Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  Once everyone had finished eating, Phyllis began collecting the dishes and taking them into the kitchen. Her heart was racing, her thoughts fixed on a future in a different place, unrestricted by anyone telling her what to do.

  Absorbed and somewhat excited, she washed some of the tea plates more than once and spent longer than usual wiping each item and putting it away. She had a lot of thinking to do and whatever was going to happen next scared her.

  Back in the living room, her mother-in-law sat knitting in one chair, her father-in-law reading his newspaper in the opposite chair. They were, she thought, like bookends, two of a kind, though, in actuality, they grated on each other. One was amiable whilst the other never saw the good in anyone – with the exception of her son.

  ‘I’m off then.’

  Hilda Harvey said nothing, but bent her head more stiffly over the ever clicking knitting needles.

  The last time Phyllis had seen her mother, it had been at the Harvey house. Their conversation had been stilted because Hilda had remained in the room, her beady eyes flickering from one to another, readily leaping on anything with which she disagreed and making comment where none was invited.

  Her mother had looked uncommonly well on that visit. Bright red lipstick and skilfully applied make-up, hair fashionably styled and instead of the more familiar comfortable shoes, she’d been wearing black suede court shoes, the heels far higher than she normally wore. After she’d left, Hilda had muttered something about mutton being dressed as lamb. Phyllis had ignored the remark.

  ‘I’ll be off now,’ she said again. It was difficult not to rush out of the house as fast as her court shoes could carry her.

  Hilda made one of her disapproving noises, no recognisable words, just a noise.

  Phyllis tried again. ‘I’m sure she’s looking forward to a bit of company. She’s all by herself nowadays without me there.’

  Hilda muttered and, although quietly spoken, Phyllis was sure she heard her say, ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Hilda Harvey stopped knitting and glared at her. Her lips pursed in a fierce pout, wrinkles sprouting like sunrays round her mouth. ‘Never mind your mother. What about Robert? What if he comes home? You should be here for him.’

  Phyllis slung a blue and green silk scarf into her handbag. It was bright and cheerful and Bridget had said it brought out the colour of her hair and her eyes. Robert hadn’t liked it, all the more reason for choosing it, she thought defiantly. ‘I’m only going to visit my mother,’ she said, her words carefully controlled through clenched teeth. ‘And let’s face it, there’s no chance of him walkin’ through the front door in the next hour or so, is there?’

  Hilda’s face turned a darker shade of puce. ‘Oh, you would like to think that, wouldn’t you, hussy that you are! Don’t think I don’t know why you married my son. You got yourself in the family way pretty quick in my opinion, and who’s to say that it was my Robert’s baby? I’ve come across girls like you before, any port in a storm! Taking advantage of a respectable young man…’ Hilda Harvey’s eyes blazed as she spluttered the last words.

  Phyllis blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’ She grabbed her cardigan and her handbag, her bright red hair falling forward to hide her guilt.

  Tom Harvey put down his paper. ‘Now, now, Hilda. Phyllis is right. That’s not a very nice thing to say.’

  His wife turned her malevolent glare on him. ‘That’s it, Tom Harvey. Take her part. You never take mine.’

  ‘Your comment’s unfounded, Hilda. Consider her feelings.’

  His attempt to calm things went unheeded.

  ‘How do you think I feel! And how’s our Robert going to feel. That’s you all over, thinking only of yourself.’

  Normally Phyllis’s father-in-law was cowed into submission, but today was an exception. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’ll come to the garden gate with you, Phyllis. I need to get out there anyway and see about deadheading the roses.’

  There was kindness in his voice, though his wife’s acid tongue was not yet stilled and she screamed after her.

  ‘It’s your fault you lost the baby. Be in no doubt I’ll tell him that. You just see if I don’t.’

  The words followed them out of the house like poison-tipped arrows.

