The Boat Girls (28 page)

She'd dreamed about it many times.

‘Doyou mean . . . marry you?'

‘Didn't mean nuthin' else.' He put the matchbox away in his pocket. ‘Wouldn't do, though, would it?'

‘Why ever not?'

‘Yer bein' a lady an' not born to the cut.'

‘Not that nonsense again.' She put her hand on
his arm. The sleeve of his old jacket was damp from the rain and badly frayed around the cuff. She would have liked so much to buy him a new one, but he'd never accept it. ‘I'd go anywhere with you, Jack. If you asked me.'

‘Would yer now?' He looked at her for a moment, in his steady way. ‘Would yer really?' Then he smiled suddenly. ‘But I ain't arsked yer yet.'

They got soaked walking back to the tie-up and when he kissed her goodnight by the boats his mouth was cold and wet against hers.

She said, ‘It'd be drier in the cabin. And warmer, too.'

‘People see me go in there, they'll know what to think.'

‘It's dark and they won't see. And, anyway, I don't care if they do.'

She sat on the edge of the cross-bed and watched as he crouched by the stove with kindling and coal, and got it going faster and better than she'd ever managed. In a trice, the fire was blazing, the cabin warming up.

‘Will you teach me to do that, Jack?'

‘Nothin' to it.'

‘I want you to teach me everything about the boats.'

‘Mebbe,' he said. ‘One day.'

She had dreamed about it – how it would be,
living on a narrowboat with him. Sleeping with him, eating with him, working with him. Loving him.

She said, ‘I meant what I said . . . about going anywhere with you, Jack.'

He turned his head towards her, still crouched by the stove. ‘Yer don't know what yer sayin'.'

‘Yes I
do.
And I really mean it. I'd go to the ends of the earth. Don't you believe me?'

He got up and took off his wet jacket. Looked down at her with his dark gypsy eyes. Touched her mouth. ‘Best ter say nothin' more, just now.'

‘
Two
brass bed knobs,' Ros said, admiring them on the cabin wall. ‘And the fairground plate. It's beginning to look like the real thing in here, Frankie.' She perched on the edge of the coal box, puffing at a cigarette. ‘How's it going with Jack, then?'

‘He wanted to know what I'd say if he asked me to marry him and live with him on the boats.'

‘And what did you say that you'd say?'

‘That I'd go anywhere with him. And I would – like a shot. Only he hasn't actually asked me yet. He says it wouldn't do. I'm a lady and not born to the cut. All that sort of thing.'

‘But he's got a point, hasn't he? I know you're loopy about him, sweetie, but you wouldn't last long as a boater's wife.'

‘I don't see why not.'

‘Simple. You have to be born to it, like he told you. The way things are now, you can go home any time you like, back to civilization. Hot baths, soft beds, good food, nice clean clothes. But if you married him and tried to be one of them, you couldn't do that and I bet you'd get fed up with the life in no time. Do you want to end up like poor Molly and the rest of them – endless kids, non-stop grind, worn out by the time you're thirty? And I doubt the boaters would ever really accept you, which would be a bit grim. You know what they can be like. It's just a dream of yours, darling. A romantic dream. You're going to have to wake up one day.'

‘Jack could always leave the cut.'

‘He wouldn't transplant to shore very well, would he? And it wouldn't be fair to ask it of him. It's the only life he knows. And I dare say he likes it. They all seem to, God knows why.'

‘I thought you'd understand, Ros. You, of all people.'

Ros scratched her head. ‘It's just that I've been around a lot more than you. And I've never been madly in love with a man, like you are with Jack. It must be rather like when people go and commit suicide – the balance of the mind is disturbed.'

‘What about Prue and Steve? He wants her to
go and live in Canada after the war. Somewhere ghastly, by the sound of it. Much worse than the canals.'

‘Winnipeg. It may be a bit chilly there in the winter, but it'll be a lot more comfortable. And miles better than going back to work in that bank of hers. I just hope Steve survives the war. She's started saying her prayers again at night and I can tell she's worried sick about him going on those bombing raids.'

