The Boat Girls (25 page)

‘No.'

‘Cos 'e wouldn't lay a finger on yer. Not 'less you wanted it.'

In fact, he'd already laid several fingers on her – five of them, to be precise. When he'd jumped onto
Orpheus
and taken over the tiller from her, his right hand had covered hers for a moment. But that wasn't what Molly had meant.

Molly shifted Abel onto her shoulder and patted him on the back. ‘Course there's lots o' girls on the cut as do want it, but I never 'eard of 'im goin' courtin' with none of 'em. Some say 'e only goes with girls off the cut, but I wouldn't know 'bout that.'

She could feel that her face had gone red. ‘Anyway, we hardly ever see him.'

‘Wait till you're locked up for the night with 'im.' Molly giggled. ‘You'll see plenty of 'im then.'

It was harvest time. Tractors and reaping machines clattered across the fields beside the cut and binders followed to gather up the loose corn. Clouds of dust, the smell of hot oil and tractor fuel. Italian prisoners of war, stripped to the waist as they stooked the sheaves, stopped to wave and smile and sang out to them:
Bella, bella, bella!
The German POWs were different. They didn't
smile or wave, but watched impassively. A group of them, crossing a bridge ahead on their way to work, stopped to lean over and stare and pass remarks to each other.

Ros said, ‘At least they're not throwing rocks, but I'm rather glad we don't know what they're saying.' As the butty went under the bridge, she called up to them.
‘Guten Morgen.'
And then, as
Eurydice
emerged the other side, she waved cheerily.
‘Auf Wiedersehen.'

Sometimes they came across local boys swimming in the cut, or using a full lock as a pool – diving and splashing and yelling. As the boats approached they would swim up to them and hang from the sides or attach themselves to the stern of the butty. The motor steerer had the unnerving job of keeping them away from the propeller blades, and they had to be fended off with shouts and threats and fierce brandishing of mops and shafts.

‘They don't seem to mind that the water's absolutely filthy,' Frances said after a day spent repelling small boys.

‘They probably don't know about the buckets,' Ros said. ‘Either that, or they're immune, like the boaters. Look at the way they rinse their mugs in it and use it for making tea. Old Mrs Skinner told me that the water in Blisworth tunnel makes much the best cup. They always fill
their water cans there and she recommended it highly.'

Prudence looked horrified. ‘You're joking, Ros. It's not true.'

‘For once it is, darling.'

They had tied up for the night and were sitting on the motor-cabin roof, eating fish and chips out of newspaper. Cod in lovely crisp batter and chips liberally sprinkled with salt and doused with vinegar.

Ros said suddenly, ‘Well, fancy that . . .'

‘Fancy what?'

‘There's a picture of someone I know in this paper. An actor I met once. He's touring in a play . . .
Mr Kenneth Woods gives a most impressive performance in
Private Lives
. . . his deft touch and faultless timing set him above the rest of the cast
. . .
he is clearly a star in the making
. . . This is the local rag, so the company must have come here.'

Frances leaned over. ‘He looks rather dishy. Maybe we could go into town and see the play this evening.'

‘'Fraid not. The paper's a month old. They'll have gone on somewhere else by now.'

‘What a pity.'

‘Yes . . . it is rather.'

In summer, the coal-loading was quicker and easier. There was no need to bother with the top sheets or the stands and they laid the planks on the coal itself and secured them with the side strings. On the way down to the Croxley paper mills, their tame lock-keeper gave them a freshly cut lettuce, some ripe tomatoes and the news that Paris had been liberated.

The hot weather went on for the rest of August and so did the water shortage. They crossed the Tring Summit early one afternoon and found the Marsworth locks already padlocked for the night. They tied up alongside other pairs and did some cleaning and polishing. Frances was swabbing down the motor-cabin roof with the mop when Freddy came biking fast along the towpath, standing on the pedals.

‘Thought yer might be 'ere, miss. We 'eard yer was ahead of us.'

The cut telegraph had been at work in its mysterious way. She smiled at him. ‘Looks like we're all stuck here till the morning. I don't suppose your brother's very pleased about that.'

‘'E says we'll soon make up the time. We allus do.' In spite of the heat he was wearing his coat and cap. He groped in a pocket. ‘Got somefin' fer yer, miss.'

