Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  Phyllis’s jaw dropped. The smart dress, the make-up and the modern hairstyle suddenly all made sense. If Phyllis had ever been the centre of her mother’s world, she certainly wasn’t now. All this had been done for a man.

  Her throat felt tight but she managed to ask the pertinent question. ‘Who are you marrying?’

  ‘Well…’ That fluttering of lashes again like a young girl admitting she’d fallen in love for the first time ever. ‘He’s a Canadian. You recall meeting your cousin, my nephew?’

  Phyllis uttered a faintly discernible response. Yes, she did.

  ‘Well, it’s his commanding officer. The darling boy took his dear old aunt…’ she laughed at her little joke. She certainly didn’t look like anyone’s aunt. ‘He introduced us and, well, from there on… we kind of clicked.’

  Stunned by the unexpected revelation, Phyllis woke up to the fact that this woman was not just her mother, but a curvaceous woman who men found attractive. ‘I didn’t know you were lonely.’

  Dimples appeared in the pinkness of her mother’s cheeks. ‘Neither did I until I met Matt. Matthew Horsley. Colonel Matthew Horsley.’

  Phyllis took a deep breath before asking when the wedding would take place.

  ‘Some time in the New Year,’ said her mother. ‘You will be invited of course. Let me know your new address as soon as you have one.’

  Phyllis’s gaze and mind wandered. Going home had only been a small hope, what with Hilda being so close at hand. But that particular door had now been well and truly closed.

  ‘Is he a widower?’ In Phyllis’s opinion, the best husband for her widowed mother had to be a widower, someone of similar experience.

  Her mother adopted a shifty look, her sparkling earrings catching the light as she turned to face the window, fingers tightly laced as though she were holding something she couldn’t afford to drop. ‘Actually, he’s divorced.’

  ‘I see. And kids? Has he got kids?’

  ‘A son and a daughter. Both grown up.’

  When Phyllis clenched her jaw, her mother noticed. Her face reddened.

  ‘And you can take that look off yer face. I am not making a fool of myself!’

  ‘Being divorced isn’t the same as being widowed.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit condescending of you. Anyway, I’m old enough to know my own mind!’ An angrier pink coloured her mother’s cheeks.

  Phyllis pursed her lips as an old saying she dare not voice came to mind. There’s no fool like an old fool. She held back. Many women over forty were certainly past their best. Her mother wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Where will you live?’

  ‘Here until he gets stationed elsewhere. He’s local at the moment, but if he does get posted, I’ll get a place close to him, so, you see, you can’t stay here. It wouldn’t be for the long term, and anyway, I wouldn’t want Hilda charging round here and shouting the odds – especially once she knows I’ve got a fancy man that stays here on occasion. The old cow wouldn’t hesitate reporting me to the council for subletting, or worse still calling me a whore or accusing me of running a… a… house of ill repute,’ she said at last.

  Phyllis had to admit that she was right, but her mother’s revelation about getting married had come as a shock.

  They sat silently with their own thoughts, the tea tray and two cold cups of tea between them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ her mother said at last. ‘It must be a shock to you, but there you are. I’ve got my life and you’ve got yours.’

  Phyllis noticed the tears shimmering at the outer edges of her mother’s eyes.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said, throwing her arms round her. ‘You’re right. Of course you have. Be happy, Mum. Be very happy.’

  15

  Bridget

  Bridget’s parents had been told at the very beginning when the children had been evacuated that visiting rights were encouraged though somewhat limited thanks to travel difficulties. Servicemen had priority over civilian passengers so parents like the Milligans were asked for their forbearance.

  The invitation and travel passes were therefore greeted with great excitement.

  ‘A whole week,’ squealed Bridget’s mother, then burst into tears.

  There was both excitement and envy when Bridget broke the news to Maisie and the other girls in the stripping room.

  ‘Lucky cow!’

  ‘Take me in yer suitcase.’

  ‘We could all do with a week in the country – and in August!’

  After the headaches and worry about Phyllis and her own disappointment on not hearing from Lyndon, Bridget too found herself looking forward to getting away.

