by Rosie Clarke
‘Mavis would have us at hers and we are welcome to stay with Uncle Bill for as long as we like, but judging by Kirk’s letters, he’ll want to get away for a while. We’ll probably go down to the sea for a couple of weeks…’ Mavis lived across the road and Anne lodged with her.
‘You’ll enjoy that,’ Peggy said, understanding that her look of delight was tinged with just a hint of nervousness. Anne and Kirk had married a few days after meeting just before Christmas 1942 and had hardly any time together before he was sent overseas. ‘It would be nice if you could find a proper home together…’
‘I suppose we have one if we want it,’ Anne said. ‘My uncle left his flat to me when he died last year. I’ve been letting it out, but if Kirk thought it was right for us, I could take it over when the tenants leave next month…’
‘Or you could sell it and buy something you both like,’ Peggy suggested.
She saw that Rose had finished the washing-up and was now looking for another job. Nellie, her permanent guest and helper, entered the kitchen then and Peggy nodded to her.
‘Go with Nellie, Rose. She’s going to turn the bedrooms out this morning and she’ll show you what to do – and when you’ve finished, you can come to the bar and help me serve until we close.’
‘Yes, you must be about to open up,’ Anne said and nodded. ‘I’ll get off, Peggy – but I’ll see you this evening and we’ll talk more then…’
‘Yes, I’ll look forward to it,’ Peggy said and heard a cry from upstairs. ‘Oh. That’s Fay again… Will you see to her, Nellie? I must open the bar…’ Fay and Freddie were Peggy’s pride and delight but were at the stage of crawling and tottering, or in Freddie’s case, running in spurts before falling over, and getting into mischief if left for five minutes.
‘May I do it?’ Rose asked. ‘I like children. I used to look after… some children…’
‘Nellie, go with Rose and show her everything,’ Peggy said, giving her trusted friend a little look that told Nellie to keep an eye on the new girl. She seemed fine but it was best to take things slowly at first, especially where the twins were concerned…
‘I was just talking to Maureen in the lane,’ Anne said, following Peggy through to the public bar. ‘She seems very happy. I suspect she has a little secret but she hasn’t said anything yet… might not be sure…’
‘She’ll tell us when she’s ready,’ Peggy laughed as she caught Anne’s look. ‘I think you’re probably right, Anne. I’ve seen her looking a bit broody again.’
Chapter 2
Maureen Hart was amazed each time she entered the grocery shop at the end of Mulberry Lane these days. It looked so different from the way it had when she’d worked there for her late father. Married now and with a young child to care for she seldom stood behind the counter, merely taking care of the ordering of new stock. The shop was hers now since her father died more than two years earlier, and Tom Barton, her young manager, was forever doing something to brighten it up and make it look different. One shelf was currently displaying wooden toys and trinkets, a new idea that he’d had, and she’d given him the authority to go ahead with. Ben Walker, a soldier who had been wounded and forced to retire from the Army early in the war, made the toys. His spine had been damaged and he needed a wheelchair to get around because he couldn’t walk far, though he was able to walk a little and to look after himself. Unable to find the kind of work he’d done before the war, he’d used the skill in his hands to make toys from reclaimed wood he sourced in the junkyard. He’d come in for some cigarettes one day and shown Tom some of his toys. Impressed by the brightness and colour of some wooden bricks, the beautiful animal carvings, and the natural beauty of the wood in other pieces, Tom had asked if he could keep some pieces to show Maureen and he’d come up with his idea to sell them for the ex-soldier, taking a fifteen per cent commission.
‘We might not sell many most of the year, but there are birthdays and at Christmas it should prove worthwhile; besides, it would help to fill an empty shelf.’
