The Boat Girls (31 page)

Ros ladled out hot soup which she'd spiked with the last of the Christmas rum. ‘So, what do we do next, Frankie?'

‘Go on, I suppose. The cut is probably completely frozen up ahead but we may as well get as far as we can. We don't want the boaters thinking we're feeble.'

‘You're the boss. I ought to mention, though, that we're running out of coal. Enough for one more day, that's all.'

They battled on alone down the seven Mathus
locks. It had started to snow again and was almost dark when they reached Finney lock. They stopped the boats by the bridge without bothering to tie up, heated up tinned stew and rice pudding. Both stoves were out by morning, both coal boxes empty. The cut-side water tap had frozen, so they filled the cans at the Red Lion and stocked up on rations from the shop. They wouldn't die of thirst or starvation, but, very likely, from cold.

After Finney there was the long, wiggling pound which took them six hours instead of the usual four, and then the terrors of crossing the Pig Trough high over the Ouse. It was Ros who spotted the snow-covered pile of coal hidden in some bushes below Cosgrove lock.

‘But it must belong to someone, Ros. We can't just take it.'

‘This is a question of survival, Frankie. Ours. Fetch the buckets.'

They had filled both coal boxes to the brim and started up the engine when a man appeared on the towpath, shaking his fist and yelling.

‘Time to leave,' Ros said, waving back at him from the butty hatches.

After climbing the Stoke seven, they tied up and spent the evening in the Boat Inn in company with other boaters and a group of soldiers from a nearby camp. One of them sat down to play the piano and they all roared out the old songs.

and

and

When they woke up in the morning, the boats were frozen in; the cut completely covered with ice inches thick, the broken-off lumps piled up like boulders.

‘What now, skipper?'

‘You heard what the boaters were saying in the pub last night, Ros. We're stuck here till the ice-breaker comes, or till it thaws. Personally, I don't mind – as long as the coal lasts, and the food.'

‘We'll need more cocoa soon,' Prudence said. ‘We forgot to get some at Finney.'

They spent the morning sweeping the loose snow off the boats, chipping away at ice and cleaning up the cabins. After dinner they walked to the village shop and found it had run out of cocoa: a disaster. Cocoa fuelled them as much as diesel oil fuelled the engine.

‘There's a shop at the next village,' the woman told them. ‘About two miles from here. They might have some. The shortest way's across the fields.'

They padlocked the boats and took the route that she had pointed out to them, floundering through deep drifts of snow, clambering over gates and stiles. When they reached the village, the shop had a sign tacked to the door.
Regular customers only
. And another below it.
No bargees served here
.

There was a man standing behind the counter in a very clean white overall and with a very dour expression.

‘Didn't you see the notice? Or can't you read? No bargees served.'

Frances drew herself up. ‘We're not bargees.'

‘From the boats, aren't you? I can tell by the look of you. Same as gippos, you are.'

She advanced to the counter and glared at him. ‘We work for the Inland Waterways on the narrowboats. Doing very important war work, as it happens. And we'd like some cocoa, please.'

‘We haven't got any.'

‘Yes, you have. You've got a stack of Rowntrees on the shelf there, behind you. We'd like two of them.'

‘They're reserved for regular customers.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Are you calling me a liar?'

‘Yes. I am.'

A dumpy woman in a flowered apron had
emerged from the back of the shop. ‘What's going on, Len?'

‘These women are from the barges. I'm not serving them. Just look at them.'

She turned to do so – to stare at their swaddled layers of clothing with the rents and the grease stains, at their dirty hands and faces, at the snow melting into muddy puddles round their boots. They stared back in silence.

‘Why not, Len?'

‘I'm not having people like them in here.'

‘What do they want?'

‘Cocoa.'

‘Give it to them, Len. These aren't real bargees, you fool. Can't you tell?'

They left in triumph with the cocoa and set off back to Stoke, taking the longer route by road rather than face the trek across fields again. It was bitterly cold, the arctic wind making their eyes water. After about a mile they passed a large gateway with stone lions pawing the tops of the pillars.

