‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ interjected Annie fiercely, the words flying out of her mouth. ‘I was shocked when I saw the state of her yesterday lunchtime. That’s no job for a fifteen-year-old girl to do, working in dirt.’
The foreman looked at her for a moment and sneered. ‘I thought that coming from London, you’d be used to being in dirty conditions.’
Annie felt like slapping him. ‘Bloody cheek!’ she stormed. ‘We don’t live in shit!’
‘Come on, Mum,’ said Mary, grabbing her arm, and attempting to pull her away.
Annie stared at the foreman, eyes blazing. ‘You owe her half a day’s pay,’ she said.
And so, with that paltry amount of money in hand, Mary and Annie walked out of the compound, never to return.
Annie’s retort to the foreman might have been colourful but she did have a point. Their home in London was cramped and they had little money for the nice things in life but she made the most of what they had and everything in the house was kept immaculately clean.
The three oldest girls all had weekly chores, which included washing the linoleum on two flights of stairs and then polishing the brass stair rods until they gleamed, and mopping the hallway as well as the front doorstep. Like most of the neighbours, they even cleaned the pavement outside their house, either using a pumice stone and plenty of water, or dissolving some Vim scouring powder in a bucket of water and scrubbing a half-moon shape on the slabs. This was a weekly ritual and an outward show of standards. The underlying message was that money might be tight but theirs was a clean and respectable house. Anyone who didn’t keep this important outside area spotless was frowned upon.
Mary had also been taught housewifery at school – how to clean windows, wash and dry dishes, and wash and iron clothes, including dry cleaning with white spirit. Mary took her coat to school to be cleaned in this way and was delighted with the result. She even got to prepare for motherhood by practising on a baby doll, washing and dressing her and laying her to sleep in a cot. Mary was a grafter, though – she wanted to be more than just a mum. She really wanted to work and she knew how important the extra money was to her large family.
Shortly after the sand-bag disaster Mary saw a job advertised in Baker’s sweet shop, just off the High Street. They were looking for a shop assistant. Mary liked this store – as did all the children in the neighbourhood. The shop window was full of inviting sweets – lemon sherbets, flying saucers, liquorice, milk bottles, humbugs, peppermints – and inside, on the shelves, were jars and jars of more of the same, along with an ice-cream counter.
Mrs Baker, a tall, willowy woman, took Mary on, working afternoons until another girl would take over once she had finished school. The job didn’t pay much and Mary knew it was only temporary, but she loved it. She and her sisters had never had many treats in life and working in the shop was like walking into Aladdin’s Cave, with row upon row of colourful temptations. Mary’s mouth watered at the sights and smells of the wonderful store.
Mrs Baker had a daughter, Eileen, who was ten years older than Mary, and mother and daughter would regularly go into nearby Eastbourne for an afternoon, leaving Mary in charge. She liked those times best of all – particularly as she occasionally helped herself to a sweet or a scoop of ice-cream. The temptation was overpowering and, although she kept telling herself not to give in, resistance was a trial. She was careful never to take too many sweets, though. Having trusted her to look after the shop, Mary felt a duty to Mrs Baker and felt guilty in betraying that trust.
Meanwhile, the war seemed rather quiet as far as Britain was concerned, despite the passing into law of the National Service Act, which called the country’s young men for conscription into the armed forces. Both Pierce and Annie thanked God that, unlike many of their friends, they were spared the gut-churning experience of seeing their sons signing up.
However, in the first eight months of the conflict – later to be known as the Phoney War – there was no major military operation on the Western Front. Bombs were not raining down on Britain as feared either, and many began to believe that things were not as grave as they had sounded. They even questioned the necessity of evacuation, thinking it had been an over-reaction. A familiar phrase passed between neighbours in the cities as well as in rural areas such as Hailsham was, ‘It will all be over by Christmas’. Some parents even decided to take their children back home to London with them.
