The Boat Girls (21 page)

‘We ought to go and thank him,' Frances said. ‘Shall we draw lots for it?'

Ros shook her head. ‘Your job, Frankie. You're the steerer. Off you go.'

‘I'll do it later. He's bound to be at the pub.'

‘You're not by any chance frightened of him, are you, sweetie?'

‘Of course I'm not.'

But they'd held him up, blocked his way – committed the unforgivable sin in a boater's eyes. He was bound to be furious.

With the last of their strength, they refilled the water cans and changed over the batteries and chopped firewood for the morning. Ros heated up some stew and potatoes and when they'd eaten, they went over to the pub. The boaters were at their usual darts and dominoes and an old pianola machine was grinding out ‘The Bluebells of Scotland'. But instead of blank looks and turned backs, there were some nods and smiles in their direction. They retired to a bench
with their mugs, puzzled. There was no sign of Jack Carter but, at that moment, the Quills walked in.

Ros paused in the act of lighting her cigarette. ‘Here comes trouble.'

The brothers, sporting a number of colourful bruises, passed by the bench on their way to the darts corner and, as they did so, they nodded. It was no more than the faintest jerk of the head, but an acknowledgement nevertheless.

We stood up to them, that's why, Frances thought, light dawning. Unpleasant though they are, they respect that. And the other boaters have heard about it.

They walked back to the boats under a starry sky, feeling well pleased with themselves.

‘There's the Plough,' Frances said, stopping to gaze heavenwards. ‘It's the only constellation I can recognize.'

Ros's earrings jingled as she craned her neck. ‘Isn't that Orion, the Hunter?'

‘How on earth do you know that?'

‘I don't. I'm making it up.'

‘Do you know any, Prue?'

‘Only the Milky Way.'

‘That's a galaxy – billions of stars and gas and dust held together, if I remember rightly.'

They walked on.

Ros yawned. ‘I vote we don't get up so early
tomorrow. There's no point in exhausting ourselves like we did today.'

She and Prue disappeared down into the butty cabin; Frances stayed out on the counter, stargazing. She was very tired but the tiredness had a good side to it: the day's hard work had earned the night's healing rest. She would fall asleep the second her head touched the pillow, sleep soundly until the morning and awake refreshed. She had never felt fitter, or happier, or more satisfied in her whole life.

There was a patter of paws, the scrape of a boot and then the bright flare of a match. Jack Carter and his dog had come out of his cabin onto the counter, only a few yards away; the smoke from a roll-up cigarette drifted towards her. He didn't say anything, but she was ready with her little speech.

‘Mr Carter, we want to thank you for coming to our rescue today.' It sounded horribly like Lady Muck being gracious, which she hadn't intended at all. She hurried on. ‘It was awfully good of you. We're very grateful.'

‘Are yer now?'

‘Yes, we are.' It was too dark to see him properly – to know if he had any bruises like the Quills. ‘I hope you weren't hurt – in the fight.'

‘Nothin' to mention.'

‘And we're very sorry if we held you up
afterwards.' It was the second time she'd had to apologize to him for doing that. ‘We ought to have loosed you by at the top of Buckby.'

‘So yer ought.'

‘Next time we will.'

‘Won't be no next time.' He sounded amused, not angry. ‘I promise yer that.'

‘No, I don't suppose there will. And, as I said, we're very sorry about it. We'll keep out of your way in future.' She fished for his approval. ‘Did we do all right with the boats today?'

The cigarette glowed at its end and more smoke wafted her way. She waited for some small crumb of recognition, if not for actual praise. Finally, he answered.

‘Considerin'.' Freddy's condescending word.

They'd nearly killed themselves in the attempt. Run themselves into the ground. Given their all.

‘Considering?'

‘Considerin' what yer are.'

Ladies playing at boats, was what he meant.

She said huffily, ‘We do our best.'

‘Didn't say yer didn't.'

‘But you still think we're useless?'

‘Didn't say that neither.'

