by Rosie Harris
When a tall, broad-shouldered boy with a mop of floppy dark hair elbowed the others aside and stretched out a hand to help her to her feet, she hesitated to take it, wondering if this was also some sick joke. Before she could decide whether or not to risk it he’d taken hold of her arms and pulled her to her feet. Keeping an arm round her shoulders, he steered her clear of the crowd.
‘That’s enough,’ he told the others. ‘Now back off, all of you! Understand?’
There were some angry mutterings but the crowd broke up and dispersed in small knots, the children looking back over their shoulders at Fern and pulling faces. A couple of girls came over and began talking to Fern in a fairly friendly way and before she had time to thank him the boy who’d helped her had disappeared.
‘That’s Glanmor Williams, but don’t go thinking that he’s fallen for you,’ one of the girls tittered when she asked them who he was. ‘He’s supposed to keep order when we’re out in the yard, that’s why he came to your rescue.’
For the rest of the day Fern was left alone and when school ended she found Glanmor was by the school gate, waiting to walk along the road with her.
‘How did you like your first day here?’ he asked.
‘This morning, first thing, it was awful.’ Fern shivered. ‘No one has bothered me since, though, not since you stepped in and helped me up off the ground.’
‘If you have any more trouble, let me know,’ he told her with a smile.
‘Thank you, I will. This school is so much bigger than the one I used to go to in Blaenafon, before my mam and I came to Cardiff, that I feel a bit lost.’
‘Where are you living?’
‘In Angelina Street. We’re staying there with my uncle for the moment.’
‘I’m going that way, so we might as well walk together then,’ he said.
She nodded gratefully. She’d been worried that some of the boys who’d been taunting her that morning might either follow her home or be waiting to waylay her but she knew that with Glanmor at her side she’d be quite safe.
‘See you tomorrow, then,’ he said and smiled as they parted on the corner of Angelina Street.
Fern thought about him for the rest of the way home. He was so tall and broad-shouldered that he seemed older than the other boys in her class and the boys of her own age she’d known in Blaenafon.
After that, they often walked home together. She would have liked to know more about him but he didn’t seem prepared to talk about his family or what he did after school and, because she had so few friends herself in Tiger Bay, they generally talked about what had happened in school that day, the lessons they’d been doing, or what they hoped to do once they left school.
Simply being in his company gave Fern a feeling of happiness.
When she asked him what sort of job he’d be looking for once he’d left school in July, his face clouded.
‘I’m not sure. I would like to go to sea but that would mean leaving my mam on her own and I don’t want to have to do that.’
She waited for him to say why his mother would be on her own but when he didn’t, she thought it was better not to ask. Instead she told him how her own dad had been killed in an explosion at Big Pit in Blaenafon.
‘Is that why you came to live in Cardiff?’
Fern nodded. ‘The pit owners turned us out because there was no one else in the family working down the pit. My brother would have been, but was called up and was killed in France a week before my dad died.’
‘You’ve had it pretty tough,’ he commiserated sympathetically.
‘Was your dad killed in the war, Glanmor?’ she asked tentatively.
‘No!’
His tone was so abrupt and his mouth tightened into such a hard line that although she was curious to know more Fern sensed it was not the time to ask questions. Instead, she turned the conversation back to herself by saying, ‘I’ll have to look for a job soon because I can leave soon after Christmas.’
‘If your birthday isn’t until January then you’ll have to stay on until Easter,’ Glanmor told her.
‘I hope not because I want to earn some money to help my mam. She’s working at Curran’s but she says that once the men start coming home from the war she will probably lose her job.’
‘So what sort of work are you thinking of doing?’ Glanmor asked.
‘That’s the trouble, I don’t know. At one time, before my dad died and we moved here to Cardiff, I had hoped I could train to be a teacher. That’s out of the question now because when I do leave school I’ll need a job right away in order to earn some money.’
‘Have you thought about getting a Saturday job? It’s one of the best ways of proving that you are a good worker when you go after a full-time job,’ he explained.
‘I know, and I’ve tried at most of the shops around here but none of them seems to want to employ me because I’m considered to be a stranger. Most of them make the excuse that they have someone in the family who helps them out.’
‘I’ll ask around,’ Glanmor promised. ‘You don’t mind what sort of shop you work in, do you?’
‘Not really.’ Fern shrugged. ‘I can’t afford to be choosy now, can I?’ she said with a forced smile.
It was a Friday in the middle of December and Fern still hadn’t found any work when Glanmor came up with an answer. They were walking home along the banks of the canal, staring down into the dark waters, when he suddenly said, ‘Would you consider selling flowers?’
Fern turned to look at him; her dark eyes alight with hope. ‘Do you mean work in a florist’s?’ she asked excitedly.
‘No! Well, no, not exactly.’ He hesitated, as if wondering whether to say any more or not.
‘Come on, Glanmor, tell me what you have in mind,’ she urged.
‘It would mean working out of doors and at this time of the year . . .’ His voice trailed away and he dug his hands deeper into his pockets as if he was cold.
