Read sample The Waterway Girls

Chapter 1

Polly Holmes stood on the train shivering. She was on the way to Southall, west London where she could, at last, do something useful. Even better was the fact that it would be on the canal, which was not the same as sailing, but at least it was something. She had run from her Ministry of War Transport interview in Mayfair, to her medical, to the bus and then the station and each time the heavens had opened. Finally her ancient mackintosh could cope no more and she was soaked through to her knickers. Of course, if she had remembered her umbrella she would have been able to sit down on the train, but it seemed unfair to drip where others might sit.

Her mind played with this rhyme rather than think of her destination, one that the Ministry official, Mr Thompson, had arranged as the final part of the interview. It was this meeting that would decide whether she was to be accepted on the Boatwomen Training Scheme for cargo-carrying canal boats. She thought Will would approve. No, not Will.

She swayed as the train pulled into a station. Rain still dripped from her hem on to her legs. She glanced down at the pool of water in which she was standing. Worse, her felt hat had blown away so her hair hung like rats’ tails, having escaped the hairgrips which pinned it up.

Some passengers disembarked, and others came on board. A businessman gestured her before him to the remaining seat, his black umbrella hooked over his arm. ‘I’m fine standing,’ she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

He nodded, sat, and dragged out a newspaper from his briefcase. She wasn’t fine and wasn’t sure she ever really would be again. Her twin brother, Will, had been killed six months before in Montgomery’s North Africa campaign, aged nineteen. She was surprised to have been able to put that thought together, the first time she had done so since she had heard the news. Perhaps it was because today could be the start of something else, a going forward. It was a ‘going forward’ that she had mentioned to her parents two weeks ago, as she showed them the advertisement the Ministry of War Transport had placed in the newspaper, one which explained that they were to operate a war work scheme with the cooperation of the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company. It appeared that young women would be trained to replace narrowboat men who had already signed up, and, what’s more, as Mr Thompson had said today, ‘There will be no other men allowed to leave the canal. We need every means of transport we can get. We’re running a war, not a village fete.’ Fear had been her parents’ reaction. ‘I will be safe,’ she had said. ‘Safe. So trust me, one of your children will live.’

They had agreed to her applying, and to her giving provisional notice from her secretarial job at the solicitors’ office in her home town of Woking, Surrey. Her dad had said, ‘It will be good for you to move on. I know you loved sailing with Will. It won’t be the same, but you will be on the water. You always said it made you feel in a different world.’

Mr Thompson at the Ministry had barely given her time to sit down on the hardback chair on the other side of his desk before he had talked, and talked, steepling his fingers against his lower lip, explaining the world she would enter, emphasising the relentless travelling in narrowboats along the canal, or cut, as the boaters called it. ‘Narrowboats, you hear,’ he said. ‘Barges are bigger, and can’t squeeze along all the canals.’

He continued, telling her of the long hours in appalling weather conditions, the loading of freight at Limehouse Basin, which some chose to call Regent’s Canal Docks, in east London. He explained the staircase of locks that would need to be traversed along the route to Birmingham as their narrowboat, the one with the Bolinder motor, towed their engineless narrowboat butty. ‘They’re both the same size and will be heavily loaded. On arrival there will be the unloading of freight which could be wood, steel, whatever, and the loading of coal at Coventry on your return trip.’

The rain had beaten on his window. A spider plant with babies hanging off perched on top of a grey metal filing cabinet. His brown leather briefcase was propped up behind that, with his initials stamped into the leather: P.O.T. Polly had wondered what the P and O stood for, and if his nickname was Pot.

He’d continued, staring over her head, his fingers now beating against his lower lip. ‘Of course, the actual unloading will be done by others, but you will be expected to prepare the boats, and generally do as is bid.’ Finally he lowered his hands, then picked up a pencil which had a rubber on the end. He had looked at her, and made a note as she nodded.

Do as she was bid? she thought as the train rumbled on. It’s almost what Will had said when they went to sea for the first time in their little sailing boat, Sunspot, when they were sixteen. ‘Do as you are bid, girl, just for once, or you’ll have us over.’ She’d had some pluck then. It had gone missing, along with him.

The train was fetid and warm from so many bodies, but her shivering increased and it was nerves. Was Mr Thompson going to take her on the scheme? What he had said was, ‘If you still want to help the war effort in this way, it’s as well you go and meet a trainer today and see what it really entails, as there is no time to waste. You must decide if you think it will suit and, importantly, we need to know whether Miss Burrows feels you have what it takes.’

