Lemon Sherbet and Dolly Blue

by Knight, Lynn

  Betsy would not normally venture an opinion on the subject but, if asked, she said Willie was a fool to himself. Annie’s friend Ethel was more forthright: ‘Willie Thompson was never any bloody good.’ She was still putting up her fists to defend Annie. On the other hand, Eva liked Willie and thought her sister too tough on him, which says something about Eva’s generous nature as well as my grandparents’ relationship. There was a thread of steel within Annie, but by pocketing her jewellery, Willie also pocketed her love and trust.

  She had made her bed and would have to lie in it. You heard that phrase all the time, a blunt verdict belonging to the days when the stigma of divorce bound couples together and forced them to muddle through. Whatever their feelings, Annie and Willie were both mild-mannered; they did not shout at one another and rarely exchanged harsh words, and Willie’s stories could still amuse her. He still had his blue eyes and corn-coloured hair, but the man who stood before her was a poor imitation of the one Annie loved. Living with Willie now involved learning to live with disillusion.

  For the first few years of her life, my mum was photographed on her birthday. Not one of Willie’s casual snaps, but a proper studio portrait: Cora in a fur-lined hat, with posy; Cora with enormous upright teddy bear and cake; Cora with brown-bear-on-wheels and cake. Willie baked the first two, but was too ill to bake the cake for her third birthday. To add insult to injury, young Billy Thompson made it instead. (‘Look at that. Why ever put a row of piping there?’)

  After my mum’s fourth birthday, the annual portraits stopped: money was tight and there’d be school photographs soon enough. The final birthday picture shows Cora sitting on the arm of her mam’s chair (a studio chair, a prop). It’s a beautiful photograph, though Annie is a middle-aged matron by now, nothing like the blithe young woman who married Willie. Knowing what I do, this picture shows me something more than a loving portrait of a mother and daughter. It is also a reflection of how things stood between Annie and Willie by the end of that year.

  15

  Back to the Racecourse

  IN 1934, ANNIE, WILLIE AND CORA MOVED TO A COUNCIL house on Racecourse Road. Chesterfield’s racecourse was no more, its last race having run ten years earlier. Built on part of the original circuit, Racecourse Road was one of two surviving markers of a once distinguished sporting past. Long disestablished by the turf authorities, Race Days had eventually descended into farce, with bookies almost as numerous as race-goers and some races supposedly delayed until their runners could be unhitched from coal carts. The associated pleasure fair or Feast was still going strong, however, and attracting substantial crowds. Part of the land was now a permanent recreation ground which, it was hoped, would prove more useful to the town than the jaded racecourse. Other hopes expressed were tongue-in-cheek. ‘Now the races are done with,’ one official remarked, ‘the morals of the people of Chesterfield will so improve that we shall be able to do without policemen or parsons.’

  You could follow the curve of the original circuit up to and beyond my mum’s front door and picture yourself six furlongs beyond the starting flag, with the Grandstand and finishing post up ahead. And, like many of the races run here in the past, the move to Racecourse Road had a lot riding on it. This was Annie and Willie’s first independent home; their home, not Jim’s, their name on the council rent book. The road also returned the family to its own starting point, where my great-grandfather was brought to the town.

  In the modern house the decoration of the kitchen calls for as much care and attention as does any other room in the house. Light cheerful walls and woodwork should be the rule here, as well as in the rest of the house. Here are some suggestions:

  In a north or east kitchen:

  Ceiling: Pale primrose washable paint

  Walls: Washable primrose paint

  Woodwork: Leaf green (glossy)

  Linoleum: Green and white large checks

  Curtains: Green American cloth

  Chairs: To match the woodwork

  In a south or west kitchen:

  Ceiling, Walls: Honey-buff washable paint

  Woodwork: Same colour as walls

  Linoleum: Blue and white large checks

  Curtains: Blue American cloth

  Chairs: Painted blue

  In these days of enamelled stoves (which are easily cleaned with a damp cloth) and independent anthracite-burning stoves, these light colours will not become dirty any sooner than darker colours would, and added to this the walls are washable. Housework is much more easily carried on in bright surroundings than in the old-fashioned gloomy ones.

