The Boat Girls (2 page)

She carried the tray to where her father was working and set it down on the bench.

‘I've brought your lunch, Papa.' He didn't seem to hear so she tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Your lunch, Papa.'

He glanced round vaguely, a small knife in hand. The only way to get any positive response was to say something about the orchids.

‘That looks awfully tricky . . . whatever you're doing.'

He nodded. ‘Must be careful . . . so easy to get
it wrong.' He bent over the pot again, like a surgeon using a scalpel.

She wandered about the orangery, looking at the exotic flowers with their spots and stripes and strange markings. In Edwardian times they had been particularly prized, she knew, and gentlemen had worn expensively raised orchids in their buttonholes to impress the ladies. The paler colours looked better than the gaudy ones, and white was best of all. There was one that always bloomed around Christmas in a long spray of small white flowers and she found it at the far end of a bench. It would look beautiful in the house, where it would die very quickly from cold.

Papa seemed to have finished whatever delicate operation he'd been carrying out, so she went back to him.

‘Aunt Gertrude phoned. She's coming for Christmas, as usual.'

‘Ah . . . that's good.'

‘She asked me whether Vere would be here too.'

‘Oh . . . I shouldn't think so, would you?'

‘No. I expect it'll be just the three of us.'

‘Mmmm . . .'

He bent over another pot and she knew he had either already forgotten that she was there, or was hoping that she would go away very soon. Sometimes she longed to grab hold of him and
shake him, shout at him and
make
him pay some attention, but, of course, it was hopeless.

‘Well, don't forget to eat your lunch.'

At the door she glanced back to see him intent again with the knife. He probably would forget.

She wandered into the morning room where a fire smouldered sulkily in the grate and, for something to do, picked up
The Times
from the sofa table and sat down to flick through the pages. The news was mostly about the war, of course: photographs of Allied troops squelching through thick mud in Italy, another of a very handsome American fighter pilot climbing out of his plane, another of a captured German U-boat crew looking bitter and resentful. Papa never read any of it – never even looked at the paper or mentioned the war. She turned another page and an article caught her eye.

Appeal for Volunteers

There are vacancies for more women volunteers to be trained to work canal boats. Training usually lasts about two months, during which women will be given full instruction in the management and handling of canal craft and the method of working the locks. They will live, eat and sleep on the boats which travel along the canals, carrying essential cargoes. Payment during training is
at the rate of £2 a week and a week's leave, without pay, may be taken at the end of each trip, which normally takes about three weeks.

She read on with interest.

On completion of training, if found suitable, women are given control of a pair of boats, consisting of a motor boat with a ‘butty'. The earnings accruing from the tonnage moved are shared by the three members of the crew and are subject to a minimum wage of £3 a week. Above this minimum the earnings of the crew depend largely on their own experience and exertions. Canal boat workers are entitled to extra rations of tea and sugar. Fuel and light are free. Leave is granted at regular intervals, including one week annually with pay. Only women of robust constitution are advised to apply. The main qualifications are grit and spirit of service.

She tore the article out.

Aunt Gertrude came three days before Christmas, arriving in the local station taxi in time for tea. A blazing log fire made the drawing room bearable as long as one sat within a radius of eight feet. Aunt Gertrude, who had been born and brought up in the house, had come well prepared in her ankle-length musquash coat with several
layers of clothing beneath it. Her clothes and jewellery all dated from the twenties – ropes of beads, drop-waisted gowns, long cardigans, pointed shoes with splayed heels – and even her hair was cut in a twenties bob. She had discovered, when living through it, that the period suited her, and had never seen any reason to move on.

Papa put in a brief appearance before disappearing to his study with some mumbled excuse. Aunt Gertrude stuck one of her cigarettes into her ivory holder and lit it.

‘I've been having a think, Frances. Would you have any objection to my coming to live down here for a bit? It looks like this wretched war's going to drag on and I'm getting sick of spending it in London. There are troops swarming all over town, prostitutes on every corner and the Americans pinch all the taxis . . . I'd like to shut the flat up and get away for a while. Do you think your father would mind?'

‘I shouldn't think he'd even notice. And I'd love to have you.'

‘Not much fun here on your own, is it? Not that I'd be much help in that department. You want other young people for company, not old aunts. Any luck yet with the service applications?'

She shook her head. ‘Nothing doing. I've just tried them all again.'

The woman in the WAAF recruiting place had been quite frosty. ‘
We'll let you know. Please don't bother us again
.'

She said, ‘I saw this thing in
The Times
the other day which sounded rather interesting. What do you think?'

Her aunt read the article. ‘It sounds right up your street, Frances. Something quite different.'

‘Only I don't know anything about canal boats. I've never even seen one. Or a canal either, come to that.'

‘That wouldn't matter. They'd train you. And you've done plenty of sailing. It's all water. I think it sounds rather fun. Probably much better for you than one of the services. You'd be out in the fresh air, cruising along the waterways – very pleasant, I'd have thought, and all part of the war effort. Essential cargoes, it says. Grit and spirit of service . . . that's what they're after. You've got both those, haven't you?'

Frances smiled. ‘Would you say I had a robust constitution? That's what they want too.'

‘I'd say you were fit and healthy. Not liable to keel over or faint at a bit of hard physical labour.'

She said, ‘I found an old book about the history of the canals in Papa's library. It was all rather fascinating. Did you know that the Romans built several of them when they were over here?'

‘No, I can't say that I did.'

‘Nor did I. Then nothing happened for years until Queen Elizabeth's reign when another canal was dug at Exeter. Things didn't get going properly until the Industrial Revolution when people found out canals were ideal for hauling coal and raw materials about the country cheaply, in barges pulled by horses. They built them all over the country and lots of people made pots of money. And everything went swimmingly until the nineteenth century when the railways started to be built. Bad luck for the canals – they couldn't really compete. I say, you don't think they
still
use horses, do you?'