He had straightened the sheet of inked blotting paper on his desk, and muttered, ‘We can’t have time-wasters. We have a war to win. Idle Women might be the nickname given to the canal girls because of the Inland Waterways badge they are awarded after training, but trust me, they are anything but.’

He had stood, the interview at an end. She had asked if she was in the running. ‘All in good time,’ he had said and sent her for the medical. The doctor had said the same after she had coughed, breathed in then out, and her feet had been checked for arches. The train was slowing, sliding into the station.

Polly peered through the window: Southall at last. The bus and train journey had taken over an hour with its wartime stops and starts. She disembarked and found the exit, shivering even more as the chill of October collided with her nervousness. Outside the station the clouds were looming, though the rain had stopped. She heard the distant rumble of thunder as she gripped her handbag and tried to get her bearings. Behind her the sandbags at the entrance to the station stank of dogs’ pee, but so did all the sandbags in poor bombed London.

Polly checked her watch: 1.15. She should be meeting Miss Burrows at 1.30 at the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company depot situated a little over half a mile away on the canal at Bull’s Bridge. She was going to be late. She looked both ways – was it left or right? What had Thompson said? But her mind was blank as the panic rose.

A man approached, on his way into the station. She called, ‘Please, I need to head for the Grand Union––’

He interrupted. ‘Go left, head south and straight across the crossroads. Just keep going.’ He hurried on.

‘Thanks so much.’ She started running along the pavement. As she reached the Green she grew more confident, at last remembering Mr Thompson’s instructions. Still racing along, she skirted the puddles and running gutters, looking for the 1930s cinema Mr Thompson had mentioned, and which seemed unscathed; she didn’t stop to see what was playing but ran on, panting. Her sodden raincoat slapped the back of her legs, wiping away the remnants of her gravy-browning seams. Somewhere a bird sang. For a moment she stopped, lifted her head. Yes, birds still sang even though the world was turning upside down.

Polly passed women queuing at a butcher’s shop, but the chalked blackboard, declaring what produce was on offer, had been washed by the rain. Was it a tiny rationed bit of bacon or perhaps …well, who knew? She was panting as she ran on past more shops, then a church with its typed service details pinned on the noticeboard. The details had been rendered indecipherable by the rain, as indecipherable as the blackboard, or the doctor’s face as he conducted her medical.

The rain began again and it drove into her face as she ran past the war memorial, but no …She looked away without altering her stride. A woman was hurrying past on the other side of the road, her head down, umbrella up. Sensible soul, Polly thought. How her mum would approve. Now she slowed and almost stopped, longing to be home on familiar ground, not here on this pavement with the red letterbox, the lamp posts, one bent as though it had been hit by a car. At a pub with sandbags at the door a woman wearing a headscarf was cleaning the inside of the windows and smiled at her.

Polly took heart, and pounded on hard and fast, forcing herself on until she reached a crossroads. On the other side she ran through a residential area with its schools; a Methodist chapel too, or so she thought, but didn’t have time to double-check. It was 1.32. Already she was late, so she roared on but now she had a stitch, and as she trotted past allotments she was forced to slow, and then stop. She bent over and drew in ragged breaths, then out. In then out. To her left was a hawthorn hedge which lined the allotments, and behind it stood a greenhouse missing most of its glass. She checked her watch: 1.35. She stretched and started trotting again, this time passing a scarecrow in the middle of rows of cabbages, its straw stuffing being sucked from a ripped sleeve by the wind.

She slipped on some mud, recovered, searching for evidence of the canal and the depot through the driving rain, and yes there were buildings ahead which must be the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company depot. She slowed to a walk, catching her breath, recalling her mum’s parting words. ‘Remember your manners before your elders and betters.’ These had been followed by her dad’s. ‘Whatever else you do, don’t be late.’

Polly sighed, pulled her muffler straight, tucked her handbag over her arm then walked on, with some sort of decorum she hoped, and reached the gate to the depot. She asked the guard huddling in his hut, ‘Would you direct me to Enquiries, please?’

‘Who may you be, Miss?’

‘Oh, Miss Polly Holmes to see Miss Burrows.’ ‘Got any paperwork?’

