The Boat Girls (19 page)

He looked at her. ‘Have you got a handkerchief?'

‘I think so . . .'

She fumbled in her trouser pocket and found one, grimy with engine oil. He leaned across the table and wiped the lipstick carefully off her mouth.

‘Sorry, sweetheart, but it didn't suit you. Not that colour.'

‘It was Ros's, actually.'

‘Ros is Ros and you're you. And you're great just the way you are. How old are you, Prudence?'

‘Eighteen.'

‘That's about what I figured. I'm twenty-one.'

The waitress took a long time bringing the order and banged the plates down in front of them. When he asked for some mustard, she clicked her tongue and came back with a pot that had a dried-up scrape in the bottom. The sausages were full of gristle, the mash full of hard lumps. She thought of the lovely dinner at the Ritz in London and wished it could have been somewhere like that with him – but in different clothes. Her best frock and her high-heeled court shoes, the pearl necklace Granny had left her, her hair washed and curled.

He said, ‘How come you got to work on those boats?'

She told him about the bank in Croydon and about the advertisement, and how it had been a chance to escape from entering figures in a ledger all day and every day.

He nodded. ‘I guess a lot of people felt like that. I sure couldn't wait to get away from home and join in the Big Adventure. It's been a whole lot tougher than I'd reckoned, but I wouldn't have missed it. Something to tell the children one day. If I get to have any.'

He meant, of course, if he survived. But he was an engineer and surely that meant he was safe on the ground – not flying?

‘
Flight
engineer,' he told her. ‘I'm crew. I sit by the pilot and give him a hand when he needs it, and if anything goes wrong I put it right. Mr Fix-It – that's me.'

‘You mean you go on bombing raids?'

‘Sure.'

‘Often?'

‘We've only done three so far. Another twenty-seven to go.'

‘And then you can stop?'

‘Well, some of the guys do another tour – if they want to. I'm not too sure about that yet. I'm waiting to see if I get through the first one OK.'

He didn't seem in the least bit worried – but she was, for his sake.

‘I do hope you do.'

‘Yeah, so do I. I'm planning on going home one day and living to a ripe old age.'

‘In Winnipeg?'

‘Guess so . . . it's my home town and it's not a bad place. My folks've lived there ten years or more. Before that, we had a farm out on the prairies but there was a big drought in the thirties and the soil got blown away. Then the locusts came along and ate what crops were left. That's when we moved to Winnipeg and Dad got work in a store. After a year or two, he opened one of his own and it's doing just fine.'

‘Is that what you'll do? Work in the store?'

‘Not if I can help it. Engines are my line. And I've got these ideas . . . inventions. Could make my fortune.'

‘What sort of inventions?'

He grinned. ‘If I tell you, swear you won't breathe a word?'

‘Of course I wouldn't. I swear.'

‘Well, one's a gadget for unfreezing car locks that've gotten frozen up – size of a pen so it can go in a pocket or a purse so it's handy. See, I told you the winters're real cold in Canada.'

The rude waitress brought their puddings – tinned plums and lumpy custard – and cups of
what was meant to be coffee. He grimaced – more than over the cocoa.

She said, ‘I'm sorry it's so awful – the food and everything.'

‘Yeah, it is. But it's not your fault. You've been going through hell over here for more than four years and you've got a whole lot of other things to be proud of.' He lit a cigarette. Looked at her through the spiral of smoke with his blue eyes. ‘How about you, Prudence? What're
you
going to do, when the war's over? Go back to that bank of yours?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't want to do that ever. I don't know what I'll do. Some other job, I suppose.'

‘Come and live in Winnipeg.'

She laughed politely at the joke. ‘It sounds a bit too cold for me.'

‘I'd keep you warm.'

She stopped laughing and blushed.

He paid the bill and they went into the side street and blackout darkness.

‘I think the railway station's that way,' she said.

‘I'm seeing you home first.'

‘There's no need, honestly.'

‘Yeah,
honestly
, there is.'

He had a torch that worked and he took hold of her arm so she didn't trip over things or bump
into lamp-posts or fall into the cut. The narrowboats lay along the wharf,
Eurydice
tied up at the end of the row.

