Read sample Hope on the Waterways

Chapter 1

Sylvia Simpson leaned against Horizon’s cabin, examining the grey looming clouds, and then the empty fifty-foot hold stretched out in front of her as they headed east along the Regent’s Canal towards Limehouse Basin. Horizon, an engineless butty, was strapped alongside the motor narrowboat Marigold, with both boats under the control of Polly and Verity. All three girls had been recruited the previous year on to the Inland Waterways Scheme set up to replace the boaters who had gone to war.

Their task was to transport supplies from the London wharfs to where they were needed and then the same in reverse. This morning they were pat-pattering east as fast as they could, which, she sighed, didn’t amount to much. After all, four miles an hour didn’t exactly part anyone’s hair. Sylvia scanned the skies again, but what was the use? The layer of swirling grey would hide any V2 streaking towards them. ‘I just wish dear old Marigold’s engine could get a bit more of a head of speed going. I feel as though we’re the ducks at a fairground shooting gallery.’ She snatched a look at the other two standing on their deck alongside.

Polly replied, resting her elbow on Marigold’s tiller, keeping both boats to the centre of the canal, ‘You’re not alone there, Sylvia. It’s an endless dog’s dinner, but what can we do?’

Standing the other side of the tiller, Verity adjusted her green woollen hat and called, ‘We duck, darlings, since Sylvia brought up our little feathered friends.’ The three girls laughed, and that summed it up, really; just keep laughing and get on with the job. So last night they’d moored up overnight at Alperton as usual and made an early start this morning to load up at Limehouse quick as a flash. What’s more, the rabbit and parsnip stew was simmering in Marigold’s tiny cabin range, and who knew, Sylvia thought, they might even manage to gulp it down while the blokes loaded the holds. Then they’d head hell for leather back down Regent’s Canal and finally on to the Grand Union Canal past Hayes to motor north for Birmingham, well out of the danger zone. Again, Sylvia snatched a look at the clouds, listening, always listening, but why, when it just made her irritated with herself?

She called, ‘I need to break the habit of looking and listening because you can’t hear the V2s, as you did the V1s. Which makes me ask, clever clogs Verity, how can we duck if there’s no warning?’

‘Don’t be so picky, darling.’

Sylvia grinned across as Verity moved to lean against Marigold’s cabin, lighting a Woodbine, then waggling the packet at Sylvia and Polly. Polly took one, but Sylvia shook her head as she thought aloud. ‘And, in fact, how can these rockets, or anything come to that, go faster than sound? I just don’t understand.’

Polly, still with her elbow on Marigold’s tiller, replied, ‘I’ve no idea either, and you’re not the only one on edge; if we’re not looking for the rockets, it’s the wind trying to freeze off whatever we’ve left exposed.’ So saying, she pulled her muffler up over her mouth.

The wind gusted, making Sylvia’s nose run. Damn, she thought, wiping it on her sleeve, then feeling suddenly ragingly furious, she shouted, ‘Oh Polly, and you too, Verity, I know it’s winter but I’m sick, sore and tired of this weather, never mind that awful little Hitler sending his ghastlies over to blast everyone to kingdom come.’ Sylvia stopped, scared that she was being sacrilegious; kingdom come? Did that mean our Lord’s Kingdom? After all it was: ‘Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done’.

The old uncertainty which was never far away tore at her just as fiercely as the wind. She could ask Sister Augustine next time she put pencil to scrappy paper, or perhaps not, because she didn’t want to get into a discussion about kingdoms, or more importantly, now the words had entered her head, His will being done. She shifted at the tiller, feeling guilty but even more angry, and now also upset because try as she might to ignore it, she was still in such a muddle about her future—to be a nun, or not to be a nun, as Shakespeare might have said. Her mouth dried, as panic began. Had she really been called as she had thought at the convent orphanage? Was she disobeying God’s will by being here, choosing another path, for now at least?

Unable to bear it she jerked herself from this train of thought, elbowing her butty tiller a tiny fraction, which was pointless, but it might break the chain of agonising questions. When it didn’t she shouted to the other two, ‘I dream of the sun, only the sun, every night. Can you imagine being warm ever again on this wretched cut?’ She even banged the tiller with her fist. It hurt, and she was glad.

Polly and Verity laughed from their deck, or counter as it was called by the boaters. Sylvia joined in, not sounding quite right, but muffled enough by her scarf not to cause comment. She began to feel calmer, keeping her thoughts on the cold, cold cut and pondering how working the canal boats had become such a different world that it required its own language.

‘How many of the people we pass on the towpath know that a cut means a canal, and a counter is a deck?’ she called.

Verity, wisps of blonde hair slapping her eyes, ignored her but asked Polly, with a wink, ‘What’s the daft girl going on about now, eh?’ The icy wind increased to the point where the waters of the cut rippled as they passed Camden. Sylvia felt her thoughts being left behind as she listened for rockets and Polly replied, ‘Who knows, we’re all as mad as a mad hatter’s tea party after all.’

All three were hunched against the wind, which had ratcheted up more than a few notches. Sylvia called, ‘You speak for yourself, Polly, and just answer me this: why does my nose always go red enough in the cold to rival Rudolf’s?’

Verity called, ‘Not sure, darling, perhaps to match your hair, but just think how useful you could be on a dark night. I’m surprised the RAF don’t stick you on top of a Wellington and use you as a pathfinder.’

Dog, sitting on the roof of Marigold’s cabin, barked, wanting to be part of the laughter. Polly wagged a finger. ‘No one asked your opinion, Dog, so settle back down or no treats for you when we load up at Limehouse.’

They pulled in to the bank and changed to a short tow to travel single file through Islington Tunnel after hooting their intention to any oncoming boats. Once into it and subsumed by darkness, Polly bellowed back to Sylvia, ‘Come on, Rudolf, flash away and guide us through.’

