Lemon Sherbet and Dolly Blue

by Knight, Lynn

  Q.

  What became of this Invincible Armada?

  A.

  Many of the ships were broken by violent storms; others were defeated by the English, and with the rest the Spaniards were very glad to go back to Spain.

  – From Mrs Gibbon’s Simple Catechism of the History of England, from the Invasion of the Romans to the Present Time, Adapted to the Capacities of Young Children, 1890

  That summer, my grandma applied for her first post as an elementary school teacher; Miss Doughty was one of her referees. Amazingly, Annie looked set to make a good disciplinarian (‘looked set’, mind, Miss Doughty would not go too far in praising her); the manager of Arthur Shentall’s grocery business confirmed her good character and that she came from a respectable home. Miall Spencer, headmaster of Staveley Netherthorpe Grammar School, also testified to her suitability. Annie’s destination was a school in Bolsover, a village some three miles east of the corner shop. Her classmate and admirer, George, found a teaching post near Wheeldon Mill. They both needed lodgings; their mothers agreed the two of them should swap homes.

  For the next twelve months, it was turn and turn-about. On weekdays, Annie lodged with George’s family, and George occupied the attic room above the shop. It was strange to inhabit one another’s houses, to be inside his family but not of it, to come to recognise the brand of furniture polish his mother favoured and how she liked her tea, and to get to know his sisters, especially the youngest, who blushed whenever George’s name was mentioned in front of Annie. And it was strange to sleep in the room beside his, a peculiar intimacy, even though George himself was never there. Annie enjoyed his admiration and his company but this was too much like becoming one of the family. It was as if she was there on approval, with no one saying the one thing on everyone’s mind; a foretaste of married life, although Annie was still a guest to be entertained and made welcome, not yet a daughter-in-law.

  For George, the exchange was just what he wanted, and my great-grandparents loved having him to stay. Eva was fond of George, too, and he of ‘Kiddie’, as he called her. He came to love them all. It was the easiest thing to call Betsy and Dick, Mam and Dad, but there was no reciprocal gesture from Annie. His mother may have found this reticence pleasing and entirely appropriate behaviour in a young woman, but there was more to it than that. If George’s vocabulary staked a claim for his future, so did Annie’s. And things were about to get more complicated. In 1913, Willie came back.

  6

  A Garden Party and a Wedding Invitation

  IF WILLIE WAS FULL OF STORIES BEFORE LEAVING FOR AMERICA, he had plenty to tell on his return. Two years in Pittsburgh: his first weeks working alongside his brother Harry until he found a bakery job; and the highways, the buildings, and the cars – oh, the cars. He’d seen New York and the Statue of Liberty; he could spin a dollar like a true American. The picture Willie painted of himself, sitting on the quayside on the day he arrived, sounded like something out of the films. But, despite his adventures, he was glad to be home and especially pleased to reach dry land. His ship docked in Liverpool a year and a day after the sinking of the Titantic.

  Annie was not entirely sure why Willie had come back. If she asked outright, Willie would say was she fishing for a compliment, or simply shrug his shoulders and smile. And Willie only had to smile, and she was done for. If Annie had to find one word to describe the effect Willie Thompson had on her it would be ‘dazzled’. His smile, his eyes, his hair: the number of times she mentioned his forget-me-not blue eyes and corn-coloured hair, you would think him the most handsome man on earth, and so he was to Annie soon enough.

  ‘Who’s Willie Thompson when he’s at home?’ her father teased her, though Dick knew perfectly well who Willie Thompson was, and only asked to watch Annie blush. Betsy said very little about Willie’s reappearance, but the fact that she said little, made her opinion clear enough. She could not fathom what her daughter saw in him, compared with good, kind, reliable George.

  Are School Teachers Stuck Up? This question, being asked about ‘lady teachers’, now that there were even more of them in evidence, was the title of another article that found its way into Annie’s commonplace book, and had a particular piquancy for her around this time. ‘The constant quick speaking as she instructs her class… is apt to give her conversation a dictatorial tone [but] when a school teacher has the good sense and good feeling to make the most of her opportunities, then indeed a man may search the whole world over before he finds a more delightful person… the woman with a trained intelligence is able not only to rule her household wisely and well, but be a good companion for her husband.’

