The Boat Girls (16 page)

‘Brought it all with me, when we was wed,' Molly said. ‘Me dowry, see. 'Cept Saul's mam give us the Banbury Cross plate up there. Sit yerself down.'

She sat on the side bed, Molly presiding on the cross-seat. The tea was dark and strong, the cups and saucers fine china. Frances took the silk scarf out of her pocket.

‘This is for you. I'd like you to have it.'

Molly held it up, delighted.

‘Prettiest one I ever seen. Look at all them flowers! Thanks ever so much.' She tied it round her head at once, knotting it under her chin. ‘Saul won' know it's me.'

The scarf framed her smiling face. Frances wondered how long her nice looks would last – the bright eyes, the pink cheeks, the all-present white teeth. Most of the boatwomen she'd seen looked worn out, though they were probably not so very much older than Molly. After this baby was born, there'd be others – two, three, four,
five, six, maybe more – and Molly would have to be boatwoman, wife, mother, cook, washerwoman, cleaner, mender, drudge for all the days of her life.

She looked round the cabin again. ‘Do tell me, why do you always paint roses and castles and hearts over everything?'

‘Dunno exactly. Allus been done like that on the narrowboats. Some say the roses are fer beauty, the 'earts fer love an' romance, an' the castles fer honour. Could be so.'

‘Where did you find the brass knobs?'

‘Off old bedsteads, an' such. See 'em dumped in the cut sometimes, or on rubbish tips, an' the Brum factories throw out the bad ones. They shine up nice.'

‘What about that brass chain on the chimney?'

‘Pinched those from Croxley mills when we was unloadin'. We all do that. There's sheds there full of army gas-mask cases they're goin' to make into paper an' they got these buckles an' clips on 'em. You cut them off, see, and put 'em together. Makes a pretty chain for keepin' yer chimney an' your water can safe.'

They chatted over the teacups. Molly had been born and brought up on the boats with five brothers and an older sister. Two of the brothers had died early of some kind of fever. The sister had married a boatman when she was sixteen and
already had four children. Molly and Saul had been courting for three years before they'd got married in the church at Stoke Bruerne – Bruan, she called it, in boaters' talk. There'd been fifty guests, she said proudly – all boatmen and their families. They'd had the wedding feast round a long trestle table in the open air, with the boat tarpaulins at the ready, in case of rain. Luckily, it had stayed fine. The honeymoon had been a trip to Hawkesbury to load coal for London. She unhooked a framed wedding photograph from the wall and showed it to Frances – herself in a long white dress and veil, her bridegroom in a suit and stiff wing collar, the big family group dressed up in their Sunday best.

‘We're cousins, see – but I never 'ardly knew Saul, cos we never spent much time together. Passed each other on the cut – him goin' one way, me t'other – and sometimes we met at a lock, or here at the lay-by, but that didn't 'appen often. Still, he's a good man and treats me right – not like some of 'em.' She poured more tea. ‘What's a lady like yerself doin' on the boats? An' them others? It don' seem right. There's all sorts of accidents can 'appen if yer don' watch out – bones broke, fingers crushed in them ropes, drownin' in the locks.'

‘The Government asked for women to train for the work – so we volunteered. We're not very
popular, are we? Most real boat people seem to think we're just a nuisance, getting in their way.'

‘Truth is they don' know what ter make of yer. There's some feared they'll lose the work or get called up cos of the trainees, an' others just don' understand what yer about or what yer sayin' cos yer talk different. Yer do everythin' different, an' yer dress different – in trousers an' such – an' yer don' really live on the cut, do yer? Just visitin', so ter speak. Yer a puzzle, see.'

‘Well, they scare us sometimes – when they don't say a word and just stare.'

‘It's just their way. Not showin' what they're thinkin'. Don' mean they won' do yer a good turn, if need be.'

‘I hope so. We've finished training now and we've been given our own pair of boats.'

‘We all knows that. News goes fast on the cut, see. Up and down in the wink of an eye. You'll allus be trainees, though, no matter how long yer stays. And they'll all be watchin' yer, waitin' to see how yer do when yer lets go, furst time. See if yer makes a fine mess of it.'

‘I'm steerer, so I hope I get it right.' Being steerer was like being captain, but the responsibility was a worry.