‘Shut up,’ Sylvia yelled. Their laughter echoed.

When they were out into the light they lashed abreast again and Sylvia pulled her woollen hat further down over her ears, and her scarf, which had slipped, up over her nose. She squinted ahead while Verity eased herself up on to Marigold’s cabin roof, sitting alongside Dog, cuddling her. It was probably for warmth as much as out of love, Sylvia thought, then ticked herself off, knowing she was wrong; it was always out of love in the case of that particular animal, a love felt by them all for Dog, who seemed to sense their moods, and lighten them if need be. Poor creature, she was frequently overworked.

As Sylvia watched, Verity straightened, clearly struck by a thought. As the breasted boats pat-pattered along between the warehouses which lined both banks, and under a bridge, Verity called, ‘As you’ve brought it up, lovely red-nosed Sylvia, remind me about this sun that so obsesses you? It is beyond memory as far as I’m concerned and seems to have given over its control of the skies. Quite frankly, darlings, there has to be more to life than freezing on a bloody narrowboat’s counter hoping we’re not going to be blasted to smithereens.’

Polly, steering lightly, grinned. ‘Now, now, Verity, “bloody” indeed. If my mum was here you’d have to wash your mouth out with soap. Let me explain in language simple enough for even someone as daft as you, Lady Verity Clement: the sun is a little yellow orb which sometimes peers out between the clouds over Britain, but not nearly often enough, and is known to give off heat. Is it simple enough for you both to understand or shall I draw you a picture?’

At the mention of Polly’s mum, Mrs Holmes, Sylvia grinned, but didn’t answer because she was too busy silently thanking that wonderful woman for knitting all their hats, socks, mittens and scarves. Admittedly they were strangely colourful but if you had to pull out the wool from old sweaters bought from jumble sales, they would be, wouldn’t they? It was still wartime after all, but surely it would end soon and then … what then? She saw the orphanage, the convent, the nuns. No, she pushed it away, but back it came, because now Harriet was there in her postulant’s dress, as clear as day. Sylvia reached for Horizon’s tiller, needing to ground herself in the present, but slowly, inexorably, Harriet continued to force her way to the forefront of her mind.

Harriet who was her friend from their early days in the orphanage, Harriet who had the bed next to her in the dormitory and with whom she had talked and laughed when school was over as they walked back to St Cecilia’s in the crocodile, hand in hand. The sisters on point duty, front and back, looked like penguins, one of the older children had mocked, only to be smacked across the hand with a ruler by Father O’Malley for being cheeky.

As the years went by their class grew too old for holding hands, or hopscotch, or skipping, but not too old for chatting. They would sit in the common room, talking of this and that, all of them. But when they were sixteen something happened, and Harriet grew serious, and in the darkness of the dormitory she began to talk to Sylvia, in a whisper so as not to disturb the others, of God, for she had had a dream and heard His voice, and knew she, Harriet Wilkes, had been called to serve.

In that dream, Harriet had said, Sylvia had been spoken of by God too. She had whispered on the longest day—June 21st 1942, ‘He says we are to be postulants together, Sylvia. Just as we are now friends. We can stay here, in this convent, and devote ourselves to Him, and teach, or look after the orphans. But He said also that He will call to you, too. So, we must promise to enter as postulants, together, mustn’t we? Won’t that be good?’

So Sylvia had promised, because she was Harriet’s friend and they would be so lonely if separated.

‘Sylvia?’ Verity called, jerking Sylvia back to the present. ‘Polly Holmes is such a know-it-all, isn’t she? And it was your fault that she lectured us, Miss Sylvia Simpson, for asking about the ruddy sun in the first place, so there.’

Sylvia swallowed, and breathed deeply, and as she replied Harriet faded, but would come back because she always did. She said to Verity, finding the words from somewhere, knowing that her reply would lift her back to this normality, ‘I quite agree, and I suggest you ask Mrs Holmes to knit a solitary sock, Verity, to pop it into Polly’s mouth in order to give us all a rest.’ She and Verity sniggered while Polly gripped her tiller more tightly and grunted, trying not to laugh. ‘I might remind you both that you can go down into the warmth of your cabins if you feel the need to continue to behave like a couple of five-year-olds. That will leave Dog and me to martyr ourselves by staying on the counter, steering our lonely path. Remember, however, when it is your turn to do the honours, then you too will be the solitary … ’

Verity bellowed, ‘Oh, all right, we get the picture.’ Sylvia shook her head, unable to retain her staged silliness. ‘I feel safer, somehow, with the three of us together, counter to counter, even though the rockets are still falling. We’ve been so lucky so far, not to be hurt.’ There, she thought, I’m here, with my current friends, safe from memories, safe from decisions. It’s just a question of going from day to day, on a mission. Yes, a mission to help everyone. She found herself looking up at the sky, and beyond, calling silently to Him that her mission, her war work, was surely enough, at least for now.

Polly murmured, ‘You’re right, Sylvia. We are lucky, much more so than all the poor devils who’ve been killed in the last months.’

Sylvia looked, as Verity said, hugging Dog again, ‘I think it might have been two or was it three V2s that fell around here, today? I try to stop myself from counting but I just can’t.’ She squeezed Dog until she yelped. ‘Sorry, darling girl,’ Verity said, releasing her, and covering Dog’s ears. ‘But talking of numbers, Sylvia, you said we three girls together on the counter, but I believe you mean the four of us? Nod if you agree, and I will release our Dog’s heartbroken ears.’

Sylvia laughed, and nodded so Verity stroked Dog, and crooned quietly to her, ‘There you see, you are one of us, sweet Dog, so you must ignore daft Miss Simpson.’

Polly steered off centre to make way for a laden breasted pair motoring back to the Grand Union to head northward. It was Timmo, Peter and Trev, on Venus and Shortwood. ‘’Ow do,’ Timmo called as the two pairs passed right side to right side.

