Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘You’ll be by yourselves tomorrow. My parents and I have a funeral to attend.’ The smile that had been evident disappeared. ‘Fred Davey died of wounds sustained at Dunkirk. We’re going to the funeral. You can come if you like. My parents did mention it to yours and they’re staying behind. I hear your father intends mending the old long case clock sitting in the hallway. I can’t remember the last time it worked. Your mother’s offered to cook lunch.’

  ‘She’ll probably need me to help.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable, but you’re welcome to come to church if you want to.’

  Bridget had fully expected to stay and help her mother, but the racing clouds and warm breeze enticed her outside. Her mother suggested that if she wanted to go for a walk she should do so.

  ‘I’m used to cooking for an army,’ her mother reminded her. ‘All the preparations are done, and I thank you for that. Now you go and explore. I know you want to.’

  The sound of a pendulum ticking, then bonging as though it had escaped from its casing, sounded behind Bridget as she went out the open door.

  School was now closed for the long summer break and all the children, having got over the excitement of seeing their parents again, had gone off to play amongst the hay ricks.

  Bridget’s feet were enticed along a footpath around the rim of a field. In the distance, she glimpsed a church tower surrounded by trees. It looked peaceful, sanctuary in the midst of war. She made her way towards it through a field of cow parsley and long grass that nodded in the breeze.

  A low stone wall surrounded the churchyard where springy grass quivered in the slight breeze and was crushed under black-footed shoes.

  It seemed to her as though the whole village had turned out to mourn this man’s passing. A woman in a veil led the procession between gnarled gravestones, head bent, dabbing at her eyes, and trailed by three equally tearful children, one barely old enough for school.

  Seeing them filled Bridget with sadness. With the exception of witnessing her mother’s miscarriage, she had not been this close to grief or the remains of a family broken forever.

  James, in his uniform, was easy to discern. Everyone else, with the exception of the widow and children, looked like so many black crows.

  Tears stinging her eyes, and somehow touched with a stranger’s grief, Bridget turned on her heel and headed back for the farmhouse, her parents and her family.

  During the rest of the week, the whole family helped out with the harvest, the smell of ripe corn and wheat warming the air. Bridget agreed with Sean and Michael that the best bit was riding on the very top of a cartload of hay bales which was pulled by a huge Shire horse with hairy legs and steaming breath.

  James was always close by. His smile disappeared when she asked him about the funeral.

  She remarked how sad it was.

  To her surprise, James merely shrugged. ‘At least he lived. He was loved. That’s what it’s all about; take the opportunities when you can. There’s only today. Tomorrow won’t always come.’

  By the weekend, the last hay was baled and brought into the barn ready to provide winter feed for the animals.

  They had an outside feast that night, a true ploughman’s meal of cheese, fresh bread, butter and pickles with cider to wash it down.

  Bridget never meant to get tipsy, not just with cider but with the confusion she was feeling inside. She danced with everyone, though mostly with James. Even when they weren’t dancing, his fingertips found the curve of her spine, the length of her arm and that sensitive spot on her wrist.

  Perhaps it was the cider, but she didn’t object when James took hold of her hand and led her out into a night of stars.

  He bent his head and whispered into her ear, ‘The other guy – you can pretend I’m him if you like. In fact, I can be whoever you want me to be.’

  She closed her eyes and let his words drift over her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said and felt she was made of water, fluid and running downhill fast.

  His lips met hers, like velvet against her cheek, delicately brushing her throat with a touch as soft as eiderdown.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ she said in a weak and oddly tearful voice. ‘I’m not drunk.’

  ‘Good,’ he whispered back. ‘I wouldn’t want that.’

  Her body was hot, skin on fire, so she didn’t object when he began to unbutton her blouse and ease it gently from her shoulders, kissing each inch of her skin as it was slowly exposed. A shiver ran from her neck, through her breasts and down to her thighs. She tensed and reminded herself of what the consequences might be.