She dug in her handbag for the letter from the Ministry and handed it to him in his hut, since he clearly had no intention of exposing himself to the elements, even though the rain was easing. He read it, and then checked on a clipboard, running his finger down a list. He reached the bottom, and shook his head. Polly wanted to snatch it from him and check for herself, but instead she asked him to give it another go. He did, and this time his finger stopped midway. ‘There you are, hiding between Graham and Ingles, you little rascal. Go straight ahead, and on the right there’s a big Enquiries sign on that block of offices. They’ll be glad to see you, they like drowned rats.’

Polly smiled politely. He winked. She hurried into the yard, almost reeling from its noise and bustle, weaving between men in overalls who must have been heading towards or from the workshops, large and small, which stood around a huge yard. She smelt stew, and to the left she saw a long building from which came the clattering of dishes. Ah, a canteen. Some men came out, and shut the door behind them. The tannoy leapt to life, blasting the yard with tinny music.

Ahead there were no buildings, just a hardstanding frontage to the canal which she glimpsed through the scurrying men. To the left she could see a dry dock where repairs to the narrowboats would be carried out. The canal, though, was much wider than she had expected and for a moment it looked so like the lake frontage of the sailing club, where they had accessed the water or pulled up the boats, that she relaxed. ‘Yes,’ she murmured aloud. ‘Yes, I sort of know this world.’ A worker in overalls brushed past her. ‘You lost, love?’

She looked at him. ‘No, but thank you. I know exactly where I am.’

She headed towards the door below the Enquiries sign, weaving her way through the boiler-suited men who were almost running as the rain intensified, though it hadn’t made them put their cigarettes out. She felt they would have barged over her if she hadn’t leapt out of their way, so invisible did she seem to them.

She pulled open the door but the wind snatched it from her, slamming it back against the outside brick wall. She reached over and dragged it shut behind her. All went quiet. A young man was standing behind a counter to the rear of the office, an ‘Enquiries’ sign on his left.

‘Name?’ He didn’t even look up.

‘Miss Polly Holmes,’ she said, but her nervousness had returned and it came out louder than she had meant it to. On the wall the clock said 1.40. ‘I’m late,’ she added. ‘I should have been here at 1.30. It’s at least a mile walk, surely, though I was told half a mile.’

Behind her, the door opened. The draught slapped her raincoat against her legs, and her hair lifted, dripped, and fell to her shoulders. She turned to see a woman of about thirty in overalls several sizes too big, with hair that was as wet as Polly’s but still shone a deep red, and had somehow stayed pinned up. Her face was drawn and tired, but a certain energy seemed to shine from her eyes. She also wore a grubby blue seaman’s sweater.

‘Honestly, Alf, you need to fix a chain on this door or you’ll have it snatched off its hinges. Bloody sodding thing.’ She spoke quickly, just as she moved. She reached the counter and tapped out a tattoo.

Alf shrugged. ‘Miss Polly Holmes for you, Bet. Another lamb to the slaughter, or is that a duck? She looks wet enough to have webbed feet, but give her ’ell anyway. She’s late. Lost her tit for tat, too, it seems.’

Bet laughed, a great booming sound, as Polly remembered her lost hat and winced. What on earth must she look like? Miss Burrows was beckoning to her. ‘Polly my dear, let me rescue you from Alf, who any minute now will be snatched up by the powers that be and given a gun, heaven help us all. Makes you feel the war will be won in a click of the fingers, doesn’t it? Or not. I am Bet, Elisabeth Burrows, and I’ll be your trainer. That is if you prove satisfactory to me, the team and the life, and what’s more, we to you. But that’ll be known all in good time, I suppose.’

Polly echoed before she could stop herself. ‘All in good time.’

Bet laughed. ‘Ah, yes of course, you’ve spent time at the Ministry and with Potty Thompson. Come along, let’s take you to the canal and my narrowboats and leave Alf to his hive of industry.’ She battled with the door again, and gestured Polly out before her into the yard where men still bustled and music still played over the tannoy. Somewhere a man shouted, ‘Shift your arses, for pity’s sake, you gormless lumps of lard.’ Together they hurried towards the canal frontage, and as they passed an idling lorry it backfired. Polly jumped. The driver jerked forward, driving into and out of a water-filled pothole just beside them. Bet and Polly leapt back as the wave of muddy water threatened to drench their legs. Bet yelled, ‘Watch what you’re doing, Henry.’ He hooted, and yelled through the open window, ‘Can’t stop, won’t get the old tart started again. Got to pick up some gear.’ A couple of blokes in overalls crossed their path and saluted Bet. One said, ‘Your Marigold’s out of dry dock, I ’eard, Bet, so you’ll be off to Limehouse to pick up a load. That your replacement boater?’ ‘Maybe,’ she said. Polly hung on that word.

