The Boat Girls (37 page)

Somebody knocked at the dressing-room door and opened it. She saw Vere in the mirror. Spun round.

‘I thought you were thousands of miles away.'

‘I was. I just got back.'

‘On leave?'

‘For good. Didn't you get my last letter?'

‘I haven't been home for ages. How did you get in here?'

‘I bribed someone.'

‘Were you out front?'

‘I was. And you made a wonderful Elvira. It's the first time I've ever seen you act and I'm extremely impressed.'

She turned back to the mirror and the make-up removal. ‘I act all the time, Vere. You know that.'

‘Not all the time.'

‘Most of it. Anyway, why have you come all this way out to the sticks?'

‘I've come for my answer.'

‘What answer?'

‘I asked you to marry me. Remember?'

She peeled off her false eyelashes. ‘I'm still thinking about it.'

‘No, Rosalind – you said that before. I want a straight answer, right now. Yes or no. If it's yes, we'll get married as soon as possible, before you can change your mind. If it's no, I'll walk out of here and never bother you again.'

‘That's not fair, Vere. I need more time.'

‘Time's up. Yes, or no?'

‘I don't know. I'm not sure.'

‘You said you loved me.'

‘I tell lies.'

‘It didn't seem much like one at the time, as I recall.'

‘Well, I'm very good at pretending.'

‘You didn't need to with me. Did you? Not like with the others. You found that out.'

She looked at him in the mirror, her face serious. ‘The truth is, Vere, I'm scared.'

‘Of what exactly?'

‘I'm scared you'd regret marrying me. End up realizing what a horrible mistake you'd made.'

‘I'd never regret it – not for a single moment – and nor would you. Don't you trust me?'

‘Yes. Of course I do. You're a very trustworthy sort of person.'

‘Then there's nothing whatever to stop you marrying me. No more feeble excuses left. What's the answer?' He put his hand on the doorknob. Turned it. ‘Yes? Or no?'

‘I suppose,' she said slowly, ‘I may as well.'

‘May as well what?'

‘Marry you. If that's what you really want.'

‘You know perfectly well it is.'

‘Are you quite sure, Vere?'

‘
Quite
sure.'

She turned round, fluttered her fingertips coquettishly and put on her Princess Katharine fake French accent. ‘
Den it shall also content me, your majesty.
'

‘I take it,' he said drily, moving away from the door, ‘that means yes.'

She'd noticed the signpost bearing a name very familiar from the past and, on impulse, had turned the car down the country lane leading across fields to the village. She parked by the pub and walked through a narrow passageway to the canal. Not surprisingly, after more than half a century, there had been a lot of changes. The pub had sprouted a modern extension, cottages had been gentrified and the boats were now all pleasure craft, hired out to holidaymakers. Tourists were drinking at tables outside the pub, licking ice creams on the towpath, gathered in a gaggle by the lock to stare at boats passing through. It was a hot day in midsummer; blue skies, sun shining, water sparkling, trees in full green leaf. She could remember it, very differently, in midwinter with grey skies, bare branches, driving rain, icy wind, sleet, snow, mud, and not a soul about.

The top gates of the lock were closed and she used them to cross over to the other side of the canal, negotiating the narrow ledge with ease and barely touching the handrail. A boat was coming in through the open bottom gates, heading uphill – a hired boat converted from an old narrow one and painted in the same bright colours, though without all the boaters' beautiful castles and roses and lozenge shapes.

In place of the cargo hold there were cabins. She could see jazzy curtains at the windows and bunk beds, a kitchen fitted with cooker, sink and fridge, a dining table with padded vinyl seating, and, if she interpreted the two frosted-glass windows correctly, a shower and lavatory. She thought, smiling to herself, of the bucket in the engine room and the dipper on its hook.

The steerer was bare-chested and dressed in baggy shorts, an open can of beer set before him on the cabin roof where a blonde girl sunbathed at full stretch, wearing two minuscule strips of Day-Glo pink. The old boaters would have been deeply shocked at such nudity. Another young man, also in shorts and bare-chested, mounted the steps to the lock-side. He had curly hair, a deep tan, and a look of confidence. Cockiness, in fact. Showing off to all the gawping gongoozlers. She saw the way he applied his weight nonchalantly to the beam to close one bottom gate while an eager
helper on the opposite bank closed the other. Then he pushed past her, windlass at the ready.

‘Keep out of my way, please.'

She watched him draw a top gate paddle with a flourish, cross over the gates to reach the winding gear on the far bank – just as she had done, though not quite so adeptly – and then come back again to stand close to her, hands on hips, windlass slotted into the leather belt of his shorts.

The water in the lock below began to swirl and bubble and to rise steadily, and the young man waited expectantly for it to reach the required level. And went on waiting. And waiting. With the lock about three-quarters full, the narrowboat remained obstinately stuck, going neither up, nor down. The blonde lifted her head and looked about her, sensing something amiss. Another girl poked her head out of the cabin door.

‘What the bloody hell's going on, Mark?'

She stepped forward. ‘Excuse me.'

He turned his head. ‘Yes?'

‘That bottom paddle's been left open. Water's running out as fast as it's coming in.' She could tell he'd taken her for some batty, interfering old biddy, and his sunburned good looks were marred by his irritated frown. She pointed. ‘You can see the ratchet sticking up several notches – if you look.'

He obeyed, reluctantly.

She went on mildly, ‘Your boat could be sitting
there in the lock for ever if you don't go and drop it.'

He moved then and did as she'd told him. The water level immediately began to rise, the lock to fill up. He swaggered about again, confidence restored, shouting to the beer-swilling youth at the tiller. The blonde had lain down and the other girl's head had disappeared back into the cabin. Presently he passed by her again and paused.

‘How come
you
knew about that?'

‘I worked on the old narrowboats during the Second World War.'

‘Oh, yeah?'

‘Women were recruited to help out, carrying essential supplies on the canals – coal, steel, cement, timber – all that sort of thing. Three of us to a pair of boats.' She smiled at him, though he didn't deserve it. ‘They called us Idle Women because of our badges. IW standing for Inland Waterways, you see. Actually, we were anything but idle; it was really very hard work.'

He stared at her, and she could see that he didn't believe a word of it. Well, she couldn't really blame him.

‘Never heard of them,' he said.

THE END

Margaret Mayhew was born in London and her earliest childhood memories were of the London Blitz. She began writing in her mid-thirties and had her first novel published in 1976. She is married to American aviation author, Philip Kaplan, and lives in Gloucestershire. Her previous novels,
Bluebirds
,
The Crew
,
The Little Ship
,
Our Yanks
,
The Pathfinder
,
Those in Peril
and
I'll Be Seeing You
are also published by Corgi.

www.
books
at
transworld
.co.uk

BLUEBIRDS

THE CREW

THE LITTLE SHIP

OUR YANKS

THE PATHFINDER

THOSE IN PERIL

I'LL BE SEEING YOU

and published by Corgi Books