by AJ Pearce
They may have been singing, and wearing pretty scarves, but their signs and placards were clear.
Anne had tied one to Tony’s pram that read, ‘MY MUMMY WANTS TO HELP WIN THE WAR’. Maeve and her girls had used chalk to write on blackout cards, ‘NURSERIES FOR KIDS, WAR WORK FOR MOTHERS’, while another pram sported a sign saying, ‘HELP MUMMY HELP OUR DADDY’. Two women I didn’t recognise held pieces of cardboard that read, ‘WE NEED NURSERIES TO HELP WIN THE WAR’.
Irene walked next to Anne. She was without Sheila and Enid who were staying with Anne’s mum as it was far too soon for them to be involved in a public show. Betty was on Irene’s other side, placard in one hand and holding Irene’s hand with the other. Irene’s sign simply said, ‘WAR WIDOWS NEED NURSERIES’.
And at the front of them all, holding tightly onto Anne’s coat, marched Ruby, wearing a cardboard crown covered in scrunched-up pieces of newspaper that had been painted in different colours. She wonkily carried her own little sign which she must have written herself. It was one great big, lovely scribble.
They all looked so spectacular, it was all I could do not to jump up and down and cheer, but keeping incognito for now, I ducked behind two women who had stopped to watch. Bunty hid behind the camera, trying to get the best angles, her walking stick under one arm for now, with Bunts choosing her shot carefully so as not to waste precious film.
When the song came to an end, the women began to chant.
‘TO WIN THE WAR, WE’RE ASKING, PLEASE,
HELP US GET OUR NURSERIES.’
It was impossible to ignore them, and the Christmas shoppers began to stop and watch, some with amusement, others with interest.
‘Look at his little face,’ said a woman near me, pointing at Baby Tony in his pram. ‘Isn’t he a cherub?’
‘That looks like your Edna,’ said someone else in surprise.
‘Give a woman the flaming vote,’ muttered an elderly man, who then stomped away in the opposite direction.
The marchers started singing again as they continued walking around the square, and more people began to watch. I thought I saw Mrs Noakes from Chandlers at one point but couldn’t be sure. There was no sign of Mr Terry or Mr Rice.
When they came round the second time, to stop outside the town hall, Ruby started to wave at the growing crowd while trotting along on her little stubby legs and gamely managing to keep up. She was hard to resist, and several people waved back, which only encouraged her more, until she was waving so furiously that her paper crown was halfway over her face.
Just as Anne bent down to fix it, Bunty stepped forward and took a photograph. It was enough to catch Anne’s eye and before I slipped back into the growing crowd, I was able to give her a huge smile. Now she knew we were here. Having sorted out Ruby’s crown and with a quick beam of recognition, Anne nudged Betty, who then broke into a smile as well.
Now, as the march came to a stop, they passed the Salvation Army band who were watching, as curious as anyone. A contingent of the women broke ranks to put pennies in the collecting tins. It was a gesture that could not go unmissed.
At the town hall, the women stopped singing, and gathered into a group. Several people clapped although they kept their distance, waiting to see what would happen next. Betty, who was now at the edge of the marchers, was both unsurprised and ready when the fruit and veg man nipped over and handed her two wooden crates. I guessed she had charmed him into it before the start of the march.
It would have been easy to stand back and enjoy watching my friends, but as I knew the plan was for them to now speak to the crowd, my nervousness returned. There was no doubt that Mr Terry would have sent people, I just didn’t know who, or where they would be. I began to search the crowd, looking for men I thought might fit the bill. Anyone in uniform could be ruled out of course, and that cut things down significantly. I kept looking.
The first candidate fitted the bill.
It was Mr Rice.
I put my head down and swiftly about-turned. He was standing with a pleasant-looking woman in a brown hat, and they could have been any middle-aged couple out for the Saturday shop. But he was watching Anne and the others intently.
Just near him were two taller, younger men, in civilian dress. I perhaps wouldn’t have picked them out, but one appeared to be searching the crowd as much as I was and the other had his hands in his pockets and was making a show of whistling and not being interested in the march. As bad acting went, it was a winner. I watched him closely. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he might have been one of the foremen I’d seen at work on my first visit to Chandlers.
