The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  ‘So, the jam on all of this is that you girls are entitled to two days’ leave after a couple of trips. Once you’re trained it’ll be a week’s unpaid leave after three weeks’ work.’

  Polly asked, ‘How long does a return trip take?’

  Verity spoke. ‘Five to six glorious days, each way, darling. Longer if there’s a hold-up. We rise at five-thirty or thereabouts. Ghastly bum ache, quite frankly.’

  Polly couldn’t help hearing her mother saying, ‘Language, if you please.’

  Bet was saying, ‘Now, Polly, let’s talk about training. I take trainees on two trips, and you learn on the job. If all goes well you will be transferred to a different boat and butty, as I’ve just said. Verity has done one trip and still has much to learn, but then so does every trainee. Remember, there’s no shame in admitting it’s not your cup of tea. Best we know sooner rather than later.’

  Bet sounded thoughtful, and Verity flushed as she banged her cup of tea down on the table and shook out the newspaper before burying her head in it again.

  Polly spoke into the silence. ‘So, it’s obviously not just gliding along through lovely scenery?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Verity piped up. She turned another page. ‘I most certainly wouldn’t say that.’

  Polly sat while Bet told her of the filth of the coal cargo they picked up from Coventry coalfields, the pain of blistered hands as they sheeted up tarpaulins, or in other words covered the loads, before securing the tarpaulins with ropes. ‘But I’m not going into the detail of ropes and knots until decisions are made.’

  Mercilessly, and barely taking a breath as though she didn’t want to waste her time, or Polly’s, she talked of the bitter cold. ‘You will steer, hour after hour, the wind chafing your face and lips. In the summer the sun’s glare will bounce off the cabin roof and hurt your eyes. The days are lonely, just three of you: one on each boat steering, one cycling along the towpath to prepare the locks for the boats’ arrival.’

  She looked at Polly. ‘You are here because we’ve just lost the second trainee, Phyllis, owing to, shall we say, temperamental incompatibilities.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Verity snapped. ‘What Bet means is that Phyllis and I didn’t get on. She was a frightful bore, very wet and irritating.’

  Bet pressed her lips together. ‘It’s too late now, but both girls needed to try harder, and learn to get on. It’s essential in such a small space and I think Verity has come to understand that.’

  Verity sighed, and turned the page, patting her hair and adjusting her slide. ‘If you say so, Bet.’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  There was another silence. Polly thought of living in a small space with this girl who seemed impervious to criticism, who verged on rudeness, who … Well, just wasn’t very nice.

  Bet talked a little more about their duties, until finally she paused, as though wondering if she had made it sound as appalling as was necessary. Well, she had, thought Polly, as she finished her tea and picked up her handbag, feeling that perhaps it was time for her to go.

  Bet saw, and smiled. ‘Before you run away, there are the pubs in the evening, when we tie up along the cut. The boater women disapprove but we go anyway. We justify it by declaring we need to keep our sanity. Now the pubs are a lot of fun, and the sun does shine sometimes. Remember this is the boaters’ world into which we are intruding, a world with a definite culture, and we need to tread carefully. But more than anything we have to bear in mind that ours is essential work. Someone has to do it and it might as well be us.’

  Verity had laid down her newspaper. Now she grinned. ‘At last our esteemed Führer Bet Burrows comes to the light at the end of the tunnel – the pubs. Otherwise, the boss is telling it as it is. Just look at my ghastly hands.’ She held up her calloused palms and fingers.

  Polly said, ‘Heavens, they’re worse than my dad’s.’

  Verity stared at her. ‘Not imbued with tact, then?’ She buried her head in her newspaper.

  Polly grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’ She could have kicked herself.

  Bet stood. ‘And on that note, before I’m breaking up a butty brawl, I think that’s everything. Come along, I think we’ve kept you long enough but have you any questions?’

  Polly could think of nothing to say. She looked around the cabin. How on earth could Bet call this home? How on earth did she manage with a girl like Verity? How on earth would she cope with Polly, who had listened carefully but couldn’t remember a thing? She shook her head. She didn’t know what she thought about it all.

