The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  She peered at Polly and grimaced. ‘Do, please, put some slap on, darling, you look fresh from the farm. As we’re to stick together you will have to come with me to a place in Piccadilly without sawdust on the floor, and no whelks for sale at the bar. Surely you have a better skirt, and perhaps a shawl rather than that ghastly old mac? You resemble a poor church mouse, and are as dowdy.’

  Polly eyed Verity’s silk dress and light wool coat that must have been expensive because there was not a crease to behold, even though it had been stowed beneath the cross-bed. ‘No, I have nothing better here, and I look like most other people who restrict themselves to the clothes ration and save their best, for best. And that’s at home.’ She wasn’t going to admit that there was absolutely nothing better hanging anywhere else in her whole world.

  Verity put on high heels, staring all the while at Polly’s court shoes and shaking her head. ‘Oh, I do wonder if you’re feeling too tired? You do look weary, darling. How about an early night, eh?’

  Bet said from the doorway, ‘Not a chance, Verity, it’s both of you, or neither. I want you back bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, unlike last time you hit Piccadilly.’ She disappeared again, and Polly followed.

  Bet was waiting on the counter, leaning against the cabin, smoking a cigarette. The tiller had been reversed. Bet mused, ‘I think we will take it out next time. It would give us just that bit more room.’ Polly stood, watching the searchlights stabbing the early evening sky. Her dad would have left for his ARP duties by now, her mum would be turning on the wireless to hear another voice, since she wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.

  She watched the searchlights more closely. Was Reggie heading off somewhere tonight? Would he be back to read her letter or … She sighed at such stupid questions, to which there were no answers. Somewhere a siren wailed. Was that a stray bomber dumping his load, or an ARP exercise?

  ‘Penny for them,’ Bet said.

  Polly smiled. ‘They’re not worth a penny.’

  Bet inhaled again, then stubbed her cigarette out on the saucer. She said softly, ‘Mind what I said. Stick together this evening, cargo-carrying is important, and so are my crew. Keep yourselves safe.’ She sighed. ‘In fact, be her friend. I believe she needs one, and after all, that’s what being a team means.’

  Chapter 9

  27 October – evening

  Polly followed Verity as they emerged from Piccadilly Circus Underground and turned left down Regent Street. In spite of her high heels Verity tore along, weaving in and out of the other pedestrians, all of them holding their practically useless torches. Taxis, buses and cars with similarly inadequate lights picked their way along to Eros at little more than walking pace. Verity suddenly jerked to a stop, stood on the kerb and waited to cross. Three GIs joined them, talking loudly of New York as they looked for a gap in the traffic. Verity was doing the same. Polly waited with her.

  A GI sergeant turned to Verity. ‘Hi, gorgeous girl, let me see you across. Who knows, we could be heading in the same direction.’

  Polly stared ahead because it wasn’t safe to talk to strangers, but to her horror, Verity took the GI’s arm. ‘Just to cross the road, then, in the spirit of transatlantic friendship. I’ve been to New York too. Those skyscrapers, so high, but the streets can be so windy.’

  A gap developed in the traffic and they had all begun to cross when one of the other GIs turned, waiting in the middle of the road for Polly to catch up. He grinned in the gloom and walked beside her. She ignored him. ‘I’m Al, and you’re …?’

  ‘Verity’s friend.’

  ‘You Brits,’ he sighed, ‘are as cold and grey as your little island.’

  ‘Our little island feels a bit colourless after the battering we’ve had. Just look around and imagine your own home town in smithereens.’ Her tone was as cold as the month.

  ‘Here we are, ’n’ all, helping you, and still you don’t like us,’ he grumbled, ambling beside her. They reached the pavement just as a bus swept past, hooting. Polly jumped. He said, ‘You’re safe on the sidewalk, honey.’

  Verity was charging down Regent Street again, and her companion seemed to change gear effortlessly, lengthening his lazy stride to keep up with her. Polly heard Verity’s laugh, but it was one full of screeching falsehood. The GI who walked alongside Polly said, ‘My mom writes and asks me if I’m safe, I tell her yes, but that I’m cold and that I miss her and Boise, in Idaho, and so I do. Don’t you feel sorry for a li’l ole stranger in a strange land?’

