by Milly Adams
Running through her head were her dad’s words. It helps sometimes if it is cold. The body stops, somehow. He’d saved a bloke in this way, in a flooded shell hole in the winter, when there was ice on the surface. A padre had told him how.
There was absolute silence. No noise even from the pub, or the father, who had hunkered down, his wife beside him touching her son’s head, or the dog that came now and licked the boy’s face. Polly pumped again – once, twice. Jimmy coughed, and water flooded from his mouth, followed by vomit. The father dragged back the dog, and it whined and scrabbled to be near the boy. Polly’s arms were failing, she was aching with tiredness.
She looked up at Verity. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘You must, again.’
Verity took over, and the child groaned as Polly crouched beside his kneeling parents. A sigh ran round the onlookers. She whispered, in time to the pumping, echoing the parents, who held back the dog, ‘Come on, Jimmy. Come on.’
The voices of all three of them were thick with tears. Polly dragged her hands across her face and said to those standing near, ‘Go to the pub, get Sid to telephone an ambulance. Hurry, hurry.’
Granfer called, ‘Already done, lass. ’Tis coming. ’Ear it.’
They heard the sound of a ringing bell coming closer, closer. Verity was tiring now, but the child was coughing. Jimmy tried to raise his head. The bells were nearer still. Then they heard the slam of doors, and the crowd parted. The ambulance was right up by the towpath, having driven over the pub garden. The men threw themselves down beside Jimmy, saw the child moving, the vomit and spittle. ‘We’ll take over,’ they said, one of them lifting Verity away while the other wrapped the boy in blankets, and placed him on to a stretcher. ‘You coming with us, Missus, and you, mate?’
The men helped the mother to her feet, and it was Granfer who helped the father, dripping and trembling. The man was shaking his head. ‘I ’ave to take the billets.’ He sounded as though he was in another world. A man came to the girls, who had scrabbled, freezing, to their feet. ‘Two o’ their lads ’as already gone, drowned. Don’t know what they’da done if Jimmy’d gone too. ’Appens a lot. Can’t keep ’em safe, not on the water.’ He turned away.
Polly said to the steerer, ‘The father must go with Jimmy, but he’ll be so cold. He’s dripping.’
‘Him’ll go for a while,’ he muttered, ‘but ’e got to go on with the load in the morning. You best ’ave their dog, will ya? He’ll not be able to manage him as well.’ He handed Polly the snapped rope which had tethered the dog.
Polly heard Granfer say to the man as he disappeared into the back of the ambulance, ‘You’ll have our Joe on the butty this trip, to ’elp yer, be yer runabout.’
The man nodded, that was all, because the boaters never said thank you. But Saul and Granfer had.
Verity and Polly walked back to Marigold, Polly pulling the dog, their boots squelching, their teeth chattering from the cold. Polly said, ‘Well, if the boots survive this, they’re worth the coupons. What’s more, Moneybags, you won’t have to buy us each another pair.’
Verity squeezed her arm. ‘I hope he lives.’
‘He might, but sometimes they drown later, they’ve got so much water in their lungs, so Dad says.’
They clambered on board the Marigold. Dog, as she thought of him, for she hadn’t thought to ask his name, trotted behind as though he knew he had to stay with them for now. Bet wasn’t in the motor cabin. Perhaps she was already asleep in the butty, trying to throw off the cough. They stripped off and sluiced themselves; Bet had left the range ticking over for them. They added coal and sat in their pyjamas. ‘Where was Saul?’ Verity asked.
‘Still in the pub, perhaps.’ She shouldn’t mind, Polly thought, hating the gut-churning flash of misery the thought brought because anyone who went on playing darts or drinking when a child was in danger wasn’t worth a sixpence.
The dog sat quietly in front of the fire. ‘When on earth are you going to stop hurling yourself into the water, and more importantly, how did you know what to do?’ Verity asked.
Polly told her of her father’s experience with the man in the shell hole.
‘Conchie was he, if he was a stretcher-bearer?’
‘Would it matter?’
They were smoking. Verity shook her head. ‘Just interested.’