‘Stop teasing me with hints and tell me what sort of job you are talking about,’ Fern insisted.
‘Have you seen the woman who stands outside Cardiff General selling flowers?’ he asked. He was speaking so quickly that she had a job to catch up with what he was saying.
Fern frowned and shook her head. ‘No, not really. I’m not even sure where the station is. I haven’t been near it since we arrived here and that was ages ago and in the dark.’
‘Then meet me tomorrow morning at about ten o’clock and I’ll take you along there and you can see if you are interested in helping her,’ he gabbled. ‘I shouldn’t say anything to your mam or anyone else until after tomorrow in case you don’t want to do it.’
Fern longed to share the idea with her mother but she wasn’t too sure that she would get the job, even if she wanted it. The woman mightn’t like her, or think she was suitable, she told herself, and it would only be raising her mother’s hopes for nothing.
She brushed her shabby coat, polished her lace-up shoes and put fresh, folded-up newspaper inside them to cover up the holes in the soles to make sure that her feet would stay warm. Finally, she pulled on her cloche hat, found a clean handkerchief, then took a deep breath and set off to meet Glanmor, hoping he wouldn’t notice how nervous she was.
Glanmor was waiting for her as he’d promised but he seemed to be every bit as on edge as she was. As they walked up Bute Street she tried to thank him for coming with her and for arranging for her to meet the flower seller.
‘I think I ought to explain she’s a relation of some sort; she’s my mam’s cousin or something and that’s the reason she’s agreed to meet you,’ he mumbled.
Far from feeling relieved Fern felt all the more worried. If the woman didn’t like her and she didn’t get the job, then she would feel that she was letting Glanmor down.
At Glanmor’s suggestion they stood in Wood Street for a few minutes so that they could watch what was going on. The woman standing there was in her late fifties, red-cheeked and buxom with a heavy black shawl over
her shoulders and mittens on her hands. She wore a stout black apron which had copious pockets and as they watched Fern noticed that she used them rather like a cash box, sorting silver into one and coppers into the other. On the rare occasion when she was handed a note, she carefully smoothed it out and tucked it away into a special pocket in the waistband of her apron.
At her feet were two huge wicker baskets filled with carnations, roses, chrysanthemums and bunches of holly and other greenery already made up into large bunches and tied with fancy string. On one arm she carried a small, shallow trug containing a dozen or more neat little posies of violets. As people came hurrying out of the station she would take one of these and hold it out to them in the hope that they would buy it.
Mostly it seemed to be men who stopped to buy from her. Some merely took one of the small posies but others seemed intent on buying a larger bunch of flowers from one of the wicker baskets.
‘Her name is Maria Roberts,’ Glanmor told Fern. ‘Now that you’ve seen her in action and know what the job is all about, are you still interested?’
‘Of course I am,’ Fern breathed excitedly. ‘I love flowers and it would be wonderful to sell them to people and make them happy.’
‘She only wants someone to help out over Christmas when she is usually quite busy and then perhaps at the weekends,’ Glanmor cautioned. ‘Now, do you still want to meet her?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ Fern nodded.
She straightened the collar on her coat and pulled her hat straight in an attempt to hide her nervousness.
‘Come along, then.’ He took her arm and propelled her over to the other side of the road. They waited until Maria had dealt with a customer and then Glanmor, still holding Fern by the arm, approached the flower seller.
‘Glanmor, what are you doing here at this time of the morning?’ the woman questioned sharply as they reached her side. ‘They won’t keep you on at the ironmonger’s if you keep skedaddling off on Saturdays when you should be in the shop helping out,’ she scolded.
‘I’ve only taken an hour off because I wanted to bring Fern along to meet you,’ he told her.
‘A good excuse!’ She turned her attention to Fern. ‘Glanmor has told me all about you and I expect he’s told you plenty about me, so we won’t waste time on any palaver. All I want to know is are you interested in selling flowers or not?’
‘Yes, I am, if you will give me a chance. You’ll have to tell me what to do, of course.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that all right. I like things done my way but I like the look of you and with your pretty face you should make a capital little assistant. When do you leave school?’
‘At Christmas. I’m not fourteen until the second week in January but my mam says that I should be able to leave school at Christmas and that’s what I hope to do.’
Maria Roberts studied Fern for a moment in silence. ‘And do you think she will let you come and work here during the Christmas holiday after you break up from school?’
‘I’m sure she will,’ Fern said eagerly. ‘She’ll be ever so pleased that I’ve found a job.’
Maria Roberts frowned. ‘Does that mean you haven’t told her you will be standing outside the railway station selling flowers?’
‘Well, no, not yet. Glanmor only told me about it a couple of days ago and I wouldn’t want to raise Mam’s hopes. She knows I’ve been trying very hard to find a Saturday job. So far, though, all the shops I’ve been to have turned me down and she’s as disappointed about that as I am.’
‘You’d better talk to her about it, then, and see if she has any objections. It’s not the same as working behind a counter and she mightn’t like the idea.’
‘I really do want this job and the chance to earn some money, Mrs Roberts,’ Fern told her earnestly.
