by Lizzie Lane
Maisie agreed with her. ‘Plus Hilda will be round knocking on the door and demanding she comes back and waits for Robert.’
‘Exactly. Even coming back here to work could be difficult. Phyllis needs to get away until Mrs Harvey has accepted that her son is never going to come home – well – not unless he’s just lost.’
‘So poor old Phyllis needs our help,’ said Maisie, then glanced up at the hands of the clock hanging on the canteen wall. Smoke from a hundred cigarettes was still rising, tea was still being drunk and food scraped greedily from plates. A number of women made the canteen lunch their main meal of the day, preferring to feed their families on an evening and go without themselves.
Intending to mull over what could be done to help, Bridget picked up her handbag. ‘I’ve got to pick up tonight’s dinner. How about you come with me and we can chat about it without anyone else around?’
Maisie gulped back the last of her suet pudding, custard and jam and almost choked. ‘All in a good cause,’ she remarked.
Like Bridget, she was missing Phyllis’s bubbling personality and could imagine what it must be like living with the Harvey family. She herself couldn’t have stood it, so if there was anything she could do to help, she would do it.
After stacking their dishes onto a trolley, they headed for the cloakroom to relieve themselves before the arduous duty of standing in the queue with ration book in hand.
‘Barely time to pull me knickers up,’ said Maisie.
In order that they wouldn’t be late back to work, they ran along East Street and crossed the road, past the National Provincial Bank and joined a crocodile of women all waiting in the queue for whatever the butcher might have.
During peacetime, Bert Stanley, the pork butcher, had a blue neon light flashing in his window depicting a laughing pig. Since the outbreak of war, it was no longer blue or flashing thanks to the blackout and the drive to save energy. Less smoke from your chimney, less coal being wasted.
Breathless and pink-faced, they came to a standstill. Both of them scrutinised the length of the queue and assessed the likelihood of them being late back at work. They decided they could just about do it.
Maisie took off her turban and let her hair bounce free. It was still as curly as when she was younger but longer now and lying silkily on her shoulders. She wiped the scarf across the nape of her neck and took a deep breath.
A contingent of British Urban Mothers suddenly appeared carrying a banner held aloft, which read:
BRITISH URBAN MOTHERS ARE NOT SOLDIERS
Hilda Harvey was marching along at their head, and they were singing a familiar tune, the words changed to fit in with the creed they were attempting to establish.
Bridget and Maisie stared at the heavy-footed women with their tweed suits and feathered hats until they were out of sight.
Other women in the queue called them traitors.
‘Reminds me of Moseley’s Blackshirts,’ said one of them. ‘Should be locked up.’
Maisie shook her head. ‘Poor Phyllis. I wouldn’t swap places with ’er for all the tea in China. Who does Hilda Harvey think she is, telling women they’ve no right putting on a uniform? I think Churchill might ’ave something to say about that. The woman’s mad.’
‘And enough to drive anyone she lives with mad,’ stated Bridget. ‘I really think that if Phyllis doesn’t escape her clutches soon, she’ll go mad herself.’
In an odd way, Phyllis’s dreary lifestyle reminded Maisie of her days growing up in York Street and her stomach tightened. Neglect had been the order of the day which wasn’t so with Phyllis. Phyllis was like a puppet having no movement of her own but Hilda Harvey pulling the strings.
‘You’re right. We have to help her.’
Bridget felt a sense of relief that she was no longer the only one privy to Phyllis’s plans. She sighed. ‘Seems such a shame though.’
Maisie eyed Bridget’s profile, the classic nose, the arched eyebrows, the pink perfectly formed lips and all presented without a trace of make-up. She had a serene beauty, a clear but gentle voice. Nothing was too much trouble and she seemed to love everybody and would do anything for anyone. The one thing Maisie couldn’t quite understand was why she didn’t have a regular boyfriend. She excused herself not having one because she was that much younger than Bridget. Phyllis had ribbed Bridget about not going out on many dates, though she had back-pedalled a bit when Lyndon O’Neill had come along. Even she had been taken aback at Bridget’s sudden enthusiasm for a man who lived so far away.
