear of making another mistake. There would be boats coming along behind them with boaters in them who would be very angry if they were held up. Delaying them, even for a moment, was a deadly sin and one which she had already committed in full view of them all.
They putt-putted on steadily, winding their way along the cut, through countryside at first before it gave way to London. Loaded boats came by, up from the docks, the butties trailing on the end of long snubbers, a steerer in the cockpit to guide the heavy weight. As Pip had taught her, Frances slowed down politely to let them pass and go through first under bridges. Sometimes they gave a curt nod, sometimes, slouched behind their chimneys, no acknowledgement at all.
Ros came up to the butty fore-end to pass over a mug of cocoa. Half of it had got spilled on the journey, but it was warm and it cheered her. Things began to look rosier. She hadn’t got them stemmed up again – so far – and nothing else terrible or drastic had happened. They came round a bend with another bridge ahead and she saw a pair of boats there, waiting by the bridge-hole for a horse-drawn barge to come through. She slowed the motor, preparing to wait too, but, as they drew nearer, she realized that the barge wasn’t moving. Nor was the horse who was standing on the towpath, head hanging, looking bored, its rope slack. The bargee had got off and was peering into the bridge-hole, down the side of the barge. Presently he was joined by his mate and the two of them scratched their heads under their caps and then started shaking them. The steerer from the narrowboat ahead strode along the towpath towards them, his dog trotting at his heels. There were gestures and shrugs and more head-shaking.
She brought Orpheus to a gentle stop beside the bank, behind the other pair, and saw Freddy on the motor counter. He waved and came running along the towpath.
‘Stuck fast, she is. Me bruvver’s gone to see what’s to be done. Reckon ’e’ll try and pull ’er out.’
They waited and watched while the boatman returned, the dog following, and took his motor down to the bridge-hole. A rope on the barge bows was fastened round a stud on the deck of the narrowboat, which reversed until it was taut. Gears shrieked, the rope broke and the barge stayed stuck. Freddy came running back.
‘Me bruvver says she’s overloaded, that’s what’s done it. Water’s too shallow there an’ she’s grounded.’
Another pair of boats came round the corner behind them and joined the queue and passers-by were gathering on the bridge, leaning over for a better view. A new rope was fixed in place and the horse reattached to the barge to lend its power on the towpath, but all in vain. Both ropes broke, the horse went cantering off and the barge stayed stuck. Prue came over with a mug of tea.
‘What do you think’s going to happen next?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d better go and see if we can help at all.’
Quite how they could, she’d no idea – unless maybe Orpheus could tug too – but it seemed the right thing to offer help wherever help was needed on the cut. That was what Pip would have done.
Freddy trotted along beside her on the towpath towards the bridge-hole. They came to the other butty, brightly painted, shining clean and crowned with a snow-white Turk’s head. She saw that it was called Godwit, and the name Alfred Carter was painted in black on the side.
‘What a beautiful boat.’
The boy looked proud. ‘It were me grandad’s afore ’e died, same as the motor.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Called arter ’im, only everyone calls me Freddy. Me gran’s in there cookin’. Allus doin’ somethin’, ’cept at night an’ then she drives ’er pigs to market.’
‘Surely you don’t keep pigs?’ Chickens, rabbits, ferrets, canaries, cats and dogs, yes, but she’d never seen pigs on the narrowboats.
He grinned. ‘Snorin’. We can ’ear it on the motor, Jack an’ I. Keeps us awake sometimes, it’s that bad.’
‘Do the boats belong to her?’
‘Naw. Grandad left them to Jack, ’im bein’ the oldest. Our dad were already dead, see. Fell in the cut one winter when ’e were comin’ back from the pub. Frozen stiff as a plank when they found ’im in the mornin’. Me mam died too, from the bronchitus.’
He pronounced the illness in a funny way, like boaters mispronounced words.
They had reached the butty’s motor, Snipe, which was equally well kept. The bridge-hole where the three men were talking was a few yards further on. Freddy stopped.
‘They’ll try somethin’ soon. Best to wait ’ere.’
‘I thought I’d ask if I could help.’
He looked shocked and shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t do that, miss. Me bruvver wouldn’t take no ’elp from a woman – even if yer could, which yer can’t.’
‘I’ll ask, anyway.’
She approached the men. ‘Excuse me.’
They turned round, fists on hips. The black dog sniffed at her shoes. She noticed that his master wore a fancily embroidered waistcoat under his jacket, and a broad leather belt with the windlass stuck through like a cowboy’s gun.
‘I was wondering if we could help in any way at all?’
The bargemen – beefy giants towering above her – started grinning all over their faces. Brother Jack didn’t grin.
He said, ‘Best help yer can give us, lady, is ter keep out of our way.’
He turned his back and they went on discussing the problem.