I moved back towards Anne. She was wearing the same black coat that she had on when we first met, and I hoped she’d layered up underneath. As well as her floral scarf, she was wearing a Royal Navy silver sweetheart brooch. She had a megaphone in her hand and looked apprehensive, but as I watched, she said something to Irene and then climbed up onto one of the crates.
I took out my notebook.
The women stopped their chant and broke into applause for Anne, who cleared her throat and took a deep breath.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ she said. Then she cleared her throat again. ‘My name is Mrs Anne Oliver and I am a war worker.’
The other women clapped again. A soldier nearby shouted, ‘Good girl,’ and his friend joined in with a, ‘Well done, love. Good on you.’
Anne gave them a shy smile and continued. ‘I am a war worker and a mother. I have two small children.’ She glanced down at Ruby, who was with Violet, and trying on her scarf. ‘I want to tell you about their father, my husband. His name was Corporal Anthony Oliver, and he was killed at Dunkirk.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Demonstrations Are Not Allowed
AS SOON AS Anne said that, she looked at Ruby to assure herself that her daughter was far too interested in the pretty scarf to be listening.
Now that someone was speaking, the crowd had moved closer. When Anne mentioned Anthony, people murmured their sympathies. ‘God bless him,’ said one.
‘This country needs women workers,’ continued Anne. ‘All of us who you see today work for the war effort.’
I stopped scribbling in shorthand for a moment and looked at Mr Rice. He was going the same purple colour as when we had first met.
‘But we can’t and won’t tell you what we do, or where we do it.’
The soldiers nodded. More people clapped. One of them was Charles who had got rid of the newspaper and was now standing just by the side of the crowd. Guy had also moved closer and was now casually listening to Anne speak.
‘All we want you to know is that we want to work for our boys. We urge any girl or woman of working age to join in so that we can support them and get this war won.’
More applause.
‘But we have a problem, which is why we are here today. You may know we work shifts and weekends and all hours. We don’t mind that if it gets the job done. But our little’ns, our children who are with us today, need looking after. We know Mr Churchill’s Government is setting up special nurseries for war workers. But we don’t have them yet, even though we need them badly. The fact is, we need them NOW.’
All the women clapped and cheered, and there was a smattering of applause from the crowd.
‘I know some of you may think that mothers should be at home, looking after the children, and that we won’t be conscripted so we don’t have to work. But we are here to tell you that we want to work, and many of us need to work. Especially if we are on our own.’
As Anne continued to reiterate that all the women wanted was nurseries for the children, you could see the crowd’s interest grow. When she said that many war widows needed to work, there were nods from other women, including several in middle age. This was not their first war.
Not everyone was impressed. The two men with Mr Rice moved to the front of the crowd and I noticed that Mr Adams had arrived and was talking to an official-looking man who was list
ening and pointing at things. They looked ready to make some sort of a move.
It was time to put anonymity aside. I slipped through the crowd, excusing myself and inching to the front.
Anne had finished speaking and now Irene stepped up beside her. Anne gave her the megaphone and whispered something to her. Irene, ashen-faced, nodded and then swallowed hard. She was gripping a hankie in her hand. Anne put her arm around her.
Irene began to speak. She was hesitant and looked close to tears. The crowd waited.
‘I’m Mrs Irene Barker,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘I was a war worker, but I lost my job because I couldn’t find anyone to look after my girls when I was at work.’
Then she looked at Anne, shook her head and nearly in tears, handed her the megaphone and got down off the crate. Betty and one of the other women went to her immediately. I heard Betty say, ‘Well done, Rene. You did it. You did him proud.’
Anne started to speak again. A large crowd had now gathered.
‘All Mrs Barker wants is to be able to work,’ she said. ‘That’s all. It has taken great courage for her to be here today.’ She looked over at Irene. ‘Last week she was informed that her husband, Able Seaman Douglas Barker, had given his life for his country.’
Now a very audible murmur of sympathy went through the crowd.
