by Pam Weaver
‘What the . . . !’ cried Tubby, standing in the road holding on to the handles of the empty barrow.
Tom looked slightly confused, but Len was laughing like a drain. ‘It’s not funny,’ Tubby grumbled, but it took several minutes for Len to control himself again.
‘Right,’ he said eventually, ‘if you lift it, I’ll shove the wheel back on.’
‘I’ve got a bad back,’ said Tubby, suddenly remembering. He turned to Tom. ‘Come on, twerp, you lift it up so that we can get the bugger back on.’
Tom lifted the barrow effortlessly and then began picking up the sheets of corrugated iron as if they were pieces of cardboard. With a lot of heaving and swearing on Tubby’s part, the job was done in no time.
‘I had him down as two sandwiches short of a picnic,’ Tubby whispered in Len’s ear, ‘but that boy is a ruddy marvel.’ He turned to Tom. ‘You’d make a great boxer.’
‘Tom doesn’t like fighting, do you, Tom?’ said Len, giving Tom an affectionate nudge with his elbow.
Tom made no eye contact, but he shook his head.
Tubby lit up a woodbine. ‘You should think about it, sonny,’ he said. ‘I know a good gym where you could train. You could be bloody world champion before you’re twenty.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Len. ‘Let’s get going.’ But the barrow only managed a few yards before the wheel came off again and they were forced to watch the whole lot clatter onto the pavement once more.
Tom began manoeuvring the barrow so that he could lift it up enough for Len to put the wheel back on, but Tubby had had enough. ‘Florrie’s place is a mile away,’ he cried. ‘If you fink I’m doing this every few yards, you can bloody well fink again.’
‘We can’t let her down,’ said Len as Tom brought the wheel back, but Tubby was all for giving up and going home. ‘Do it one more time,’ Len coaxed, ‘and I’ll buy you a pint at the Taverners.’ This was costing him a fortune.
By now, a crowd of Tom’s schoolmates had joined them in the street. Tom lifted the barrow and Len pushed the wheel into place. It only remained for them to get all the sheets back on top, but this time it was a lot easier with half the street lending a hand. The wheel stayed in place until they were thirty yards from the Taverners; by then, Tubby’s thirst had got the better of him, so they went inside. Tom waited on the doorstep, and a second or two later, Len came out with a cherryade and a packet of crisps. Inside the Taverners, Tubby had his pint and the regulars had quite a laugh when they heard the story.
The rest of the journey was just as fraught with problems but far more manageable and a lot more fun. They had three more stops to put the wheel back on before they reached Florrie’s shop. Although the men were all a bit the worse for wear, with help from the schoolboys, the shelter had arrived safe and sound. Len and Tom trundled the parts into Florrie’s small back yard, and the rest of the men set off for the pub down the road for more refreshments.
‘I’ll be back on Saturday, my lovely,’ Len called out as he left, ‘to help you put it up.’
When they’d gone, Florrie sighed. She hadn’t the heart to tell them she might not be around by Saturday.
Dr Pringle knocked on the door the next morning. Florrie had been trying to do what he said and rest, but it was hard when she was worrying about Shirley and Tom getting enough to eat. So far, she’d spent her day baking pies, not to mention making sure the washing and ironing were up-to-date. She took her time, but every little thing seemed to leave her breathless and exhausted. The cough was as bad as ever.
‘Where are the children?’ Dr Pringle asked as he came in through the back door. He always looked the same: tweed jacket in winter, linen in summer, white shirt, bow tie and waistcoat. He’d been the family doctor for years. When he’d learned Sid had gone, he’d advised her what to do about Tom and had become almost a family friend.
‘At school,’ said Florrie. ‘They’re not having lessons this week, but the headmaster wants everybody there.’
Dr Pringle nodded. ‘And the shop?’
‘I haven’t been in there,’ said Florrie. ‘Mrs Carr has taken over for as long as it takes me to be well again.’ Dr Pringle looked around, so she added, ‘There’s no one to disturb us, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
It was only now that Florrie could see that he had brought another man with him. The first thing that Florrie noticed was his exceptionally long neck. It supported an egg-shaped head with a receding hairline. He had brown-rimmed glasses, and he was dressed in a suit and tie.