The Government responded. In London, on his way to and from work, Pierce began to see new posters from the Ministry of Health pasted to the hoardings. They used less than subtle scare tactics to target those thinking of bringing their children back to the city. One depicted a mother playing with her children in the countryside whilst, standing over her shoulder, the ghostly spectre of Hitler whispers in her ear, ‘Take them back! Take them back! Take them back!’ as he points to London being bombed in the distance. Underneath, in big type, was the message, ‘Don’t do it, Mother – leave the children where they are.’
Christmas came and went, and January 1940 was one of the coldest months on record in Hailsham and Eastbourne. At 18 Battle Road the blackout curtains were pulled closely together as usual at night but, stepping out into the dark to look at the snowy landscape that stretched from the end of the garden into the fields in the distance, Mary marvelled at how it was all lit up under the glow of the moon so that you could see for miles. If any German planes were crossing the Channel, the gleaming snow would act as a shining beacon, guiding them in, Mary thought to herself. Still, there was nothing anyone could do about that.
The girls loved playing in the thick snow, either in their garden or at the rec, making snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other. They had never seen anything like this in London, where any snowfall turned quickly to a dirty grey mush as it was trodden underfoot. Here, it was of the crisp and gleaming-white type depicted on Christmas cards and in festive Hollywood movies.
The most tangible sign on the home front that the war was hotting up and things were becoming difficult, was that food was becoming less available. Lurking German U-boats were cutting off the supply chain of food carried by merchant ships into Britain. To ensure the fair distribution of supplies amongst the population, the Ministry of Food issued ration books to every person in the country. Bacon, butter and sugar were the first foodstuffs to be restricted on 8 January 1940 – well and truly signalling the end of the festive period. All other meats were rationed two months later, followed by fish, jam, biscuits, breakfast cereals, cheese, eggs, milk and canned fruit.
The Ministry of Food began to issue weekly leaflets entitled ‘Food Facts’, containing recipes and advice on how to make a little go a long way, which was just what Annie required for her brood. One leaflet, headed ‘Soup for Air Raids’, advised, ‘Try to make soup every day so you always have some ready to heat up. A hot drink works wonders at a time of shock or strain.’ There was also a daily broadcast on the wireless every morning at 8.15 a.m., aimed at helping housewives become increasingly inventive in the kitchen.
Annie did not always have the money to buy a joint of meat for a Sunday roast but when she did, she made the most of it the day after by following a recipe called ‘Monday Pie’, which used leftovers to make another nutritious meal. Stews, which also used up any scraps of meat, were regularly on the hob in the Jarman kitchen, as they were in many homes up and down the country.
The Women’s Institute was at the forefront of the drive to increase food production at home, and the growing of vegetables in the garden at home was encouraged. Not that Annie had much idea about how to grow vegetables; they had always come from the shop back in London. Nevertheless, Annie often gazed at her garden and wondered what she could do with it and how she could do her bit.
In a certain patch, there grew what she thought were daffodils.
‘They’ll be lovely when they come out in the spring,’ she told the girls. However, as the spring of 1940 went on an
d the daffodil stalks grew taller and taller, Annie and the girls became puzzled when no flowers bloomed.
‘Do you think they’ve had enough sun?’ Mary asked when they were both in the garden one afternoon, peering at them. ‘Or enough water?’
Annie furrowed her brow. ‘Maybe they’re not daffodils,’ she concluded.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’ said an alarmed Mary, as her mother grabbed hold of the top of one stem and began to pull it out of the ground.
‘Just looking,’ she said, and what popped out of the soil had her whooping with laughter.
‘It’s a spring onion!’ she declared.
‘It’s huge!’ said Mary.
‘Come on,’ said a delighted Annie, ‘help me pull them up.’ One after another, they pulled the onions out of the ground, crying with laughter. ‘At least we can eat these. You can’t eat daffodils!’
It was the first time in what seemed like an age that Mary had heard her mother laughing so heartily, and she cherished the moment.
