London Belles

by Annie Groves

  ‘I’ll never be able to remember them all,’ Agnes told him, shaking her head. ‘I got two tickets wrong again today and Mr Smith wasn’t at all pleased.’

  ‘His knees were probably bothering him. Suffers something rotten with his knees, old Smithy does. It comes of playing football when he was a youngster, so he says. He was a likely-looking junior for Arsenal before he went and broke a bone in his foot.’

  Mr Smith, as wide as he was tall, had been a football player? Agnes’s eyes widened in amazement. Ted knew so much. He knew almost everything there was to know about the underground and those who worked there, she felt sure.

  ‘And here,’ Ted produced a third sheet of paper, ‘see these squares I’ve drawn over the map of the underground? Well, they tell you the different charging areas and where they change. Red’s the cheapest ’cos them’s the stations nearest to us, and them blue’s the next and then green . . .’

  ‘Ted, I’m ever so grateful to you. I don’t know what I can do to thank you.’

  She was so earnest and so innocent, Ted thought protectively, well able to imagine what another lad, a lad who wasn’t him, might have to say to an offer like that.

  ‘Well, the best thing you can do is get them stations learned,’ he told her, mock reprovingly, finishing his teacake and then draining his teacup with noisy enthusiasm before saying casually, ‘So I’ll see you here again tomorrow so that we can run through some of them stations, shall I?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please – that is, if you’ve got time?’

  ‘Course I’ve got time. I’ll make time, but mind you look at them drawings and lists I’ve done for you and get learning them.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Agnes promised him fervently.

  Later, hurrying along High Holborn towards the orphanage, Agnes acknowledged that somehow seeing Ted made the knowledge that this evening would be the last she would ever spend at the orphanage easier to bear. Matron had said that she would walk with her herself to Article Row to see her settled in. Agnes’s heart swelled with pride as she remembered how Matron had praised her for her honesty and her courage when she had told her that after initially being too cowardly to go and see the room when she should have done she had then gone back and been rewarded with Tilly’s generosity.

  ‘I can see already that you and Tilly are going to become good friends, Agnes,’ Matron had said.

  Agnes certainly hoped so. She had never had a close friend of her own before, just as she had never had anyone like Ted in her life before, or a room she would have to share with only one other person, and in a proper house.

  She hoped the two other lodgers would like her. Tilly hadn’t said much about them other than that one of them was a nurse, who worked at Barts, as Tilly herself did, and the other – the one who had claimed the room that was to have been Agnes’s – worked at Selfridges and was, in Tilly’s own words, ‘very glamorous and exciting’.

  From her mother’s bedroom window Tilly surveyed Article Row eagerly, looking to see if any of their lodgers were on their way, even though it was only ten past seven. She had come upstairs using the excuse of needing to use the bathroom, knowing that her mother would disapprove of her hanging out of the window, so to speak, just as though they lived in some common rundown area where the inhabitants did things like that. Of course, her mother was being very matter-of-fact and businesslike about the whole thing, and because of that Tilly was having to pretend that she wasn’t excited, especially when it came to Dulcie, whose imminent presence in their home her mother was regularly verbally regretting.

  Disappointingly, though, the only people Tilly could see were Nancy from next door, who was standing by her front gate with her arms folded and a scarf tied round her head, talking to the coalman. He had sent a message earlier in the week via the young nephew who worked for him that he had received an extra delivery of coal and that if his customers had any sense they would take advantage of this, though it was summer, and fill their cellars ‘just in case’.

  There had been no need for anyone to ask, ‘Just in case what?’ The prospect of war was on every-one’s mind. Now, watching as his horse, obviously bored with his master’s delay, moved on his own to the next house, Tilly gave in to one of the delicious shivers of excitement she had been feeling ever since Dulcie had marched into number 13 and staked her claim on the back bedroom, imagining how much fun Dulcie was going to bring into their previously quiet lives.

