Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘I could accept you getting involved with my boy and being a widow, but you didn’t say that. You said you were single. I let it be last night, seeing as Sam was due ’ome, but he won’t be back for a while. Whilst he’s gone, I think the best thing you can do is pack your things and get out of here.’

  ‘I receive a widow’s pension!’

  Mrs Proctor shook her head. ‘That ain’t what you told me when you first come ’ere. Anyways, I don’t believe you. I want you out.’

  ‘But where will I go?’ said Phyllis, more to herself than to Mrs Proctor. She was devastated, angry but also confused and afraid.

  ‘That’s your problem, but I want you out of this house and away from my boy. He don’t deserve to be lied to!’

  25

  Maisie

  Rehearsing in her head what she would say, Maisie knocked on the door in Totterdown that she had only visited once before. A voice sounded from the other side.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me. Maisie. Your granddaughter,’ she added more loudly.

  The sound of a bolt being slid grated from behind the closed door and there was Grace Wells.

  ‘Well, you ain’t bin ‘ere for a while. And now you show up,’ came the grumbling from within.

  For a moment Maisie suspected the door might be slammed in her face. Her grandmother narrowed her eyes and peered searchingly into her face and she fumbled round her neck, her fingers eventually closing over a pair of spectacles hanging on a black bootlace. Her eyes were amplified by the thick lenses.

  ‘I need your ’elp.’

  Grace drew in her chin and shook her head. ‘Don’t count on me if yer in the club. I don’t do that any more.’

  ‘That’s not the kind of ’elp I want. It’s about Frank Miles. I want to shop ’im to the law, but can’t. I thought you might be able to ’elp.’

  It was as though she’d batted at Grace Wells’s face with a carpet beater. Her expression changed. She stood back level with a now wide-open door. ‘I’d strangle ’im with me bare ’ands if I could.’

  Maisie stepped inside, the thick rugs doing nothing to mute the creaking floorboards beneath their feet.

  As she entered the rear room where frightened women had once come to terminate pregnancies they did not want, it struck Maisie that what she was about to ask might go some way to levelling out what her grandmother did for – or rather – to these women.

  Grace sat herself heavily in an old armchair that squealed in protest. She’d put on a considerable amount of weight since Maisie had last seen her.

  The smell of food was as before, but there was also that of drink. It seemed it wasn’t only Edith’s mother who was hitting the bottle.

  For a moment Grace said nothing, though Maisie noticed a flicker of interest from behind her thick glasses.

  ‘Is it a ’anging offence? I ’ope it bloody well is. My boy won’t rest in peace and my mind won’t be at ease until Frank Miles ’as breathed ’is last breath!’ Her voice was more gravelly than Maisie recalled, as though she was trying to swallow something that couldn’t be swallowed.

  She outlined what had happened and her plan for putting him away for good. ‘Two kids are dead ’cause of ’im, two more ill and the mother, Edith Jones, is still sick thanks to ’im selling rotten meat.’ She stopped as something occurred to her. According to what Phyllis had told her, there had been a whole crowd of people buying that meat. How many more had fallen ill? she wondered.

  ‘Edith Jones you say. Is she Betty Morland’s daughter?’

  Maisie had hoped the family would be known to her grandmother and it seemed from this remark that they were. ‘Is that ’er name? Drinks a lot of gin.’

  ‘Grace nodded. ‘Drowns ’erself in anything she can get ’er ’ands on.’

  Maisie chose her words carefully. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but I thought that in some way you could shop ’im, point them in the right direction, as it were.’

  Grace sucked in her lips, making it appear as though she had none at all. ‘I’m not sure any evidence I’d give would carry much weight. Besides that, I wouldn’t want to come up before the beak and say that I’d been buying rotten meat so that’s ’ow I knew.’

  Maisie sighed. This was the same problem anyone would have if they admitted seeing him flogging tarnished meat. ‘I thought you might be able to think of some way round it.’