  ‘I don’t…’ His mouth smothered her words. She was lost and filled with conflicting emotions. The funeral. The widow, no doubt wishing she could turn back time, but time and tide waited for no man – or woman. A fleeting moment in a life that could be snuffed out at any moment.

  She found herself welcoming the coolness of the night air as the heat of the day retreated, the golden glow of sunlight replaced by the dewiness of silvery moonlight.

  Once his fingers were caressing her inner thighs, she was lost and wanted to be lost. The city and everything she knew there was lost. His loins were hot against hers. James? Lyndon?

  She tensed and uttered a slight cry when he entered her.

  The thrusting stilled. ‘I can stop. It’s up to you.’

  She flung her arms round his neck and whispered into his ear. ‘Please. Please!’

  Why? she asked herself afterwards. The answer was instant. Because there might never be a tomorrow.

  16

  Phyllis

  ‘Well, if it ain’t Bridget Milligan, back from ’er ’oliday in the country! Lucky cow!’

  ‘Yes I was lucky,’ returned Bridget. It wasn’t easy not to blush.

  The group of girls taunting her were from Knowle West, the large brick council estate some distance further on than Bedminster. Like Bridget, Maisie and their friends, they were a tight little circle who stuck up for each other and considered themselves tough.

  Their tough tactics cut no ice with Maisie Miles. ‘Take no notice. Their gobs are bigger than their brain.’

  One girl, a bit braver than the others, rose from her chair, ready to challenge the diminutive girl from the Dings, until Aggie Hill’s heavy hand landed on her shoulder, forcing her to sit back down.

  ‘Kids all right?’ Aggie asked.

  Bridget said that they were. ‘I helped with the haymaking. It was hard work, but I enjoyed it and Mum and Dad are happier now they know for sure that the kids are being taken care of with two lots of good people.’

  ‘You look all the better for it. Nothing like a bit of fresh air to bring the bloom to yer cheeks.’

  The threatening blush finally happened.

  Maisie saw it and winked. ‘And a sparkle in yer eyes.’

  ‘It was lovely.’ She went on to tell the amusing story of the Crawford brother deserting and pretending to be a woman.

  Maisie wasn’t fooled. ‘But that ain’t nothing to do with you blushing, is it?’

  Bridget made no comment, but bent back to her work thinking about what had happened and whether such a moment would ever be revisited.

  Phyllis arrived at Bridget’s house after supper and together the two girls sat out on the doorstep, which had retained the warmth of the day.

  ‘Here,’ Bridget handed her the details Maisie had given her. The address of the soap factory and the manager was written at the top of the paper. ‘They want somebody to wrap the tablets of soap and pack them.’ At the bottom was the name of the widow now living in Maisie’s old home in York Street. ‘It’s not the best job in the world or the best lodgings, but far enough away from your mother-in-law. It’s the best we could do,’ she added.

  Bridget waited for Phyllis to respond, noted her thin shoulders, the slightly unkempt look to her hair. Before marrying, she’d been film-star glamorous, but now with all the problems she was dealing with, she looked as if she didn’t care.

  ‘You
and Maisie are great mates,’ Phyllis remarked. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without you both.’

  Bridget sensed she was nervous about getting out from beneath Hilda Harvey’s iron hand. ‘I suppose it would be best to go back home with your mother and chance Hilda not turning up there.’

  Phyllis shook her head and flicked her cigarette end into the dirt beneath the privet hedge separating the Milligans’ garden from next door. ‘There ain’t no chance of that… there isn’t any chance of that,’ she corrected herself. She stared beyond the garden gate, her eyes wide with the lingering surprise she’d experienced at her mother’s announcement. ‘My mum’s getting married again. She don’t – doesn’t – want me back cramping her style. It’s as though she’s lost twenty years. I don’t blame her. I mean, everyone seems to be grabbing a slice of happiness before this war starts proper. But my mother…’ She shook her head, face devoid of any understanding. ‘In walked a Canadian colonel and my mum fell head over hills. Where he goes, she’ll go. Eventually she’ll have to give up the house.’