‘Dr Scott is the tuberculosis medical officer for the East End,’ Dr Pringle said, introducing them. ‘Mrs Jenkins, I’m afraid it is as I feared. Your X-rays show that you have tuberculosis in your right lung.’
Florrie sat down, her heart suddenly pounding. She opened her mouth, but there was no sound and it felt as if she already had a lump in her throat the size of an orange. She looked away to avoid his eye. TB. How awful. Whenever someone round here got it, it caused a stir. People would say it was in the family. She had honestly thought that once she’d reached the age of thirty, she’d be safe. Well, that was an old wives’ tale, wasn’t it? What was going to happen to her? Now that it was confirmed, she knew she faced weeks, if not months, of treatment. How was she going to afford it? A kind of panic gripped her throat.
‘We are here to discuss your treatment, Mrs Jenkins,’ Dr Scott said gently. ‘We suggest’ – and here he looked to Dr Pringle for confirmation – ‘that you have at least six to nine months in a sanatorium with complete bed rest.’
‘Six to nine months?’ Florrie squeaked, even though it was no great surprise. She’d imagined it for ages, but to hear it actually spelled out as fact made her whole body tremble. Six to nine months away from the children. They would have left school by the time she saw them again. They’d be all grown up – at least, Shirley would, but what would happen to poor Tom?
‘You mustn’t worry about the cost, Mrs Jenkins,’ said Dr Pringle.
The cost . . . the cost. Dear Lord, for a moment she’d forgotten all about the cost. Six to nine months away from home. That would cost a fortune. Her eyes were smarting and she desperately wanted to run away.
‘Mrs Jenkins. Mrs Jenkins, look at me.’ Dr Scott was trying to gain her attention. She reluctantly raised her gaze to meet his grey eyes behind the glasses. ‘I know this is a lot to take in, but I’m glad to tell you that we can offer you a place in a sanatorium for the first two to three months.’ Florrie stared at him, trying to take in what he was saying. ‘It’s under a government scheme and it’s free.’
‘Free?’ Florrie said faintly.
‘Yes, and after that,’ Dr Scott went on, ‘we’ll do another X-ray and see where we go from there. You may have to stay a bit longer, but we’ll wait until then to discuss your contribution towards any future costs. Or if there is a marked improvement, we could move you on to a convalescent home. There is every possibility that with complete bed rest, you could make a really good recovery.’
Florrie blinked back her tears. ‘What if I don’t get better?’
‘Best not to look on the black side, Mrs Jenkins,’ said Dr Pringle.
‘Then we shall go for another treatment,’ said Dr Scott at the same time.
Florrie struggled to grasp what he was saying. ‘What sort of treatment?’
Dr Scott looked directly at her. ‘We may want to collapse your lung for a period of time,’ he said. ‘We believe that by doing that, we would be giving the organ time to heal itself.’
Florrie’s eyes grew wide. It sounded absolutely terrifying.
‘But it may not come to that, Mrs Jenkins,’ Dr Pringle said quickly. ‘One step at a time, eh? All you need to know is that you will be in safe hands. I have it on good authority that Dr Scott is the best in his field.’
Florrie’s brain was galloping at a hundred miles an hour. The children, the shop, Betty Carr – could she manage the shop all those months? – a collapsed lung, complete bed rest . . . She fis
hed for her handkerchief. ‘When do I have to go?’
‘As soon as possible,’ said Dr Pringle.
‘I can’t just up and leave my children,’ said Florrie. She could feel herself giving way to tears, so she sat up straight and cleared her throat. ‘Can I get you both some tea?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Jenkins,’ said Dr Pringle, ‘and there’s no need to worry about Shirley and Tom. Mrs Andrews came to see me last night. It’s all in hand.’
‘Oh?’ said Florrie.
‘I believe she’s coming round to see you later this afternoon,’ Dr Pringle went on. ‘We realized that at first you were not keen for them to be evacuated, but two girls in Shirley’s class won’t be going, so Shirley and Tom have been offered their places. Most providential, if you ask me. It’s by far the best option, Mrs Jenkins. Anyway, I’m sure that Mrs Andrews will discuss it with you more fully.’