‘How do,’ the girls replied, wanting to ask how the lads were doing after Thomo’s death in a V1 explosion, but they didn’t. They’d only be told, ‘Fair to middlin’, which was all the boaters ever said, because what was the point of saying anything else, when it changed nothing?

Peter called from Shortwood, ‘Got the rabbits did yer, at Alperton? We ’ung ’em behind yer engine room when yer were in the land of Nod. Yer might let us win just one darts match in return, eh?’

The laughter of the men followed them as the girls continued on.

Verity said, ‘Win at darts? The very idea. Anyway, as you were saying a while ago, Sylvia, about feeling safer counter to counter … Why not let’s say cheek to cheek as the song says? Listen, we should find a dance at the end of this trip. It would do us good to step out, even if we have to dance with one another now the blokes are doing their bit over there.’ She pointed towards Europe.

For a moment they all fell silent. Verity’s Tom was trying to push the Germans towards the Rhine while Polly’s Saul had left the Mulberry harbour and was frantically driving supplies to the front line. Sylvia broke the silence. ‘I merely ask, would we be welcome at a dance with our boater smell and our callouses?’

Verity responded, ‘Oh faint heart, we could have a proper wash before we go, pool our slap, and draw a seam up the back of our legs, then we’d be the belles of the ball.’

Polly piped up, ‘Oh, come now, a bit of rouge and pretend stockings won’t be enough. Besides, we’ll be too cold with nothing else on.’

As Angel Lock hove into sight, they were laughing hysterically and Sylvia made it worse by shrieking, ‘She’s right, even a Ladyship couldn’t carry that off, Verity, unless she wore a tiara. I suppose you have a few, or if not you, your mum will. Besides, we’d get chilblains in unmentionable places.’

Polly, still laughing, was pulling in to the bank just before the lock. ‘Your turn to lock-wheel, Sylvia. Timmo’s been through so it’ll be ready for us.’ She didn’t expect a reply because it was all second nature now. Sylvia leapt for the bank while Polly steered the boats into the lock. Sylvia shut the gates behind them and opened the paddles to let the water out. The boats sank to the lower level, and she walked the beams back with her bum, opening the gates, wondering how long it would be before her trouser seat had to be patched again.

She jumped back on to the butty as Polly pulled away. Dog barked in welcome as she always did, and they continued past the buildings which still loomed alongside the cut, casting shade across the water. There were gaps now, common to all the cuts in Britain’s cities; a warehouse gone here, a factory there, absences that resembled lost teeth, jagged and dark. Some were old Blitz wounds where rosebay willowherb grew in spring and summer, but since the V1 and V2 rocket campaign over London and the south-east they’d also been passing new gashes, oozing with the smell of cordite, dust, debris and heaven alone knew what.

Sylvia longed for the northern passage, where they identified villages and distant towns from the spires and towers, not to mention the allotments which edged the towpath, and then there were the fields, the hedges, the birds … They entered and left another lock, and motored on, hearing the calls of a formation of geese flying high up, probably heading for the Thames.

Sylvia allowed herself to look at them, and they gave her heart, for not all had changed with the war. Polly was watching them too, her elbow still resting on Marigold’s tiller, her face pinched with the cold. ‘Thank heavens for nature.’ Verity muttered, ‘Damn Hitler, the vicious little pipsqueak. He’s lost his diabolical dream, so why doesn’t he just surrender? These poor, poor people who put up with this murderous mayhem all the ruddy time while we just … ’ She fell silent.

There it was, Sylvia thought, one minute they saw hope in a skein of geese, the next they were back in the war. No one replied, and Sylvia contented herself with trying to work out yet again why the buildings lining the cut didn’t protect them from the wind as they pat-pattered along. Even in the shadows beneath the bridges, where the cold was always deeper, there was wind of some sort. Still, she shouldn’t moan, for beneath these bridges it was like an air raid shelter, and they felt protected for a few seconds. But yes, as Verity had said, what about the people out there, living in this hell?

They were approaching a bridge across which gallant red buses continued to pass, no matter what. Sylvia murmured, ‘I thought I’d never say this, but I miss those perishing children who leaned over the parapets hurling abuse and manure at us boater scum. It’s because they were a sort of normality. But they’ve gone, evacuated.’

Verity roared with laughter. ‘So, our Sylvia, those heathens are our normality, eh? Crikey, just about sums up our Inland Waterways war work doesn’t it?’

Sylvia laughed along with the other two. When she joined the scheme she thought she’d never be part of the team, never laugh as they did when everything was such a mess in her head, but … they had saved her reason, because—yes, all right—she was running away from the convent, the orphanage, Harriet, and the dream she, Sylvia Simpson, had finally experienced, just as Harriet said she would. Polly called, ‘You’ve got that look, Sylvia. How did your telephone call to Sister Augustine go? You did telephone her back, after she left the message with the depot office?’

Sylvia shrugged. ‘Yes, I did. She wanted to know if I was going to accept the invitation to the orphanage reunion so they could get some idea of how many could come. I said that I didn’t know where we’d be.’

Verity muttered uncertainly, for the two girls knew of her struggle to put aside her confusion about what she should do with her future, and whether, indeed, she should even be here. ‘Ah, but we could manage the timetable somehow, if you wanted to go, but only if.’

Sylvia stared down at the water rippling away from the sides of the boat.

Verity repeated, ‘We really can work out things if you want to go, dearest Sylvia. But only if. Don’t let Sister Augustine badger you, or make you feel stressed.’

At this, Sylvia dragged herself away from the movement of the water and gripped her tiller and answered, ‘She never tries to do that, quite the reverse, after all she supported me coming on to the scheme to try out the world, as she put it, but seeing her just makes the thinking and fidgeting increase.’

