With Hope and Love

by Ellie Dean

  Frank shook his great head and grimaced. ‘There’s plenty willing to be taken on, but most of them don’t know one end of a boat from another, and haven’t the slightest idea of how to work a trawler.’ He chuckled. ‘I took a couple of men out the other day when it was as flat as a mill pond, and they spent the entire time throwing up over the side.’

  ‘What about the old crew? Haven’t they come looking to take up their jobs again?’

  Frank’s expressive face showed his sadness. ‘Five never came back from the Atlantic convoys, two were wounded in France and won’t work on boats again, and another two have decided to retire.’ He heaved a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. ‘There are just enough of us to man the two trawlers, but the rest of the boats are lying up idle.’

  ‘At least the trawlers should bring in enough to pay the wages,’ said Ron. ‘And of course, you’ve got the rents from those cottages. You made a good move there, son.’

  Frank nodded. ‘The rents certainly help, but there’s still a lot of work to be done to get those cottages how I want them.’ He sipped his tea and lit a cigarette, watching the dogs cavort in the shallows. ‘I hear Rosie’s got involved with the local election. I never took her as someone who was interested in politics.’

  Ron grinned. ‘I don’t think she ever was really, until bread and potatoes were rationed for the first time, and the prices shot through the roof. She hears a lot from behind the bar, and realised things had to change for the better, so started going to the candidates’ meetings. Now she’s all fired up and even talking about standing as a Labour candidate in next year’s local council elections.’

  Frank’s brows lifted and he stared at his father in disbelief. ‘Labour?’

  ‘Aye, it surprised me too,’ admitted Ron. ‘Her family were all staunch Tories, and that’s where I thought her loyalties lay, but she’s swallowed Labour’s promises hook, line and sinker, and has joined up with them. She’s now spending every spare hour handing out leaflets and knocking on doors. The bar has become a meeting place during closing time, and election fever is high.’ He gave a sniff of disapproval. ‘I stay out of the way as much as I can, because airing my Tory opinions only causes heated arguments.’

  ‘Oh, Da,’ groaned Frank. ‘You and Rosie haven’t fallen out, have you?’

  Ron shook his head before draining the mug of tea. ‘We leave politics outside the bedroom door, and have agreed to disagree on the matter. To be sure, I’ll just be glad when it’s all over and done with and we can go back to a peaceful life.’

  ‘I’m with you there,’ said Frank, shooting him a wry smile. ‘More tea?’

  ‘No thanks, son. I’ve got to get back to Beach View, check on the tiler and hose down Harvey.’ He looked towards the dog which was now rolling in the pile of discarded fish guts by the water’s edge. ‘Ach, to be sure there are times I could cheerfully murder that heathen beast,’ he muttered without real rancour.

  He squeezed Frank’s shoulder. ‘Chin up, son. Have a sleep, and when you’ve been to see Brendon, come to the Anchor for a pint.’

  Frank’s smile was weary. ‘Thanks, Da. I might just do that.’

  Solly’s new enterprise on the factory estate was in full swing that afternoon, the production running as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. The cutters, machinists, checkers and packers were busy working at their stations on the array of maternity clothes and babywear in an atmosphere of pent-up excitement. It was the day of the election, and everyone had an opinion as to which party would win, so there had been a bit of argy-bargy when things had grown heated, but Peggy had managed to cool things down enough so it didn’t come to blows.

  She kept an eye on the less experienced machinists she’d placed close to an old hand and saw that most of them were getting along well, so went to see how the girls on the checking tables were doing. It was here that the work was assessed and either passed or set aside as seconds which would be sold on market stalls. She noted with pleasure that the seconds pile was smaller than of late, but having checked the machinist’s number on the tag inside each piece, her spirits fell. Marge Sherman’s work was still well below an acceptable standard.

  She gathered up the maternity dresses and took them into the small office which had been partitioned off from the factory floor. Dumping the dresses on her desk, she pulled Marge’s file from the cabinet and read through it even though she was familiar with the woman’s background and work history.