‘No, not really, it was just his job, that’s all. He didn’t want to kill, but wanted to do his bit for the war effort because he felt that if others put themselves in danger to save him, then so should he. The authorities listened.’
During the night, when Polly stirred, she found Dog lying on her legs, and was grateful for the company. In the morning they woke, ready to head off, but there was no sign of Bet. When they let Dog off the boat he ran to Jimmy’s motor, and cried. So Polly walked him along the towpath for a mile, and then back, in boots still damp but nowhere near falling apart.
She let Dog into the cabin to eat toast with Verity, while she knocked on Bet’s cabin door. There was no answer and, rude though it was, she peered in. Bet was in the cross-bed, muttering and tossing, her face sweat-drenched and ashen. Polly rushed down into the cabin and felt her forehead. It was far too hot.
Bet gripped her hand and whispered, ‘I can’t go on. Get an ambulance first, then telephone the number in the cupboard. They’ll send someone else to help you. You’ll be fine. I know you will.’
Polly ran to the pub and beat on the door. The publican, Sid, appeared, his hair uncombed, a cigarette flopping in the corner of his mouth. She explained and he beckoned her in. ‘Busy night on the cut? No need to call out the ambulance – if it’s Bet, I’ll take her. Let me get me old mum’s wheelchair and we can tuck her up tidy at the boat and deliver her to the car.’
This is what they did, with no objection from Bet, which was more worrying than finding her so ill.
Verity went with Sid to the hospital while Sid allowed Polly to telephone the vaguely familiar number from the pub. It was the Mayfair office who had first interviewed her. They listened, and told her to stay by the telephone and wait for a return call, which would come within minutes. She waited by the bar for ten minutes, with the clock ticking loudly. Then sat by the fireplace, which was heaped with ash still warm from the previous night. She stuck her feet on the hearth and let the heat dry her boots just a fraction more, her thoughts with Bet. When the telephone rang, Polly hurried to answer it, just as the back door to the pub opened and Verity called, ‘Are you here, Polly?’
Polly was listening to the secretary on the other end saying, ‘Yes, we have sorted something, we think. A Miss Simpson should be arriving at Alperton very soon. You’ll be able to get as far as Kings Langley today. This will be her third trip, so she is a little more experienced than you, and I think on a vaguely similar level to Lady Verity. She is without a team at the moment and can be with you by this afternoon. Once you tell us which hospital, we will stay in touch with Miss Burrows’s progress, so phone us.’
The line went dead.
In the kitchen doorway Verity waited. Polly said, ‘They need to know where she is.’
‘She’s in the Middlesex. She’s really ill, pneumonia. I said she must have the very best treatment.’
Polly looked at her. ‘You’re paying?’
‘Of course, it’s nothing. And she’s the sum of so much.’
‘And Jimmy?’
‘Holding his own. His mum is with him, but we brought the father back and he’s taken the motor and butty on, with Joe helping. The father can ring here, Sid said, because he’ll keep in touch with the hospital for updates.’
‘You’re paying for Jimmy too?’
‘Mind your own business, darling.’ They hugged each other and then sat on bar stools. Verity said, ‘She and he must be all right. They must.’
Sid came from the kitchen bearing a tray holding three steaming mugs. ‘Coffee, that rare beast, girls, and it’s not even Camp Coffee. It’s the real stuff and we won’t ask where from, and to ca
p it all, we’ll have a little nip of brandy to start the day. It’s all been a bit of a do these last twelve hours.’ It was more than a nip, but as they sat round the table Sid lifted his mug. ‘Cheers, dears.’
The drink warmed them. Polly told them about Miss Simpson. Sid said, ‘I don’t know, in and out of the water like mermaids, or so Granfer tells me. Him upstairs will give you a few gold stars for this dip, but if I were you, I’d get your heads down while you can. Doing a trip with a strange team can be tricky, or so the other girls who come through tell us.’
Before they left they telephoned the name of the hospital through to the office, shook Sid’s hand, and opened the pub door. Polly stopped. ‘Sid, did everyone come from the pub to help us yesterday evening?’
‘Oh yes, of course. I was there too.’
‘That was kind,’ Polly said. ‘Thank you, Sid, I really think you saved our Bet. I’ll buy you one of your own drinks when we’re next through here, but what about petrol?’