‘Yer wants to use yer shaft as yer turns so's yer don' get stemmed up.' Molly grinned. ‘An' say yer prayers.'

In the depot canteen they were greeted with whistles and the usual ribbing.

‘'Ere they come, lads . . . the Idle Women . . . wish I had your job, love . . . nuffin' ter do all day . . . any room for me on board, sweetheart? I could do with a nice 'oliday . . .'

They checked through everything again to make sure nothing had been forgotten, then all they could do was sit around, waiting for the summons from the office. When nothing had happened by evening, they went to bed – Rosalind and Prudence sharing the slightly larger butty cabin, Frances alone on the motor. She had chosen to use the cross-bed rather than the side one since it was larger and more comfortable, but she couldn't sleep for worrying. Worrying about getting stemmed up on the turns, worrying about getting the snubber tangled up on the blades or getting the blades fouled with canal rubbish, worrying about the hundred and something locks that lay ahead, about something really terrible happening, like the butty getting caught up on the cill or one of them falling in to be crushed by the boat or chewed up by the propeller . . . about all the things that could so very easily go wrong. And there would be no Pip to put things right. No Pip to tell them what to do and what not to do, to shout encouragement or warning, to bear the
brunt and take away the responsibility. Pip would be miles away with another set of trainees and she, as steerer, would be in sole charge. She'd refused the job at first but, as Pip had pointed out, she was the most competent at steering the motor and the most competent all round. A natural. She had copied Pip's little book of Useful Information into a notebook of her own – lock names, towns, pubs, water taps, shops, public baths . . . anything and everything that might come in handy.

There were the usual night noises on the wharf – footsteps passing, a dog barking, a baby crying, and then, just as she'd heard once before at the lay-by, the sound of a boatman playing the accordion and singing. Same voice, same song. She listened, comforted.

They were up early, bolting down breakfast and dressed for action with their windlasses tucked into the leather belts buckled low around their hips. The boaters all seemed to have been up long before. They hung about, fiddling nervously with things and waiting. Suddenly the loudspeaker came alive, blaring out names. A string of others first, and then, ‘Steerer Carlyon, please report to the office. Steerer Carlyon, report to the office.'

‘That's you, Frankie,' Rosalind said. ‘You'd better get going.'

She got going, riding the bike down the towpath at breakneck speed. There was a group of boatmen waiting in silence outside the office, shoulders hunched against the cold, stamping their heavy boots on the ground. Nobody said a word to her, or even looked her way. Every so often one of them went inside and came out again, carrying papers. Finally, it was her turn.

‘Got your boats ready?' the stern-looking man at the desk asked.

‘Yes.' Should she call him sir? ‘We're ready.'

‘Limehouse,' he said. ‘Cement. You're to get down there quick as you can.'

She was given a trip card, loading orders and money. He stared at her as he handed them over.

‘First one on your own, isn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, you be careful.'

Outside again, she threaded an apologetic path through the remaining boaters, who neither made way nor spoke. She heard a resentful mutter behind her:
Bloody women trainees . . . don' know what they're about. Oughtn't ter be allowed.

Back at the boats, she waved the papers at the other two before she put them away in the cabin ticket drawer. ‘We can go.'

The first hurdle was persuading the National engine to start. It refused, point-blank, no matter
how many times or how hard they swung the starting handle.

Frances wiped her forehead. ‘Let's try going a bit slower at first. And, Prue, you're doing it just a bit late. Be sure to pull the lever over
exactly
when I say THREE.'

It fired the next time and she pulled on the governor rod to give it an extra burst. They scrambled out of the engine room and Ros went to untie while Frances took up her steerer's position on the counter.

‘They're all watching us,' Prue said unnecessarily.

The boaters were watching, sure enough, leaning in the hatches with their unreadable expressions. Waiting, as Molly had warned, to see if they made a fine mess of it. She took the motor gently out into the cut and, as she passed the fore-end of the butty, snatched up the short tow rope from Ros and shoved its hollow eye over the stud on the deck. She looked back over her shoulder to make sure that
Eurydice
was following and in those inattentive few seconds,
Orpheus
ploughed straight into the mud and weeds on the opposite bank.

