The Boat Girls

by Margaret Mayhew

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to do that ever. I don’t know what I’ll do. Some other job, I suppose.’

  ‘Come and live in Winnipeg.’

  She laughed politely at the joke. ‘It sounds a bit too cold for me.’

  ‘I’d keep you warm.’

  She stopped laughing and blushed.

  He paid the bill and they went into the side street and blackout darkness.

  ‘I think the railway station’s that way,’ she said.

  ‘I’m seeing you home first.’

  ‘There’s no need, honestly.’

  ‘Yeah, honestly, there is.’

  He had a torch that worked and he took hold of her arm so she didn’t trip over things or bump into lamp-posts or fall into the cut. The narrowboats lay along the wharf, Eurydice tied up at the end of the row.

  He said, still holding her arm, ‘You do these trips regularly on the canal – right? Back and forth, delivering stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’ They weren’t supposed to talk about that either but she couldn’t see the harm. Not with him.

  ‘Here’s the deal. Next time you’re coming this way, go to a call box and call the Three Horseshoes pub in Cranborough. I don’t know the number.’

  ‘I can find it out.’

  ‘OK. Leave a message for me with Ron, the landlord there. We’re down there most nights when we’re not flying and he’ll pass it on for sure. He’s a real nice guy. Tell him where you’ll be stopping next and when, and I’ll try to get over. If I don’t show up, it’s because I couldn’t make it. If that happens, next trip you do the same. Sooner or later we’ll meet again.’

  ‘I can’t remember your last name.’

  ‘McGhie. Sergeant Steve McGhie.’

  He put his arms around her and started to kiss her, then stopped.

  ‘Hey, something wrong, Prudence?’

  ‘I’ve never done this before.’

  ‘Where the heck’ve you been hiding?’

  ‘In the bank in Croydon.’

  That made him laugh. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’ Later, he said, ‘See what I mean? Piece of cake.’

  He shone the torch for her to step on board the butty and down into the hatches. He called after her, ‘Steve McGhie. Don’t forget.’

  Ros was already in bed, reciting one of her speeches: something about Arabian perfumes and a little hand.

  ‘Had a good evening, sweetie?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘He’s nice, your Canadian. Very hunky. Are you going to see him again?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I would, if I were you.’

  She washed her face and brushed her teeth, tipped the dirty water overboard, switched out the light and climbed into bed. No curlers or prayers any more. She always fell straight to sleep, exhausted, but this time she couldn’t for thinking of him and the feel of his mouth on hers.

  Twelve

  AS USUAL, THEY were the last to let go in the morning. And, as usual, the engine had been a pig to start. When, in desperation, Frances had tried giving it a good kick it had fired on the next attempt, so maybe that was the trick. They swopped round duties. Ros took over steering the motor while Frances did the lock-wheeling and Prue steered the butty. They were all doing jobs they didn’t much like, but that way they kept in practice.

  After Leighton Buzzard, four downhill locks came close together. There was one bad moment when Prue let the butty creep back over the cill as they were going down, but they saved the situation in time, and another when Ros took the motor out too fast, missed picking up the butty tow rope and had to reverse all the way back again. Luckily, there were no spectators to witness either piece of incompetence.

  At Fenny Stratford lock Frances went off to the shop to stock up on rations, carrying the kitty cocoa tin, while Prue filled up with water, staggering from tap to boats with overflowing cans that she could barely lift off the ground. The four-hour pound that came afterwards gave them a breather before they had to cross the Pig Trough aqueduct with its low parapet and terrifying drop to the Great Ouse below. Frances, on Orpheus and with a good view of the butty bows behind her, yelled a stream of instructions back to a white-faced Ros steering Eurydice. ‘Too far over to the left . . . no, that’s too far to the right . . . watch out, still too far . . . you’re OK now. Just keep going straight as you are.’

  Towards the end of the next pound, two hours long, a pair of boats came past and Frances called out to the steerer.

  ‘How many locks have you made ready for us?’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s a pair of boats ahead of yer.’