There was another silence. She waited, still hopeful, but nothing more was forthcoming. ‘I expect you'll be leaving very early in the morning.'

‘Earlier 'n you.'

That would certainly be true – he'd make very sure of it. So would the Quills. She turned away.

‘Well . . . goodnight, Mr Carter.'

‘Jack's the name.'

She said, ‘I'm Frances.'

‘I know. Molly said.'

‘What's your dog called?'

‘Rickey. I got 'im thereabouts.'

‘That's a good name.'

‘'E's a good dog.'

Something about his voice rang a bell with her; she realized suddenly what it was.

‘Is it you I've heard singing sometimes?'

‘Mebbe.'

‘Playing an accordion?'

‘Melodeon.'

The cigarette glowed again. A long silence. She knew he was watching her in the dark and, with his boater's eyes, he would be able to see her far better than she could see him. He had the advantage. Her heart was thudding . . . the nine-year-old child behind the tree, afraid, yet fascinated.

My mother said

I never should

Play with the gypsies in the wood . . .

It was a skipping rhyme from schooldays, repeated over and over again. Two girls each holding an end of the rope and swinging it round and round for the third to jump over. Jump, jump, jump. Jump, jump, jump. Until the rope caught them.

If I did

She would say

Naughty little girl to disobey.

Still he didn't speak. And still he watched her. She could feel his eyes fixed upon her; feel the gentle tug of invisible silken threads, pulling her towards him.

My mother said

I never should . . .

‘Well, goodnight . . . Jack.'

‘G'night, Frances.'

She lay in the cross-bed, wide awake. After a while, she heard the melodeon playing and him singing again. It was a different song, this time, and all about summer. About sunlight on the cut, and willows and wild flowers and good roads instead of bad ones, and about a fair-haired maid who'd stolen his heart. Foolishly and fancifully, she imagined that he was singing it to her. And, even more foolishly and fancifully, she imagined him lying in the cross-bed beside her.

When she woke in the morning he'd left. The way things went on the cut, it could be weeks before they saw him again.

They unloaded the cement at Tyseley and continued round the hateful Bottom Road to take on coal at Longford, which they brought down to the ABC bakery at Camden Town. The return leg was not without crises. An engine breakdown halted them for two days until a company fitter arrived. They were stemmed up at least a dozen times, the butty water can and chimney were swept off by an overhanging branch and had to be retrieved from the cut, and the bike slid from the cabin roof with the same result. Ros lost her windlass, the blades got fouled and the bilge pump failed. Back at the Bulls Bridge lay-by they cleaned, polished, mopped and scrubbed the boats. The cabins were stoved out with a formalin candle and the dead bedbugs swept up. Two more trips had to be made before another spell of leave. On the next, they carried a load of iron filings and on the one after that it was steel billets. Both times they brought back more coal. Winter had gone and it was spring.

IT WAS DEPRESSING
being back in the real world, Rosalind decided. On the boats, you were out of touch – no petty restrictions or boring regulations. You forgot about the news, the queues, the air raids . . . all the wartime miseries. But as soon as you went on leave, you realized that everything you'd left behind was just the same. The war had gone on without you and was still going on. In the train, she shared a third-class compartment with a group of soldiers who kept plying her with cigarettes. She smoked away and listened to them chewing over rumours that the Allies would invade France soon, and betting where they might land. Their money was on Normandy and, to hear them, you'd think that Winston Churchill himself had tipped them the wink. When she pointed out that she might well be Mata Hari, eavesdropping in her corner, they roared with laughter and said that spies never looked like
her. Spies were people you didn't notice.

She walked from the station, carrying the carpet bag. A long convoy of lorries overtook her, with more soldiers hanging over the tailboards and wolf-whistling. They were heading west, which made her wonder about the rumours and whether the soldiers in the train had been right.

There was only one lodger at the house, so her bedroom was free. After three trips she was ready to drop. It was going to take several days to recover and several baths to get clean.