‘No, you’re all right.’ He tapped his nose. ‘It’s that strange dyed stuff that a friendly farmer lets me have from time to time, but mum’s the word.’ His laugh followed them along to the towpath. Most of the boats moored overnight were gone. They watched as others arrived and moored up. It was like a train station, Polly thought. They were about to walk on, but heard Sid call for them to wait. He was panting when he caught up.
He blurted out, ‘These boaters lose children too often from the boat: drowning, propellers, sickness, Lord knows what, and it’s no fault of their own. It’s the life, it’s that bloody hard, and they love ’em like they was made of pure gold, but you can’t keep kids safe on the counters, and the byways. You mustn’t think bad of ’em.’
Polly and Verity looked at one another in surprise. ‘We don’t,’ they chorused. ‘Of course we don’t.’ Sid grinned and headed back to the pub.
The girls linked arms and walked back to the Marigold. Verity said, ‘You think you’re getting to know the worst of it, but we’re just scraping the surface. We’re so superficial, Polly.’
Polly knew. Dog was waiting, tied up on the counter, and she bent to stroke her. ‘Hello girl, come and get warm. We’ve a bit of a wait, and then it will be chop-chop.’
Verity laughed slightly, but only slightly. ‘We should have known Bet was poorly, and perhaps getting too tired. We should write to her.’
Polly remembered then that she hadn’t posted Reggie’s letter, but it really didn’t matter. Yes, they would write to Bet, and she could post the two letters together.
She looked over at the pub and smiled. So, Saul hadn’t been there anyway.
Chapter 26
17 November – on the way to Birmingham
Marigold and Horizon had been moored up north of Kings Langley on the evening of the 16th near Bob’s pub where Polly and Verity had left the wool hat, but they’d not stayed for a drink. They were too tired, too dispirited, too irritated, too worried about Bet. They felt the same this morning as the wind tore across the fields when they cast off.
As the office had said, Sylvia Simpson had joined them at Alperton, and they had made good time, though the fact that she was a young woman of about their age seemed to be the only common factor. Polly and Verity had shared the lock-wheeling; there had not been a third in the rota. Instead Sylvia had stayed nice and warm, wrapped up against the wind on the butty counter, doing diddly squat except issuing orders.
After delivering the hat, Verity and Polly had tried yet again to make conversation as they ate a supper of rabbit stew that they’d left simmering most of the day. They had told Sylvia of Bet’s condition, and the ‘no improvement’ report from the Middlesex. They had asked which boat she had transferred from. She had said she’d been on leave and had followed orders when asked to report in place of the trainer, Bet, and presumably take on her role.
Verity had then asked who had trained her, and how many trips she had made, because surely, she said, the Ministry bod had mentioned that she’d only done three so perhaps they were all in this together, rather than anyone taking on a trainer’s role. Sylvia had laid her knife and fork together, and muttered something about how important even an extra trip was to the competency of trainees. She had patted her mouth with her handkerchief, and then tucked it back up her sleeve.
On the morning of 18 November Sylvia had again ordered Polly to take the first lock-wheel shift of the day.
‘Ordered?’ Polly muttered aloud as she cycled, head down, along the towpath two hours later, still furious after lock-wheeling too many locks.
‘You sound as though you’re ordering me?’ she’d said to Sylvia, who had replied that someone had to take the lead. Verity had stood on the towpath, her hands on her hips. ‘Bet would share the duties,’ she said.
‘I’m not Bet,’ Sylvia had said, tying up her muffler and waving Polly off. ‘Come on, you want Bet to be proud of you when I telephone the office to see how she is, surely.’
Boats on the beer run passed by Polly as she ground out aloud, ‘Ordered, indeed.’ The lads on the fly-boats waved, looking more tired than youngsters should.
Polly pedalled on, hearing before seeing the German prisoners of war being marched along the towpath by British guards. She drew off the towpath, dragging the bike hard up against the hedge as they approached. Dog barked at her side. She shouted for silence and Dog obeyed. The Tommy guards whistled at her while the Germans looked ahead as if she did not exist, though one kicked a stone and it hit her shin. It could have been an accident, of course; nonetheless, she hoped the turnips the Nazis had to dig up were frozen solid in the earth. That’d give them something to complain about.
