The Waterway Girls

by Milly Adams

  Polly nodded, and told her dad, ‘We have eight pounds and ten shillings. And I repeat, why are you home? You should be on ARP shift, shouldn’t you?’

  Her dad laughed. ‘We do get a night off to catch up on sleep, but that’s not of use, is it, when you have a daughter waking you in the small hours. Where are you telephoning from?’

  She gave him the number and explained about the pub, the King’s Head, and where it was. He said, ‘I’ll telephone you back as soon as I hear. Will that be possible your end?’

  She ran into the bar to check. Delphie said, as she washed the glasses, ‘Of course it is. Stay here as long as you like. If you have a drink, put the money in the box. We’ll head on up to bed because we need our sleep. Just keep the noise down.’

  Saul called, ‘Will yer friend come?’

  ‘Dad’s going to telephone him now, and perhaps Mr Burton can make a call to the police tonight.’

  They waited in the bar for her father’s return call; even Sylvia, who was dozing on a settle in the corner, but who woke suddenly, sitting bolt upright and exclaimed, ‘Oh, heavens, I’ve just remembered. That man who said he saw Joe …’ She stopped and looked around. ‘Well,’ snapped Verity. ‘Go on, we’re not mind readers.’

  ‘You see, he had a scar on his face, just here, and an accent.’ She pointed to her own face. Polly swung round to look at Verity. ‘Remember that POW, the one who was at the end of the column when the lock gate was stuck? You said he probably boasted that it was a duelling scar. We heard a while ago that two POWs had escaped, so was he one of them? Did he think he was sabotaging the war effort and poor Joe caught him in the act? Or, if he was one of Leon’s men, he’d be happy to do it, course he would. When you think about it, where better to hide out than on a boat, where everyone is lumped together, as a ruddy boater and they’re on the Oxford cut anyway. Something niggled at me when I saw him on the Brum Bum ages ago, and then later. Bet he didn’t expect to have to come back here?’

  Saul and Granfer were looking from Sylvia to Polly and Verity. Saul said, ‘A scar? One o’ Leon’s new men had a scar, don’t you remember, Granfer, when they went past just now.’

  Polly was thinking, trying to sort it out, but wasn’t it all just one coincidence too many? If it was the German … ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘If it was the German who set the fire …’

  Verity chimed in. ‘But even if he is Leon’s man, Leon wouldn’t get his own son into trouble deliberately, surely?’

  Saul leaned forward. ‘He wanted his boy. He wanted ’im, and the way to keep ’im when he got young Joe was to scare the living daylights out of ’im by saying ’e had to stay on the Brighton or he’d be put in clink. D’you know what I reckon … Dog went for the German bugger, who let go our Joe, told yon Sylvia the lad was the fire setter, then Dog tried to chase ’im off, ’e carted her off, then knifed her.’

  He sat back, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looked at those as he asked Verity, ‘What were it you said about swinging for ’er?’ He nodded towards Sylvia, who looked shocked.

  Verity flushed, and said, ‘Well, you are enormously irritating.’

  Saul stood, then paced. ‘Well, I could swing for ’im, that Leon, I could, you know. I’s glad the boy’s with them police, for now, cos Leon can’t reach him there.’

  Verity left them to check on Dog who was with the Porters and Jimmy again, further down the towpath.

  Still Polly’s parents didn’t telephone. One o’clock went by. Then, as Verity returned from the Porters’, bringing the latest news on Dog, 1.30 chimed. At two in the morning, the telephone still hadn’t rung, but instead there was a knocking at the door, hesitant at first, but then louder. Polly jerked from her doze. Saul was on his feet, saying, ‘The police ’ave brought him back.’

  He drew back the bolts and opened the door, but it wasn’t the police. Polly and Verity recognised her mother’s voice. ‘Hello, young man, we’ve brought Mr Burton. We can’t have children being carted about the country, and put into big old orphanages or borstals or whatever the police do with them these days, indeed we can’t, and a personal appearance is far better than a call. After all, the law doesn’t know if Mr Burton is really a solicitor if he telephones them; could be the milkman.’

  She hurried into the bar. ‘Ah, here you all are, but no drinks before you, which is quite the surprise.’ Polly and Verity sprang to their feet, their hair a mess, their hands filthy, a fact that was, they were sure, about to be drawn to their attention.

