In the early evening she went back to the village. The Three Horseshoes was open, bikes propped against the pub wall or thrown down on the ground. Inside, it was crowded with RAF.
‘Hallo there, love.’ An airman grinned at her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m meeting someone,’ she said. ‘Excuse me.’
She squeezed a way through, ducking under arms and around backs. And then she saw Steve. He was leaning against the bar, pint mug at his elbow, cigarette in hand, and he was talking to a WAAF. A very pretty WAAF in a smart blue uniform with shiningly clean, neatly curled hair. He was smiling down at her and she was laughing up at him.
‘Not leaving already, are you?’ the same airman said. ‘What’s all the rush, sweetheart?’ He put a hand on her arm but she pulled herself free.
Fifteen
BY AUGUST THE weather had changed to blistering heat. Frances took to wearing her old school games shorts and aertex shirts, Prue a blue and white cotton frock she’d had for work at the bank, Ros a peasant skirt and blouse with a floppy straw hat tied with ribbons under her chin, appropriated from a stint as a simple country girl in Babes in the Wood.
The cabins were stifling by day – the butty cabin worse because the stove had to be kept going for cooking. At night they slid back the hatches, leaving them open to the stars, and lay coverless, sleepless, drenched in sweat. Fresh milk from friendly farms went sour in hours, margarine melted to a greasy pool, and any leftovers quickly turned bad. One good thing: they could hang their washing out to dry on a line across the decks, though they still dried their smalls in the engine room to avoid upsetting the boaters. In any case, as most of their underclothes had somehow turned a dingy grey, they were better out of sight.
Soon there was a water shortage on the cut. Levels dropped and even the boaters were often caught on the mud. Only sixteen pairs were allowed to cross the Tring Summit each day, and the lock gates after the Summit were chained and padlocked sometimes from early afternoon. Those that hadn’t cleared them were left to wait until the next morning. The first time that happened to them, they tied up next to Molly and Saul’s pair.
‘Locked up fer the night with Jack Carter, lars’ trip, we was,’ Molly told Frances with relish. ‘Yer seen him lately?’
She’d come over with Abel in her arms, and sat on the motor-cabin coal box bouncing the baby on her lap while Frances boiled the kettle on the Primus. The baby had stopped looking like a wizened monkey and had plump cheeks and a thatch of dark hair.
‘We towed him off the mud the other day.’
Molly’s mouth fell open. ‘Jack Carter stemmed up! Never!’
‘He was stuck fast on Muck Bend.’
‘That’s a bad one, an’ all. Never known that ’appen to Jack, though. Fancy that!’
‘We were rather amazed, too.’
She’d been steering Orpheus into the bend when they’d come across Snipe marooned on the opposite bank. At first she’d not known what to do. Being stemmed up dented a boater’s pride. They might take help from another boater, but if offered it by an Idle Woman, they usually refused. Boaters would skulk in their cabin, or pretend there was something wrong with the engine, or that the load was too heavy. Anything to save face. And she was wary of Jack Carter. On the other hand, she owed him, didn’t she? Ever since the Quills. She’d slowed down and shouted to Freddy who was on the counter while his brother was wielding the long shaft at the fore-end.
‘Can we help?’
He’d looked doubtful. ‘Dunno. I’ll ask me bruvver.’
Surprisingly, the offer had been accepted, bows hitched to stern, but the manoeuvre was far trickier than she’d bargained for and she’d only succeeded in making matters worse. Without a word, Jack Carter had come back to the counter and sprung across to Orpheus. He’d taken over the tiller and towed Snipe clear. Her thanks had been a silent nod as he handed it back, a grinning wave from Freddy and the dipped brim of the old lady’s black bonnet.
Molly drank her tea and bounced Abel some more. She looked round the cabin. ‘Yer a scholar, then?’
‘A scholar? Heavens no.’
‘Must be with all them books.’ Molly nodded at the shelf. ‘Stands to reason, yer can read. An’ write, too, I’ll be bound.’
‘Well, of course I can.’
