Seventeen
THE BOY HAD been standing on the towpath by the top lock when they came in – not a boat child but one from some nearby slum. He was about the same age as Freddy, but without Freddy’s lively spirit. His hair was dull and matted, his face and hands filthy, his eyes wary, his clothes like rags. He followed Prudence around as she drew the paddles.
‘Give yer an ’and, miss.’
Children could be an awful nuisance and it was dangerous to let them get too near. ‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘’Elp yer wiv the gate.’ He set his hands on the beam and leaned his skinny frame against it. His boots were split open and tied on with string.
She hadn’t the heart to chase him away and he stuck to her like a burr, all the way down the flight of locks. At the bottom she gave him a biscuit from her coat pocket. He crammed it in his mouth, swallowed it almost whole.
‘Can I come wiv yer, far as Shrewley. I won’ be no trouble.’ His eyes pleaded.
‘What do you want to go there for?’
‘Me gran lives there.’
‘Don’t you have a home here?’
He shook his head. ‘I run away. Me dad thrashes me.’
‘Didn’t your mother stop him?’
‘She’s dead.’
She looked at him unhappily. ‘We can’t take you. I’m so sorry.’
‘Please, miss . . . I got nowhere else ter go.’
He followed her down the towpath. Every time she turned round he was still there.
Frances said, ‘I suppose we could takehim . . . it seems awful to leave him here.’
They stared at the child with his sad eyes and in his pitiful state; he was shivering with cold.
Ros smiled at him kindly. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Billy, miss.’
‘Billy what?’
‘I forgot the rest.’
He was probably terrified that they’d give him away to some authority.
‘Do you know where your grandmother lives at Shrewley?’
‘Yes, miss. I bin there once when me mam took me. I can find it.’
In the end, they gave way and Billy scrambled eagerly onto the butty. Cleaning him up was a hopeless job, but they fed him thick slices of bread and peanut butter and gave him hot cocoa. By the time they reached Shrewley it was getting too dark to go in search of the grandmother so they tied up before the tunnel and shared their supper with him. It was like feeding a starving animal.
Frances tried some more questions. ‘What’s your grandmother’s name, Billy? Mrs what?’
‘Dunno. I calls ’er Gran.’
‘Does she live in a house?’
‘A little ’un. Right by the water.’
‘Does it have a number? Or a name?’
‘Dunno. But I knows what it looks like.’
They opened a tin of rice pudding for him and he scoffed the lot, then half a packet of biscuits.
‘He can sleep in the side bed on the motor,’ Frances said. ‘We’ll go looking for the grandmother first thing in the morning.’
She dragged out blankets and a spare pillow. He crawled into them, like a creature bolting into a safe burrow. She drew the blanket up over his shoulders and tucked it gently round him.
‘Sleep well, Billy. We’ll find her for you.’
But he was already asleep.
In the morning they washed his hands and face in warm water and gave him breakfast – porridge with treacle and evaporated milk and a precious boiled egg with more slices of bread. Ros stayed to look after the boats while Frances and Prue set off with Billy. They walked along the towpath, past a long row of cottages, stopping at each one. The boy kept shaking his head until, finally, they came to one on its own with a front door of faded blue.
‘This is Gran’s.’
‘You’re sure, Billy?’
‘Yes, miss. I remembers the door.’
Frances knocked, waited and then knocked again. The door was opened by an old woman – a sour-faced creature in hairnet and curlers, indignant at being disturbed.
Billy gave a loud wail of disappointment. ‘She ain’t me gran.’
Prudence took his hand in hers. ‘This little boy’s looking for his grandmother. He thought she lived here.’
‘Must’ve been Mrs Smith. She died last summer. Ilive ’ere now.’
They walked back to the boats, Billy between them, and Ros took him down into the butty cabin and gave him some more biscuits.
‘We can’t possibly keep him, Prue,’ Frances whispered. ‘It’s not like a stray dog, or something. We’re going to have to call the police.’
‘But they might send him back to his father.’
‘I know. But we still can’t keep him.’
‘Couldn’t we look after him, between us? He could live on the boats and we could take turns to have him home for leaves.’