Her parents had no interest in the narrowboats, which was fine by her. The talk, as always, was entirely about the theatre. Who was acting in what, whether they were any good or whether they were terrible, who was sleeping with who, who was either on the bottle or on the wagon, who was up and coming and who was on the slippery slope down. The current play at the Winter Gardens was
Private Lives
and the leads, according to her mother, were going down: an ageing matinee idol with badly dyed hair and a well-past-it actress who would never see forty-five again. The second leads, apparently, were far better.

After three days, mainly spent asleep, she took a walk along the front and up to the chalk cliffs. Another convoy, this time of Royal Navy ships, was sailing westwards down the Channel and
RAF fighters screamed over her head. If it was true about the Allies landing soon in France, then the war wouldn't last much longer. Maybe only months. It might even be over by Christmas. Time to think about how she was going to get back into the theatre.

The Winter Gardens was on the seafront, not far from the pier – a dilapidated old place, long past its glory days. The stage door at the side was unlocked, nobody about. She wandered down a dingy passageway, past cubbyholes and storerooms. There was the familiar smell of Jeyes Fluid and then, as she opened a door at random, the heady scent of greasepaint. A dressing room! She switched on the mirror lights, picked up a stick of Leichner from the table and stroked some colour onto her cheeks. Another colour – strawberry red – went on her lips. She was just choosing one for her eyelids when somebody walked in.

‘Who the fuck are you?'

She looked at his reflection: stockily built, shock-haired, wearing a grubby sweater and old grey flannels. A plumber perhaps, or somebody come to mend something?

‘I'm Rosalind Flynn.'

‘Well, I'm Ken Woods and this is my dressing room. So would you mind pissing off?'

The accent was north country, a far cry from
the way actors usually spoke. She put down the Leichner. ‘Certainly. I only used a bit.'

He went on looking at her, fists on hips, like a brick wall between her and the door or she might have made a dash for it.

‘You've got a bloody nerve, I must say. Barging in here. Tarting yourself up. You a loony, or something?'

‘I'm an actress,' she said. ‘As a matter of fact.'

‘Oh, yeah? So what've you been in?'

She told him, starting with the extra fairy in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
and finishing with Sir Lionel, and adding a number of parts that she'd never actually played in between. Then, for good measure, she threw in the bit about going off nobly to do war work on the boats. ‘As soon as it's over, I'm going back to the stage.'

He said, ‘All right. I believe you. But you're still going to have to get out. There's a matinee. I need to get ready.'

He must be the plumber, after all. Having her on.

‘It's
Private Lives
this week. You can't be in that.'

‘It is. And I am. I'm the second husband that gets dumped for the first. I'll get you a complimentary seat, if you like. To show there's no ill feeling.'

She sat in the front row of the dress circle;
usually she was at the back of the gods. The tatty auditorium – all flaking gilt and bomb-damaged cherubs – was full of old ladies in moulting furs that reeked of mothballs. As she waited for the curtain to rise, her mouth was dry, her hands clenched, her heart racing – as though she were on the other side of it.

At first, she didn't recognize him. His hair was slicked down, the north country accent had vanished, the clipped speech, the mannerisms and movements were faultlessly upper class. He's good, she thought, and so is the girl playing the other bride. But her mother had been right about the leads. The matinee idol and the over-the-hill actress were painfully bad. Naturally this was lost on the mothballed audience, who had known them in their heyday. At the curtain call, the idol and his partner were loudly applauded, the other two rated a sprinkling of polite hand-claps.

She went round to the dressing room again. He was cleaning off the greasepaint and looked at her in the mirror.

‘Rubbish, wasn't it? Should've warned you.'

‘
You
were good,' she said. ‘And that other girl. And the seat was very nice. Thanks.'

He wiped off the rest, roughed up the slicked-down hair with his fingers. ‘I'm starving. Want to come and get some grub?'

There was a self-service café round the corner where everything was on toast – beans, pilchards, soft roes, dolloped out from hot serving dishes.

‘I'll pay for mine,' she said.