  Bet said, ‘Don’t worry, the information will sink in slowly as you travel home. I’ll have a think and let you know, all in good time. We both have decisions to make.’ She smiled and Polly said, ‘Thank you.’

  Verity turned yet another page of her newspaper.

  Bet handed Polly her mac, which had not only stopped dripping but seemed partially dry, thanks to the suffocating heat. Polly placed her handbag on the side bench, put her mackintosh on over her damp clothes, pulling her muffler tight, and picked up her handbag again, thinking all the time of everything she had heard.

  ‘Do you have far to go?’ Bet asked.

  ‘Woking. So, not far once I get through London.’ She checked her watch. She had been here just over half an hour and her head was spinning. And it hadn’t gone well, if Verity’s face was anything to go by.

  Bet pulled the slide hatch back and shoved the doors open, and almost sprang up the steps to the deck. Polly followed. The rain had stopped, but the wind still blew. Clouds scudded, and the noise from the depot was just as loud as before.

  As the wind whipped Polly’s hair across her face, Bet said, ‘You would need to think a little more about what you say, Polly. I suspect few girls like to be told their hands are like a man’s, especially Verity. She’s rather prickly, as you can tell, and has had some sort of loss though who knows what – and who hasn’t? But she’s improving. One does try to be patient.’ Suddenly, Bet looked exhausted.

  Polly wondered what on earth Verity had been like before and why Bet kept her on?

  Bet, leading her back on to the Marigold, said, more to herself, Polly thought, ‘I do just feel Verity needs us more than we need her. It could all work out, but on the other hand …’ She stopped, and looked at Polly as though she had forgotten she was there. ‘Ah, Polly, you’ll be hearing from Mr Thompson, or me. Have a good trip home. Now, head down the frontage, then back through the yard. The lavatory is on the left, just before Enquiries.’ Bet held out her hand. Polly shook it, turned and stepped down on to the bank.

  As she was about to head back she thought of the only question that really mattered.

  Bet was still standing on Marigold’s deck, leaning against the cabin, smoking. The water can, painted with flowers and castles, like the cupboard, nestled next to the chimney. Further along, smoke curled from the butty’s chimney only to be snatched away by the wind.

  Polly took a deep breath, and called from the towpath, ‘Do people get killed on the canal? I’m sorry, I know that might sound like an overly dramatic question, but I need to be able to tell my mum it’s safe.’

  ‘My dear girl, there’s a war on. No one’s safe.’ Bet smiled slightly. ‘But we’re safe enough, as few bombs are falling at the moment.’

  Polly dug her hands into her pockets, feeling foolish, but defiant. She looked straight at Bet. There was silence as Bet studied her. At last she nodded, a nod that told Polly Bet knew something of why Polly was so keen to escape to the canals in the first place. It had been on her application form.

  ‘Don’t miss your train, young Polly Holmes. We’ll be in touch.’

  Polly said, ‘All in good time.’

  Bet’s laugh followed her down the towpath.

  Chapter 2

  25 October – the return journey on the same day

  Polly decided to try and clear her head before making for home, so strolled along Oxford Street. She walked the length of it
, looking in the shop windows, skirting the sandbags in doorways, trying to sort out her feelings about the training, proud of the spirit of the Londoners who were out shopping, chatting, as their city lay in ruins in many places.

  She had a cup of tea at a Lyons Corner House, watching the rain as it ran down the windows. Could she stand blistered hands, freezing weather, Verity? Could she bear being as wet as she was, day in and day out?

  She watched the passers-by bearing who knew what losses and heartbreak, then straightened, and finished her tea. She was proud of them, so she should do something that made her proud of herself. She sagged again – what about the bucket? She stared out at the street. Well, she’d make sure she used a proper lavatory whenever she could. But what about living and sleeping in that small space, with Verity? What if she thought Polly was as wet and irritating as that poor Phyllis? She finished her second cup of tea, paid, and left a threepenny tip. The rain had stopped, and she saw her reflection in the window. Her hair was a disgrace. She headed along Oxford Street again, hunting for a cheap felt hat.

  Eventually she gave up, and walked to Waterloo Station, arriving at about six o’clock. The train from Waterloo to Woking was crowded but she managed to secure a seat, though the corridor was crammed with soldiers, sailors and airmen, not to mention the odd businessman. Polly ran yet again through the day as the compartment fogged up around her.