There was one thing about working at Baker’s that Mary didn’t like, and that was the unofficial job of smearing Eileen’s legs with ‘liquid stockings’ from a bottle whenever she was going out and wanted to look her best. Wartime rationing had meant that the availability of stockings, along with other cosmetics, was sparse so women had to be inventive. Various tanning solutions in tins or bottles were on sale, which could be applied either by hand or with cotton wool. Once the solution had dried, it took a steady hand to draw a line up the back of the legs with an eyeliner pencil to represent the stocking seam. An even cheaper way of doing it was with tea or gravy but that could cause embarrassment if it rained and started to wash off.
Eileen didn’t trust herself to make a good job of it so she would ask Mary to do it for her. Mary hated touching her legs but felt it would be too impolite to refuse. Anyway, it didn’t happen often and Mary was generally upbeat, feeling happy at work and at home, where things were about to change …
‘We’re moving out,’ Mary Eddicott said to Annie as she joined her downstairs in her kitchen. ‘They’ve found us a bungalow, just off the High Street. There’ll be more room for us and you’ll have a lot more room here.’
‘When will you be going?’ Annie asked, feeling a mixture of relief that her family would have more space but also a sadness that she would be split from her old friend. They had stuck together since leaving Bermondsey and shared and supported each other throughout these extraordinary times.
‘We should be gone by the end of the week,’ Mary replied. Annie gave a little smile.
‘Cheer up!’ Mary laughed. ‘We’ll only be round the corner. It’ll be better for us both.’ Annie felt comforted by Mary’s reaction and she reached out to her to share a warm embrace.
The Jarmans helped the Eddicotts to pack up some of their belongings and to settle into their new abode. The two families remained close and the children continued to see each other at school each day anyway.
Sheila, Kath and Pat had moved out of the emergency evacuee school in the village hall and had been assimilated into Hailsham County Junior School in Grovelands Road, a short walk away along the main road. They were still being taught by Miss Mobbs, and Sheila hated it there just as much as she had hated it at the village hall. She longed to be back at her old school in Dockhead, St Joseph’s, and hadn’t realized until now how fond she had been of it!
Joan, meanwhile, was still embarrassing herself at the secondary school in Battle Road. This time in a history lesson. She liked her history teacher, Miss Foster, mainly because her lessons seemed very informal yet informative, and there seldom seemed to be any essays to write.
‘We never have to write anything, Mum,’ she told Annie. ‘She just sits there and talks to us, and we can ask questions and she tells us the answers. I really like her.’
The subject was Ancient Rome and, eager to shine as usual, Joan was first off the mark when Miss Foster asked the class if they knew the names of the Roman fighters who went into combat in the Colosseum.
Joan’s hand shot up. She knew this one. Time to show just how bright she could be.
‘Yes, Joan?’ said the teacher.
‘Gladioli, miss!’ she answered. The class erupted into laughter and Joan went bright red once more.
Joan’s penchant for a quick reply could also serve her well, however. The Jarman girls had very few clothes, just a day dress each, and the younger ones only had one pair of socks. This meant Annie was constantly washing and drying so that they had something clean to wear each day. As soon as their nightdresses were on, the day’s dirty laundry went in the sink to soak, drying overnight near the open fire, and Annie seemed to be darning their garments constantly. The wartime slogan of ‘make do and mend’ had been something that Annie and her girls had been putting into practice all their lives.
One morning at school, a girl in Joan’s class looked her up and down, and asked snootily, ‘Is that the only dress you’ve got? You wear that every day.’
Mortified, yet thinking quickly, Joan lied, ‘Oh no, this is just my school dress. I have other clothes for the weekends.’
The little money the family did have mostly went on food. As it became ever more scarce, and with rationing increasing, news of the arrival of a fresh lamb joint or decent sausages at the butcher’s, tomatoes at the grocer’s or a fresh batch of bread at the baker’s would quickly be whispered from one friend to another and send them scurrying to the shops. Sometimes Annie would open her front door to see what the commotion was, and a familiar face would shout breathlessly, ‘The butcher’s! Sausages!’