  Sure enough, when they came to the bottom of the seven locks climbing to Stoke Bruerne every one was against them. They worked their way up doggedly, from lock to lock. Shut top gates, lower top paddles, raise bottom paddles, wait for water level to drop, open bottom gates, take boats in, shut bottom gates and drop bottom paddles, open top paddles, wait for water to rise, open top gates, take boats out. Seven times over. It was still early and they could have continued through the Blisworth tunnel and on for several more miles before darkness fell, but they were very weary and decided to tie up. Two other pairs of boats were already moored along the towpath. One pair, Frances saw, belonged to Saul and Molly, the other to Jack Carter. Freddy stuck his head out of the engine room on Snipe and waved at her, looking downcast.

  ‘Engine’s conked out, miss. Me bruvver’s mendin’ it. We’d’ve been through Bugby by now, else.’

  In boaters’ speech, this translated as the Buckby locks by Norton Junction, much further ahead. They were learning the boaters’ names for locks and used them too: Stockers, Rickey, Albert’s Two, Fishery, Mathus, Finney . . . There wasno point offering Jack Carter any help. They were neither capable of giving it, nor would it be accepted if they had been.

  Saul came walking along the towpath towards her, looking anxious.

  ‘The babby’s comin’,’ he said. ‘Sister Mary’s seein’ to things.’

  Pip had told them about Sister Mary and pointed out her canal-side cottage. She was nurse to the boat people – dressed their wounds, doled out their medicines, treated their ailments, delivered their babies. ‘She knows them all,’ Pip had said. ‘They trust her completely.’

  While they ate their supper in the butty cabin they thought of poor Molly in labour, close by.

  Frances said, ‘Do you remember Melanie in Gone With The Wind? She had an awful time. She had to cling to the bedpost.’

  Ros shuddered. ‘Don’t talk about it.’

  There was a sudden loud, inhuman shriek, and then another, and then one louder still – like an animal in dreadful torment. They sat listening in horror. Another scream of agony and Ros put down her knife and fork.

  ‘I can’t stand this. Let’s go to the pub.’

  They slunk past Molly’s boat with their fingers in their ears. As they passed Jack Carter’s pair the clink and clang of tools sounded from the engine room. At the Boat Inn Prue had her lemonade but Ros and Frances treated themselves to a cherry brandy. It tasted sickly but it steadied their nerves.

  ‘No babies for me,’ Ros said, drawing deep on her cigarette. ‘Not after hearing that. It sounded as though she was being tortured.’

  The pub filled up with regulars – local men who stared plenty but left them alone in their corner. Three more men came in – boaters this time – bought their beers and began a game of darts.

  Prue nudged Ros. ‘It’s the same ones you played that time when we were with Pip. The Joshers.’

  ‘So it is . . . maybe they’d like me to join them again.’

  Ros started to get up but Frances grabbed her arm and pulled her down firmly. ‘Pip told us to be careful of them – remember?’

  By the look of them, they were brothers. Swarthy, unshaven, mean-eyed – like the baddies in a Western film, the ones who ride into town and cause big trouble in the saloon. The ones who drink hard and cheat at cards and finger their guns.

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nbsp; Frances drained her drink. ‘Anyway, I think we ought to go, if we want to get off to a good start in the morning.’

  Ros refused to be rushed. She lit another cigarette, sipped at her cherry brandy. ‘Speaking of good starts, I’ve just had an idea.’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘Well, I bet those Joshers will have tied up ahead of everyone so they can be first off in the morning.’

  ‘We can’t very well stop them.’

  ‘We can get up even earlier than them. Pull that old boaters’ trick of bow-hauling or shafting the boats further along the cut before we start the engine.’

  ‘They’ll hear us.’

  ‘Not if we’re quiet as mice, they won’t.’

  ‘The engine wouldn’t start first go. It never does.’

  ‘Kick it like you did today. That worked.’

  ‘They’ll catch us up. Overtake us.’

  ‘They can’t very well do that in the tunnel. Then if we can get to the next lock before they do, they’ll be stuck behind us, whether they like it or not.’