Since Tom’s industry had cleared the backlog of tins and stock from the back room, there were unavoidably large spaces on the shelves as the war wearied on and shortages got worse. His new idea had filled a shelf and because there were wooden love spoons, trinket boxes, ashtrays and breadboards as well as the toys, they managed to sell a few items most weeks, and had done quite well the previous Christmas. Those sales hadn’t made much difference to the shop’s profits, but it helped the soldier and brought more passing trade, as toys were as difficult to find as anything else these days and Maureen had told Tom to buy more. Ben could only manage to make a few in a week and Maureen had told him that she would buy from him all the year so that he could earn a regular living.
Despite all the hardships, the year of 1943 had been relatively peaceful for the inhabitants of Mulberry Lane compared to the months that had preceded it. Now they were in January 1944. Peggy’s twins, two months older than Maureen’s son, were doing well, into mischief and running around until they tired themselves, and Ellie Morris, the young woman who worked for the hairdresser in the lane, now had a darling little girl named Beth with blonde hair and blue eyes. Her husband Peter was in the Army, but Ellie seemed happy living with Mrs Tandy, above the wool shop next door to her work.
Maureen’s own son Robin was thriving and completely spoiled, because, between them, Gran and, her husband’s daughter, Shirley, made certain he was never allowed to lie in his cot and cry. All he had to do was to yell and one of his ardent admirers would have him out of there and onto their lap. Maureen had given up trying to forbid it, because Gran refused to listen.
‘Crying isn’t good for babies,’ she’d told Maureen in no uncertain terms when she’d said it would spoil him to pick him up every time he cried. ‘It means he’s wet, hungry or has the tummy ache and deserves attention.’
Of course, Robin was growing fast now, no longer a tiny baby but an unsteady toddler. His first words had been Dadda, Shirl… and then Mumma. Maureen had repeatedly told him about his daddy from the moment she held him in her arms, explaining that his daddy was a soldier. When Gordon had come home for a two-month posting and new training in late October 1943, Maureen had shed tears as she watched them together; because from the love and the pride in her husband’s face, she believed her own fairy tale that Robin was indeed Gordon’s son. Her belief in the myth had grown, because despite Rory Mackness’ threats when she was in hospital just after Robin’s birth that he intended to visit his son whenever he chose, he had not been to see her or his son since that day in 1942 and she could only hope it stayed that way.
‘He’s a beautiful child, Maureen,’ Gordon told her when they made love the night before he was due to return to his regiment prior to his next posting. He’d finished his tour of duty in the desert before his leave and wasn’t sure where his next posting might be after some further intensive training in the south of England. ‘It was kind of you to let Shirley name him – and Robin suits him beautifully. He is intelligent and bright as a little bird.’
Gordon had changed so much since he’d joined the Army. He was stronger, fitter and far more confident than the man who had used to buy barley sugar for Shirley from Henry Jackson’s shop. The days when she’d worked in her father’s grocery business seemed far off now to Maureen. She’d trained as a nurse at the start of the war before falling for a child with a man who had let her down too many times, and then returning to the lane. Gordon had confessed his love and offered her marriage, even though she was carrying another man’s child. He’d shown her what love really meant and she was so grateful that he’d loved her despite everything.
‘It made her happy,’ Maureen said, ‘but I’ve realised it is perfect for him. We’ll keep your name for our next son…’
Gordon had kissed her again, stroking the silken arch of her back. ‘We might have a girl…’ he said, but she’d shook her head and pressed against him, savouring every moment of their short time together.
&n
bsp; ‘We’ll have another boy. Shirley doesn’t want a baby girl in the family.’
He had laughed at that. ‘Well, she can’t always have her own way. Not that she is spoiled, despite all the love you lavish on her, Maureen. My mother gave her all her own way when she was little, but you don’t – and yet she is always laughing and happy. I don’t know how you do it, but you seem to make us all happy… Gran, Shirley, Robin, all your friends – and Tom Barton worships the ground you walk on…’
Maureen had leaned up on her elbow so that she could look into his face. ‘Do I make you happy, Gordon?’
‘That goes without saying,’ he’d murmured throatily and pulled her down on top of him, kissing her and then turning her so that she was beneath him and beginning to lavish her with his tongue and lips in a way that made her arch and moan with pleasure. ‘Marrying you was the best thing I ever did, my darling… I promise you I have never been so happy or ever knew I could be.’