Once they were past she took off again, finally rounding a long bend and the lock was in sight. They’d been stuck behind several pairs heading for Tyseley Wharf, and there’d been only a few returning towards Limehouse, so, yet again, the lock was not ready for them to enter. Instead it was full to the brim with cut water, all of which needed emptying.
Polly dropped the bike and ran to the lock gates, drawing out the windlass from the back of her trouser belt, raised the paddles and let the water out, then opened one of the gates. She ran across to open the remaining gate. It stuck three quarters of the way.
She pushed the beam again, digging her heels into the mud, bracing herself, shoving with her bum. It wouldn’t budge. She peered down into the lock, between the wall and the stuck gate. She could see something – but what? Was it a branch? Yes, looked like it, but a bloody big one. The Marigold hove into sight, slowed, then pulled in, waiting. Damn. They’d be held up, but what could she do?
Marigold’s horn sounded, and then again. Bloody Miss Simpson. How dare she? Verity ran from the butty, shouting as she drew near, ‘What’s wrong?’
Polly seethed as she pointed down at the water. ‘What’s wrong is Miss Simpson sounding her horn, for one thing. The other is, the gate’s stuck. I passed a load of prisoners who could have helped, but damned if I know what to do.’
‘The ghastly Sylvia is going to have to whack the bugger open as she’s insisted on running the Marigold today. Please please give me the pleasure of telling her.’ Verity was off, her face filled with glee, while Polly remained sitting on the beam. Ducks flew overhead. Someone will shoot you for Christmas, she thought, as she watched Verity nearing the butty. Even here Polly could hear her shouting her own order to Sylvia Simpson. Dog was sniffing in the hedges, but keeping a close eye on Polly while she did so.
She made Polly feel safe, as they seemed to have lost their shepherd, though she and Verity thought that as Seagull and Swansong had obviously had to go ahead, Granfer and Saul would notice should Leon pass them, heading south. She just knew they’d then double back to make sure the girls on the Marigold and Horizon were all right.
This is what she thought of as she watched Verity gesticulating to Sylvia, whose refusal was clear. In fact, her red hair – so carefully tucked up into loops – positively danced as she shook her head. Polly cou
ld imagine the wretched woman complaining that she didn’t want to be responsible for reporting self-inflicted damage. It had been one of her frequent complaints yesterday. Clean that range because I don’t want to be responsible for it stopping working because of neglect.
Polly pulled her bobble hat further down, crossed her arms and laughed to herself as Verity gesticulated once again, pointing at her watch, and the lock, and the sky. In other words, get a move on, or it will be dark before we get to tie up at the Leighton Buzzard pub, though they hoped they would actually make it to Fenny Stratford. Not that she would have mentioned the pub. Sylvia was teetotal and had refused to nip in and see Bob last night.
‘Oh, ducks, tell Bet she’s simply got to get better and come back,’ Polly called after the ducks, as they passed out of sight behind a copse.
At that moment she saw the POWs being marched back. They passed Verity, who stood alongside the Marigold, arms akimbo, before beginning to gesticulate yet again while Sylvia in her turn continued to shake her curls. Polly wanted to slap her. Time was of the essence, surely she knew that? As she watched the scene, she wondered, not for the first time, who had been the other trainees unfortunate enough to have her with them until she was posted to Marigold.
She suspected her original team had not fought hard to keep her.
As the prisoners and their guards drew nearer, the dust kicked up by the tramp of their feet seemed to increase until she heard the bawled ‘Halt’. They were ten yards or so from the lock. Leaving them, a Tommy came to her. ‘Just enjoying the scenery, gal, or you got a problem?’
‘I am enjoying the scenery of course, Corporal, but also wondering why the damned gate won’t open. It looks as if there is a branch stuck behind it.’ The two of them went to the concrete kerb and peered down between the slimy lock wall and the gate. ‘We’re going to ram the gate if we can’t budge it but it looks as though we’ll have to try to shaft the obstruction out first.’