  Willie Thompson’s education could not compare with Annie’s or that of his rival, George (just as theirs suffered in comparison with college-educated teachers). Willie had left school at the age of twelve, dragged away from classes by his father who obtained an exemption to get him into work as soon as possible. What did a lad want with school? Joiner, farmer, coffin-maker, master builder, or so he claimed, in later years (‘Oh ay?’ I hear my great-grandma say), William Thompson senior had never put much faith in learning, or in idealistic dreams, come to that. A taciturn man with enormous pride in his own achievements, he was nevertheless curmudgeonly with his eight children. Though he helped with deliveries in the bakery’s early days, he watched his eldest son build the business in silence – and worse. When Jim earned his first hundred pounds, he bought himself a pair of shoes, the first leather shoes – proper lace-up shoes, not working boots – he’d ever owned, with a pattern pricked out on their perfect toes. His mother shared his pride at what they represented. When she’d finished admiring them, Jim left them on the hearth, where he found them the next day, chopped into half a dozen pieces. His father had taken an axe to their smooth black leather. It didn’t do to flaunt your hopes before William Thompson senior. Whatever dreams young Willie had, he made damn sure he kept them to himself.

  Willie was working for his brother once again, and paying court with smiles and songs and fancy cakes and scones. He was winning rosettes and national medals too. He could bake enormous loaves shaped like sheaves of wheat or corn, and decorate cakes with elaborate icing that carried off first prizes in competitions. His skills helped put Jim’s business on the map. Thompson’s became a ‘gold medal’ bakery, a thriving, expanding concern. Their baby brother Bernard also joined the firm; as soon as he left school, he took over the deliveries from their father.

  Jim Thompson had political ambitions and was already learning that connections are made and influence wielded via social engagements and conversations with the right people. Shortly after his return, Willie invited Annie to a garden party held by Jim and his wife, Edith, where tea was served in fine china cups and women with lace parasols ate strawberries from little glass dishes. Afternoon tea and parasols, and tales of Willie’s American adventure – Annie felt quite giddy.

  In the summer of 1915, Jim was appointed to Chesterfield’s Urban District Council. Never one to do things by halves, he hired a tram to drive along Whittington Moor and stood on the platform, the man of the day, thanking all those who’d cast their vote for him. Annie and Willie were among the half dozen invited to make up the party. She spent hours trimming her hat (shaped like a giant upturned soup plate, as was the fashion then) with an abundance of silk flowers in order to look her best for the occasion. Standing on the open deck beside Jim and Edith and their close friends, Annie and Willie leaned against the rail and waved to the pedestrians below. There was something faintly regal about their progress along the Moor in their own special car with its chocolate and yellow livery, its windows plastered with can-do posters of Jim. For all that it was wartime, the day had a holiday atmosphere: it was a relief to have something to celebrate.

  George was still around – George was always around – and knowable in a way Willie was not. He asked Annie out on two or three occasions and was a dear, kind friend, but he did not make her heart leap or her fingers stutter over
the buttons on her gloves when his sleeve brushed against hers, as Willie’s had on the open deck of the tram. George invited Annie to accompany him to a wedding. Which was all very nice, but when the photographer required the guests to position themselves, Annie hung back. She was the only one who was not part of the family.

  In case she needed reminding of his interest, Willie sent Annie another silent card. This one, dashed into the post with stamp askew, came from nearby Staveley, and showed a picture of the Thompson’s bakery cart. Though more prosaic than a Pittsburgh scene, its message was loud enough.

  But this was 1915, and there was a larger story taking place. All over the country, fit young men were deciding whether to do their bit and volunteer. In July, George enlisted.

  7

  Goodbyes, 1914–16

  AT THE CORNER SHOP, THE GREAT WAR STARTED WITH A scramble for food. Everyone anticipated shortages. Anyone with any pennies to spare bought extra tea and sugar; Mrs Graham wanted the largest tin of golden syrup my great-grandma could supply.