  Her mother bustled over with her dad and Mr Burton in her wake. Mrs Holmes spread her arms wide, her handbag swinging on her arm. ‘Come along then, a kiss for your mum, Polly, and I’ll have one from you too, Verity Clement, and you can tell Mr Burton all about the pickle you’re in.’

  They obeyed, confused. Her mum waved her husband and Mr Burton to the seats vacated by Saul and Granfer. She sat on Polly’s chair, flattening her gloves on the small round table, then looked up. ‘We have work to do, a child to bring home. Mr Burton needs all the details, all do you hear, young man, and you two girls, no fudging now.’ Polly looked at her dad. He smiled. ‘This is the woman I married. I think you might recognise her?’

  Verity laughed. ‘Well, I certainly do. Polly, meet the one in whose image you are made.’

  Sylvia said, from the settle, ‘You’ll need me too. I’m one of the girls, and I saw the most.’

  Polly heard Verity’s sigh and it was difficult not to join in.

  Her dad squashed as many as possible into his car: Polly, with her mum on her lap, Saul with Verity on his, and Granfer with Sylvia, after Mr Burton had looked worried and mentioned that his respectability might be brought into question, should his trousers be creased by having someone sitting on his knee.

  At the police station, they all somehow fell out of the car and followed Mr Burton into the police house, because that’s what it was, just a house.

  They banged the counter bell. The room was cold as the fireplace held only the embers of the daytime fire, and it was now almost 3 a.m.

  A policeman finally arrived, his shirt buttoned up wrongly and his hair unbrushed. ‘Morning all,’ he said. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  Mr Burton took over, explaining that the fire had been earlier in the evening, and that a young boy had been brought in, as the possible perpetrator. ‘He’s gone,’ said the policeman.

  Saul and Polly pressed closer. Mr Burton waved them back. ‘Might I ask to where?’

  ‘Castlewood Children’s Home, the special division. Well, it’s a couple of rooms, really. It’s where we keep ’em if a crime might have been committed, but more serious really is that there might be summat a bit tricky about his ’ome circumstances, and a report was taken from a Miss Sylvia Simpson that there was a history of brick throwing, occasioning injury, and theft.’

  Mrs Holmes sucked in her breath, and pulled up her gloves around her fingers even tighter. She poked Mr Burton in the back. Mr Burton asked the policeman if there was somewhere they could talk in peace.

  Mrs Holmes’s expression showed her opinion of that remark. Mr Burton was beckoned even further forward. The policeman leaned over the counter, listening. Finally he nodded, walked along to the counter hatch, lifted it, and gestured Mr Burton through. They disappeared into the back room.

  The others looked at one another. Sylvia whined, ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Be quiet, Sylvia,’ said Verity and Polly together. But this time there was a third voice, as they were joined by Mrs Holmes. Sylvia sat on one of the chairs that lined the room. The wall tiles were dark green, like the lavatory at the depot, and at the thought Polly remembered the butty, and that they had not told the depot. Well, it must wait its turn.

  The three girls, Saul and Granfer walked back to the pub. It took an hour in the gloom but nobody complained. Instead they were quietly happy and none more so than Polly, because her mum was better. Yes, her mum’s son was dead, but she was recovering. This would escalate as her parents ha
d offered to keep Joe with them until a decision was made about his future, and that lad would be enough of a handful to keep her mum occupied. Mr Burton was standing as the equivalent of guarantor, but he doubted it would come to court, if only they could sort out the match book, and the foreigner.

  As they walked to the pub Granfer strode along at Polly’s side. ‘Fine woman, yer mum is, to take on our boy until it’s all sorted. Reckon they’ll let ’er in that Castlewood Home to get ’im out?’

  Verity tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Would you stand in her way? Mark you, she will have Mr Burton and Mr Holmes with her, and I reckon those three could cut through enemy lines and take a bunch of prisoners before they’d had their boiled egg for breakfast, don’t you, Polly?’

  Polly laughed. ‘With their accumulated arms tied behind their backs.’