  She pictured Bet, her energy, that booming laugh, the cabin which was so tiny, Verity who was so snotty. What on earth had Bet thought when Polly asked if life on the canal was safe? After all, everyone had loss of some sort. How could she face her again?

  But then, what if Bet turned her application down? She felt a huge wave of relief sweeping over her, and she leaned back, her feet aching. She had wanted to join the Air Transport Auxilliary but her parents had been distraught, so when she’d seen the War Transport advertisement it seemed like a good alternative. Was it? Could she commit to it as Bet wanted?

  As the train drew in to Esher a pregnant woman clambered into their compartment. Polly stood, ‘Come on. Sit down.’

  The woman smiled, ‘Thank you. Bit of a day.’

  ‘They tend to be at the moment, don’t they?’

  Polly slid back the door into the corridor, and squeezed in between a soldier and a sailor. The train jerked as it set off again and the sailor steadied her with his elbow. There was a general murmur of voices, and she noticed that an airman next to the soldier to her left was sitting on the floor, snoring.

  The soldier pulled out a packet of Woodbines. ‘’Ave a fag, love, as a reward for good behaviour.’ He jerked his head towards the carriage. She smiled and shook her head. Her mum would have her guts for garters if she smelt cigarette smoke on her.

  She said, ‘My brother would have given me a boot if I hadn’t got to my feet.’

  ‘Ah, he’s doing his bit, is he?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  ‘Older than you, is he?’

  ‘Younger, by two minutes.’

  The soldier laughed. ‘Ah, twins. You got that tight bond, then? My auntie’s got two lots of ’em. Two, would you believe. She’s called it a day now. The four of ’em run my auntie ragged, the little toe-rags. But split ’em up, and they’re quiet. Sort of lost. Reckon you feel the same, with ’im away?’

  ‘Reckon I do.’

  They both stared out at the darkening countryside. ‘When will the lights come back on?’ Polly murmured, more to herself than anyone.

  ‘Ah, that’s the question, ain’t it, but we’re doing our best, love. We all are. One day, you’ll see, they’ll all just come back on and we’ll forget they was ever off and start grumbling at silly little things again. You got a bloke out and at ’em?’

  His cigarette glowed brightly as he took another drag.

  The train lurched, stopped yet again. ‘Troop train coming through, probably,’ the sailor on her right said.

  ‘Likely it is,’ the soldier agreed.

  ‘Well, sort of. I’ve got Reggie,’ Polly said. ‘He’s on the bombers.’

  ‘Tough one, that.’

  ‘I know.’ For a moment Polly felt even more weary.

  The soldier squeezed out the end of his cigarette, and tucked it into his uniform pocket and no one spoke. As soon as they’d trundled into a station, they were out again within minutes. Along the corridor a GI began to sing ‘If you were the only girl in the world’.

  At Woking Polly left the train, waving to Tommy the soldier, and Arthur the sailor; the airman was still asleep. ‘Break a leg,’ she called, never good luck. That’s what Will … Well, anyway, never say good luck.

  She had her torch’s meagre slit of light, but she could find her way blindfold to her home on the outskirts of town. She reached the cul de sac of 1930s houses. Theirs was detached, a fact of which her mum was inordinately proud. Her parents had bought it when Polly’s dad had been made chief storeman at the factory. It made her mum feel they had at last scrambled into the middle classes, even though it was the bottom rung. She had hoped for better for her children, and when Will had been accepted for an engineering apprenticeship, and Polly had passed her secretarial course with flying colours, she felt that they both had excellent prospects. Polly must work at a solicitor’s and might then marry one, and Will would be …

  She stopped the thought and continued walking to the end of Pinewood Avenue past the semis. There were two lilac trees in the front garden of Jotom, which was a mixture of her parents’ names, Joyce and Tom.

  The front path was weedless now, thanks to her mum’s current need for perfection. Although she had a key, she knocked at the front door, which was as her mum had come to insist on over the last six months; it gave her a chance to put down newspaper to catch any dirt, and to save the lino, but from what? Polly and her dad didn’t know. Nor did her mum like them to trudge round to the back door and let themselves into the kitchen, walking mud on to her pristine kitchen quarry tiles.