  ‘I feel a bit guilty leaving Phyllis at this moment in time,’ she said, wistfully pushing aside the remains of the scone and jam she’d chosen at tea break that morning.

  ‘Never you mind. I’ll take care of her,’ said Maisie. Her gaze settled on the untouched half of Bridget’s scone. ‘Might need to keep me strength up though.’

  Bridget pushed the plate across. ‘You have it. I’ll have the holiday.’

  It was August, hot and sunny, the train steaming through fields of ripening corn and wheat, fully leafed trees nodding at a cloudless summer sky.

  They had to catch two trains to their destination and, when finally arriving, found a small black Ford saloon was waiting to collect them.

  ‘Blimey. Gonna get us all in that little thing?’ murmured her father.

  Bridget might have laughed out loud if it hadn’t been for the memory it invoked of the chauffeur-driven Bentley Lyndon O’Neill had picked her up in when she’d shown him round Bristol.

  ‘Suitcases and all?’ Patrick said incredulously to the driver.

  ‘I’ll tie ’em on top,’ returned the man.

  ‘Hope I can get my leg in,’ said Bridget’s father, eyeing the small car. ‘It won’t bend, you see.’ He tapped it so the driver was in no doubt that it was not flesh and blood.

  ‘Get in the back with yer Missus and stick it across.’

  The solution was delivered in a blunt though kindly manner. Countrymen, Bridget surmised, were pragmatic, adept at overcoming obstacles, no matter what they were.

  The sound of rumbling came from the car roof once they left the smooth surface of the road and were trundling down a rutted track.

  The Milligans listened, exchanged ho-hum sort of looks and hoped for the best, firstly that the luggage would still be there on arrival, and secondly that Winter’s Leap would live up to Sean and Michael’s description.

  The track eventually widened and joined a narrow lane that was straight for a time. When it finally turned a bend, there was the house named Winter’s Leap.

  ‘Bit more than a farmhouse,’ remarked Bridget in breathless admiration as she leaned forward in the little cramped car to get a better view.

  Bridget felt mounting excitement. This was the first time in her life she had ever been on holiday. Summer holidays for such a large family meant a day at Weston-super-Mare, Portishead or Clevedon on the summer excursions laid on by the Great Western Railway from Bristol Temple Meads. But this!

  ‘Quite a place,’ declared Bridget’s father, head tilted back as he took in the weathered stone portico, the mullioned windows and what was left of aged gargoyles long distorted by time and weather.

  Bridget’s mother agreed and Bridget found herself holding her breath. It was a stunning place even though the cowshed and other farm buildings were not too distant, their smell hanging in the air.

  ‘It’s all gettin’ on a bit,’ said their driver as he unloaded their luggage.

  ‘It’s Elizabethan,’ Bridget said at last on seeing the date of 1549 carved above the door.

  Her remark emboldened their driver. ‘See them windows?’ He pointed to row upon row of tiny panes glittering like diamonds in the dying rays of the setting sun. ‘Pretty ain’t they,’ he added.

  Bridget detected pride in his voice.

  ‘Do you live here?’ she asked.

&n
bsp; He laughed and pushed his battered hat further back onto his head. ‘Bugger me, no!’ He instantly apologised. ‘’Scuse me language, ladies.’ He tapped the brim of his hat in a respectful manner. ‘Name’s Charlie Bond. I only works ’ere I do. I lives in one of the cottages over t’other side of the field thereabouts.’ He waved his arm vaguely to some place beyond a stone wall on the other side of which was a pile of steaming manure. ‘Oh,’ he said suddenly, pointing elsewhere. ‘That’s the boss,’ he said, lowering his voice, then louder, ‘I got ’em, Mr Cottrell. ’Ere they are.’

  His pronouncement was directed to a rangy man who took big strides across the yard, wielding a long stick over the backs of a dozen or so cows before coming through a five-bar gate. Leather gaiters were buckled round his lower legs and his shirtsleeves were folded up, exposing black-haired arms and hands the size of shovels. His feet were caked with mud and the brim of a hat, equally as battered as that of Charlie Bond, hung low over his eyes.