  Sylvia muttered, ‘We need to trace the book of matches soon. Have you all memorised the name of the club? We need to gather up as much information as we can get for the police, because they’re calling it sabotage, or at the very least, hooliganism. Someone’s got to go and ask questions.’

  Saul squeezed Polly’s hand. ‘I reckon our Mr Burton’s got a trick or two oop ’is sleeve, but you’re right, Sylvia. We need to know if Leon goes to t’Blind Weasel in Wellington Street, t’name on the match book, or so Constable Reed done told us. When we get back to the depot, I ’ave work to do.’

  ‘But what if the manager at the club writes out a statement or something. You can’t read, Saul, and won’t know if it’s gobbledygook,’ Sylvia objected.

  Verity’s sigh was loud in the night. ‘What have I told you about keeping your mouth firmly shut.’

  Saul said, slowly and clearly, ‘I can read so they won’t fox us with gobbledygook.’

  Granfer said, ‘And so’s can me, but slower. We been teaching ourselves from Polly and Verity’s drawin’ lessons. ’Mazing what you can do of a night-time, after a ’ard day’s work. Does you know what an ’ard day’s work is, Missus?’ He was looking at Sylvia.

  Sylvia strode on ahead, her curls bouncing. Polly said quietly, as an owl hooted in the cold air, ‘She might just turn herself around.’

  Verity slipped her arm through Polly’s while Saul held her other hand. Verity said, ‘Mr Burton did say Constable Reed was going to double-check the description of the escaped POW now that we’ve told him of the scar we noticed on the man on Leon’s boat, and then the one at the fire. He’ll also circulate an additional description – a burn or even a dog bite, should they ever find the bugger.’

  ‘Indeed. And no fee required; as yet, anyway. Depends how much he has to do along the line.’

  Saul began softly singing, ‘I’ll be seeing him, in all the old familiar places …’

  Soon they were all joining in, singing him, instead of you, because he, the German, if that is who he was, would be found. Saul whispered quietly to Polly, ‘The German will involve Leon in it, I bet you, and I will then be seeing Leon. It’s all got to stop.’

  She felt a shaft of fear. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. Joe needs you.’

  ‘Only Joe?’ he asked while the others sang on.

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  They didn’t speak of love, but it was there, as solid as a rock. Saul murmured, ‘The police said they’d put Missing posters round to try and find our Maudie, but that was all. She coulda just walked off, so they says, but I’m not sure any more. I feared ’e hurt her bad, for a while, and when I find Leon, I need to ask him what ’appened, but I needs to ask ’im in a way he has to answer, for I have fears …’

  It took a while for Polly to realise what he meant. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered. They had reached the cut, and she looked down into the cold turgid water. So much lay on the bottom of this canal, but surely not Maudie. No, things like that didn’t happen in real life, only in films.

  Saul’s arm slipped around her shoulder. She stared again at the water, but then at the fields across from the pub. No, Maudie would be working somewhere, building up money to take care of her Joe … but now the thought of an alternative was in her mind, she knew it would not disappear.

  Chapter 39

  21 February – the Marigold heads back to the depot

  Saul and Granfer were off by six the next morning, heading south for the depot, in a hurry. Polly crossed her arms, standing on the bank watching as they grew smaller. ‘Please don’t do anything that will make you swing for him, Saul. Please,’ she whispered.

  She had said this when they kissed goodnight. He’d said, ‘Don’t you fret, Polly. I got a lot to live for, but I got things that ’ave to be sorted.’

  She understood.

  She lifted her hand to the Seagull and Swansong as they disappeared into the freezing mist. There was a hoar frost today, and it felt as cold as it looked. Verity called as she walked on to the towpath from the direction of the pub, ‘I telephoned the depot. They say to get on back and they’ll deal with it once we tell them everything. They’re bloody furious – not with us, but with whoever did it. Alf told me on the quiet that they don’t think it’s our Joe, not for a minute. Once they might have, but not now.’

  Sylvia was cleaning the butty’s cabin roof. The hoses had saved the cabin itself, and, unable to sleep anyway, they had removed all Bet’s pierced plates last night by the light of the hurricane lamp. The fore-end had sunk in the water, but still floated. Would the depot be able to tow it?

