Trouble for the Boat Girl

TROUBLE FOR THE BOAT GIRL LIZZIE LANE CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 More from Lizzie Lane About the Author Sixpence Stories About Boldwood Books 1 Beth Dawson climbed on the guardrail and leaned against the cabin roof of the brightly painted narrowboat until she was high enough for everyone to see. ‘It’s only two days old,’ she shouted, waving a newspaper above her head. Women gossiping, men smoking and children playing hopscotch with lumps of coal all stopped what they were doing and turned towards her. ‘Thought you was off,’ someone said. ‘There’s plenty of time. We’re off up the Avon and Kennet.’ The Kennet canal joined the River Avon in Bristol to the Thames in London. ‘We’ll be halfway there by teatime tomorrow.’ It wasn’t necessarily the truth, but it didn’t matter. The newspaper was spread in front of her. She was ready and everyone was crowding around. No point in getting her best green skirt dirty, so she hurriedly placed sheets of religious tracts on an upturned barrel before sitting on it. The Baptist minister who’d given them to her would be mortified to see pages of holy words pressed against her bottom, but she gave it no mind. Patting the newspaper flat, she smiled at the gathering crowd. Most were women, their nut-brown faces shaded by bonnets, a style lingering from the last century. Eyes bright with interest, they waited for her to read out loud what they could not read for themselves. One or two children, their breath warm and sticky against her neck, peered over her shoulder, pretending to read. She knew they couldn’t, thought it a shame and was thankful her mother had taught her well. Front-page stories were read out first. ‘Mr Ramsay MacDonald is reported to be thinking of forming a coalition government although at present this is not confirmed.’ ‘Never mind ’im. What about ’is Majesty? What’s ’e up to, then?’ The speaker was Mrs Bryce. A clay pipe jiggled at the corner of her mouth, gripped with the few teeth she had left. Always knitting, not once did the clickety-clacking of her needles falter. A murmur of approval ran through the crowd and Beth obliged. ‘His Majesty the King and Queen Mary are at present staying at Windsor with Prince Edward, the Prince of Wales, and their younger son the Duke of York.’ Someone asked if there was a picture of them, and if there was could she cut it out and stick it up somewhere. ‘That wouldn’t be right,’ exclaimed an indignant Mrs Bryce. The needles stopped clicking. She was obviously shocked. ‘You only have proper pictures of the King and Queen on walls, not fuzzy ones from newspapers. It’s disrespectful.’ Beth thought about it. ‘I suppose it’s better to have any sort of picture than none at all.’ Mrs Bryce sucked her lips into her toothless mouth and snorted. The needles resumed their clicking. The other woman smiled triumphantly. She was younger than Mrs Bryce, though you’d hardly know it. The hard life of providing food and comfort to a large family had taken its toll. The living accommodation barely measured eight by ten and sleeping arrangements were like a Chinese puzzle. Wages were low, charity sporadic and supplies were supplemented from the fields passed en route between Gloucester and the Midlands. Long gone were the days when the boatmen had a cottage as well as a boat. That was before the railways. A carrier had to be competitive in order to survive. One item after another was read, including advertisements for patent medicines, boot polish and even ladies’ corsets. She knew the precious moment was over when she heard clothes rustling and a whisper, a mutter, then a full-blown exclamation running through the group of listeners: ‘Daddy Dawson. Daddy Dawson. Daddy Dawson.’ The louder it got, the quicker people dispersed. Her father was respected rather than liked, even by his own family. She sighed and, despite her fear of him, remained reading. He called to her from the other end of the boat. ‘Elizabeth!’ He was on his way. Of the crowd that had listened, only her mother remained, her eyes and her feelings hidden behind the broad brim of her bonnet. Other bonnets and the tousled hair of the smaller listeners melted away, the adults back to their boats or to fill their Buckby cans (tall tin jugs) with fresh water. The children, their boots clattering on the loose concrete, ran among the machinery and played at boats with bits of wood in the oily puddles. ‘Elizabeth!’ His boots clunked the length of the boat. ‘Are you deaf? Answer me when I call ya!’ She quickly folded the newspaper and her mother snatched it from her. ‘He’s getting himself into a temper,’ she murmured as she hid the newspaper among the folds of an old cardigan that was in the process of being unpicked and reused. His shadow fell over them. Her mother looked up at him as meek as you like. ‘I’ll have a fresh brew ready for when you get back.’ ‘You’d better have!’ Like bullets, his dark eyes shot to Beth. ‘Are we off to the wharfinger?’ she asked. ‘Why else would I call you, you stupid lump! Now get off yer backside and next time move a bit faster when I shout or you’ll get the back of my hand. Now! Are you ready?’ Her blue eyes regarded him from beneath the dark hair that framed a face turned nut-brown by sun, wind and rain. ‘Of course I’m ready,’ she said, more defiantly than she should. ‘Move! I don’t have time to waste.’ His