Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  Ahead of her, the spire of St Mary Redcliffe church showed above the bank of trees at the top of the hill. The steamy smell of the faggot and pea shop lured her ever onwards. In the past she’d never been able to pass it without stopping, pressing her nose against the ancient bay window and drooling at the sight of the faggots – oversized traditional meatballs – simmering in thick gravy.

  The bakery, just along from the faggot and pea shop, was the last stop. There were only a dozen people in front of her. Her stomach heaved. She felt a sudden heaviness between her thighs.

  Take deep breaths, she told herself. You’ve walked a long way. It’ll do you good.

  A woman wearing a man’s trench coat that reached her ankles gave her belly a sympathetic look and said the words Phyllis had hoped to hear. ‘Go on in front, love. Wouldn’t want you to drop it ’ere now, would we?’

  Another woman wearing an old-fashioned black hat that seemed mostly to consist of ostrich feathers looked her up and down before making space for her. ‘Your first is it?’

  Phyllis said that it was.

  The feathers fluttered when the woman laughed. ‘I ’ad seven meself. The first is the worst, but you’ll get over it.’ A different look came to the woman’s face. ‘You look a bit pale, love.’

  Phyllis did indeed feel a bit strange. The nagging ache she’d felt earlier intensified. As her head began to spin, she grabbed the counter. She gasped as a sharp pain shot across from one hip to the other.

  ‘Feeling all right?’ asked the woman in the trench coat.

  Phyllis nodded and said that she was. ‘I just walked too far. That’s all.’

  The pain retreated, but her heart was pounding.

  Six people were still ahead of her, then five, then four, then three, then two. All that remained was a woman with two children, clinging to her coat, both demanding the crust from the end of the still warm loaf.

  ‘Leave it alone, you little brat! You too!’

  The sound of a slap across one face was followed by another. Both children burst into tears, one deciding to have a tantrum, throwing himself down on the floor, rolling around and kicking his legs in the air, screaming that he wanted a piece of bread.

  Phyllis sucked in her breath and felt the blood drain from her face. Another pain shot across her ribcage. Her head began to swim, her vision became blurred. Those in front of her were no longer people but blobs of colour and movement. The lovely smell of freshly baked bread became noxious, too sweet for her taste buds and too strong for her head. Even the smallest sounds seemed to pierce her eardrums, as the mixed smells of bread, human sweat, tired clothes all added to a feeling of excessive nausea.

  ‘Get ’er a chair,’ somebody shouted.

  The pain stabbed again and again, along with the feeling that her innards were too heavy for her body to hold inside. A great weight pushed down, her heart raced, thudding like a drumbeat against her ribcage. The blurring exploded, then became a fog of nothing as her legs crumpled, her head hit the floor and there was only darkness and pain.

  4

  Bridget and Maisie

  It was some days later when Bridget and Maisie found out about Phyllis losing the baby. The mother of one of their workmates, Sally Grey, had been standing in the queue when she’d been taken ill.

  ‘Lost it. Bound to ’ave,’ pronounced Sally with a sad shaking of her head.

  Maisie and Bridget exchanged worried looks.

  The first person they told was Aggie. ‘I’ll do a collection. We can buy the poor chick something nice to take her mind off things. Chocolates or some nice fruit if we can get hold of it.’

  They thanked Aggie before she marched off, ready to have her collection bag full of money before the bell went for lunch.

  ‘Poor Phyllis,’ whispered Bridget. ‘I wonder how she is?’

  ‘Still in hospital, I should think,’ said Sally. ‘You going to visit?’

  ‘You bet we are,’ Maisie said firmly. ‘We’ll phone at lunchtime.’

  Bridget agreed and was given the job of phoning the hospital and finding out how Phyllis was getting on.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You’ve got the posh voice,’ pronounced Maisie. ‘And I’ve got plenty of coppers in my purse we can use. Anyway, I get confused with that pressing button A, then button B. I tried it with Sid.’