  Bridget had intended telling Phyllis about James, but her old friend was too weighed down with her own problems. Phyllis had barely glanced at the piece of paper she still held in her hand.

  ‘In all honesty it’s the right thing to do. I’ve got to move on and live my own life. As soon as possible. Will you come with me?’

  ‘You’re my friend, of course I will,’ said Bridget. ‘The factory won’t be open, but there’s nothing to stop us going round to see about the accommodation. Perhaps we can have a drink afterwards.’

  Phyllis got to her feet. ‘Might as well now I’m out. I’m not keen on going home. Will it take you long to get ready?’

  Bridget laughed. ‘Two flicks of a lamb’s tail. Just let me take my overall off, wash my face and brush my hair.’

  They were both feeling nervous as they entered York Street, a cul-de-sac of poor-looking houses off Midland Road.

  A cacophony of sound poured out of the stained-glass doors and windows of the pub at the corner of the street.

  A drunk came out, saw them, smiled, then tugged politely at his cap before ambling away – thankfully in the opposite direction to the one they were going.

  The yeasty smell of stale beer and sweaty drinkers were as nothing compared to the cloying, sweetish, sickly smell that assaulted their nostrils. Its source was a number of tall chimneys spewing slivers of whitish smoke, twisting and turning ever upwards.

  ‘One of those is the soap factory,’ said Bridget, eyeing them with misgiving.

  Sash windows stared blindly out over a cobbled street where boys rolled marbles along the gutter and girls played hopscotch. Groups of gossiping women with careworn faces stared at them from dark doorways.

  Phyllis fished Maisie’s scribbled note from her bag and, after perusing the details, headed purposefully to number five.

  They looked up at the façade fronting the pavement, noting that bricks that had once been red were now blackened by the cloying smoke of the nearby chimneys. The one redeeming feature was that the sole ground-floor window gleamed and the lace curtain hanging behind it was pristine white.

  ‘Here goes,’ said Bridget.

  Phyllis lifted the cast-iron knocker and rapped it hard against the door.

  A ginger cat chose that moment to curl its sinewy tail round their ankles.

  Bridget bent down and tickled its head. ‘Hello puss. Do you live here?’

  As she straightened, the door opened and there was Mrs Proctor, the woman named on the note, a rounded figure with sparkling blue eyes and a large mole on one cheek. Her face creased when she smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

  Phyllis deferred to Bridget to explain why they were there.

  ‘We heard you took in lodgers. My friend here needs somewhere to stay.’

  The bright blue eyes looked Phyllis up and down and the smile widened. ‘Are you married or single?’

  ‘Single. My name’s Phyllis Mason,’ blurted Phyllis and trusted Bridget wouldn’t contradict or look surprised. She’d forgotten to take off her wedding ring so hid her left hand behind her back.

  Mrs Proctor’s smile weakened and a slight furrow appeared between her brows. ‘Well, me dear, I do prefer lady lodgers, but you should know that I don’t allow gentlemen callers. Not even daytime or early evening.’

  ‘I won’t be having any,’ Phyllis swiftly responded.

  ‘Is this your cat?’ Bridget asked, continuing to smile as though she hadn’t heard what Mrs Proctor had said, the cat seemingly far more important.

  Mrs Proctor’s face lit up. ‘Yes. That’s Victoria. I named her after the old queen.’ Her expression wavered with indecision. ‘You like cats?’ She appeared to be addressing both of them.

  Phyllis showed her willingness by tickling between the cat’s ears which Bridget now held in her arms. Victoria purred obligingly.

  ‘She likes you,’ said Mrs Proctor and chuckled. ‘Well. I suppose you’d better come in. The room’s upstairs at the back of the house. I won’t say it’s quiet because you can hear the goods trains in the marshalling yards. Not all the time, mind you, but just some of the time.’

  Bridget set the cat down at her feet and watched as it skipped off along the passageway ahead of them, tail held high.