‘How about if Phyllis joins up,’ Maisie said with wide-eyed enthusiasm and gurgling laughter. ‘That really would set the cat among the pigeons. We both know how the old witch feels about women in uniform.’
‘It’s an option in the long term, but for now she needs to sort herself out. She wants somewhere to stay and work.’
Maisie flipped her shoulders in a casual manner. ‘A job shouldn’t be a problem. Wills’s would take ’er back like a shot.’
Bridget shook her head as they took another few shuffling steps forward in the queue. ‘She won’t come back into the factory. She needs to get as far away from Hilda Harvey as possible. I did think she might be able to get a job at Edwards and Ringers, but then thought Hilda might trace her there. You know… once working in a tobacco factory, still working in a tobacco factory.’
Maisie narrowed her eyes as she considered the possibilities. Phyllis had made a very big mistake and had paid for it. She deserved to be helped and Maisie was willing to do that. Bridget and Phyllis had befriended her when she’d first begun working at the tobacco factory. They’d been very kind and drew her into their little group without a moment’s hesitation. She’d loved being one of the Three Ms, but now it was only the two of them, her and Bridget. Phyllis had left a surprisingly big gap.
She frowned and began to chew at an escaped strand of hair. ‘Out of the area, out of the tobacco industry. Shame she can’t find a place in an office – that’s what she wanted to do,’ mused Maisie.
Bridget sighed and shook her head. ‘I think anything would do for now. I’ve had a few ideas. She could go into service at some country house or something, but an employer would ask for references, and letters would be going backwards and forwards. At present, she’s still registered for rations and suchlike at her in-laws’ address.’
‘And her mother-in-law would intercept her letters,’ said Maisie with outright certainty.
Bridget nodded sadly.
Maisie shoved her hands into her overall pockets. ‘It ain’t ’ard to weigh up that old cow.’ She looked up suddenly, eyeing the queue in front of them that seemed to be slow moving forward and that worried her. She didn’t like being late for anything, and certainly not arriving late back at work. ‘When do you reckon we’ll get to be served?’
Bridget eyed the women in front of them, some still with their curlers in, some without teeth and small children clinging to their sides. One of them looked pregnant and fit to drop at any minute – she hoped it wouldn’t be any time imminent. All the women looked tired, ground down already with too much work and too much queuing. She felt sorry for those wearing shabby coats and wrinkled stockings, but for all their careworn expressions and worn-out clothes, they stood as guardians at the head of the queue, throwing dirty looks if anyone dared push their way forward. ‘Not long. Anyway, my mother ordered hers first thing this morning when she heard the pig boat had come in from Ireland, dashed along at an ungodly hour and ordered three pigs’ tails.’
‘Do you like them?’ asked Maisie, surprised that anyone did.
‘They’re a bit greasy. I think my mother was forgetting that the kids are down in North Devon. She reckons that pigs’ tails grease their insides so they grow that much quicker. I prefer pork bones. No greasy skin on those.’
Maisie jumped at the mention of pigs’ tails, bones and greasy skin. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said suddenly just as they reached the counter.
Bridget got out
the family ration book, opened it flat and offered it to the butcher.
Recognising her as Mary Milligan’s daughter, Bert Stanley leaned forward, held his hand across his mouth and whispered to Bridget, ‘Tell yer mum that I’ve got some liver, lights and caul out back if she fancies making some faggots.’
Bridget had long surmised that Bert rather liked her mother, his wide smile exposing broken teeth the moment she came into the shop.
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Bridget.
‘All right is she? Not ill or anything?’
‘No,’ Bridget replied. ‘She’s got a lot of writing to do. My younger brothers and sisters have been evacuated.’
‘Ah!’ he said, tossing his head as though he understood completely. ‘You look just like ’er,’ he added.
Bridget avoided meeting the twinkle in his eyes, enough to confirm that he really did have a thing about her mother.
