Monday 27 March 1944 – the Waterway Girls heading from Limehouse Basin to Alperton
Polly Holmes steered the narrowboat Marigold along the centre of the canal while Verity Clement made a cuppa in the cabin. Though it was early afternoon, it was still so cold that frost glistened on the roof and coated the sixty-foot tarpaulin covering the cargo.
Polly dug her chin deeper into her muffler and rested her elbow on the tiller, hearing the slap of water and ice against the hull of not only Marigold, but their motor-less butty, Horizon, on tow behind. Sylvia Simpson, the newest crew member, was at Horizon’s helm. Polly hooted the horn to her and listened, but whispered, ‘No doubt there’ll be no reply.’
She was right and waited ten seconds before trying again. She sighed with relief as she heard a short toot. Clearly Sylvia was thawing a little, though there was a way to go until she stopped being angry at catching Verity’s cold.
There wasn’t much traffic on the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union Canal so far and it meant that Polly could relax as she steered past bomb-damaged factories, terraces and warehouses. She felt she’d been travelling at three miles an hour for the whole of her life, not just six months. Mark you, she laughed to herself, they roared along at the heady speed of four miles an hour when unloaded. Crikey, how could she stand the excitement?
Ahead loomed a bridge over which red London buses toiled, followed by a lengthy convoy of canvas-sided military lorries. Polly yanked her woollen hat with its oversized bobble low over her ears, her hands numb with cold. She pulled her gloves from her trouser pockets. Why on earth hadn’t she put them on earlier? She knew why; she was too busy thinking of her future with Saul, a boater, and that was not what she wanted to be doing, so instead she concentrated on the cold.
‘Damn you, weather,’ Polly groaned. ‘We’re supposed to be heading for the joys of spring, not suffering your temper tantrum. What on earth is all this snow and ice about? Don’t you know there’s a war on – and something’s brewing, to judge from the flurry of army transport all over the place. Are you the enemy, too, to cause us this much trouble?’
‘First sign of madness, ducky, talking to yourself,’ Verity called up from the cabin.
‘Madness helps,’ snorted Polly, sick to death of the ice that had clung, jagged and thick, around the hull and along the bank of the canal – which those on the boats called ‘the cut’ – for the last four days. She also loathed the swirling snow showers and the freezing mist, but which was worse? Oh, shut up, she told herself; look on the bright side, for heaven’s sake. So instead she thought of the cabin range belting out heat, drying their clothes and keeping them warm overnight. Life came down to the basics, she mused, but then she shook her head. She mustn’t muse, because it would lead her back to Saul.
She opened the cabin’s double doors, shoved back the slide hatch and stepped onto the shelter of the cabin’s top step, hearing a wail from Verity. ‘Hey, now I’m in a draught.’
Polly laughed. ‘Stop fussing, you’re a Waterway Girl now, and having a lord for a father cuts no mustard here, so just grin and bear it, like a trooper. You need a change of air anyway. And where’s my tea?’
She grinned to herself, knowing she could tease her friend about her high-flown roots, but only so long as no boater heard. It had been struggle enough for the girls to be accepted on the canal, or cut, without having a ‘ladyship’ as a crew member.
The sun emerged from between the cloud, just for a moment, as it had at Limehouse Basin yesterday, when the pallets of aluminium were being unloaded from the rusty merchant ships moored at the wharf, to be swung immediately by cranes into the queue of narrowboat holds.
Polly wondered now, as she had when they secured their tarpaulins, if the aluminium would be used for fighters or bombers, once they delivered it to Tyseley Wharf in Birmingham? Who knew, but it would be something connected with the war effort. Her grin faded.
No, not the war, because it reminded her that Saul might be trying …
She forced herself to remain in the present, peering behind at the butty and giving another short hoot on the horn. Sylvia replied immediately, this time with a toot-toot-toot. Good. Anyway, Sylvia wasn’t the only one with a cold. Polly coughed, her throat sore, her nose running. She wiped it on her sweater sleeve. Her mum would be shocked – or would she? Probably not. Her mum was used to the state of her by now.
Verity tapped Polly’s leg, squinting up at her from the depths of the tiny cabin, her blonde hair escaping from her woollen hat. ‘I’ve made cocoa instead. I’ll bring it up.’ Before she did, though, Verity called back, ‘Dog, don’t come up; stay curled on Mistress Polly’s bed in the warmth. And, Mistress Polly, this cocoa will put hairs on your chest and clear that cold.’
