The Boat Girls (17 page)

She brought
Orpheus
to a gentle stop beside the bank, behind the other pair, and saw Freddy on the motor counter. He waved and came running along the towpath.

‘Stuck fast, she is. Me bruvver's gone to see what's to be done. Reckon 'e'll try and pull 'er out.'

They waited and watched while the boatman
returned, the dog following, and took his motor down to the bridge-hole. A rope on the barge bows was fastened round a stud on the deck of the narrowboat, which reversed until it was taut. Gears shrieked, the rope broke and the barge stayed stuck. Freddy came running back.

‘Me bruvver says she's overloaded, that's what's done it. Water's too shallow there an' she's grounded.'

Another pair of boats came round the corner behind them and joined the queue and passers-by were gathering on the bridge, leaning over for a better view. A new rope was fixed in place and the horse reattached to the barge to lend its power on the towpath, but all in vain. Both ropes broke, the horse went cantering off and the barge stayed stuck. Prue came over with a mug of tea.

‘What do you think's going to happen next?'

‘I don't know. I suppose I'd better go and see if we can help at all.'

Quite how they could, she'd no idea – unless maybe
Orpheus
could tug too – but it seemed the right thing to offer help wherever help was needed on the cut. That was what Pip would have done.

Freddy trotted along beside her on the towpath towards the bridge-hole. They came to the other butty, brightly painted, shining clean and crowned with a snow-white Turk's head. She saw
that it was called
Godwit
, and the name
Alfred Carter
was painted in black on the side.

‘What a beautiful boat.'

The boy looked proud. ‘It were me grandad's afore 'e died, same as the motor.' He tapped his chest. ‘Called arter 'im, only everyone calls me Freddy. Me gran's in there cookin'. Allus doin' somethin', 'cept at night an' then she drives 'er pigs to market.'

‘Surely you don't keep pigs?' Chickens, rabbits, ferrets, canaries, cats and dogs, yes, but she'd never seen pigs on the narrowboats.

He grinned. ‘Snorin'. We can 'ear it on the motor, Jack an' I. Keeps us awake sometimes, it's that bad.'

‘Do the boats belong to her?'

‘Naw. Grandad left them to Jack, 'im bein' the oldest. Our dad were already dead, see. Fell in the cut one winter when 'e were comin' back from the pub. Frozen stiff as a plank when they found 'im in the mornin'. Me mam died too, from the bronchitus.'

He pronounced the illness in a funny way, like boaters mispronounced words.

They had reached the butty's motor,
Snipe
, which was equally well kept. The bridge-hole where the three men were talking was a few yards further on. Freddy stopped.

‘They'll try somethin' soon. Best to wait 'ere.'

‘I thought I'd ask if I could help.'

He looked shocked and shook his head. ‘Wouldn't do that, miss. Me bruvver wouldn't take no 'elp from a woman – even if yer could, which yer can't.'

‘I'll ask, anyway.'

She approached the men. ‘Excuse me.'

They turned round, fists on hips. The black dog sniffed at her shoes. She noticed that his master wore a fancily embroidered waistcoat under his jacket, and a broad leather belt with the windlass stuck through like a cowboy's gun.

‘I was wondering if we could help in any way at all?'

The bargemen – beefy giants towering above her – started grinning all over their faces. Brother Jack didn't grin.

He said, ‘Best help yer can give us, lady, is ter keep out of our way.'

He turned his back and they went on discussing the problem.

‘Told yer so, miss,' Freddy said.

More boats arrived, forming a queue on both sides of the bridge, and more watchers gathered above and on the banks. A tractor was sent for from a nearby farm, but it was unsuccessful in dislodging the barge. Eventually it was decided to unload enough of the timber onto the towpath to lighten her. An hour or so later she was floating
free, and the horse towed her out of the bridge-hole to the bank.

By the time they had managed to restart the engine on
Orpheus
, the boats were already proceeding under the bridge, one pair after another. Terrified of getting something wrong and of holding the boaters up, Frances let them all go in front. Nobody offered them their rightful place in the queue and they trailed along, last, and least, of all.

They tied up at Camden Lock for the night and discussed the day over the tinned sardine supper in the butty cabin.

‘I ought to have pushed more,' Frances said. ‘We were second in the queue. It was feeble to let them all go in front of us. They'll just think we're idiots.'