Florrie clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘When will they have to go?’
‘They are booked on a coach on Saturday.’
A little gasp escaped Florrie’s lips. ‘But Tom . . .’ she began.
‘He will be given due consideration,’ said Dr Pringle. ‘He will be well looked after.’
‘And I shall arrange for someone to bring you to the sanatorium on the same day,’ said Dr Scott.
So that was it. Her little family was to be separated. She said a short prayer under her breath – ‘Please God, let them be all right’ – but there was nothing more she could do. Everybody had done the best they could. All she had to do was get better. Florrie rose to her feet. ‘You’ve both been very kind. I can’t thank you enough,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion.
She stood at the door with dignity as they left; then she closed it and went upstairs to her bedroom. She stood in front of the mirror for a long while, staring at her reflection as if truly seeing herself for the first time. Her hair was dull and untidy, and her eyes had dark circles underneath. Her skin was sallow and her breathing laboured. She leaned forward. Her youth was gone. She looked ten, maybe fifteen years older than she really was. She was an old hag and she wasn’t even forty. Turning round, she lay down on the bed, and pressing her face into her pillow, Florrie sobbed as if her heart would break.
CHAPTER 4
The next few days were very difficult. Shirley already knew that whatever was going on was serious, even though her mother still insisted she was only suffering from a touch of flu. Shirley tackled the subject when she came home from school on Thursday. Her mother was in the kitchen making pastry for meat-and-potato pies and Tom was in the yard playing with next-door’s cat when Shirley pressed Florrie to tell her what was wrong.
‘I’m not a baby, Mum,’ she said. ‘You can tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Florrie, rubbing her fingers together to get rid of the fat and flour. ‘I’ve changed my mind about the evacuation, that’s all. I was wrong to try and keep you and Tom here with me. If that ol’ Hitler declares war, the docks will be the first place he’ll bomb.’
‘I thought you said there were no more places on the coach,’ said Shirley.
‘As luck would have it, two girls have dropped out,’ said Florrie, reaching for the jug of cold water. ‘They’re going somewhere else.’
Shirley felt her face colour. ‘Not Helen Starling and Ann Bidder?’
‘Yes,’ said Florrie, slightly surprised. ‘What do you know about them?’
Shirley shrugged. How could she tell her mother they were being sent away for stealing from Woolworths? She’d been so jealous when the girls set out on their big adventure, but now she was relieved she wasn’t with them when they got caught. She felt sure she would never have taken anything that didn’t belong to her, but if she had been there, she would have been deemed just as guilty as them. Isn’t that what had happened to poor Ann?
Shirley jumped as her mother suddenly said, ‘You are both very lucky. Mrs Andrews put in a good word for you and Mrs Ashley from the WI agreed to take you on the coach.’
Shirley was still thinking over what had happened to Helen and Ann. ‘Mum,’ she began cautiously, ‘what’s an “approved school”?’
The question, right out of the blue, took Florrie by surprise. She had kneaded the dough and was getting it ready to roll on the drop-down shelf of the kitchen cupboard. Brushing away a stray curl that had escaped from her turban, she said, ‘It’s a special school where they put very naughty girls. Why do you ask?’
‘Nothing,’ said Shirley.
‘They won’t send you to one of those, love,’ said Florrie, pushing the rolling pin over the pastry dough. ‘You’ll be a long way away, but you’ll be close by people you know, and you’ll still go to school with all your old friends. It won’t be for long.’
‘How long?’
‘Not long,’ said Florrie brightly.
‘Mum, Tom and I could leave school,’ said Shirley. ‘I know you wanted us to stay on, but maybe now is the time we should look around for a good job.’
‘Don’t be daft, Shirley,’ said Florrie. ‘You won’t be able to earn enough to support yourselves. Everybody has to start at the bottom. Anyway, even if we do go to war, they say it’ll all be over by Christmas. You’ll be back home in no time.’
‘What about you?’ said Shirley. ‘You mustn’t stay here if Hitler is going to bomb the docks.’
‘And I won’t be, will I?’ said Florrie, cutting the pie shapes. ‘I’m going to live in the country for a while too.’
‘Then why can’t we go with you?’ Shirley cried.