Maureen smiled at the memory, because she was certain that it was that night her baby was conceived. She had Gordon’s child growing inside her now and that thought made her want to shout with happiness. At the moment her happiness was complete and even the slight complication of having Violet Jackson – her late father’s second wife, and his widow – as the tenant above the shop wasn’t enough to dim the glow inside her. She had hoped that Violet might move on after a while, but she seemed settled and Maureen felt obliged to let her stay for as long as she wished, if only in respect to her late father’s memory.
‘Is everything all right, Tom?’ Maureen asked, noticing that Tom had begun to paint the wooden shelves a primrose yellow, which certainly made the shop seem lighter. ‘Violet hasn’t given you any more trouble?’
‘Not since I made it clear to her that I wasn’t having her clients coming through the shop to get to her. She can let them in through her door at the back…’
The flat had belonged to Gran and not Maureen’s father, and Violet had taken up Gran’s offer to remain in the property and carry on her trade as a bespoke corset maker. She’d been a bit sheepish and quiet on her return from hospital all those months ago, where she’d been rushed after she was attacked, robbed and left for dead by her own son, but she hadn’t apologised to Maureen for what her son had done, nor would she ever admit that she’d put him up to robbing Gran and Maureen, and they’d never known for sure. Fortunately, they’d got most of the stolen pieces back, because of an honest pawnbroker, and Violet’s son by her first husband was in prison, serving a fifteen-year sentence for burglary and assaulting her. She hadn’t mentioned one word to anyone on the subject, and hardly ever spoke more than two words to Maureen or Gran. Her rent was paid on time each week, left in an envelope on the counter with Tom, and she’d had a few spats with him about who had the right to use the backyard and whether her customers could come in through the shop, but he was perfectly capable of standing up for himself. At seventeen years of age, Tom was tall and strong, though of a lean rangy build like his father, Jack. Jack Barton was serving in the Army abroad and kept in touch by infrequent postcards to his son and to Peggy Ashley. Jack was grateful to Peggy for helping Tom and he’d always found her attractive.
‘You don’t mind the new colour for the shelves?’ Tom asked a little anxiously.
‘I think it looks better than the old grey that Dad preferred,’ Maureen said, smiling at him. ‘You’re always working overtime, Tom. I don’t pay you enough for what you do…’
‘You pay me what the shop can afford,’ Tom said, looking at her with undisguised adoration. Maureen knew that he’d transferred his affections to her after he’d finally severed all connections with his mother. Tilly Barton’s health and mental condition had deteriorated to the stage where she was now confined to a locked room in the infirmary, awaiting her transferral to an asylum. Tom had shed a few tears when he was told that he could no longer see his mother for the reason that she was mentally unstable and might try to harm him.
‘I know she never loved me,’ he’d told Maureen once. ‘Sam was always her favourite, but she blamed me and Dad after he was killed on that bomb site – and then she seemed to hate us. Dad said it was because I was like him that she never loved me – but why did she marry him if she didn’t love him?’
‘I don’t know, Tom. Perhaps it was because she thought your dad was her only chance and she wanted to be married…’
Tom shook his head. ‘I think it went a lot deeper than that, but Dad doesn’t know and she wouldn’t tell me – and now she can’t.’
‘She may still get better…’ Maureen had said, but she’d known, as Tom did, that it wouldn’t happen. Something inside Tilly– something she’d bottled up for years – had turned her mind sour and she’d dwelled on her bitterness until it took her over and she could no longer function properly. Maureen had visited the infirmary herself and been told that Tilly regularly soiled herself and wouldn’t eat or drink, nor would she wash unless a nurse did it for her, and then she bit and scratched the poor woman. Tom could never have coped with her at home, and privately, Maureen thought he was a lot better off without the ungrateful mother who had never thanked him for all he tried to do for her, but she hadn’t been unkind enough to say so and Tom had turned his affections to her. She imagined he thought of her as a big sister, because the friendship between them was much like being family.
