Jim Jackson had always been a stolid sort of boy, getting on with his work, looking after his Ma when his father died, running errands when he was twelve, heading off to the docks when he was fourteen and old enough, always making the most of things. Now he was a bit taken aback by the strength of his dreams. He’d lusted after quite a few girls since he started at the docks, all of them pretty or saucy and none of them attainable but this one was different and had been since that first evening, when he’d put his arms round her without thinking and had hardly been able to think of anything else ever since. His dreams were wildly erotic and, as he told himself in the morning in his sensible way, wildly unlikely. But being sensible about them didn’t stop them returning night after night. Sometimes, when he was walking home from the docks and his back was aching with the effort he’d been making, he thought of her most tenderly and wished he could be walking home to a place of his own where she would be waiting for him. And then he wondered whether dreams ever came true and hoped that they did. She came to the halls with him every week now and that was a start, wasn’t it? We’ll see how we go along next Thursday.
But that morning Rosie had a postcard from Edie that changed both their plans.
‘Do you think you culd come and see us again,’ it said, ‘onny its Ma. She is in a weird state a mind and dose so want to see you. We are well enuf being it is so cold. I hope you are well enuf too. Your ever-loving sister, Edie.’
She wrote back that afternoon to say she would ask for some time off and promised she would be with them as soon as she could manage it. And the next day she consulted with the maître d’ and arranged to swap shifts so that she could have two days off instead of one and could be with them the Thursday after next. Taking action so quickly made her feel proper and virtuous. But her virtue didn’t protect her from her disturbing dreams. They continued and got progressively more daring so that when her next night at the halls arrived and she was sitting next to big Jim in the gallery and so close that they were arm against arm, she felt suddenly shy. Good job he can’t see what’s going on in my head, she thought. But he’d brought a paper bag full of humbugs and, not having x-ray vision, was more concerned with sharing them round between every act.
It was very cold when they emerged from the warm cocoon of the hall, so cold that it made her shiver, and the streetlights had acquired a fuzzy halo.
‘There’s a fog comin’,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You need a pair a’ gloves. Put yer ’and in my pocket. That’ll warm yer.’
It also meant that they had to walk very close together. Closer than they’d been since that first evening, when he’d put his arms round her. So close she could smell his jacket. It made her quite breathless. ‘You been working with coal,’ she said.
‘All day,’ he said. ‘Wears you out coal does. Wears you out, breaks yer back an’ makes yer stink.’
‘I don’t mind the smell of coal,’ she told him. ‘Makes me think of fires.’
They’d arrived in Pall Mall, so she had to take her hand out of his pocket. The loss of his warmth made her shiver. ‘You’re still cold,’ he said and took both her hands in his and chafed them. ‘Why, you’re like ice.’
To have her hands held was so pleasant she just stood still and enjoyed it. ‘You need a pair a’ gloves,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
He went on chafing her hands while she grew steadily more breathless and the fog gathered around them like a veil. ‘Get inside quick,’ he said at last, ‘or you’ll be late. Same time next week?’
It was dreadful to have to tell him she was going back home and couldn’t manage it. ‘It’s my Ma you see,’ she explained. ‘She’s in a state.’
He was disappointed but tried not to show it. ‘I ’spect she is,’ he said seriously. ‘Losin’ her son an’ everythin’.’ But he was thinking how close and pretty she was and wishing he could kiss her.
‘Yes,’ she agreed sadly. Oh how close and handsome he was. If only he’d put his arms round her the way he did before.
But he was turning, moving away. ‘Look after yerself,’ he said. And then he was striding into the fog, growing less substantial by the second, dissolving before her eyes.
If only he could’ve kissed me, she thought as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Just once. The way he does in my dreams. But then she felt ashamed of herself for being silly. Life ent like a dream, she thought ruefully. Life’s for real an’ you got to get on with it.