Sister Augustine had sat quietly in her study when Sylvia confessed that she had applied to, and been accepted for, the Idle Women scheme, as the Inland Waterways girls were called. But Sylvia had confessed she feared she was running away after being called in that dream she’d had a few months before.

To her surprise Sister Augustine had smiled that smile of hers. ‘Is this sense of a calling imaginary, and the dream too? You have always told me you can’t really remember it. Don’t forget that I came to the dormitory when I heard you shout out loud enough to wake the whole orphanage. I too heard Harriet say you had called to God, but I also heard Rosemary from the bed opposite say that you had been talking rubbish. Dear Sylvia, it happens, you know, that girls who have lived with us wonder where their duty lies after we, with God at the helm, have enveloped them in love. I say to you, what I say to them—please, please experience life outside this world and be kind to yourself. Only you, and God, can decide what is the right path. We are your parents while you are here, and after you leave us too. You may return to stay whenever you need, but, dearest Sylvia, what we have done here at St Cecilia’s does not imply any obligation towards us, or God.’ What could have been kinder, she thought; she had shared this with Verity and Polly, and also told them of the dream which she couldn’t remember, and Harriet who had heard her call to God, but what she couldn’t bring herself to share with them, or Sister Augustine, was any mention of the promise to Harriet, for she, Sylvia Simpson, was the betrayer, while Harriet was a postulant, for Sylvia had watched Harriet leave the dormitory to fulfil her calling. Her friend had looked back at her as she walked down the centre aisle and beckoned, but Sylvia had not followed. She just wasn’t sure enough.

Verity was still waiting, and Sylvia said, ‘I want to go and see them all, in a way but—

A piercing howl cut right across her words. She and Verity spun round to see Dog sitting bolt upright, ears pricked, the hair raised along her back, still making that dreadful sound, and then the boat lurched, and tossed in a buffeting sucking of air, different, harsher, much harsher than the wind. Hats were ripped from their heads, and scarves pulled from their mouths, and they gasped, trying to drag air into their lungs. They clung to tillers or cabin roofs, their ears popping, trying to understand, their minds in chaos. Nothing was firm, nothing was safe. Dog was howling, howling. Finally, Verity, still on the roof but lying flat, her voice strained, held Dog close, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’

Sylvia was hugging the tiller, her ribs aching, as the boats rocked, just as Polly was doing. ‘It’s all right,’ Verity repeated as their breasted boats were driven into the bank by some primeval force. The jerk almost knocked Sylvia off her feet, and Polly too, and after a while, it was almost all right, but Sylvia wished Verity would shut up, because her voice was rising, and rising, and now Dog was howling again. At last the world slowed to a fevered rocking as they looked from left to right, searching the area ahead for the V2 which had exploded. Polly pointed over to the south of the cut; Sylvia and Verity followed her arm, and saw smoke rising. The V2 must have scorched into the ground there, but the silent blast that had caught them was still taking down buildings near and far.

They spun round and saw that the warehouse to their left was cracking; would it crash on to the cut, and them? Was the cut going to burst its bank? They smelt cordite, and dust, and now they heard the blast—rolling on, and on, and on over the crashing of buildings. The warehouse nearest the bank collapsed on to the one behind, but the one to their left was still standing as it cracked from top to bottom.

Verity gasped. ‘It is a damned rocket, isn’t it?’ ‘Course it ruddy is,’ yelled Polly, cutting the engine, to stop the Marigold from driving again and again into the bank. She was coughing, pointing ahead and to the right at the smoke which had turned black. It was perhaps a hundred yards away beyond the warehouses. Or was it much less? Sylvia wondered but what did it matter, for the blast was crashing on as the water bubbled and the boats rocked, tilting ever more fiercely. They fought for breath as the warehouse debris rose into the air, scattering bricks into the cut and into their holds.

‘Duck,’ screamed Verity. As they did, bits of brick hit the bank. ‘Not us, not this time, it’s those poor beggars over there,’ Polly coughed, pointing to the smoke. ‘And not for Timmo and the boys either.’

‘Bet?’ Sylvia groaned. ‘She’s a bit ahead with the new trainee crew.’ She could taste blood in her mouth and realised she had bitten her tongue.

‘She was well ahead. She must be at Limehouse,’ shouted Polly. The cut was settling, the rocking becoming less violent but still enough for them to hang on to the tillers. Polly continued, ‘If the girls handled the locks without mishap, that is. Come on, let’s get out of here, what the hell did I cut the engine for?’

Verity and Sylvia checked the boats for damage but there were only superficial scrapes as the fenders had taken the worst of it. Verity restarted the motor in the engine house, and ran back across the roof of the cabin, doubling over, while debris still rained down. Within seconds they headed under another bridge, safe for those few seconds, then out again while Dog remained on the roof, dusty hair still standing up along her back, small bits of debris caught in it. She was sniffing the air, for they were heading nearer the black smoke that the breeze was carrying across the cut. It was pungent with destruction and mingled with the looming clouds.

Distant cries reached them, and the bedlam of rescue vehicles which set Dog barking, but there was no more of her unearthly howling. Polly yelled, as she motored on, ‘Hang on to her collar and keep her with you on the roof, Ver. Sylvia, keep your eyes peeled for any warehouses about to fall, and for Bet, of course.’

Polly needed both hands on the tiller to steer them almost straight as the boats bucked against the unsettled water and they all peered ahead, and then there they were, Bet’s breasted motor and butty crashed lopsidedly into the bank, both cabins damaged, and no sign of life. Verity wailed, ‘Bet? Oh no! No, dammit. No.’

Dog leapt from the roof to the counter, barking frantically. Sylvia felt she could hardly breathe. Not Bet. Not their old trainer, their best friend. Please, God, not Bet.