  Eva was chosen to be Britannia and lead a fund-raising parade which wound through Brimington, down into Wheeldon Mill and back up the hill again, following the colliery band. Neighbours stood on their doorsteps and Betsy left the shop to see Eva enthroned, with helmet, shield and trident (garden fork), in a dress made over especially for the occasion. Her float was festooned with Union Jacks and garden flowers and accompanied by half a dozen younger children in assorted national dress – handmaidens from Wales, Scotland, Ireland, India, the Colonies. One young lad, intended to represent the globe, looked stuffed to bursting, showing off all the pink bits on the map. ‘John Bull’, ‘Peace’ and Red Cross nurses marched behind them.

  Gradually, the local landscape changed. Men still worked the pit – coal was essential – but anyone travelling into Chesterfield saw the khaki tide transforming its pavements. The Brimington Parish Magazine published its own Roll of Honour, listing local heroes who joined the Colours. Some were in a great hurry to join up, others harried into it by recruiting sergeants. Young Rolly Cook signed his papers before August 1914 was through, and came into the shop to announce that he was a soldier.

  Kathleen Driver would have packed her husband off in a jiffy if she could, but as a winder at the colliery, he was secure. Instead, she bought a cake of laundry soap and rubbed it across the stairs and along the edge of each tread. ‘The bugger’s still standing, though,’ she told Betsy. She’d hoped the brute would slip and break his neck. The next time Betsy saw Harold he was wearing his weekend suit and Sunday muffler, and heading for the Great Central Hotel. He raised his cap, as usual: ‘Afternoon, Mrs.’ You would think that butter wouldn’t melt.

  Ethel’s younger brother Sid, her nearest in age, had his portrait taken in uniform and presented a copy to Betsy, practising a confident air his eyes disputed. Jimmy Frith did the same, his cheeky smile captured for ever in black and white. Someone gave Betsy a small album for these and other photographs neighbours’ sons started bringing in to the shop. There they all were in their caps and insignia, looking like they’d borrowed their fathers’ clothes. Most managed a smile, some looked wary; one, completely petrified. His under-exposed image seemed bleached with fear. The album was so discreet it could be tucked into a pocket, safe from harm, which was more than could be said for the lads themselves.

  Eva turned fourteen during the First World War and started working alongside Betsy. She was quick at mental arithmetic, deft at transferring flour and sugar from the sacks on the floor to the small bags on the counter (blue bags for sugar, white for flour). Standing all day was tiring, and shifting sacks of chicken feed heavy work, but she loved greeting customers and was much happier serving behind the counter than reciting the Rivers of England for Miss West.

  The stock acquired a patriotic flavour: Bovril gives strength to win… Don’t Forget the Man at the Front. Post him Oxo Cubes. They Warm, Invigorate and Sustain in a Moment. Shopping lists began to include little extras that could be parcelled up and sent to France: a bar of Cadbury’s or Five Boys; a packet of shortbread; a Christmas tin of Doncaster Toffee; plus liberal quantities of Keating’s Powder and Hawley’s I.K: Destroys Insects, Vermin & Body Parasites.

  Uniformed portraits notwithstanding, there was still the tramp of boots to the pit. Derbyshire farmers complained of the number of colliery workers exempt from soldiering compared with those drawn from the land. The nation needed food as much as coal: what was the point of decimating the farms?

  George was granted embarkation leave and came to the house to say his farewells. He looked broader in uniform, as if he’d grown into himself; the war put meat on his bones. Before leaving to catch his train, George also presented Dick and Betsy with a photograph. It was a much larger picture than those of local lads, and a fitting image of the young man my great-grandparents regarded so highly. There are no comparable portraits of Willie.

  There is a photograph of Willie from around this time, however. He’s in mufti still and is looking quite the dandy, with a centre parting in his hair. The gold watch chain clipped to a waistcoat button grins twice over and almost as broadly as Willie. His hands are in his pockets and he’s lolling in his chair (two counts of etiquette dashed in one go). Annie stands beside him, her hand on his left shoulder. She looks as if she is claiming a prize.