The journey to Binderton was bitterly cold and far too full of anxious thoughts to be comfortable and her walk through the fields was wind-battered, slippery and difficult because the footpaths were full of frozen puddles and ridged with recent wear. But when she saw Edie standing at the cottage window looking out for her, she forgot about the weather because she looked so upset and was biting her nails, which was always a bad sign.
‘I am so glad you’ve come our Rosie,’ she said, pulling her into the warmth of the cottage. ‘I been at my wits’ end with her. She does the housework an’ everything same as usual but she will keep all on about how he’s not dead. It’s awful.’
The room had been swept clean and tided and there was a good fire burning in the hearth but there was no sign of their mother.
‘Where is she?’ Rosie asked.
‘Out in the garden,’ Edie sighed. ‘I can’t get her to come in. I’ve tried but…’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Go out an’ you’ll see what I mean.’
Their mother was digging up the vegetable garden. She was wearing her boots and her gardening hat, and an old blanket wrapped around her oldest clothes like a shawl and she looked formidably determined.
When she saw Rosie, she straightened her back and rested on her spade and looked at her with such an odd expression on her face that Rosie was quite chilled by it. ‘Hello Rosie,’ she said. ‘You got a day off then? I’ll just get this done, ready for our Tommy. He’ll want to plant it out when he gets home. Won’t take me a minute, and then we can have some bread and cheese.’
Rosie was torn with pity for her. She’s lost her memory poor old thing, she thought. ‘Oh Ma,’ she said. ‘He ent comin’ home. He’s gone. You got the telegram. Don’t you remember?’
She couldn’t have said anything worse. Her mother’s vague expression changed into the darkest fury she’d had ever seen. ‘Don’t you start all on,’ she shouted. ‘You’re as bad as Edie an’ the others. I won’t have it. He ent dead. I won’t have it. They got it wrong. You’ll see. He’s comin’ home. I give him that rabbit’s foot. An’ you can just shut up about it. D’you hear me? I’m sick to death, hearing all this rubbish. I don’t want a peep out of you.’
Rosie was so upset she didn’t know what to say or do. She stood in front of her furious mother with the wind stinging her face and whipping her skirt against her legs and struggled to keep herself under control. ‘I’ll go an’ put the kettle on, shall I?’ she said at last. ‘Make a nice cup a’ tea.’
‘Tea!’ her mother screamed. ‘I don’t want tea. What good’s tea? Oh go away for pity’s sake an’ stop keepin’ on at me! You’re no earthly good to anyone. I can’t waste my time on bloody stupid tea. I got to get this dug over ’fore it’s dark. He’s coming home. Don’t you understand? We got to have everything ready for him.’ And she jabbed the spade into the hard ground as if she was stabbing it.
Rosie fled. What else could she do? And when she reached the kitchen door she burst into tears. Edie led her to the sofa and sat her down and made her tea, her face drawn with concern.
‘How long’s she been like this?’ Rosie asked when the tea had soothed her a little.
‘Months,’ Edie said.
‘What does Pa say?’
‘He don’t say nothing,’ Edie told her sadly. ‘He’s given up. Well you’ll see when he comes in. He still keeps us fed but, apart from that, he’s just sort a’ quiet.’
Quiet and much smaller than she’d seen him the last time as if he was shrinking into himself. He kiss
ed her lovingly and said he was glad to see her and praised the pie that she and Edie had made that afternoon. ‘You make a good pastry our Rosie.’ But she noticed that he was watching Ma all through the meal and the watch was anxious. It was an unnaturally quiet meal. Edie hardly said anything, and Johnnie ate quietly too, sitting as close to his protective big sister as he could, and Ma didn’t say a single word until the dishes were being cleared. Then she stood up and announced that she was off to her bed and left them. And as soon as she’d gone, Pa began to cry.
‘What are we to do with her, our Rosie?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Rosie said honestly. ‘We can’t change what she thinks. I mean, she’s wrong. We all know that. But she seems stuck in it.’ And, as she felt she ought to hold out some hope for them, she added. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘How long you stayin’, our Rosie?’ Johnnie said.