‘It would be kidnapping – against the law.’
‘Not if he wanted to stay with us.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference. He’s under age. He doesn’t belong to us.’
‘Oh, Frankie . . . it’s so sad. Do we have to tell the police?’ Tears were running down Prudence’s face. ‘He trusted us. He came to us for help and we’re betraying him.’
She said heavily, ‘I’m afraid we do. I’ll go and phone them now.’
They came in a car and took him away. He was crying bitterly as he went – despairing sobs that broke their hearts.
By mid-December the weather was very cold – colder than they had ever known it on the cut. At night they hung a hurricane lantern in the engine room to give some warmth for starting it in the morning, and they went to bed with jerseys over their pyjamas, coats piled on their bunks, socks on their feet.
In the morning they opened the cabin doors onto the glitter of thick frost and shut them hurriedly to stoke up the fire and put on the kettle. Dressing took two minutes – wriggling back into the triple layer of jerseys that had been shed like a cocoon the night before, pulling on trousers, more socks, coats, scarves, hats, boots. Frances had acquired a heavy leather jerkin from an RAF mechanic whom she had met in a pub. It had a warm lining and no sleeves, which left her arms wonderfully free, and it came down well past her thighs. The mechanic had been rash enough to let her try it on and drunk enough later to part with it. Outside, the decks were a skating rink. Frozen knots had to be prised open or thawed with hot kettle water, the engine coaxed into life. They clasped hands round hot mugs and round chimneys, stamped feet, swung arms. The lock-wheeler, racing ahead on the bike to wrestle with paddles and gates, was the only one to feel warm.
The boy, Billy, haunted Prudence for days. As she went about her work, she kept seeing his sad face and his pleading eyes, and hearing his sobs. Whenever they passed children by the locks or on the towpath, she looked out for Billy. Sometimes she imagined him living happily with them on the boats, growing fit and strong. They could have taken him to the public baths for a good scrub, found him other clothes, taught him some table manners. She saw herself – though rather less easily – taking him home to Croydon, where he might not have been quite so welcome. At other times, she even pictured taking him across the sea to a new life in Canada. When she wrote to Steve, she told him all about Billy.
Poor kid! He had written back. But you’ve got to put him out of your mind. He’ll be OK. They’ll find a good home for him. I could have given him one, she thought sadly. I know I could.
Christmas found them halfway through a trip. They had carried fifty tons of steel to Tyseley wharf and taken the empty boats on through rain and sleet to a colliery near Nuneaton. When they tied up on Christmas Eve, the place was deserted – no workmen waiting to load them, no other boats, nobody about: nothing but slag heaps, black dirt, empty trucks and the all-pervading smell of coal. In the morning they boiled kettles, washed themselves, put on the cleanest trousers and jumpers they could find, raided the cocoa tin and walked into the town in search of a meal. The streets were as quiet as
the colliery, with every café closed, and the only option a grim Victorian hotel where they were banished to a table in the furthest recess of the dining room, well away from respectable diners.
The food was awful: tough chicken, sulphurous Brussels sprouts, cardboard potatoes and congealed gravy, and the Christmas pudding contained far more breadcrumbs than any dried fruit. Ros had ordered a bottle of red wine which they polished off between them. It tasted sour, like vinegar, but made them feel better. They behaved rather badly in their lepers’ corner, talking much too loudly, giggling like schoolgirls, and ignoring all the disapproving looks. On the way back to the boats, arms linked and singing carols, they stopped at a pub and bought a bottle of rum to take with them. They drank most of that, too, battened down cosily in the butty cabin with the stove well stoked. Luckily, the colliery was closed on Boxing Day while they nursed their hangovers, and by the following morning, when the men appeared and started wheeling their laden barrows up planks to tip coal into the holds, they had recovered.
The Christmas orchid with pretty sprays of small white flowers was in full bloom when Frances returned, on leave, to Averton.
‘Calanthe Harrisii,’ her father replied, when she asked the name. ‘It goes on flowering for another month. I take it out of the pot in February and separate the new bulbs from the old. As soon as the new roots appear, they’re planted back into five-inch pots.’