  George wrote from France, sending Eva the lace-fronted postcards she requested. Commonwealth flags flit across most greetings, their cheery colouring and delicate lace as much at odds with the place they have come from as his anodyne words. Some are sentimental tokens, like the sweet briar rose in palest pink, with ‘forget me not’ stitched beside it, a postcard written to Eva, with a larger message intended for Annie. Eva returned the favour with parcels of socks and cigarettes and news of Wheeldon Mill. But she did not tell George everything. One of his pencil-written cards makes poignant reading: ‘Is it correct that Annie has married? Why did you not write and tell me?’

  When Annie and Willie married on 1 January 1916, they hoped the New Year would hold all the right promises, despite atrocious weather and the continuing war. Eva and Willie’s younger brother Nelson stood witness at the ceremony and accompanied the couple to church, arm in arm, so as not to slip on the ice. Annie wore a new hat, though not one she had trimmed herself. This one was made especially by a local milliner and had an under-brim of pleated silk. Despite snow carpeting the ground that day, she looked a picture of spring elegance. Annie was handsome before Willie Thompson came along, but on the day my grandma signed a photograph, ‘your ever loving wife’, she was beautiful.

  The attic room was rearranged to make it ‘new’ for the young couple with the addition of a little bamboo table and a cushioned wicker chair. It was a sunny room for Willie to come back to after a day at the bakehouse, though not his to enjoy for very long. In no time at all – or so it seemed to Annie – he was conscripted.

  The talk in the corner shop was nearly always of goodbyes. The number of lads departing for the Front was soon joined by that of lasses engaged in war work. Sheepbridge Works converted to munitions, enticing young women from their pre-war jobs. Fast and alert workers were needed; wages and camaraderie were good. They disappeared into vast hangars each morning and spilled out again at night, linked arms and singing, nobody seeming to mind the twelve-hour shifts.

  Ethel Stokes was one of them, a ‘canary’ (so-called because of the cordite staining their faces), working in an overall and cap; no hairpins, no corsets – ‘Oh, Annie, the blessed relief,’ – no metal of any kind allowed on site. Ethel spent her days twisting something that looked remarkably like macaroni into a lethal dish. Though wages were high, so were the risks. An explosion at a nearby gunpowder factory permanently scarred a number of women. Patriotism was all very well, but they had not reckoned on displaying theirs for life.

  Patriotism had other ugly moments. Bricks were hurled through the windows of German butcher, F. Stünder, on Sheffield Road, in retaliation for the sinking of t
he Lusitania, and windows smashed in Haag’s butcher on the High Street. ‘Whoever would do a senseless thing like that?’ asked Betsy. ‘German or not, they’re all some mother’s sons.’

  Quietly at first, but gathering momentum, news starts coming in. Soon, it’s a weekly dispatch. The vantage point of the sweet window is shunned nowadays, when the clear view it affords could be that of the telegraph boy crossing the canal bridge on his bike. It takes such an age for him to pass the shop it is like waiting in slow motion. All conversation stops until he rides by.

  Carefree youths, who liked to hang around outside the shop are picked off, one by one. Eva’s friend Carrie loses the big brother who used to grab her hands and swing her off her feet on payday. She has four brothers in all, and a stepbrother too, but that does not mean she has a brother to spare. Lads Annie knows from grammar school, some of whom she vied with over their position in class, join the list of dead and wounded. One former assistant master, presumed killed, is discovered to be a prisoner of war. By the time the war is through with them, nineteen ‘old boys’ will be dead. Betsy learns to read her customers’ faces. How do you greet a woman who has lost both sons?

  It is not just neighbours and school friends who suffer. Annie’s cousin Jack survives only one month at the Front. Nineteen years old – and what’s the good of that, his mam asks Betsy. There is nothing ladylike about Aunt Annie’s grief. Her young Jack had a fund of stories always, and liked pulling everyone’s leg; now his jokes rot with him in France. Jack’s brother Charlie is wounded three times before finally being invalided out. The photograph he sends from his convalescent home is supposed to reassure them, but he’s lost so much weight his clothes hang off him. Betsy wonders how much else of Charlie has gone.

  But there is good news too, or what passes for good news in wartime: Willie is posted to the Middle East as a dispatch rider, and will surely be safer there than in France; and George has a commission, which is exactly what everyone expected. On the Home Front, there is the very best news of all: Annie is expecting a baby.