Maybe. A woman left an office huddled under an umbrella which was promptly blown inside out. Polly heard ‘Bugger and blast’. The woman waved at Bet, tucked the wrecked umbrella under her arm, but didn’t stop as she ran to the canteen.

Bet gripped Polly’s arm and hurried her towards the canal. ‘This is the canal frontage, Polly.’

‘We had a similar one at our sailing club, but smaller.’

‘Ah, so do you understand about the dry dock too, where repair work is done?’

Polly nodded. Together they stood for a moment gazing at the canal, then Polly studied the three narrowboats moored further along to her left, some twenty yards away. To the right of where she and Miss Burrows stood were many more narrowboats, packed closely together like sardines in a tin, smoke curling from their cabin chimneys, their painted sides bright beneath the grey of the sky. They were moored stern first against the kerb, stretching their great length out across half the cut. Top planks rested on stands along the length of the empty holds. People moved around on the craft, some men ran along the planks, and women in long skirts and any old jackets or cardigans were heading along the concrete strip towards the two of them, carrying string bags. On their way to the shops, presumably. No umbrellas for them either.

Miss Burrows said, ‘That’s the lay-by where we all moor up at the kerb and await orders.’

Polly tried to brush her hair out of her face, but the wind and rain only swept it back again. The water ran down her face and neck.

Miss Burrows said, ‘We’re landsmen, or bankers, to these boaters, until we prove ourselves. It takes time but can be done, if we’re committed to the job.’ There was a warning in her voice.

Polly looked again at the narrowboats nudging and tugging at their moorings, and at the width of the cut. It was time for another question because her dad had said she should ask things in an interview. Across on the other bank were trees and sheds, and beyond, through the gaps, a grey sky. No questions there.

‘So, this is Bull’s Bridge, on the Grand Union Canal,’ Polly murmured at last, but that wasn’t a question. The water lapped and slapped at the frontage in front of them. It was then Polly realised that the rain had almost ceased. The wind, though, was whipping up the surface of the canal into a hissing fury. Come on, ask something.

Polly said, ‘Let me get this straight. The boats come in from the Birmingham direction, moor up here and then set off again for Limehouse Basin once they have orders. They need the space to manoeuvre, so that’s why it’s so wide? Then they come back to Bull’s Bridge and turn right to head up the northern Grand Union Canal past Cowley.’

‘Yes, exactly right, Polly,’ Bet murmured. ‘The canals are transport arteries, which are doing their bit to deliver vital supplies, with the help of people like us. If we’re heading to Limehouse we use the Grand Union Canal up to Paddington, where it becomes the Regent’s Canal. The Regent’s Canal then runs to Limehouse Basin, or some call it the Regent’s Canal Dock, but either way, it’s where the canal meets the Thames. Don’t worry about those details. You’ll know the route after just one trip, it’s only a long strip of water, after all, and it’s hard to go wrong.’

Polly smiled, her brain trying to keep up. ‘Much easier than trying to find my way to Southall from Mayfair, anyway.’

Bet laughed that great booming laugh, and smiled. ‘Let’s go and see my babies, shall we? Look to your left, past those three narrowboats waiting for repairs, and in front of the largest fitting shed you’ll see Marigold moored. Her engine is now running perfectly, and beside her there’s the motorless butty Horizon. Can you see them?’ Her voice was urgent and as proud and fond as any mother’s, Polly thought as she stepped back and sighted the two boats double parked, lying parallel to one another, and lashed together.

‘The blokes working in the sheds are worth their weight in gold; they keep us running.’

Bet set off, then stopped, turned, and looked hard at Polly. ‘You have been told they’re not barges, haven’t you?’

Polly nodded. ‘Yes, Miss Burrows.’

‘Good. Well, just remember that you never call a narrowboat a barge to a boater, and never call a boater a bargee either. It sets them off something chronic. Barges are much bigger, and operate in wider waterways. And you must call me Bet. Miss Burrows makes me feel old but, at thirty, I probably am to you.’