He said, still holding her arm, ‘You do these trips regularly on the canal – right? Back and forth, delivering stuff?'

‘Yes.' They weren't supposed to talk about that either but she couldn't see the harm. Not with him.

‘Here's the deal. Next time you're coming this way, go to a call box and call the Three Horseshoes pub in Cranborough. I don't know the number.'

‘I can find it out.'

‘OK. Leave a message for me with Ron, the landlord there. We're down there most nights when we're not flying and he'll pass it on for sure. He's a real nice guy. Tell him where you'll be stopping next and when, and I'll try to get over. If I don't show up, it's because I couldn't make it. If that happens, next trip you do the same. Sooner or later we'll meet again.'

‘I can't remember your last name.'

‘McGhie. Sergeant Steve McGhie.'

He put his arms around her and started to kiss her, then stopped.

‘Hey, something wrong, Prudence?'

‘I've never done this before.'

‘Where the heck've you been hiding?'

‘In the bank in Croydon.'

That made him laugh. ‘You'll soon get the hang of it.' Later, he said, ‘See what I mean? Piece of cake.'

He shone the torch for her to step on board the butty and down into the hatches. He called after her, ‘Steve McGhie. Don't forget.'

Ros was already in bed, reciting one of her speeches: something about Arabian perfumes and a little hand.

‘Had a good evening, sweetie?'

‘Yes, thanks.'

‘He's nice, your Canadian. Very hunky. Are you going to see him again?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘I would, if I were you.'

She washed her face and brushed her teeth, tipped the dirty water overboard, switched out the light and climbed into bed. No curlers or prayers any more. She always fell straight to sleep, exhausted, but this time she couldn't for thinking of him and the feel of his mouth on hers.

AS USUAL, THEY
were the last to let go in the morning. And, as usual, the engine had been a pig to start. When, in desperation, Frances had tried giving it a good kick it had fired on the next attempt, so maybe that was the trick. They swopped round duties. Ros took over steering the motor while Frances did the lock-wheeling and Prue steered the butty. They were all doing jobs they didn't much like, but that way they kept in practice.

After Leighton Buzzard, four downhill locks came close together. There was one bad moment when Prue let the butty creep back over the cill as they were going down, but they saved the situation in time, and another when Ros took the motor out too fast, missed picking up the butty tow rope and had to reverse all the way back again. Luckily, there were no spectators to witness either piece of incompetence.

At Fenny Stratford lock Frances went off to the shop to stock up on rations, carrying the kitty cocoa tin, while Prue filled up with water, staggering from tap to boats with overflowing cans that she could barely lift off the ground. The four-hour pound that came afterwards gave them a breather before they had to cross the Pig Trough aqueduct with its low parapet and terrifying drop to the Great Ouse below. Frances, on
Orpheus
and with a good view of the butty bows behind her, yelled a stream of instructions back to a white-faced Ros steering
Eurydice
. ‘Too far over to the left . . . no, that's too far to the right . . . watch out, still too far . . . you're OK now. Just keep going straight as you are.'

Towards the end of the next pound, two hours long, a pair of boats came past and Frances called out to the steerer.

‘How many locks have you made ready for us?'

He shook his head. ‘There's a pair of boats ahead of yer.'

Sure enough, when they came to the bottom of the seven locks climbing to Stoke Bruerne every one was against them. They worked their way up doggedly, from lock to lock. Shut top gates, lower top paddles, raise bottom paddles, wait for water level to drop, open bottom gates, take boats in, shut bottom gates and drop bottom paddles, open top paddles, wait for water to rise, open top gates,
take boats out. Seven times over. It was still early and they could have continued through the Blisworth tunnel and on for several more miles before darkness fell, but they were very weary and decided to tie up. Two other pairs of boats were already moored along the towpath. One pair, Frances saw, belonged to Saul and Molly, the other to Jack Carter. Freddy stuck his head out of the engine room on
Snipe
and waved at her, looking downcast.