  Marge had been working in the armaments factory when her soldier husband had been killed during the beach landings, and she’d been left with three small children to raise. Both her parents were frail and unable to help, and her husband’s family had been wiped out during the bombing raids on Coventry. The armaments factory had closed, and like so many others, Marge was out of work.

  Peggy closed the file and sat back with a sigh of deep regret. Marge had begged her for this job and Peggy rather foolishly had let her heart rule her head and taken her on even though she’d had no previous experience of sewing. The poor woman had tried hard to learn but she was still making too many mistakes, and with all the unpicking and resewing, the garments ended up looking rather grubby.

  Looking through the large window to the factory floor, Peggy spotted Marge struggling to clear her machine of the tangled cotton caught under the needle. Fanny Rawson stayed her hand and took over with her usual neat efficiency, and the blockage was cleared again.

  Peggy was warmed by Fanny’s seemingly endless patience as she once again showed Marge the correct way to thread the machine. Peggy had asked Solly for the girl to come with her to help oversee the new intake of sewers, and she’d proved to be very reliable.

  However, this state of affairs couldn’t be allowed to continue, and it was down to Peggy to do something about it. This was the part of the job she hated the most, especially when it involved someone who was desperate for work – and, it had to be said, a keen trier.

  She examined the maternity dresses again in the hope they could be rescued from the seconds pile by a bit of judicious resewing. But the hem dipped at the sides, one of the seams gaped, and the armholes were rucked up where the material had been turned inexpertly and missed the needle altogether. It simply wouldn’t do.

  Peggy pushed the dresses to one side and mulled over what she could arrange so the woman wasn’t left entirely without work. She let her gaze trawl the factory which was about a third of the size of the one in Camden Road, but still employed over sixty people.

  The cutting tables were definitely not for Marge, and there were enough checkers at the moment, so that was out too. Work in the warehouse meant shifting heavy bales of material and loading and unloading the delivery lorries; the three finishers were nimble-fingered and experts at hand-sewing the final touches to the garments, and the canteen which served the whole estate was already fully staffed.

  ‘But there might be something in the packing department,’ she muttered, and reached for the list of employees. There were three girls and two men involved in packing the clothes for transport, and she remembered suddenly that one of the girls was pregnant. She placed the list on her desk, checked the time and hurried down the lines of machinists to the partitioned area that housed the packing department.

  Returning a while later, she approached Marge who was close to tears of frustration as she tried to unjam the material from beneath the needle. ‘It’s almost the end of the day, Marge, leave that and come with me to my office.’

  The blue eyes widened and a large tear beaded her lashes as she left her machine. ‘You aren’t going to sack me, are you?’ she whispered fearfully.

  Peggy’s heart went out to her but she didn’t reply as she gently nudged her towards the office. Once the door was closed behind her, she took Marge’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I can’t keep you on the machines.’

  Marge burst into loud sobs. ‘But I need to work,’ she managed. ‘Please give me another chance.’

  Peggy pressed her down int
o a chair and gave her a clean handkerchief. ‘I do have another position for you, but it will pay less.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Marge replied eagerly.

  Peggy chuckled. ‘You don’t know what it is yet. But I think you’ll be happier in the packing department, even if the pay isn’t as good. The hours are the same, nine to five, and you’ll still share in any bonuses rising from the sales orders.’

  ‘Thank you, oh, thank you,’ Marge breathed tearfully. ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

  ‘Clock off at the usual time today, and start in packing tomorrow morning. Come in a bit early so Cathy can show you what the job entails.’ She smiled at Marge who was looking a great deal more cheerful. ‘It’s her you should thank, really, because instead of handing her notice in next week as she’d planned, she’ll leave once you’re settled. She’s heavily pregnant, and finding it very hard to be on her feet all day.’

  Once Marge had left her office and she’d returned the dresses to the seconds pile, Peggy dealt with the seemingly endless paperwork which came across her desk each day, and then checked the order book.

