by Pam Weaver
Doreen stuffed five bob into Shirley’s hand. ‘To save your mum cooking tonight, why don’t you pop down to the chip shop and get your tea? I’m sure you’d like a nice bit of cod, wouldn’t you, Florrie?’
‘Can I have some cherryade?’ Tom called over his shoulder.
‘Course you can,’ said Doreen, shooing Shirley back out of the door. ‘Come on. I’m going that way to the bus stop. We’ll walk together.’
Florrie mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ and leaned back on the sofa, while Tom put his goldfish in the jam jar on the table and got all his shells out of his pockets to show her. He’d been a bit upset when Walter in the fag packet had mysteriously disappeared. He only found out when he got off the coach. ‘I can’t think what happened to him,’ said Father Goose with an apologetic shake of his head. ‘One thing I do know. Lugworms like to burrow in the sand. He probably got off the coach and wandered back to Southend.’
School didn’t start for another week, but Florrie had had a letter from the head at the end of the summer term, asking for all pupils to come to the school hall for compulsory gas-mask practices, which were to be overseen by a member of the local newly formed Air Raid Precaution Unit, the ARP they called them for short. With Shirley and Tom gone, Florrie took the opportunity to go for her X-ray.
She had to go to the Mildmay Medical Mission Hospital in Hackney Road, Shoreditch. It was a fair step, especially when she wasn’t feeling too well, and although she had gone armed with her cheque book, to her great delight, there was no charge because the fee was being taken out of a charitable fund. Florrie felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment.
‘I am able to pay,’ she began, but the nurse behind the desk waved her hand. ‘Dr Pringle has it all arranged,’ she said, speaking in a discreetly quiet manner. ‘If you have a problem with that, perhaps you would like to take it up with him.’
For the X-ray, she was required to remove her stays and brassiere. Clad only in a hospital gown, she walked into the X-ray department, where she was positioned in front of a large black plate. The room was rather cold. Having told her to put her arms down by her sides and stand up straight, the technician slotted a large black piece of metal behind the plate and instructed her to take a deep breath. It wasn’t easy, because that always set off her coughing again, but eventually the man was satisfied and asked her to change her position so that he could view her from the side. To him, it was just a job, but Florrie was very self-conscious. It had been years since a man had seen her in a state of undress. When it was over, she dressed quickly and was glad to get out into the warm sunshine.
She told herself it really was nothing to worry about, but at the same time, she knew she had to be realistic. A few weeks ago, when the woman from the WI had come round to take down the particulars of her children, Florrie had told her what she’d told the school. She didn’t want Shirley and Tom sent away. They had argued, but Florrie was adamant. When the WI lady, a rather rotund middle-class, middle-aged woman who had probably had it cushy all her life, said she was an absolute fool, Florrie lost her rag. ‘Don’t you come in here telling me what to do,’ she’d snapped. ‘Just bugger off, will you!’
She regretted her rudeness now. Supposing old Hitler really did send all those bombers over like they were saying. Being so near the docks was just about the worst place they could be. She’d been an utter fool. Her kids would be like sitting ducks and she wouldn’t be there to protect them.
Of course, Florrie had a perfectly good reason to hold back. Her biggest fear was for Tom. Shirley was quite a resilient child and she would adapt to any situation, but Tom always found change devastating. She and Shirley understood him and could handle his foibles, but people who didn’t know him all too easily resorted to shouting at him or hitting him to get him to do what they wanted. How could she put him at the mercy of strangers miles away from home? Yet if she was as ill as Dr Pringle had hinted, it was highly likely that she’d have no choice.
At the end of another bus journey, Florrie found herself in a leafy suburb. A few yards down, she came to a detached house set back from the road. Florrie stood in the road for a while looking up at the windows. It must be all of twenty-two years since she’d last stood here. Florrie had wracked her brains half the night for some other way, but she kept coming back to this. She had always been a fiercely independent woman and hated asking favours, but needs must . . . She wouldn’t, she told herself, be doing this for herself. This was for her kids. This was for Shirley and Tom. Mustering all her courage, she walked up to the door and knocked. When a maid wearing a black dress and a white apron opened the door, Florrie asked to speak to Mrs Andrews.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the girl said coldly.
