by Lizzie Lane
A draught of air flooded into the passageway and the cat ran forward and curled around a pair of masculine legs.
‘Victoria! Me old queen!’ On realising they had visitors, Sam Proctor smiled. ‘Hello there.’
‘Which old queen are you on about,’ cried a joyful Mrs Proctor, laughter lacing her voice.
After lodging his kitbag on the floor, Sam Proctor took off his beret and smoothed back his hair. ‘Give me a hug, then me old queen!’
Mother and son embraced.
‘This young lady’s taking the spare room,’ she said, nodding at Phyllis.
‘Ladies,’ he said. His smile lingered on Phyllis a split second longer than on Bridget.
‘As you’ve guessed, this is my son, Sam,’ explained Mrs Proctor, pride shining in her eyes. ‘Miss Mason hopes to get a job at the soap factory.’
‘Good for her. First name?’ asked Sam with the brusqueness of a sergeant major and enough charm to bring the birds from the trees.
‘Phyllis. And this is Bridget.’
He shook both their hands, glancing at each of them in turn before his deep blue eyes again settled on Phyllis. And Phyllis looked right back and liked what she was seeing.
He had a shock of blonde hair that sat now like a thick cap on the top of his head despite all the efforts of the army barber to tame it. His face was as firm as his voice and there was a boyish lift to one side of his mouth, a trait he’d no doubt inherited from his mother.
He grinned at Phyllis. ‘You’ll have no trouble getting a job at the soap factory and it’s only round the corner. Dead convenient. They’re desperate. It ain’t so much about soap but about glycerine. The army can’t do without it. Trouble is, what with the call-up and more money to be earned in munitions, they’re running short of workers. Mind you,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘It is next to the bone yard. Has to be.’ He saw the unsettled look that came to Phyllis’s face. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to put you off. You’ll be fine, princess. Don’t listen to me. I’ve been away with only blokes to talk to for too long. I could go on for hours if you let me.’
His outspoken friendliness brought smiles to both their faces. He was a good-looking young man. Not only that but in a matter of minutes they both felt they’d known him for years.
‘You’d better be letting them go, Sam. You’re taking up their time and there’s faggots and peas on the stove just waiting to be eaten.’
‘Sorry, ladies.’ He grinned impishly. ‘Tell you what, Ma, how about I escort the ladies past the rough lot at The Duke of York while you get me grub on the table?’
‘There’s no need…’ Bridget began.
Phyllis interrupted. ‘That would be very nice.’
The truth was she’d seen the way he’d looked at her, and the prospect of him talking nineteen to the dozen made her feel happier than she had in a long time.
Bridget saw it too, the rapport between them. In the past, she might have condemned Phyllis and told her not to be so forward, but James had happened, so she had no right.
17
Frank Miles
Frank Miles, his beard thick and bushy, was dead pleased with all he’d achieved. Cliff Venables, the manager at the slaughterhouse, trusted him implicitly and had no idea that his seemingly upright employee was lifting a bit of meat when he could. Some of it he gave to Vera, the rest he sold. Stealing from his employer didn’t count as thieving in Frank’s eyes.
Keen not to attract questions, he drank his tea alone, ate alone and, for the most part, went out on his rounds all by himself. One reason was that he didn’t want anyone seeing him helping himself to an increasingly larger amount of meat. The other reason was he feared news might leak out of where he was to Eddie Bridgeman.
In the meantime, he was doing all right. Food, he realised, was the key to him making more than a wage. Nobody was getting enough from rationing and the situation was likely to get worse thanks to enemy submarine attacks on Atlantic convoys.
Having finished work for the day, he was off home for his evening meal, though he always made sure he timed getting home after the other three lodgers had finished their meals and gone to the pub or to bed, or even on night shift or air-raid duties. He’d no intention of offering to do air-raid duties. He didn’t believe in doing anything that didn’t bring in an extra pound note.
