by Lissa Evans
‘Ooooh, Miss Simpkin doesn’t layke us to be leet,’ said her older brother Charlie, in a rotten impression of someone posh.
‘She doesn’t layke it,’ chimed in ten-year-old Frank. Ida ignored them.
‘I’ll be back again next week,’ she said.
‘Why can’t you drop in of an evening?’
‘No, I told you Auntie says I’m to help her in the evenings, she’s rushed off her feet.’
Her mother’s mouth tightened. ‘Well, that doesn’t seem fair, does it? Can’t you tell her your mum and dad want to see you?’
‘But she doesn’t ask me for any keep. That was the agreement, wasn’t it? That’s what we said – I’d help her out sometimes and then I could give you something from my wages.’
She’d been at her aunt’s six months now, swapping a bedroom full of brothers for one pillared with stacks of newly folded laundry – a bleached palisade that blotted out all sound so that, for a week or two, she’d kept waking, listening for the sound of Jerry grinding his teeth, Frank muttering about the bicycle that he was saving to buy, her father’s snore audible through the wall.
‘Well, it still seems selfish,’ said her mother, ‘having you all to herself. But’ – she gave a sigh that was more like a wince – ‘maybe you like being with her more than you like being with us.’
‘No, of course I don’t. But—’
‘The thing is, Ida, your auntie’s a little bit jealous. Never had children herself. Never had a lovely little bundle like this lad.’ She nuzzled Danny’s neck, making him laugh before abruptly scooping him off her knee on to the rug. ‘Well, if you’re going, I’d better get on with lunch.’ Danny’s eyes widened with the shock of sudden abandonment, and he let out a wail. ‘Look, he’s upset now. You have to say tata to Ida, Danny. She can’t stay and play, she’s got important things to do.’
‘Oh, I forgot …’ Ida felt in the pocket of her coat and took out a little packet. ‘I got something for you, Danny.’
Her brother reached up for it, tearing off the paper and staring at the pink object inside.
‘That’s a funny old present,’ said her mum. ‘You usually bring him a sweet.’
‘Well, I thought I’d make a change. Keep his teeth nice. I thought he’d like the bright handle – it’s made of celluloid.’ The new word felt awkward in her mouth, like an outsized lozenge.
Danny turned the toothbrush over in his hand, looked up at his mother with eyes of exactly the same pale blue as hers and then, sensing some unspoken cue, swivelled his gaze to Ida.
‘Sweets,’ he said, mouth puckering.
‘I’ll bring you some next time.’
‘Sweets!’ He threw the toothbrush on the floor.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Mum, picking it up and dusting it. ‘He’s disappointed now. Never mind, Danny, Ida meant well. But I keep your toothy-pegs nice, don’t I? I put a little bit of tooth powder on a flannel, just like I did with Ida when she was a baby, and her teeth are all right, aren’t they?’
‘I know, Mum, but toothbrushes are even better, they get into all the little gaps, Miss Lee says. And you know, don’t you, you can take Danny to the baby clinic in Drummond Street for them to look at his teeth and it won’t cost you nothing?’ She paused. ‘Cost you anything, I mean.’
‘Corst you anytheeng,’ said Charlie. Frank sniggered.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ said her mother, lifting Danny’s solid little body on to her hip, ‘but Ida says I’ve been looking after you all wrong.’ He was crying hard now, arching backwards over her supporting arm.
‘I didn’t mean that, Mum, I just meant—’
‘I thought I was doing my best, but I let you down, didn’t I? … No, don’t cry, little lad. Can you take him for a second, Ida?’
Reluctantly, Ida tried to comply, but he batted her away with sticky hands, his mouth a roaring hole.
Her mother smiled sadly. ‘It’s because he hardly sees you now. You’re a stranger to him.’
‘I’m not. He’s just in a mood.’
‘Well, I can’t cook when he’s upset like this, you’ll just have to do the potatoes for me. The others’ll be back any minute.’
She whisked off into the bedroom, and Ida banged the pan on the stove, smeared it with dripping and lit the gas, tears pricking her eyes. Outside in the world, with other people, she could talk, give answers, be quick off the mark – too quick, her mouth sprinting away with her thoughts – but here at home with her mother it was as if the floor was always shifting, so that she never got her footing, could never fix her aim. It was almost as bad at her aunt’s; they were both on at her at the moment; she felt like a pencil sharpened at both ends.
