‘Oh, Maman—’ Ronnie sprang up and rushed to her mother’s side. She put her arms round her. ‘I won’t take him if you want him to stay. He’s a lovely boy. He always knows when I’m unhappy and tries to comfort me in his way.’ She reached down to pat him. ‘Maman, please don’t cry. I want to go with your blessing. They say I can come home for three days after the training, which will fly by in a jiffy. And I’d write to you.’
‘When do you propose to go?’ Simone sniffed and reached for her handkerchief.
‘Friday,’ Ronnie said in a small voice, going back to her chair, hardly believing her mother seemed to be accepting the new situation.
‘You will need warm clothes.’ Simone wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘We must find you some suitable things. I do not want you to catch pneumonia – another thing to worry about.’
‘It’s quite a long list, Maman. Things like a coat and boots.’ Ronnie hesitated. ‘They’ll use up a lot of coupons … and money. That’s what worries me.’
‘Suzanne is not taking music lessons so that money can go to you.’
‘I’ll pay you back, I promise. I’ll be earning £2 a week to start, and then £3 after I finish training, though we have to buy food out of it.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Show me the list.’
Ronnie took it from her bag and handed it over. Her mother read it in silence.
‘These things are practical if you are on boats or here through the winter,’ Simone said, looking up. ‘You need a good raincoat. You have outgrown yours.’ She glanced at the list again. ‘And you must have a suitcase to pack these things.’
‘Oh, no, Maman, no cases. Mrs Hunter specifically said not. They take up too much room. She said either a rucksack or a pillowcase.’
‘A pillowcase?’ Simone’s voice rose an octave. ‘To pack your clothes in?’ Ronnie nodded. ‘Non. That I will not have. What would the village say to see you carrying a pillowcase like … like Dick Whittington?’
Ronnie laughed. ‘I don’t care what the villagers say.’
‘Well, I do.’ Maman pushed her plate to one side, giving the tinned sardines and the soggy cabbage a final look of disgust. ‘We will go to Bromley tomorrow.’
Chapter Five
Regent’s Canal Dock, London
November 1943
Laughter greeted Ronnie’s ears as she surfaced, spitting and thrashing, from the murky brown canal water, terrified and fighting hard not to be pulled under again by the weight of her sodden gaberdine mac and waterlogged Wellingtons.
‘That’ll teach yer not to be so cocky, miss. The cut’s a dirty little devil and a lock’s a dangerous place not to be payin’ attention.’
Dora Dummitt, one of the trainers, puffed on her pipe as the five other brand-new trainees stood around on the towpath in the rain. One of them was smirking. Another gave a nervous giggle. The trainer let Ronnie struggle for a few more moments, then thrust out an arm that could sink a battleship and hauled her back onto the towpath.
Ronnie, red-faced with exertion and shame, clung on to the woman’s arm, and dripped water and mud splashes over Dora Dummitt’s sleeve and down the front of her waterproof jacket, already filthy from months of training girls to man the narrowboats.
The sky that had been gloomy all day was now beginning to darken. This first day hadn’t been at all as Ronnie had imagined. Instead of the peace of a canal, Regent’s Canal Dock was alive with men and boats and horses. Stevedores and dockers were shouting to one another, warning bells rang and whistles pierced the air, cargo came crashing down into the lighters and barges and narrowboats, factories spewed out foul smoke and steam, trains roared over the railway bridge … it was a bewildering cacophony and Ronnie hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d fit in.
It had sounded like a job tailor-made for Ronnie when she’d been for her interview and had had her medical and was accepted. Nothing about the training scheme had put her off, even when Mrs Hunter had warned her the work could be heavy. She should never forget she’d be taking the place of a man who’d gone off to fight for King and country, and this could mean working as much as twelve or even fourteen hours a day, non-stop.
Do you think you’re up to it? she remembered Mrs Hunter asking her, looking her up and down. Ronnie had ignored Raine’s amused grin as she tried to stretch as tall as her five foot three inches would allow. ‘At only seventeen you’ll be the youngest,’ Mrs Hunter had added.
‘I’m really strong and not afraid of hard work,’ Ronnie had answered.
Little had she known that the trainer, Dora Dummitt, would be a slave driver – and a bully who seemed to enjoy humiliating her in front of the others.
‘Wait here, all of yer,’ Dora ordered as she sprang like a young girl onto the roof of the narrowboat called Persephone and disappeared into the cabin. She was back in a trice holding up the floor mat, her eyes sweeping the group of girls. ‘When it happens again – and I say “when”, not “if” – and that goes for all of yous – one of the other crew must remove this’ – she jerked her head towards the mat – ‘and anything else that needs ter keep dry. Then yer don’t make the cabin floor into an extra cut.’ She gave her strange mirthless bark at the weak joke which Ronnie was sure the woman spouted to every new trainee who fell in. ‘The one who’s had a dunkin’ then goes and puts dry clothes on. Bung any wet things round the engine room and they’ll dry soon enough.’ She paused