  Further down the road, right at the end, Sergeant Dawson was opening his front gate and stepping out onto the pavement, the buttons on his police uniform shining brightly in the evening sunlight. The Dawsons went to the same church as Tilly and her mother, and tended to keep themselves to themselves. They didn’t have any children, their only son having been sickly from birth and having died in his early teens. Tilly could only vaguely remember him, a thin pale boy several years older than her, in a wheelchair she’d seen being pushed out by Mrs Dawson.

  The Simpson family at number 3 had four young children, two girls and two boys, and Tilly could see the boys taking turns riding their shared bicycle whilst the girls played hopscotch. Not that the children would be around for much longer. Barbara and the children were evacuating to Essex to stay with Barbara’s cousin, whilst Ian Simpson, who worked on the printing presses of the Daily Express in Fleet Street, would continue to live in the Row during the week and spend the weekend with his family.

  Even so, if Nancy saw that the children had drawn on the pavement in chalk they’d be for it, Tilly reckoned. Nancy didn’t approve of children making the Row look cluttered and untidy, not when they had back gardens to play in.

  Most of the inhabitants of Article Row were around Nancy’s age, with children who had grown up here and moved on, and some of the houses, mainly those further down from them, were all owned by the same landlord who rented them out to people who came and went, people who, in the main, worked at one of the local hospitals, the nearby Inns of Court, or the government offices on and around the Strand.

  Downstairs, Olive’s thoughts were occupied with their lodgers every bit as much as Tilly’s, although in a different way. She’d spent the day, making sure that the house was immaculate, wiping a damp cloth over the insides of drawers and wardrobes, then leaving them open to the warm summer air to dry, before replacing inside the small bags of lavender she’d carefully sewn and filled at the end of the previous summer. The previous week she’d taken the last of her late father-in-law’s clothes down to Mr Isaac just off the Strand, carefully paying the money he’d given her for them into her Post Office book.

  This morning she’d been up early to give her windows an extra polish with crumpled-up pages of the Daily Express dabbed with a bit of vinegar, and then this afternoon, she’d made up the beds with freshly aired sheets. She and Tilly had made do with a scratch tea of freshly boiled eggs, brown bread and butter, and some summer pudding she’d made earlier in the week. Now, as she surveyed her sparkling clean kitchen and smoothed a hand over the front of her apron she just hoped that she was doing the right thing, and that Nancy wasn’t right to disapprove and warn her that no good would come of her actions.

  In the event Sally was the first of the lodgers to arrive, bringing with her only one small suitcase, her calm organised manner soothing Olive’s anxieties. For a girl still only in her early twenties, Sally had a very mature manner about her, Olive recognised, deciding that this must come of her being a nurse.

  ‘Yes, I’d love a cup of tea, please,’ she replied to Olive’s offer, ‘but I’d like to take my case up to my room and unpack first, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Olive agreed.

  Upstairs in what was to be her new home, Sally unpacked quickly and efficiently pausing only to linger over and touch her parents’ photograph before making her way back downstairs to the kitchen where Olive was waiting for her with the kettle on the boil.

  ‘I’ve had keys cut for you all,’ Olive informed Sally. ‘My neighbour seems to
think I shouldn’t have done but in your case especially, with you doing shift work, it seemed to make sense and I felt I couldn’t offer you your own key and not do the same for the two other girls.

  ‘Two other?’ Sally queried, smiling approvingly at Tilly as Olive explained what had happened.

  Once they had their cups of tea they gravitated out into the back garden, Sally explaining, ‘It seems a shame not to make the most of this warm weather, especially as we don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to enjoy it. It was noticeable how many young men in uniform there are in London, as I made my way here, and of course no one can avoid noticing the sandbags and other precautions.’

  ‘No,’ Olive agreed unhappily. ‘I’ve already got my blackout curtains done. Me and Tilly did them together a few weeks back.’ She nodded towards the bottom of the garden. ‘As you can see, we’ve got an Anderson shelter in place. Sergeant Dawson from number one, and my neighbour from next door’s husband, came round and put it up for me. Sergeant Dawson said that I’ll be able to grow some salad greens on the top of it, with all the earth we’ve covered it with, but I don’t know the first thing about gardening, as you can see.’

