The Boat Girls (33 page)

At Cowley it was her turn to lock-wheel. She stepped off at the bridge-hole, bike under her arm, and cycled along the towpath to the next lock. The chain kept coming off and she had to keep stopping to put it back on, so it was a rush to get the lock ready in time for the boats. At Black Jack the old lock-keeper came out to help her shut the top gates and draw the bottom paddles as
Orpheus
and
Eurydice
approached.

‘Half a paddle first, missy. We don't want to swamp the boats. More haste, less speed, that's the trick. An' make sure that safety catch is on.'

Like most lock-keepers, he moved slowly and steadily, never seeming to hurry but getting it all done with time to spare while Prudence scurried hither and thither.

‘Good news, isn't it?' he said as they were standing waiting for the lock to empty.

‘What news?' For all they knew, Hitler was dead, which would certainly be good.

‘Thought you would've heard by now. They're over.'

‘Over what? Who?'

He clicked his tongue at her ignorance. ‘The Yanks. Over the Rhine. And they've took Cologne. Nothing to stop them now. The war'll soon be finished.'

That evening, after they'd tied up at Rickey, they toasted the Americans at the pub.

‘God bless America,' Ros said, lifting her beer mug high.

‘And Canada,' Prue added.

‘And Canada, sweetie. God bless them too.'

Next day they crossed Tring Summit. Frances took a turn at lock-wheeling and went off on the bike for the Mathus seven. Ros steered the motor, Prudence the butty. There was another pair of boats not very far ahead and so the downhill locks were all against them, and what with the hard frost the night before everything took longer. Prudence could see Frances sliding all over the place. They reached the last lock and the boats sank down side by side as it emptied. Ros, who had opened the bottom gates, launched herself onto the motor-cabin top below and slipped and fell heavily as she landed.

She lay there, not moving, and, to begin with, they thought she'd broken at least one leg, if not two. She waved them away.

‘It's my ankle, that's all. No need to fuss. I'll be OK in a minute.'

But she wasn't OK. When they helped her up she could hardly walk and her right ankle was swelling fast. Between them they got her into the cabin where she collapsed onto the side bed.

‘We'll go on to Leighton,' Frances said. ‘We can get a doctor to look at you there.'

‘I hate doctors.'

‘Well, you're going to have to see one, Ros. It might be broken for all we know.'

‘I can still steer.'

‘Don't be an idiot. You can't even stand properly. Prue and I will manage the boats perfectly well between us. It worked OK with you two when I had to go off.'

At Leighton Buzzard Frances went in search of a doctor, who agreed to come to the boats. They waited outside the cabin anxiously until he emerged, cracking his head. The ankle wasn't broken, he told them tersely, but it should be X-rayed and treated. The probability was that the ligaments were badly torn and he'd left some painkillers. Ros, apparently, had refused point-blank to go to hospital.

He very plainly disapproved of the whole situation. ‘You young girls shouldn't be doing this job. It's much too dangerous. She'll have to go home anyway.'

‘Silly old goat,' Ros said when he'd gone. ‘It'll be fine in a few days.' But her face was sheet-white and she was biting her lip with pain.

Frances shook her head. ‘I don't think so, Ros. You must go home – he said so. We can get a taxi
to take you to the station and ask the driver to see you onto the train.'

‘I
told
you, Frankie, it'll be all right soon. Probably fine by tomorrow.'

‘It won't. You're supposed to get it X-rayed and treated. And how are you going to manage on the boats if you can't walk properly? You'll just get in the way and be a nuisance.'

‘Well, there's not much point going home.'

‘Why not? They can look after you properly.'

Ros laughed ironically. ‘I'll be sleeping on the sofa. They usually let my room.'

‘Not if you need it, surely?'

‘I wouldn't count on that. I think I'll just stay here.'

‘You can't do that, Ros. You can't be a passenger – the company won't allow it. And we're going to have to get someone else to help us till your ankle's better. Actually, I've just had a brilliant idea. You can go down to Averton and stay there. Aunt Gertrude would love to have you – remember how well you both got on? I'll send her a telegram to say you're on the way. You can leave tomorrow.'