At seven thirty, he ambled into the kitchen, where a big black range sat like an iron spider in the heart of the old fireplace.
‘Hello, love,’ trilled his pink-faced landlady. ‘I boiled up those pork bones with some onions,’ said Vera.
He felt her eyes on him and knew she wanted to suggest he washed before sitting down to eat. She’d tried that before and had been taken aback when he’d snapped, ‘I puts this food on the table, and got the right to choose whether I wash or not.’ She hadn’t dared suggest such a thing again and wouldn’t do, he decided, not if she wanted to benefit from the bit of meat he brought in and the rent he paid. Both were enough to placate her and keep her from disrupting his happy – though hopefully – temporary residence under her roof.
He ate his meal without saying a word, not even complimenting her on the fact that the meat was so tender it had fallen off the bones and swam in a rich gravy with boiled potatoes, carrots and onions, topped off with a couple of suet dumplings.
Once he was finished, she took his dish, added it to the pile sitting on the draining board and poured his tea. She was flitting around, being attentive, yet he knew just by the way her fingers were wringing the tea towel that she wanted to know if he was off out tonight. What she really wanted was for him to keep her company – as if he would want that!
It seemed a while ago since he’d moved in and giving her a few bits of meat as well as rent had been enough to persuade her to take him to her bed. Getting to share her bed guaranteed she wouldn’t be chucking him out any time soon.
For Vera’s part, he was hardly the first of her lodgers she’d favoured and she had thought him worthy. Now she wasn’t so sure. The only thing that held her back from dissolving the relationship was having less food on the table and a cold bed. She liked him there, lying beside her, the warmth of his body, the fact that he sometimes patted her and called her his prime bit of rump steak. She appreciated anything that sounded remotely affectionate.
‘I’m off,’ he said, the legs of his chair making a screeching sound as they scraped the red tiles.
Vera gritted her teeth and said nothing. She’d quickly learned that Frank didn’t like any kind of criticism.
Standing tall now, he stretched his arms so his fingertips almost touched the ceiling and then he rubbed his stomach. ‘That should keep me going until I get back. I shouldn’t be too late. It all depends.’
She didn’t ask him what he meant or where he was going but did say that she would keep an eye on the van.
‘Don’t need to,’ he said. ‘The van’s going with me.’
‘My word, they’ll be working you to death at this rate,’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s the third night in a row.’
To her great relief, she saw that she’d said the right thing. A secretive smile came to his face and he tapped the side of his nose.
‘This is a bit of working in me own time.’
He’d found the right spot to trade, right in the centre of Bristol not far from the hospital but in a narrow alley. The buildings were tightly packed together, ramshackle gables jutting out from the first floors and keeping the lower floors in darkness. The streets and alleys all round were cobblestoned, very dark and frequented by those who preferred to do their business in the shadows.
The moment Frank backed into the alley, he was assailed by people who had read the name on the side of the van before it was cloaked in darkness. His customers only got a cursory glimpse of it, enough to make them trust it was bona fide.
‘Got any ’orsemeat?’
‘Got a bit.’
‘How much?’
‘Dead cheap to you, darlin’.’ His salacious
wink was picked out in the light of his torch. The women liked a bit of sauce and he reckoned that given half a chance they’d do more than blush for an extra pound of liver. Once he’d had this pitch for a while, he might take advantage of that, find a better billet and a more attractive woman than Vera. For the present, she’d suit – just until he got his sideline up and running.
The women, desperate for meat, thrust their money forward and Frank Miles was pleased.
‘It would ’elp if you brought your own newspaper in future,’ he shouted. ‘I don’t buy that many newspapers. Not enough to wrap everything you want.’
Bits of lamb, beef and pork sold first, buyers remarking that it had been a while since they’d seen even offcuts, and complaining that the four ounces per person allowed by rationing wasn’t enough to keep body and soul together.
A woman with a clutch of kids hanging onto her skirt asked if he’d be in this same place every week.