  ‘So why ain’t you gone to the police?’ Grace’s eyes fixed on this granddaughter that she hardly knew but instantly loved because she was her son’s offspring. Not that she was one for showing her feelings, but that didn’t mean she had none. She’d had a hard life, seen grim things that could hurt bad if she let them. So she kept her feelings to herself.

  Maisie swallowed. ‘I don’t want nothing to do with ’im or Eddie Bridgeman.’

  Grace’s eyebrows rose. ‘What’s ’e got to do with it?’

  Maisie blinked, swallowed her nerves and took a deep breath. ‘Eddie will be after me if ’e finds out I knew where Frank was working and I didn’t tell ’im.’ She shivered. ‘And I didn’t like the way ’e used to look at me – as though ’e was stripping me clothes off.’

  The light of understanding shone in her grandmother’s eyes. She knew enough of what men were capable of when taken with devilish desires, uncaring of the consequences. The consequences had been her stock in trade until her eyes began to fail. Luckily she had foreseen old age and infirmity robbing her of that particular line of business. Young women still came knocking at her door desperate to get themselves out of a difficult situation. The sad young women were sent elsewhere. There was always somebody to help as long as they could pay for the service.

  Grace Wells was a money lender as well as an abortionist. She’d made the decision early on to reinvest what she earned from one line of business to finance lending money at a high interest rate. The more she lent, the more she made, and once her boy John was gone, making money became her saviour. What had started small-scale had bloomed, so much so it had enabled her to buy this house from a landlord who’d fallen on hard times. She even knew Eddie Bridgeman but wouldn’t tell Maisie that.

  Things had changed the day Maisie had showed up following the death of her mother. She hadn’t foreseen it happening. The girl wasn’t to know how much she resembled her father, Grace’s son: the same dark brown hair and eyes; the pert chin that reminded her of her own when she was young. The slight build was inherited from her too and she didn’t doubt that inside Maisie’s pretty head was an astute brain.

  Grace clenched her jaw. ‘Is there anything else you can add to what you’ve already told me?’

  Maisie dredged up every last little detail she knew. ‘Edith bought rotten meat and her mother must ’ave known she did. They wouldn’t throw ’er into prison seeing as she’s lost most of ’er family – would they?’

  Grace nodded thoughtfully.

  For her part, Maisie felt that a great weight had been lifted from her chest. She sighed, then chirped, ‘How about I put that kettle on and make you a cup of tea while you think about it?’

  Without waiting for Grace to reply, she popped up from the chair, filled the kettle and lit the gas.

  With Frank out of the way and Eddie unaware of her whereabouts, she could forge a new life and would leave Bridget’s house as quickly as possible. It had been good of them to take her in, but it was a borrowed bed, short term until the kids came home. Anyway, she still didn’t want them implicated in anything.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Grace said at last.

  Maisie thanked her, but even once she was outside, the pavements crisp beneath her feet as the first frost of December took hold, she couldn’t resist looking nervously over her shoulder – just in case Eddie Bridgeman was closer than she thought.

  After Maisie had gone, Grace sat hard-faced before the fireplace staring at the one remaining photograph she had of her son before checking her ledger for the name and address of Edith’s mother. Betty Morland was no
big borrower, but she hadn’t been out of debt for years. Beside her address she’d written down the names of the pubs she frequented, most of them rough cider houses. That’s where she would find her, and perhaps between them they could bring Frank Miles to justice. They were two old ladies with a great deal in common.

  26

  Bridget

  Bridget had related what she knew about Edith and her kids to her workmates. A sombre mood fell on the stripping room from then on.

  Every so often, her gaze drifted to Edith’s empty stool. Physically she was still alive, but how would she be having lost two of her children?

  Tears pricked her eyes. She’d never met Edith’s kids, but she ached for their terrible predicament and that of their mother.

  Maisie so wanted to assure Bridget that the person who’d harmed the Jones family would be punished, but that would mean having to explain about her grandmother, who she was and what she was. She was sure Bridget would disapprove.