Polly hurried after Bet who had set off again towards the fitting sheds, the wind still powering off the water. Polly called, ‘And the cut is the canal, isn’t it? Or so Mr Thompson said.’ Bet shouted over her shoulder, ‘Quite right again, Polly. I suppose it’s called that because it was cut through the countryside, but who knows.’

Polly smiled to herself. Perhaps she was doing well? They reached Bet’s boats. ‘This is Marigold, the motorboat moored alongside the frontage, and Horizon, the butty, lashed the other side of her, both at your service.’

Bet leapt on to Marigold ’s small rear deck which the cabin opened on to. ‘Chop-chop, don’t hang about, leg it over to Horizon ’s cabin. The range is beating out heat in the cabin so it’ll be snug on board.’

Polly stared at the narrowboats, which must have been seventy feet long. The motorboat deck on which Bet still stood was small. The cabin too – though it had what she thought must be the engine house attached to the back of it, and then another small cabin, or lean-to, attached to that. The rest of the boat was merely a massive hold for carrying the cargo, along which there were top planks similar to those she had seen on the ‘sardines’ at the lay-by. Around the sides of the hold and cabin was a narrow gunwale. She knew exactly what a gunwale was, from her sailing days: no more nor less than a strip of decking about four inches wide along which you could inch, or walk, depending on your courage.

Would she be expected to inch her way along that to do something to the engine, or to get to the hold? And then it would be along the top planks? She swallowed.

Bet was already stepping from the motorboat on to Horizon, the butty. Polly scrambled after her, handbag over her arm, her smart straight skirt an encumbrance but she made it. Here too there was an empty hold behind the cabin. The rain had begun again, and was beating hard, the wind too, but she was beyond worrying.

Bet Burrows waited at Horizon ’s door, grinning. ‘Well done, you made it without a fuss, and I like the fact that you’ve not been unduly bothered about the wet.’

She slid back what looked like a small horizontal lid above the cabin’s double doors. These doors Bet now opened; they led to a couple of steps down into the cabin. ‘Duck as you go down, there’s not much headroom,’ she said. ‘The slide hatch I’ve just shoved back helps access.’ She grinned. ‘Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly.’

‘I’ll drip all over the furniture and floor,’ Polly protested as Horizon rocked slightly in the wake of a butty and motor heading east towards Limehouse. An elderly man in a hat and shabby jacket stood at the tiller of the pat-pattering motorboat; a woman, with a heavy cardigan pulled tight, at the tiller of the butty.

Bet followed Polly’s gaze, and explained, ‘They’re riding high like us because they’ve discharged their load somewhere. They’ll be heading into the lay-by to reverse to the kerb and moor up to await more orders. Come on, you’re getting wet and so is the cabin while you gawp, so shake a leg.’ Bet coughed, and somehow it caught, and continued, racking her body for at least a minute. Polly wondered if she should pat Bet’s back, but just as she lifted her hand Bet straightened, and smiled, coughed a few more times, then stopped. ‘So sorry. My chest’s been a total pain since pneumonia a couple of years ago. Come on, hop to it.’

Polly stepped down two steps into the warmth, but at five foot four she was able to stand upright with a couple of inches to spare in a cabin, the tiny size of which completely took her by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. She’d seen it from the outside, after all, but …Yes, on their sailing boat there had been an apology for a cabin but it was a small day sailing craft, whereas this was for cooking and all sorts.

To her left against the cabin wall was a small range, the flue pipe of which ran up and out through the roof. The space between the range and the door was taken up by shelves with things like washing powder. On the other side of the range was a cupboard, its front painted with large colourful blooms and a castle, on a black background. Cupboards and shelves filled every available space, and where there weren’t shelves there were horse brasses and pierced plates hanging on the walls.

On the right was a narrow side bench, with a porthole above, against which the rain drove. Ahead of her, a young woman of about her own age sat on a bench at the rear of the cabin, leafing through a newspaper. Surely the cabin length was only about nine feet? The width no more than about six, perhaps seven feet? The young woman looked up; her hair was blonde and pinned into loops, with a tortoiseshell slide on the right-hand side. Crikey, thought Polly, that must have cost a bob or two. The young woman wore lipstick and was impossibly elegant, even in overalls.

‘Oh God, you’re dripping,’ the young woman said. ‘There’s a cloth on that hook to wipe up the floor.’ She nodded towards the side of the tiny range.