The official-looking man with Mr Adams chose his timing badly.
‘I say,’ he said loudly. ‘I am here on behalf of the council. You ladies are blocking a public thoroughfare and must disperse.’
It was a crass interruption.
‘Shame,’ said someone behind me.
‘They’re not doing any harm,’ said a young man.
‘Demonstrations are not allowed,’ said the official.
‘Yes, they are,’ I said, stepping in front of him. ‘This isn’t Berlin. And anyway, this is a recruitment parade.’
‘Stuff Berlin,’ yelled one of the soldiers.
I took my notepad out of my pocket and flipped it open.
‘Press,’ I said, loudly. ‘Good morning. May I take your name? I want to make sure I spell it correctly. Are you an official representative? Our readers will want to know what you have against women who want to do war work. I’m not clear why you want to stand in their way?’
‘We just want nurseries so we can work and keep our children safe,’ shouted Maeve.
‘TO WIN THE WAR, WE’RE ASKING, PLEASE, HELP US GET OUR NURSERIES,’ some of the others began to chant.
Mr Rice leaned towards the official. He looked disappointed rather than angry. ‘We’ve seen this one before,’ he said, gesturing at me. ‘She’s from a magazine.’
‘YOU MUST DISPERSE,’ shouted the official.
‘NO,’ yelled Betty through the megaphone. ‘Not until someone helps us.’
The foreman, who I had recognised from Chandlers, began to move towards her. ‘You stupid woman,’ he said. ‘You won’t have any jobs after this.’
‘Shut up, Lesley,’ called a woman from the crowd. ‘Stop showing off.’
Lesley turned round, told her in no uncertain terms to go away, and took a step towards Betty.
Betty didn’t move, but Charles did. ‘Easy there,’ he said, calmly moving between her and the foreman. ‘There’s no need for that.’
Lesley told Charles where to stick it. Mr Rice told Lesley to calm down. The two soldiers and a very large young sailor walked over and stood by Charles.
Bunty took a photograph and then limped backwards, leaning heavily on her stick.
‘Come on, now,’ said Charles, ignoring the fact Lesley had just been unutterably rude. ‘Let the women finish what they have to say.’
Charles looked unruffled, whereas I’d have been tempted to give Lesley what for. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Guy had moved to just a couple of yards away, near Mr Adams. He was taking notes as he watched.
‘Can anyone account for this man?’ I said, pointing at Lesley and looking at Mr Rice. ‘He’s frightening the children.’
It wasn’t entirely true as Maeve and Violet and two of the other women had sensibly taken the smallest children off to the look at the Christmas tree. But that wasn’t the point.
‘May I have all your names?’ I added, brandishing my pencil. ‘I’m writing a piece for the national press.’
The official hesitated, but Mr Adams was less worried.
‘Really?’ he said sarcastically, now nothing like the chummy type I had first met at the lunchtime concert. ‘I thought you wrote about frocks.’
‘And I thought you were busy trying to suck up to Tommy Trinder,’ I replied. ‘But yes, actually, I am writing a piece. Of course, if you’d rather I didn’t, perhaps you might like to speak with Mrs Oliver instead.’
Mr Adams looked put out. ‘You seem to have forgotten the conversation at your last visit,’ he said. ‘Lots of people in various places will be very interested to hear about this little stunt.’
‘Do you mean how the Government’s women workers are treated?’ I asked.
Anne and Betty were now at my side. There was a loud click as Bunty took another picture.
Some of the crowd had moved away, but there was still a decent number left, and they started to join in.
‘GIVE THEM A NURSERY!’ someone shouted.
‘WHO ARE YOU, ANYWAY?’ called out someone else. Mr Adams didn’t like that at all.
‘STOP PICKING ON THEM,’ cried a woman with a young girl in a school uniform.
‘Ah, good, the police,’ said Mr Adams, as if he was the head of Scotland Yard and had an officer in tow at all times. ‘Now we’ll sort it.’
The local constable was a mild-looking man, but with an authoritative air.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ he asked.
The men all kept quiet.