‘Tol
d yer so, miss,’ Freddy said.
More boats arrived, forming a queue on both sides of the bridge, and more watchers gathered above and on the banks. A tractor was sent for from a nearby farm, but it was unsuccessful in dislodging the barge. Eventually it was decided to unload enough of the timber onto the towpath to lighten her. An hour or so later she was floating free, and the horse towed her out of the bridge-hole to the bank.
By the time they had managed to restart the engine on Orpheus, the boats were already proceeding under the bridge, one pair after another. Terrified of getting something wrong and of holding the boaters up, Frances let them all go in front. Nobody offered them their rightful place in the queue and they trailed along, last, and least, of all.
They tied up at Camden Lock for the night and discussed the day over the tinned sardine supper in the butty cabin.
‘I ought to have pushed more,’ Frances said. ‘We were second in the queue. It was feeble to let them all go in front of us. They’ll just think we’re idiots.’
‘Yes, they will,’ Ros agreed. ‘Even more so. But who cares? Let them think what they like.’
They made cocoa and Frances and Ros lit cigarettes. It had started to rain, pattering on the butty roof, making the cabin seem all the cosier. Prue was almost falling asleep over her mug. They turned in very early, planning to be up and ready to leave at first light.
In the morning it was still raining, but much harder. Frances rolled out of her cross-bed and when she slid back the cabin hatch the rain drenched her face. She pulled on her clothes without bothering to wash or even brush her hair. Ros and Prue had the kettle going on the butty stove and they swallowed mugs of hot tea and slices of bread and jam.
‘We’ve got some leaks,’ Ros said, pointing to trickles of water sliding down the walls, and to tins and pans strategically placed to catch drips. She looked at Frances more closely. ‘And you’ve been bitten by a bedbug.’
They’d got leaks and bedbugs: Orpheus and Eurydice were not as romantic as their names. Once again, there was a titanic struggle starting the engine. The boaters, of course, had already gone and were well on their way down to the docks. They followed long after, negotiating the London locks with the empty boats breasted-up as Pip had taught them. The lock-keepers were kind and helped them in a fatherly way and they didn’t do too badly, but they knew it wasn’t a fair test. There would be many other locks that would have unhelpful keepers or none at all.
After the locks they singled out the boats and Frances carried on steering the motor, with Ros and Prue in the butty behind towed on its short strap. The rain carried on, too, all the way to Limehouse. It found its way down the back of her neck and into her shoes and, with the hatch open for steering, down into the cabin where it lay in cold puddles on the lino floor. The only respite was the tunnel at the Angel, Islington where they swopped the rain for unpleasant darkness and constant thumps and bumps as Orpheus, inspite of Frances’s best steering efforts, ricocheted off the brick walls. She thanked God that they didn’t meet a barge head-on – there was room for the narrowboats to pass each other, but not barges.
Loaded pairs were coming up from the docks. The boaters, she noticed, ignored the rain. They wore old overcoats, never any kind of waterproofs.
They reached the docks and tied up alongside the row of narrowboats, their ears assaulted by the noise from cranes and lorries and, every so often, by ships testing their guns. Molly Jessop appeared on the wharf above, wearing the silk scarf, and shouted down that they weren’t loading yet, so would they like to come and have some tea?
In spite of the rain, Molly had somehow kept her butty cabin dry and the kettle was whistling a welcome on the stove. Saul, her husband, crossed over from the motor to join them, and they squeezed round the let-down table while Molly poured tea and handed out ginger biscuits. Frances asked Saul if he knew where she could buy oilskins. There was no reply, so she repeated the question.
He nodded. ‘Heard yer first time, but I were thinkin’ what to tell yer. I don’ ’old with oilskins, ter speak the truth. See, the wet runs off an’ it soaks yer trousers and yer shoes, an’ that makes a right mess in the cabin. An’ they gets in the way, flappin’ about. We wears our coats and then we ’ang them up in the engine room to get dry. Works better.’
He was a man of few words but they were always wise ones, and whenever he spoke they listened.
‘Go stiddy, but keep a-goin’ – that’s the way. From when yer lets go in the mornin’ till yer ties up at night. No need to rush it, but no call to stop – less somethin’s amiss.’
Which, thought Frances, it assuredly would be many times. There was no hope that they would ever handle the narrowboats as well as the men and women who had spent their lives on them. She said as much to Saul, who chuckled.
‘Us never stops learnin’ neither – not till we dies. There’s allus better ’n’ quicker ways ter find. An’, by the way, yer water can’s in the wrong place – oughta be on t’other side of yer chimney – might’s well get it lookin’ right.’