‘No o’ course ’bout it. I can’t read. Nor write neither. Nor Saul. Never ’ad the larnin’. Don’t know a boater what can. Mebbe a word ’ere an’ there, but that’s all.’
She was stunned. ‘But I thought everyone had to go to school, Molly. It’s the law.’
‘Can’t make us, can they? Not when we’re allus on the go, like. Got a schoolroom for the kids at the Bridge, but don’t do much good cos they can’t stay there fer long.’
‘How on earth do you manage, if you can’t read?’
‘Easy. We notices things, an’ we remembers ’em. An’ we knows all ’bout money an’ what things cost. We knows what we’re owed, see.’
‘Supposing you have to sign your name?’
‘We puts our mark. Makes no difference.’
No wonder they mispronounced so many words. ‘But wouldn’t you like to be able to read? I could teach you, Molly.’
‘Naw. Don’t ’ave no time an’ Saul wouldn’t like it. Thanks all the same. I can look at pictures, if I wants. That don’t need no readin’. An’ there’s plenty to look at all day, goin’ along. No call for books an’ such. Not on the cut.’
That was true enough. Even the ugly bits of the cut were interesting; the rest an ever-changing picture, different round each bend and with each season. Towns, villages, trees, fields, cottages, gardens, stately homes, ancient bridges, wild birds, the light on the water, sunrises, sunsets. And no two days were ever the same, so life could never be boring. The cut measured the boaters’ existence. Their whole lives revolved around it: their work, their customs, their manners, their speech. Everything centred on the waterways they inhabited all their lives. They had little in common with the outside world and almost no interest in it. No interest in the war, or in politics, or in what other people did or how they lived. She’d never heard them talking about anything but their own world; never been asked questions about her own. So, if nobody else on the cut could read or write, what could it matter to them?
Abel spewed up some sick and Molly wiped it tenderly away with a rag.
‘There’s been talk on the cut that Jack Carter’s sweet on yer. Ever since ’e done up the Quills fer yer.’
‘Oh, but that’s nonsense.’
‘Wouldn’t say that.’
‘But he’s never spoken more than a few words to me.’
‘Don’t need to, do ’e? ’E’s got eyes in ’is ’ead. An’ I seen the way ’e looked at yer that time. Not frit of ’im, are yer?’
‘No.’
‘Cos ’e wouldn’t lay a finger on yer. Not ’less you wanted it.’
In fact, he’d already laid several fingers on her – five of them, to be precise. When he’d jumped onto Orpheus and taken over the tiller from her, his right hand had covered hers for a moment. But that wasn’t what Molly had meant.
Molly shifted Abel onto her shoulder and patted him on the back. ‘Course there’s lots o’ girls on the cut as do want it, but I never ’eard of ’im goin’ courtin’ with none of ’em. Some say ’e only goes with girls off the cut, but I wouldn’t know ’bout that.’
She could feel that her face had gone red. ‘Anyway, we hardly ever see him.’
‘Wait till you’re locked up for the night with ’im.’ Molly giggled. ‘You’ll see plenty of ’im then.’
It was harvest time. Tractors and reaping machines clattered across the fields beside the cut and binders followed to gather up the loose corn. Clouds of dust, the smell of hot oil and tractor fuel. Italian prisoners of war, stripped to the waist as they stooked the sheaves, stopped to wave and smile and sang out to them: Bella, bella, bella! The German POWs were different. They didn’t smile or wave, but watched im
passively. A group of them, crossing a bridge ahead on their way to work, stopped to lean over and stare and pass remarks to each other.
Ros said, ‘At least they’re not throwing rocks, but I’m rather glad we don’t know what they’re saying.’ As the butty went under the bridge, she called up to them. ‘Guten Morgen.’ And then, as Eurydice emerged the other side, she waved cheerily. ‘Auf Wiedersehen.’
