Tuesday 28 March – 8 a.m. at Sid’s pub, Alperton
The next morning Tom leaned back against the side-wall of the pub at Alperton. His fractured shin ached even more in this bitter cold and itched beneath the plaster. His toes stuck out from the cast and, even though they were covered in a couple of army socks, were freezing cold. Yesterday the nurse had wrapped round some waterproof gear to keep the foot dry, which was a blessing. She was a good ’un, and was engaged to a matelot. Tom hoped he survived.
The hospital had been reluctant to discharge him, after just three days. He’d lied, explaining that he had to see off a relative who was embarking for who-knew-where. They had checked with his CO, who explained that Tom’s leave had been changed to sick leave, and if the doc thought he was able, then they should let him go.
The doc had finally signed the form, and the sister had given Tom a couple of sticks because he didn’t want the crutches, knowing he’d only get tangled up, getting on and off trains. He’d hitched his grip over his shoulder, wincing because it was still bruised from the crash between their jeep and the idiot on the motorbike; and had lurched off to the station yesterday afternoon. He’d continued sitting in the train when it jerked to a stop because of some signalling problem, but by the evening they’d all been turfed out, until the lines were sorted. He’d tried phoning the pub more than once from outside that station, but the damned Button A wouldn’t work, so he’d spent the night sitting huddled on the platform until the trains were up and running again this morning.
He straightened, took a walking stick in each hand and limped round to the pub’s entrance, which indeed faced the canal, as Verity had written. The snow – deep, crisp and even, as the carol said – hadn’t yet been cleared. Perhaps it was just as well, as ice tended to be more lethal than snow, and he didn’t fancy going over and doing even more damage to himself. He had to get fit, and quick.
He stared across the garden at the canal frontage, feeling nervous, excited … and what? But his thoughts were disturbed as he realised there were no boats moored up. Surely Verity had waited, after all this time – perhaps the boats were further along the bank?
He limped along the path towards the waterway, though it was more treacherous than it looked, because the ice beneath the snow had been scuffed into ridges. He made it to the bank unscathed and stared into the still water, where the ice lay in chunks. Presumably the boaters had bashed their way free. He checked both ways; not a sausage. He stared up at the stone-grey sky, which looked as cold as his bloody foot. His mouth was dry with despair. She’d gone. He looked both ways again, blinking. They weren’t tears, it was just the wind.
He swallowed and dragged out his handkerchief, wiping his face, blowing his nose and shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket. He straightened. God, he was a fool. He’d believed Verity’s words, but how stupid was that; he was only a damned chauffeur, like her mother had said, when she told him it had just been a game to Verity. She had insisted Verity wanted Tom to leave her alone so much that her mother was to pay him off, to make sure he did.
He rested on his walking sticks, more defeated than he’d ever felt in action. Was she bored, and thought she’d get back to playing her old game, when she knew he’d seen her from the bridge? Well, he thought, with rising pain and anger as he limped back down the path, that was the end of it; and what a fool he’d been to think otherwise.
He felt sick, and his head had begun to ache from tiredness and pain. He’d slog back into London proper and try and find somewhere to doss down for the rest of his sick leave. What then? Well, there’d be all the faffing about at the barracks; and when he was fit, there’d be training exercises, because – judging from the build-up of military transport – something would kick off soon. The big push? Well, he bloody hoped so. There was a war to win, and perhaps he’d get his head blown off, and who the hell would care? He certainly wouldn’t.
He dragged out his handkerchief and wiped his face again, slipped, then righted himself. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered, just as he heard the bolts on the pub door being slid back.
The green front door opened, and an overweight middle-aged bloke stood there, with a black apron tied round his middle, smoking. There was a pencil behind his ear. ‘You looking for someone, lad?’
‘Not any more, I’m not. You’re Sid, are you?’ Their breath puffed out and merged. Tom rested on his sticks, easing his leg.
‘Yes, lad. That’s me – Sid, the publican. And you, my fine feller, ’ll be the missing love of ’er life. You tried phoning, did yer?’
Tom stared at him. ‘You know Lady Verity then?’
Sid stared back. ‘I knows Verity, right enough. Don’t know about any “Lady Verity”, and best yer don’t splash that around, cos she don’t, and the boaters might think it highfalutin.’ Sid tossed his cigarette into the snow. It hissed and died.