Maisie was getting fidgety. ‘Can you ’urry up? We can’t afford to be late getting back to work. Our money will get docked, so if you please, mate…’
Taken aback by her outright comment, Bert threw her a disparaging look. ‘Right you are,’ he said, clenching his jaw.
The pigs’ tails were wrapped up in white paper and placed into a brown paper carrier bag. The tails were regarded as offal so off ration, but there was also a shoulder of lamb – enough to make three meals.
Bridget paid up and headed out, wanting to laugh at Bert’s face in response to Maisie’s cheek, but holding it in until they were outside.
‘Well, that was telling him,’ said Bridget, laughter bubbling up with her words.
‘Needed a bit of a gee up,’ pronounced Maisie.
‘He likes my mum,’ said Bridget.
‘Oh.’ Maisie understood. She’d only met Bridget’s mum briefly, though long enough to see she was a good-looking woman and that Bridget very much resembled her.
They strode quickly, the string of the carrier bag cutting into her hand, Bridget asked Maisie what was this idea she had in mind.
Maisie dug her hands into the pockets of her overall and tossed her head, causing a couple of bluish black curls to escape from under her turban.
The big black hands on the huge clock hanging above the factory entrance juddered to the next Roman numeral. They didn’t have much time, so they quickened their steps.
Bridget turned to her. ‘Well?’
Maisie took a deep breath. ‘Firstly, she don’t want Mrs Harvey to know where she is. Secondly, she don’t want any employer asking too many questions…’
‘As few as possible,’ Bridget corrected. ‘And it has to be quick. She needs to go to whatever place is hiring and start the job right away – if that’s possible.’
‘Course it’s possible!’ Maisie looked so pleased with herself that she smiled at everyone as they trotted along to the cloakroom. Then she turned back to Bridget. ‘Ain’t gonna leave that meat ’ere are you?’
‘Bet your life I’m not! Although it’s not prime beef, it’ll be gone if I don’t take care of it.’
Maisie knew this was so. Rationing was beginning to bite and just a few ounces of meat per person per week were hardly enough to fill some people’s gullets, let alone their stomach. The black market was beginning to flourish and so was thieving – even at W. D. &. H. O. Wills. Warnings had been given. Anyone caught would lose their job and was likely to be prosecuted. Following a few light-fingered occurrences, everyone now took their shopping back to their workstation and shoved it under the table. Even the most basic of offal had become a precious commodity.
‘So what is it you’ve got in mind,’ an intrigued Bridget asked Maisie.
‘Soap factory. There’s better conditions in the munitions factories, so even though soap production is down, they are in need of workers.’
Soap was becoming as precious as pearls, but Bridget had to admit to some surprise. ‘It’s not the best of places.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. Anyway, Hilda Harvey wouldn’t think of finding her there.’ Maisie’s quick mind had moved on. ‘We needs to find ’er somewhere to live. There’s a chance of a room at my old place in York Street.’
Bridget was hesitant. She knew enough of Maisie’s family to fear complications. ‘What about your father?’
Maisie winced and her jaw tightened. ‘He’s out of prison but not back there; daren’t go back there. Too scared of Eddie Bridgeman tracking ’im down. A widow with a grown son away fighting is renting it. No doubt she could do with a bit of extra rent.’
Bridget’s face lit up. ‘Maisie Miles, you’re a genius.’
‘I think so too,’ said Maisie, giving a haughty toss of her head.
That morning after Bridget had left for work, Mary Milligan picked the letter up from the doormat and knew it was from him. A letter had arrived in June which Bridget had been privy too and here was another in July. He was sending one a month.
Mary frowned at the letter. It was noticeable that Bridget no longer loitered by the front door waiting for the postman. Neither had she expressed hope that her American boyfriend would write to her again so soon. It seemed as though her obsession with the young man was at long last over.
‘You could be right, Patrick. She’s lost interest. I certainly hope she has.’