Charlie was reading the funnies at the kitchen table. ‘Corst me anytheeng,’ he said again, not looking at her.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she said, wearily.
There was supposed to be someone coming from the Hampstead newspaper today, to write an article about the Amazons, and she’d been stupid enough to get excited at the idea – ‘As senior founding member, Ida, I would particularly like you to talk to the journalist,’ Miss Simpkin had said. And now she was going to be late. She’d ironed her shirt specially, and embroidered another gold star on to her green sash; this one was for ‘making pertinent points during discussions’. Ida suspected that Miss Simpkin made up some of the star awards as she went along – Winnie had recently got one for ‘avoiding retaliation when provoked’ – but there were more standard categories as well: navigation, tree identification, Great Women of History, voice projection. Ida had more stars than anyone else. If Freda and the others could have seen her nearly crying over a panful of spuds, they wouldn’t have believed it.
She glanced across at her brothers, and Frank stuck his tongue out at her. ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ she said, automatically, as if to a lad she was passing in the street. Her friend Vesta came from a very big family – fourteen children – but they seemed to like one another, teased without malice, went out together of an evening. Being with them was like being with a basketful of puppies, whereas her own family was … what? … a row of watchdogs, all waiting for a pat from the owner. Rivals, checking on one another out of the corners of their eyes. And it didn’t help, of course, that she was the only girl.
‘You could do this, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Anyone can fry potatoes.’
‘I’ve been working all week.’
‘And I haven’t?’
‘Men don’t cook.’
‘Yes, they do. Sailors when they’re at sea. Hotel chefs. There’s a man called Escoffier who’s a better cook than anyone in the world.’
‘I wouldn’t eat French food.’
‘Well, you’re going to,’ she said, triumphantly, ‘because these are called sauté potatoes, and that’s a French word.’
‘You turning into a snob, Idie?’
‘No!’ she said, stung. ‘Learning new things doesn’t make you a snob. Learning new things is part of being a human – it’s why we’ve ended up with bigger brains than monkeys.’
‘Who are you calling a monkey?’
She turned away, to avoid Frank’s chimp impersonation.
‘Here’s a sweet chestnut,’ Miss Simpkin had said last week. ‘Long, serrated green leaves, fissured trunk, little different to any other tree, you might think. But its Latin name is castanea sativa, and its light pale wood is used to make the Spanish dancers’ hand-clappers, which is why they are called castanets. The species was brought to this country by the Romans, who wanted a large supply of chestnuts, not to roast over the fire in winter, as we do, but to dry out and grind into flour. When a Roman said “bread”, he didn’t think of wheat fields but of this tall and splendid tree. Look up at it, girls, and think of twirling flamenco dancers, and those poor homesick legionaries eating sweet, yellow loaves that reminded them of their mothers’ kitchens. Now, doesn’t that make the world feel wider?’
There was a scuffling on the outside landing, and then the door opened an
d the flat was suddenly full, brothers everywhere, Ted back from his shift as a porter, Harold and Jerry carrying a bag of small coals between them, picked from the road beside the goods yard.
‘Got me a present?’ asked Jerry, the second youngest and dreadfully jealous of the baby.
‘Not this time.’
‘I bet you got Danny a present.’
‘Just a toothbrush.’
‘A toothbrush?’
‘Don’t disturb Ida, she’s sooootying the potatoes.’
‘She’s what?’
‘It’s nothing fancy,’ said Ida, irritably. ‘It just means frying potatoes that you’ve already boiled, and there isn’t an English word for it. And I’ve finished now.’ She jerked a pile of plates from a shelf.
‘Idie, I forgot, there’s a couple of rashers on a dish by the window,’ called her mother from the other room. ‘Can you do those for Ted? And put on the kettle after, will you?’
‘Oh, Mum—’
But, as she spoke, the station clock chimed the hour, which meant that she was so certain to be late, now, that another five minutes would scarcely make a difference, and she fried the bacon with such vehemence that the plate she slammed in front of Ted was covered in tattered scraps. Clattering down the area steps, the frown tightened across her forehead like a bandeau.