Tom said, ‘Lady or not, she didn’t have the decency to wait until I arrived. So that’s it then, I’m not playing her bloody silly games any more.’
The words hung between them, like their breath. Sid looked past him to the canal, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Them lasses have a schedule to keep, carrying war supplies, and no young pup should stand there on his one good leg and gainsay that. How’d you feel, back in the field, cos I can tell from the khaki greatcoat you’re wearin’ you’re likely to be there anytime soon. So, I say again, how’d yer feel if yer didn’t have no gun, cos the boaters had stopped off to wait for some tit-headed idiot who didn’t arrive when he said? Some khaki lad who couldn’t even totter with his sticks to the next phone box and try again. Cos it was yer, weren’t it, ringing and ringing?’
Tom rubbed his forehead, knocking his beret to one side, his bloody headache worse now. Sid was still looking at him, and Tom knew he had to say something, so although he still ached with anger he said, ‘I put my hand up – duff Button A.’
Sid had his papers and baccy out now and was rolling one. He raised an eyebrow and tipped the tobacco tin towards Tom, who shook his head.
‘I have my own, but haven’t a hand to dig ’em out while juggling these sticks.’
Sid turned and headed into the lobby. He stopped and looked back. ‘Come on, then; that were a hint, if ever I ’eard one. The missus will have a pot of tea on the go, so we’ll wrap ourselves round a cuppa. You can get yer smokes out while you think whether to turn tail or get a bit of backbone and go after the lass. She was saying early on in the evening that she’d leave a note for you, but she got a bit … well, you know, miserable; and had a pint or several too many.’
Tom looked back at the canal, then up at the sky. There was more snow to come. The wind lifted his beret, then it settled. His toes beneath the socks were numb. He could do with a cuppa to give him a bit of puff to get into London.
‘Just for a minute, then, Sid. Thanks.’ He limped into the lobby. Sid held open the door into the bar and jerked his head. ‘Hurry it up, then, we don’t want the wind takin’ the ’eat out of the place.’
Tom entered the darkness of the Public Bar, which was rich with the smell of beer, woodsmoke and last night’s tobacco. There was dead ash in the grate, and a scarf on the back of a chair at the table by the fireside. Surely it was …? He limped across the flagstones and reached out, fingering it. Yes, though the cashmere scarf was stained with oil and dirt, there was still the vestige of colour – and scent, Verity’s scent. Sid waited, holding up the hinged bar flap. ‘Yes, that’s yer lass’s. She forgot it, but someone will catch ’er up somewhere with it. That’s how dirty them girls get on the job.’
Tom dropped the scarf, letting it swing. He turned and saw the dartboard. He was flooded with memories: standing behind Verity, placing a dart into her smooth white hand. Verity leaning against him, the smell of her perfume. What had she called it? Was it ‘Happy’? No, no, that wasn’t it. ‘Joy’, that’s what it was. He looked again at the scarf. That was the smell. She had sat there in the warmth of the fire all evening, and then slept in the warmth of her Marigold overnight, unlike him. Had she been waiting to laugh at him? His head was beating a tattoo.
Sid called, ‘Cuppa or not? Make up your bleedin’ mind, cos I’m not standing ’ere all day, holding up the counter for the good of me ’ealth.’
Tom followed him into the kitchen, where a plump woman in an apron was up to her elbows in the sink. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Thought I ’eard you chatting, Sid. That’s Verity’s bloke, is it? Tea in the pot, then bugger off into the bar, I’m busy here. Don’t be long; you need to sort out the cellar and lay the fire, once you’ve sent ’im on whichever way he chooses. Shame she didn’t leave a note, but she was – let’s say – right conflummoxed, that she was, and who’s to blame ’er.’
Sid nodded and poured the tea. ‘Bit weak,’ he said to Tom. ‘Rationing, you know ’ow it is. We’ll take it out the sergeant-major’s way, cos she bites.’
Sid carried the two enamel mugs into the bar and led him to the fireside table.
‘All the pubs along the Grand Union Canal keep the fireside table for Polly and Verity, and if they don’t come, then it’ll be kept for their old instructor, Bet, now she’s back training on the cut.’ He gestured to the chair with Verity’s scarf. ‘Take the weight off your pins. Drop yer grip on the floor. Your leg?’