‘I’m not well enough to look after you,’ said Florrie. She snatched a renegade tear away with the back of her hand, leaving floury marks on her face.
‘Then let me look after you, Mum,’ said Shirley. ‘I can do it.’
‘No, you can’t,’ said Florrie. This was almost too much to bear. She felt as if her heart was breaking.
‘I still don’t see why we can’t be together.’
‘Because we can’t,’ Florrie snapped. ‘For God’s sake, Shirley, stop asking me questions. My head is thumping.’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Shirley, giving her mother a wounded look.
‘If you want to be useful,’ said Florrie, anxious that her daughter wouldn’t see her tears, ‘wash up that bowl and put the kitchen scales away.’
As she worked miserably at the sink, Shirley felt very frustrated. If her mother didn’t want her around, there had to be something seriously wrong. She wasn’t stupid. She knew when she was being fobbed off.
As she came through the shop on Friday, Shirley had an idea. There had been times in the past when she was a little girl when Auntie Betty had been an ally. If Shirley had eaten a few too many sweets, Auntie Betty would shake her head disapprovingly, but she never told her mother, and once when Shirley had torn her best dress, Auntie Betty did what she called an ‘invisible mend’ on the tear. Her mother had never even noticed. Maybe Auntie Betty would be honest about Mum.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she began.
‘Course you can, darlin’.’
‘Is my mother going to die?’
Auntie Betty was shelf-filling and had her back to Shirley. Shirley saw her stiffen, but when she turned to look at her, Auntie Betty had altogether too bright a smile. ‘Good Lord alive, child,’ she cried. ‘Your mother’s going away to get better, not to die. You know what this place is like in the winter. When that fog comes down the river and everybody’s got a fire in the grate, it’s like breathing in Bird’s custard powder. She can’t get well here, now, can she? Not on your nelly. A bit of fresh country air will do her the world of good.’
Shirley could understand the logic of that, but she was still none the wiser as to the nature of her mother’s illness. There was nothing for it but to ask a direct question. ‘What’s wrong with Mum?’
Auntie Betty took a deep breath. Shirley waited. ‘You’ll have to ask your mother that,’ Auntie Betty said gravely.
‘But—�
�
The shop door opened and the bell rang.
‘Run along now, Shirley, there’s a good girl. I’ve got a customer.’
Shirley wasn’t the only one who sensed something was very wrong with Florrie. Who wouldn’t? She lay around on the sofa and she didn’t go into the shop any more. Tom didn’t know how to express his feelings, but when he came into the house, he brought her gifts. On Wednesday, he’d picked some wayside flowers for her, some pinkish-blue borage, a few sprigs of yellow kidney vetch, a bladder campion and a piece of purple wild basil. Florrie had no idea where he’d found them – most likely on that piece of waste ground just up the road, or maybe by the water’s edge – but she’d been moved to tears and had to turn her back as she put them on a saucer, next to the goldfish. The stems were far too short for a jam jar. On Thursday, Tom had saved her one of his sandwiches from his school lunch. His mother had cupped his face in her hands and given him a quick kiss before he could pull away.
They packed their cases on Friday evening. They weren’t allowed to take much; two changes of clothes and a toy was about it. Tom was very clear about what he wanted, but his mother drew the line at taking the goldfish. ‘It’ll get too hot in the coach,’ she said. ‘And what happens if you drop the jam jar? With no water, he’ll die.’ Tom understood that, so he took his animal book instead.
Florrie gave Shirley four postcards, each with a stamp on the corner. ‘I want you to post these when you get there,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t send them all at once – space them out – and don’t forget to put your new address on them. I want to know where you are so I’ll know where to come and fetch you to bring you back home.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Shirley scolded. ‘I’m old enough to make my own way home.’
Florrie nodded. ‘Course you are.’
‘What if we don’t like where we are?’ said Shirley. Her stomach was already in knots and she felt a bit like crying. How long would it be before she could see her mother again?
‘If we go to war,’ said Florrie, ‘we may all have to put up with a lot of things we don’t like until it’s over.’ She saw her daughter’s face fall, so she added, ‘But if it’s really, really unbearable, write and let me know, and somehow or other, I’ll get someone to come for you.’