Polly sniffed, grimaced and eased the tiller slightly. ‘Not sure that I find the thought of hairs on my chest has much to recommend it.’
Verity laughed and put three steaming mugs on the cabin roof. One was covered with a side-plate and wrapped in a mitten. She shook her head at Polly. ‘You are remiss, my girl. You should have trained that dog to keep the fire going.’
As she said this, she propped herself up against the cabin, wearing a blanket over her shoulders, held together with the Inland Waterway badge they’d all been awarded after completing their Ministry of War Transport training. It was a training that had enabled them to manage cargo-carrying canal boats and replace the boaters who had gone off to war, before the Reserved Occupation order had come in for twenty-five-year-old boaters and over. It was an age-limit that proved discretionary, because the younger men had almost immediately been encompassed by the RO, too, for a while – a decision that had just been reinstated, thank heavens, thought Polly.
She watched the wind whip away the steam from the mugs and wished that her fear could be as easily dispersed. Saul, at twenty a year older than she was, had been denied permission to sign up in 1943. He should therefore have been tied to the cut, but to her horror he had tried to break through the RO in the New Year and sign up for the army, but had hurt his leg in a lock fall and it was for that reason he had been refused.
She looked up now, as starlings swirled above the canal – swirling, swirling, just like her mind, because at Limehouse they’d heard that Steerer Mercy’s son-in-law had just enlisted, despite the RO. How? – that’s what Polly wanted to know. And how dare he, because it would encourage Saul; and he’d probably die, like her twin, Will. She made herself concentrate on the tiller beneath her elbow, the mug in her other hand. She sipped, swallowed, breathed deeply and dragged up the words of Bet, their instructor: ‘You’ve passed, but it’s the cut that will really teach you how to be strong women, no matter how scared you are.’
She straightened; of course, that’s right, she was strong and formidable, even if she was damned frightened. She sipped again, really tasting the thick, soothing drink, and finally registered that Verity was still leaning against the cabin, staring at her, muttering, ‘Polly, my girl, you look as though you’re going into bat against those sprouting chest hairs – all fierce and then worried. What’s up?’
Polly laughed. ‘Trying to work out how to train Dog to keep the fire going.’ She saw a narrowboat pair approaching; they were unloaded and therefore high in the water, on the way to pick up cargo from Limehouse Basin. She steered off-centre into shallower water to allow clear passage. Steerer Simms tipped his hat and called, ‘’Ow do.’
‘How do,’ the girls called back.
Verity watched the boats pass, and to Polly it looked as though a cloud had passed over her friend’s face and had left her miserable. Polly guessed why and her heart sank. What a pair they were, although Verity’s problem was far more pressing than her own.
She nudged her friend with her boot. ‘Anyway, to get back to my chest, Miss Verity Clement, no hair would dare to sprout beneath my two vests and three sweaters; or if the thought ever crossed its mind, it would have a monumental struggle to survive.’
She must keep up Verity’s spirits until the poor girl met her estranged boyfriend, Tom, at the Alperton pub this evening. How would it go, after so long? She didn’t dare think. Verity forced a laugh, a cocoa moustache running along her top lip. Polly sipped, and dug for a handkerchief, coughing and blowing her nose.
She realised then that Verity was pointing to the third of the mugs. ‘I know Sylvia can make her own in the butty cabin, but it’s my apology to her, for spreading my wretched germs. Please say you’ll take it. She still gets me so on edge, and I haven’t the patience for that today.’
Polly gulped her own cocoa. ‘Right you are. After all, you need to conserve your energy for the almost impossible task of making yourself beautiful for this evening.’
Verity laughed, long and loud.
Polly grinned back, relieved, and asked, ‘What time did Tom say?’ Tension immediately swept across Verity’s face and her blue eyes darkened, and Polly could have kicked herself. They were close to another bridge, and Polly didn’t give Verity a moment to brood, but nudged her again. ‘Keep an eye on the parapet, Verity.’
They both peered ahead, ready to sidestep any children intent on hurling debris at the boater ‘scum’. There was no one on this bridge, just as there had been no one at the others; the children were fair-weather bullies, it seemed.
Polly slowed and hooted, to warn any approaching boats that they were entering the narrow bridge-hole and that they should give way. She called for Dog, who hurtled from the cabin, wagging her tail. ‘Good girl, Dog, you might as well come with me and stretch your legs. Take the tiller, Verity, and pull her in really tight to the bank, so I can get off.’