Bet said quietly, ‘Verity Clement, this poor girl, Polly Holmes, is soaked through, and it is not her task but ours to–– Ah, I see you realise that.’ Verity was reaching for the cloth. ‘Good girl.’ Bet sounded relieved.

Bet waved Polly towards the side bench immediately to the right of the steps, saying, as Verity swished the cloth around with her foot, then wrung it out over the bowl at the side of the range, ‘Sit yourself down, Polly, but before you do, let’s have your mac. No mopping up puddles until you’re taken on, or not.’

Polly dropped her handbag on the side bench and shrugged out of her mackintosh. Bet threw it to Verity, who had returned to reading The Times. The mackintosh collapsed her newspaper and Verity yelped. Bet said, ‘Sorry about that, but do come on, Verity, all hands to the pump. You really should know the drill by now. Hang up the mackintosh, please. Tea is ready, I hope?’

‘Indeed, boss. The teapot is on the range rest.’ Polly sat while Verity Clement hung her mackintosh on a hook to the right of the range, within arm’s reach, but what wasn’t? How could people manage in this tiny kitchen? What were the bedrooms like, and the bathroom? And where were they?

Bet reached up, closed the sliding hatch and the cabin doors: the room seemed even smaller, but suddenly quiet, though Polly could still hear the rain. The floor was wooden and a hurricane lamp hung on the wall, but there was also an electric light hanging from the ceiling, and this is what illuminated the cabin.

Verity resumed her seat, then pulled down the front of the hinged cupboard to form a small table in front of her, on which she rested her newspaper. She reached down a tin of biscuits from the cupboard, which was packed with groceries, and placed it on the table. She resumed reading, then said, without looking up from her paper, ‘Polly Holmes, you can see that the cupboard flap is our table, which, trust me, we can all reach from wherever we are. The light is powered by the battery. We have two batteries, and charge one off the engine while the other is doing its stuff. The hurricane lamp is used frequently to save the battery.’ She turned the page of The Times.

Polly didn’t know if she should answer, but nodded, then said, ‘I see, thank you.’

Bet stood by the pristine blackleaded range. Her seaman’s sweater was steaming and would bounce the rain back, keeping the wearer almost dry. Will had one. Polly shut out the thought.

The brass towel bar gleamed, the grate was heaped with burning coal. An enamel kettle hissed on the top of the range and a pot of tea waited on the side. A crocheted curtain was hooked to the left of Verity’s bench. Polly was thinking hard, because the cabin reminded her of something, and then it came. It was like the playhouse a neighbour had constructed for his children, with a pretend stove, and cups.

Bet poured tea into three enamel mugs and handed them out. Polly clutched hers, warming her hands. Her hair and clothes were steaming as they had done on the train, only more so, but the bench was wooden so that was all right. A pool was forming at her feet again, and at the feet of Bet, who sat down beside her. Verity continued reading.

Polly sipped her tea. She was desperate for the loo, and reached forward, putting her mug on the side of the range. ‘May I use your toilet?’ she said.

Verity snorted into her mug. ‘Should have thought of that at the yard. Oh dear, she has much to learn and our naughty boss didn’t tell her.’

Bet ignored Verity and said, ‘I’m sorry, I should have mentioned the plumbing, Polly. Verity is right, there is no toilet, instead there’s a bucket that’s kept in the lean-to at the back end of each cabin. We usually call it just the back end. We empty the bucket where we can, either borrowing a pub’s lavatory, or the cut. You might have noticed the water can and dipper on the roof of both boats. We use the dipper to gather water to wash our clothes or whatever. There are taps along the way for drinking water, which we collect in the water can. If you ever fall into the cut, keep your mouth shut.’

‘I see,’ said Polly faintly, crossing her legs, trying not to listen to the sound of the rain on the roof. It would be best not to mention any of this to her mother.

Verity looked up, grinning, then ducked back down to her newspaper. Polly sipped her tea. ‘And the bedrooms?’ she asked.

Verity shook her newspaper, threw back her head and laughed, but it was Bet who spoke. ‘Right, let me explain, starting with basics. This is my butty cabin, Polly. It’s bigger than the motor’s cabin because there is no gunwale; that takes about eight inches off the motorboat cabin width. A gunwale is––’

Polly interrupted, ‘Yes, I know from my sailing days.’