There was another argument, of course, just like there'd been over Havlock Hall but the other way round, with Ros saying it wouldn't be right to impose and Frances asking why on earth not, and that she hadn't minded at all about doing that before. Prudence listened to them going on at each
other. This time it was Ros who gave in, but Prudence saw the tears shining in her eyes before she wiped them away.

The ankle was worse by the morning and the doctor's bandage looked rather like a fat cushion on the end of her leg. She could only hobble slowly and the journey ahead would probably be a nightmare. News of her accident had spread up and down the cut, and one of the old boatmen appeared to present her with a walking stick. He made them as a hobby, cut from the hedgerows, and he'd carved the top of this one into a beautiful duck's head which fitted neatly and smoothly into the palm of her hand. As well as the walking stick, he gave her a toothless smile and called her ‘little lady', though she towered over him. If it hadn't been for the strict code of the cut she would have given him a big kiss on his leathery cheek.

The taxi driver who took her to the station handed her carpet bag to a porter, who carried it to the train compartment where an RAF sergeant slung it up on the rack. When they reached Euston the sergeant saw her into a taxi across to Waterloo, where a very charming army major took over and insisted on escorting her to the right platform and finding her an empty seat. Three hours later the train steamed into Bridport station, and the
naval rating who had been entertaining her all the way with salty stories jumped up to convey her and the carpet bag gallantly onto the platform.

At first she thought the platform was empty, but then a figure detached itself from the shadows and came towards her. She saw, with surprise and rather a shock, that it was Vere.

He'd come to collect her in a van – one they used on the home farm, he told her, which qualified for extra petrol coupons. ‘You're lucky I didn't come with the horse and cart.'

‘I wouldn't have minded.'

‘I'm sure you wouldn't. You've cut your hair. That's a pity.'

‘I had lice. We all did. We were lousy. I'm growing it again.'

‘Good.'

‘About the lice?'

‘No, about growing your hair again. I see you're still wearing Father's riding mac.'

‘It's been very useful.'

‘That's good, too.'

There were two strong-smelling dustbins sitting behind her seat in the back of the van.

‘Pigs' swill,' he said. ‘Sorry about that. I've been collecting it from one of the hotels. They save us all their peelings and scraps.'

‘It's better than having the pigs in here. I'd no idea you were home, Vere. Aren't you supposed to
be convalescing, not driving about the countryside?'

‘I got fed up with that. It's your turn now.'

‘But are you really better?'

‘Much. I'll be back with the squadron very soon.'

‘Flying on operations?'

‘That's the general idea.' He looked very unwing-commander-like in an old tweed jacket with leather patches on the sleeves and the sort of well-worn country clothes that his kind always looked so good in.

‘How did it happen – your ankle?'

She told him. ‘We've jumped down hundreds of times. This time, I slipped on the ice. Very careless of me.'

‘None of you girls should be doing that job . . . it's far too risky.'

‘That's what the doctor said. But we don't happen to agree. And what about
your
job? I bet that's risky.'

‘With respect, Rosalind, it's not quite the same thing.'

‘You mean it's all right for you to take risks because you're a man?'

‘Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Men have to take physical risks in wartime; it's expected of them. Women shouldn't have to, unless it's absolutely necessary.'

‘You really are an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud, Vere.'

He gave her a brief smile. ‘Yes, I know. Frances has told me so many times.'

‘Anyway,' she said. ‘The war's going to end soon, isn't it? So none of us will be taking risks any more.'

‘It's not over yet. Not by a long chalk. We've still got to defeat the Germans in Europe and then there's the Far East and Japan to deal with.'

‘That's depressing. It'll go on for ever.'

‘Not for ever,' he said. ‘It'll end one day. Then what are you going to do?'

‘Go back to the stage.'

‘Yes, of course, I remember you saying.'

‘What about you?'

‘I'll probably have to leave the RAF and come home and do something about Averton. Try to get the place back on its feet again. It's been neglected for years and there's a hell of a lot to be done.'