‘Yes, they will,' Ros agreed. ‘Even more so. But who cares? Let them think what they like.'

They made cocoa and Frances and Ros lit cigarettes. It had started to rain, pattering on the butty roof, making the cabin seem all the cosier. Prue was almost falling asleep over her mug. They turned in very early, planning to be up and ready to leave at first light.

In the morning it was still raining, but much harder. Frances rolled out of her cross-bed and when she slid back the cabin hatch the rain drenched her face. She pulled on her clothes
without bothering to wash or even brush her hair. Ros and Prue had the kettle going on the butty stove and they swallowed mugs of hot tea and slices of bread and jam.

‘We've got some leaks,' Ros said, pointing to trickles of water sliding down the walls, and to tins and pans strategically placed to catch drips. She looked at Frances more closely. ‘And you've been bitten by a bedbug.'

They'd got leaks and bedbugs:
Orpheus
and
Eurydice
were not as romantic as their names. Once again, there was a titanic struggle starting the engine. The boaters, of course, had already gone and were well on their way down to the docks. They followed long after, negotiating the London locks with the empty boats breasted-up as Pip had taught them. The lock-keepers were kind and helped them in a fatherly way and they didn't do too badly, but they knew it wasn't a fair test. There would be many other locks that would have unhelpful keepers or none at all.

After the locks they singled out the boats and Frances carried on steering the motor, with Ros and Prue in the butty behind towed on its short strap. The rain carried on, too, all the way to Limehouse. It found its way down the back of her neck and into her shoes and, with the hatch open for steering, down into the cabin where it lay in cold puddles on the lino floor. The only respite
was the tunnel at the Angel, Islington where they swopped the rain for unpleasant darkness and constant thumps and bumps as
Orpheus
, inspite of Frances's best steering efforts, ricocheted off the brick walls. She thanked God that they didn't meet a barge head-on – there was room for the narrowboats to pass each other, but not barges.

Loaded pairs were coming up from the docks. The boaters, she noticed, ignored the rain. They wore old overcoats, never any kind of waterproofs.

They reached the docks and tied up alongside the row of narrowboats, their ears assaulted by the noise from cranes and lorries and, every so often, by ships testing their guns. Molly Jessop appeared on the wharf above, wearing the silk scarf, and shouted down that they weren't loading yet, so would they like to come and have some tea?

In spite of the rain, Molly had somehow kept her butty cabin dry and the kettle was whistling a welcome on the stove. Saul, her husband, crossed over from the motor to join them, and they squeezed round the let-down table while Molly poured tea and handed out ginger biscuits. Frances asked Saul if he knew where she could buy oilskins. There was no reply, so she repeated the question.

He nodded. ‘Heard yer first time, but I were
thinkin' what to tell yer. I don' 'old with oilskins, ter speak the truth. See, the wet runs off an' it soaks yer trousers and yer shoes, an' that makes a right mess in the cabin. An' they gets in the way, flappin' about. We wears our coats and then we 'ang them up in the engine room to get dry. Works better.'

He was a man of few words but they were always wise ones, and whenever he spoke they listened.

‘Go stiddy, but keep a-goin' – that's the way. From when yer lets go in the mornin' till yer ties up at night. No need to rush it, but no call to stop – less somethin's amiss.'

Which, thought Frances, it assuredly would be many times. There was no hope that they would ever handle the narrowboats as well as the men and women who had spent their lives on them. She said as much to Saul, who chuckled.

‘Us never stops learnin' neither – not till we dies. There's allus better 'n' quicker ways ter find. An', by the way, yer water can's in the wrong place – oughta be on t'other side of yer chimney – might's well get it lookin' right.'

They were loaded during the afternoon – bags of cement dumped by crane from the wharf into the holds, coating the boats and them in fine grey powder. If the rain hadn't stopped, they might have set like rocks. Then the sheeting-up – the
battle with beams and stands and top planks, the struggle with heavy, unwieldy canvas and tarry strings, eyelets and knots. Their reward more cuts and blisters and bruises and sore knees.

They weren't to let go until the next morning, and Molly came round again and invited them to go with her and Saul to a pub. A nice glass of port and lemon did her and the babe the world of good, she said. Got them both to sleep sound at night.