‘For me?'

‘'Sright. It's a present.' He produced a brass bed knob and held it up; it gleamed in the sunlight. ‘Got it off a dump, last trip. I give it a nice polish fer yer.'

She was very touched. ‘Thank you, Freddy. It's beautiful.'

‘Like me ter put it on the wall fer yer?'

‘Could you do that?'

‘Course I can. Easy. Got some screws an' a screwdriver?'

She found both and he soon had the bed knob fixed to the wall on the left of the doorway. They both admired it.

He looked round the cabin which, she realized, must seem very bare to him. ‘If I sees 'nother, I'll git it fer yer. Yer could do wiv some more brass. An' some more pitchers, an' all. Look at all them books! What you want them lot fer, takin' up all that room?'

‘I read them. At night before I go to sleep.'

He shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Can't read meself.'

‘How about your grandmother and your brother?'

‘They can't read neither. We don' 'ave to on the cut, see. No call fer it.'

She had scarcely believed Molly, but it was true.

‘Would you like me to teach you some letters?'

‘Larned some once in the school, but I've
forgot. Don't 'ave no fancy ter go agin. I keeps outta sight o' the kid-catchers.'

She coaxed him gently. ‘I could write them out for you – with pictures of things to match. Things you see all the time on the boats and on the cut. You'd soon remember them again. And when you've learned all the letters you could start to read. And write, too.'

He rubbed his nose. ‘I'd be a scholar, wouldn' I?'

‘Yes, you would.'

‘Don' know what Jack'd say.'

‘We won't tell him. Or your grandmother. Let's keep it a secret between us.' She put a finger to her lips. ‘Mum's the word.'

He grinned. ‘Orlright, miss. Mum's the word.'

‘We could start right now – with the letters.'

He shook his head. ‘Got ter get back an' 'elp me bruvver clearin' out the mud box. Grandma said to tell yer to please come an' 'ave some tea wiv 'er on the butty.'

The invitation to tea, she realized, was something of an honour, and she washed her hands and brushed her hair for the occasion. She walked down the towpath while Freddy weaved his way back and forth on the bike in front of her, keeping to her slower pace. When they reached the Carter pair, tied up near the end of the line of boats, the black dog, Rickey, was sitting on the motor-cabin
roof. Freddy disappeared into the engine room. The doors to the butty cabin, alongside, were both wide open but she knocked politely on the roof and waited to be asked to step on board. Everything was spotless and speckless: the coiled lines white as snow, the brass rings on the chimney shining, all surfaces swabbed clean. Molly had once told her that the old grandmother had more brasses than anyone else on the cut. Even so, when a voice answered her knock and she entered the cabin, the display made her blink.

There must have been almost twenty bed knobs and doorknobs and horse brasses screwed in the space by the doorway, all polished to a dazzling brightness. A waterfall of filigree china plates, gilt-edged and threaded on ribbons, cascaded down the opposite wall. A beautiful old brass oil lamp hung over the stove and the dipper on its hook was brass, too, with an ebony handle. Every inch of the cabin was adorned with something – framed photographs, crochet-work, a brass ladle, brass candlesticks, china ornaments, painted hearts and diamonds, roses and castles. But no books. Not one.

The old woman was sitting on the side bench, her hands folded in her lap. The frilled black bonnet partly concealed her face and her dark clothing was relieved only by a large gilt brooch pinned to the neck of her blouse. The invitation to
sit was made with a slow, queen-like gesture of one knobbly hand. If Frances hadn't witnessed it herself, she would have found it impossible to believe that the same hand had hurled the short shaft and felled the Quill brother.

The flap table, like Molly's, had been covered with a lace cloth and set with cups and saucers. A kettle was simmering on the stove. Frances perched on the side bunk and wondered where the water in it had come from, and, as more moments passed in silence, whether Mrs Carter was ever going to utter a word. At last she spoke.

‘Yer'll take a cup?'

‘Thank you.'

The old woman rose to her feet, took a tea canister from a cupboard, spooned tea from it into the largest and most magnificent teapot that Frances had ever seen: brown glazed and decorated with bright flowers and the words
A Present From A Friend
. The lid was in the form of a miniature teapot and the old woman lifted it to pour in the kettle water and sat down again, refolding her hands. There was another silence. It was as unnerving as taking tea with Queen Mary.