  The house smelt of fresh paint. Maisie had described it as untouched by a paintbrush for years and that her brother had used an air rifle to shoot at the mice that poked their noses out of their holes.

  Bridget took a deep breath. ‘I smell fresh paint. Somebody’s been busy.’

  Mrs Proctor beamed with pleasure. ‘My son painted the house from top to bottom before I moved in and before he got called up. My sister came over to give me a hand cleaning it before me and Victoria moved in. There were mice, but Victoria took care of them.’

  The room for rent had cream-painted walls and the curtains at the window were a soft beige colour and scattered with pink roses. The bedding looked clean and there was also a washstand with a green tiled splashback and a matching jug and bowl.

  ‘You can just see the privy roof down there,’ said Mrs Proctor, holding back the net curtain so they could better see the pan tiled roof of the small lean-to set into the back of the house.

  Mrs Proctor eyed the two young women. She’d never had red hair when she was young, yet in a strange way the tall young woman who’d introduced herself as Phyllis took her back to those times. It struck her that she was the type who tried to please everybody. She’d been like that and a fat lot of good it had done her.

  She assessed the other young woman who had shown affection to Victoria as possessing great self-assurance and being stronger beneath the surface than showed above it.

  Back in the Great War, she’d worked with many young women like these who had come from ordinary backgrounds and led ordinary lives. Once the war had begun in earnest, they’d found themselves in uniform, driving ambulances or becoming nurses tending badly wounded soldiers at the front line. She had been one of them and in doing so had truly believed that the war would change everything, even the differences between classes. Charles, father of her son, Sam, had been an officer and she a lowly nurse from Whitechapel who had been lucky enough to get the right training at the right time. She’d trusted people back then, including Charles and his sweet words. Now she was more wary, especially with regard to taking somebody under her roof.

  The girl with the gentle face was smiling approvingly. The redhead moved round the room touching things, smoothing the eiderdown.

  ‘Is anyone else lodging with you?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘No. There’s three bedrooms. I’ve got one and my son uses the other when he’s ’ome on leave. He’s due tonight. There’s a bath on the outside wall, though not to be used when my son’s around of course. I don’t mind ’elping you with the water – that’s if I decide to let you ’ave the room.’

  Phyllis exchanged a quick look with Bridget. ‘What do you think?’

  Bridget smiled appr
ovingly. ‘I think it will do you very well.’

  Phyllis hesitated and took another look round and turned to Mrs Proctor. ‘When can I move in?’

  Mrs Proctor held up her hand, palm facing the two young women. ‘Just a minute. I do need to know your circumstances.’

  ‘Circumstances?’

  ‘Why you want to live alone and do you have a job.’

  ‘My mother’s remarrying, so I need to find a place of my own and I’ve got an interview at the soap factory. That’s why I need somewhere close by. I’m seeing the manager tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Proctor, looking more settled on hearing this. ‘They’re desperate for workers so they won’t be turning you down.’

  Phyllis heaved a big sigh. ‘That’s a relief.’ In a way, it was. She’d be away from a bad situation, though would miss the tobacco factory. Packing soap didn’t faze her, but she would miss her friends.

  Mrs Proctor tilted her head to one side in a quizzical manner. ‘Just one question. How did you hear about me ’aving a room?’

  ‘A friend who used to live round here,’ said Bridget, instinctively knowing it wouldn’t be a good idea to mention Maisie and her family as the last residents of this very house. ‘I think she heard it from somebody who’s since joined up.’

  Ursula Proctor had the greatest regard for anyone who had joined up so her reservations vanished. ‘So when would you like to move in?’

  Phyllis exchanged a quick look with Bridget. ‘Any time once I know I’ve got the job?’

  A church clock struck close by.

  ‘Good grief. Is that the time? Sorry, my birds, but it’s time you departed. My boy Sam’s due ’ome tonight – depending on the trains, that is. They’re taking three times as long to cover a journey than before this war started. I’ll await to ’ear from you,’ she said as they began to descend the stairs, Bridget and Phyllis going first.