  ‘My parents loved gardening,’ Sally smiled, ‘and I don’t mind having a go at turning part of the garden into a veggie patch, if you want me to?’

  ‘Would you?’ Olive was delighted. ‘I must say that I’ve been feeling a bit guilty that I haven’t got a clue when all the neighbours seem to be doing their bit and growing all sorts. There’s a small shed on the other side of the Anderson, and a bit of a greenhouse, but you can’t see them right now for the apple tree.’

  Gardening had been something Sally and her parents had always done as a family, and although it would be painful to take it up again because of the memories it would bring back it would also be something she would enjoy, Sally knew.

  ‘I’d be happy to do what I can, although I dare say with Covent Garden so close you aren’t short of fresh veggies.’

  ‘Not normally,’ Tilly joined in, ‘but I overheard Sergeant Dawson telling Mrs Black from number fourteen the other morning that if we do go to war then it mightn’t be so easy to get fresh food. Smithfield Market has already been moved, and . . .’ Tilly hesitated and then, because Sally was after all a nurse and working at Barts herself, she continued in a small rush, ‘. . . and they were saying in the Lady Almoner’s office this morning that they wouldn’t be surprised if the evacuation of the hospital didn’t start soon.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Sally agreed, finishing her tea, which had been strong and hot, just as she liked it.

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure you really need all this stuff? After all, you’ll be coming home every week,’ Rick complained as he was forced to sit on the bulging suitcase that Dulcie had borrowed from one of their neighbours in order to transport her personal belongings to her new home.

  ‘Of course I need it, otherwise I wouldn’t be taking it, would I?’ Dulcie responded scornfully.

  Her brother was wearing his new army uniform, collected only that morning prior to him going off for his six months’ military training in a few days’ time. The heavy khaki clothes and sturdy boots, which often looked uncomfortable and unwieldy on other men, seemed to fit Rick quite well, but Dulcie certainly wasn’t going to boost her brother’s ego by telling him how surprisingly good-looking and well set up he looked. Even with his new short back and sides haircut.

  When they went downstairs, the family were all gathered in the kitchen, her mother’s pursed mouth making it plain what she thought of Dulcie’s decision and her behaviour, whilst, typically, her dad had hidden himself behind his evening paper as he sat at the kitchen table drinking his cup of tea, whilst Edith, smugly virtuous as always, was doing the washing up.

  ‘That’s it, then, I’m off,’ Dulcie announced from the open kitchen door.

  Her mother’s look of disapproval deepened, but then, at the last minute, just as she was about to turn away, her mother came over, telling her with maternal concern, ‘You just look out for yourself, Dulcie. You like to think you know all there is to know. It’s all right thinking that when you’ve got the support of a family behind you but it’s a very different matter when you’re all on your own. You just remember as well that we are your family, and if you aren’t back here on Sunday morning to go to church with us then I’ll have something to say about it, I can tell you, and so will your dad.’

  It was the longest speech her mother had made to her in a good while, and to her own astonishment Dulcie discovered that there was an unfamiliar lump in the back of her throat as she tossed her head and pretended not to be affected by this unexpected display of affection.

  It might not be a long distance as the crow flew from Stepney to Article Row, but just given that they were not crows or able to fly, and given, too, the bulging weight of Dulcie’s borrowed suitcase, Rick quickly discovered, as he manhandled the suitcase onto the bus, that he had been right to suspect that it would not be an easy journey. Dulcie, of course, had jumped on the bus ahead of him and was right now slipping into what looked like the last vacant seat, leaving him to strap hang and keep an eye on her case. Mind, there was one advantage to helping his sister, since the four girls squashed into the long seat at the back of the bus meant for only three people were now all looking approvingly at him.

  Rick winked at them and joked, ‘How about making room for a little ’un, girls? One of you could always sit on my knee.’