‘Give us a smile, girlie,’ said the bus conductor.
She could have bitten him.
‘Paper’s here,’ said Mattie, dropping the Hampstead & Highgate Express on to the kitchen table and straightaway beginning to search through it.
The Flea was standing beside the sink, reading a letter. ‘This came this morning,’ she said.
‘What came?’
‘It’s from Ida’s aunt, the one she lodges with. Mrs Beck. Lilias Beck. She asks if I can visit her.’
‘Does she give a reason?’
‘No. Well, not precisely. She says it’s about her niece, but gives no details.’
‘Odd.’
‘Yes, it is, rather.’ The handwriting was surprisingly elegant: I would be obliged, Miss Lee, if you don’t tell my niece I sent this.
‘Here’s the article!’ said Mattie, smoothing flat an inner page of the newspaper. ‘Quite a spread. Though rather a peculiar headline.’
The March of Progress
Heath Activities for the Youth of Today
Gleeful shouts mark the weekly meeting of ‘The Amazons’, a girls’ club founded by Vale of Health resident Miss Matilda Simpkin. Free of charge, and open to all young ladies between the ages of eleven and eighteen, it offers healthy and hearty fun to schoolgirl and factory lass alike. The sight of these coltish creatures in their weekend clothes and green sashes, kicking up their heels and frolicking ’cross the sward, is becoming familiar to Heath walkers.
‘Good God, I should have insisted on writing it myself,’ said Mattie, elbows planted on the table. ‘The style is frightful.’
‘But factually correct,’ said The Flea, reading over her shoulder.
Last Sunday, more than thirty girls were gathered ’neath a hollow tree, their voices raised in gay chatter as the plans for the week’s meeting unfolded. ‘I say, can we have a crack at Fox and Hounds today?’ called one pigtailed girl. ‘Bags I the fox!’ called another.
A register was taken, Fox and Hounds agreed upon, and then soft, young faces became serious as the weekly discussion topic was broached. ‘What is Freedom?’ was the subject of the day, and rosy foreheads, more usually harbouring visions of matinee idols and hair ribbons, were wrinkled in donnish thought.
Mattie snorted. ‘One would think they’d employed Ethel M. Dell as a copy-editor.’
‘Well, I think it’s first rate,’ said The Flea, whose well-thumbed copy of The Way of an Eagle was wedged between the hygiene textbooks in her bedroom bookcase. ‘Any girls reading this would be longing to join.’
After the discussion, and the eventual capture of ‘the fox’ (a speedy Doris Elphick, of Grafton Terrace, whose stated ambition is to be a games mistress), the girls gave a display of self-defence techniques, carried out with creditable vigour, before the meeting ended with cocoa and biscuits back at ‘Headquarters’. Pink cheeks and bright eyes abounded, and many biscuits were eaten! ‘When I’m bored in lessons, which is almost all of the time, I just think of the fun we’re going to have on Sunday,’ said Miss Freda Solomons, aged fifteen, who has been to every single club meeting. But ‘fun’ is not the sole aim of The Amazons:
‘Several of our members left school before matriculation and have little time for further study,’ Miss Simpkin told the Ham & High. ‘This club gives them an opportunity to develop and maintain fitness of both body and brain. The Equal Franchise Bill has just had its first reading, and it is more than likely that, by the end of this year, every British woman of twenty-one and over will be allowed to vote. Our girls need to learn to question and to analyse, so that they can step up to the ballot box with confidence and knowledge.’
Elsewhere on the Heath, recent Saturday mornings have been presenting a contrasting approach to youth education.
‘Oh, no! Oh, Heavens above!’ exclaimed The Flea, reading ahead.
Smart in tan uniforms and gleaming belts, a mixed group of boys and girls march past the bathing ponds, the parade headed by a flag-bearer holding aloft a Union Jack, while a drummer and a trio of fife players mark the beat. Admiring glances follow the progress of these young members of the Empire Youth League as they assemble beside the boating lake and wait in respectful silence for their orders. There are no shouted suggestions here, and no horseplay; marching drill, running practice and semaphore are the activities of the day, and they are carried out with impressive energy and discipline. Young faces shine with pride at the praise from their leaders, Mr and Mrs Richard Cellini, of Highgate, and after a short address on the subject of duty, followed by a rousing song (‘The Empire’s Flag Raise We with Pride’), they are dismissed for another week, with the stern admonition to keep their belts polished!