  Sid was a mate of Bert, a workmate who had been sweet on Bridget, with whom Maisie was exchanging correspondence – when she felt like it. Their friendship had been fleeting – a couple of dates and the annual trip to the seaside, but when he’d been called up, she’d seen him off at the station and promised to write to him. She’d really meant to keep to her promise, but the truth was he wrote to her more often than she wrote to him. The last she’d heard; he’d been posted abroad. She resolved to write a letter.

  ‘Give you something else to think about,’ said Maisie.

  Bridget pulled a face but didn’t argue. She was still feeling a bit down since her siblings had been evacuated to South Molton in Devon. Sean had sent a postcard saying they were all fine and that he and Michael were billeted on a farm at the edge of the village. The two eldest girls, Katy and Ruby, had been taken in by the vicar and his wife. Molly and Mary, the youngest were with spinster sisters.

  Longer letters had come from the four girls shortly afterwards. The letter from the two eldest were in their own handwriting and own words. The letter from the two youngest seemed to have been written for them and it was difficult to read between the lines, to get a feel for how they were really getting on.

  In response to her mother’s anxiety, her father had provided the voice of reason. ‘Leave it for a month or so and then pay them a visit. There’s bound to be a pub there with rooms. We’ll do that, shall we?’

  ‘If there’s no bombing by then, I’m bringing them home,’ Mary Milligan had declared in one of her most down moments.

  Recognising he’d done no good, Patrick had retreated behind his newspaper.

  Bridget hated the emptiness of the house without her younger brothers and sisters around, but at least their letters or postcards plopped regularly through the letterbox.

  Letters from Lyndon O’Neill, the son of the plantation owner she’d met at the beginning of the war, were less frequent. She blamed the war. Everyone blamed the war for everything, but the lack of correspondence from Lyndon paled into insignificance on hearing that Phyllis had lost her baby.

  They’d attempted to visit Phyllis during the last few months, but had been unsuccessful. The tobacco girls weren’t welcome, Mrs Harvey telling them she was out or lying down.

  ‘In other words, we ain’t good enough for ‘er,’ Maisie had stated.

  Bridget had agreed. ‘But that doesn’t mean we’re abandoning Phyllis.’

  ‘She’s got ‘er mum.’

  ‘She needs her friends,’ Bridget declared. ‘She needs to see that we’re there for her.’

  Eating in the canteen, the only place where a really good main course and pudding was guaranteed, had to be pushed back until they’d phoned the hospital. Once the factory hooter sounded for lunch, they ran all the way, hoping and praying that the phone box was unoccupied. Of late it had become busier, thanks to girls phoning their beaus and mothers trying to get in touch with somebody – anybody – who might know whether their sons, husbands or brothers had survived the slaughter on the French beaches. Even being taken as a prisoner of war was preferable to being slain and gone forever.

  Breathless and thankful, they arrived at the empty telephone box, heaved open the metal door and fell inside. Maisie fingered pennies from her purse and placed them on the black metal shelf. Bridget took four or five, picked up the phone and dialled. It rang and she pressed the requisite button. The pennies clanged into the metal container and finally the call was answered.

  ‘Hello. I’m enquiring about Mrs Phyllis Harvey,’ Bridget said nervously. ‘She lost her baby and I was wondering how she was.’

  Even when they squeezed
tightly together, receiver pressed between them, it was hard for Maisie to hear what was being said. Frowning at Bridget, she shook her head and mouthed, ‘What?’

  Bridget shrugged helplessly. She didn’t like phones either.

  ‘We would like to visit her. Can you tell me visiting times please?’ she asked.

  Her face dropped when she heard the answer.

  ‘It’s relatives only,’ she hissed to an impatient Maisie.

  ‘Say we’re her sisters,’ urged Maisie.

  Bridget shook her head at Maisie and put down the phone.

  ‘Relatives only.’

  ‘You mean like Robert’s mother?’ Maisie pulled a face. ‘Phyllis needs friendly faces not that sour old puss. Can’t you ask them again?’

  ‘No.’ Bridget pushed open the door and waited until Maisie had poured her coppers back into her purse. ‘Come on. People are waiting.’