‘Ah, of course, you said. Well, since the trainees bunk up in the smaller motor cabin it must seem unfair. However, as trainer I have to live on the boats for the duration of the war, except for occasional leave, so I choose the butty cabin as my permanent home. On the other hand, you, as trainees, will move on to boats of your own as and when you receive your Inland Waterways badges. When you get your own pair of narrowboats, you can have your chance at the butty cabin then, but remember, there will be three of you, so willingness to share will be the order of the day.’

Polly stared around the cabin, not really understanding. How on earth could this serve anything like even a quarter of anyone’s requirements, whether it was a paltry eight inches bigger or not – and where were the beds?

Bet continued, as if reading her mind. ‘The older children would normally sleep in the butty cabin, utilising the side-bed on which you are sitting. Then there is the unfolding double cross-bed where Verity is planted, which I always keep down because I’m not going to mess about at the end of the day making it up. See the door behind it?’

Polly nodded.

‘It leads to the back end or lean-to, where the bucket and brooms, things like that are kept. I nip over the roof of the cabin and hoik ‘em out through the outside door. I also take my bucket comfort breaks in there. The babies and toddlers would sleep with the parents in the motorboat cabin, the parents using the cross-bed, the children the side-bed and perhaps the floor too. Soon you’ll see that the life of a boater is so busy that the cabin is barely used, except for sleeping, or perhaps a bit of sitting when eating. Beneath the beds are cupboards which hold the bedding. You must bring your own if you join us. Have you got all that?’

Polly nodded, not a bit sure she had. Bet was off again. ‘Sometimes we strap up the boats abreast just as we are now, and travel in parallel on a wide stretch, or instead we tow the butty on a narrower stretch. But there’s time to learn all of that on the job.’ Bet leaned towards her. ‘I believe Mr Thompson at the Ministry gave you a vague brief in the interview?’

Polly nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’

She felt she was drowning in information and as one piece entered her head, another piece dropped out.

‘So, the jam on all of this is that you girls are entitled to two days’ leave after a couple of trips. Once you’re trained it’ll be a week’s unpaid leave after three weeks’ work.’

Polly asked, ‘How long does a return trip take?’ Verity spoke. ‘Five to six glorious days, each way, darling. Longer if there’s a hold-up. We rise at five-thirty or thereabouts. Ghastly bumache, quite frankly.’

Polly couldn’t help hearing her mother saying, ‘Language, if you please.’

Bet was saying, ‘Now, Polly, let’s talk about training. I take trainees on two trips, and you learn on the job. If all goes well you will be transferred to a different boat and butty, as I’ve just said. Verity has done one trip and still has much to learn, but then so does every trainee. Remember, there’s no shame in admitting it’s not your cup of tea. Best we know sooner rather than later.’ Bet sounded thoughtful, and Verity flushed as she banged her cup of tea down on the table and shook out the newspaper before burying her head in it again.

Polly spoke into the silence. ‘So, it’s obviously not just gliding along through lovely scenery?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Verity piped up. She turned another page. ‘I most certainly wouldn’t say that.’

Polly sat while Bet told her of the filth of the coal cargo they picked up from Coventry coalfields, the pain of blistered hands as they sheeted up tarpaulins, or in other words covered the loads, before securing the tarpaulins with ropes. ‘But I’m not going into the detail of ropes and knots until decisions are made.’

Mercilessly, and barely taking a breath as though she didn’t want to waste her time, or Polly’s, she talked of the bitter cold. ‘You will steer, hour after hour, the wind chafing your face and lips. In the summer the sun’s glare will bounce off the cabin roof and hurt your eyes. The days are lonely, just three of you: one on each boat steering, one cycling along the towpath to prepare the locks for the boats’ arrival.’

She looked at Polly. ‘You are here because we’ve just lost the second trainee, Phyllis, owing to, shall we say, temperamental incompatibilities.’

‘Pardon?’

Verity snapped. ‘What Bet means is that Phyllis and I didn’t get on. She was a frightful bore, very wet and irritating.’

Bet pressed her lips together. ‘It’s too late now, but both girls needed to try harder, and learn to get on. It’s essential in such a small space and I think Verity has come to understand that.’

Verity sighed, and turned the page, patting her hair and adjusting her slide. ‘If you say so, Bet.’

‘Yes I do.’

There was another silence. Polly thought of living in a small space with this girl who seemed impervious to criticism, who verged on rudeness, who …Well, just wasn’t very nice.