‘Poor Prue . . . I know what that's like. Vere and I always seem to quarrel whenever we meet, but I dread anything happening to him.'

‘He'll be all right, Frankie. He knows his job.'

‘That's what I keep telling myself. You keep doing that, Ros.'

‘Doing what?'

‘Scratching your head.'

‘So do you. So does Prue. Do you think we've all got nits?'

Dear Prudence,

I'm sending this to the Grand Union Canal Company, like you said to do, so I hope you get it OK. I had a great time on the boats with you – only wish I could have stayed longer. Maybe there'll be another chance.

They're keeping us real busy here, so I guess I won't be able to get away for a while.
Don't forget about Canada. You'll like it there. Love, Steve.

Dear Steve,

Thank you for your letter. It was waiting for me here at Braunston in the Grand Union office today. We've tied up for the night and so I thought I'd write you a letter back at once so that I can try to post it before we leave tomorrow.

It's been a horrible trip so far. The rain hasn't stopped since we left London. We can't get anything dry and all sorts of things have gone wrong. Something went wrong with the engine again and we had to wait for a fitter to come and mend it. If you'd been there, I expect you would have got it going at once – like you did that time when you were with us. Then the butty elum got knocked off in one of the locks – Ros had forgotten to take it out. The pin got bent and we had to crawl all the way to Norton to get it repaired. Then the bilge pump blocked up. The engine room flooded and the fly-wheel sprayed everything with black oil. Frances had to unscrew the pump and poke around with a piece of wire to unblock it. It was a bit of grit, or something. It took us ages to clean up the mess. And after we unloaded at Tyseley,
the wind was so bad it kept blowing the empty boats onto the mud. We had an awful job getting them off. Of course, the engine never starts first go in the mornings, like it did with you.

Anyway, we're on our way back to London at last. We don't like going there much because of the V2 rockets. One of them hit a factory near the docks when we were down there last time and the blast damaged our boats and smashed things up in the cabins. They're much more frightening than the buzz bombs. You can't hear them coming and they blow everything to bits. This is our third trip on the go, so we'll have six days' leave when it's finished.

A Halifax bomber, like yours, went very low over us when we were going along the cut near Leighton. We all waved, just in case you were in it and could see us.

Please write again, when you have time. I won't forget about Canada.

With love from Prudence.

In November the fogs began – not the skeiny mists of October but clammy clouds shrouding the cut and, in London, pea-soupers. Coming back from leave, lugging her carpet bag, Rosalind groped her way to a theatre in Shaftesbury
Avenue. She bought a ticket for the gods – the very back row because all the other seats were taken. When the curtain went up it was like looking at the stage through the wrong end of opera glasses.

Ken was even better than in the Coward play. It was Rattigan this time – another of his despised la-di-da playwrights – and he had the lead part. He played it to perfection. Just the right touch and timing, no trace of the Yorkshire accent, oodles of charm and a presence that kept all eyes riveted on him at every appearance on stage. Star quality that was God-given and could never be taught. At the end the audience gave him the loudest and longest applause.

She went round to the stage door where a little group of torch-carrying fans had gathered in the fog. As he came out – coat collar turned up, tousled hair, cigarette in the corner of his mouth – autograph books were thrust towards him, the torches held for him to sign his name.
Kenneth Woods.
She waited until he'd done the last one and then stepped forward with a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. Her torch battery was almost flat and he had to find his. He scrawled his name with a flourish.

‘You were plain Ken when we last met,' she said.

‘Last met? Have we?'

‘At the Winter Gardens. You were playing
Private Lives
.'

He traversed the torch to her face. ‘I remember you. You're the girl I found in my dressing room, making herself up. The redhead.'

‘That's me. Rosalind Flynn.'

‘Worked on the barges, or something, didn't you?'

‘Narrowboats. War work. But I'm an actress. Always have been.'