Polly steered into the bank too, then cut the engine, her face deathly pale; Verity held back Dog. ‘Wait, Dog.’ Her voice shook. Sylvia leapt on to the towpath, her eyes fixed on the damaged boats. Were the girls hurt? Please no, Bet had just got over her latest chest infection, but how stupid, what was a chest infection here, now?

She moored up the prow while Verity hauled on the stern mooring rope, securing it on the bank stud as the bucketing cut slapped the boats backwards and forwards against the bank. ‘Think it’ll hold, Sylvia?’ she yelled.

‘It has to,’ Sylvia called as Polly jumped from Marigold’s counter on to Horizon’s and then to the bank. They all began running along the towpath, desperately calling Bet as the smoke and dust thickened, engulfing them so that it stung their eyes; they choked and coughed. Still they ran, calling Bet’s name, but there was no reply from the butty and motor.

Chapter 2

They were still calling for Bet within a hair’s breadth of reaching her butty Sky, when all three of the crew emerged from the prow’s store, coughing and carrying brooms. Bet, her scarf up round her mouth and nose, hurried Mabel and Evelyn on to the bank just as Sylvia, Polly and Verity increased their speed. Dog beat them all and sat leaning against Bet’s leg until the girls reached them.

‘You’re safe,’ gasped Polly.

‘No need to state the ruddy obvious,’ Bet snorted over the sounds of the rescue services to the south. ‘Just help us haul out a couple of the smaller tarpaulins, to sheet over what’s left of the cabins.’

Polly took no notice and held her close. ‘Stop being such a grump. I don’t know what it is with you; if you aren’t having a bad chest, you’re bringing rockets down to destroy your boats. Are you after another bout of shore leave?’

Bet’s grin was shaky as she shrugged free. She said something, but the girls struggled to hear her over the increasing noise of fire engines heading towards the locus of the smoke. Taking a deep breath, she began again. ‘Enough of your cheek, my girl. Come on, everyone, we’ll check Sky’s cabin first, and the hold, then nip across to Hillview. It bore the brunt of the blast, after all, but the butty was the one that crashed into the bank. First though the tarpaulins.’ She handed her broom to Verity and leapt back on to the prow. Dragging out a neatly rolled tarpaulin, she chucked it at Verity and Evelyn, who were standing on the towpath, forcing them to drop their brooms. ‘So, aren’t we going to sweep after all?’ Evelyn called.

They all heard Bet clearly as she raged, ‘I got them out to keep us busy and stop any fussing. So now we’ll sort out the cabins, but collect and chuck the brooms back, Mabel, if you don’t very much mind.’ Sylvia muttered to Verity as Mabel did just that, ‘She’s totally shaken, but who wouldn’t be?’

The sound of whistles, screams, shouts, and the revs and clangs of the Fire Service pump engines was growing, carried on the wind that was pushing denser and denser smoke over them.

‘Come on, girls, chop chop.’ Bet was dragging out another rolled-up tarpaulin. She threw it to Polly, who hugged it to her. Then Sylvia caught the coiled rope that Bet had hurled from the store. Standing with her hands on her hips on the prow counter, Bet yelled, ‘You never know, Sylvia, it might come in handy and we can’t have you and Mabel toddling along empty handed like Lady Mucks as though you’re out for an early afternoon stroll.’

Bet jumped to the bank, taking an end of Polly’s tarpaulin, and said, ‘The ruddy pheasant stew’s in Hillview’s oven, so that’s bound to be ruined. At least nothing caught fire, or we’d have neither boat any more, just a pile of charcoal.’

Sylvia hoisted the rope over her shoulder and linked arms with Mabel. The girl was shaking from head to foot as she tottered along, then she started shrieking, ‘We heard nothing, just felt this suck. A great big suck that took all the air, then a sort of roar and a wind that shoved us over, tore up the cabin and I didn’t know what the hell was happening.’

‘It was a V2,’ Sylvia soothed her, knowing that she was shaking too but that it must have been far worse to be closer still.

Mabel snapped, ‘I know what it was, of course I do, now, I just can’t get such a dreadful suck out of my head.’

Bet, who was lugging a tarpaulin ahead of them, stopped, turned and yelled a command, treating the sound of the rescue services as though it was a mosquito to be swatted. ‘If you say suck again, young lady, into the cut you will go. We have more to do than have hysterics; we need to make a silk purse out of a ruddy sow’s ear, then the Marigold girls must get on to the Basin to pick up their load.’ They continued along the towpath towards the stern of the boat, examining Sky’s hold as they went, though all Sylvia wanted to do was scan the skies for more rockets. Mabel, still at fever pitch, shrieked, ‘Bet’s a tyrant, that’s what she is.’

Sylvia grinned. ‘Of course she is, but she’ll teach you to be a sort of boater, and then the boaters will teach you to be a good one.’

Mabel seemed unconvinced as she looked from the boat to Sylvia, then at the smoke and noise, and finally up to the sky. She was still shaking. Sylvia said into her ear to make sure she was heard, ‘Best to think of something else, so check the hull as we’re going along. You won’t hear the V2, or see it if it hits you, anyway. It’s going too fast. Only the survivors get that pleasure.’ Mabel looked appalled and shouted back, ‘Well, thanks for that bit of information, I don’t think.’

Sky seemed untouched except for the fenders which had been ripped off and flung into the cut, and into the hold where they lay shredded on the bilge boards. Sylvia squeezed Mabel’s arm, as in front Verity shouted above the noise, ‘A tyrant, you say, Mabel. Well, yes, but we found Bet doesn’t often bite. Still, I dare say she—what’s the word—oh yes, I know, she can’t half suck.’

Polly, walking alongside their old trainer, slipped her arm around Bet, saying, ‘I don’t think anyone will say suck again. What do you think, girls? Anyone about to mutter the magic word—what was it again?’