The Volunteer lay outside the main gates to the docks. Inside, it was lit by gas lamps and there was sawdust on the floor, an atmosphere nearly as thick as a London fog and a hard-drinking clientele of seamen, dockers and boatmen. They sat decorously at a table and Molly sipped her port and lemon while the rest of them drank beer, except Prue who had her fizzy lemonade. With all the noise and chatter going on, it was hard to hear what anyone was saying. Frances was trying to listen to Molly when there was a shift in the crowd and she caught sight of Freddy's brother Jack. He was standing at the bar, pint mug in fist, talking to another boater. She gave Molly a nudge.

‘That boatman over there – the one with the red scarf round his neck . . .'

Molly looked. ‘Jack Carter? What about 'im?'

‘He doesn't think much of us trainees. We held him up when we let go at the lay-by.'

‘Well, 'e wouldn't, would 'e? 'E's a Number One. Owns 'is own boats. They don't stop for nobody an' nuthin'. Not if they can 'elp it.'

‘His little brother, Freddy, he's nice. He helped us.'

‘We saw 'im. Everyone likes Freddy. 'E's the youngest Carter. There's three more brothers an' a sister. The sister got married an' the other brothers work fer a company on the Oxford. When Jack got left the boats from 'is grandad, 'e took Freddy with 'im cos their mam and dad was dead. Ever seen the grandma?'

‘Only once. Not properly.'

‘She's like the boatwomen allus was. Bonnet, an' long black skirts an' lace-up boots, an' 'er cabin's got more brasses 'n anyone else on the cut. Ain't nuthin' she don't know about the boats an' the cut. Nor Jack neither. An' that's not all 'e knows. A proper lady-killer, is Jack Carter.' She giggled. ‘If only 'e'd looked my way, I'd've gone wiv 'im, but 'e never did. Still, I reckon I'm better off with my Saul.'

Later, he came by their table and Molly stopped him. ‘'Ow's yer grandma, Jack?'

‘Fine, Molly. An' yerself?'

‘Not so bad, considerin'. These ladies are trainees.'

‘I know that.'

‘This is Rosalind and this is Prudence. And this one's Frances.'

Cement dust still caked their hair and their faces; they looked like old ladies. He nodded curtly.

‘How d'y do.'

The fancy waistcoat, Frances now saw, was embroidered with a pattern of spiders' webs. She said, ‘I'm sorry if we held you up.'

He stared at her with eyes that were the same colour as Freddy's, but a lot harder. ‘Like I told yer, lady. Best thing is if yer keeps out o' the way.'

He moved on and Molly dug her in the ribs. ‘See the way 'e looked at yer? 'E were watchin' yer close, all right. Did yer notice?'

TRING SUMMIT WAS
one of Prudence's favourite parts of the trip. It wasn't as long as some other pounds, but the cut wound peacefully through quiet countryside and was well sheltered from wind and weather. For three miles there were no locks to worry about. There was time to drink and eat without gobbling and gulping on the go, as they usually did, and, if Ros was steering the butty, time to catch up on other things. Tidy the cabin, stoke up the fire, fill the coal box, even do some splicing which she found, surprisingly, that she enjoyed. In fact, she was rather good at it. There was something very satisfying about unlaying the strands of a broken rope, whipping them and then remeshing them neatly together. It was a fiddly job and Ros and Frances both found it boring, but she didn't and it was the one thing on the boats that she could do better than them. Frances could steer the best, Ros
was the surest-footed, but she was the fastest at splicing.

She could manage steering either the butty or the motor, if she had to, and walking the top planks wasn't so frightening any more, but, given the choice – which she frequently was by Frances – she preferred lock-wheeling. So long as you kept calm and did everything in exactly the right order, it was really quite simple. Rather like Mr Holland's Psychology of Accuracy, which she still thought about sometimes. One, shut gates. Two, lower paddles. Three, raise paddles. Four, open gates and so on . . . The swirling lock water no longer held such terrible fears for her because, as she had discovered, it did exactly as it was bidden – came into the lock or went out of it, rose up or went down, controlled by paddles and gates and gravity. Unlike the sea, it had no mind or will of its own. And where there was a lock-keeper he was often helpful with heavy beams and stiff ratchets.