‘Just ’til tomorrow morning,’ Rosie told him. ‘But I’ll come back as soon as I can. I promise.’
She was touched by how grateful they were to her. It made her feel ashamed because there was so little she could do to help them.
Life back in London went on its predictable way. Rosie did her work, sent postcards to Edie and read the newspapers that the wealthy guests left lying about in the lounge, even though the news from the Front was always bad. There was yet another battle at that dreadful Ypres place. The fighting there seemed to have been going on for ever. From time to time, when she could bear to, she read the casualty lists in the Times and was horrified by the numbers being killed. It’s thousands and thousands, she thought. If they go on like this there won’t be any young men left. Why don’t they stop it? It was quite a relief to set out for the halls on Thursday evening.
Jim and Kitty were waiting by the stop as they usually did, and Kitty was pink with excitement.
‘Guess what I seen while you been away,’ she said as they walked towards the Star. And when Rosie looked a question at her. ‘I seen a woman conductor on one a’ the trams. Up the Embankment. Imagine that. Our Sylvia was right. There’s women working all over the place. It ain’t jest munitions. They’ll ’ave ter give us the vote now. We’re having a meeting about it on Sat’day at the Central Hall. Why don’tcher come? It’ll be ever so good. Keir Hardie’ll be there.’
The name gave Rosie quite a shock. ‘Keir Hardie?’ she said. ‘The politician one?’
‘That’s ’im,’ Kitty said. ‘He’s wonderful. Backed us from the beginning. Took in our petition. Spoke up fer us at our meetings. An’ such a speaker! You wait till you hear ’im. You will come, won’tcher?’
‘I will if I can get the time off,’ Rosie said, and was rewarded with a hug.
And oh it was good to be back in the old Star, in all that red and gold warmth with the gaslights so gentle and people singing and enjoying themselves and being normal. And humbugs to chew and fish and chips afterwards because Jim said they needed warming up before their walk home. That was true enough because it was trying to snow, and the air was so cold it hurt their lungs. This time, instead of just telling her to put her hand in his pocket, he plucked up courage and put an arm round her shoulders and held her quite close as they walked along the icy pavements, saying, ‘Can’t ’ave you tumbling.’ It was worrying him a bit that, after all the fun in the Star, she was being so quiet. Eventually he asked her a question.
‘Did it go off all right, your trip to the country?’
‘No,’ she admitted sadly. And because his face was full of concern and she thought she knew him well enough to confide in him, she told him what had happened and how very odd her mother was being. ‘I can’t understand it,’ she said. ‘She was always so sensible and now she’s like a wild thing.’
He thought about it for quite a long time before he answered. ‘Could be grief,’ he said at last. ‘You ain’t yourself when you’re grievin’. As I know. I done some stupid things when my ol’ man died. Kicked out at things. Tore things up. I don’t know how my poor Ma ever stood it an’ that’s a fact. Wasn’t like me at all. I mean I ain’t the sort to fly off the ’andle.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I can see that.’ And ventured a question. ‘Were you very young?’
‘Nine,’ he said. ‘Goin’ on ten.’
She was full of sympathy for him. ‘That’s awful,’ she said.
‘It was,’ he told her. ‘End a’ the world.’ He was lost in the aching memory of it. ‘It was ’orrible death. He was crushed, yer see. Down in the ’old.’
She could see it clearly even though she’d never been near the docks. Crushed. Down in the hold. It was dreadful. ‘Oh Jim,’ she said, turning towards him, ‘that’s dreadful.’ And without thinking whether she should do it or not, she put up her free hand to touch his face.
The touch broke his careful control. He pulled her into his arms and held her, kissing her hair and her forehead, trying not to tremble. Her mouth was so close he could feel the flutter of her breath. She was such a darling that to kiss her was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t need words or explanations. And although their first kiss was shy and rather awkward, by the time they’d kissed for the fifth time they weren’t just breathless, they were triumphant. They had taken love’s bait, and everything was changed.