  ‘Cows are ready and heavy to give. Get to it, Charlie.’

  Without so much as a wave, Charlie was gone. The Milligans were left standing, their luggage on the hard ground in front of them.

  He offered his hand to Patrick. ‘Us and the vicar are members of the evacuation committee. Everybody’s got to help out in these difficult times.’

  ‘We can’t thank you enough for having us stay here a whole week. It’s much appreciated, Mr Cottrell,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Those of us who can accommodate people should do so,’ returned Mr Cottrell and nodded at the house. ‘It’s certainly big enough. And call me Archie.’

  Patrick Milligan went on to introduce Mary Milligan and then Bridget.

  ‘Don’t be surprised if you catch my daughter staring up at this old place and snooping into a few corners. She’s keen on history. Always has been.’

  ‘She’s welcome to have a look round. It’s good to see some interest in the old place.’

  Like the house, Archie Cottrell looked as though he’d been here forever and, due to the colour of his clothes, built of the same solid grey stone. What struck Bridget most was that he was well spoken when she’d fully expected him to have the same accent as Charlie.

  ‘The boys are on their way back,’ he pronounced.

  He didn’t say from where and nobody asked. Mary Milligan’s face lit up like an electric light bulb.

  ‘Oh Patrick,’ she said. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing them.’

  Bridget’s father returned her happy smile. ‘It’ll be grand! Really grand.’

  Archie jerked his head towards the house, a signal for them to follow him. ‘My wife’s readied the rooms. Tea, cakes and sandwiches have been laid on. We thought you’d be hungry after your journey. And just to let you know, your youngest two are coming to live here.’

  Mary Milligan grabbed her husband’s arm and looked up at him in alarm.

  ‘No need for you to concern yourself. Just matters arising. That’s all.’

  With perfect timing, a figure beckoned them from the doorway, one hand resting on one of the stone pillars holding up the canopy.

  Archie jerked his chin in that direction. ‘My wife. Rose.’

  ‘Get yerselves in ’ere. Tea’s brewing and you’ll be wanting to get yourselves settled.’ Although meant as a welcome, it sounded more like an order. Unlike her husband, Mrs Cottrell’s accent was exactly as expected from a Somerset farmer’s wife. ‘I’ll take that, me girl.’ Without giving Bridget’s mother time to protest, her suitcase, which had been weighing her down, was taken from her hand.

  There was nothing fragile about Mrs Cottrell. Her look was forthright and her movements swift as she took them up the stairs, the suitcase carried as though it was light as a feather.

  Mrs Cottrell pushed open a door and addressed Bridget’s parents. ‘This room’s yours.’

  Bridget was as taken aback as her parents by the size of their bedroom and the four-poster bed with thick curtains. A large bay window, its glass set in leaden diamonds, looked out over the front yard, the barns and fields beyond.

  ‘My youngest girls! They are all right, aren’t they?’ Her face was filled with alarm.

  Rose Cottrell was kindly but firm and her joviality was undiminished. ‘No need to worry. It was decided they’d be better ’ere than with the sisters. We’ll explain it all later. Now then, bath and lavatory is at the end of the landing.’

  Mrs Cottrell turned to Bridget and, in a very businesslike manner, ordered her to follow up a set of winding stairs.

  At the top, she found herself in a room full of sunshine nestled beneath the eaves. From the dormer window, she found herself looking down into a walled garden which she surmised was at the back of the house. Beyond that, she espied what seemed at first like flashes of lightning, though on reflection that seemed impossible. The day was fine, not a cloud in the sky. On leaning further into the window, she saw another flash and knew it was the result of sunlight bouncing off the glass roof of a large greenhouse.

  Mrs Cottrell told her that she’d have to use the same bathroom as her parents. ‘There’s no bathroom up yer, but two bathrooms on the next one down. Your family got one and mine the other. Unpack and come on down when you’re ready. You must be starving after your journey.’

  Without waiting for any thanks, the door closed in a decisive and no-nonsense way just like Mrs Cottrell herself.

  Bridget looked round the room in breathless delight. It was a beautiful room, the walls dappled with sunlight. Every so often, she perceived a flitting shadow and worked out that it was a bird flying backwards and forwards from the eaves.