Bet howled, ‘Shut up’ but was forced to join in the shaky laughter. Reaching amidships, they saw that the right side above the waterline was completely caved in thirty feet from the stern and parts lay in the bilges. Verity looked over her shoulder at Sylvia. ‘We were in such a rush to check on the grumpy old bag I didn’t see this, did you?’

Polly and Sylvia were shaking their heads, as Bet stepped closer. ‘Thank the Lord we were unloaded, or we’d have sunk and lost the supplies.’

Mabel muttered, ‘Not to mention the three of us.’

Bet was peering closer. ‘We’re replaceable, ducky, the boats aren’t—especially the motor.’

Mabel blanched. Sylvia grinned while Polly called, ‘I don’t think it will work to tarpaulin the hull, Bet. Best just to sort out the cabins and get back to the depot on your motor. If Hillview is still sound enough, that is.’

They set off again towards the stern. Reaching Sky’s cabin, Bet said, ‘Too far gone. I reckon it was from being whacked into the bank by Hillview.’ She kicked at the wood. Her precious pierced plates were smashed, and her horse brasses too, no doubt, were buried beneath the splinters. What about the hunting horn from Bet’s father? He had two and Bet had given the Marigold trainees one. Sylvia nodded to herself. If Bet didn’t find hers, they’d have to return theirs. It didn’t matter a jot, because possessions in the face of all this were absurdly unimportant. They stepped across the counter, on to Hillview. The breeze clutched at their sweaters as they examined the damaged cabin roof. Half was in place, the other half floating on the cut, drifting towards the far bank. Any approaching narrowboat would use boat shafts to force it aside, or barge it with the prow, so there was no need to do anything about it. Smoke was thickening now.

‘Oh,’ coughed Bet, dragging out her handkerchief and holding it over her face, having scooted along to the engine, giving the thumbs—up on her return. ‘We can sort this enough to get back for the cabin and hull to be repaired, and if not, at least the motor’s still useful. It’s up to the company to decide what to do with the butty. Let’s chuck the debris and one of the tarpaulins in the hold, then fix the cabin. Oh, bravo, the hunting horn.’ She stooped, then brandished it at the smoke. ‘There you are, you V2 buggers. Missed us, you did.’ She hooted it once, and then again.

Sylvia caught Verity’s grin and shrugged to herself. All right, so possessions weren’t important, but it would have been hard for Bet to have lost something that had belonged to her parents.

Extraordinarily, the stew in the tiny stove was untouched, though the fire was out. They set to, creating a sort of tent over the damaged areas, obeying Bet’s commands until Polly slapped her hands together. ‘There you go, Bet, shelter from the cold, and should it rain as you toddle along to Bull’s Bridge Depot, you’ll stay vaguely dry. As for Sky, I have to say you’re not going to be Miss Popular, but it would have been worse if they’d had to scoop bits of you all out of the water. Just too messy for words, and it could kill the fish, if there are any.’

Everyone was relaxing—lightning didn’t strike twice. They gobbled down the stew Bet was forcing on them, though each of the Marigold girls kept an eye on the time, until Polly said, ‘Enough of this dawdling, we’ve got to get on to the Basin.’

They jumped on to the bank, with gravy-soaked pieces of bread in their hands for Dog. It was still freezing cold, and their eyes were stinging as Polly called, ‘Dog, come on, playtime’s over but we have a treat for you.’

They waited but she didn’t come.

‘Dog,’ they called as the Hillview crew joined them on the bank. As they called again and again looking up and down the towpath, Mabel said, ‘Damn, I forgot to tell you, I noticed her take off after a cat about ten minutes ago, heading over there; I thought she’d come back.’ She pointed to the bridge across the canal, in the direction of the blast. ‘I should have said. I’m so sorry. My head’s such a mess.’

Polly snapped, ‘For heaven’s sake, Mabel … ’ She looked at the other two. Sylvia and Verity said together, ‘We’ve got to go after her.’ Bet yelled, ‘She’s got a good head start. Oh, really, Mabel.’

The girls, already running off down the towpath, heard Bet call after them, ‘I’m so sorry, girls, Mabel doesn’t realise Dog’s not just a dog. In fact, she doesn’t realise very much.’

Polly waved, saying, ‘Poor girl, I remember that tone, don’t you? She’s in for a right ticking off any minute now.’ She called over her shoulder, ‘Not to worry, Bet. Mabel wasn’t to know. Be gentle with her.’

Bet bawled back, ‘Blow that for a game of soldiers. Contact the depot for me when you see a phone box and tell Bob we’re limping back if you will, but point out Sky needs rescuing. I’ll leave her moored. Don’t listen to his mithering. Just put the phone down. Never met such a grump.’

‘Well, we jolly well have,’ the girls heard Mabel and Evelyn shout.

Polly, Verity and Sylvia didn’t laugh as they reached the bridge, because they were too busy calling for Dog. They left the canal behind, as they jogged through the billowing black smoke. Polly shouted to the other two, ‘Damned cat.’

Verity replied, ‘Damned Dog.’

Sylvia said nothing, because the same anxiety that had hold of Verity and Polly, in spite of their tone, had hold of her. Dog couldn’t be lost, not really. Perhaps she was confused by the smoke. How long could they search? There was a war on and goods to transport. Oh Mabel, Oh Dog. Damn and blast the bloody V2.

They drew in to the side as an ambulance tore past, heading away from the centre of the blast. Polly sounded as despairing as Sylvia felt as she shouted, ‘If they’re careering around like that, they wouldn’t see a dog in the road, would they?’

‘Oh, shut up, Pol,’ shouted Sylvia. They ran on, calling and calling for Dog as they passed houses with paper criss-crossed over the windows, and gaps where summer hollyhocks probably grew amongst the ruins. There were broken bricks in the street, and rubble where a house had been this morning, with rescuers now working like men possessed.

‘Damned Hitler,’ Sylvia panted, feeling real hate but it was just disguising the panic. Where was Dog? ‘Dog, Dog.’