  When they got to the front gate, Tom Harvey’s courage began to fail and he made excuses. ‘She’s upset about Robert.’ He shook his head. ‘She’ll never accept that he might be dead. And what with the baby…’ When he shrugged, Phyllis felt a great urge to reach out and pat his shoulder. ‘I just wish we heard one way or the other, though if he is dead…’ His voice trailed away and the moment of showing sympathy was gone. She didn’t want to hear the rest of what he’d been about to say, that if Robert failed to return, her mother-in-law would likely become more difficult than she was already. It served to make Phyllis even more determined to escape.

  ‘I won’t be late,’ she said before striding off down the road, though she wished she could stay out all night.

  Once away from the forbidding house and with tears stinging her eyes, she ran all the way to Marksbury Road and the house where she’d grown up. Before opening the garden gate, she stopped and wiped at her eyes. Despite everything, she wanted to look her best. She didn’t want pity, but she was in need of support. Her friends Maisie and Bridget were doing their best to sort something out for her. Much as she would prefer to live once again in her childhood home, there was the likelihood of being continually badgered by her mother-in-law. She had to consider all options.

  The tensions she lived with every day lessened as she walked up the garden path. A warm feeling replaced the chillness of the Harvey household. The privet hedge was still the same, the lilac was flowering in a flood of purple to one side of the path, its scent heavy on the air.

  Her intention was for this to be a short visit, long enough to share her plans for the future with her mother. A little time spent here, and then she was off to visit Bridget.

  She glanced at her wristwatch, a Christmas present from Robert some years back. It was a little before five. Give Bridget time to get home from work, she thought to herself.

  Thinking of Bridget being at work brought a pang of jealousy. Oh how she wished she was still at work too, that she’d never had ambitions to learn to type, then perhaps she would not have met Alan Stalybridge who had taught her to type before seducing her, fleeing to London and leaving her pregnant and with no option but to marry Robert as swiftly as possible. All in the past now. Forget it. The future beckoned and the first step was to visit her mother.

  It seemed strange to knock at the front door that she had known since childhood, but Robert had insisted there was no reason to retain a key. The possessive tone of his pronouncement echoed through her mind. ‘You’re my wife now. There’s no point in having a key to your mother’s house. Your home is with me.’

  Phyllis brushed the last of the wetness from her eyes and blew her nose before her mother opened the front door. She looked surprised to see her. Whilst pregnant, Hilda Harvey had discouraged her from visiting anyone – even her own mother. A whole list of the things women shouldn’t do shunted like a lumbering goods train through Phyllis’s mind.

  An expectant mother should not be seen outdoors once she begins to show.

  No woman should continue to work once she was married.

  And the latest in defiance of the powers that be, no woman, single or otherwise, should join the armed forces. Her mother-in-law was still leading the charge on that one, marching through Bedminster with banner held high, passing out leaflets and shouting slogans.

  ‘Hello, stranger. What are you doing here?’ her mother said.

  ‘I needed some fresh air and to talk to you. If you don’t mind that is,’ Phyllis asked, slightly surprised at the appearance of the woman standing before her. Her mother’s eyebrows were more finely arched than usual, obviously plucked into shape. Her lips were red and
she was wearing rouge.

  Slim shoulders shrugged and she smiled. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ Her tone was breezy enough but tinged with nervousness.

  A wave of nostalgia flooded over Phyllis as she entered the house where she’d grown up. Everything was much as it had always been; the flooring was still a mixture of green carpet and beige and brown linoleum vaguely resembling faded wooden blocks. The furniture was still brown Rexine, plain but serviceable, though the cushion covers seemed new. The wooden mantel clock struck the hour, a tinkling sound that served to enhance the feeling of having returned home.

  Her mother jumped at the sound and for a moment her gaze stayed fixed on the clock’s enamel face.

  ‘So how are you?’ her mother asked, dragging her eyes back from clock to daughter. She planted a peck on her cheek and hugged her.

  In the midst of her hug, Phyllis noticed the smell of face powder and a hint of perfume, items her mother had rarely worn.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Any news about Robert?’

  ‘I’m still getting his army pay. They haven’t issued a widow’s pension just yet.’