  Ahead, Verity had stopped at the entrance to Jermyn Street and was shaking her head at the other two GIs. ‘No,’ she was insisting. ‘So sorry, it’s a private party, but another time.’ She waggled her torch at Polly. ‘Do come along.’

  Al grabbed Polly’s arm, pulling her to a stop. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a packet. She flashed her torch over the cellophane, and saw it contained silk stockings. ‘Here you are, Miss Polly.’

  Polly stepped back, appalled. ‘No, I’m not that sort of girl.’

  He did not release her arm. ‘I know, Miss Polly, that’s why you should take them. Your friend’s wearing some, and you ain’t. All you’ve got is that line you girls draw up the back of your bare legs. I saw it in the miserable ole lights of the buses. You’re a nice girl, so you should have some too.’

  Again she pulled away. ‘That’s kind, but no.’

  She followed Verity into Jermyn Street, and then called back, ‘Don’t break your mum’s heart, Al from Boise, Idaho. You get home safe, and make sure the others do as well.’

  She waved goodbye, then ran after Verity, who was hurrying along the street, her torch playing over the pavement and flashing dimly up on to the house numbers. Polly caught up with her outside a terraced house with at least three floors. ‘I thought we were going to a pub?’

  Verity pulled her camel coat tighter around herself. ‘It’s similar, but very much more upper class. It’s what’s called a club. You can find a pub if you’d feel more comfortable.’

  She waited for Polly’s answer. Polly remembered Bet’s words.

  She said, ‘I’ll stick with you.’

  ‘Come in as my guest, but do try and act the part. These are my smart friends. I don’t want them to think I’m …’ She stopped.

  ‘Slumming?’ Polly finished.

  Suddenly Verity’s eyes filled. ‘Oh, do shut up, Polly,’ she whispered, and lifted the brass knocker, banged it twice, paused, and then banged it once more. Polly stared at this girl. What had she said? A shutter in the door slid open, then slammed shut. The door opened. ‘Good evening, Lady Verity, I trust you are well.’

  The high voice of the huge muscular man in the dinner suit sounded inappropriate. ‘Most well, thank you, George. This is Miss Polly Holmes, who is on my team. Hush-hush, you know.’ She tapped her nose, in control again. George gave Polly the once-over. Verity stepped closer to him and whispered, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, but she’s nice enough.’

  Polly heard, but had also heard Verity called a Lady – and why the glint of tears? why the whispered ‘Hush-hush’?

  ‘Of course, Lady Verity. Your friends are as usual in the blue room, I believe, and are expecting you, as the gin cocktails have been ordered.’ He nodded them through into a long passageway with cream walls and brown and cream tiles on the floor. Verity led the way to the cloakroom desk at the end of the hall, where they handed over their coats to a young woman dressed in black. The lining of Polly’s mackintosh was torn, and she waited for one of Verity’s comments, but she was too busy straightening her seams to notice. Before the cloakroom attendant hung Polly’s mac on the hanger, she shook it slightly and something fell to the ground.

  Verity saw, and leaned over the counter. Polly craned her neck to see too. On the floor was a packet of silk stockings. Al of Idaho must have put it in her pocket. Oh well, how kind. She started to tell Verity as the attendant picked them up and replaced them in the pocket, but Verity was staring at Polly.

  ‘So, not
just the kitty, but my stockings too?’ she muttered through thin lips.

  Polly shook her head. ‘You’re wearing yours, so don’t be absurd.’

  Verity shook her head. ‘I have other packets. Or had.’

  The attendant held out a ticket. ‘Your ticket, Lady Verity, for reclaiming your coat. I still ’ave the scarf you left behind at the time of your last visit. Incidentally, the GIs give these stockings to all the girls. I expect that’s where these came from, as well as the ones you’re wearin’, Lady Verity. You obviously know a lot of GIs.’

  She gave Polly her ticket, raising her eyebrows.

  Polly smiled, and said, ‘How interesting. Verity met three GIs at Piccadilly Circus, and they escorted us here. Al from Boise, Idaho offered me a pair, which I refused. But he must have put them in my pocket. I’ll have to keep them now, not that they’re much use on the canal boat.’