‘Wouldn't you miss the RAF?'

‘Very much. But I miss Averton too, when I'm away. And it's my responsibility.'

It was getting too dark to see the house properly – only the pitch of its ancient roofs against the western sky, the solid mass of its stone walls. The aunt greeted her like a long-lost friend, pressing her uncomfortably to a necklace of lumpy amber. With the aid of the duck's-head
walking stick – much admired by all on her long journey – she reached the sofa in front of a blazing log fire and Vere brought on the gins. It was rather like coming home, she thought wryly; in actual fact, a great deal better.

The local doctor called the next day and manhandled the ankle. He didn't think it was broken, either, but wanted her to have an X-ray. Vere drove her to the hospital in the van, and they sat around waiting for hours. If he hadn't confiscated her walking stick, she would have made a bolt for it. After the X-ray, another doctor held up a large negative of some bones which, apparently, belonged to her, and announced, tracing bits of them with a pencil, that there was no break. No break but damaged collateral ligaments, whatever they were. Heat treatment was prescribed, massage and exercises.

‘I'm not going back there,' she said as Vere drove her away. ‘It'll get better on its own.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Rosalind. Of course you must. I don't like hospitals any more than you, but you've just got to put up with it.'

She hobbled down to the orangery and paid a visit to Sir John, who gave her a tour of the orchids and cut off a lovely mauve flower for her. She would have worn it in her hair like she'd done with the one he'd given her before, but unfortunately it clashed, so she pinned it on her
blouse instead. Vere drove her to the hospital for the heat treatment and the massage, collecting the pigs' swill from the hotel afterwards. Otherwise she spent a great deal of time with her foot up on the sofa in front of the fire, playing card games with Aunt Gertrude – poker, pontoon, gin rummy – and a funny old-fashioned game with bits of bamboo and ivory called mah-jong. The aunt usually won, but not always. In between games they chatted and Rosalind thought up more theatre gossip. Once they talked about Vere. Gertrude was worried.

‘I simply hate the thought of him going back to fight in this wretched war.'

‘He's not flying Lancaster bombers on raids any more, is he? It must be safer.'

‘Far from it. An old RAF friend of mine told me about this Mosquito squadron. Apparently, they're given all the really tricky targets. He said it's hideously dangerous.'

She went on to talk about what a kind little boy Vere had been, and what a good older brother to Frankie.

‘He was always taking care of her – making sure she was all right and not doing anything stupid. He still does, of course, and Frances hates that, especially when she
is
doing something stupid.'

‘Perhaps he'll stop soon.'

‘Not until she gets married. Has she met anyone yet, do you know?'

Ros hesitated. ‘Well . . . she fell desperately in love with someone, only it didn't work out.'

‘Oh?
Do
tell me. Who was he?'

‘A boatman – working on the canals.'

‘Oh dear . . . that's rather typical of Frances. What was he like?'

‘Very dark and very handsome. Like a gorgeous gypsy.'

‘No wonder she fell for him. I'd probably have done so myself, at her age. Awfully romantic. Lucky she came to her senses.'

‘She didn't.
He
did. He told her it would never work and went off to another canal.'

‘That was decent of him. And jolly sensible.'

‘I thought so, too. Frances was very cut up about it, though – still is. I wouldn't mention it to her – or to Vere.'

‘Not a word, I promise.'

‘There's another man who's rather smitten. Someone called Hugh Whitelaw. He's in Vere's squadron. He told us that his mother's an old friend of yours.'

‘She is indeed. Joan and I were at school together. And I've known Hugh for years. How did you come across him?'

‘We met him at the Ritz. We went to have dinner at the hotel and Vere happened to be there
with him, so we all sat at the same table. Then we stayed at his parents' house when the boats were frozen up a few weeks ago. Hugh was home on leave at the same time.'

‘Really? What a piece of luck! He's a charming young man. And he'll inherit Havlock Hall and the estate, of course, as well as a
great
deal of money. Not to be sneezed at in these uncertain times. How smitten is he?'