Tom sat, resting his walking sticks against the table, and letting his grip slide from his shoulder to the flagstones. ‘Bit of a road prang, busted my leg. So I’m on sick leave, and then I want to get back quick as I can, because—’ He stopped.
Sid nodded. ‘Yes, looks like a second front’s on the cards, so good luck to yer, lad.’
Tom sipped his tea, and it seemed to ease his head, just a fraction. He took out his roll-ups. He had a couple made up. ‘Have one, as thanks for the warmth, and the wet.’
Sid took one, and a light too, sucking in the nicotine and then exhaling up into the air. ‘Your Verity and her pal, Polly, play darts along the cut and bet on themselves. They keep the money in a kitty jar. When Joe, a youngster, got into trouble, they used the kitty money to help pay for a solicitor. Though the legal beak did it free in t’end, so that dosh is back in the jar, being added to for an emergency. They’re well liked, and ’ighly thought of, lad.’
What the hell did Tom care how highly thought of her high-and-mighty ladyship was? He drew on his roll-up and, as he sat back, the smell of Verity’s scarf seemed to waft ever more intensely: ‘Joy’ and dirt. He supposed, now that Verity had no staff, she didn’t turn her hand to washing. He drained his mug, waiting for Sid to do the same. They stubbed out their cigarettes in the ashtray, where there were other stubs stained with lipstick; it was Verity’s colour. So she could still afford lipstick in these days of rationing? Of course her sort always could.
Tom wanted to shred it, grind it into the ground, but he also wanted to put it in his pocket to keep it close. Oh God, his head was aching fit to burst, and it felt as though his heart was, too; and he couldn’t damn well think.
‘Well,’ he said finally, gathering his sticks together. ‘Best be off.’
He rose. Sid, too. The publican walked him to the bar door. ‘You didn’t ask me why the fireside table is always kept free for ’em, lad.’ He seemed to be barring the door.
Tom muttered, ‘No, I didn’t, cos it doesn’t interest me any more.’
Sid gripped his arm. ‘Then you’re a right bloody fool – just like I’d be, if I hadn’t chased after my missus. The least you could do is to catch ’er up and have a talk. You get her to tell you why they ’ave a reserved seat, just so’s you can see the sort of lass you’d be chucking away. What’s more, you should bloody believe her when she tells you the truth about the past, and the ruddy mess her mother made of the girl’s life, and yers too, no doubt. Believe ’er, not the mother – that’s what we think, them of us on the cut.’
Tom looked down at Sid’s hand, gripping him tightly enough to bruise. If he hadn’t a broken leg, he could down the bloke in a second.
Sid looked from his hand to Tom’s face. ‘D’you want to give it a try, lad? If so, be warned: I’ve chucked out better than you, with one ’and behind me back. You need to get yer ’ead in order, that you do. I sees it all the time – blokes looking into pint glasses, the pity for themselves dripping from ’em, their thoughts all in a tangle. If you’d been a man, you’d ’ave tapped your way to another phone box, course you would; and sorted this bloody mess, cos you ain’t lost the use of your legs. Not like some poor buggers. Yer just behaving like a bloody kid. Go after her and get the truth through yer noddle, for Gawd’s sake. Can’t ’ave the lass drinking herself stupid every night.’
Tom shook himself free and walked through into the lobby and out into daylight. It was snowing again, and the scuffed ridges on the path were almost completely hidden. He set off for the station, his head lowered as the snow grew heavier and seemed to deaden all sound. But he couldn’t get the remembered thud-thud of Verity’s darts out of his bursting head. And with the sound came the sight of her as they used to play in the Red Bull, the pub in a village near Sherborne; and Verity’s delight when she and he won.
He almost felt her throwing her arms around him. He heard her chatter as they walked back to Howard House, arm-in-arm, pledging their love. He felt he was breathing in the scent of her, and saw the plans of his garage that they drew in the air. A garage where he would mend cars, and she would keep the books, when this war was over. She’d take a class in bookkeeping, she’d said, and she’d learn how to type up invoices. Had it really been a game? Had it?
