The Boat Girls (34 page)

‘Very, I'd say. But Frances isn't interested. She's still pining for her boatman.'

‘That's a shame. She'll get over it, though, in the end.' Aunt Gertrude screwed another cigarette into the ivory holder and lit it. ‘As a matter of fact, I'm more concerned about Vere in that respect. It's high time he found a nice girl.'

‘You needn't be. He must have umpteen WAAFs falling at his feet.'

‘I dare say, but he doesn't seem interested either – like his sister. On the other hand, he's very interested in
you
.'

‘Me?' Ros laughed. ‘Somehow I don't think I'm quite his type. And I'm not a nice girl.'

‘I don't agree on either count. To be perfectly frank, my dear, I'd always hoped it would be some rich heiress who'd snaffle Vere and bring her money to Averton, but since I've come to know you better, I've rather changed my mind about that. I'm not a bad judge of people and I think
you'd be the
very
thing for him. Make him extremely happy. Do him the world of good. Didn't you realize how much he likes you?'

She frowned. ‘No, I didn't.'

‘Oh, yes. Enormously. And you bring such a wonderful blast of fresh air to Averton.'

The clock on the mantelpiece made pre-chiming noises. Cigarette holder clamped at an acute angle, like President Roosevelt's, Aunt Gertrude scooped up the cards with the dexterity of a Mississippi riverboat gambler.

‘Jolly good! Time for our gin.'

Every night they listened to the nine o'clock news. The V2 rockets were still raining down on London, but the RAF was busy bombing German cities by night while the American Air Force did it by day, as well as dropping incendiary bombs on the Japanese. Meanwhile, the Allies were forging their way across Europe. The end of the war was nigh and that meant the end of being on the boats. She wasn't all that sorry. She'd miss Frankie and Prue a lot, but she didn't think she'd miss the boats quite so much. How could you miss being cold, wet, uncomfortable, filthy, tired, bruised and aching? On the other hand, though, there had been the good bits . . . the sun on your face and the wind in your hair, gliding through miles and miles of the most beautiful and peaceful countryside in the world, meeting the most extraordinary
people and – perhaps most of all – feeling free in a way that wasn't possible on dry land. Vere had once said much the same thing, she remembered – only he'd been talking about flying. She watched him covertly when they were listening to the news, and she could tell by his face that he was desperate to get back into action. Hideously dangerous, Aunt Gertrude had called it, which sounded frightening.

The ankle was improving fast, the swelling almost down and she could walk without the duck's-head stick. The next time that Vere drove her to the hospital for treatment, the doctor told her that there was no need for any more.

‘I'm as good as new,' she said to Vere. ‘You won't have to take me there again.'

‘Back to the boats?'

‘The sooner the better. Frances wrote that my replacement is hopeless. I ought to leave tomorrow.'

‘I'm leaving too,' he said. ‘We could travel to London together.'

They called at the hotel to collect two more bins of pigs' swill. He said, ‘I'll take you the scenic route home. There are some rather amazing views.'

They followed a bumpy one-track lane, climbing and twisting and turning, the pig bins going clatter-clatter in the back. There were early primroses
under the hedgerows and buds on the trees. It would soon be looking lovely along the cut, she thought – the willows trailing their long thin leaves, wild flowers dotting the bank, ducks and moorhens nesting, herons flapping around. At the top of a steep hill Vere stopped the van. The land dropped to the south in front of them, sweeping down in soft green folds until it reached the sea, twinkling away in the far distance.

‘Averton's behind us,' he said. ‘But you'll have to get out to see it.'

They walked along the ridge, the wind blowing her hair into a wild tangle. He pointed out the chimneys and rooftops of the house, just visible beyond the woods, with the square tower of the little church beside it.

He said, ‘All the land in this direction belongs to Averton – as far as you can see.'

‘
All
of it? My God!'

‘Beautiful, isn't it?'

‘Very.' She thought: how extraordinary it must feel to own so much of England, and so much beauty. ‘You're incredibly lucky, Vere.'