Polly nodded, calling, ‘Dog, oh come on Dog, we’ve a load to collect. Don’t do this to us today. Dog, darling, come back. Dog.’

Verity joined in, ‘Chase whatever you like in the countryside, away from the rockets. In fact, do it anywhere you like, but come back to us.’

They had slowed and were crunching on debris. They passed a woman entering a terraced house. ‘You looking for yer dog, are yer? There’s one over there where the rocket came down. Helping ’em out, she is. A mongrel, brown and ’airy?’ The woman, wearing a headscarf and carrying a string bag bulging with potatoes, pointed off to the left. ‘Just got back from the air raid shelter, swapped me leeks for spuds with Mrs H, not that the all-clear’s gone, but I need to get on.’ ‘Oh, thank you,’ shouted Polly, almost hugging the woman, who just smiled, and kept pointing. They ran on, past more blast damage that had cut a swathe through houses, and a factory. They thought of Mabel’s ‘suck’. They could have lost Bet, and Dog was alive, and they could live here instead of the cut, so what had they to moan about? They ran faster.

In the heavy smoke-drenched air they struggled for breath, fighting stitches, wanting to bend over and take a moment, but there was no time. They ran even faster, the air increasingly hot and damp, the smoke so much thicker they could taste it, like a foul soup. They reached the centre of the blast, or so they supposed, because a tape had been stretched around a crater which was surrounded by destruction. A couple of policemen guarded the tape as neighbours and relatives waited, some swearing, some weeping, but most just watching. One of the constables, his arms outstretched, seemed to be daring anyone to break through, and yelling every few moments, ‘Get yourselves to the shelter, the all-clear ain’t gone.’

‘Lightning don’t strike twice,’ an old boy shouted back. ‘Reckon this is the safest place.’

Behind the policeman dust and smoke rose from the crater, and the rescue squads were digging steadily amongst the debris of ruined and damaged houses and shops, some of which were burning. Over these the firemen were playing water, their pumps roaring, the water hissing as the fire officer shouted directions.

The girls stood together, handkerchiefs to their faces, searching for Dog. A wall crashed to the ground behind them. They swung round and saw dangling floors, and fireplaces just like those in the bombed house in Birmingham they had passed for months as they headed for the Bull and Bush pub. There was an explosion on the other side of the crater and the crowd ducked. Strangers clutched one another as flames whooshed. More dust filled the air. A woman next to Sylvia gripped her arm. ‘It’s the Pig and Whistle’s booze going up.’

‘Please, let it not have fallen on Dog … ’ groaned Polly.

As the Heavy Rescue Service arrived, the woman next to Sylvia said, ‘The Pig’s got a basement. Maybe someone’s down there? There’re basements all over the bloody place, and poor buggers fall through with the blast, but sometimes the joists hold up the rubble. Saves ’em, it do.’

Shouts and whistles directed the firemen. The air grew damper and heavier with moisture.

It was pointless to run around like demented beings calling for Dog. So the girls questioned the watchers, working their way round the area circling the tape until they were at the other side of the disaster area. ‘Have you seen our dog?’

‘Please, she’s brown and hairy.’ ‘Please look out for her, we’ll be here until we find her. A lady said she was here.’

Polly was crying, clutching the arm of an old woman. ‘She’s our girl, you see.’

The old woman muttered, ‘Reckon I saw a dog over there, see, through the spray from the hose.’

The girls peered between the rescuers, firemen and ambulance crews who were rushing backwards and forwards but couldn’t see Dog. They moved a few yards to the right trying to see past the base of the turntable ladder—and there she was, digging frantically on top of a heaped pile of bricks and beams. They could see her barking, but not hear her. A small team of rescue workers looked on as a squad member sat on top with Dog, cupping his hands and shouting to the workers. As they watched, the man turned and gave a thumbs-up, patted Dog, and taking hold of her collar, eased himself from the pile, taking her with him. The squad took over.

The girls called, but Dog was being walked away from them. They looked at one another. ‘Come on, we’re not having that,’ ordered Polly, and led the way towards a policeman who was busy arguing with a couple of old men. Verity stopped and said, ‘Excuse me.’

The policeman put up his hand to tell them to wait. Polly said, ‘Oh come on, while he’s busy.’ She ducked beneath the tape, and the other two followed, dodging past the firemen and workers and leaping the hoses, feeling the spray until they reached Dog. Polly hauled her from the rescuer. ‘She’s ours,’ she yelled. ‘She ran off. We have to get to Limehouse to pick up our load. Come on Dog, come on.’

Dog followed. The man, his tin hat strapped on tight, yelled after them, ‘Give ’er a bone, she’s saved a good few today, just like she was born to it. Smells ’em, she do. Fancy leaving ’er with us? We could do with ’er. I’m serious, mind.’

The girls shook their heads and continued to back away, crashing into a fireman playing a hose on the warehouse. Sylvia lost her balance and fell backwards on to the ground. Dog barked and licked her face, then gulped water that was dripping from the edges of the nozzle as the young fireman looked down at Sylvia.

‘No need to fall at me feet. I’m only doing me job.’ He was laughing, but the tiredness in his voice was as heavy as the atmosphere.

The water dripped off Sylvia’s clothes, and her bum was soaked. A yard away Dog barked at the fireman, and he snatched a look. Dog was straining against Polly, who now had hold of her collar. He said, ‘A right good sniffer. We’ll take good care of your dog if you leave it here.’

Verity muttered something. Polly nodded and told the fireman, ‘We’ve already been asked that and if we could split Dog between you and us, we would, but we couldn’t leave Dog. Do you agree, wet bum?’ ‘I think you should shut up,’ Sylvia said. The fireman laughed and continued to play his hose on the building, but it was Sylvia he was looking down at, his eyes kind and full of laughter. As she began to scramble to her feet he hooked the nozzle beneath his arm and held out his hand. ‘Grab hold, I’ll give you a hand. Well, a lend. I want it back.’