  Verity had flushed, and now her colour deepened and she swung on her heel. ‘Don’t use the code here, Polly. No one is supposed to know our HQ lingo. Follow me, for heaven’s sake.’

  Verity almost ran up the stairs while Polly followed, calling to the attendant, ‘Thank you, and keep the stockings, I won’t need ’em.’

  The girl grinned. ‘No, I’ll put them back in your pocket. I ’ave enough of me own from tips.’

  Polly followed Verity. She had taken no notice of the accusation, beyond feeling a surge of irritation which had quickly died. Bet believed her, but what nonsense about codes was this ridiculous woman talking now? At the top of the stairs Verity was waiting, and pulled her to one side. Double doors were open to the right of them, and inside a swirl of people danced on a gleaming pale oak floor to the soft sound of a bass, saxophone and piano. Verity waved to someone who sat at a small circular table, several of which were dotted around the dance floor. She kept a bright smile on her face as she whispered, ‘My friends think I’m in something secret. I have French, you see. They wouldn’t understand the canal, and would be appalled.’

  ‘Well, why are they your friends, in that case?’ Polly said, and pulled free.

  Verity looked suddenly at a loss and, once more, her eyes filled. After a moment, she muttered, ‘Because they are, you silly girl, and always have been.’

  ‘Then, if so, you can tell them, because they’ll be interested for your sake, surely.’

  ‘Oh, shut the hell up, Polly. Don’t be so …’ she paused. ‘Simple. Just do as I say, for heaven’s sake, or I’ll never ever forgive you.’

  ‘Of course I will. I just want to know why.’

  But Verity was walking away, erect, her smile in place, her blonde hair immaculate. At the entrance to the room, she waved madly to a group gathered around a table, some standing, some sitting. The men were in officer’s uniform, the women in silk dresses, or WAAF or some such uniforms. After only half an hour in their company Polly understood exactly why Verity had created a fiction, and also completely understood that these friends found her woollen skirt offensive, and stockingless legs beyond the pale. Nothing was actually said, but it didn’t have to be.

  They had made space for her at the table, of course, and a cocktail was ordered, but no one asked her to dance, which was a shame because she could jive with the best of them, courtesy of one of Will’s friends. Was it Reggie? She didn’t think so. Ah yes, it was Geoff. His regiment had been ordered to Singapore. Had he been killed or imprisoned?

  She played with her cocktail and watched Verity dancing a sweeping quickstep with an RAF lieutenant. A girl, who had previously mentioned she had grown up near Verity in Sherborne, came back from the dance floor. Slumping down she fanned herself, her beau bending and laughing, and whispering in her ear.

  She giggled, slapped at him, and said, ‘Heavens, I’ll be delivering a plane at dawn, flying who knows what, to who knows where. Quite frankly, darling, the Air Transport Auxiliary is exhausting but someone has to do it.’

  Polly thought she was talking to her lieutenant, but he had turned to speak to a passing army officer, and it was to her that the girl was chatting, and she was offering her a cigarette from her gold cigarette case. ‘Thank you, no,’ Polly said.

  The girl took one herself, tapped it on the case and waited. Her beau interrupted his conversation, leaned across and held out his lighter. ‘There you are, Jeanie.’

  ‘You’re an angel, Brucie.’ Jeanie inhaled, and blew the smoke into the air to join the general layer that hung like a mist below the ceiling. ‘So, you’re in the hush-hush thingy, Dolly. So strange that you have the same name as my maid.’

  Polly avoided Jeanie’s next exhale and replied, ‘No, my name is Polly.’

  She stared at Jeanie then said, ‘It’s not hard to remember the difference but satisfactory to forget if you’re trying to diminish someone.’

  There was silence, while Jeanie stared at her, then flicked some ash into the crystal ashtray. ‘Not sure I understand you. But as I was saying, Polly, we’re so pleased that dear Verity has picked herself up after her bit of foolishness, as the saying goes. We thought she’d end up in the WAAF or something else as useful, but no, though she says this hush-hush is something important?’ It was a question which Polly allowed to hang between them before saying, ‘Hush-hush means just that, Jeanie, but you should surely understand the term?’