‘No idea. Rather nice, if they did.'

Late on Christmas Eve, Vere arrived unexpectedly. Frances hadn't seen her brother for months, and there were lines and shadows on his face that she couldn't remember from before. On Christmas morning they walked over to the church, minus Papa who had escaped to the orangery. There had been a heavy frost during the night and the countryside glistened white. Inside the church, the congregation, cocooned to the eyes, breathed vapour clouds into the air. Vere read the lesson.

Frances watched him from the family pew. He had a nice speaking voice, as good as any actor, and he looked better after a night's sleep, standing there tall and straight in his RAF greatcoat with the wing commander's insignia on his shoulders and all the gilt buttons. The local girls in the congregation were paying lots of attention, and the WAAF girls at his station probably paid lots of attention too. He was the heir, the latest in a long line of de Carlyons – the first one, the Spanish Main pirate, lying in his respectable tomb only a few feet from where she sat. Sir Johns and Sir Veres and their wives were under other flagstones marked by brass plates. Mama, though, was buried outside in the churchyard beneath a hawthorn tree. She refused to think about the frightening idea that Vere might be killed in the war and buried here, too. Stuffy he might be, but he was her brother. Her
only
brother.

There was a goose from the home farm for lunch, with roast potatoes and sprouts, and Papa had brought up wine from the cellar. Afterwards, Frances and Vere left Aunt Gertrude beside the log fire and Papa back in the orangery and took the dogs for a long walk across the estate. Vere had changed out of his uniform and looked more like a brother, but he was still bossy and interfering. For a start, he didn't like the idea of her joining any of the services.

‘It was all right in the beginning, but you get all sorts of girls now.'

‘Sorts? What sorts?'

‘Not the kind you should be mixing with.'

‘
You
mix with them, don't you?'

He said coolly, ‘I don't, as it happens. And I'm not joking, Frances. I'd far sooner you thought of something else to do.'

‘Such as?'

‘There must be plenty of suitable jobs locally – helping out in a canteen, for instance.'

‘I've already tried that. It was deadly boring.'

‘Well, VAD work in a hospital.'

‘Emptying bedpans? No,
thanks
.'

‘We all have to do unpleasant things we don't necessarily care for in wartime.'

She wondered if Vere lectured his squadron about having to put up with unpleasant things, and decided that he almost certainly did.

They reached the brow of a hill. Beyond, the frosty landscape switchbacked towards the Channel five miles away, and the day was clear enough to catch the steely glint of the sea in a gap. Her brother stood beside her, hands thrust into his coat pockets, collar turned up, hair ruffled by the wind. The irony was that there was a strong resemblance to the pirate's portrait hanging in the hall – same long straight nose, same slightly hooded eyes, same colour hair – but
he
couldn't
possibly have been remotely stuffy, like Vere, and he sported a large emerald in one ear to prove it.

She said, ‘Papa's not getting any better, you know.'

‘I'm afraid he never will. Still, he seems perfectly happy with the orchids. Which is really the main thing.'

‘That's what Aunt Gertrude always says. Did she tell you she's planning to come and stay for a while?'

‘Yes, she did mention it. I think it's an excellent idea. It'll be good for Pa and it'll be some company for you.'

‘I may not be here – if I get called up.'

‘I told you, Frances, it's much better if you find something to occupy you round here. There's absolutely no need for you to leave Dorset.'

‘I don't want to be occupied, Vere. I want to
do
something useful.'

‘You can. Go and be a VAD. That's extremely useful.'

‘And I told
you
, I don't want to be one. It's not up to you to tell me what to do.'

He said, ‘Frances – you're only just eighteen. I have a responsibility to look after you – since Mama is dead and Pa isn't up to it – and I'd much prefer that you stay here at Averton.'

‘And I'd much prefer that I didn't. It's all very
well for you, Vere, you've been off having a lovely time – heaps of excitement and adventure.'

‘Which shows how little you understand what fighting a war is about. The reality is anything but lovely.'

‘You mean people getting killed? I understand that perfectly well.'

‘I doubt if you do.' He glanced at his watch. ‘I ought to be getting back. I have to be on duty first thing in the morning.'

He whistled to the two springer spaniels and they walked down the hill in the direction of the house, the dogs following. It looked very beautiful and serene, snug in its safe hollow with the winter sunlight touching the golden stone and masking all its imperfections – sagging roof, crumbling stonework, wonky guttering, peeling paint. She did love it and sometimes, like at this moment, she envied Vere that it would be his one day; at other times she was glad that she wouldn't be saddled with the burden of caring for it.

As they neared the house, she said, ‘As a matter of fact, there
is
something else I could do. There was an appeal in
The Times
.'

‘An appeal?' He frowned. ‘What about?'

She told him. ‘Aunt Gertrude's all for it.'

‘Well, I'm
not
. You don't know what kind of other women would apply, or what the conditions would be, or anything about it. In fact, I think it's
an appalling idea. Working like some bargee! I absolutely forbid it, Frances.'

He had stopped walking and so had she. They faced each other. ‘Is that clear?'

He was looking his very stuffiest, his most bossy.

‘No, it's not. You said yourself that we all have to do unpleasant things in wartime. They need women to help move essential cargoes. It's really important – not just filling teacups and emptying bedpans. I think I'd enjoy it.' The truth was that she'd been rather uncertain on that point, but now she was determined. ‘Mama would have approved. I know she would.'

‘I very much doubt it.'

‘Well, you can't actually stop me, can you? So, bad luck.'

She walked away from him, on down towards the house. He shouted after her, but she pretended not to hear.