She started to shake her head but slipped again. He grabbed her and hauled her upright. For a moment they stood close, and his smile was weary, but somehow … She realised she was still holding his hand. ‘Thanks for the lend,’ she muttered.

‘Any time.’ He let her go and took the nozzle in both hands, still looking at her, and for a moment she almost forgot the chaos and activity around them—then Dog barked and clawed at her trouser leg. Sylvia and the fireman looked down at her.

‘Did Dog save that person over there in the ambulance?’ Sylvia asked, loitering for a moment, unwilling to leave as Dog drank again from the dribbling hose. They watched the doors shut and the ambulance shoot off. The fireman replied, smiling at her, ‘Yes, such a good ’un, the dog I mean, though I dare say … ’ He stopped, his face becoming serious as he looked at her, puzzled, and then confused. ‘Sorry, I just meant.’ He stopped again. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I meant.’ But it was Sylvia now who muttered, ‘It’s all right … ’ She stopped, because she didn’t know what was all right, just that she couldn’t quite look away. It was he who did, directing the hose higher. As Dog sat at Polly’s feet, a fireman hosing further along called, ‘Hey, Steve, try and get them girls to pass the hairy search expert over to us, will yer? Tell ’em he just took over when he got here, like he’d been popped from inside a cracker, God bless ’im. Tell ’em he saved that bloke who’s just gone off to hospital, alive and kicking. Well, not kickin’ but bloody angry ’e was. ’E had a nice bit of chop that’s gone up in smoke, and not a lot left on ’is ration.’

‘Do me best, Dodge. You just concentrate on hosing that lot down, eh?’

Sylvia watched Dodge, the other fireman, now, and the rescuers who were still working in a chain on the huge pile of rubble behind the girls. The people behind the tape were drawing closer together, chatting furiously. One man cupped his hands and bawled, ‘That’ll be old man Smeeth. Been saving up ’is coupons, ’e ’as. It’s his birfday.’

A woman cackled, ‘Well, ’e’s alive, that’s a pretty good present, if yer ask me.’

Sylvia, who still stood with Steve, looked at Dog, and back to the firemen, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry, Steve, I agree with the girls; if we could share her … But we can’t, so she stays with us.’ The other two girls were fussing over Dog as Sylvia felt the sweat run down her face, just as it was running down Steve’s face too. She watched as it ran over freckles and into his mouth, until he swung round, asking, ‘You all right?’ Sylvia swallowed, and nodded, wanting to stay for just a minute longer. It was because she was tired, that was all. Of course it was.

She heard herself say, ‘How strange, when we’ve been shivering in the cold, here we are, hot and bothered.’

When Steve laughed she was embarrassed. She stooped to help Polly brush the filthy dust from Dog’s coat, picking out bits of brick. She said, ‘Polly, you and Verity must be so proud, because Dog is yours, really. After all, you saved Jimmy Porter from drowning, which is why the Porters passed “our expert” to us.’ Why was she chattering on?

Polly tugged Sylvia’s hair. ‘Dog’s adopted you now, Sylvia, and she’s as much yours as ours. But we need to get back to the boats, and what’s more, find our hats. Not sure how far the blast threw them.’ Sylvia shook her head, only now realising that they no longer had them. ‘We’ve got to phone Bob first.’

The fireman, Steve, was turning, and tucking his nozzle under one arm again as he held out a flask. ‘Here, pour this in his mouth.’ His hand was streaked with black from the fire, and water still leaked from the hosepipe’s nozzle.

Sylvia took the flask. ‘She’s a her, and thanks.’

He laughed. ‘Apologies to all four girls. What do you think, will you think again and leave her with us?’ Sylvia shrugged, pouring water into Dog’s open mouth, then stroked her before handing back the flask. Polly and Verity shrugged too, Verity saying, ‘We need to think about it. We’ve got to find a phone box, so might come back this way and let you know. If you don’t see us, you’ll know the answer. Thing is, you see, we need Dog when we go along the canal. She’s part of us.’

Polly said against the ongoing bedlam, ‘I suppose, if we were good people, we would leave her, but I don’t think we could bear it. We all love her, you see, and she loves us.’

The fireman tipped back his metal helmet, revealing red hair damp with water or sweat. ‘Ask for me if you come back, Steve’s the name, and I hope you do, not just because you’d be giving us an answer.’ He was directing his words at Sylvia, and for a moment he looked familiar. It was his hair, of course. It was like looking at a mirror image. He said, ‘Yes, I really hope you do.’

Sylvia blushed, glad she was covered in the same sooty sheen as everyone else around them.

Polly, grinning at her, squeezed her arm. ‘Come on, we have Bob to tackle. By the way, Steve, her name’s Sylvia.’ She kept a hold of Dog’s collar as they headed for the tape, ducked down beneath it, and wove between the people. A woman stopped her. ‘Thank yer dog for finding me Uncle Smeeth. If his chop weren’t burned to a cinder, I’d make sure he let the dog share it.’ As the girls continued, they heard the clatter of boots, and turning saw Steve chasing them. ‘Wait up, there’s a phone box still working if you go left, not right.’

A man in the crowd called, ‘Best to go right, young ’uns. You ’ear that, go right, the Coppernob is getting his hands muddled.’

Steve laughed. ‘We passed it on our way here, and it is left, down past the bakery. Did you hear that, Sylvia? You just have to come back the same way to pass us.’

The bloke insisted, ‘There are two, one to the left, and one to the right, but the right hand one is nearest.’

‘Ah,’ said Verity. ‘If the right hand one is nearer, that’s no contest.’ As they threaded through those who were gathering to watch the proceedings, they heard applause starting. Someone called, ‘Not for you gals, but for yer dog.’