  Solly was a wise old owl, she thought fondly, noting how the orders were flooding in. He’d known there’d be a baby boom and had dived in before his competitors and was now reaping the benefits – as were the staff since he’d decided to reward them a monthly bonus from the profits. It was an innovative idea which encouraged the workers to greater efforts, and was no doubt making Solly a very rich man.

  Peggy closed the order book, checked the time, then went to see if the warehouse was prepared for the large material order that was due to arrive the next morning. All was as it should be, and on returning to the factory floor, she clapped her hands for silence.

  ‘I know you’re all in a rush to get home, but before you go, there’s something I’d like to say.’

  There was a general groan and shuffling of feet, but she had their attention. ‘I just want to remind you to cast your vote,’ she said. ‘Not so long ago, other women died and were imprisoned so you could have a voice in the running of this country, and it would be disrespectful to their memory not to use your vote and have your say.’ She smiled. ‘Go on, get out of here, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  There was a stampede to clock off, and within minutes the factory was still and empty.

  Once she’d picked up Daisy from the crèche, Peggy went to the Town Hall to cast her vote, then made her way home. When she arrived, she found Cordelia, Danuta, Jane and Sarah in the kitchen which was full of the delicious aroma of warming shepherd’s pie. As usual there was no sign of Martin, who’d taken to leaving early and coming home long after dark during the past week, moving so quietly about the house that Peggy quite often had no idea if he was in or not. But there had certainly been no sign that he’d been drinking heavily, and according to Ron, he spent most of his time at the airfield with Roger. She could only hope that being together and talking things over was doing both of them some good.

  ‘There are several letters for you, Peggy,’ said Sarah, placing a cup of tea in front of her. ‘And, going by the writing, I suspect one of them is from Ivy,’ she added with a grin.

  Peggy settled Daisy onto the cushion and tucked her chair closer to the table so she could reach the bowl of pie Cordelia had been cooling for her. Unable to resist looking through the tempting small pile of letters, she felt her spirits rise. There were two from Jim, one from Ivy – whose writing had not improved – and one from Fran.

  ‘You go ahead and eat,’ she told the others. ‘I’ll just have this cup of tea for now while I read my post.’ She set Jim’s letters to one side to savour them slowly after tea, and opened Ivy’s, knowing it would be short, but fearing it would prove hard to decipher.

  The single page had been scrawled on both sides with Ivy’s appalling writing and bad spelling, but Peggy managed to work out that the girl was very happy with Andy in their lovely flat, and although she was suffering horribly from morning sickness, she’d managed to get a part-time job behind the counter at Woolworths.

  Andy was working long, busy shifts, but his fellow firemen were a jolly bunch and he felt very much part of the team. She asked if anyone had heard from Ruby yet, and if there was news of Rita’s wedding, because if she left it too long, she’d be too fat to get into anything decent. Almost as an afterthought, she mentioned the fact that George and Elsie’s adoption had now gone through, then signed off with an unreadable signature and a row of kisses.

  Peggy smiled and left the letter for Cordelia to read once she’d finished her tea, and then opened the one from Fran. It was four pages long and neatly written in a looping copperplate that was a pleasure to read – the nuns in Ireland had clearly taught her well.

  Dear Aunt Peggy,

  I’m sorry I haven’t written much before, but I’ve been very busy settling in and getting used to a large, busy London hospital again. I’m back at St George’s where I did my training, and working in theatre. The surgeons can be quite rude and very brusque at times, but the work is fascinating and I’m learning a lot as well as making new friends among the other nurses. None of us know what changes there will be, and how they will affect us if Labour gets in, but it’s clear to us all that if they do, this promised National Health Service will be a godsend – especially for those poor, desperate people living in the devastation of what remains of the East End. The damage up here is quite appalling and serves to remind us both how lucky we were to spend the war years in lovely Cliffehaven.