Sometimes they came across local boys swimming in the cut, or using a full lock as a pool – diving and splashing and yelling. As the boats approached they would swim up to them and hang from the sides or attach themselves to the stern of the butty. The motor steerer had the unnerving job of keeping them away from the propeller blades, and they had to be fended off with shouts and threats and fierce brandishing of mops and shafts.
‘They don’t seem to mind that the water’s absolutely filthy,’ Frances said after a day spent repelling small boys.
‘They probably don’t know about the buckets,’ Ros said. ‘Either that, or they’re immune, like the boaters. Look at the way they rinse their mugs in it and use it for making tea. Old Mrs Skinner told me that the water in Blisworth tunnel makes much the best cup. They always fill their water cans there and she recommended it highly.’
Prudence looked horrified. ‘You’re joking, Ros. It’s not true.’
‘For once it is, darling.’
They had tied up for the night and were sitting on the motor-cabin roof, eating fish and chips out of newspaper. Cod in lovely crisp batter and chips liberally sprinkled with salt and doused with vinegar.
Ros said suddenly, ‘Well, fancy that . . .’
‘Fancy what?’
‘There’s a picture of someone I know in this paper. An actor I met once. He’s touring in a play . . . Mr Kenneth Woods gives a most impressive performance in Private Lives . . . his deft touch and faultless timing set him above the rest of the cast . . . he is clearly a star in the making . . . This is the local rag, so the company must have come here.’
Frances leaned over. ‘He looks rather dishy. Maybe we could go into town and see the play this evening.’
‘’Fraid not. The paper’s a month old. They’ll have gone on somewhere else by now.’
‘What a pity.’
‘Yes . . . it is rather.’
In summer, the coal-loading was quicker and easier. There was no need to bother with the top sheets or the stands and they laid the planks on the coal itself and secured them with the side strings. On the way down to the Croxley paper mills, their tame lock-keeper gave them a freshly cut lettuce, some ripe tomatoes and the news that Paris had been liberated.
The hot weather went on for the rest of August and so did the water shortage. They crossed the Tring Summit early one afternoon and found the Marsworth locks already padlocked for the night. They tied up alongside other pairs and did some cleaning and polishing. Frances was swabbing down the motor-cabin roof with the mop when Freddy came biking fast along the towpath, standing on the pedals.
‘Thought yer might be ’ere, miss. We ’eard yer was ahead of us.’
The cut telegraph had been at work in its mysterious way. She smiled at him. ‘Looks like we’re all stuck here till the morning. I don’t suppose your brother’s very pleased about that.’
‘’E says we’ll soon make up the time. We allus do.’ In spite of the heat he was wearing his coat and cap. He groped in a pocket. ‘Got somefin’ fer yer, miss.’
‘For me?’
‘’Sright. It’s a present.’ He produced a brass bed knob and held it up; it gleamed in the sunlight. ‘Got it off a dump, last trip. I give it a nice polish fer yer.’
She was very touched. ‘Thank you, Freddy. It’s beautiful.’
‘Like me ter put it on the wall fer yer?’
‘Could you do that?’
‘Course I can. Easy. Got some screws an’ a screwdriver?’
She found both and he soon had the bed knob fixed to the wall on the left of the doorway. They both admired it.
He looked round the cabin which, she realized, must seem very bare to him. ‘If I sees ’nother, I’ll git it fer yer. Yer could do wiv some more brass. An’ some more pitchers, an’ all. Look at all them books! What you want them lot fer, takin’ up all that room?’
‘I read them. At night before I go to sleep.’
He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Can’t read meself.’
‘How about your grandmother and your brother?’
‘They can’t read neither. We don’ ’ave to on the cut, see. No call fer it.’
She had scarcely believed Molly, but it was true.
‘Would you like me to teach you some letters?’
‘Larned some once in the school, but I’ve forgot. Don’t ’ave no fancy ter go agin. I keeps outta sight o’ the kid-catchers.’
She coaxed him gently. ‘I could write them out for you – with pictures of things to match. Things you see all the time on the boats and on the cut. You’d soon remember them again. And when you’ve learned all the letters you could start to read. And write, too.’