Verity laughed again. ‘Pull in tight, indeed. Teaching your grandmother to suck eggs, Captain Holmes?’
‘That’s enough cheek, Grandma. There’s another bridge in a hundred yards, so pull in tight again and I’ll jump back then.’
Verity pulled a face at her, taking over the tiller, and Polly muttered, ‘I’ll present your cocoa with fulsome apologies for the cold you gave Sylvia, but I confess to you now that I’ve made it worse, by calling Sylvia “Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer” first thing this morning.’
Verity pretended to be shocked, but then almost wept with laughter. ‘Well, her nose is alarmingly red at the moment, and life would be so much easier if she found at least one or two things amusing.’ She suddenly grew serious. ‘But do your best, Polly. I don’t want Sylvia being sniffy – literally and metaphorically – when we arrive at the pub, and if she’s rude to Tom … He’s got to love me again, you see, he really has.’
Polly shook her head, reaching out and holding Verity’s hand. ‘He already does, or why would he be coming?’
Verity’s grin didn’t reach her eyes. She pointed to the towpath. ‘I’ve pulled in, Polly, so stop rabbiting on, and just deliver the drink.’
Polly gave her hand one last squeeze, grabbed the mug of cocoa, left the plate and half jumped off onto the towpath, calling back quietly so that Sylvia couldn’t hear, ‘Didn’t spill a drop, and don’t worry about Sylvia being difficult this evening. I’ll sweep her down the other end of the pub to sing a duet with my lovely Saul. Come on, Dog.’
Dog followed, running backwards and forwards, sniffing, while Polly waited for the butty to reach her. When it did she stepped on board the prow deck – or ‘counter’, as it was called on the narrowboats – again with no spillage, while Dog stayed ferreting about on the bank. She walked rather than ran along the slippery, frosted top planks laid over the cargo, checking the tarpaulin as she went, reaching the cabin roof and finally easing herself onto the counter, holding out the cocoa. ‘Cargo’s all tickety-boo. And cocoa for you, courtesy of Verity. That’s one of Mum’s knitted mittens it’s sitting in.’
Sylvia nodded, sniffed and took the mug in fingerless-gloved hands, her nose a close match to her red hair, which curled around her green woollen hat.
Polly kept her mouth shut.
Sylvia, one hand on the tiller, muttered, ‘Nonetheless, Verity should have coughed into a handkerchief. It’s not fair to give us her cold. Colds are the last thing we need, on top of this horrid weather. If you live in a community, you learn not to—’ She stopped and gulped her cocoa.
Polly gazed ahead as they were towed by Marigold from the bridge-hole, trying to be patient, and replied, ‘We’re hardly a community, Sylvia.’ Then she paused, for perhaps they were – a boaters’ community; anyway, what gave her, Miss Polly Holmes, the right to be so snotty? She began again. ‘I’ve never thought of us like that before, but even so, Sylvia, if one person in a team, or a community, gets a cold, we all get it. We share everything else, after all.’
Sylvia was groping for a handkerchief, dragging it out of her trouser pocket and sneezing into it. She gave a cough for good measure, then said, ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Polly.’
Polly thought for a moment and suspected that Sylvia was right. ‘Sorry, my mouth runs away with me sometimes. You’ll be coming to the pub with us, won’t you, so that I can buy you a medicinal drink as my mea culpa? And maybe there’ll be a chance to sing with Saul. It’s special because Verity is meeting up with Tom at last and—’
‘I know,’ Sylvia snapped. ‘I’m not senile. You’ve told me that already. And don’t mock the Holy Mass – mea culpa, indeed.’
Dog, her shaggy white-and-grey coat spattered with dirty snow, barked as she loped along the towpath towards the next bridge-hole, her tongue hanging out in sheer joy. The Marigold hooted a warning to any approaching pairs, then entered the darkness beneath the upcoming bridge.
Polly drew in a deep breath, her hands clenched in her pockets, as she realised that she had upset Sylvia yet again; but it had been like walking on eggshells ever since she had joined them as their third crew member. ‘I really wasn’t mocking. I just didn’t think, so I’m sorry. And I know you barely drink, beyond a sweet sherry, but a cold requires a large dose of alcohol, so I insist that I treat you this evening. Take it as an apology. Anyway, our trainer Bet – the oracle – used to swear by a brandy. Now, I must get back.’
