by Mary Gibson
‘I’m tiring you out, darlin’.’ She leaned over the bed and kissed him. ‘I wish I could stay all night.’ She clung to his hand. ‘Oh, Bertie, I don’t want to leave you now you’ve come back to me, but that matron’s going to chase me off soon enough and I’ve got to tell her you’re awake! She’s such an old dragon, I’d like to see her crack a smile before I go!’
He returned her kiss with as much strength as he could muster, and it wasn’t until she had left the ward that she realized she hadn’t told him about the strike. There would be time later for disappointment. But for now Milly wanted to run home, and on the way she wanted everyone to ask ‘How’s Bertie?’ just for the joy of hearing her own voice telling them: ‘He’s awake!’
Once out in St Thomas’s Street, she broke into a run. Holding her hat firmly on her head, she dodged the traffic and sped along pavements. Not caring what stares she attracted, she darted across the junction at Tower Bridge and raced down Shad Thames. Halfway along she heard a voice calling, ‘Where’s the bleedin’ fire?’ Without stopping, she glanced up to see Freddie Clark, standing above her on the back of his lorry, covering a load with tarpaulin.
‘Bertie’s woken up!’
‘Bloody marvellous, I’ll tell Kitty!’
She waved her thanks and hurtled on, arriving in Arnold’s Place flushed and out of breath. Mrs Carney was standing at her doorstep, and before she could ask, Milly said, ‘He’s woken up!’ That would take care of the rest of the neighbours. She pushed open her mother’s front door and ran into the kitchen.
‘He’s woken up!’
Amy jumped up and swung Jimmy round in an arc of celebration and Milly, touched by the genuine affection Bertie had stirred in her sister, picked her up and swung her round too.
‘Oh, darlin’, that’s the best news we’ve had since that bloody evil strike started!’ Her mother joined them in a little dance round the kitchen, then stopped, holding her side. She sat down heavily and banged the table. ‘But I tell you, if, God forbid, he hadn’t come back, I would’ve blamed the unions, as God’s my judge I would.’
‘Don’t start about the unions, Mum, let’s have a celebration. Where’s the old man’s tipple?’ She reached into the corner cupboard for the bottle of brandy. Somehow its presence there cast a chill over her. Drink, for the old man, was as precious as gold. Why would he have gone off for good and left a full bottle of brandy behind?
It was another week before Bertie came home. Her mother and Amy were at Storks Road with the children, ready to greet him. Jimmy launched himself at Bertie as soon as he stepped through the door. Still weak, the impact of the toddler made him stagger, and when Jimmy put up his arms for Bertie to toss him into the air, Milly picked the little boy up, saying, ‘Daddy’s still poorly, Jimmy!’
‘Give him here,’ Bertie said. ‘I’m not an invalid!’
But his ashen face, taut with the strain of his illness, told her otherwise, and she insisted he sit down with Jimmy on one knee and Marie crooked in his arm.
Amy, with uncharacteristic shyness, kissed Bertie on the cheek. ‘I’m really glad you’re better,’ she said, adding quickly, ‘Your kids are such bloody hard work!’
‘Amy!’ Her mother was ready to remonstrate, but Milly knew this was the nearest her sister would ever get to showing a chink in her emotional armour. Laughing it off, she said, ‘Why do you think he got himself knocked over the head in the first place – he needed a rest!’
‘And if you think my children are a nuisance, you should try living with my wife!’ Bertie said.
When Amy replied sourly, ‘I have!’ even her mother had to laugh.
After an hour Mrs Colman insisted on leaving.
‘We’re tiring him out, look at him!’ she said, and Milly was grateful.
But she was just seeing them off when Florence Green and Francis Beaumont arrived for a visit. Bertie was told all the details of the strike’s failure, which Milly had tried so hard to shield him from. She saw his face fall as they recounted the sudden caving in by the TUC, even though most of the strikers had been willing to fight on.
‘So it was all for nothing in the end?’ he said disconsolately.
And Milly hated to see his usual optimism so battered.
‘Well, Bermondsey’s sticking by the miners. It’s not over for them,’ Florence said. ‘In fact we’ve adopted a Welsh village called Blaina, and we’re going to make sure at least they’re not starved out.’
