Mrs Boots Goes to War

by Deborah Carr

  Florence gave his comment a little thought. He was right. She was grateful to have the opportunity to be able to help support the war effort through her work at Boots. There was so much going on each day, with the constant adapting and upgrading how they produced products in the factories and employing extra staff to work in those departments. Already they had needed to change the production of their respirators drastically since reports had come back saying that the ones that had been sent did not deal as well with gas attacks as the British Government would like.

  Florence found it difficult now to recall a time when she hadn’t worried for each of her children, especially since the start of the war. Like Jesse, she knew that it was their concern for their children that spurred them to keep going.

  ‘You’ve been working far too hard, lately,’ she said softly. ‘I know you wanted to push for those new respirators to be ready for production but now that’s done, I hope you’ll take things a little easier for a few days at least.’

  ‘We’ve both been pushing things too far. I must admit I am feeling the repercussions of it.’ He frowned at her. ‘It couldn’t be helped though. Soldiers at the Front and our Margery can’t decide that they’re too tired to do what’s needed. We’ve needed to resolve issues with these box respirators. There always seems to be more to learn. Who would have imagined countries fighting with chemicals rather than bullets and bombs? It’s horrifying.’

  ‘But the respirators have been cleared for production now,’ she said, trying to calm him. ‘I think you need to let the staff do their job. We don’t want Margery returning home to find us both ill from overwork.’

  He sighed. ‘I find it difficult to step away from a project, don’t I?’

  Florence lifted his twisted hand and kissed the back of it. ‘You do. But then you’ve always found it hard to let others do their jobs without your input.’ She thought of Margery insisting on working next to her assistants in the canteen. ‘I think we’re all a little like this in our family. You have the best staff though. You need to trust them to do the work you employ them for. It will leave you time to focus on new ideas and taking time out for rest.’

  He nodded. ‘We’re starting off by making seventeen thousand each week, did you know that?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed, unsurprised that already he had gone back to thinking about the new respirators. ‘No doubt you’ll be expecting an increase in those numbers soon, too.’

  ‘Yes. We’ll need to find ways to make many more than that if we’re to keep up with demand.’

  ‘What am I going to do with you, Jesse Boot?’ She sighed. What indeed? she thought, staring into his eyes, and knew that, however much his determination to keep working frustrated her, this was the man she married, and she would never be able to change him however much she tried. Just as whatever she said to Margery in reply to her daughter’s letters, she could never hope to persuade her to return home until she was ready to do so. Her daughter being away broke Florence’s heart; she had never imagined that Margery would remain in France for so long.

  Chapter Fifteen

  April 1916

  Conscription had been in force for unmarried men between the ages of eighteen and forty since January and there was talk of a second act being passed at some point in the near future. This time it was to include married men. Florence worried about those male staff who had been forced to enlist and how they were faring. Each day, whenever Jesse scoured the broadsheets for the names of those who had perished on the battlefields or received word from their families of deaths or life-changing injuries, Florence’s heart ached a bit more. These men should be enjoying watching their children grow, not risking their lives in muddy foreign fields. The fear of a telegram boy arriving at St Heliers bringing her news of John while he had been at the Front, and now fear of bad news about Margery, gave her many nightmare-filled nights.

  ‘Things are getting desperate,’ she said to Jesse one morning.

  ‘I agree. I asked for the numbers to be totalled and it appears that since the war began we’ve already lost over four thousand employees to the war effort.’ Jesse closed his eyes and for a moment Florence worried that he was having some sort of attack. He opened his eyes and Florence realised she was subconsciously on high alert worrying about John and how his time away still haunted him, and what effect the war was having on Margery’s health.

  He groaned and shook his head. ‘I’m beginning to think that if we don’t replace the men we’re losing soon, we’ll have a problem fulfilling our Government contracts. That’s not something I can allow to happen.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ she said, unable to disagree.