  Brucie was making hand signals, and Jeanie glared at Polly before smiling as Brucie made his way over to the bar with the army officer.

  But Jeanie wasn’t yet in retreat. ‘It must mean she has to mingle with all sorts. I expect you feel a little awkward, being here, but don’t. It’s a good experience for you.’

  Polly felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, Miss Polly, fancy a turn around the floor?’

  Polly stared up at Al, the GI. ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘Indeed, Miss Polly, good heavens. We dropped a pile of dough into the penguin’s outstretched hand, and here we are. Hey, little lady, you with the cigarette, how about shifting that toosie of yours, so I can sit in your place and get to know Miss Polly a bit better? I’m sure you’ll be happy to let us Yanks join your little group. About time we all got to know one another as we’re helping to fight your war, don’t ya think?’

  Clearly the little lady being asked to move her tootsie along didn’t think it was a good idea at all, but by that time the other GIs had sat down, and the sergeant flicked a finger. Miraculously, within two seconds a waiter appeared. ‘Give us another round of these drinks for our little Britishers, and don’t forget some for us Yanks from across the sea, the ones with the dough.’

  He threw a ten-bob note on the tray. ‘For you – give us the check at the end. Just keep the drinks coming and your eyes on us, eh?’ The waiter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, just as Al pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on, honey, let’s have a dance. Sounds to me as though it’s to be a jive.’

  It was, and Al threw her around the dance floor most successfully in spite of her pencil skirt, silencing the chattering of the upper classes, which seemed to be torn between appreciation and disapproval as she was twirled, thrown over a shoulder and beneath the legs, and generally loosened up. It was as good as a hot bath, and at the end there was a patter of applause. Patter, she thought. Pat-patter. They must be away before midnight.

  She explained to Al, who asked why. Remembering her promise to Bet, she said, as Al swept her into a foxtrot, ‘Our senior officer needs us on duty bright and early.’ They danced, she drank water, Al drank some sort of cordial, while the others downed copious cocktails. The sergeant monopolised Verity, and together the two of them danced, and drank.

  At eleven Polly rose, beckoning to Verity, who shook her head. Polly hurried around and whispered in her ear, ‘We must, Bet needs us.’

  Verity sighed.

  Polly insisted. ‘Come on, let’s get our coats. I’ll wait downstairs.’

  Al walked her to the double doors and then down the stairs to the attendant. The girl found her mackintosh, and then Verity’s coat. ‘I have yours here
too, madam,’ she called, looking up.

  Polly turned. Verity was not behind her but on the stairs. Al murmured, ‘Well, you’re both going to be on morning parade after all, little Miss Polly. Thought perhaps you might be the only one to make it.’

  Verity was uncertain on her feet as she joined them. She stabbed the air, and slurred to the cloakroom attendant. ‘Put it back. I’m not ready, the night is yet young.’

  Polly tried one more time. ‘It isn’t. It’ll be late, anyway, by the time we get to the canal. Oh, come on, Verity.’

  The slap knocked her head back. The sound was loud, the pain sharp. For a moment Polly didn’t know what had happened.

  ‘I said, not a word about the canal. Are you stupid?’ Verity was red with fury.

  Polly was confused, her face hurting, her tongue sore where she’d bitten it. Then she remembered.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the canal could just be where we’re based, or your damned code. You’ve got to stop this. You’re drunk. Come with me.’

  As Polly turned she saw Verity bringing her arm back to deliver another slap. Al caught it, and forced Verity’s arm down.

  ‘That’s not going to win you any stars, little lady, hitting a friend like that,’ he said. ‘I reckon I should get you both a taxi.’

  Verity turned away, and slowly walked up the stairs. ‘Get on back but one day you should learn to enjoy yourself, because we could be dead tomorrow.’

  Polly murmured, ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  At midnight Polly crept on to the Marigold, and fell into bed. Al had given her yet another pair of stockings; because he’d never had such a good night, he’d said. ‘Never knew you British girls could be such fun.’

  They’d never meet again, they both knew that, but Al from Idaho, please please survive, and have lots of little Als in Boise, Idaho, and make your mum a happy grandma, she thought, and fell asleep.