  The girls giggled whilst pretending to disapprove, and Rick was just on the point of taking things a bit further when Dulcie turned round in her seat to call out, ‘You can pay for me, Ricky, and make sure you keep an eye on that suitcase.’

  Having realised that he was ‘with’ Dulcie, the four girls looked disapproving at him, obviously jumping to the conclusion that they were a couple, and were now studiously ignoring him.

  ‘Trust you to flirt with the likes of them,’ Dulcie told him scornfully, once they had got off the bus in High Holborn, Rick having to tussle with the case to get it past the queue of people pressing forward to get on the bus. ‘Common as anything, they were, and if you carry on like that you’ll end up having your name written against the name of a kid that might not be yours, on its birth certificate.’

  Unabashed by this sisterly warning, Rick shook his head. ‘No way would I fall for anything like that. When I do write my name on a kid’s birth certificate, it will be my kid and its mother will be my wife. But I’m not up for that yet, not with this war, and plenty of girls fancying a good-looking lad in uniform. Fun’s the name of the game for me.’

  Dulcie couldn’t object or argue since she felt very much the same, although in her case there was no way she was letting any chap think she was going to take the kind of risks that got a girl into trouble. Being tied down in marriage with an unwanted baby on her hip wasn’t what Dulcie wanted for her future at all.

  Everywhere you went London’s buildings were now protected by sandbags, the windowpanes covered in crisscrosses of sticky brown tape, which the Government had said would hold the glass together in a bomb blast and prevent people from being cut by flying fragments.

  Outside one of the public shelters a woman was haranguing an ARP warden, demanding to know whether or not Hitler was coming and when, whilst a gaggle of girls in WRNS uniform hurried past in the opposite direction, carrying their gas masks in smart boxes.

  ‘Cor, look at those legs,’ Rick commented appreciatively, taking a break from carrying the case, to flex his aching arm muscles as he turned to admire the girls’ legs in their regulation black stockings. Out of all the services, only the WRNS were issued with such elegant stockings, but Dulcie eyed them disparagingly.

  ‘You can get better than that in Selfridges’ hosiery department,’ she sneered.

  ‘Maybe so, but I’ll bet they cost a pretty penny.’

  Dulcie nodded, feeling smug that she’d had the good sense to snap up half a dozen pairs from a consignmen
t in which the boxes had been damaged, rendering them unfit for sale in Mr Selfridge’s opinion and so sold to his staff at a discount price.

  Dulcie had heard that it wasn’t entirely unusual for some consignments of luxury goods to end up being ‘damaged’ thanks to an arrangement between the delivery drivers and the men who unloaded them, and that most of the damaged stock was then sold in one or other of the East End markets.

  ‘This way,’ she instructed Rick, indicating the turning that would eventually lead to Article Row.

  She hadn’t said much at home about Article Row and so she had the satisfaction of seeing her normally unimpressable elder brother come to a halt and stare around himself to take in the well-tended line of houses.

  ‘Bit posh, isn’t it?’ was all he allowed himself to say, but Dulcie knew him and she knew that he was impressed.

  Sergeant Dawson, leaning on his front gate and watching the world go by, spotted them and straightened up. He’d heard initially on the Row’s grapevine via its best gossip, Nancy, that Olive from number 13 was taking in lodgers; he’d seen Sally arrive, and then the thin little waif accompanied by the larger older woman, guessing that the girl must be the orphan recommended for a room by the vicar’s wife, but this young woman walking toward him confidently now, well, Nancy and the other old biddies would have something to say about her, the sergeant reflected, not altogether unappreciative of the slim length of Dulcie’s legs in her nylon stockings, or the way in which the skirt of her fitted poppy-red dress, with its white collar, just reached to her knee, its white belt showing off her narrow waist. He didn’t think, however, that Mrs Dawson would be equally appreciative, and he felt sorry for Olive, whom he knew and liked, having to deal with the kind of lodger this one looked as though she could turn out to be, and accompanied by a lad as well. The Row would not approve of that! Respectable single ladies was what Olive had advertised for, not too-pretty young girls of a type that would attract men like honey attracted bees.