He paused. He had Verity’s recent letters in the pocket of his uniform, and they didn’t read like those of a girl in the middle of a game. Or did they? That was the trouble: how could he know? The day was so grey with cold that no bird sang and there was no one walking except for him, his sticks digging into the snow, his boot squeaking faintly as he peg-legged until he reached the station. He stopped, staring at the entrance, where sandbags were stacked. He could get on a train, find a room and leave Verity and her bloody letters and games for good and all, and then it would be over.
People were entering. The men had snow on their hats, the women snow on their umbrellas. But if he went without seeing her, he would never ever know the truth. One middle-aged ARP warden stopped and touched his arm. ‘You all right, sonny? Them toes must be ruddy freezing. Need an ’and?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Thanks, just taking a breather.’
‘You could take it in the dry?’ The warden’s eyes were kind.
Tom said, ‘You get on. I have to take a moment to sort me head out.’
The warden just nodded and walked on, before turning back, pulling the scarf around his mouth. Had Verity worn her scarf like that, around her face, her mouth – those lips that were still ‘Passion Pink’? He tried to feel nothing or, if not nothing, then anger, but all he could do was remember the scent of her; someone who was known only by her name, not her title.
The ARP warden said, ‘Easier sometimes to put yer thoughts into words, if yer talking to a stranger.’
Tom looked at the bloke. He found himself speaking, all in a rush. ‘I loved this Lady Verity, when I was her chauffeur. She said she loved me. We were going to work together, setting up a garage. Her mother came and said Verity was just bored, playing a game, and had asked her to give me money to bugger off and leave her alone. Or words to that effect. She then told Verity some cock-and-bull story about me wanting to leave, but demanding money to go. I believed it. She believed it. But we almost met, not long ago, and she wrote and said her mother had lied to us both. We agreed to meet. The train broke down – the lines, or something – and the phone box wouldn’t work, and she didn’t wait.’
The bloke just stood there. ‘So you haven’t seen her?’
‘No.’
‘So you’ll never know the truth of it.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Not that I care any more.’ His head was really bursting now, and he inched towards the station.
But the ARP warden came with him and said, ‘Fine kettle of fish, I reckon. Yer should chase it down, lad. Could be yer’ve both grown up a bit since then, and wouldn’t be so ready to believe what someone else tells yer.’
Tom shook his head, and snow fell from his beret. He took one more step towards the station, then stopped again. He knew he could have walked to the next telephone box last night; he could even see the ruddy thing. But now he faced the truth – he’d wanted to test Verity, see if she’d wait, because that would prove she loved him. Did he also want to hurt her, worry her, as the Clement family had hurt him? He didn’t know, and didn’t want to think about the whole bloody mess any more. It was all such a damned muddle.
The ARP warden took another step with him. ‘I often wish I could talk things through with my missus, but she copped a bomb in the Blitz. Too late now ever to share a word with ’er – even a cross one, and we ’ad a few of them. That’s a heartbreak, lad, but yer can do summat about yours. But only you – if yer get me meaning.’
He walked on, leaving Tom motionless. He tried to follow, but the scent of Verity wouldn’t leave him, and neither would Sid’s words, or the ARP’s, or his memories, which were more vibrant and clear with every moment, and at last he nodded to himself. Oh, what the hell harm could it do, to take a canal girl her scarf? It wasn’t as though he had to be anywhere else.
He slipped and slid back to the pub. His headache was marginally easier by the time he rapped on the door. He shrugged when Sid opened it. ‘I thought Verity would need her scarf, so I might as well take it.’
Sid just nodded. ‘Reckon that’s as good an excuse as any. Follow me in, but stamp your boots – well, boot – free of snow before you do.’
The two men sat at the fireside table while Sid mused on the best way of catching up with Marigold. Within minutes they were joined by the missus, which was all the name Tom was given. It was she who said, slapping the table, ‘For heaven’s sake, yer pair o’ slowcoaches. Use the cut, and flag down the next pair as comes along. Yer can send a message by them flyboats to tell ’em to wait at Cowley lock fer this package.’ She pointed at Tom.
Before he could draw breath, Tom was back out in the snow, with Sid in a mackintosh, holding an umbrella and standing on the bank. ‘We’ll flag ’em down with me brolly. The traffic’s been pretty steady, so someone’ll take you on to Cowley, cos yer’ll be too late for Bull’s Bridge. I’ll hail a flyboat to get a message to the girls to wait, though the boys won’t stop to take yer.’