  The sudden wailing of the air-raid siren brought an instant scraping of chairs as the women grabbed handbags, shopping and gas masks. It sounded like a thundering of hooves as hundreds of heels thudded along the corridors and down the steps into the cellar.

  Aggie lit the gas under the tea urn. Bridget helped her set out mugs and teacups.

  Mr Parker, one of the factory’s air-raid wardens, stood guard over the milk and sugar, a pair of tongs in one hand.

  ‘One lump of sugar per person,’ he called out.

  Aggie attempted to take them off him, but he was having none of it.

  ‘I’m not taking sugar meself,’ said Aggie. She patted her ample hips. ‘Got to take care of me figure.’

  Mr Parker was unrelenting, but despite his grim-faced frugality, a unique cheerfulness prevailed.

  Aggie poured tea and Bridget added milk. Mr Parker added sugar in a very particular manner.

  ‘What the ’ell’s up with ’im?’ remarked Aggie.

  Bridget smiled. ‘I think he must have read Oliver Twist and is waiting for somebody to say, “Please sir. Can I have some more.”’

  Aggie chuckled. ‘I’ve read that book.’

  ‘I know you did. I leant it to you.’

  Aggie looked surprised. ‘Did you?’ she chuckled again. ‘Yeah, I s’pose you did, you being the great reader that you are. Must admit, I likes reading better than I ever did. Especially now in this war. I can pretend I’m somewhere else when I’m reading.’

  The siren had ceased its monotonous wail. Their ears strained for the sound of aircraft, though it was difficult to hear much down where they were.

  Bridget placed a record on the gramophone, wound up the shiny handle and once it was up to speed, placed the needle onto the edge of the record.

  There was laughter and then a glorious sing-along to ‘The Sun Had Got His Hat On’; and the Jack Hylton Orchestra.

  Maisie’s slender feet tapped in time to the music and then she was on her feet, tap dancing, swinging her arms, laughing as she danced. Everyone was mesmerised. Nobody had seen her dance before. Her slight frame spun on slender legs, her arms held gracefully to either side.

  She made saucy jokes about Hitler that she’d heard in the pub before she’d moved in with Bridget. At first, Aggie Hill’s face was a picture of astonishment, and then she was laughing along with everyone else, tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks.

  Bridget laughed, though at the same time wondered what was happening in the world above them. Seeing the devastation of bombing had affected her. Besides the sad fact that people had died, there was also the realisation that there would be no more window shopping round Castle Street, which was now little more than piles of rubble.

  Normally in December the Christmas lights would be brightening the streets, and the smell of horse chestnuts roasting from kerbside braziers would perfume the air and warm the hands. There had been no lights for two winters now. Shop windows had been decorated but unlit which gave them a dour greyness despite their attempt at festive jollity. Everyone had commented how much better they’d looked when the lights were on, but even the greyness would have been better than the present situation. The lights had gone off in those shops forever. There was nothing left except blackened ruins.

  Bridget hid her heartfelt sigh behind a bright smile. Maisie was belting out another song along with the record on the gramophone and everyone was joining in, ‘The Village of Christmas Pie.’ One or two were marching round in time with the music. Aggie’s voice was louder than everyone else.

  ‘Heard from your chap?’ asked Maisie, flopping beside her, breathless from all that dancing and singing.

  For a moment Bridget was inclined to ask which one she was referring to, but held back. She plumped for James because he was the one she was most likely to see again though always her thoughts went back to Lyndon. She still felt let down and something of a fool.

  ‘You mean James. I get the odd letter. He’s on Ops but hoping to get home for Christmas, but there’s no guarantee.’

  ‘There’s a war on,’ exclaimed Maisie. Her brown eyes shone with interest as a new record – a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers’ number – danced its way round the turntable.

  Just as she got to her feet, ready to twirl round the cellar, the all-clear sounded.

  ‘Come on, you lot. Back to work,’ shouted one of the foremen.

  ‘And there was me just getting into me stride,’ trilled Maisie, flushed with exertion and tendrils of glossy brown hair framing her face.