‘I am, sir,’ said Anne. ‘Of the parade anyway. Mrs Oliver. Thirty-two Wilton Street.’
‘We’re here for war workers,’ said Betty.
‘Mr Simms,’ said the officer, recognising the official, without obvious pleasure. ‘Is this anything to do with your department?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Simms.
‘If you’re from the council then it is,’ said Betty. ‘We’ve been writing to you for weeks.’
‘We’re only asking for a nursery,’ said Anne to the policeman. ‘But we’ve been told it has to be done jointly by local authorities and factory managers. They won’t even meet with us. No one seems to want to know.’
‘And the Ministries of Health and Labour have to say yes before anything happens,’ I added. ‘These women just want to be able to work.’
Mr Simms began to protest, launching into an unintelligible garble of reasons and sounding just like a politician.
Behind him, and very quickly joined by the others, two of the women began singing again.
‘So, off I went and signed up to be a worker . . .’
‘Can I suggest you all sit down and talk in a civilised manner?’ said the policeman. ‘I’ll give you until after Christmas. I’ll take some names and addresses, if you don’t mind. No, sir, please stay where you are,’ he said, raising his voice as Mr Adams tried to sneak away. To his credit, Mr Rice had stayed put, although admittedly he was slightly hiding behind Mr Simms.
‘I’m afraid they’ve already given me the sack,’ said Anne politely. ‘And probably will to all the others after this.’
‘Very festive,’ said the officer, drily. ‘Who’s the Scrooge?’
When no one admitted anything, he started taking down names.
At that moment, one of the younger members of the march, who had become bored with all the standing around, broke ranks from the others and strode over to the policeman.
‘Hello,’ she said, confidently, but not rudely. ‘What’s your name?’
The policeman stopped writing. ‘Constable Pickering,’ he said.
‘Picky Wing?’
‘Pickering.’
‘I can’t say that. What are you do
ing?’
‘I’m writing down names,’ said Constable Picky Wing, patiently.
‘Can you write mine? It’s Ruby. With a Ruh,’ said Ruby, trying to stand on her toes to see inside his notebook.
‘I’m so sorry, Constable,’ said Anne. ‘This is my daughter. I’m teaching her her letters.’
‘Aa, buh, cuh,’ said Ruby to the policeman.
‘That’ll do, Ruby,’ said Anne. ‘We can do that at home.’
‘Your mother’s right,’ said the constable. ‘That’s enough for now.’
Ruby looked at him with bewilderment. Giving up was not in her nature.
‘Come and stand quietly, please, Ruby,’ said Anne, holding out her hand. ‘The grown-ups are talking.’
Ruby dutifully took Anne’s hand and leant into her coat, looking around as Anne stroked her hair protectively. Now that Constable Pickering was here, the belligerent Lesley had calmed himself down, and the atmosphere was less fraught. Nevertheless, Betty quietly moved nearer Anne and so did I. If tempers flared, we could get Ruby away.
As I had already been identified by Mr Rice, there was no need for me to pretend that I didn’t have an interest in the marchers. I crouched down.
‘Hello, Monster,’ I whispered.
‘Aunty Emmy!’ cried Ruby, hurling her arms round my neck. ‘Spin me round?’
‘In a minute, I promise,’ I said, continuing to whisper. Although Constable Pickering had been very nice to her, I wasn’t sure how far his patience would stretch if I turned into a merry-go-round. ‘We have to be quiet while the grown-ups are talking.’
I stayed crouched down and put my finger to my lips as if it was the best secret plan ever.
Ruby nodded, her eyes wide, then she crouched down too and squashed her chubby finger to her face.
‘Now then,’ said the constable to Mr Adams. ‘Your name please, sir.’
‘Actually, Constable,’ said Adams, ‘I was the person who alerted your station to the possibility of trouble taking place here today.’
‘Then you’ll be very happy to give me your details, won’t you, sir?’ said Constable Pickering, who didn’t seem impressed at meeting a snitch.
He took down Mr Adams’ name and address, and then looked behind Mr Simms to speak to Mr Rice.