He leaned forward, gave her a wink and said, ‘Only if you promise me you’ll be here too. If you stand me up, I’ll cry…’ He brushed laughingly at his eyes. ‘Just don’t tell the old man, eh?’
Even in the dense blackout, he saw a bashful blush suffuse her tired face. ‘Bugger ’im. Left me with four kids to feed.’
As she shoved her purchases into her bag, he spotted what she was wearing. Not being in the least bit interested in what women wore, he’d firstly thought it a dress but now saw it was an overall identical to the one Maisie wore at the tobacco factory.
‘See you again,’ he shouted after her before he resumed selling other bits of meat, scraps in bags, bones that still had some meat on and even some chunks of liver, the bits that had been left behind after he’d cut the best pieces into slivers.
Horsemeat cut into thin steaks also sold well, the women who bought it stating in no uncertain terms that they’d pass it off as steak. Not that they were of a class to have had much steak – even frying steak.
There was soon little left but what there was he gave away to those who’d held back and counted the pennies before stepping forward.
‘Give me whatever you can afford,’ he said.
Once there was nothing remaining, he drove away, though pulled in at the side of a horse trough, took out a bucket and sluiced water around the most bloodied spots in the van. He winced as he did so. He’d made sure to wash all his wares, swilling away the smell that would have given away that the scraps of meat and bones were far from fresh. He’d had a whole load destined for the rendering yard. As usual, some of the bones still had scraps of meat hanging on them. He’d got hold of a sharp knife himself, sawed the best bits from the bones and wrapped these up in newspaper. Bones that still had meat on he’d placed in a bucket.
‘Good for a stew,’ he’d shouted out to the press of customers, all eager to buy at knock down prices. At sixpence each they were cheap, but he had plenty. The sixpences added up.
That was the great thing about delivering meat to the butchers. In return, you were loaded up with stuff the butcher had been saving up all week. Some of it ponged a bit, but not so bad that a swill in a bucket of water couldn’t disguise. He reasoned that the meat would be devoured long before it became totally inedible. Besides, everyone was hungry and wanted something for nothing.
18
Phyllis
It was cowardly waiting until her mother-in-law was at one of her meetings before telling Tom Harvey that she was moving out, but he took it well.
His look was one of concern for her and worry about giving the news to his wife. She’d be furious.
‘Are you sure about this?’
She’d told him that she was. ‘I’m sorry I’m leaving you to tell Hilda, but you know how it is.’
He’d nodded and said, yes, he did know how it was. ‘No forwarding address?’ he asked, somewhat hopefully.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’
He nodded somewhat sadly. ‘No. I don’t suppose it would be.’
When Phyllis had been told that she’d be wrapping up tablets of soap and packing them in boxes, she’d had the idea that the soap would be sweetly scented, the sort rationed at one tablet a month and suitable for washing your face. It turned out they were big colourless blocks smelling vaguely of carbolic. What was more, the smell clung more stubbornly to her clothes than tobacco ever had.
Half a dozen women worked with her wrapping and packing, a close-knit bunch all living within the same area. They accepted her and were friendly enough, though nothing, to her mind, could replace her mates in the stripping room of W. D. &. H. O. Wills.
The evenings were still light when she left work and made her way to York Street. Having not been in work for some time, she found herself yawning on the way home, barely aware of passers-by or the odd bit of transport on Midland Road.
She was thinking of Sam when she suddenly became aware of a car pulling up beside her, a door opening and somebody grabbing her arm. A meaty hand was clamped over her mouth before she could scream as she was bundled into the back of a car.
The man who slid in beside her was the size of a wardrobe. There was another man in the front, one she surely did not know. He turned half round in his seat. His eyes were dark and intimidating. His clothes were well tailored and he smelt of cologne.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now who might you be?’
She found herself fixating on the gold tooth which flashed at the side of his mouth. The hand that covered her mouth eased slightly then dropped away.
‘Phyllis,’ she said weakly.