‘Prue . . . get the long shaft.
Quickly!
'

Prue, who could barely lift the twelve-foot shaft, wobbled along the planks and plunged it into the bank. It did no good. The motor sat
there, fore-end firmly embedded, its engine ticking over merrily while Prue went on struggling.

The boy came from nowhere. He simply appeared beside Frances on the counter, edging her politely out of the way. The engine note changed, the motor moved backwards out of the mud and floated freely to one side. He grinned at her and wagged a grimy finger.

‘Yer'd got 'er in ahead, miss. Should've put 'er in reverse, see.'

In her panic she hadn't noticed, but all the watchers would have done.

The boy said kindly, ‘I'll take 'er up aways for yer. See yer safe round the bend.'

She perched on the gunwale, furious with herself, while he manoeuvred the motor and the butty effortlessly under the bridge and round the sharp right-hand bend. He was thin and scrawny, with bowed legs, like many of the boat children – the size of an eight-year-old, though from his speech and manner she judged him to be about twelve. His eyes were the colour of dark treacle, his face dirty, his hair wild black curls, his clothes a grown man's cut down or turned up to fit, or, in the case of the cap, simply twisted to one side. He wore his windlass stuck through a rope belt that held his trousers up, together with braces and hobnail boots. His name, he told her, was Freddy. Freddy Carter.

She thanked him. ‘It was very kind of you to come to the rescue.'

‘Me bruvver told me ter do it.'

‘Your brother?'

He nodded. ‘Me bruvver Jack. Back there at the wharf. Yer was oldin' us up, see. Get that bleedin' woman out me way, 'e says.' He grinned at her. ‘'E'll be by in a tick.'

With that, he slowed the motor so that the boats drifted to a stop. Round the corner, with the steady putt-putt of an engine, another pair approached and as the motor drew close alongside the boy leaped across the gap between them, and they were off and away down the cut. The motor's name was
Snipe
and a small black dog stood on the cabin roof. The steerer had ignored her wave of thanks, as had the woman sitting in the butty cockpit behind, her face hidden under a frilled black bonnet. But Frances had seen the man's face beneath his cap and recognized him. He was the one at the Feathers on their first training trip: the one sitting at the bar who had turned around to stare so hard; the one who looked so like her childhood gypsy.

Prue wobbled back from the fore-end. ‘Who was that boy?'

‘That was Freddy. I'd left the engine in ahead. All my fault. Sorry.'

‘They weren't Grand Union boats, that pair, did
you notice? There was some other name on the side.'

She hadn't noticed, any more than she'd noticed her stupid mistake. All in all, it had been a very bad start to the day.

Prue joined Ros on the butty where they had nothing much to do since the empty
Eurydice
, towed close behind
Orpheus
, needed no steering. After a while, they disappeared down into the warmth of the cabin to make cocoa. Out on the motor counter, it was miserably cold under sullen skies. Frances dared not relax her concentration for a second for fear of making another mistake. There would be boats coming along behind them with boaters in them who would be very angry if they were held up. Delaying them, even for a moment, was a deadly sin and one which she had already committed in full view of them all.

They putt-putted on steadily, winding their way along the cut, through countryside at first before it gave way to London. Loaded boats came by, up from the docks, the butties trailing on the end of long snubbers, a steerer in the cockpit to guide the heavy weight. As Pip had taught her, Frances slowed down politely to let them pass and go through first under bridges. Sometimes they gave a curt nod, sometimes, slouched behind their chimneys, no acknowledgement at all.

Ros came up to the butty fore-end to pass over
a mug of cocoa. Half of it had got spilled on the journey, but it was warm and it cheered her. Things began to look rosier. She hadn't got them stemmed up again – so far – and nothing else terrible or drastic had happened. They came round a bend with another bridge ahead and she saw a pair of boats there, waiting by the bridge-hole for a horse-drawn barge to come through. She slowed the motor, preparing to wait too, but, as they drew nearer, she realized that the barge wasn't moving. Nor was the horse who was standing on the towpath, head hanging, looking bored, its rope slack. The bargee had got off and was peering into the bridge-hole, down the side of the barge. Presently he was joined by his mate and the two of them scratched their heads under their caps and then started shaking them. The steerer from the narrowboat ahead strode along the towpath towards them, his dog trotting at his heels. There were gestures and shrugs and more head-shaking.