  – ‘House Decoration: The Kitchen’, House Management, 1934

  Annie and Willie were not the first to occupy their semi, but the house was almost new and had a lavatory which, although outside, was enclosed within a porch and so was practically as good as an indoor one. Even more desirable was the bathroom, with hot and cold running water and a fixed bath, an unknown luxury until now. Annie bought herself a long-handled sponge with which to soap her back and another to dab herself with powder. Reclining in the water for the very first time, she felt like Theda Bara in the films.

  My grandma sewed new curtains for the windows and, on his good days, Willie worked on an aviary that spanned the bottom of the garden, abutting the back wall. He was a competent joiner, one of the few things for which he thanked his father, who’d had Willie handing him tools as a small boy. Fellow members of the Caged Bird Society came to cast an eye over his handiwork and agreed they could not fault it: Willie had done a fine job. Next, he built a gate and solid fencing to separate their house from the next pair: a man needed his own back gate.

  When he was feeling well and optimistic, Willie still whistled or sang his favourite songs: ‘After the Ball’, ‘The Big Sunflower’, ‘Roses in Picardy’, the same sentimental numbers as before. He sang as he slapped paint on the kitchen walls and as he dug new flower beds for the garden (front and back) and planted the pinks and night-scented stocks Annie liked, and when Willie had finished these jobs, he decorated his tin hat with a ring of forget-me-nots and slung it on the back of the coalhouse door.

  Good days were a million miles from bad ones. When the wrenching in his gut was quieter, Willie felt rejuvenated. It was only a short reprieve, he knew that, but its brevity demanded exuberance. He and Cora wound up the gramophone and danced to his ’78s. Willie steered her round the living room, performed a mock foxtrot slide towards the chaise longue before dipping and swinging her back towards the bureau. Annie heard them laughing while she was preparing tea. She heard him inventing rhymes and telling Cora she’s the best, and teasing Cora and generally acting the goat, but it was a different Willie who opened the kitchen door to Annie.

  Willie was proud of their new home and brought his brother Godfrey and sister Gertie to see it, but it was eleven o’clock at night and, until their visitors disturbed them, Annie and Cora were asleep – Cora had a large cot in her parents’ room. Laughter and enthusiastic greetings woke them, rising up the stairs and then coming into the bedroom.

  ‘Oh, Annie, what a lovely picture, Annie (a Victorian print ‘My First Tooth’). And here’s Cora, isn’t she a darling? Come on, Annie, get up and join us. Willie’s showing us the house.’ Gertie leaned over Cora’s cot, wafting an unknown scent as well as her usual Attar of Roses. Godfrey followed her into the room. They both made a fuss of Cora, as they always did, and she was pleased to see them, if startled to be woken in that way, but Annie was white with indignation: fancy, waking a sleeping woman and a small child. Instantly, all gaiety subsided. The revellers scuttled off downstairs and left the house.

  The new house was barely a mile from the old one and my grandparents still relied on Whittington Moor for its shops, but this was a different neighbourhood nonetheless, with neighbours who were also new to the area. Here, Annie and Willie were a couple with their young daughter. No one knew of Cora’s adoption and that was how they wanted things to stay. And, better all round that Cora knew no
thing about it either.

  The move coincided with my mum starting school. Annie issued first-day instructions: ‘Speak to everyone, be friendly with everyone, but don’t put your head next to theirs.’ School was the local Infants’ School on nearby Edmund Street, one of the single-storey schools built between the wars and designed to maximise the health-giving properties of sunlight. One external wall was mostly glass and multiple windows allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate each classroom. As an additional aid to healthy bones, Cora (like many in Chesterfield) wore a flower-shaped ‘Zodo’ locket around her neck. Patented by Dr J. A. Goodfellow of the town’s Oldfield Pottery, the Zodo iodine vapour dispenser released ‘the concentrated essence of sea breezes’.

  My mum hung her coat beneath a picture of a crescent moon; a crescent moon safeguarded her toothbrush. Teeth-cleaning was a daily ritual, following lunch, after which the children rested on green canvas beds before gathering around Miss Coombes to hear the latest tale from Sunny Stories.