  ‘I know it’s frightening, my dear, especially with all that’s going on at present, but we need to be brave and press on building shops, increasing departments where necessary, that sort of thing. We’re developing and producing the respirators, saccharin and water-sterilising tablets and will simply have to find the staff to do the work.’

  Florence mulled over his words. Jesse was right, as usual. They had to keep going and trust that things would come right. People needed jobs now more than ever and would do so after the war ended, whenever that might be.

  ‘I’m happy to support you in whatever ideas you come up with, Jesse. I’ll also give a bigger push to finding staff to take on for the extra work we’re doing now.’

  ‘We make an excellent team, you and me.’

  They did. Florence loved to think of them as a team and, as anxious as she was with all that they now faced, there was a part of her that was inspired by the urgency of all they had to contend with. ‘We certainly do, Jesse.’

  Florence left Jesse to focus on his work and took the lift downstairs to stroll through the store. She needed to reassure herself that her girls were coping both with their work and with any issues they might be having to deal with outside Boots. Florence had finished chatting to one of her girls when she spotted a middle-aged woman, her arm linked with a younger girl who she supposed must be around fifteen or sixteen.

  Florence noticed the woman look across the shop floor at her and went to smile but the woman’s attention was distracted when the girl tugged at her sleeve and frowned at her, saying something in a low voice that Florence couldn’t make out. The woman then stared at Florence and, as their eyes met, there was a brief second when it seemed to Florence as if time stood still.

  The next thing she knew, the woman appeared to take a step towards her before stumbling and then falling in slow motion. Florence leaped forward to try to catch her before the woman’s head hit the ground as she collapsed to the floor in front of her. Someone screamed from behind her. Florence winced as the woman landed, her head hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thud. Angry with herself for not being quick enough to break the woman’s fall, Florence bent down to check she was still breathing.

  She heard voices calling for help then a calmer one she assumed must be one of her well-trained staff taking control of the situation. She left them to it, aware that her attention was needed by the unconscious woman. For the first time Florence realised that the woman was dressed in black. She was in mourning. Florence’s heart ached for the poor, tormented soul.

  Florence stood and waved to the nearest shop assistant. ‘Bring me a cushion for this lady’s head and keep everyone back. I don’t want her to come round and find people staring at her. Then tell someone to ask Nurse Hill to come down immediately. We need her to bring a wheelchair. This lady needs to be taken to the sick bay where she can be checked and allowed to gather herself in peace and privacy.’ Aware that the trauma of her loss might be the cause of the woman’s collapse, Florence added, ‘And you had better telephone Dr Cole’s surgery. Mention that I’ve asked if he’s able to call in to check on this lady for me, please.’

  As soon as Florence was satisfied that she had done all she could to help, she turned to the white-faced young girl standing over them sobbing.

  ‘Please don’t be frightened,’ Florence
said, taking the girl’s hand in hers. ‘Is this lady your mother?’

  The girl sniffed and gave Florence a guilty look. ‘She didn’t want to come today, but Dad insisted it would do her good to get out of the house for a change.’

  Florence gazed at the unconscious woman, blissfully unaware of her sorrow for a short while at least. ‘I’m sorry her visit here has ended this way.’

  The girl didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Dad told me to bring her here, but it was my idea in the first place.’ She broke into a sob, her shoulders shaking. ‘I should have listened to her and let her stay at home, like she wanted. It’s so hard watching her suffering so badly, though.’

  Florence could feel the girl’s anguish. To be mourning a loved one was horrendous enough but how many other young girls were having to witness their parents suffer in this way? She put her arm around the shaking shoulders and tried to soothe her. ‘Please, don’t worry. Your mother is in the best possible hands here. We have a wonderful first aid team at Pelham Street and they’ll give your mother the best care and attention.’

  Florence heard a male voice calling for people to move out of the way and then spotted one of the staff pushing a wheelchair towards her accompanied by Nurse Hill. Florence was grateful to have the nurse still working for them. She liked how dedicated she was and how she always managed to put those she attended to at their ease.