They were loaded during the afternoon – bags of cement dumped by crane from the wharf into the holds, coating the boats and them in fine grey powder. If the rain hadn’t stopped, they might have set like rocks. Then the sheeting-up – the battle with beams and stands and top planks, the struggle with heavy, unwieldy canvas and tarry strings, eyelets and knots. Their reward more cuts and blisters and bruises and sore knees.
They weren’t to let go until the next morning, and Molly came round again and invited them to go with her and Saul to a pub. A nice glass of port and lemon did her and the babe the world of good, she said. Got them both to sleep sound at night.
The Volunteer lay outside the main gates to the docks. Inside, it was lit by gas lamps and there was sawdust on the floor, an atmosphere nearly as thick as a London fog and a hard-drinking clientele of seamen, dockers and boatmen. They sat decorously at a table and Molly sipped her port and lemon while the rest of them drank beer, except Prue who had her fizzy lemonade. With all the noise and chatter going on, it was hard to hear what anyone was saying. Frances was trying to listen to Molly when there was a shift in the crowd and she caught sight of Freddy’s brother Jack. He was standing at the bar, pint mug in fist, talking to another boater. She gave Molly a nudge.
‘That boatman over there – the one with the red scarf round his neck . . .’
Molly looked. ‘Jack Carter? What about ’im?’
‘He doesn’t think much of us trainees. We held him up when we let go at the lay-by.’
‘Well, ’e wouldn’t, would ’e? ’E’s a Number One. Owns ’is own boats. They don’t stop for nobody an’ nuthin’. Not if they can ’elp it.’
‘His little brother, Freddy, he’s nice. He helped us.’
‘We saw ’im. Everyone likes Freddy. ’E’s the youngest Carter. There’s three more brothers an’ a sister. The sister got married an’ the other brothers work fer a company on the Oxford. When Jack got left the boats from ’is grandad, ’e took Freddy with ’im cos their mam and dad was dead. Ever seen the grandma?’
‘Only once. Not properly.’
‘She’s like the boatwomen allus was. Bonnet, an’ long black skirts an’ lace-up boots, an’ ’er cabin’s got more brasses ’n anyone else on the cut. Ain’t nuthin’ she don’t know about the boats an’ the cut. Nor Jack neither. An’ that’s not all ’e knows. A proper lady-killer, is Jack Carter.’ She giggled. ‘If only ’e’d looked my way, I’d’ve gone wiv ’im, but ’e never did. Still, I reckon I’m better off with my Saul.’
Later, he came by their table and Molly stopped him. ‘’Ow’s yer grandma, Jack?’
‘Fine, Molly. An’ yerself?’
‘Not so bad, considerin’. These ladies are trainees.’
‘I know that.’
‘This is Rosalind and this is Prudence. And this one’s Frances.’
Cement dust still caked their hair and their faces; they looked like old ladies. He nodded curtly.
‘How d’y do.’
The fancy waistcoat, Frances now saw, was embroidered with a pattern of spiders’ webs. She said, ‘I’m sorry if we held you up.’
He stared at her with eyes that were the same colour as Freddy’s, but a lot harder. ‘Like I told yer, lady. Best thing is if yer keeps out o’ the way.’
He moved on and Molly dug her in the ribs. ‘See the way ’e looked at yer? ’E were watchin’ yer close, all right. Did yer notice?’
Eleven
TRING SUMMIT WAS one of Prudence’s favourite parts of the trip. It wasn’t as long as some other pounds, but the cut wound peacefully through quiet countryside and was well sheltered from wind and weather. For three miles there were no locks to worry about. There was time to drink and eat without gobbling and gulping on the go, as they usually did, and, if Ros was steering the butty, time to catch up on other things. Tidy the cabin, stoke up the fire, fill the coal box, even do some splicing which she found, surprisingly, that she enjoyed. In fact, she was rather good at it. There was something very satisfying about unlaying the strands of a broken rope, whipping them and then remeshing them neatly together. It was a fiddly job and Ros and Frances both found it boring, but she didn’t and it was the one thing on the boats that she could do better than them. Frances could steer the best, Ros was the surest-footed, but she was the fastest at splicing.
She could manage steering either the butty or the motor, if she had to, and walking the top planks wasn’t so frightening any more, but, given the choice – which she frequently was by Frances – she preferred lock-wheeling. So long as you kept calm and did everything in exactly the right order, it was really quite simple. Rather like Mr Holland’s Psychology of Accuracy, which she still thought about sometimes. One, shut gates. Two, lower paddles. Three, raise paddles. Four, open gates and so on . . . The swirling lock water no longer held such terrible fears for her because, as she had discovered, it did exactly as it was bidden – came into the lock or went out of it, rose up or went down, controlled by paddles and gates and gravity. Unlike the sea, it had no mind or will of its own. And where there was a lock-keeper he was often helpful with heavy beams and stiff ratchets.
The Boat Girls Page 13