  In complete contrast with this kindly, forward-looking vision was Miss Harding, the headmistress. A terrifying throwback to earlier times, Miss Harding screamed and raged and threatened, thwacking all transgressors with a baton; left-handers hadn’t a hope of remaining left-handed. On Empire Day, her pupils were marched around the flag in double quick time and were regularly lined up for inspection. Dirty clothes or faces were unacceptable; the fine point of her baton twitched at the sight of unwashed hands.

  Few in the district had much money, but some pupils lived in an area known as West End which, in the hierarchy of who-had-least, came slightly lower in the pecking order than Racecourse Road. Some of the girls’ frocks had been worn through so many seasons that their daffodil yellows had faded to a milky primrose and their scarlets were verging on pink; some hems had been let down so many times they were starting to resemble concertinas. One afternoon, Miss Harding singled out one of the smartest pupils and paraded her before the whole school. This was how everyone should dress, she insisted, indicating the girl’s smart Scotch kilt and jumper. This was correct wear for school. Even her youngest pupils were embarrassed on their headmistress’s behalf. They all knew about lean times. How come the news had passed her by? But no one dared to contradict Miss Harding. Some of her pupils whispered dark words about the county asylum; others hoped that prophecy would be fulfilled.

  My mum was luckier than many of her classmates. Annie’s knack with clothes meant she could rustle up a frock from the skimpiest amount of material in the way a knowledgeable cook turns the barest ingredients into a delicious meal. She had learned all the basics, the cutting out, overlocking, darting, and so forth, on her tailoring course, but features were her special thing. Prevailing fashions inspired Annie to set a row of chevrons above a pocket or add a modish panel to an otherwise plain dress. She knew what wonders could be achieved by the judicious application of a vertical row of ornamental buttons in ascending or descending sizes at shoulder height, or by the addition of a fabric bow. Annie pored over the patterns in newspapers and Woman’s Weekly, but whatever she was making, added decorative touches of her own. Though her slim figure was a thing of the past, she still favoured ‘dressy’ clothes. With a pinch of ingenuity and a card of buttons, Annie demonstrated her flair.

  Equal amounts of thought went into the making of Cora’s clothes. My mum developed her own beady eye for details spotted in films or magazines – buttons shaped like stars or animals, two pockets instead of one to decorate a skirt or dress. Annie made whatever adjustments she requested. She made all but one or two of Cora’s dresses. The exceptions came via Mrs Hunt, whose daughter attended the same dance class. Three or four of Mary’s frocks were handed down when she outgrew them. These were shop-bought clothes of sound quality – the first my mum ever wore, and the only ones for a good few years. One had short puffed sleeves with a Peter Pan collar and an elasticated waist, but the very best of all was a navy blue dress with white polka dots, a patent belt and a flared skirt that swung when you moved, like a dancer’s.

  My grandma made nearly all my childhood clothes too, jumpers and cardigans as well as dresses, but she surpassed herself with my dolls. There were none better dressed in the whole of England. One Christmas morning, I woke to find them all (some half a dozen) posing in new outfits. My mum had stealthily removed them, one by one, for Annie to take their measurements without my noticing. A tall thin doll with pointy toes was dressed for the ball in a crimson gown with a full net skirt – layers of net, not just the one – and a tiny blue corsage, the corsage the telling detail. My favourite wore a winter coat in pillar-box red corduroy with a real fur collar and matching Cossack hat; and on the year Annie and Eva took my brother and me to Scarborough (gold doubloons in Peasholm Park and false ink and whoopee cushions from the seafront joke shop), the doll who accompanied us had a holiday outfit, just as I did.

  I don’t know if the council-house move had anything to do with it, but around this time, Jim sold the cake shop. Annie had to find new employment and signed up as an agent for the Provident Clothing Company to canvas customers buying clothes on Hire Purchase. HP (or the ‘never-never’) was another sign of the times: ‘Choose the “Simone” afternoon frock in suede georgette with bolero jacket front, or the “Royce” raglan-sleeved winter coat, and pay by instalment.’