Patrick patted his wife’s shoulder. ‘There you are then. Keep it in case she asks. We don’t know what that last letter said. Seems to me it could have said something that disappointed her.’
‘You could have asked her, Patrick. She opens up to you.’
He shook his head. ‘Some things are best left private.’
They loved all their children and only wanted the best for every one of them. At times, Patrick thought that his eldest daughter was spending too much time at home looking after her mother and her siblings.
‘You need to go out more. Fine yourself a young man,’ he’d said to her, but his recommendation had resulted in nothing more than a weak and quite secretive smile.
Bridget’s mother did as he asked, placing the letter in the box she kept for official things like her children’s birth certificates, her marriage certificates and insurance policies.
This morning of all mornings something much more important had arrived that made her heart leap with happiness. With the assistance of the evacuation committee, they were to visit their children in South Molton. Train tickets had been booked for all three of them for she’d insisted that her oldest daughter would not be left out.
Lyndon O’Neill gritted his teeth. His mother had invited Gilda for one of her afternoon tea parties – though champagne was also on offer along with strawberries and cream and cakes bursting with cream. Britain might be suffering severe food rationing, but the USA certainly was not.
He headed for a neglected gazebo away from the textured lawns where unpruned roses had been allowed to run wild. He needed to think.
The smell of woodsmoke came from the other side of the red brick wall where the gardener grew luscious soft fruits, as sweet and juicy as could be. A blackbird sang in the branches of an apple tree that dipped over the wall. It was the only sound, the only living thing around.
‘Darling.’
The blackbird stopped singing. Gilda had arrived. She was wearing a white linen dress that ran to creases across her flat stomach. Her hair was controlled with a red spotted band.
‘Are you hiding from me?’ she said to him whilst sliding her arm through his. Her bright red lips smiled up at him and her ice blue eyes fixed on his.
‘The garden party was crowding me.’
‘Me too, darling.’
He tensed as her lips brushed his face.
‘And now it’s just the two of us.’ Her voice was husky and her body was too close. ‘There’s no one around.’ She pressed her body against him. ‘You know I’m a very modern girl. What I mean is, we don’t need to wait until we’re married. We can do it right here and now. There’s nobody back here, is there?’
He stiffened – mo
re so when her hand glided downwards – a natural reaction of course, but not one he had any intention of getting out of hand. He grabbed her hand, pushed her away. Disappointment on her face then a pouting of lips.
‘Darling. I never took you for being shy.’
His jaw tightened. ‘I’m not interested, Gilda. Our parents have got it all wrong. You’ve got it all wrong.’
The corners of her lips turned downwards and the hard look in her eyes turned to anger. Men NEVER turned her down. She wasn’t used to it.
The pretty smile and bubbling laughter that was so much part of her persona was nowhere to be seen. There was now an ugliness to her face that Lyndon perceived as the real Gilda, the other one just being for show, no different than putting on a fresh dress or applying lipstick to cracked lips.
‘Don’t you like girls, Lyndon? Is that it? Prefer all boys together, do you?’
He shook his head. His laugh was one of disbelief.
‘You haven’t changed a bit, Gilda. Still spoilt and thinking you can have anything you want, getting angry if you can’t. Well you can’t have me, Gilda, and you’re not having me.’
With that, he once again thrust away the hands that reached for him, turned, stalked off and vowed to get as far away from family and country as possible.
14
Phyllis
It was late afternoon when Phyllis dared to tell Hilda Harvey where she was going – or at least the bit about visiting her mother.
Hilda fixed her with a disbelieving stare. ‘Are you sure that’s as far as you’re going? Wouldn’t be calling in on that common Irish girl whilst you’re at it?’
Phyllis boiled inside. She fully accepted that Hilda was snobby, but there was no excuse for her being nasty. However, she held her temper.
‘Of course not. I haven’t seen my mother for such a long time.’
Although Hilda grunted acceptance, Phyllis couldn’t help feeling nervous. She wouldn’t put it past her to come marching out behind her, complete with her stiff hat, stiff face and stupid banner.