He turned to her. ‘I want you to share it with me, Rosalind. I love you very much and I'm asking you to be my wife. To marry me in that church down there, as soon as the war's over, and come and live at Averton.'

For a moment she didn't speak, because she
couldn't think of a blessed thing to say. Liking her was one thing, fancying her, even, but
loving
her and wanting to
marry
her was something else entirely.

‘You can't mean it, Vere. You're not serious.'

‘I do mean it. And I'm deadly serious. I adore you.'

‘Since when?'

‘Since you first came to Averton – after we'd met at the Ritz. I fell in love with you then. Probably before that. Probably when I first saw you.'

‘But you couldn't have done. You disapproved of me like anything. You thought I'd be a bad influence on Frances.'

‘I did – at first.'

‘You hurt my feelings.'

‘It was unforgivable of me. And I was wrong. You must hate me for it.'

‘I don't hate you, Vere. I've never done that.'

He smiled. ‘I'm very thankful to hear it.'

‘And, anyway, it was my fault for behaving so badly at the Ritz. I did that on purpose, you know.'

‘I realized that. Later.'

She was silent again. He'd paid her a huge compliment. Made her an offer that, as dear old Aunt Gertrude would have put it, wasn't to be sneezed at. All those acres, as far as the eye could
see, the lovely old house – even though it was falling down – the hundreds of years of family and tradition, going back to that rather gorgeous buccaneer with the emerald earring. To be a part of all that and have a title too, one day: Lady Carlyon. For a moment, she saw herself swanning around, playing the part – charming the villagers, being gracious to forelock-tugging tenants, opening the summer fete, sitting in the front pew. Then she saw the turned-up noses, the snide asides, the sniffy looks.

‘Only you were quite right in the first place, Vere. I'm not at all the sort of wife you should have. You'd be shocked if you knew everything about me.'

‘I very much doubt it.'

‘Yes, you would. For a start, I tell lies.'

‘So do most people.'

‘And I make up stories.'

‘They're extremely entertaining.'

‘And I steal things.'

‘Such as?'

‘Clothes, food, coal – anything I need. I do it quite often.'

‘You wouldn't be in need of them if you married me. What else would shock me?'

‘I've been sleeping with men since I was sixteen – just to get parts in plays.'

‘Isn't that what actresses do?'

‘And I want to go on acting. I'd hate to give that up.'

‘You wouldn't have to give it up. Actresses get married, like anybody else.'

‘You'd want me to have children to carry on the family name and I'm terrified of childbirth.'

‘Only one's necessary – a boy called John.'

‘He'd probably have my colour hair, you realize that?'

‘I hope he would.'

‘So might any others.'

‘I hope they would, too. What else?'

‘My parents run a boarding house.'

‘I know they do.'

‘And I've got an uncle who's a bookie.'

‘He could give us some good racing tips. And Aunt Gertrude would be especially delighted. Well, is that all?'

‘For the moment.'

‘So, what's your answer?'

She pressed her hands to her cheeks; shook her head fiercely. ‘I don't know, Vere. I'm not sure how I feel. About you. About anything. I'm not sure I could ever belong here. You must give me time.'

‘You can have as much of it as you need.'

They walked back to the van. She was silent as they bumped down the hill to another clattering chorus from the pig bins.

‘Penny for your thoughts, Rosalind.'

‘They're worth much more than that.'

‘A shilling, then.'

‘Still not enough.'

‘Five shillings.'

‘Done.'

She held out her hand, palm up, and he dug out two half-crowns from his pocket.

‘But no fibs.'

‘No fibs,' she agreed.

‘So, what were these expensive thoughts?'

‘Well . . .'

‘A deal's a deal.'

‘Actually, I was just thinking to myself that I've never gone to bed with anyone who was in love with me. And I was wondering if it's any different. If you see what I mean.'

He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘You could easily find out, you know. If you wanted to.'

THEY HUGGED ROS
when she came back to meet them at Bulls Bridge. They carried her carpet bag, offered tea and her favourite ginger biscuits. Prue had cleaned the butty stove, polished everything and swept out the cabin, and Frances had bought her a brass vase to put wild flowers in.