Polly waved, walked warily along the top planks and then leapt off the prow onto the bank, running, jumping onto Marigold’s stern counter just as she left the bridge. Dog followed and slipped into the cabin, to bask once more in the heat of the range. The cold seemed to bring an early dusk with it, but perhaps it was only a thickening of the cloud base. Polly sat on the cabin roof, leaving Verity to steer, and said, ‘Surely there’s not going to be another snow shower? That will just pile on the misery.’
‘Oh Lord, what if it holds up Tom? We can’t wait, Pol, not even for such an important personal thing. We must keep up with the schedule.’ Polly started to reply, but Verity overrode her. ‘I know – if he can’t get through, because the snow’s so heavy, I’ll leave a note—’
Polly interrupted, wanting to take Verity in her arms. ‘Hey, it’s not going to happen. Tom’s a soldier and was your family’s chauffeur, and he will know exactly how to get where he’s heading.’ But it was no good; she could see Verity’s nervousness and pain and couldn’t bear it. They continued, passing unloaded boats high in the water, heading towards the east and Limehouse. Polly changed places with Verity at the tiller, repeating, ‘It will be all right, I know it will.’ She knew no such thing, but damn it – it had to be.
They travelled on, Marigold nudging aside the drifting ice, while the barrage balloons glinted over the warehouses, houses and trains of London, straining at their tethers. The afternoon drew on and the wind got up. Polly shivered in the cold, her fingers and toes numb, until she finally pointed at Verity. ‘I insist you go into the cabin, there’s no point in both of us freezing.’
Verity shook her head and peered ahead. Polly wondered, for the hundredth time, if Tom really would be there? He could hardly be blamed if he wasn’t, because how could he trust anything Verity or her family said, after the lies that had led to their bitter break-up? Nonetheless, if he didn’t come, Polly would damn well want to … She steered, resting her elbow on the tiller and peering through the drab light. Well, what would she want to do? Pull Tom’s hair out, slap him perhaps; but the person she really wanted to do that to was Verity’s mother, Lady Pamela Clement, who had caused all this heartache.
As though Verity had read her mind, the girl lowered herself from the cabin roof to the counter and came to stand beside Polly, her fury almost staining the cold air. ‘Oh Lord, how tricky it must have been for my parents, to have a daughter who fell in love with the chauffeur – and he with her. Heavens above, what on earth would they tell the neighbours?’
‘Oh, don’t do this to yourself,’ Polly murmured.
Verity took no notice, but just powered on. ‘Well, they didn’t have to tell anyone anything, did they? Mother saw to that. And I’d never have known the truth, if Tom hadn’t seen me from the bridge when his army lorry broke down, and you heard him yell, “Why did you make your mother pay me to leave you alone?” That’s why Tom left me; not because he wanted to go, as Mother had told me, but because she told Tom I wanted him gone. Such lies, to hurt us both.’
She was pacing the tiny deck, slapping one hand in the other.
Polly reached out and held Verity’s hands still. ‘It doesn’t help to go over and over it, and you are nearly at the finishing gate. Think of this evening instead.’
Verity took no notice, her cheeks wet. ‘But how could Tom believe Mother’s lies, after all we’d been to one another? Why on earth did he think I would offer money to get rid of him? And why would I believe Tom would ask for money to walk away? How could we so easily believe the worst of one another?’ She was sobbing. Every time she revisited the situation, she wept. And every time there was nothing Polly could do to make it any better, except whisper stupid platitudes, which did nothing to ease the hurt and regret.
She had another go, however, steering ahead into the freezing wind. ‘Hush now, it will all be sorted out this evening. Hush, little Verity, you’ve done all you can. You wrote all those letters trying to find Tom, after he saw you on the cut, until finally one letter did. And it was his suggestion to meet. Why would he want to see you, if not to love you again?’
Verity said nothing, but just stood, lifting her face into the icy blast, dragging her arm across her eyes. Polly waited, knowing how lucky it was that Saul loved her, and she him; at least that much in their lives was certain. Together the two girls stood silently, the tiller between them, the ice clunking on the hull. Somewhere a duck quacked, and along the towpath an old man walked a dog, his cap pulled down hard. Finally Verity half laughed. ‘Lord, I’m such an idiot. It’s amazing I don’t have icicles hanging from my eyes. So sorry, Polly Pocket. Must stop being a fool.’
She hauled herself back onto the roof, her shoulders hunched, and pretended to read The Times. At last, quite calmly, she said, ‘I wonder if the Allies will get past Monte Cassino soon?’