Florrie shook her head. ‘But if you wouldn’t mind—’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the girl, looking down her nose. ‘Madam doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’
‘Yes, but—’ Florrie began again.
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl repeated as she began closing the door.
Florrie was appalled, but just before the door finally closed, she heard a voice behind the maid saying, ‘Who is it, Sally?’
‘She didn’t give her name, madam,’ said Sally, ‘but it was nobody important. Just one of the women from the docks.’
Deeply offended, Florrie called out, ‘It’s Florence Jenkins, madam. Mrs Andrews, I need to speak to you. I need your help.’ But by now she was talking to the wood.
As Florrie turned to leave, the door flew open and Mrs Andrews, facing towards the house, came out onto the step. ‘That’s no way to treat anyone who comes to my door,’ she was saying to the maid. She turned towards Florrie. ‘Florence, I do apologize, my dear,’ she said. ‘Please come inside.’
The maid gave her an insolent stare as Florrie walked past. Florrie avoided her eye. She felt angry and humiliated. How dare she? A woman from the docks indeed.
Florrie followed her into a bright sitting room with a small Axminster rug in the middle of several comfortable-looking chairs. ‘Please sit down,’ said Mrs Andrews, and turning to the maid, she said, ‘Bring us some tea, will you, Sally?’ The maid left the room with a surly expression.
‘I must apologize again, Florence. She’s new to the post and not used to our ways.’
‘Please . . .’ said Florrie, shaking her hand to dismiss the need for an apology.
‘So,’ said Mrs Andrews, ‘to what do we owe this pleasure? Are you well? And the children?’
‘Oh, madam, I desperately want to speak to you,’ said Florrie. She lowered her head and stared at her own hands. ‘I’ve come to ask for your help.’
Mrs Andrews pushed the cushion back and relaxed into her chair. ‘Fire away.’
But Florrie didn’t know where to start. Asking for anything was alien to her. She was the type of woman who just got on with it. She’d never asked for help, not even when her husband left. She glanced up at Mrs Andrews’s kindly face, remembering the past and all that had happened. Back then, Mrs Andrews had said if ever she needed help, she was to go to her at once. Florrie had dismissed the offer with a wave of her hand, but here she was again. And desperate too. She’d never wanted to bother the woman again, but what could she do? Florrie knew Mrs Andrews was a busy person. Her nephew, Rev. Goose, who lived near Canning Town, had already gained quite a reputation in the area, and St Luke’s was the best-attended church for miles. A whizz with a table-tennis bat and a keen footballer, Father Goose, as the kids nicknamed him, was a popular, fun-loving man. When he had arrived in 1933, unlike some of his rather aloof counterparts, he’d knocked on doors and made himself known in the pubs and clubs of the East End. He’d made himself one of them. His aunt, a spritely woman still, despite her advancing years, was just as popular. Married to Dr Andrews, she played an active part in the community. She was a member of the Townswomen’s Guild and several other organizations as well. Florrie guessed that Sally was probably some silly girl who, like herself, had found herself in a s
pot of trouble and Mrs Andrews was giving her a fresh start.
Mrs Andrews was sitting on the edge of her seat, giving Florrie her full attention. Florrie took a breath and sucked in her lips, but as she was about to begin, the door burst open and the maid came in with a tray of tea. They waited until she had clattered it down on the occasional table and left the room.
Mrs Andrews smiled. ‘Let’s begin again, dear.’
It took every ounce of courage she had, but finally Florrie explained everything. She had been hasty. She’d said no to evacuation and now it looked as if she might be too ill to care for her children. The WI lady had said that if she refused to let her put Shirley and Tom on her list, their places would be given to other children. What was even worse, she’d become irritated by the woman’s insistence and she’d been rude. In fact, she’d used a swear word, and for that she was truly sorry, but instead of looking shocked or telling her off, Mrs Andrews threw her head back and laughed. ‘You swore at her? Oh dear, poor Cynthia, but don’t worry, I suspect she’ll dine out on that tale for several weeks.’