The little village had virtually every male inhabitant out of work, there was no poor relief and the hospital had closed when the miners’ contributions to its upkeep dried up.
‘There are children dying of starvation and lack of health care, and even if the miners go back, they’ll still be on starvation wages! We’re determined to raise enough money to keep them going for a year if necessary, aren’t we, Francis?’ Florence gripped her fiancé’s hand.
‘Indeed we are, my dear. In fact we’re travelling to Wales on Saturday to present a donation from the Settlement.’
‘We’ll help out, won’t we, Milly?’ Bertie said, and she was glad to see a flame of eagerness gleaming in his tired eyes. She wasn’t going to dampen it with the knowledge that they barely had enough to pay their own rent. She put off telling him that she was back making jam at Southwell’s.
When they were finally alone and he’d eaten a child’s meal of beef broth and bread, she sat opposite him. The excitement of coming home, and the visitors, had left him exhausted. He leaned his head against the chair and closed his eyes. She watched him, unobserved, grateful to the depths of her being to have him just sitting there.
She thought he had fallen asleep, and was happy to sit watching him all night, when he spoke, eyes still closed. ‘I don’t know if they were just dreams, but sometimes I thought I heard you, when I was sleeping... at the hospital. You sounded so far away, but I was sure I heard you telling me off, saying I couldn’t leave you high and dry. It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘it was me.’
‘You made me come back, Milly. I never realized just how much you loved me... and needed me.’ His eyes opened and rested on her. ‘But now I do, and I promise, I’ll never leave you again.’
She dropped from the chair to her knees and laid her head on his lap as he gently stroked her hair, till the twilight faded to night and the room was quite dark.
Next morning, she was already in her hat and coat by seven o’clock.
‘Going out?’ he asked groggily.
She’d just popped back for her bag and the damn bedroom door had creaked. She’d been creeping about, hoping not to wake him, but now he’d caught her and she’d have to confess. She picked up the bag and bent to kiss him quickly.
‘I meant to tell you, love, but everything happened so quickly... I’ve gone back to the factory.’
His face set hard and he attempted to push himself up. ‘You know I didn’t want you to do that. I’ll be back at Jacob’s in a few days. There’s no need for you to be slaving away at Southwell’s!’
She didn’t have time to explain just how little money she’d been managing on since the strike started, but she had to be realistic for both of them.
‘Bertie, you may not get taken back at Jacob’s. Lots of strikers have been locked out, you know, especially the ringleaders, and don’t forget the management know you were distributing the strike bulletin. I was lucky to get this job, love. Kitty’s not even been taken back on.’
She hated to upset him, so soon after his return, but he was too weak to argue with her. ‘Now all you’ve got to worry about is getting better! Mum’s downstairs, and she’ll be staying here with you and the kids during the day, just till you’re up and about. I’ve got to rush.’ And she kissed him again, before he could object.
At the factory, the atmosphere was uneasy. Strike breakers were being shunned, and strikers lucky enough to have work were equally resentful of the new hands replacing those still locked out. That morning Mi
lly stopped to speak with Kitty, who was again queuing for her job. Milly thought she looked thinner and frailer than ever, shoulders slumped as she shuffled along, edging nearer to the works office.
‘Oh, Kit, haven’t they taken you back yet?’ Milly put her arm round Kitty’s small shoulders, wanting nothing more than to sweep her up to the picking room.
‘I don’t know why you’re being penalized. I see they’ve taken your Ada back in the boiling room.’
Kitty shrugged. ‘Suppose I spent too much time on the picket line shouting me mouth off! They know my face, simple as that. What’s it like in the picking room?’
‘Chaos, up to our ears in strawberries going rotten before we can sort them. There’s just not enough of us. I heard that Hartley’s were back up and running straight away. It won’t be long, love, before our lot see sense and take you all back. They can’t afford not to. Want me to have a word with Tom today, see if he can put a word in for you?’
‘Oh, would you mind, Mill? Mum’s been up to the Guardians every day, but a loaf of bread’s all you get and our Percy’s such a gannet it’s gone in no time!’