Relieved, Polly took up the running. ‘I hope so. At least the Russians are making progress on the Eastern Front. Soon the Allies must surely invade France?’ Were they on safer ground now?
Verity was folding the newspaper; and the answer was no, because she said, ‘I wonder if Tom is about to leave the country to go into action? All he wrote was that he was glad to read my side; nothing about love. Nothing about my mother – only that he’d moved on.’
She looked so sad, and Polly didn’t know what more she could do, or say, except the same old thing. ‘Come on, Verity. Tom’s coming, that’s what’s important and, let’s face it, there’s a great deal to be explained, and a lot of trust to be rebuilt, on both sides – both sides, do you hear, not just his.’
Polly had lost count of how many times they’d been through this, but nonetheless she ticked things off on her fingers.
‘It was meant to work out for you both, otherwise why would the Fates make Tom’s truck break down on that bridge? Why would I have heard him, as I headed off on the bike to the lock?’ She knew it was flimsy, but what else could she say?
Polly steered Marigold away from the centre as another narrowboat pair approached, passing left side to left side, as the temperature seemed to drop even further. Verity said nothing, just chewed her lip.
Polly raised her hand to the passing butty. ‘How do, Mrs Mercy.’
‘’Ow do, you lasses.’ Ma Mercy worked on her crochet, her breath puffing like a dragon’s while her small granddaughter sat on the roof. What did Ma Mercy feel when her son-in-law, Ted, wangled his way into the army, despite the RO? He’d handed back his boat and butty to the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company, of course, so at least she now had her daughter as an extra hand.
Polly felt her agitation begin to rise to match Verity’s and slapped it down, but all she could think of were the envy and shame in Saul’s eyes when they heard the news of Ted’s departure and Saul said, ‘It not be fair, sweet Polly, for ’im to go and do ’is bit, but they said no to me.’
Verity said, ‘What will I do if Tom doesn’t come?’
Polly had run out of reassurances and said nothing, as she realised the snow was falling heavily now. Oh no, please no. She waited, and sure enough Verity tapped her with her booted foot. ‘Reassure me, Miss Polly Holmes. Say he’ll force his way through snowdrifts ten feet high.’
Polly smiled and came up with yet another different take on her answer. ‘Don’t be daft. This is London, not the north of Scotland, so the snow won’t be deep. Besides, remember that Tom said he had moved on? Well, so have you. After all, you’re not the same spoilt, flouncy Lady Verity Clement you were when I first met you, so why shouldn’t it work out well?’
Verity stared at her, then burst out laughing. ‘And talking of moving on: you’re not the prissy, uncertain girl I first knew.’ They grinned at one another.
Verity picked up the newspaper, drawing out a pencil from her trouser pocket and starting on the crossword. She’d leave some gaps for Saul to attempt, when she passed it on to him. Saul had learned to read, with their encouragement, just as they had taught his nephew Joe and a few other children.
Joe, who was now staying with Polly’s mum so that he could go to school, had said that reading had made him know so much more. It was what Saul said, too; but perhaps if he hadn’t learned, he wouldn’t want to go to war, because he wouldn’t know what was really happening? Polly knew where this was taking her, so she lifted her face to the snow. It was falling in large flakes, and through them flew a skein of geese with a great swishing of their wings – heading for where? The Serpentine? St James’s Park? Who knew? Who knew anything any more?
She must have spoken aloud, because Verity leaned forward. ‘Dearest Polly, what the hell are you talking about?’
Polly smiled, patting her friend’s leg. ‘I wish I knew. What is certain is that we’re nearly at Alperton. Sid will have the fire crackling in the pub, and the beer will be weak but warm; Saul will catch us up, having been loaded quickly at Limehouse; I’ll buy Sylvia a large sweet sherry as an apology for I’m-not-quite-sure-what; and Tom will come on the Piccadilly Line, as arranged, or we’ll wring his neck, because I can’t go through your second-guessing for much longer. Look, the snow is lighter already.’
Verity slipped down and hugged her. ‘Oh, Polly, I’m such a frightful bore, aren’t I? But I’ll listen to you, if you’re ever grizzling on and on, I promise.’
‘I bet you don’t. You’ll just give me a sharp smack and tell me to stop my hysterics.’
‘How did you guess?’
The two of them stood firm, their heads up into the wind, on either side of the tiller. The storm was over – for now.