‘Why not?’
‘Ah, the name tells you; they’re young lads carrying beer, or some such, and they just keeps goin’, night and day. They can’t keep it up for too many years, but they make a packet while they do.’
They stood staring towards the east, and within ten minutes a pair, roped abreast, hove into sight. Sid nodded. ‘It’s Steerer Mercy on the Lincoln and Ma on the butty York. You’ll see the boats are red, white and blue, means them are Grand Union Canal Carrying Company’s boats, like most of ’em are, including your lass’s. Not many independents on the cut any more. Mercy’s ’ave had a right quick turnaround at Limehouse Basin, I reckon.’
He waved his open umbrella up and down and received an answering hoot. ‘They’ll pull in, cos if it’s deep enough to moor up overnight, it’s deep enough to pull in. Some edges aren’t. They’ll expect you to jump aboard, but when they see the sticks, they’ll hold ’ard and give yer time.’
‘I suppose “the cut” is the canal?’
‘Yer gettin’ the idea.’
Within another ten minutes Steerer Mercy brought the breasted pair into the frontage, throwing the engine into reverse. The propeller churned the water as Sid pushed and Steerer Mercy pulled Tom on board Lincoln. Ma Mercy called from the butty’s stern counter where she stood, with the tiller beneath her elbow, ‘Who be this, Sid?’
‘’E’s that bit of unfinished business of our Verity’s. He didn’t limp on to the next phone box when he couldn’t get Button A to work, so the least he can do is take the scarf she left on the back of her chair. Or so he reckons. I’ll get the flyboats to take on a message for the Marigold pair to wait at Cowley.’
Steerer Mercy barked a laugh. ‘Best drag that plastered leg on over to the butty with Ma, young ’un. She’ll stuff yer in the cabin, so you can take that scarf off from round yer neck. Pink don’t suit a bloke, not even if ’tis so darned grubby it’s almost black.’
Tom snatched off the scarf and tried to keep out of the way of the tiller. He called to Sid, who was closing his umbrella. ‘Thanks, mate. Really, thanks. I owe you a drink.’
Sid’s bellow reached Tom as he stepped crabwise across to the butty. ‘More’n one drink, laddie, and a couple each for these good people, too. You treat Verity right, now. She’s a keeper, if ever I saw one. Well, her and Polly are, but not sure about that Sylvia. Something going on with ’er; summat deep that makes her right prickly, and I don’t envy them two girls, copin’ with her.’
Tom waved one of his walking sticks towards Sid. ‘Thanks to the missus, too.’
Ma Mercy opened the cabin doors, sliding back the roof hatch. ‘Down you go, laddie. You’ve got it to yerself, because our Sheila’s in the motor cabin with the child. She’ll be lock-wheeling – yer know, walking or biking ahead to get the lock ready, less yer want to do it?’ Her laugh was loud and long. ‘What yer think, me old chap?’ she called to Steerer Mercy, who tipped his finger to his hat, his clay pipe clamped between his teeth. Ma half pushed Tom onto the top step leading to the cabin. ‘Bend yerself and in yer go. Warm yourself, why don’t yer? Sit on the side-bed opposite the range. There’s tea in the pot, mugs in the painted cupboard.’
He ducked down the steps, marvelling that Ma Mercy wore only a long skirt and a jumper, with a shawl that was draped around her shoulders and tucked crossways into her wide belt, while he wore his greatcoat and had been freezing. The warmth greeted him, but he could barely stand upright in the smallest room he had ever seen; it could only be nine feet by seven at the most. An oil lamp hung on a peg on one of the walls, which sloped slightly inwards, and on which also hung pierced plates and horse brasses.
Ma Mercy called down, ‘Afore yer settle, lad, toss oop me crochet, if you will, and then pass me a couple o’ teas.’
He found a sort of tangle of wool on the side-bench that she pointed to and handed it up to her, then filled three enamel mugs, added milk and hobbled up the first step with two of them, holding them out to her.
‘Ta,’ she said. ‘When we’re breasted together like this, ’tis easy to pass it to me chap. When we’s on a tow, we has to run along top planks. Your girls go abreast sometimes, like we all do, though it took ’em a while to get the ’ang of it. Go and rest yersel’. We’re pullin’ in at the Grand Union depot at Bull’s Bridge, but someone’ll take yer on to Cowley lock, never fear.’