‘Engine's conked out, miss. Me bruvver's mendin' it. We'd've been through Bugby by now, else.'

In boaters' speech, this translated as the Buckby locks by Norton Junction, much further ahead. They were learning the boaters' names for locks and used them too: Stockers, Rickey, Albert's Two, Fishery, Mathus, Finney . . . There wasno point offering Jack Carter any help. They were neither capable of giving it, nor would it be accepted if they had been.

Saul came walking along the towpath towards her, looking anxious.

‘The babby's comin',' he said. ‘Sister Mary's seein' to things.'

Pip had told them about Sister Mary and pointed out her canal-side cottage. She was nurse to the boat people – dressed their wounds, doled out their medicines, treated their ailments,
delivered their babies. ‘She knows them all,' Pip had said. ‘They trust her completely.'

While they ate their supper in the butty cabin they thought of poor Molly in labour, close by.

Frances said, ‘Do you remember Melanie in
Gone With The Wind
? She had an awful time. She had to cling to the bedpost.'

Ros shuddered. ‘Don't talk about it.'

There was a sudden loud, inhuman shriek, and then another, and then one louder still – like an animal in dreadful torment. They sat listening in horror. Another scream of agony and Ros put down her knife and fork.

‘I can't stand this. Let's go to the pub.'

They slunk past Molly's boat with their fingers in their ears. As they passed Jack Carter's pair the clink and clang of tools sounded from the engine room. At the Boat Inn Prue had her lemonade but Ros and Frances treated themselves to a cherry brandy. It tasted sickly but it steadied their nerves.

‘No babies for me,' Ros said, drawing deep on her cigarette. ‘Not after hearing that. It sounded as though she was being tortured.'

The pub filled up with regulars – local men who stared plenty but left them alone in their corner. Three more men came in – boaters this time – bought their beers and began a game of darts.

Prue nudged Ros. ‘It's the same ones you played that time when we were with Pip. The Joshers.'

‘So it is . . . maybe they'd like me to join them again.'

Ros started to get up but Frances grabbed her arm and pulled her down firmly. ‘Pip told us to be careful of them – remember?'

By the look of them, they were brothers. Swarthy, unshaven, mean-eyed – like the baddies in a Western film, the ones who ride into town and cause big trouble in the saloon. The ones who drink hard and cheat at cards and finger their guns.

Frances drained her drink. ‘Anyway, I think we ought to go, if we want to get off to a good start in the morning.'

Ros refused to be rushed. She lit another cigarette, sipped at her cherry brandy. ‘Speaking of good starts, I've just had an idea.'

‘What idea?'

‘Well, I bet those Joshers will have tied up ahead of everyone so they can be first off in the morning.'

‘We can't very well stop them.'

‘We can get up even earlier than them. Pull that old boaters' trick of bow-hauling or shafting the boats further along the cut before we start the engine.'

‘They'll hear us.'

‘Not if we're quiet as mice, they won't.'

‘The engine wouldn't start first go. It never does.'

‘Kick it like you did today. That worked.'

‘They'll catch us up. Overtake us.'

‘They can't very well do that in the tunnel. Then if we can get to the next lock before they do, they'll be stuck behind us, whether they like it or not.'

Frances frowned. ‘There aren't any locks till Bugby – that's more than ten miles away. We'd never make it.'

She glanced over at the three brothers and one of them gave her a very nasty look. She thought, Ros's idea is mad; they'd sink us if we got in their way. Then she thought, but if we could reach Bugby first, it would teach them a real lesson. She said, ‘All right, Ros. We'll give it a try.'

As they were leaving the pub, Saul came in, beaming all over his face.

‘It's a boy. A fine boy babby. Yer can go an' see 'im, if yer likes.'

Ros and Prue thought they ought not to make a crowd, so Frances went alone. When she knocked on the cabin door Molly answered, sounding quite normal, and when she went inside she found her lying in the cross-bed with the baby asleep in her arms.

‘We're callin' 'im Abel, after Saul's dad,' she said, and she turned the shawled bundle gently towards the lamplight. ‘In't 'e lovely?'