  In the short time they’d been in the telephone box, a small queue had formed. Few people had their own phone at home and in this war the public telephone box was in great demand.

  Maisie was thoughtful and uncharacteristically silent as they hurried back to the factory canteen, keen not to miss the best meal of the day.

  As usual, Maisie was full of what Bridget considered, hare-brained schemes. First she suggested pretending they were close cousins.

  Bridget shook her head. ‘I’m not sure we’ll get away with it. There are nurses and there’s a matron who is always a bit of a dragon. We’d be lucky to get past reception, let alone get to the ward.’

  Maisie frowned at Bridget. ‘How do you know that?’

  Bridget gave a lofty toss of her head. ‘Because I read about it in a book. The matron is always a dragon.’

  When they got back to the stripping room, there was a hubbub of noise and a fug of cigarette smoke.

  Aggie informed them that she’d collected over two pounds but was intent on making it three. ‘Five, if I twist a few arms,’ she laughed.

  Maisie was still thinking deeply as she threw the last of the leaves from the pile into the first basket. She’d become very quick at stripping leaves and had filled three that morning. Miss Cayford, the woman who had taken her on, came by and complimented her on the deftness of her fingers, then smiled at Bridget. ‘She’ll be as good as you before long, Miss Milligan.’

  As she began to fill the fourth basket, Maisie thought to herself that Bridget had read more books than anyone she knew, but she’d been reading a few herself of late. George, Aggie’s husband, kept some old tomes that had once belonged to his mother on a dusty old bookshelf. Old Mrs Hills, George’s mother, seemed to have had a preference for mysteries, crime and adventure. Maisie had read one where two young women had disguised themselves as sailors in order to get aboard a vessel they suspected of smuggling brandy. Nobody had suspected their true identities and the thrill of the story had stayed with her.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said brightly as a plan formed in her mind.

  Bridget eyed her warily. ‘I’m not sure I want to hear it.’

  ‘Of course you do. We’re Phyllis’s best friends!’

  Bridget groaned. ‘Nothing too hare-brained.’

  Unperturbed, Maisie carried on.

  ‘If we can’t get in as relatives, we could dress up as nurses. We’d look good as nurses. Nobody would suspect.’

  Bridget’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Course I am!’ She giggled and an impish look came to her dark brown eyes. ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘You bet I am. Mainly of what you’ll come up with next!’

  ‘Go on,’ said Maisie and dug her elbow in Bridget’s ribs. ‘I’m game if you are.’

  ‘Oh, Maisie,’ murmured Bridget, shaking her head. ‘You are crazy sometimes and that’s for sure.’

  ‘All we need are two nurses’ outfits. That shouldn’t be difficult, should it? We’re surrounded by uniforms. Everyone in the city is wearing uniforms. Nobody will take notice.’ She cocked her head and grinned mischievously. ‘How about asking your nurse friends upstairs in the medical unit?’

  Maisie knew the whole story of Bridget showing Lyndon O’Neill round the city and how it had all started with her lying on an examination couch in the medical unit when he’d come in with a group of VIPs. Cordelia and Rita, the two nurses present at the time, though Bridget didn’t know their names until afterwards, were very friendly and approachable. Even so…

  ‘I can’t believe you’re suggesting such a thing,’ said Bridget. ‘No. It’s impossible.’ She shook her head in utter consternation. Maisie and her crazy ideas!

  Maisie winked. ‘Come on, Bridget. Where’s your spirit of adventure? Go on up and see ’em now? Ask ’em if they can ’elp.’

  Bridget glanced tellingly at the wall mounted clock ticking away the seconds, minutes and hours of the day. ‘It’s gone four.’

  ‘So what? You aint’ got no need to rush ’ome, ave ya? Not with all the nippers evacuated.’

  It was a home truth that hit Bridget hard and weighed down her shoulders throughout the day. The house in Marksbury Road echoed with silence. Her parents both did their best to paste on a brave face and compensate by telling her all they’d done, but Maisie was right, there was nothing for her to rush home for and poor old Phyllis needed them, so it had to be worth it.