Bet talked a little more about their duties, until finally she paused, as though wondering if she had made it sound as appalling as was necessary. Well, she had, thought Polly, as she finished her tea and picked up her handbag, feeling that perhaps it was time for her to go.

Bet saw, and smiled. ‘Before you run away, there are the pubs in the evening, when we tie up along the cut. The boater women disapprove but we go anyway. We justify it by declaring we need to keep our sanity. Now the pubs are a lot of fun, and the sun does shine sometimes. Remember this is the boaters’ world into which we are intruding, a world with a definite culture, and we need to tread carefully. But more than anything we have to bear in mind that ours is essential work. Someone has to do it and it might as well be us.’ Verity had laid down her newspaper. Now she grinned. ‘At last our esteemed Führer Bet Burrows comes to the light at the end of the tunnel – the pubs. Otherwise, the boss is telling it as it is. Just look at my ghastly hands.’ She held up her calloused palms and fingers.

Polly said, ‘Heavens, they’re worse than my dad’s.’

Verity stared at her. ‘Not imbued with tact, then?’ She buried her head in her newspaper.

Polly grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’ She could have kicked herself.

Bet stood. ‘And on that note, before I’m breaking up a butty brawl, I think that’s everything. Come along, I think we’ve kept you long enough but have you any questions?’

Polly could think of nothing to say. She looked around the cabin. How on earth could Bet call this home? How on earth did she manage with a girl like Verity? How on earth would she cope with Polly, who had listened carefully but couldn’t remember a thing? She shook her head. She didn’t know what she thought about it all.

Bet said, ‘Don’t worry, the information will sink in slowly as you travel home. I’ll have a think and let you know, all in good time. We both have decisions to make.’ She smiled and Polly said, ‘Thank you.’

Verity turned yet another page of her newspaper. Bet handed Polly her mac, which had not only stopped dripping but seemed partially dry, thanks to the suffocating heat. Polly placed her handbag on the side bench, put her mackintosh on over her damp clothes, pulling her muffler tight, and picked up her handbag again, thinking all the time of everything she had heard.

‘Do you have far to go?’ Bet asked.

‘Woking. So, not far once I get through London.’ She checked her watch. She had been here just over half an hour and her head was spinning. And it hadn’t gone well, if Verity’s face was anything to go by.

Bet pulled the slide hatch back and shoved the doors open, and almost sprang up the steps to the deck. Polly followed. The rain had stopped, but the wind still blew. Clouds scudded, and the noise from the depot was just as loud as before.

As the wind whipped Polly’s hair across her face, Bet said, ‘You would need to think a little more about what you say, Polly. I suspect few girls like to be told their hands are like a man’s, especially Verity. She’s rather prickly, as you can tell, and has had some sort of loss though who knows what – and who hasn’t? But she’s improving. One does try to be patient.’ Suddenly, Bet looked exhausted.

Polly wondered what on earth Verity had been like before and why Bet kept her on?

Bet, leading her back on to the Marigold, said, more to herself, Polly thought, ‘I do just feel Verity needs us more than we need her. It could all work out, but on the other hand …’ She stopped, and looked at Polly as though she had forgotten she was there. ‘Ah, Polly, you’ll be hearing from Mr Thompson, or me. Have a good trip home. Now, head down the frontage, then back through the yard. The lavatory is on the left, just before Enquiries.’ Bet held out her hand. Polly shook it, turned and stepped down on to the bank.

As she was about to head back she thought of the only question that really mattered.

Bet was still standing on Marigold ’s deck, leaning against the cabin, smoking. The water can, painted with flowers and castles, like the cupboard, nestled next to the chimney. Further along, smoke curled from the butty’s chimney only to be snatched away by the wind.

Polly took a deep breath, and called from the towpath, ‘Do people get killed on the canal? I’m sorry, I know that might sound like an overly dramatic question, but I need to be able to tell my mum it’s safe.’

‘My dear girl, there’s a war on. No one’s safe.’ Bet smiled slightly. ‘But we’re safe enough, as few bombs are falling at the moment.’

Polly dug her hands into her pockets, feeling foolish, but defiant. She looked straight at Bet. There was silence as Bet studied her. At last she nodded, a nod that told Polly Bet knew something of why Polly was so keen to escape to the canals in the first place. It had been on her application form.

‘Don’t miss your train, young Polly Holmes. We’ll be in touch.’

Polly said, ‘All in good time.’

Bet’s laugh followed her down the towpath.