  Her stomach growled with hunger and she was looking forward to something to eat and drink. Unpacking wouldn’t take long. Not wishing to be overburdened on such a long train journey, she’d packed only the barest essentials.

  Once it was done, she knelt on the window seat, pushed open the lattice window and took a big breath of fresh air. It tasted as sweet as water. From some distance off, she heard the sound of a tractor, from the front of the house that of cows lowing in the milking shed. Away from the farmyard, the smell was of ripe corn and earth warmed by the sun, and the leaves of fresh vegetables gently baking to deep green. To that was added the perfume of roses, sweet peas and wildflowers. She drank it all in as her eyes detected the colours of the countryside. Everything seemed so much brighter and she wondered if her brain was only fooled into thinking colours here were more vibrant than in the city.

  A sudden movement down in the walled garden caught her attention, as did the smell of tobacco smoke from a lit cigarette. She sat herself on the window seat, stretched her neck and located dark blue amongst the multitudes of green.

  A man was leaning against the warm bricks of the wall and wore an RAF uniform. His attention did not seem particularly focused on anything, perhaps the fruit bushes, perhaps the beds of regimented vegetables. He was rangy, like Mr Cottrell. Father and son, she decided and kept staring, watching this figure that seemed in a world of his own.

  Perhaps it was pollen, or perhaps the old air of the house, but something tickled her nose and she sneezed.

  He heard her and looked up to her window, instantly seeming to know the direction the sneeze had come from.

  Her first inclination was to duck back inside; her second, perhaps out of curiosity or sheer defiance, was to stay put.

  A cool breeze ruffled his hair, moved on and did the same to hers. He lifted one hand in acknowledgement. She returned the gesture, though not until she’d retained his features to memory: a strong face, deep-set blue eyes possessing the same brightness as that of his father, and hair the colour of hazelnuts – not quite blonde but not quite brown either.

  A quick wash of her face and hands and she descended the stairs to the next floor. From the ground floor came the sound of Mrs Cottrell inviting her parents to come into the dining room and their politely spoken responses.

  ‘And here’s your girl,’ said Mrs Cottrell as Bridget came do
wn the stairs from the first floor to the ground floor where the kitchen and other reception rooms were situated. ‘Now come on with you. Get something of this tea inside you before the boys arrive or they’ll eat the lot.’

  ‘I can’t eat a thing until they’re here,’ admitted Bridget’s mother, her face bright with joy and one hand placed reverentially over her heart, as though it was beating its way out of her chest.

  ‘I think you should,’ said Bridget’s father.

  ‘It looks too good to eat,’ proclaimed Bridget.

  Not since before the war had either Bridget or her parents seen such a spread: home-made bread, a fruit cake, apple tart, fresh raspberries, a jug of cream, bright yellow butter and a dish – not just a jar – but a dish of home-made jam.

  ‘First off, a nice cup of tea,’ said Mrs Cottrell as the pot was tilted and a stronger-looking brew than they’d seen for ages was poured into a series of cups. ‘Oh. By the way, call me Kate. We don’t stand on no ceremonies ’round ’ere.’

  The food was delicious, the tea welcomed. The conversation was pretty one-sided, Mrs Cottrell telling them all about the history of the house and how it was handed down from one generation to another. ‘Built in the time of Queen Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘One of Archie’s ancestors assisted Drake fending off the Spanish Armada. Got given the land and built ’imself a house. Been in the family ever since.’

  Running footsteps, then excited laughter heralded the arrival of Sean and Michael.

  Bridget’s mother sprang to her feet, a little cry of delight escaping her lips and tears filling her eyes. ‘My boys! My darling boys!’

  The two of them crashed into their parents’ open arms and greeted their sister with almost as much enthusiasm.

  Bridget’s father shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it of you two.’

  The boys looked up at him, perturbed that they might have done something wrong.

  ‘You’ve grown,’ he said, ruffling each head, which resulted in them laughing out loud.

  ‘Oh, Dad. Of course we ’ave!’ the pair of them responded.