  What the hell would she think of the cabin? Language, Polly, she told herself.

  Her mum opened the door of the dark hall, wearing her wrap-around apron and holding back the blackout curtain with her elbow. ‘Hurry up, for heaven’s sake, you’re letting the cold in, and the heat out.’

  Polly stepped in, wiped her shoes on the doormat, then stepped on to the newspaper as her mum shut the door, and the blackout, behind her. Polly switched on the light as her mum spun round. She had permed her grey hair during the day, and the smell wafted across as she reached into the hall umbrella stand, and brandished Polly’s black umbrella. ‘Just what do you call this?’

  Polly was taking off her soaked court shoes. ‘I know, I forgot, sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Sorry isn’t good enough. I shouldn’t have to remind you at your age – and just leave the shoes on the newspaper.’

  Polly did, stepping on to the lino in her bare feet. Her mother dropped the umbrella back into the stand with a clang, her voice shrill. ‘Just look at those blisters on your heels. I told you to wear ankle socks.’

  She picked up the shoes and shook them over the newspaper. Polly said, ‘I’ll carry them,’ but her mum bustled to the kitchen calling over her shoulder, ‘Take off that mackintosh too, and bring it through. It needs to hang on the airer if you’re going to use it tomorrow. I hope you wore your vest or you’ll get a chill on your chest and kidneys. I’m just putting the kettle back on. I don’t know what time you call this, I really don’t. It’s not safe to walk alone in the blackout.’

  Polly sighed at the never-ending stream of words. What had her mother planned for tomorrow? Had she forgotten that Polly was working on a daily basis at Mr Burton’s solicitor’s office while she waited for war work and she was expected at nine in the morning? Her dad came out of the back room, his unlit pipe in his mouth, wearing his Air Raid Precaution overalls. Shutting his Daily Mail, he bustled over and kissed her. He smelt faintly of pipe tobacco, though he only had enough on the ration for a brief sm
oke every other day.

  ‘Your mother took a phone call from a Miss Burrows at four o’clock but you know how she doesn’t like the telephone so she came to the depot and I rang this Miss Burrows, with Mr Wendle’s permission, of course. You’ve been accepted for canal work, and must head back tomorrow, getting off at Hayes Station, near Southall. Be there at ten in the morning, she said, most specifically. She also said that your medical was quite acceptable, and that you will be expected to complete the training satisfactorily. That is, of course, if you decide that “the canal passes muster with you”.’

  He raised his eyebrows, and smiled at Polly. ‘She will telephone the house at nine o’clock this evening. I rather liked her. She’s brisk, no nonsense, says what needs to be said, and then nips off. No long dithering goodbye. She just put the receiver down. Click, it went.’

  Suddenly all doubt left Polly. How could she have thought she didn’t want to go? She said, ‘Oh Dad, oh I thought … Well, I couldn’t think of many questions, and I didn’t feel she’d want me, and then I wasn’t sure I wanted it. But I do, I know I do now. I really do.’

  His smile reflected hers. ‘Yes, I can see that. Well, young Polly, just as you’ve passed, I’m now passing you on my way to my night shift. Get the camping mattress down from the attic. You’ll need that, apparently, for your bed, but you’re to keep your clothes to a minimum as Miss Burrows was most stern on the matter of storage facilities. And you’ll need some money, but you’ve saved some, haven’t you? I will add to that, until you receive your pay at the end of each trip, a mere two pounds or so, but there’s a war on. Take your ration book too. Toodle pip for now, love.’

  He was edging towards the front door, stepping on the newspaper. Polly reached out and held him back. ‘Can I do it, Dad?’ she whispered. ‘Really, do you think I can? It will be cold, hard, and Verity and I have to live and sleep in a tiny cabin, and she might think I’m irritating and wet.’

  He hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe and whispered in return, ‘A Holmes can do anything, and you’re not irritating, though no doubt you’ll be wet.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ll do it well. So what if you have to share a small space – that’s what soldiers do, and this is war work, you’ll make us proud, I know you will. But don’t tell your mum too many details. She won’t like hardship for you, or things like that, not at the moment.’