It frequently resulted in queues forming outside shops, with women often joining the back of the line without even knowing what they were queuing for. But most of them didn’t mind. It was a useful way to meet and gossip about what was happening locally as well as to have the occasional useful discussion about what was going on in the war. Many of the women had sons or husbands – sometimes both – fighting abroad.
After eight months of relatively little conflict, things were about to change dramatically.
‘They’ve invaded Holland,’ a local woman said to Annie one afternoon as she joined the queue outside the baker’s. Annie felt a chill run through her. It was 10 May 1940 and the start of Hitler’s plan to invade France and the Low Countries. The Nazis were suddenly moving at remarkable speed and the Allies were rattled. Throughout Britain people were buzzing with the rapidly unfolding news. On the same day as the Netherlands bore the imprint of the Nazi boot, in the House of Commons the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain formally lost a vote of no confidence and was compelled to resign. He was immediately succeeded in office by the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill.
On 13 May, German forces ploughed through the Ardennes in Belgium, crossing the Meuse River into France and crushing French resistance. Two days later, the Netherlands surrendered. Annie had listened to the shocking news on the wireless in her kitchen. ‘And they said it would all be over by Christmas,’ she said to Mary Eddicott, as they joined the queue at the baker’s. They, like everyone else, felt more vulnerable now than ever at the thought of German soldiers just across the English Channel – the fear of invasion had never been higher.
The wireless became the most important source of escalating news as one dramatic event after another unfolded. On the evening of 14 May 1940, Annie and the older girls gathered around the wireless as the War Secretary, Anthony Eden, gave a broadcast announcing the creation of the Local Defence Volunteers, which later became known as the Home Guard. It called on men aged between seventeen and sixty-five, who were not in military service, to help defend their country against an invasion. Enrolment at police stations across the country was enthusiastic in the coming days and weeks.
Signposts and place names were removed throughout the country to confuse invading Germans and posters with slogans urging the populace not to enter into conversation with strangers – ‘Be like dad, keep mum’ and ‘Careless
talk costs lives’ – were pasted up. In the South, the ringing of church bells was banned and they would only be sounded by the military or police if there was an invasion. Large concrete boulders were dotted across fields and long ditches dug to hinder enemy tanks should they make it across the Channel.
There was even more alarm when news came that the British Expeditionary Force, which had been sent to France to help their defence against invasion, found itself trapped along the northern coast of the country with the remains of the Belgian and French armies. An emergency evacuation from Dunkirk – known as Operation Dynamo – was put into place across the Channel, beginning on 27 May. An appeal for civilian vessels to come to the aid of stranded troops resulted in a flotilla of 900 naval and civilian craft crossing the Channel under RAF protection. By 4 June, a total of 338,226 soldiers had been brought back to Britain safely.
In a peculiarly British way, retreat was spun into victory in the minds of the majority of the people, fed by newspaper headlines such as ‘Saved’ and ‘Disaster Turned to Triumph’. But even Churchill, that master of stirring oration, cautioned that ‘Wars are not won by evacuations’ and that ‘What has happened in France and Belgium is a colossal military disaster.’
After France surrendered to the Germans on 22 June, Churchill gave the ominous warning, ‘The Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin.’
In Hailsham, Annie listened to the wireless, wide-eyed in horror, and devoured any piece of information she could lay her hands on.
‘What you reading, Mum?’ Joan asked her mother one afternoon, as Annie sat in the kitchen engrossed in a leaflet.
Startled, Annie folded up the leaflet rapidly. ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said quickly, adjusting her expression to neutral. ‘Nothing much of interest.’
But Annie was scared. Having been evacuated to so-called safety, Hailsham and other towns and coastal ports in the South of England were now recognized as being likely landing grounds for German parachutists, should an invasion occur. She had been reading a leaflet published by the Ministry of Defence that had been dropped through the letterbox that morning, entitled ‘If the Invader Comes – what to do and how to do it’.
The Sisters of Battle Road Page 6