  When wearing their uniforms, Cordelia and Rita were as dedicated to their profession as anyone, but were up for some fun and when Bridget outlined their plan, they giggled with excitement and said they would do all they could to help.

  They arranged to meet down in the cellar where the two nurses had set up an ancillary medical unit for use when the bombing started – whenever that was likely to be. There had been a raid on the second of June, though thankfully confined to the aircraft factories in North Bristol, but perhaps a harbinger of what was to come.

  Everyone in the tobacco factory was putting in extra effort beyond the job they were paid for. Girls and women who’d opted to fire-watch spent their lunchtimes up on the roof and after work filling buckets with sand, manhandling stirrup pumps and attending talks about the basic pyrotechnics of an incendiary bomb.

  Besides hospital-type beds, the factory cellar, a vast affair with a low ceiling held up by rows of sturdy metal pillars, had been kitted out with metal bunk beds. There were tables, chairs, books and a gramophone complete with a pile of records.

  Maisie sifted through them looking for a title and singer she might recognise but her search proved fruitless. She frowned and read one out. ‘What’s Cavillera Rusticana?’

  ‘A piece of classic music,’ Bridget responded.

  ‘And this one. Dream of Olwen?’

  ‘Another classic,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Doctor Meredith thought classic music would be best,’ explained one of the nurses. ‘He said it was the kind of music that calms the savage breast.’

  Maisie giggled. ‘And there’s a lot of breasts in this place, though I don’t know whether they’re that savage.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Cordelia in svelte tones as warm as her looks. ‘I’ve got some dance music and so’s Rita. Now this is what you need.’

  Both nurses handed them a brown paper carrier bag each.

  Bridget peered inside. The apron and headdress were as white as the ones the two nurses were wearing, but the dresses were darker.

  On seeing their puzzlement, Cordelia explained. ‘They’re St John’s Ambulance uniforms. Doctor Meredith is commander in chief and we’re members too. He doesn’t have any nurse working in his department unless she’s a member of St John Ambulance. If you’re not one when you first start, you are by the time you leave.’

  Bridget suddenly got cold feet. Surely they would be found out. ‘But won’t they notice that our uniforms are different,’ she asked.

  Cordelia’s stiff headdress rustled like paper tissue when she shook her head. ‘No. St John’s Ambulance nurses are helping out. Even the WVS are helpi
ng out, pushing trolleys and wheelchairs and simple medical stuff. All hands to the pumps, as Churchill would say – if he was here, that is.’

  ‘And try not to ladder the stockings. Even black stockings are hard to come by,’ warned Rita.

  Although still a little reluctant, Bridget agreed to go with Maisie, who seemed very excited by the whole thing.

  5

  Bridget and Maisie

  It was just after seven when Bridget and Maisie, giggling but nervous, caught a tram to the hospital.

  Their black stockings were amazingly silky and both admitted to liking the feel of them beneath their starched dresses and aprons. Their headdresses, billowy white things and stiffly starched, were tucked into a couple of brown paper carrier bags. Bridget carried a third carrier bag containing a box of chocolates and a silk scarf in green and blue bought by Aggie with the money she had collected.

  Bridget had gasped on seeing it. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Maisie had been insightful. ‘Where did you get that? Must ’ave taken four months clothing ration.’

  Aggie had tapped the side of her nose. ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Black market,’ Maisie had whispered to Bridget, who had winced but made no comment.

  Their uniforms were hidden beneath their coats and although it was the first week of June and should be blessed with sunshine, it was raining and a cold wind was blowing.

  Bridget sensed Maisie’s nervousness matched her own. In the fading twilight, her attention was drawn to the dark silhouette of St Mary Redcliffe Church, a building rich with history and coupled with her own personal experience.

  What a wonderful day it had been, seeing Lyndon O’Neill dumbstruck at the sight of Admiral Penn’s tomb. He’d been further impressed when she’d confirmed that he was indeed the father of William Penn, a founding father of the United States.