  Frances frowned. ‘There aren’t any locks till Bugby – that’s more than ten miles away. We’d never make it.’

  She glanced over at the three brothers and one of them gave her a very nasty look. She thought, Ros’s idea is mad; they’d sink us if we got in their way. Then she thought, but if we could reach Bugby first, it would teach them a real lesson. She said, ‘All right, Ros. We’ll give it a try.’

  As they were leaving the pub, Saul came in, beaming all over his face.

  ‘It’s a boy. A fine boy babby. Yer can go an’ see ’im, if yer likes.’

  Ros and Prue thought they ought not to make a crowd, so Frances went alone. When she knocked on the cabin door Molly answered, sounding quite normal, and when she went inside she found her lying in the cross-bed with the baby asleep in her arms.

  ‘We’re callin’ ’im Abel, after Saul’s dad,’ she said, and she turned the shawled bundle gently towards the lamplight. ‘In’t ’e lovely?’

  The baby was a mottled red with a wizened face like a monkey’s.

  ‘He’s beautiful, Molly. But are you all right?’

  ‘Me? Course I am. Sister Mary said I were ever so good fer a first one. Next time it’ll be easier, she says. Nothin’ to it.’

  But already some of the bloom had gone, gone with the birth of Abel. However easy the births, Molly’s youth would fade away.

  ‘Will you stay here long?’

  ‘Oh, no. We’ll let go in a day or two. Saul says we’ll take it easy at furst, though.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you rest in bed for longer than that?’

  ‘Gracious, no. Me mam never did. Nor Saul’s mam, neither. No time fer that on the boats. Yer’ll be off tomorrer, though.’

  ‘We’re going to let go as early as we can, before the others. Get a good road, if we can.’

  ‘Jack Carter’s ’ere, in’t ’e? Jack’ll beat yer to it, love. Allus does.’

  ‘He’s still trying to mend his engine.’

  ‘It’ll be done by morn. Knowin’ ’im.’

  ‘There’s another pair of boats arrived, too. Some Joshers. They were in the Boat Inn just now. Three brothers, I think.’

  ‘That’ll be the Quills. Nasty bits of work, they are. Drink like fishes an’ allus lookin’ fer trouble. Saul ’ad a fight with ’em once when they took our lock. Give ’im a black eye, they did.’

  ‘We’re going to see if we can get ahead of them in the morning.’

  ‘They’ll never let yer.’ Molly sank back, suddenly looking tired. ‘No sense in tryin’.’

  Just before dawn, with only the faintest glimmer of pearly light in the east, they were up and dressed. There was no sound or sign of life from the other boats, nobody about on the towpath. They untied the mooring ropes, shafted the boats away from the bank and poled them silently past the Quills’ pair and a short way down the cut, beyond a row of willows. Frances gave the engine a sound kick before she and Prue swung the flywheel. One, two, THREE. Ros pushed over the compression lever at exactly the right moment, the engine fired and settled to its steady beat. They were off and away, Frances steering the motor with Prue in the cabin ready to lock-wheel later on, and Ros steering the butty behind. They chugged towards the opening of the Blisworth tunnel in the side of the hill. Frances shifted the water can to the middle of the cabin top and laid the chimney pot on its side so neither would get knocked off by the slope of the roof.

  She had never cared for the tunnels: the scary feeling of being sealed off from life, as if in a tomb, the icy drips and drops, the eerie light from the ventilation shafts, the deafening beat of the engine. She switched on the headlight and Orpheus entered the underworld.

  The cut continued straight at first, then there was a bend and the nerve-racking plunge into two miles of Stygian darkness. Forty minutes, or more, to reach the other end. The light at the motor’s fore-end shone feebly on black water and on brickwork encrusted with a strange orange fungus. Without the chimney in place, the smoke and fumes from the engine blew in her face, making her eyes stream. Steering was always tricky and every so often the motor hit the wall with a mighty, echoing boom. And tunnels held special terrors. The engine could fail, boats could get stuck, people could fall off, roofs could fall in. And the mind started imagining all sorts of ridiculous things . . . phantom boats, underground caverns, rivers that lured the unwary deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. The boaters loved frightening tales, and the Blisworth tunnel was said to be haunted by the ghost of an old legger who had drowned walking a boat through.