Ros stopped. ‘That must lead somewhere very grand. Do you think they'd give us a cup of tea?'

Frances said, ‘As a matter of fact, they probably would. It's where Hugh Whitelaw's parents live.'

‘Who's he?'

‘We met him at the Ritz when we went there to
dinner – don't you remember? He was the other RAF bloke with Vere.'

‘Oh, yes. He was nice. He took quite a shine to you, but you were in such a bait with your brother, you didn't even notice. So how do you know the parents live here?'

‘Because he said so. He told me that his parents lived at Havlock Hall, near Stoke Bruerne, and that's the name that's carved on the pillar over there. We were to go and see them if we were passing and needed dinner and a bed for the night.'

‘Why on
earth
didn't you tell us before, Frankie? Here we are, marooned in the ice, probably for days and days, and through that gateway lies warmth, food, hot baths, bug-free beds . . .'

‘We can't go barging in there, Ros. We've never even met his parents.'

‘Well, we're going to meet them now. We have an open invitation.'

‘People say those sort of things, but they don't really mean them.'

‘Of course he meant it. I told you, he fancies you. Come on.'

Ros marched off with Prue following more slowly, Frances hanging back crossly. The driveway was bordered by large trees, and snow-covered parkland rolled away into the far distance. There were acres of woods and a frozen lake with a
mock-Grecian temple beside it. The house itself was hidden from them by banks of rhododendrons until they reached a bend.

‘Blimey!' Ros stopped and put her hand to her mouth.

Havlock Hall was massive. Rows of mullioned windows, crenellated walls, twisted chimneys, turreted towers, pinnacled roofs – every feature and embellishment known to and beloved by the Victorians.

Frances said, ‘We can't do this, Ros. It's an awful cheek.'

‘We're very cold and we're very hungry – aren't we, Prue? So we're doing it.'

The front door, studded with iron nails, looked rather like the entrance to a prison. Undaunted, Ros tugged firmly at the bell pull.

‘You do the talking, Frankie.'

‘
Me?
Why should I? It was all
your
idea.'

‘But you're the one he gave the invitation to.'

‘I'd no intention of taking it up.'

‘Too late now.'

One half of the prison door had opened and an old man stood there, dressed in butler's black with a starched wing collar. He looked at them without speaking. They must, Frances thought, be a horrible sight. If the man in the village shop hadn't wanted to serve them, then this aged and
dignified retainer wouldn't even allow them over the threshold.

Ros gave her a shove. ‘Go on.'

‘Squadron Leader Whitelaw invited us to call,' she said. ‘He's a friend of my brother's, Wing Commander Carlyon.' She could see the butler assessing and reassessing the situation rapidly. ‘We wondered if his parents were at home?'

There was a pause while he reached his decision. ‘Perhaps you would care to step inside, madam.'

They stepped into a vast hall with a tiled floor, stained-glass windows, stags' heads, a minstrels' gallery and a majestic staircase of elaborately carved oak. An enormous, full-length portrait of a bewhiskered Victorian gentleman dominated the far wall.

‘Who is it, Mathews?'

The woman coming down the staircase was dressed, not as some frightening grande dame, but in slacks and a jumper with her wavy hair cut short. Frances repeated her piece and she smiled.

‘I'm Hugh's mother and I know all about you. Your Aunt Gertrude is an old pal of mine and your brother has been to visit us. How is Vere?'

‘Much better, thank you. He's out of hospital. They've moved him to a nursing home.'

‘That's good news. Do introduce me to your friends.'

She made the introductions apologetically. Ros, with her hacked-off locks and ragged scarves, looked like a wild Irish peasant; Prue resembled a penniless refugee from some poor and remote corner of the Balkans. They were shedding lumps of ice and snow over the tiled floor.

‘It's an awful intrusion, I'm afraid, and we're very dirty.'

‘Well, you work on the narrowboats, don't you? You're bound to be. Are you tied up at Stoke?'

‘Actually, we're frozen in there.'