‘You've no idea how much we missed you, Ros. The other girl was useless, wasn't she, Prue? Never did a thing right, and bone idle with it. All she did was sit around and eat all our food. She got off at Rickey, thank heavens. If we had a flag we'd have run it up.'

Ros looked more beautiful than ever: she seemed to glow. Her hair was growing long again, all the usual cuts and bruises had healed, as well as the ankle, and she looked wonderfully clean – skin, hair, clothes. A normal human being from another land – except perhaps for the clothes. She was wearing a strange assortment of garments.
Aunt Gertrude had given her one of her jumpers and unearthed some plus-twos in the Averton attics, as well as a pair of long green shooting socks. With her leather jerkin and the belt round her waist, the overall effect was pretty striking.

Vere had apparently donated his old RAF battle jacket and Ros wore it slung jauntily across her shoulders.

‘How was he?' Frances asked.

‘Fine. He's gone back, you know.'

‘Not on ops, I hope.'

‘I'm not sure. He wants to, as soon as they'll let him.'

‘He would. I hope they don't. And I hope he was nice to you, Ros.'

‘
Very
nice.'

‘He must be improving.'

‘Yes, I know him much better now.' Out of Prue's hearing, Ros asked, ‘Any news of Steve?'

‘None, unfortunately. Prue keeps ringing that pub to see if they've heard anything, but they haven't. She hasn't given up hope, though. She's still convinced that he's alive.'

‘Well, he could be.'

‘It doesn't seem very likely though, does it? One piece of good news, though: Molly's had her baby – a girl.'

‘Is she all right?'

‘Seems to be fine. They're back working on the cut. She said the second one's easy. Like popping peas in a pod.'

‘I don't believe it.'

‘They've named it after me.'

‘That's quite a compliment.'

On the last trip, when they'd stopped at the Hawkesbury office to get the coal loading orders, Frances had met Saul who'd told her that the baby had been born the day before. They were tied up round the back of the sheds on a quiet stretch of the cut which acted as a sort of boaters' maternity ward, with a midwife and local doctor in attendance. Molly had been sitting up in bed with the baby tucked beside her and Abel bouncing around at the foot.

‘We're givin' 'er yer name as well as me mam's – that's if yer don't mind. Frances Sara. She'll be christened 'fore we move off. Yer'll come to the church, won't yer?'

It was a great honour, she knew, and she'd been very touched. The baby had worn a beautiful gown of old lace and the church had been full of Jessops gathered to make sure that everything was done properly. Afterwards they'd celebrated at the pub and it had been quite a party.

‘I 'ear Jack Carter's courtin',' Molly had said to her at one point. ‘A girl on the Oxford. One o' the Stokes.'

‘From the boats?' She tried to look as though she didn't care – but she did. And it hurt.

‘Course. You still thinkin' 'bout 'im? Wouldn't never 'ave done, see. Jack knew that. Best to fergit 'im.'

They let go early the following day with orders to take the empty boats to pick up a consignment of tinned food at Brentford. Brentford was much closer to the lay-by than Limehouse and they went breasted-up since the locks on that arm of the cut were broad enough to take both boats side by side. Frances steered, while Ros and Prue lock-wheeled for the eleven locks. The big horse-drawn barges coming up, loaded with coal or timber, made progress very slow. At Brentford Frances had to wind the boats before they could tie up – the tricky turning manoeuvre that was closely observed, as usual, by the boaters. No matter how long they spent on the cut, to the true boaters they would always be
them trainees
and sometimes, still,
them bleedin' trainees.

The consignment of tinned foods included several crates of oranges. One of the loaders let a crate crash heavily onto the wharf side. It burst open and oranges rolled merrily in all directions.

‘Whoopsa-daisy,' he grinned at them. ‘'Elp yerselves, girls.'

None of them could remember how an orange tasted. They unpeeled them, prised away the
segments and ate them with the juice dribbling down their chins.

‘We ought to make marmalade,' Prue said.