  Delphie had said that they could wash Bet’s possessions before they went, and between the two of them they lugged the bucket of pierced plates, brasses and crocheted curtains into the pub’s kitchen. Frank was in the cellar, and Delphie was preparing breakfast for her guests. It smelt wonderful.

  They finished washing Bet’s stuff as Delphie packed up cooked bacon and eggs in an aluminium tin. ‘There you are, dearies. That’ll help you along, and make sure you get some sleep tonight.’

  They stashed Bet’s belongings into the back-end behind the engine room, taking a quick look at the cargo of coal. Verity raised an eyebrow at Polly, who nodded. They clambered on top of the load, filling the bucket they had collected from the back-end with lumps of coal. Polly lugged it down the path to the pub coal bunker. She lifted the lid, and tipped the coal in.

  Delphie called from the kitchen, ‘That’s right nice.’

  ‘You’ve been so kind. I’ll bring another couple of buckets, and that’s our thank-you.’

  Delphie said, ‘Use that old bucket of ours by the bunker, and bless you, Polly.’ She closed the door. Polly half ran down the path, the buckets banging into her legs. She threw one up to Verity, who caught it. It swung against the coal as Polly clambered up with her buckets. Sylvia bobbed out of the cabin, stepped on to the gunwale, stood on tiptoe and took in the scene.

  She opened her mouth. Polly said, ‘Shut that mouth immediately.’

  Sylvia did, and bobbed back into the cabin. Verity murmured as she threw coal into her bucket, ‘She’ll split on us at the depot, see if she doesn’t.’

  ‘She must know that everyone takes just a little bit from time to time. Tell you what, if we see any along the towpath we can suggest she picks it up and puts it on top of this lot, if she feels so strongly.’

  Verity laughed. ‘You are, under that sweet-as-pie look, an absolute horror.’

  By eight they were off, and without the butty it was not only crowded, but fast. They tied up at Leighton Buzzard, before the flight of locks, and Verity and Polly crammed themselves into the cross-bed, with Dog on the floor. They let Sylvia have the side-bed though she moaned twice about the narrowness. The third time, Polly threw her boot and yelled, ‘Be glad you haven’t Verity snoring in your ear, and her elbow and knees sticking into you. Now go to sleep.’

  Sylvia did, and at last Polly slept, but dreamed of Joe, covered in soot, being chased by Leon who had a scar on his cheek. He caught Joe, who then became Polly and he shook her until her teeth rattled, and shouted, ‘Wake up, wake up, for heaven’s sake.’


  It was Verity. Polly stared at her. ‘What—?’

  Sylvia threw the boot back at her. ‘Now you’re the one shouting.’

  The girls gave up trying to sleep at 5.30, made porridge and set off, taking turns at lock-wheeling. Verity and Polly watched Sylvia heaving on the gate beams without complaint. They moored early at Berkhamsted, but this time Polly made up a bed out of their coats and clothes on the narrow floor space and stretched out with Dog at her feet. They kept the slide hatch shut because there had been a slight smattering of snow, as well as a driving, freezing wind. But a draught still crept through the doors. She was so tired, she slept, and this time no one had to throw boots.

  Once on their way again the locks came thick and fast. They met boats coming up heavily laden so most of the locks were ready. It was like a knife sliding through butter, Polly said as they pat-pattered along in between the locks, but the other two groaned. Sylvia ripped off her gloves and brandished her blistered hands, and Verity’s lips were so dry and chapped they had split. But all the time the girls looked to the front and behind, watching out for Leon, and wondering what the depot would say, and what would happen to Joe.

  At last they were back amongst the houses, and saw red London buses and heard Music While You Work from factory windows that were only open a slit in this weather. The Marigold was unloaded at a paper factory, and they had to listen to interminable grumbling from the foreman because he’d been expecting wood as well, and wanted to know why the depot hadn’t told him sooner they weren’t bringing any.

  In the end, as the coal was almost unloaded, Verity stepped forward and stared up into the foreman’s face. ‘You silly little man, we could have been burned to a crisp because our butty was sabotaged, and set on fire, but here we are, slogging along to you with your bloody coal, and I suggest you stuff some of it where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  For a moment he was speechless, then shouted against the sound of coal unloading, and other boats arriving, ‘I’ll have you sacked.’