He rubbed his nose. ‘I’d be a scholar, wouldn’ I?’
‘Yes, you would.’
‘Don’ know what Jack’d say.’
‘We won’t tell him. Or your grandmother. Let’s keep it a secret between us.’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘Mum’s the word.’
He grinned. ‘Orlright, miss. Mum’s the word.’
‘We could start right now – with the letters.’
He shook his head. ‘Got ter get back an’ ’elp me bruvver clearin’ out the mud box. Grandma said to tell yer to please come an’ ’ave some tea wiv ’er on the butty.’
The invitation to tea, she realized, was something of an honour, and she washed her hands and brushed her hair for the occasion. She walked down the towpath while Freddy weaved his way back and forth on the bike in front of her, keeping to her slower pace. When they reached the Carter pair, tied up near the end of the line of boats, the black dog, Rickey, was sitting on the motor-cabin roof. Freddy disappeared into the engine room. The doors to the butty cabin, alongside, were both wide open but she knocked politely on the roof and waited to be asked to step on board. Everything was spotless and speckless: the coiled lines white as snow, the brass rings on the chimney shining, all surfaces swabbed clean. Molly had once told her that the old grandmother had more brasses than anyone else on the cut. Even so, when a voice answered her knock and she entered the cabin, the display made her blink.
There must have been almost twenty bed knobs and doorknobs and horse brasses screwed in the space by the doorway, all polished to a dazzling brightness. A waterfall of filigree china plates, gilt-edged and threaded on ribbons, cascaded down the opposite wall. A beautiful old brass oil lamp hung over the stove and the dipper on its hook was brass, too, with an ebony handle. Every inch of the cabin was adorned with something – framed photographs, crochet-work, a brass ladle, brass candlesticks, china ornaments, painted hearts and diamonds, roses and castles. But no books. Not one.
The old woman was sitting on the side bench, her hands folded in her lap. The frilled black bonnet partly concealed her face and her dark clothing was relieved only by a large gilt brooch pinned to the neck of her blouse. The invitation to sit was made with a slow, queen-like gesture of one knobbly hand. If Frances hadn’t witnessed it herself, she would have found it impossible to believe that the same hand had hurled the short shaft and felled the Quill brother.
The flap table, like Molly’s, had been covered with a lace cloth and set with cups and saucers. A kettle was simmering on the stove. Frances perched on the side bunk and wondered where the water in it had come from, and, as more moments passed in silence, whether Mrs Carter was ever going to utter a word. At last she spoke.
‘Yer’ll take a cup?’
‘Thank you.’
The old woman rose to her feet, took a tea canister from a cupboard, spooned tea from it into the largest and most magnificent teapot that Frances
had ever seen: brown glazed and decorated with bright flowers and the words A Present From A Friend. The lid was in the form of a miniature teapot and the old woman lifted it to pour in the kettle water and sat down again, refolding her hands. There was another silence. It was as unnerving as taking tea with Queen Mary.
Frances said, ‘What a beautiful boat you have, Mrs Carter. With so many lovely ornaments.’
The bonnet dipped graciously.
‘And what a lot of wonderful old photos. Who’s that gentleman up there?’
‘Moy Alfred. Jack’s grandad. God rest ’is soul.’
‘Well, he’s very handsome.’
‘Best-lookin’ man on the cut. An’ our Jack takes after ’im.’
She couldn’t see any likeness. The man in the photo was all dressed up in a suit, collar and tie, not boater’s clothes; he had a bushy moustache and his dark hair had been greased flat. ‘And that lady in white?’
‘Me sister, Peg. Took on ’er weddin’ day.’
The old woman stood up again and poured the tea, handing her a cup. Blisworth tunnel water or not, the tea was very good – far better than anything they ever managed.
‘Were you born on the cut, Mrs Carter?’ She knew the answer before she asked the question but at least it kept the conversational ball rolling.
‘Born on’t an’ lived on’t all me life. I dare say I’ll die on’t, same as Alfred.’
The Boat Girls Page 19