  Someone groaned and Florence’s attention returned to the poor lady at her feet. She was coming round.

  ‘Where am I? Where’s Jeanie? Jeanie!’

  The girl crouched down next to her and took her hand. ‘I’m right here with you, Mother.’

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ Florence assured her, crouching to help the woman to sit up. ‘You’re fine, Mrs…?’ Why hadn’t she thought to have asked the daughter her name? ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you.’

  ‘Mrs Culley,’ she said. ‘Mary Culley.’ She stared at Florence, as if her sight was coming into focus. Then her mouth dropped open. ‘I know you,’ she gasped. ‘You’re… you’re Lady Boot.’

  Florence smiled, relieved that the woman seemed none the worse for wear from her fall. ‘I am, and we’re going to do our best to look after you. You mustn’t worry about anything.’ She waved the nursing staff over to her side. ‘This lady is Nurse Hill. She’s going to take you with this porter to our sickroom. She will check to make sure you didn’t damage yourself in any way when you fainted. You will receive the best possible care, I promise you. We want to be certain you’re well enough to return to your home. Would that be all right with you?’

  She seemed to take a moment to think about what Florence had suggested. ‘And my Jeanie can come with me?’

  ‘Yes, of course she can.’

  Florence watched as Mrs Culley was helped into the chair and made comfortable. ‘Please make sure Mrs Culley and her daughter Jeanie are given a cup of tea and some cake before calling for a taxi to take them home.’ Florence took Jeanie’s trembling hands in hers. ‘You see? I told you your mother would be fine. Now you accompany her and Nurse Hill. Once your mother has been checked you will both be given a nice cup of tea and some cake. You do like cake, don’t you?’

  Jeanie nodded. ‘Yes, Lady Boot.’

  ‘Good. Then that’s settled then.’ Florence gave a nod to Nurse Hill to signal that she could take the woman and her daughter.

  ‘Come along, Mrs Culley,’ Nurse Hill said, her voice gentle. ‘And you, Jeanie.’

  Mrs Culley looked delighted at the prospect for a few seconds. Then grabbing hold of the arms of the wheelchair she went to stand.

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea so soon after your fall, do you?’ Florence asked.

  ‘But it’s too much of an imposition,’ she argued quietly. ‘Jeanie and me, well, we’re fine to go and catch the tram. It goes near to our home, so it won’t be a problem for us.’

  ‘No,’ Florence said aware that the woman was probably embarrassed by all the fuss going on around her. ‘I insist you take a taxi.’ It dawned on her that maybe the woman’s issue was the cost of the taxi and she wanted to be clear that didn’t expect her to pay for it. ‘We will settle the account happily.’ As soon as the woman had been handed her bag and straightened her hat, Florence asked, ‘Is there anything in particular that you came to the store to buy?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Lady Boot. My daughter brought me here to take me out of myself.’ Her shoulders stooped slightly. ‘I’ve recently lost my son, you see.’

  Florence felt as if a hand was clutching at her heart. This woman was living her own worst nightmare. She saw the haunted brown eyes filling with tears and taking her clean handkerchief from her pocket handed it to Mrs Culley. ‘I’m deeply sorry to hear about the loss of your precious son.’ No wonder the poor woman had collapsed, Florence thought. She could only imagine the constant pain Mrs Culley must feel to have to keep going each day knowing she would never see her son again. ‘I truly am.’

  ‘Thank you. I heard that your son enlisted, and your daughter is also in France running a canteen.’ She sniffed before blowing her nose. ‘My son was a good boy. I’m not sure how I’m to carry on without him around. It’s only because I have Jeanie that I don’t give up entirely.’

  Florence nodded, aware that she could not bear to live should she lose one of her own children.

  ‘Now, then, Mum,’ Jeanie soothed. ‘there’s no use talking that way. Remember what Dad said.’

  The crying woman looked up at her daughter. ‘Yes, sweetheart. You’re right, Jeanie.’