Florrie’s eyes filled with tears when she talked about Tom. She didn’t say it, but in her heart she’d always felt that the way Tom was had been her punishment for giving away the baby. How would she have coped without Mrs Andrews back then? When she’d told her about the pregnancy, Mrs Andrews hadn’t taken the moral high ground as so many others had done. She’d offered to arrange everything. Right now, the ache in Florrie’s chest wasn’t just from the cough, it was the ache of loss. The loss of that pretty little girl she’d last seen when she was only a week old. She swallowed hard. Now she was making a fool of herself. She was losing control. The words just gushed from her like a waterfall. She was saying far too much.
Mrs Andrews left her own chair and came to sit on the sofa next to Florrie. Taking her hands in hers, she said, ‘There’s no shame in asking for help, my dear. I shall be pleased to do what I can.’
Florrie looked up at her. ‘Do you ever hear anything about—’
‘You know better than to ask me that,’ said Mrs Andrews firmly. ‘Best to leave the past where it is. Right now, we have to concentrate on you. I’m sorry to hear about your health, but let’s hope you’ll soon be on the mend.’
They smiled at each other even though they both knew the words were hollow and that Florrie’s recovery, if there was to be one, would take an awfully long time.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Andrews, giving Florrie’s hands a final squeeze, ‘here’s what we’ll do.’
* * *
‘You must keep your mask with you at all times,’ Miss Lloyd, Shirley’s teacher, reminded everybody, ‘and be ready to put it on at a moment’s notice.’ Several children were already yawning. They’d all heard the instruction so many times before. The school had been holding gas-mask drill for many months. ‘What do we look for if there is a gas attack?’
Several hands shot up. Miss Lloyd pointed at Tom.
‘The pillar boxes change colour,’ he said without looking directly at her.
‘That’s right. Well done, Tom. The postboxes have been coated in special paint.’ She glanced over at the ARP warden. ‘Who can tell me what we listen for?’
One of the younger children got her hand up first.
‘Yes, Pat?’
‘The warden will turn the rattle,’ said Pat, and as if on cue, the warden lifted a heavy wooden rattle and gave it three or four turns. It was very loud. Tom put his hands over his ears and rocked himself gently.
‘Good,’ said Miss Lloyd, ignoring him, or perhaps not even noticing. ‘Now, put on your respirators. Chin in first and then pull the straps over your head.’
They all spent the next few minutes putting their own gas masks on, the older children helping the younger ones. They had to sit for five minutes with the gas mask on before they were allowed to take it off. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. The masks were made of rubber, which was hot and smelly, and sometimes the see-through window got steamed up. The filter in the snout was quite heavy, but the rest of the mask was sucked in and pushed out as you breathed. Then one of the older boys discovered that by blowing hard with the mask on, the rubber made a rude noise rather like a loud fart. The idea soon caught on and before long the whole room had erupted into a cacophony of loud giggles and more rude noises.
‘That’s enough!’ snapped Miss Lloyd. ‘The next person who does that will be sent straight to the headmaster.’
It was tempting to lift the mask by pulling up the heavy snout, but they had to learn to pull the straps back over their heads and then take it down from the face. This was tricky because sometimes a few hairs got caught in the straps and were torn from the roots as the mask came off, which could be quite painful. As Shirley took her mask off, she noticed Ann was in the room. She was too far away to speak to, and there was still no sign of Helen, but she was pleased to see that her friend had returned to school. Shirley gave her a shy smile, but Ann averted her gaze.
‘Who can tell me what I should do if I’ve got a blister burn after taking my mask off?’ said Miss Lloyd.
Several hands shot up. ‘Don’t rub it,’ said Victor when she pointed to him. ‘And put some number-two cream on it.’
‘Good. But what if I’ve run out of number-two ointment?’
‘Use soap and water,’ Tom boomed, and everybody laughed.