  The first of the five shafts appeared ahead – a narrow beam of pale and eerie light filtering down from above. Orpheus passed through it slowly, foot by foot, before returning to the dark. If Frances turned around she would be able to see Eurydice as she went through, but her mind was still playing silly tricks. Don’t turn round. Don’t look back or the butty and Ros might vanish for ever.

  By now, the Quills must be catching up. They would move fast – much faster than she could go, bumping her way inexpertly along. They might catch them up in the tunnel, ram them into the wall and force a way past, and the noise of the engine would make it impossible to hear them coming. She took the motor a little faster – as fast as she dared – put the tiller over too far and scraped her knuckles painfully against rough brick.

  And then the headlight failed. It went on and off several times and finally went out, leaving pitch blackness ahead. The motor, continuing regardless, crashed heavily into a wall, bounced away and headed for the other side, the stern hitting afterwards like the smack of a whale’s tail. She slowed the engine to idle and Prue’s anxious voice called up from the cabin.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The light’s conked out.’ She tried to sound calm. ‘Must be a loose connection.’

  Whatever the trouble was, after a minute or two the headlamp suddenly went on again and she carried on. A flickering mote of light had appeared ahead and she heard the sepulchral echo of a horn. Not some underworld being, she told herself sternly, or a ghostly legger, but the headlight of another pair approaching. Passing in a tunnel left no room for mistakes. It was easy for the motors to collide or for the two buttys to get entangled. She slowed the engine, answered with her motor’s horn and steered Orpheus as close to the right-hand wall as possible. Ros, she prayed, would be doing the same thing with Eurydice behind. The mote of light grew and grew until she could make out the fore-end of the approaching boat, hugging the opposite wall. They crawled past each other, separated only by inches. The steerer, a hunched shape, was so close that she could have stretched out and touched him. She saw his nod and nodded back; the usual polite exchange of words would be inaudible above the combined racket of the two engines. As the butty glided by, the boatwoman nodded too, and shouted out the kindly and useful bit of information that they’d made Bugby ready for them, which meant that there was no other pair ahead to stop them going straight in.
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br />   Had they mistaken her for a real boater in the darkness? Not likely. The boat people noticed everything on the cut, knew where all the boats were and who was on them. They would have known exactly who she was.

  Further on, the darkness began to lighten at the tunnel’s end and when they emerged into the world again, the sun was up and the day had begun. Six more bridges before the canal divided at Gayton Junction where they must take the left-hand arm. She consulted Pip’s essential information in her notebook. Rothersthorpe, then Bugbrooke, then Hayford . . . the cut wound its way in a series of bends and wiggles towards the Buckby locks, still twelve miles away at least. At any moment she expected to hear the sound of the Quill brothers’ motor boat and to see them come storming round the corner, but Ros kept putting her thumb up as though there was nothing whatever to worry about. Then, just past the Stowe Hill boatyards, just as she was beginning to believe that all was well, the engine began to cough and splutter and to pour out black smoke from the exhaust pipe. She drifted to a stop by a bridge-hole and a workman called from the bank.

  ‘Yer blades is blocked up, luv. Got a bladeful of summat, you ’ave.’

  He wore a cloth cap and blue overalls and looked like somebody who might be able to do something. Pip had warned that all kinds of things could get caught up besides the snubber – old bits of rope, wire, clothes, rags, tyres, branches, dead cats . . .

  ‘Can you help us, do you think?’

  ‘Dunno ’bout that.’

  She gave him her best smile. ‘Please . . . we’d be very grateful.’

  ‘Give it a try.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Can’t promise nowt, though.’

  The stern of the motor was manoeuvred close to the bank. He poked about with the short shaft underneath. Nothing much seemed to be happening, and presently he was joined by another man, and then a third. It was barbed wire, they said at last, and it’d take time to cut it all loose. It were in a right mess.