‘If your mam says you can do it, then it’s yours, cariad. You’d better bring her along to meet me, though.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary, Mrs Roberts.’
‘Oh yes it is, my lovely. I’d like to set her mind at rest in case she has any worries about what you will be doing. If she’s in agreement about you working for me, then you can start as soon as you like. I could do with some help in the weeks up to Christmas and it will be a good way for you to learn the ropes.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Roberts, that’s really wonderful,’ Fern said excitedly.
‘Right, well, you go home and find out what she thinks and you, Glanmor, get back to work before they sack you.’
Chapter Seven
Working for Maria Roberts opened up a whole new world for Fern. Her Saturday started very early; she had to be on the platform at the railway station at six-thirty in the morning in time to meet the early morning train that brought the daily supply of flowers.
Maria Roberts had a small wooden shed behind the goods depot where she opened up the crates and sorted out the flowers. She made them up into various bunches depending on the flowers she received at different times of the year. She seemed to know instinctively what size the bunches should be as well as which flowers would mix well together and how much to charge for each bunch.
Fern watched the older woman’s nimble fingers in awe. When she tried to create attractive bunches she found that either she had difficulty in keeping the stems together, or, if the stems were neatly aligned, that the flowers themselves didn’t look right.
Maria Roberts was very patient and in next to no time Fern found that she was equally adept at making up bunches. Because it was almost Christmas, Fern was handling a great deal of holly as well as winter greenery. The prickles of the holly leaves were almost as sharp as the rose thorns and drew blood if she wasn’t careful.
After a few fumbled attempts Fern became even better at selling than Maria and she enjoyed what she was doing. Except for first thing in the morning when there was a frosty nip in the air and her hands felt so numb with the cold that she thought her fingers would drop off.
Maria was quick to notice this and gave her a pair of mittens to wear. She also insisted that Fern must wrap a large black woollen shawl round her shoulders as protection against the cold.
‘Folks won’t buy flowers from you if they see you standing there shivering,’ she told Fern sharply when she tried to protest about wearing the shawl. ‘Customers want to see a happy, smiling face, not one that’s all screwed up like a prune because you’re cold.’
Although she had only expected to be working on Saturdays, to her delight, the week before Christmas, Maria asked her if she could work every day right up until Christmas Eve.
Most of their customers were men and many of them either gave her a small tip or said ‘keep the change’ so that by the time they packed up on Christmas Eve Fern found that in addition to her wages from Maria she had over three pounds to take home.
‘Shouldn’t I be sharing the money I’ve been given in tips with you, Mrs Roberts?’ she asked rather self-consciously.
‘Goodness gracious me no, my lovely!’ The older woman smiled. ‘Your bright smile and helpful manner earned you that and you should spend it on a Christmas treat for yourself.’
In the next half an hour as they cleared everything away Fern mentally spent her money several times over. There were so many things she wanted to do with it.
The money she’d earned was already earmarked as savings towards herself and her mother moving out of Angelina Street but now, with so much extra, she felt her spirits soar. It meant that she could buy a present for her mother to bring back a smile to her face. There would also be something to pay for extra food for them all at Christmas so that Bertha wouldn’t be so crabby about having to share the Christmas dinner she’d cooked for herself and Bryson with them.
Fern hoped she would see Glanmor sometime over Christmas so that she could thank him for introducing her to Maria Roberts, since that had been the start of her good fortune. If he hadn’t introduced her to Maria Roberts, then she would never have been selling flowers and would never have earned all the tips she�
��d been given. It also made her wonder if it would be all right to give him a Christmas present by way of saying thank you. She wanted to, only she couldn’t think what would make a suitable present.
All the way home, while also juggling in her mind how she would divide up her extra money, she pondered on what to buy Glanmor. In the end, she decided she’d ask her mam what she thought about it all.
Somehow, she reflected as she reached Angelina Street, it didn’t seem right to be getting excited about Christmas or even looking forward to enjoying the day itself when only a few months earlier her dad had died and, just before that, her brother had been killed in action.
She shuddered as she thought of how many other families would be feeling sad because, although the war was now over and most of the soldiers had returned home, so many sons and husbands were missing, having lost their lives in the trenches over in France.
A year ago they had all been so safe in their little house in Blaenafon, celebrating Christmas and looking forward to the year ahead. Who would have thought that in such a short space of time she and her mother would find themselves sharing a sleazy living room and kitchen with almost complete strangers in Cardiff’s notorious Tiger Bay?
All she could hope was that things would improve in 1919 and that very soon she and her mother would be able to find somewhere better to live.
Fern’s dream of a happy Christmas was short-lived. The minute she stepped inside the house she could hear voices raised in anger. Bertha was complaining bitterly about having to share their Christmas dinner and her mother was pointing out that she had given her extra money towards buying the food and that she was willing to do her share of preparing it and clearing up afterwards.
‘Well, there’s no need for you to do either of those things, Mam, and we certainly won’t be asking you to share your meal with us, Bertha, because I’ve decided to take my mam out tomorrow for her Christmas dinner,’ Fern interrupted.