‘Quite right, Tom,’ said Miss Lloyd. ‘Well done.’ She dismissed the assembly and Shirley hurried over to the place where Ann was sitting, but even though she called out her name, by the time she got there, her friend was gone. Shirley felt hugely disappointed. She wandered along with the others towards the playground but decided to pop into the toilet on the way there. As she walked through the cloakroom door, Ann came out of a cubicle and the room was filled with the sound of flushing water.
‘Ann!’ cried Shirley. ‘It’s so nice to see you. How are you? Can you come back to mine to play?’
Ann looked very uncomfortable. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.’
‘Why ever not?’ cried Shirley.
‘I have to go,’ said Ann as she washed her hands. ‘The Welfare lady is waiting for me outside.’
‘Why have you got a Welfare lady? And where’s Helen?’
‘I never should have gone with her to Woolworths,’ said Ann confidentially. ‘It’s been awful. She told them it was all my idea and that I put the stuff in her pocket.’
Shirley was confused. ‘Stuff? What stuff?’
‘She stole six lipsticks,’ said Ann. ‘I’ve got to go to court next week and tell the judge.’ Ann finished washing her hands and reached for the roller towel. ‘Helen’s not my friend any more. My mum says she’ll end up in an approved school.’
Shirley was stricken. ‘Oh, Ann.’
‘And if the judge doesn’t believe me,’ she said, wiping away an angry tear with the palm of her hand, ‘I’ll have to go there too.’
The door burst open, making both girls jump. A big woman in a brown dress and matching jacket came into the toilets. ‘Hurry up, Bidder,’ she said sharply. ‘And I thought I told you not to talk to anybody.’
Ann hung her head. ‘Yes, Mrs Harris. Sorry, Mrs Harris.’
‘She only asked me to pass her the soap,’ said Shirley, trying to be helpful.
Mrs Harris glared at her and Shirley felt tears in her own eyes as they closed the door, leaving her alone.
CHAPTER 3
Len Greene and Tubby Wilcox knew it would be a bit of a struggle getting the Anderson shelter onto the coster barrow. Both men were tired. It had been a long day at the docks unloading Rhodesian tobacco. A true East Ender, and in his early thirties, Tubby acted as if it was his sole purpose in life to avoid anything physical unless there was a financial reward. For that reason, Len had slipped him ten bob to enlist his help.
Florrie wasn’t the only single woman Len and his mates had helped out in these increasingly difficult times. He still liked Florrie a lot. There was a time when they’d
gone for walks together, although she would never let it get more serious. He would have liked it to, but he’d got all tongue-tied and missed his chance. Len had served his time in the Great War. He used to tell everybody he’d gone in as a boy and came out a changed man. It took years for the nightmares to stop. Florrie was an independent woman and a real looker. He’d never known her husband, but apparently he’d turned out to be a rotter and a feckless father as well. Rumour had it that as soon as it became clear that Tom was a bit different, Sid had run off with a publican’s wife, leaving Florrie to cope on her own. Given a decent length of time, Len would have made a play for her, but she was haunted by something in her past, so he made the fact that she owned the shop his excuse for not being more assertive. He didn’t want people saying he was only after her for her money.
The Anderson shelter was in bits and the barrow much smaller than they’d envisaged.
‘I’m bloody cream-crackered,’ said Tubby. ‘I hope this ain’t going to take long.’
‘Don’t worry, pal,’ said Len. ‘I’ve got some extra help.’
Len had encouraged Tom to come along as well. It would do the boy good to feel useful.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Tubby when he saw Tom. ‘What’s ’e doing here? He’s not going to be much use, is he? He’s as thick as a bloody brick.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Len.
The shelter, which was supposed to accommodate six people, consisted of six curved panels made of galvanized steel. There were also six straight sheets, which had to be bolted on either side, and finally two panels for either end, all of which needed to be loaded onto the barrow. It was hot and sweaty work. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gone very far when Tubby noticed a wheel flying down the road just ahead of them.
‘Look at that,’ he laughed. ‘Some poor bugger’s lost his wheel.’ It wasn’t so funny when he realized that he was the ‘poor bugger’ because the barrow suddenly developed a severe list to port and one by one the sheets of corrugated steel clattered onto the road.