  ‘Oh well, where there’s hope…’

  Phyllis cringed. ‘It takes a little time to swap over. They told me two weeks.’

  Her mother jerked her chin in acknowledgement. ‘And how’s his mother?’

  Phyllis gritted her teeth. ‘She won’t accept that he’s dead.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s difficult to confirm…’ Her mother suddenly noticed her tears. ‘Oh darling. I’m so sorry.’

  Phyllis pulled out her handkerchief. Smears of mascara transferred onto its whiteness as she dabbed at her eyes. ‘I can stand that. It’s Hilda I can’t stand. I have to get out of there before she drives me totally mad.’

  ‘My poor girl!’

  Suddenly Phyllis felt like the little girl she used to be, safe in her mother’s arms no matter what had happened in the world outside.

  Her mother patted her back as an avalanche of tears ran down her face. ‘There, there,’ she said, her voice warm and moist against Phyllis’s ear. She straightened and smiled. ‘Now give your nose a good blow. I reckon you’re just about ready for a cup of tea.’

  Phyllis smiled through her tears but couldn’t accept that a cup of tea was the antidote to how she was feeling. She watched as water gushed from the kitchen tap into the kettle and a blue flame erupted from the gas stove once a match was applied to a burner.

  Phyllis drew up a chair to the kitchen table, which was covered in a patterned oilcloth in order not to mark the polished wood. She traced the pattern, the flowers spilling through green trelliswork, the red and white checked background.

  Back turned, her mother continued to warm the teapot, place cups and saucers onto a tray and milk into a jug.

  Phyllis’s eyes remained downcast. ‘The thing is, I don’t think Robert will be coming home. I think he’s dead.’

  ‘But you don’t know for sure,’ said her mother as she placed the tray on the table, her eyes flickering between the pot and the kettle, not once settling her gaze on her daughter.

  Phyllis shook her head. ‘I wish I did. His mother doesn’t believe he’s dead and no matter how much time passes, whether it’s five, ten or twenty years, I don’t think she’ll ever accept it. Robert’s father is worried that she might tip over the edge once we do know for sure, but in the meantime, he placates her.’

  ‘I see. And what about you. What are your intentions?’

  ‘I want to carry on living. I need to accept what’s happened and sort my life out.’

  She willed her mother’s eyes to meet hers, saw them flutter but continue to carry on with what she was doing.

  ‘There’s no sugar by the way,’ her mother said as she spooned tea into a brown glazed teapot, added boiling water then picked up a tablespoon and gave it a good stir. ‘Quite honestly I’m getting used to drinking tea without it and have lost a few pounds. It’s definitely possible to live without sugar in tea.’

  ‘You do look slimmer.’ Phyllis said as she followed her mother who carried the tray through to the living room. She had noticed that she was wearing a black dress with a roll-neck collar, a sparkling brooch pinned at the shoulder. She looked far more elegant than Phyllis could ever remember, the change enhanced by lipstick, powder and eye make-up, even at this time of day. She’d never known her do that; indeed, she’d condemned Phyllis for wearing make-up and making herself look too dressy. Phyllis thought of how in the past her copper-coloured hair, which was only a little less bright than Phyllis’s own, had been hidden beneath a tartan scarf. Not so now, today it was swept up in one of the latest styles.

  A sudden realisation struck; her mother had managed very well without her, even happily by the looks of it. Better than me, she thought. That morning she’d looked in the mirror and saw herself looking strained and unhappy. So much had happened and she badly wanted to turn the clock back and have everything as it once was.

  Her mother jerked her chin high and her head higher. Phyllis sensed some kind of decision had been reached.

  ‘I’m glad you came round. We weren’t able to ’ave much of a conversation with your mother-in-law listening.’

  ‘There’s no privacy that’s for sure.’

  Her mother’s expression was unreadable as she poured out the tea. She bit nervously at her bottom lip. It was as if she was holding something back, something that she was finding difficulty putting into words.

  A sip of tea accompanied by one eyebrow was creased in a questioning manner.