Tom sat down on the side-bench and stared at the range’s firebox, sipping his tea. He felt exhausted, his leg hurt and itched beneath the plaster, and he thought he was getting chilblains on his thawing toes. He tried to stretch out, but the aisle was only eighteen inches wide. He looked at the pierced plates, and at the cupboard to the side of what looked like a wide bench at the end of the cabin – or was it a bed? They must eat and sleep here, if it was, and he couldn’t quite believe it. A curtain was hooked up at the side, which could be dropped to close it off. He finished his tea and needed a pee.
Ma Mercy laughed. ‘Use the cut, or there’s a bucket in the end store afore the hold, fer yer doings.’
Tom changed his mind and sat back, slipping from his coat and dozing, his mind full of Verity living day after day on a boat like this. Verity, of the soft hands and the life of a lady. He held her scarf. No wonder it was dirty, but now, in the soft light from the oil lamp, he saw that much of it was oil stain, so how would you get that out anyway?
After a few hours he woke again, this time to the sound of the Lincoln’s hooter. Ma Mercy called to him, ‘We’re backing into Bull’s Bridge lay-by. It be the depot for the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company. Right mouthful, eh, but me old chap’s spied Steerer Porter taking off and shouted a word. He’s going to take yer on, so ’e is. So oop yer come, and get ready to step across to his boat, Oxford.’
Tom shrugged into his greatcoat, slung his grip over his shoulder and mounted the steps, dragging his leg behind him. Ma Mercy supported him as he stepped across to the Porters’ motor Oxford, which lay alongside.
Steerer Porter gripped his arm, a pipe between his teeth, too, and his hat pulled down. ‘Right, lad, got ya; we’ll be taking yer on, to make things oop with your lass, or not.’
From the tiny deck, Tom looked about him at what seemed to be hundreds of narrowboats with their butties, moored at a frontage about a quarter of a mile long. Washing hung motionless, as though frozen, from lines strung behind the cabins. Some women were washing over fires on the bank. Everyone seemed so busy, and from the yard that he could see at the end of the frontage came the sound of sawing, banging and the drumming of machinery from the machine shops, and smoke from the chimneys. There were houses set back in the distance on the opposite side and a church spire.
‘What yer lookin’ at?’ A boy of six sat on the Oxford’s cabin roof and stared at Tom, tracing the words of his book with his finger.
How can he sit there, Tom thought, in all this cold? He felt the vibration of the motor’s idling engine. ‘Just getting my bearings,’ he replied, impatient for Steerer Porter to pull away.
The snow was thawing on the roof and from the top of what looked like a brightly painted kettle, next to the boy. But that could be because of the heat of the black chimney, from which smoke curled and to which, Tom now realised with a shock, the boy was chained – like an animal.
Steerer Porter called across to his butty, Cambridge. ‘Ready, Missus? There bain’t be room for abreast, going through the locks. Won’t get ’em gates hard back against the lock walls, for the ice.’
‘Aye, let’s be off.’ Mrs Porter was standing at the tiller, her shawl wrapped around her and tucked crossways into her belt, just as Ma Mercy had worn hers.
Tom felt awkward, standing about like a spare part on the motor’s deck. He edged up hard against the cabin, trying to keep out of the way, but Steerer Porter said, ‘Yer need to be on the butty, lad. ’Op on now, while we’re alongside.’
Tom half laughed. ‘Hop’s a bit far-fetched – I’ll have to drag this damned leg.’ He struggled over onto the butty, and immediately Steerer Porter untied the ropes lashing the butty and motor together and set off, slowly. A boy of about eleven emerged from the butty cabin and, to Tom’s amazement, leapt onto the cabin roof and almost danced along the planks that lay over the top of the tarpaulin-covered cargo, jumping down out of sight at the front end.
Ma Porter said, ‘My chap’ll throw the tow-rope to ’im as he eases out from t’lay-by, and the lad’ll put it over the stud on our prow counter and my chap’ll tow us. The counter’s what a landsman would call a deck.’
Tom felt the butty Cambridge jerk as Oxford took up the tow. The lad ran back along the planks and jumped down onto the deck – no, not deck, what did she call it? ah yes, the counter – and disappeared into the cabin, slamming the door behind him. Tom looked ahead as Steerer Porter towed them past the depot yard, and he studied the small boy chained up, who was coughing. Mrs Porter touched Tom’s arm.