  ‘Now Carwardines is gone, we need to decide where to meet up on a Saturday afternoon and for that we need Phyllis.’

  Aggie confirmed Phyllis had not been to the Llandoger asking for them. ‘I only seem to be gettin’ unwelcome guests these days,’ grumbled Aggie.

  Recognising that Aggie preferred to mind her own business, Maisie had not pried into why Eddie Bridgeman had visited her. In time, Aggie would tell her, but if she didn’t, there was nothing she could do about it.

  It was Saturday afternoon when they made their way to York Street meaning to find Phyllis at home and drag her out to somewhere they could talk in peace.

  The street itself was unchanged since Maisie had lived there, scruffy urchins swinging from a rope hanging from a lamp post, women gossiping on their doorsteps. Hostile eyes glanced at them until they recognised her.

  ‘All right, Maisie me luvver? Ain’t seen you for a while.’

  Maisie gave them a weak smile and pulled her hat low over her eyes, her collar up so it hid her face. She hadn’t wanted to come back here, fearing who she might see.

  The house looked cleaner and less neglected than it used to be, the windowpanes and net curtain as white as any others in the street, perhaps even whiter.

  Having not seen Bridget since she had accompanied Phyllis to her door, Mrs Proctor looked askance. ‘Can I help you?’

  Bridget explained. ‘We’re Phyllis’s friends and usually we meet up at Carwardines on a Saturday afternoon, but it’s all gone now, so we were going to catch up and sort out where we’ll be going in future.’

  Mrs Proctor retained her sour expression which Bridget found a trifle worrying.

  ‘She is all right, isn’t she?’

  Mrs Proctor’s face soured. ‘She ain’t ’ere and I don’t want ’er ’ere.’

  Maisie dared to ask why.

  Mrs Proctor’s glowering look switched from Bridget to Maisie. ‘Because she’s a dirty little liar. Messing about with my Sam when she’s already married.’

  ‘Widowed,’ said Maisie. ‘She’s widowed.’

  ‘Missing in action, presumed dead,’ added Bridget, sensing something was very wrong and that such a piece of information might make Mrs Proctor look less angry.

  ‘Well, that ain’t what her mother-in-law said! Now I’ll thank you to clear off and let me get in out of the cold.’

  Bridget gaped. Mrs Harvey had been there! Well, that explained it!

  Maisie butted in. ‘Mrs Harvey ain’t all there. Reck
ons the War Office is lying to ’er and don’t know what they’re doing.’

  ‘I don’t care what she thinks. All that I know is that Phyllis told me and my Sam that she was single. No ’usband was ever mentioned, widow or otherwise. Now, if you don’t mind…’

  Seeing that the door was about to close on them, Maisie jammed her foot into the gap. ‘Can you tell us where she’s gone?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’

  Her foot was shifted and the door slammed shut.

  ‘I wonder whether she still works at the soap factory,’ said Bridget.

  Maisie strode across the street and asked one of the women who had worked at the soap factory all her life.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Left when that stuck-up bitch living in your old ’ouse chucked ’er out. It was dark, but I ’appened to be up in the bedroom, ’eard the racket and took a look.’

  The two friends fell silent as they left the street until Bridget shook her head.

  ‘I can’t believe she didn’t come to us for help. Where can she be?’

  Maisie understood what it was like to want to hide away from people who frightened you. In Phyllis’s case, she was trying to leave her old life, just as she had done, but in the process she was relying on her heart and wasn’t using her head.

  ‘P’raps she’s got another chap,’ she said.

  Bridget proclaimed she didn’t believe that was the case, but a doubt set in. Phyllis had always adored being the centre of attention and there was no doubt she was very attractive and adored flattery. Phyllis getting involved with Sam had shocked her. She had to concede that to some extent Maisie might be right, but she didn’t want to believe it. In that direction was trouble.

  27

  Frank

  Bright moonlight shining from a clear sky made the frosty ground glisten like icing on a cake.