  ‘How come you’re speaking different?’

  Phyllis jerked her head up in surprise. Inside, she felt secretly pleased that her mother had noticed but did feel a little embarrassed admitting what she’d done. ‘I borrowed a book on elocution from the library. There’s not much else to do at the Harveys’ except unpick old jumpers and hold up my hands whilst Hilda winds wool into skeins and then balls.’

  She took another sip of her tea, aware that her mother was still looking at her, a pleasant smile on her face.

  ‘You sound really posh. I’ve always wanted you to be posh. I thought that by marrying Robert that you would become posh. Oh well…’ Her expression soured before she smiled and said, ‘I’m sad about Robert. It must be difficult for you. I must say, I wouldn’t want to live under the same roof as his mother.’

  ‘It isn’t easy.’

  ‘And what now?’ Her mother returned her cup to the saucer with an air of finality, her eyes finally meeting Phyllis’s.

  Phyllis also returned her cup to the saucer and heaved her shoulders in a deep breath. ‘I’m going to move out and get a job.’

  ‘Really? Well, going back to Wills’s shouldn’t be a problem, but where will you live?’

  There was something oddly brittle in her mother’s voice that was totally unexpected.

  ‘I did think about coming back here.’

  Her mother’s eyes were downcast. ‘I’m not sure about that. This is the first place Mrs Harvey will look for you.’

  Phyllis nodded. ‘I know.’ She felt unnerved and fancied that although her mother expressed sympathy there was some other reason for her hesitance. ‘You’re quite right,’ said Phyllis. ‘I can’t go back to Wills’s for the same reason. I don’t want her turning up there and shouting the odds.’

  ‘Fancy another cuppa?’

  Phyllis nodded. ‘Yes.’ She watched as her teacup was refilled, the brew far weaker than it had been before the outbreak of war, the tea leaves used more than once. Her mother, like everyone else, was being careful.

  ‘Is there anything lined up on the job front?’

  ‘I’m making enquiries. I’m sure something will turn up,’ she declared as positively as she knew how. The fact was she needed help from her friends and hoped they would come up with something.

  Her mother lit up a cigarette and offered one to Phyllis. She
took one purely because smoking was a substitute for words.

  ‘Well! Sounds as though you’ve got everything in hand.’

  Phyllis nodded, flicked ash into an ashtray. ‘Bridget has promised to make enquiries. I’ll find something, and even if I don’t, well, I can always join up, can’t I?’

  ‘I never thought you’d consider that.’

  Phyllis waited for her mother to suggest something else. The cigarette went to her mother’s mouth, out again. Another puff, more smoke, lips pursed, slack, then pursed again. There was something nervous about her smoking, as though she had something to say but hadn’t quite made up her mind what it was.

  It wasn’t often the two of them sat quietly and thoughtfully like this, but it did give Phyllis chance to study her mother more closely. Something was going on here that she didn’t quite understand. Never had Stella Mason looked so glamorous. Wearing make-up and high-heeled shoes went against everything she’d railed against. And now, here she was, looking like the woman she’d not wanted her daughter to be.

  There came the sudden sound of a fingernail tapping nervously at the bone china teacup – one of the best ones usually kept for special occasions. Each fingernail was painted bright red. When had her mother begun painting her fingernails? What had happened to change her?

  Dragging her gaze away, Phyllis forced the truth from her mouth, all the pent-up anxiety now coming out in the open. ‘If I’m not widowed and he does come home, I want a divorce, in which case I can then move back in with you, Mum. Then it’s nothing more to do with my mother-in-law. She can’t stop me from doing anything,’ she proclaimed defiantly.

  Lashes caked with mascara brushed her mother’s flushed cheeks and for a moment she seemed loath to look up.

  ‘The truth is… I’ve got news of my own to tell you.’ A deep sigh sent her mother’s breasts heaving against the black dress and above the cinched-in waist. She inhaled the half-smoked cigarette. The truth poured out with the smoke. ‘I’m getting married.’