No wonder her friend looked half starved; she was probably giving all her share to Percy. ‘Look, I’ve got to dash now, Kit, but I’ll do me best with Tom!’
She hurried through the gates and across the yard. Half a dozen trolleys that would normally be transporting filled jars to the warehouses were standing idle, and as she passed the boiling room she could see that only half the copper pans were steaming away. The whole place, which normally ran like clockwork, had a ramshackle, untidy feel to it. Shipped-in labour was keeping the wharf running, but they took a day to unload what an experienced gang of dockers could do in an hour.
And it wasn’t just the factory that felt this way. Milly sensed unease permeating the whole of Dockhead. The strike had felt like civil war at times, and now headlines of triumphant celebrations were a bitter pill for those left on the breadline. And all around her, those who laboured to keep London’s Larder full, dockers and jam girls alike, were returning to work, feeling that they counted for nothing. A heaviness hung in the air, a stink of betrayal, more acrid than the coke and smoke from the hundred chimneys that forested Bermondsey. The noxious smell of their defeat fought with the sweet scent of strawberry jam boiling in Southwell’s copper pans, and was equally inescapable.
She made her appeal for Kitty that dinner time. Tom was one of the more sympathetic foremen, but his response wasn’t encouraging.
‘My hands are tied, Milly. They don’t listen to me.’
She was about to walk away, but thought better of it. ‘Well, a friend of mine works in Hartley’s order department, says they’ve started stealing all our business. Customers won’t hang about out of loyalty these days, will they, Tom? Not when there’s Lipton’s, and Pink’s as well, for them to choose from.’
Tom smiled. ‘I always said you should be a forelady. Want to come and tell management that?’
‘They wouldn’t listen to the likes of me!’
‘Maybe not, but it’s a fair point and I’ll be sure to pass it on.’
‘What about Kitty Bunclerk?’ she pressed.
He scratched his forehead and sighed. ‘Oh, all right, you cheeky cow. I’ll get her in somehow, just to get you off me back!’
Milly gave him her sweetest smile, wishing that she was on equally good terms with the foreman at Jacob’s. Bertie thought it would be plain sailing to walk back into his old job, but the world had changed while he had been sleeping.
It was the middle of June before Bertie was strong enough to return to work, though it had been a constant battle for Milly to keep him at home. Her Southwell’s wages and what she could make at the Old Clo’ were not enough to support them, as well as her mother and sister, and eventually she had to give in.
She put out his work clothes, and it broke her heart when he had to call on her for help shaving. His hands were trembling so much with the effort that the cut-throat razor shook dangerously in his hand. She carefully finished the job, holding his head still, while she drew the razor through the thick soap he’d applied to his face.
‘Bertie, love, if you can’t even shave yourself, how could you possibly drive a van?’ she asked him as she wiped away the last spots of soap.
He stood up and slipped on his waistcoat. ‘I’ve got to show my face otherwise they’ll think I’m not coming back! Once I’ve started moving about, I’ll get stronger.’
He took the razor from her and began washing it carefully. ‘Anyway,’ he said softly, ‘you know as well as I do that we’re going under. Doesn’t look like your father’s coming back, and you can’t keep them all on your own. We’ll have to take in your mum and Amy.’
He’d obviously observed more from his sickbed than she’d realized. ‘Who told you about the old man?’
‘Amy’s been keeping me company in the afternoons.’
‘Typical, she’s such a contrary mare. Tell her to keep quiet about something and of course she does the opposite. She knew I didn’t want you worried!’
‘Oh, don’t blame her, Milly. She just wanted to talk to someone about it. You do know she’s terrified of him coming back?’
She helped him on with his jacket. ‘Of course I know, but why didn’t she talk to me?’
She stood behind him as he checked himself in the wardrobe mirror and their eyes met in the glass. There was the old quizzical look, the one that always made her ask herself what she was missing.
‘Because she didn’t want to worry you.’
Milly guffawed. ‘Oh, do me a favour, Bertie, Amy only does what she wants to do. I don’t think she even realizes I exist half the time.’
‘That’s not true. She’s been a good ’un looking after the kids, and who do you think she’s doing that for?’
She didn’t want to argue with him, not now. So she swallowed her retort.