Frances said, ‘What a beautiful boat you have, Mrs Carter. With so many lovely ornaments.'

The bonnet dipped graciously.

‘And what a lot of wonderful old photos. Who's that gentleman up there?'

‘Moy Alfred. Jack's grandad. God rest 'is soul.'

‘Well, he's very handsome.'

‘Best-lookin' man on the cut. An' our Jack takes after 'im.'

She couldn't see any likeness. The man in the photo was all dressed up in a suit, collar and tie, not boater's clothes; he had a bushy moustache and his dark hair had been greased flat. ‘And that lady in white?'

‘Me sister, Peg. Took on 'er weddin' day.'

The old woman stood up again and poured the tea, handing her a cup. Blisworth tunnel water or not, the tea was very good – far better than anything they ever managed.

‘Were you born on the cut, Mrs Carter?' She knew the answer before she asked the question but at least it kept the conversational ball rolling.

‘Born on't an' lived on't all me life. I dare say I'll die on't, same as Alfred.'

‘Where is he buried?'

‘Stoke Bruan. All done proper. We knows how to do things right.'

‘Yes, of course.'

Another silence. The stove was roasting her left leg and she could feel sweat breaking out on her forehead.

‘You must be very proud of your grandson – Freddy.'

‘'E's a good lad, though 'e's a chatterchops.'

‘And of your grandson Jack, too.'

‘None better 'n Jack. 'E looks a'ter me.'

‘That's nice.' Everything she was saying sounded false to her ears; Mrs Carter would surely think so too. Old she might be, but not stupid.

‘'E'll be gettin' wed one o' these days, will our Jack. There's plenty on the cut for 'im ter choose from.'

‘Yes, I'm sure.'

‘No sense lookin' elsewhere.'

‘No.'

‘Those that live off the cut don' understand our ways, see. That's why we keeps to our own. We bin on the boats 'undreds o' years. Don' do 'less a person's born to it.'

Mrs Carter lifted her head at that moment and, for the first time, Frances saw her face clearly.

It was a very old face – mottled, deeply lined, wrinkled, toothless and with grey hairs sprouting from the chin. But the rheumy eyes were knowing. If she'd heard the same cut gossip as Molly – which seemed likely – then she was probably warning her off her grandson. Perhaps that had been the whole reason for the invitation to tea.

She drained her cup, thanked her very politely and made her escape. Outside, arms plastered in muck to the elbow, Freddy was chucking stinking slime from the mud box into the cut. It was a
chore that she loathed but he was grinning away. As his grandmother had pointed out, he'd been born to it.

A mouldy shop-bought pie had disagreed with Prue and she stayed behind when Rosalind and Frances walked along the towpath to the local pub in the evening. A group of American airmen in the bar immediately surrounded them. Ros had pinned her IW badge onto her peasant blouse and they were curious.

‘What do you girls do? Some kinda special job?'

Ros smiled sweetly. ‘I'll tell you if you give us some of your lovely American cigarettes.'

They were showered with packets of Camels and Lucky Strikes, and were bought drinks – proper gins, not the usual watery beer. In return they explained what IW stood for and what they did. The Yanks didn't believe them at first.

‘You're kiddin' us. Beautiful girls like you doin' work like that.'

True, they looked cleaner than usual, having had time to wash their hair and themselves, but they displayed their ruined hands and the cuts and bruises as proof. Soon more drinks were bought, more cigarettes lit. The Americans were ground staff from a nearby bomber station – good company, with nice manners and bags of charm.

‘I'm from Smithville in West Virginia,' one of
them told Frances in a drawling accent. ‘Guess you don't know where that is.'

‘Sorry, I don't.'

He proceeded to tell her all about his home town and his family and then got out several photographs. She dutifully admired the pretty wood-framed house, with the mother and father and the three small sisters standing on the porch. He was clearly very homesick and she didn't blame him. England in wartime was a horrible place to be and America, the land of plenty, thousands of miles away. As she listened to him talking at length about what a great country it was, she could see, over his shoulder, that Jack Carter had come in and was drinking at the bar.