‘Yeah, I remember that too.'

‘I thought you didn't like Rattigan. French windows and things.'

‘I don't. But it's the West End. And the lead. Couldn't say no, could I?' He lowered the torch. ‘Want to come and have a bite round the corner? I'm bloody hungry.'

‘So am I.'

Last time it had been a self-service caff; this time it was a full-blown restaurant – a theatrical watering-hole with signed photographs of actors and actresses hung all over the walls. She dumped her carpet bag with the coats and the head waiter came forward.

‘Your usual table, sir?'

She recognized some famous faces at the tables and there were smiles and nods and waves, airily acknowledged by Ken as they were conducted to a corner.

‘You've gone up in the world a bit,' she said, pulling off her woollen hat. ‘We had pilchards on toast last time.'

‘They do things like that here, if you want. Good plain grub. They stay open late and nobody bothers you, that's why I come here. What in Christ's name have you done to your hair?'

‘Cut it.' She'd hacked it off with blunt scissors. ‘We caught head lice – from a fair, or the flicks, or somewhere like that. So I cut mine short and washed it in paraffin. It seems to have done the trick.'

‘I've had those. Used to get them at school. Mam'd fetch out the carbolic and a fine-tooth comb. They were always coming back, though. What're you eating, love?'

She wolfed down kidneys in a delectable wine sauce, creamy mashed potatoes and buttery cabbage.

He said, ‘You haven't got worms, as well, by any chance?'

‘Not that I know of. We're always starving because we work so hard.'

‘Don't they feed you?'

‘We feed ourselves – on whatever we can get. By fair means or foul.'

‘You mean you nick stuff?'

‘
I
do. We're always passing allotments and fields full of cabbages and sprouts and carrots
and things. Sometimes kind farmers take pity and give us free eggs and milk. One of them gave us a chicken once.'

‘Alive or dead?'

‘Dead. But with the feathers on. I used them to stuff a pillow. Nothing's ever wasted. Have you got a cigarette?'

Offstage, in the flesh, he wasn't much to look at – nothing like onstage when he was made up and lit up, and wearing nice clothes. But he had loads of sex appeal. That was the secret weapon.

‘So, you're planning on coming back to the theatre – soon as you're done with the barges?'

‘Narrowboats.'

‘Whatever the hell they are. Got an agent?'

‘Not yet.'

‘You want to get yourself a good one, when the time comes. There'll be lots of others like you looking for work.'

‘I was hoping you'd help. When you start directing.'

‘Told you about that, did I? Yeah, a couple more years or so of this acting lark and I'm changing horses.' He grinned. ‘I'll bear you in mind, love. If you're any good.'

The bread-and-butter pudding was the best she'd ever eaten and after it there was real coffee and another cigarette.

‘Where're you staying tonight, then?'

‘I was going to phone Frankie. Her aunt's got a flat in Knightsbridge and she'll be staying there. We have to be at the depot early in the morning.'

‘You don't want to go wandering about in this fog. Never know who you'll bump into. Why not come back to my place instead? It's not far. We could talk some more.'

She'd be a fool not to go with him. Hitch her wagon to his star.

The flat was on the top floor of an old building with a rickety lift. Attic rooms without much furniture but, he assured her, wonderful views on a good day. He did the blackout, lit a gas fire and fetched a bottle of brandy. Poured it into glasses.

‘OK. Pretend this is an audition. What do you know by heart?'

‘What do you want to hear?'

‘How about your namesake in
As You Like It
?'

Funny he should pick that. And lucky, because she knew the play so well. He lounged on the sofa, fag stuck in a corner of his mouth, head on one side, watching her and listening.

When she'd finished the speech, he nodded
slowly. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all. And you've got the looks all right.'

‘Do you want to hear something else?'

He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Not now, love. Come over here. I've got another idea.'

‘Jack Carter's courtin' yer, then?' Molly said. ‘So I hears.'

‘Actually, I hardly ever see him.'