  Robert has settled into his new posting, and leaves every morning in his three-piece suit and bowler hat, carrying his briefcase and rolled-up umbrella, for all the world looking like a real London gent, which makes me giggle a bit, because he isn’t at all pompous or grand like so many of the others he’s working with. I have no idea what he’s doing in that office, but he seems excited about it, and that’s all that really matters.

  We’ve joined an orchestra, which practises every Wednesday night in the rehearsal rooms of the Palace Theatre, and although we can’t always make it because of our work commitments, we’re finding it wonderfully relaxing to be playing again, and I can’t thank Doris enough for letting me keep the violin.

  The flat is very grand and furnished in the style of how I imagine a terribly smart and expensive hotel would be. There are two large bedrooms, a drawing room, dining room and even a small book-lined office, which Robert has taken over. There’s a lovely balcony which catches the evening sun, and we’ve taken to sitting out there to watch the world go by.

  It’s far too big for us, but being in the heart of the city, it’s convenient for getting about easily, and I’m slowly learning which tube or bus to take, for it’s all very different to my student days.

  We have started looking for a place of our own, but the rents are extortionate and there’s not much choice to be had, so we’ll probably stay here for a while until we find the right place. Neither of us wants a long commute every day, but it looks as if we’ll have to spread our search further afield to one of the London suburbs, and rely on the trains. The damage up here is awful to see, and my heart goes out to the poor people who have no choice but to camp out in the ruins, so I feel very guilty about rattling around in this palatial flat which could house an entire family, if not two.

  I expect you’ve heard from Cissy, but I thought you’d like to know that I bumped into her the other day. She looked very glamorous in the skirt suit and little hat that is the company livery, and was positively buzzing about her partnership in the business and all the fun she’s having mixing with the London society set. She told me she’s still living with her friend in Mayfair until she finds somewhere else, and has certainly adopted the glossy look of a very well-to-do young woman about town. I felt quite dull beside her in my nurse’s uniform, but then she always did have the knack of looking good in anything she wore.

  As you warned me, our trip to Ireland was not a success. All doors were closed to us and my family refuse
d to even hold a telephone conversation with me. The local priest was hostile, and even the shopkeeper I’ve known all my life refused to serve me. The whole thing was horribly dispiriting, especially when my mother ripped up the letter I put through her door, and scattered the pieces very deliberately into the gutter before slamming the door in my face. We didn’t stay after that, and the next day we were on the ship to Liverpool. I can’t pretend that I wasn’t heartbroken, but I’ve vowed not to look back and to concentrate only on my new life with Robert, for I have far more important things to occupy me now.

  Our baby is due at the end of December, so I’ll have to give up work at the end of the summer – but I’ve been told on good authority that I’d be welcomed back should I wish to return in the New Year. It’s certainly something I will consider as long as I can arrange suitable nursery care.

  Robert’s lovely mother has got so excited at the news she’s begun to bombard us with the most exquisite layette, and a positive zoo of cuddly toys. I do believe she’s raided Harrods as well as Hamleys and must have left their shelves bare!

  I hope all is well with everyone at Beach View. Cissy told me you’ve been attending quite a lot of weddings lately, and that Ruby had finally married her Mike and set off for Canada. I suspect Ivy’s now married Andy, and hope Rita and Peter have come to an agreement over where they’ll live once they’ve tied the knot. Beach View must feel very empty now with so many of us gone, and I’ve kept a close eye on the news in the hope that Jim will soon be coming home. I expect Anne and the children are with you now, so they must be a comfort to you, and I very much hope that Martin and all the other fliers made it home in one piece.

  I’ll finish now, for it’s late and I’m tired after a long day in theatre. Please pass on my very best wishes to Sarah, and tell her I’m keeping my fingers crossed that good news is waiting for her once the Japs surrender.

  Do write to me with all your news, Auntie Peg, because I miss you and Ron and Cordelia so very much, and want to stay in touch. I promise to be a more regular correspondent from now on, as I’ll soon have plenty of time to write while I wait for the arrival of this baby.