He went on talking about loam and sand and leaf mould, all mixed up with dried cow manure and one-year-old sheep droppings.
She interrupted him. ‘Isn’t it wonderful news about Vere? About him coming out of hospital soon.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Aunt Gertrude says the doctors think he’ll be able to come home to convalesce for a while, when he’s fit enough.’
‘Excellent.’
Another bloom had claimed his attention. He had no idea how badly Vere had been wounded because Aunt Gertrude had kept it from him. In any case, the orchids were all that mattered to him. He would probably have borne Vere’s death quite calmly, so long as his precious plants survived. No wonder she hated them all – even the Christmas one.
Rosalind had to sleep on the sofa. Her bedroom was occupied again, this time by an obnoxious and tenth-rate actor appearing in a third-rate revival. Like most mediocrities, he was jealous of success.
‘Personally, I think Kenny Woods is overrated, don’t you? I mean, what’s all the fuss about?’
She said, ‘The fuss is because he’s very good.’
‘Well, you’re entitled to your opinion, darling, of course. Most of the rest of us wouldn’t agree. I mean, he can’t even speak the King’s English properly.’
‘Have you ever seen him on stage?’
He hadn’t, of course – not that it would have made any difference. And Ken, she knew, wouldn’t have given a jot for his opinion. Or for most other people’s, either. Ken was going places that this little twerp would never go. With any luck, she’d go with him.
‘There’s someone on the telephone for you, Prudence. It sounds like an American.’
Mother followed her into the hall and hovered pointedly while she picked up the receiver.
‘Hallo.’
‘Prudence? It’s Steve. I figured you might be home on leave.’
‘How are you?’
‘Just fine. Got your letters. It’s sure good to hear from you. You get mine?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘How long leave did they give you?’
‘Six days. I’ve got three left. Then we do another trip.’
‘Looks like I won’t be able to get away for a while . . . too much happening here. Maybe next time we can meet up.’
Mother was still hovering, listening to every single word. She couldn’t speak freely – say all the things that she wanted so much to say to him.
‘That would be very nice.’
‘Hang on a second . . . I gotta put more coins in. Darn it . . . I’ve only got a couple of pennies left. You still there, sweetheart?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sound kinda funny. Haven’t forgotten about Canada, have you? Changed your mind?’
Before she could answer the line went dead.
Mother said, ‘Who was that man, Prudence?’
‘Oh, just someone I met. He’s in the RAF.’
‘But he sounded American.’
‘He’s Canadian.’
‘Well, you’d better not tell your father. He always says Canadians are even worse-behaved than the Americans. Is he an officer?’
‘He’s a sergeant. In a bomber crew.’
‘You said your friend’s brother was a wing commander.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Then I don’t understand how you could have met this sergeant. And how did he know your telephone number?’
‘I gave it to him.’
‘You should never do that, Prudence. It’s very unwise. You don’t know what sort of person he is.’
‘Yes, I do, Mother. He’s wonderful.’
Her mother stared at her. ‘We should never have let you go on those boats.’
The boatwomen were busy with their washing at the Bulls Bridge lay-by, scrubbing away and gossiping as Frances passed on her way to Orpheus and Eurydice. It was miserably cold and the boats were damp and cheerless, brass tarnished, decks dirty, stoves rusty. She made a half-hearted start on the clean-up and was scouring the stove on the motor when Freddy knocked and stuck his head round the cabin door.
‘Saw you goin’ by, miss. Got another brass fer yer.’
‘Oh, Freddy, that is nice of you. It’s a lovely one. You didn’t pinch it, did you?’
He looked aggrieved. ‘Course not. There was two of ’em on an old bedstead fell in the cut. Gave one to me gran an’ kept this one fer yer.’
‘How have you been getting on with your letters? Have you learned them yet?’
‘Naw. Got no time fer it.’
‘That’s a pity. Maybe I could help you.’
‘Me brother don’ want that.’
‘Is he here?’
‘He’s gone ter see them as works in the office. To tell ’em we’re leavin’ tomorrer.’
‘Leaving? You mean on a trip?’
‘Not fer the Gran’ Union. We’re goin’ back to the Oxford. Number Ones can work anywheres, see. An’ me other brothers’ve got boats on the Oxford. Jack says it’s fer the best an’ it’ll make me gran ’appy. Reckon yer won’t be seein’ us much no more. Still, yer’ll be all right.’ He grinned at her. ‘Yer not so bad on the boats now. Considerin’.’
She waited outside the company office until Jack came out. It had started to snow – white flurries drifting and settling along the wharf. His coat collar was turned up, his cap pulled down; she couldn’t see his face clearly.
‘Freddy told me that you’re going to work on the Oxford canal, Jack.’
‘That’s right.’ He was smoking one of his roll-ups: blew smoke up into the air and looked at her. ‘I found that picture book you did fer ’im, Frances. You bin larnin’ ’im letters. Givin’ ’im ideas o’ bein’ a scholar.’
‘He wants to learn to read. Surely there’s nothing wrong with that?’
‘Freddy belongs to the cut. We none of us reads. Yer knows that. We got no need ter.’
‘What did you do with the book?’
‘Threw it away. Weren’t no good to ’im.’ He stared at her. ‘Yer want to change Freddy an’ next thing yer’d want to change me. Want me ter read and write an’ speak an’ act different. Make me like a gentleman.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘Yes yer would. Yer couldn’t stop yerself. Yer’d try ter larn me, an’ I’d never do it. Wouldn’t want ter.’ He drew again on the roll-up, blew more smoke, looked at her. ‘I fancied it might do, at first – us two wed an’ workin’ the boats together, livin’ on the cut fer allus – but ’twere
a dream, that’s all. A dream fer both of us. An’ I woke up.’
‘You’re angry because I taught Freddy a few letters. That’s silly.’
‘’Tis more than that. An’ I ain’t angry. Ain’t yer fault. Yer just don’ understand. No reason why yer should.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘Us on the cut. We’re different, see. Yer not like us. Couldn’t never be. Yer’ve got ter be born ter the boats, like I told yer. Else it don’ work.’
‘But I love the boats. And I love life on the cut.’
‘I dare say – fer the moment. Fer a bit more, mebbe. But not fer ever. Yer’ve just bin playin’ at it, not livin’ it. Pretendin’, like it were a game. Same with all you lady trainees.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘’Tis too. I’m not a scholar, like yer, Frances, but I got a lot more sense. An’ that’s why I’m goin’.’
She started crying. ‘If you loved me, you wouldn’t go.’
‘Yes, I would. I’m leavin’ so’s yer’ll go back to yer own world, where yer belong. I’m doin’ what’s right. Savin’ yer from makin’ a mistake.’
She caught hold of his coat sleeve. ‘Please, don’t go, Jack. I love you so much.’
‘I got to.’ He jerked his arm free. ‘G’bye, Frances.’
‘Wait, Jack. Please wait. Jack! Jack!’
She ran after him but he shook her off roughly. The snow flurries had become a swirling blizzard of thick white flakes that swallowed him up as he strode away.
Eighteen
THE ICE MADE a peculiar sound – groaning and creaking in protest before the motor’s bulldozing advance, and breaking into lumps that skittered across the frozen surface.
They climbed slowly up through the forty-five locks from Cowley to Cowroast. A tyre puncture meant the lock-wheeler had to go on foot – trudging from one lock to the next through several inches of snow to wrestle with frozen gates. At Cowroast lock, slabs of ice the size of table tops had to be poked and prodded and pushed out into the cut with shafts and brooms before the gates could open wide enough to let the boats in. It was exhausting, back-breaking, arm-wrenching work. They tied up beyond the lock, stoked the stoves into blazing furnaces, piled yet more coverings on their beds and slept for twelve hours. It snowed again during the night and froze hard by dawn. Before they let go, they spread cold ashes from the stove onto the treacherously slippery gunwales and round the butty-hatch edges and along the top planks. The wind sliced at their faces like a sharp knife, reddening their eyes, chapping their lips, making their ears ache, freezing their fingers. Gloves were useless: they got in the way of anything fiddly.
The Boat Girls Page 23