‘It’s what we do to stop ’em falling into the cut. Though I s’pose you’d call it the canal. Jimmy has a cold, but wants to be out in the air. Soon ’e’ll be able to help with the locks, but for now we ’as my brother’s lad, Bobs, who be our runabout. He’ll do what Sheila did on t’Mercys’ boat yer’ve just left, and what yer lass’ll be taking ’er turn doing – lock-wheeling or, to you, opening and closing them locks. Lots of locks there are too, my lad.’
Tom steadied himself on his sticks as Oxford and Cambridge set off along the cut, passing the moored narrowboats and then the yard. Mrs Porter nodded. ‘You get yourself in t’cabin with Bobs, why don’t yer? You been in the wars, I reckon – the real wars – but if yer can get from one boat to another, yer can find another telephone box.’
Tom shook his head, angry at the nagging that all these people were doing. He was here, wasn’t he, trying to catch Verity up? He struggled to keep his voice level, but failed, his headache roaring again. ‘Nothing so brave. I was tipped out of a jeep in an accident and have two weeks’ sick leave, then I’ll be back, in the office if I have to, until I can get this plaster off.’
Mrs Porter nodded, raising an eyebrow at his tone, and he felt embarrassed, but still angry, because what the hell was he doing, rushing about the canal and getting a load of grief for not finding another telephone, when Verity …? Oh, but it wasn’t canal, was it; it was the bloody cut.
Mrs Porter urged him, ‘Get yourself down them steps then. Our Bobs’ll be back doing his lessons on the cross-bed, so you take the side-bed.’ She watched as a boat rushed past, fully laden.
Tom asked, ‘Is that a flyboat?’
Ma Porter nodded. ‘’Spect they’re carrying a message to your lass.’
‘She’s not—’ He stopped. Just shut up, Tom Brown.
Again Tom found himself negotiating steps down into the warmth. He hoped the flyboat did carry a message for Verity, because now he really needed to see her, to stop all this ‘big bad wolf’ gossip, and then he could bugger off. He was tired, cold, his leg ached, his toes were frozen what’s more, and he hadn’t eaten since yesterday and was starving, and he’d damn well had enough. He saw, suddenly, the ARP warden’s face, the loss that had drained the light from his eyes when he mentioned his dead wife, and he sank back against the cabin wall. What if Verity …? He couldn’t bear the thought. In fact it was all such a muddle that he couldn’t bear to think about anything any more.
Bobs was sitting on the wide bed at the end of the cabin, and the range was belting out warmth. Tom sat on the side-bed opposite the range, wriggling out of his coat, removing his cap and dropping his grip onto the floor. ‘Hello,’ he said to Bobs.
The boy just grunted, then muttered, ‘Got me readin’ to do, before I sees Verity and Polly at Tyseley Wharf. They’ll have more lessons for me. Verity, she does reading; Polly, she do numbers this time, but they change turn and turn about.’
Tom stared at the boy. ‘Verity does?’
Bobs looked up. He sucked his pencil and then bent down, writing some words in a little notebook. ‘Course she do – she’s right clever, they both is. I writes what I don’t understand, then they tells me what it means.’
Tom reached into the pocket of his coat and touched her scarf. Who the hell are you, Verity Clement?
After a moment Bobs said, ‘You all right, Mister?’
‘Course I am, Bobs, but I didn’t know she …’
Ma Mercy called down. ‘Bobs, yer give that Tom some bread, and there’s pheasant left from last night. Reckon he needs feeding, cos there were a bit of a snarl bursting out from ’im a minute ago, so ’spect ’e’s got an empty belly, and no one can sort ’emselves out on a parcel of air where food should be.’
‘Pheasant?’ Tom was amazed, although he seemed to be feeling that rather a lot recently.
Bobs was busying himself at a small table he’d made by pulling down a cupboard front, to the right of where he was sitting. ‘Saul, one o’ the boaters, snared it as ’e went along t’cut; or were it Thomo, Ma?’
Ma Porter called down. ‘Saul it were, yer lass’s friend’s chap, young Tom. Now, get some food in yer, and yer’ll feel a bit more straight in yerself, I reckon. ’Spect yer ’ead fair beating, too. This’ll sort it.’