‘Right, Phyllis.’ He began to use what looked like a small penknife to pick at his teeth. ‘I seen you go into number five York Street. That’s fine by me. What I wants to know is what you know about the Miles family that used to live there. Frank in particular.’
Phyllis shook her head so hard her hair whipped round her face. She was terrified. ‘I never knew ’im.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘But you know who I mean?’
She nodded. ‘I think I do, though I never met ’im. Not really.’
He stopped picking at his teeth and fixed her with a look that almost riveted her to the back of the seat. ‘What does not really mean?’
Realising her small comment had tripped her up, she gulped. ‘I saw ’im once outside the tobacco factory. That’s all.’
Eyes unblinking, the man nodded slowly. ‘What about that girl of ’is. Maisie. Do you know where she is?’
Phyllis shook her head even more avidly than before, determined that she’d not make the same mistake and give the slightest clue away. ‘No.’ Her voice sounded small, pixie-like and far away.
Those fathomless eyes fixed on her for what seemed like an age before he nodded slowly. ‘Right, sweet’eart. I believe you.’ He leaned towards her over the back seat, his face, his breath and the cloying cologne only inches from her face. ‘Now you listen ’ere, Phyllis. If you do see Maisie, tell ’er Eddie Bridgeman wants to see ’er. Got that?’
Too scared to say anything, she nodded so vigorously it felt her head was in danger of falling off.
‘Right.’ Eddie Bridgeman nodded at the man who resembled a wardrobe.
She was free to go.
There was no time to head for The Llandoger and warn Maisie about this man, but it was Friday night and tomorrow the three Ms were meeting up for coffee in Carwardines. That, she decided, was the best place to tell her.
19
Maisie
Hearing that Eddie Bridgeman was after her was like being doused in a shower of ice-cold water. Maisie was scared.
‘He’s after the old man,’ she said without a trace of fear. She saw that Phyllis was scared and it would only make matters worse if she showed that she was to. She patted Phyllis’s hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry yerself about it, Phyl.’
It was obvious from Phyllis’s appearance that beginning a new life was weaving its magic. Her hair shone and although her clothes weren’t new, they were clean
and pressed and once again she’d painted her lips bright red.
Maisie went out of her way to reassure her friend and also to assuage the questioning look on Bridget’s face. ‘He don’t know where I am, and you didn’t tell ’im, Phyl. So nothing to worry about. Now, are you going to eat them biscuits or do I’ ave to do it for you?’
The truth was that Maisie’s cocky attitude hid a quaking fear. Eddie blamed her father for his short spell in prison and wanted to find him. God help him when he did! As for herself, Eddie would also be looking for her in the hope that she knew where Frank was hiding.
The place where she felt safest of all was in work at the tobacco factory, though even there was touched by dishonesty.
‘Bloody ’ell. Somebody’s pinched me liver!’
Somebody was stealing shopping left in the cloakroom.
‘Well, that’s your bloody fault for not bringing it in ’ere!’ Aggie Hill stood with her fists resting on her ample hips, her voice booming round the stripping room.
Clara Bennet, a round-faced girl of twenty, was beside herself. ‘That was fer me old dad’s tea. ’E was looking forward to that. There was a turnip in there too.’
Maisie wrinkled her nose at Aggie. ‘Can’t blame ’er for not wantin’ a pound of liver between ’er feet whilst she’s working. You ends up smelling of it.’
Aggie’s disapproving look swept over all those who worked under her watchful gaze for a guilty expression. ‘I’ll find out who it is, you mark my words.’
Bridget shook her head over a fresh pile of tobacco leaves. ‘I can’t believe somebody could be so mean.’
‘Not mean. Desperate,’ pronounced Maisie.
Still standing and a fierce look on her strong features, Aggie took command of the situation. ‘We’re goin’ to do something about this. I reckon we should ’ang our bags in front of an open window. And we’ll take it in turns to keep an eye on it. Raise yur ’ands all them that agree.’