  Collecting Provident with Annie became one of the weekend routines of my mum’s childhood (and was, incidentally, another of the things that excluded Willie, not that he would have expected to accompany Annie while she was working, but it joined the lengthy list of things that shut him out).

  First thing Saturday morning, Cora and Annie walked the length of Whittington Moor, along Stonegravels and up to the Highfield Estate, a development on higher ground whose mix of council and private housing offered a different perspective in every sense. Built in the late 1920s, on land formerly part of the Highfield Hall estate (another landowner fallen on hard times), this was a desirable area, albeit a very different kind of estate from the original one. Going from door to door, opening and closing sunbeam gates, passing borders of Michaelmas daises and hydrangeas, Cora understood that she and her mam were the poor ones, until Annie reassured her: ‘We’re just as good as they are.’

  Though Cora accompanied her on Saturday mornings, Friday evenings and Mondays were also collecting days for Annie. (Her washday was Tuesday for this reason.) As long as she presented her books to the Provident office each Wednesday, she could choose her own hours, but Annie had to canvass her customers – ‘vigorously and systematically’, according to her Provident handbook – when they had money. It did not take long for her to assess who could be trusted to pay on Mondays and who she had to catch on payday. Those with a smarter address could be just as nifty at avoiding payment as poorer customers. And many pleas were genuine – unexpected illness and the need to pay a doctor could easily swallow the shillings put aside towards a new frock.

  All orders had to tally with the ticks and crosses in Annie’s Provident book. Annotating this while chatting to a customer, it was easy to put a mark in the wrong column. Over the years, Annie and Cora spent many Tuesday evenings checking and recheck ing her figures, trying to make them come right for the next day.

  The Wednesday morning ritual hardly varied. The Provident office was crammed with collectors – men, mostly – standing in line, gradually shuffling forward, waiting to be grumbled at and generally harangued by their manager, Mr Smith, whose general irritability was sharpened by any failure to produce new customers. (‘Enter the names and number of houses of those who are likely or have promised to take shares… Invite weekly the members of your agency to recommend to you other likely members… Punctuality and regularity… will soon beget for you their confidence and support.’) No mention of the door shut in your face, or the message via a child: ‘My mother says to tell you she’s not in.’

  But Annie had to tolerate Smithy only once a week. The rest of the time was hers: out in the fresh air, independent. She co
uld not imagine another job that would give her so much flexibility and enable Cora to accompany her on Saturday mornings. It was pleasant enough work in summer and on any other fine day, and Annie’s friendly, reliable clients greatly outnumbered cussed ones. It also gave her a chance to glimpse inside other people’s houses and see the three-piece-suite in green moquette, the new fawn-tiled fireplace. Long-standing customers enjoyed the company – ‘Mrs Thompson’s here, put the kettle on’ – the walk itself was good exercise, two or three miles each time, and sometimes taking her as far as the other side of Chesterfield; and enabled Annie to pursue her own thoughts while earning money. Money that was hers for the housekeeping, not Willie’s to squander.

  If some questioned the fact that my grandma worked while men were desperate for employment, she had a ready answer in her child and sick husband. Annie was the breadwinner of the family, even if as far as most people were concerned, she was just another woman carrying a shopping bag. Few gave her a second glance. By the time my mum reached secondary school, however, and met girls whose fathers had higher incomes, her new friends were amazed to discover she had a mother who went out to work.

  Saturday-morning Provident preceded Cora’s lesson at Joan Mason’s School of Dancing, a slice of pleasure for Annie as much as Cora. Joan Mason introduced a rare note of sophistication to provincial Chesterfield. A teacher with all the poise an aspirant dancer (and her mother) could wish for, she had the manner and looks to match. Miss Mason strode through her classes in Oxford bags (perfect for executing time-steps), painted her nails scarlet and spoke through peek-a-boo lips. She wore short, tight-fitting blouses above her trousers and had hair set in undulating waves; her eyebrows arched in perfect Art Deco curves. She was so impeccably 1930s she might have stepped out of a Busby Berkeley number or Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes. No one else in Chesterfield looked or dressed like Joan Mason. Miss Mason literally turned heads.