  Florence didn’t like to ask what her husband had said. Nurse Hill raised her eyebrows questioningly at her and Florence realised it was time the poor grieving mother was given a little privacy and that cup of tea she had promised her. She rested her right hand on the woman’s arm. ‘If you’re ready, I think it’s best if you go with Nurse Hill for your cup of tea now. And, if there’s anything at all that I can do for you or your family in the future, please, don’t hesitate to ask me. I’m here most days.’

  Mrs Culley reached out and took Florence’s right hand in both of hers. ‘I’ve always heard you were a kind woman, Lady Boot. You don’t know how much good it does my heart to find out for myself that it is indeed the case. We need more good women like you in this world.’

  ‘You’re too generous,’ Florence said, feeling a little embarrassed at such praise, especially as she was lucky enough to have her son back in Nottingham once again.

  ‘No, I’m not. You’re the one who’s been kind.’ She gave Florence a teary smile. ‘Thank you for your thoughtfulness to me and my Jeanie. It means a lot, it really does. I know I’ll never get over losing my boy but knowing he died to fight for his country and people like you helps me a little.’

  ‘It’s the very least I can do. Please take good care of yourself, Mrs Culley.’ She turned to the girl, who, she was relieved to see, now seemed a little calmer. ‘And you too, Jeanie. I can see you’re a good girl too and will ensure that your mother ventures back out again once she’s feeling ready to do so.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Boot,’ Jeanie said, giving Florence a slight bob as if she wasn’t sure whether or not a curtsey was called for.

  Florence watched them go, her heart heavy to think of the pain Mrs Culley would endure for the rest of her life. War was a great leveller, Florence thought as she continued to the next counter. Her title and wealth would not protect her children from a bomb blast or a sniper’s bullet. The thought of her children being hurt made her shudder but the comradeship she felt with other mothers like Mrs Culley as they shared their fears for their sons made her feel a closer connection with the women than she had ever felt before.

  She wished she could do something to help Mrs Culley and her family, but what? Florence moved on to speak to one of her girls who had caught her eye and was waiting for her at her counter. Then after passing the time of day with several customers, she continued with her walk through the store until she heard a small
girl’s voice.

  ‘Mummy, why is that lady’s face yellow?’

  Florence heard the mother hiss a sharp retort. Then, noticing Florence had seen them and no doubt heard the girl’s comment, she gave Florence a horrified glance, grabbed the girl by the wrist and marched her away and out of the shop.

  Without turning to look at the woman the little girl had commented on, Florence knew that she would be one of the many thousand munitions workers from the Chilwell Arms Factory that had been built the previous year. Not wishing to make the poor girl feel even more uncomfortable than she probably already did, Florence walked off in the opposite direction. She had seen enough of these ‘canary’ girls in the shops in recent months.

  She had been as shocked as the little girl the first time she had witnessed the unusual yellow skin; in some cases, even the hair had turned green. She had asked Jesse about it and he had explained that it was the chemicals some of the women worked with filling shells and that the toxic substances were to blame for the change in colour to their skin. She had always understood that working with explosives was going to be dangerous but never thought that the women could also be poisoned by the materials. She hoped there were no long-term effects and that at some point the women’s skin would return to its original hue.

  Florence noticed the time on the large wall clock and decided to return to her office. She still had to check the next issue of Comrades in Khaki. As she hurried up the stairs to her office, stopping and chatting briefly to members of staff and a few customers, she couldn’t help feeling sad that the shortage in paper meant that this would be their penultimate issue.

  The magazine had been massively successful in maintaining contact with ex-Boots employees fighting in the war. Jesse insisted, quite rightly in her opinion, that Boots would cover the cost of producing the magazine so that all proceeds from its sale could go to the Boots Sick and Wounded Fund and that if there was no need for that money they would pass it on to the National Fund. She had been proud of being able to advertise for various good causes raising money for the wounded and the poor and featuring, among other things, articles and photos of their Boots Plaisaunce Band and their appearance raising money at various events.