Tom’s father sent his son half of his Army pay and that meant he’d been able to stay in the family home, though it was too big for him and if his mother was never coming back he might be better taking a room. Peggy would take him in if he asked. Both she and Maureen kept a friendly eye on him, but he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.
Maureen picked up a newspaper lying on the counter and read the headlines:
Surprise American Landing at Anzio!
The Allied attack on Rome would weaken the Germans, robbing them of Mussolini’s backing and perhaps shorten the war.
‘Do you think this means the war is almost over?’ she asked him.
Tom took the newspaper and read the article before replying. ‘I think the tide is on the turn. When Eisenhower took over supreme command at the end of last year, I think it put the writing on the wall for the Germans, though I don’t think they’ve accepted it yet – but if the RAF keep bombing their cities and towns, like the Luftwaffe have us in the past, that may weaken their morale.’
‘I read somewhere that the RAF has bombed another secret weapons site in Germany…’
‘Yes, I’ve read about that too.’ Tom frowned. ‘I don’t know how successful it was – they’re sure to have other sites in Germany. They say they’re making unmanned rockets or flying bombs. I think they will have another go at London before they’re finished…’
Maureen shivered, because a weapon like that could cause untold devastation, and London had never quite recovered from the intensive bombing of earlier years. There were spasmodic bombing raids now but mostly on the docks or industrial areas and nothing like the Blitz of earlier years. ‘It was bad enough in the Blitz, but at least then we had plenty of warning; they say the first thing you hear with these is the bang when it lands…’
‘Yes…’ Tom looked grim. ‘I went to try and enrol at the Army recruiting office again last week, but they asked for my birth certificate and then told me that I had a job and to stay where I was for the time being, although it’s only a matter of a few months now until I’m eighteen. I might be called up for other work, but either way it won’t be long now…’
‘What kind of other work?’ Maureen would be sorry to lose him, though she’d always known his job in the shop was temporary. Tom wanted a chance to experience life in the Army.
‘He didn’t say, but I read about Bevin’s boys in the paper and they have posters up at the recruiting office about them needing miners. I think so many men went off to fight it has left them short of labour for things like the mines, even though it was always a protected job.’
‘Oh
, Tom! I don’t think you would like being down a mine…’ Maureen exclaimed.
‘No, I shouldn’t,’ he said and grinned at her. ‘I think if they get desperate it won’t matter what I like – or a lot of other men either. We’ll be called up and sent where we’re most needed.’
‘So if the fighting is going our way, they’ll start putting more men to essential work here rather than sending them overseas.’
‘That’s what I was told, though not straight out,’ Tom said. ‘I think a lot of lads from down in Wales and also up north go into the mines younger than I am… and I’m strong for my age.’
‘I shall hate to lose you,’ Maureen told him. ‘Especially, if I knew you didn’t like your job. I know you want to join the Army but…’
‘Yes, I do want to join the Army. I like working for you, Maureen. It’s a good job and I’m sure once the war is over you’ll be able to make this place really profitable – but I do fancy the idea of an Army life. Dad loves it. He told me last time he wrote that it was better than standing in line waiting for a job down the Docks any day. I’d like the chance to try it – although when the war is over, I’ll probably think about a business of my own.’
‘Well, let’s hope you get your chance of both the Army and your own business.’ Maureen didn’t remind him of the dangers of being in the Army. Serving in the shop every day, he saw many soldiers; those in uniform, home on leave, and the wounded, who were disfigured, maimed and crippled. He knew that an Army career could be short in times of war and yet he’d still set his heart on it. Maureen wouldn’t want to stand in his way, but she prayed he wouldn’t be killed like so many others.
‘I shall one day, even if I have to go down the mines first,’ Tom said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got the list for the wholesaler here, Maureen. The items at the top are the most urgent, but basically we need anything you can get… Sardines, chopped ham in tins, tea, flour, jam, dried rice, condensed milk…’