‘Richard and I recently arrived from Australia, where we have spent many years working with young people, and what struck us on reaching these shores was that not enough is asked of the youth of this great country,’ says Mrs Cellini. ‘British boys and girls are capable of tremendous feats – just think of the patriotic youngsters who defied the reds and pressed themselves into the nation’s service during the iniquitous General Strike. The aim of the League is to treat young people as citizen soldiers, as junior guardians of our island realm. Rather than encouraging them to play childish games, or engage in classroom debate, we urge them to stride into the future, using their strength and commitment to drive back the sickly tide of foreign interference. In unity, and with pride, they will take this country forward.’
‘What utter spinach,’ said Mattie. ‘What an essentially meaningless succession of sentences!’ She felt winded, as if she’d just received an unexpected blow to the solar plexus.
‘And also quite spiteful,’ said The Flea.
‘Rhetoric without content has always been the trademark of the charlatan. Twenty years ago, Jacqueline Fletcher was a good egg, but it is clear that she is now addled.’
She rose abruptly; irritation always goaded her to physical action, and she unhooked her gardening apron from the scullery door and removed a pair of secateurs from the pocket. ‘If you want me, I shall be pruning the dogwood.’
‘But do you think that she did this deliberately, as competition?’ asked The Flea. ‘Had she seen the Amazons on the Heath?’
‘I have no doubt that that is the case. And I believe I told you that we had recently been tailed by a group of boys, and at least two of those were wearing some species of uniform.’
And as she stamped outside into the mildest of early spring days – nature perceptibly stirring, an early bee fumbling among the grape hyacinths, catkins twisting on the hazel – it was the appropriation, and perversion, of her idea that rankled most. To take airy freedom and turn it into military
drill, to sprint across the paradise of the Heath in the name of patriotism, to prohibit spontaneity and sneer at the notion of ‘fun’; these seemed as good a definition of fascism as any she had come across. She knelt by the cornus alba and began to cut back last year’s blood-red stems, pausing only to shy a clod of earth at the Wimbournes’ tabby (a vicious thrush-killer), who was watching her from the rail of the summer house. It fled into the near-perfect camouflage of a clump of raspberry canes and, after a moment or two, Mattie knelt back on her heels and felt in her skirt pocket for the miniature notebook and pencil that she always carried. Thumbing through, she added the words ‘stalking/camouflage’ to a list of possible Amazon activities.
Her annoyance was already subsiding; really, one could almost pity the narrowness of Jacko’s vision. What girl alive would want to stand to attention for a lecture on duty when she could be sneaking through the woods with a hat made of leaves? Why hold a flagpole when you could hold a javelin? Still, it might be expedient, from now on, to interview new Amazon recruits rather than let them simply turn up; she would not put it past the Empire League to send a single spy creeping across the lines …
In the kitchen, The Flea read the article again, her lips compressed into a thin seam of disquiet. She would not, in honesty, ever have classified Jacqueline Fletcher as ‘a good egg’. The phrase implied solidity and kindness, both qualities rather lacking in the glamorous figure who had occasionally visited the WSPU offices in a coat worth more than an organizer’s annual wage, and a trailing tippet which had once knocked two hours’ worth of filed paperwork from The Flea’s desk. (‘Shall I help you to sort it out?’ Jacqueline had asked, making no move to do so, ‘though I might not be a great deal of use – I’m awfully stupid about that type of thing …’) And yet one could never forget that she had been just as brave, just as dedicated to the cause of equal franchise as Mattie, as Aileen, as Roberta – possessed of the same iron backbone that seemed to have been issued to all the militants, however disparate their characters and backgrounds, so that stoics and mystics, contemplatives and workhorses, the robust, the cheerful, the imperious, the shy had all been transformed into troops who could be thrust, again and again, into the fray, at hideous physical cost.