‘Good heavens! I didn't realize it was that bad. You poor things . . . you'll be wanting a hot bath and food, and you must certainly stay the night.'

The bath was a claw-footed roll-top with big brass taps and the water was steaming hot. Frances, who had won the toss to go first, ignored the five inches economy rule, added rose-scented salts and wallowed blissfully. She dried herself with a fleecy towel, dressed in the most presentable of her layers and combed her hair with the help of a proper looking glass. Downstairs, the butler showed her into a sitting room where there was yet more bliss – a roaring log fire and a crystal glass full of sherry.

Mrs Whitelaw said, ‘My husband's away in London at the moment but Hugh will be arriving
this evening – in time for dinner, I hope. He's got leave – a whole week. Isn't it marvellous?'

It wasn't marvellous at all, Frances thought. They'd imposed disgracefully and the situation was already embarrassing enough.

‘We really ought to go back to the boats tonight.'

Ros had appeared from her bath, magically transformed from wild Irish peasant to beautiful actress. ‘No we oughtn't, Frankie. It's already pitch dark and it's snowing again.'

‘We're not supposed to leave them unattended.'

‘The cabins are padlocked and nobody's going to make off with fifty tons of steel, are they, sweetie?'

Hugh's mother intervened. ‘But of course you must stay the night, Frances. You can't possibly go out again in this weather. And dinner is arranged. I hope you all like pheasant?'

The dining room was oak-panelled, the table twelve feet long and there was another log fire burning in a fireplace big enough to roast an ox. They sat up one end of the table and the old butler bore in a tureen of soup. They'd just started on it when Hugh arrived. If he was taken aback to see the three of them sitting there, guzzling away, he was too polite to show it.

As soon as he'd sat down opposite her and next to Prue, Frances said, ‘I'm afraid we had the most
tremendous nerve, turning up on the doorstep. Your mother has been very kind. She insisted on us staying the night.'

He smiled at her. ‘Of course she did. It's terrible out. It took me hours to get home and it's getting worse. Apparently the freeze-up could last at least aweek.'

‘Could it? Oh dear.'

‘Don't worry, you'll be more than welcome here.'

‘We'd never have dreamed of coming here, if it hadn't been for the weather.'

‘But I'm very glad that you did.'

‘Ros was determined.'

‘Very sensible of her.'

‘We can't stay, of course. We have to look after the boats.'

‘By all means. You can walk over in the day and make sure they're all right. It's not far. Come and go, just as you please. By the way, I went to see Vere at the nursing home a couple of days ago. He's making good progress but I think it's going to be quite a while before he's back with the squadron again.'

‘He'll hate that.'

‘Yes . . . he's a bit like a caged tiger at the moment.'

For once, the soup wasn't out of a tin and the pheasant from the estate had been roasted to
perfection, with lovely trimmings. Somewhere, beyond the green baize door, there was a treasure working miracles with the rations. The butler poured smooth red wine into polished glasses. Ros hissed in her ear.

‘You go back to the boats, if you want, Frankie. Prue and I are staying put.'

After breakfast – porridge and real eggs – they walked to the village, crunching through the fresh layer of snow.
Orpheus
and
Eurydice
lay shrouded in lace-edged white, still gripped fast in the ice. They shovelled snow off the surfaces and swept away with brooms. Then they cleaned the stoves, polished the brass and wiped over the engine with diesel oil on rags. When they'd finished, there was another argument between Frances and Rosalind over what should happen next.

‘I think we should stay here, Ros. We've got enough coal to keep us warm for the next few days, and plenty of food. I'm the steerer, so it's my decision.'

‘I just don't see the point of us being martyrs when we've got such a lovely alternative.'

‘We can't go on accepting the Whitelaws' hospitality.'

‘Well, I don't have your finer feelings, I'm afraid. What's the matter with you, Frankie? Is it because Hugh obviously likes you and you don't
want him getting any wrong ideas? If you had any sense, you'd let him get them. The family must be loaded and he's a wonderful catch, as well as being extremely nice.'