Bobs handed him a thick-cut sandwich, and Tom crammed in a mouthful, then gulped down the tea that Bobs also gave him, thinking he’d never felt so hungry in his life. He took another mouthful of sandwich and then a gulp of tea, and again, and again, until both were finished. Bobs was back at his books, but came and took the plate and mug. ‘Yer feeling less snarly, is yer?’
Tom had to laugh. ‘Yes, much less snarly. I’m sorry,’ he called to Ma Porter.
‘Ah well, can’t do enough for our lasses.’
Bobs said, ‘They saved our Jimmy when ’e fell in the cut, yer see; they jumped in, got themselves perishing, unhooking him from the propeller deep down. They pumped his chest, they did, to get t’water out. And your lass paid, so she did, for Jimmy in hospital, but she ain’t got money now. ’Er ma put a stop to it when they ’ad a barney about something ’er mum said to some young bloke that were a lie, or so the cut talk says. ’Spect that was yer, cos yer a young bloke and we’re right miffed with you for not seein’ ’er when yer said yer would.’ He sucked his pencil, looked at his exercise book, then up at Tom. ‘She and Polly wanted Saul’s lad, Joe, to read, yer see, and Jimmy too, so they does me as well. Gives us opterns, or some such.’
Tom’s mind was clearer now, his head more settled and the snarly was on its way out, he thought, as he tried to concentrate on what Bobs had said. And as he slowly disentangled the words, he found that his heart was full.
Bobs repeated to himself, frowning, ‘Gives us opterns? Opsins?’
Tom thought a moment, then said, ‘Gives you options, I reckon you mean.’
Bobs looked up and grinned. ‘That’s the one. I knows what it means, but can’t rightly remember ’ow it goes. Anyway, them lasses said just t’other day that they ’ad wanted our Jimmy to like books, and to read, cos they’d saved ’is life, so they must take some share of respo …’ The boy stopped, and tried again. ‘Responil …’
Tom swallowed – ‘responsibility’, yes, that was the word. He didn’t speak because he wasn’t sure his voice would work, knowing now that Verity was a girl who had become a woman, one who deserved to be loved; and it must be by him, because his love for her was roaring again. What’s more, it was more than time he behaved like a man, not the boy who’d believe her mother, when he should have known his Verity.
Bobs asked, ‘What d’ya reckon the word is?’
Tom stared at him, brought back to the cabin. ‘I reckon it’s “responsibility”. It means to take care of, to have a duty towards.’
Bobs looked at him and then at his notepad. ‘Yes, “responsibility” sounds right fer what they did fer Jimmy; they saved ’im, so ’ad responsibility to do their best for ’im. All right, Mister, yer does know yer words, so yer can ’elp. Be less for ’em to do.’
Tom checked his watch, seething not with pain or anger, or self-pity, but with regret and impatience. ‘Will we catch them up, d’you reckon?’
Bobs shrugged, handing him the notepad. ‘We will or we won’t. All I know is I’ll be out o’ the warmth afore we reach the lock, pedalling me legs off along the towpath to get there t’open oop the gates, so me uncle doesn’t have to wait. Have a look at these words. I ticked the ones I knows and left t’others.’
Tom looked at the words. ‘Jasmine’ was unticked. He only knew the plant because it had climbed the wall in Verity’s walled garden at Howard House. He could see it now, white stars on the fresh green leaves, and he remembered its glorious scent. The terraced house he had come from didn’t have a garden, just a yard, and there was only an outside privy. He and his mum had shared it with his grandparents and an auntie, all of whom made sure he did his lessons and used the library, and pronounced his words properly. All the time they were saving money to give him an apprenticeship in the garage so that he could make something of himself. They were all dead now. Bombed to smithereens, like the ARP’s wife.
He stared at the list of words, now out of focus, as he realised the courage Verity had shown to cast her lot in with a common chauffeur and look forward to a life over their own garage. How could they have doubted one another? How could he have carried his doubt for so much longer than her?
Bobs said, ‘Would yer like to listen to me read, Mister?’
Tom nodded. ‘That I would, lad, very much.’ But what he really thought was that Verity had to be at Cowley, she had to have received the message and she must forgive him, though he wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself.