The Boat Girls

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Good for him. How did he manage that?’

  ‘Apparently he’d been on the run in Germany for weeks after he was shot down. When he got caught, the Germans sent him to some camp miles away in Poland. Then the Russians turned up and kept him for quite a while before they let him go.’

  ‘He was lucky. They might not have done.’

  ‘That’s what he said. Are you sure you don’t want to buy a handbag? Don’t you have a girlfriend who’d like one?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘I get commission.’

  He smiled. ‘Will you have dinner with me this evening instead?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m usually pretty tired by the time I get out of here.’

  ‘How about at the weekend?’

  Another customer was approaching – a battleaxe of a woman decked out in heirloom jewellery. Probably a dowager duchess. She braced herself for trouble.

  ‘Frances?’

  She shrugged. ‘Saturday’s OK. I only work half a day then.’

  ‘Saturday it is. Where are you living?’

  ‘My aunt’s flat. For the moment.’

  She gave him the address. She watched as he stopped to talk to a debby-looking girl on his way out. The girl was all over him, putting a hand on his arm, throwing back her head and laughing like a hyena. Well, he was a wonderful catch, as well as very nice. Ros had pointed that out, quite unnecessarily. She went on watching him holding the swing door open for an elderly woman before he went out into the street. He’d be bound to choose somewhere good for dinner. The Ritz perhaps? That would be ironical. This time she’d wear something a bit more respectable.

  The battleaxe was rapping on the counter, glaring at her.

  ‘I’d like some service, young lady. If you don’t mind.’

  It wasn’t the Ritz. Instead, he took her to a rather smart French restaurant in Mayfair; luckily, she’d taken the trouble to dress up. The head waiter bowed and scraped and they were ushered to a corner table.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said, looking round. ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Whenever I can.’

  ‘To impress the girls?’

  He smiled. ‘I didn’t bring you here to impress you, Frances. I know you better than that. I brought you here for the food.’

  The war was over but the rationing wasn’t. Not at all. From the look of the menu, though, the French restaurant seemed to have got round it somehow.

  ‘Real steak?’

  ‘Real steak.’

  ‘Not whale?’

  ‘Definitely not whale.’

  ‘And real chicken, not rabbit?’

  ‘Real chicken.’

  ‘I am impressed.’

  But she thought nostalgically of Ros’s boat stew, of the doorsteps of bread and marg and treacle, of porridge covered with evaporated milk, of oily sardines eaten straight out of the tin, sizzling fish and chips wolfed down straight from the newspaper, of spam fry-ups and Heinz baked beans, and of endless mugs of hot cocoa, sweetened with Nestlé’s condensed milk . . . Nothing would ever taste quite as good again.

  He said, ‘You asked for champagne at the Ritz. Would you like some now?’

  ‘I only did that to annoy Vere. I’d never drunk it before, or since.’

  ‘Well, we could celebrate the end of the war, don’t you think?’

  He beckoned to a waiter and when the champagne had been popped and poured, he raised his glass to her. ‘To the future – whatever it may hold.’

  She drank and wondered what the future did hold. Unthinkable to stay for ever at the handbag counter – in any case, she’d probably be sacked soon for being rude to a customer. Unthinkable, too, to do one of those dreadful secretarial courses, bashing away at a typewriter and learning to make shorthand squiggles in a notebook so that she could end up as an office slave. What else? Work in an art gallery? Or a flower shop? Or a dress shop? Be a waitress? None of those were much better than the handbags. The fact was that she couldn’t settle down to anything – not after the canals. We’re free, see. Nobody’s servants. Jack’s words, and he’d known what he was talking about.

  She said, ‘Are you going to stay in the RAF, Hugh?’

  ‘For the time being. I rather enjoy it.’

  ‘I expect Vere will have to go home to Averton and save it from falling down.’

  ‘Yes, he told me. I gather he has some other plans, too.’

  ‘Plans? What plans?’

  ‘For getting married.’

  ‘Getting married? Vere? Who on earth to?’

  ‘He hasn’t said. I thought you might know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. I’d probably be the last person he’d tell. It’s one of the WAAFs, most likely.’

  ‘No, it’s not a WAAF.’

  ‘Well, I hope she’s nice, whoever she is.’

  ‘I’m sure she will be.’

  ‘And she’d better like Averton. Has he taken her there, do you know? It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’

  ‘She’s been there, apparently. So he said.’

  She frowned. ‘I can’t think who it could be.’

  ‘I expect you’ll know soon enough. How about you, Frances?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Have you any plans for the future?’

  ‘Oh, nothing special.’

  ‘No ideas of going back to work on the canals?’

  ‘We’re not wanted there any more. They don’t need us.’

  ‘Life has a habit of moving on, whether we like it or not. The trick is to accept the fact. To look forward, not back.’

  ‘I’m still looking back.’

  ‘Not for ever, I hope.’

  ‘I’ll never forget the boats . . . or the people.’

  ‘I don’t expect you will. But there’s a lot to look forward to – the rest of your life, in fact.’

  ‘I don’t much care about that – just at the moment.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘You will. I promise.’

  She remembered Ros’s remarks about him. All complete rubbish. He’d have plenty of other girls – girls like the laughing hyena in the store. Girls falling over themselves to nab him. No need to wait around for anyone or anything.

  As he drove her back to Aunt Gertrude’s flat, he said, ‘By the way, my mother would very much like you to come and stay next weekend. Do you think you could manage that?’

  ‘I have to work on Saturdays.’

  ‘Only for the morning, though. I could collect you as soon as you’ve finished and we’ll stop for lunch on the way.’

  He reminded her of Vere – taking charge – though he did it very nicely. And she’d liked his mother. And Havlock Hall was very near the cut.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure she really means it.’

  ‘Quite sure. My father will be there, too, and I know he’ll enjoy meeting you. He’ll want to hear all about living and working on the boats. And so will I. That’s settled, then.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Definitely. I’ll pick you up outside the store.’

  The Saturday morning was spent standing on one aching foot, then the other, while customers tried to make up their minds.

  ‘Which one do you think looks best?’

  ‘They both look very nice, madam.’ Her stock answer.

  ‘Yes, but which would you choose?’

  ‘I think I’d have the brown.’ In fact, she thought they were both ghastly.

  ‘But it wouldn’t go with black, would it?’

  ‘Then I’d take the other. Maroon will go with anything.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the colour, though. And it’s a bit small.’

  She gritted her teeth. ‘In that case, I’d choose the brown.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think I like either of them quite enough. Could you show me that black lizard one over there?’

  Hugh was waiting in his smart and shiny car outside the staff entrance and they drove out of London, stopping to eat at a pub before heading on north-wes
t towards Northamptonshire. She realized that they were following much the same route as the Grand Union Canal, but travelling at more than ten times a narrowboat’s speed. Once or twice she caught a tantalizing glimpse of it in the distance and, nearing Stoke Bruerne, they crossed over one of the old bridges.

  ‘Would you stop for a moment, please, Hugh. I’d like to look at the cut. On my own, if you don’t mind.’

  He pulled in at once and opened the car door for her. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She walked back onto the bridge and gazed at the quiet stretch of water meandering peacefully along in the sunlight. She knew that particular bit of the cut rather well – the low-lying meadows on each side, the gamekeeper’s cottage by the woods with the orderly vegetable patch and the Buff Orpington hens scratching away in their run. The keeper’s wife had given them cabbages and carrots and warm new-laid eggs and Prue, lock-wheeling, had picked bluebells from the woods. Round the next bend lay the Stoke Bruerne locks – seven of them climbing up to the village – and after that came the Blisworth tunnel, then Gayton Junction, then Heyford and the Bugby seven where they’d beaten the Quill brothers – thanks to Jack.

  After a while, she heard the putt-putter of a National diesel engine and, presently, a pair of narrowboats came chuntering round the bend. She watched them approach, smoke puffing merrily from the chimney, bright paint gleaming, brass shining. The motor and its boatman passed under the bridge, followed by the butty towed on its long snubber and steered with ease by an old boatwoman. She knew they would both have seen her because boat people noticed everything, but neither of them gave any sign. To them, she was an outsider, from another world. One of the gongoozlers, as they called them, who gawped at them from banks and chucked things at them from bridges and got in their way at locks. Yer not like us. Couldn’t never be. She waited, watching until they had gone out of sight.

  Hugh was standing by the car. He ground out his cigarette. Smiled at her.

  ‘Ready to go on now?’

  She nodded.

  The audience had been better than usual. An almost full house and laughs in all the right places. People loved anything by Noel Coward, specially the fun plays like Blithe Spirit, and Elvira was a part which suited her. The local rag had given her a glowing write-up, but it was hardly The Times. Nor was provincial rep exactly the West End.

  She started to take off her stage make-up and then stopped, still looking into the mirror but no longer seeing her reflection. Instead, she was seeing herself knocking at the door to Ken’s flat and Nadine, her old enemy from Sir Lionel days, answering it. She’d looked surprisingly good for her age, but then she hadn’t spent eighteen months working on narrowboats.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘To see Ken. Is he in?’

  ‘He’s busy.’

  Luckily, Ken had come to the door just then – or not so luckily, as it had turned out. She heard all about the company he was going to set up and the old bomb-damaged theatre he’d found for lease in south London. He was raising money and reading brand new plays by brand new authors, searching for the right one. Meanwhile, he was stuck in a corny old chestnut at the Globe and Nadine was playing opposite him. Would she like a ticket to see it? What she’d really like, she’d told him, would be a part in the brand new play. He’d call her, he promised, as soon as he’d got something worked out.

  He wouldn’t call her, of course – not if Nadine had anything to do with it. There were clear signs that she’d moved in to stay as long as possible. She was cradle-snatching but she’d probably be quite useful to him for a while. Contacts, names, old lovers, angels to back the new play. So, that was the acting profession, and if you didn’t like it, too bad. There were the lucky breaks and the unlucky ones, the ups and the downs, the hits and the flops. But you had to keep going, whatever happened.

  Somebody knocked at the dressing-room door and opened it. She saw Vere in the mirror. Spun round.

  ‘I thought you were thousands of miles away.’

  ‘I was. I just got back.’

  ‘On leave?’

  ‘For good. Didn’t you get my last letter?’

  ‘I haven’t been home for ages. How did you get in here?’

  ‘I bribed someone.’

  ‘Were you out front?’

  ‘I was. And you made a wonderful Elvira. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you act and I’m extremely impressed.’

  She turned back to the mirror and the make-up removal. ‘I act all the time, Vere. You know that.’

  ‘Not all the time.’

  ‘Most of it. Anyway, why have you come all this way out to the sticks?’

  ‘I’ve come for my answer.’

  ‘What answer?’

  ‘I asked you to marry me. Remember?’

  She peeled off her false eyelashes. ‘I’m still thinking about it.’

  ‘No, Rosalind – you said that before. I want a straight answer, right now. Yes or no. If it’s yes, we’ll get married as soon as possible, before you can change your mind. If it’s no, I’ll walk out of here and never bother you again.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Vere. I need more time.’

  ‘Time’s up. Yes, or no?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’

  ‘You said you loved me.’

  ‘I tell lies.’

  ‘It didn’t seem much like one at the time, as I recall.’

  ‘Well, I’m very good at pretending.’

  ‘You didn’t need to with me. Did you? Not like with the others. You found that out.’

  She looked at him in the mirror, her face serious. ‘The truth is, Vere, I’m scared.’

  ‘Of what exactly?’

  ‘I’m scared you’d regret marrying me. End up realizing what a horrible mistake you’d made.’

  ‘I’d never regret it – not for a single moment – and nor would you. Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I do. You’re a very trustworthy sort of person.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing whatever to stop you marrying me. No more feeble excuses left. What’s the answer?’ He put his hand on the doorknob. Turned it. ‘Yes? Or no?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘I may as well.’

  ‘May as well what?’

  ‘Marry you. If that’s what you really want.’

  ‘You know perfectly well it is.’

  ‘Are you quite sure, Vere?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  She turned round, fluttered her fingertips coquettishly and put on her Princess Katharine fake French accent. ‘Den it shall also content me, your majesty.’

  ‘I take it,’ he said drily, moving away from the door, ‘that means yes.’

  Epilogue

  She’d noticed the signpost bearing a name very familiar from the past and, on impulse, had turned the car down the country lane leading across fields to the village. She parked by the pub and walked through a narrow passageway to the canal. Not surprisingly, after more than half a century, there had been a lot of changes. The pub had sprouted a modern extension, cottages had been gentrified and the boats were now all pleasure craft, hired out to holidaymakers. Tourists were drinking at tables outside the pub, licking ice creams on the towpath, gathered in a gaggle by the lock to stare at boats passing through. It was a hot day in midsummer; blue skies, sun shining, water sparkling, trees in full green leaf. She could remember it, very differently, in midwinter with grey skies, bare branches, driving rain, icy wind, sleet, snow, mud, and not a soul about.

  The top gates of the lock were closed and she used them to cross over to the other side of the canal, negotiating the narrow ledge with ease and barely touching the handrail. A boat was coming in through the open bottom gates, heading uphill – a hired boat converted from an old narrow one and painted in the same bright colours, though without all the boaters’ beautiful castles and roses and lozenge shapes.

  In place of the cargo hold there were cabins. She co
uld see jazzy curtains at the windows and bunk beds, a kitchen fitted with cooker, sink and fridge, a dining table with padded vinyl seating, and, if she interpreted the two frosted-glass windows correctly, a shower and lavatory. She thought, smiling to herself, of the bucket in the engine room and the dipper on its hook.

  The steerer was bare-chested and dressed in baggy shorts, an open can of beer set before him on the cabin roof where a blonde girl sunbathed at full stretch, wearing two minuscule strips of Day-Glo pink. The old boaters would have been deeply shocked at such nudity. Another young man, also in shorts and bare-chested, mounted the steps to the lock-side. He had curly hair, a deep tan, and a look of confidence. Cockiness, in fact. Showing off to all the gawping gongoozlers. She saw the way he applied his weight nonchalantly to the beam to close one bottom gate while an eager helper on the opposite bank closed the other. Then he pushed past her, windlass at the ready.

  ‘Keep out of my way, please.’

  She watched him draw a top gate paddle with a flourish, cross over the gates to reach the winding gear on the far bank – just as she had done, though not quite so adeptly – and then come back again to stand close to her, hands on hips, windlass slotted into the leather belt of his shorts.

  The water in the lock below began to swirl and bubble and to rise steadily, and the young man waited expectantly for it to reach the required level. And went on waiting. And waiting. With the lock about three-quarters full, the narrowboat remained obstinately stuck, going neither up, nor down. The blonde lifted her head and looked about her, sensing something amiss. Another girl poked her head out of the cabin door.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on, Mark?’

  She stepped forward. ‘Excuse me.’

  He turned his head. ‘Yes?’

  ‘That bottom paddle’s been left open. Water’s running out as fast as it’s coming in.’ She could tell he’d taken her for some batty, interfering old biddy, and his sunburned good looks were marred by his irritated frown. She pointed. ‘You can see the ratchet sticking up several notches – if you look.’

  He obeyed, reluctantly.

  She went on mildly, ‘Your boat could be sitting there in the lock for ever if you don’t go and drop it.’