At last, she had to disengage herself and leave him.
‘See you Sat’day,’ he said.
She’d forgotten about her promise to Kitty. ‘If I can wangle it,’ she said.
‘I’ll pick you up at quarter to seven,’ he said.
And did. So they went to her first political meeting together and for the first time in her life she felt the power of a large group of people all working for the same admirable ends. It was even more of a revelation to her than her first trip to the Star had been. For these were people who meant business, who were going to change things. And Keir Hardie was exactly as she knew he would be, strong, outspoken and full of compassion.
‘We are very close to gaining the right to vote that we’ve all been striving for all these long and difficult years,’ he told them in his rolling Scottish voice. ‘There are now so many women at work in every part of the country that your presence is too obvious and your value too undeniable for even your most hard-bitten opponents to ignore you. Gone are the days when half our population was hidden away in their homes and powerless. Today, as well as making the munitions our troops depend upon, women are driving trams and trains, delivering coal, teaching our children, running our post offices, nursing the sick and the wounded in ever greater and greater numbers. You are a strong army, as numerous as the army in the field, and your day of victory is close and coming closer.’
He was cheered until the huge crowded hall roared with sound. Kitty was in tears and Rosie was so moved by it all that she could barely breathe.
‘Glad you came,’ Jim asked as he walked her back to the tram stop.
‘I wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world,’ she said. ‘You’re right Kitty. He’s wonderful.’
Chapter 8
London was changing day by day and because her brain was fired by Keir Hardie’s speech, Rosie was now acutely aware of it. She noticed something new every time she emerged from the cocooned world of the club, here a woman in a Holland overall and a mop cap climbing up a tall ladder to clean windows, there a woman tram conductor in her smart and now familiar uniform, women delivering bread and milk, a woman driving a van and smiling at all the passers-by, two nurses in long dark blue capes and white caps, pushing the wheelchairs of two wounded soldiers under the denuded trees in Green Park. There seemed to be more wounded soldiers out on the streets every day too, all very noticeable in their bright blue uniforms and their blood-red ties. And still the killing and maiming went on. All that silly talk about what a ‘good show’ it was going to be and how it would be over by Christmas, Rosie thought, remembering the Eden boys and their fatuous conversations, and look at us now. One terrible casualty list after another. I’ll bet Keir Hardie didn’
t think it would be over by Christmas. He’s got more sense in his little finger than all the swells put together. If I ever get the vote, I shan’t waste it voting for any a’ the swells, I shall vote for Keir Hardie.
But she didn’t get the chance to vote for her hero, because in September the papers reported his death, far away in a place called Glasgow. Kitty was terribly upset and said she didn’t know what they’d do without him.
It was bad news for Rosie too, because she’d admired him very much, but she was selfishly happy because she and Jim were walking out and wrote to one another every day and saw one another every week. And on top of that, they were going to the special Christmas show at the Star all on their own because Kitty was off somewhere else with her friends from the munitions. Jim was very excited about it and kept saying it was going to be ‘somethin’ really special’, and so it was.
The master of ceremonies strode onstage, puffing his usual cigar but dressed in a full Father Christmas costume, long red coat, fur trimmed hood, white beard, black boots and all, and the performing dog made his entrance with a red pixie hat on his head and when he was applauded, took umbrage and scratched it off and killed it like a rat, leaping about the stage with it in his mouth, growling and snarling and giving it a thorough shaking. All the songs were old favourites, so the choruses were sung by everybody in the hall and there was such a happy atmosphere of idiocy, beer and well-being that they emerged at the end of it as if they were tipsy.
‘Pie an’ mash?’ Rosie said hopefully.
But Jim was standing still in the middle of the surging crowd, pulling something out of his pocket. It was a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
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