‘Well, thanks for suggesting we take them in, love, but I’m not sure if my mum could survive anywhere but Arnold’s Place.’
‘We’ll talk about it tonight. Now, how do I look?’
Older than his twenty-seven years, was the answer, and his jacket swamped his weakened frame, but she tightened his tie and said, ‘Very smart! Don’t forget your hat!’ She handed him the trilby and saw him out, with a silent prayer that Jacob’s would be more forgiving than Southwell’s when it came to ex-strikers.
So that evening when she came home with the children she was relieved to find that Bertie wasn’t there – he must have been taken back on. They would have to celebrate somehow, though looking round the bleak little larder she had trouble imagining how. She sliced the remains of some boiled bacon and made a pease pudding. Then with the last of her flour, she made Bertie’s favourite treat, Welsh cakes. Though he was London born, Bertie’s grandmother was Welsh and she’d made them for him when he was a child. Milly put the children to bed and waited. She wished she had a bottle of beer for him, but there was some ginger wine which she’d kept for Christmas, and that would have to do.
An hour after his normal time for arriving home, she began to worry. She would have to heat up the dinners again and the pease pudding would undoubtedly spoil. Perhaps they were keeping him late as punishment for striking? She sat sewing in the light of the gas lamp, her mind circling the possibilities. What if he really had been too weak to drive the van and had crashed? Come on, Bertie, where are you? she chafed, putting her sewing away. It was no good, she’d attached the sleeves the wrong way round and would have to re-do them. This was torture. After another hour, she heard his key in the latch and ran to greet him.
‘Oh, love, I’m sorry you’ve had such a long day! I’ve made you a lovely dinner to celebrate and the buggers have kept you late!’
She was pushing him towards the kitchen, plying him with questions.
‘Strike me dumb, let’s get me coat off first!’
She took his jacket. ‘Sit down at the table. You’ve got Welsh cakes for afters
!’
She put the dinners on the table and sat opposite him. ‘There’s only ginger wine, but we should celebrate. I really didn’t think they’d take you back!’ She lifted her glass to him.
‘Well, this looks lovely!’ he said, beginning to eat in his normal slow fashion.
‘Have a drink with me then. You don’t look too happy about getting your job back.’
He picked up the glass and sipped at the fiery wine, then put it down carefully.
‘I didn’t get the job back, Milly. They’ve locked me out. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be celebrating. I’m alive at least.’ He gave a little laugh.
She slammed down her glass so that the wine spilled on the tablecloth. ‘Why can’t you be like a normal person and tell me straight away when there’s bad news!’ It was so typical of him, to not give her the most crucial piece of information as soon as he walked through the door.
He smiled at her again.
‘But where’ve you been all day?’
‘Looking for something else. I’ve been all over for driving jobs; Peek’s, Pearce Duff’s, Crosse & Blackwell’s, everywhere, but I’m on some sort of blacklist.’ He finished wearily. ‘I’ll try again tomorrow. But that was lovely,’ he said as he finished his dinner. ‘Now where are those Welsh cakes?’
‘You must be worn out. Did you get trams?’ she asked anxiously, putting the plate of cakes in front of him.
‘Trams, what do I want with trams? I’ve got to build up my strength, otherwise I’ll be useless whatever job I get!’
She’d expected him to lose his job, and she’d been right, but she’d also expected him to be crushed. She wasn’t quite sure if his optimism was real, or simply put on for her benefit. Whatever the case, she suspected he would have to keep it up for a good long time if he’d been blacklisted by every firm in Bermondsey.
The heady sweetness of strawberry jam eventually faded from the riverside streets, giving way to the sharper notes of blackcurrants and gooseberries. When the delicate scent of raspberries seeded the air, Bertie began to look outside Bermondsey for a job. He walked all over south London, going back to his birthplace in Dulwich, calling in on the shopkeepers he knew from his grocer days. He refused to take trams and as his shoes slowly wore out, so did his poor feet. By damson season, when Milly was busy stoning fruit, Bertie had begun making cardboard soles for his shoes. Seemingly still optimistic, never complaining, he walked even further afield in his search for work. Milly worried that he’d never truly regained his strength after the accident and now he seemed to be surviving on sheer will power.