Wartime for the Sugar Girls

by Duncan Barrett

  Other passengers disembarked, but Gladys stayed put. As the bus drew away from the kerb, she huddled down in her seat until just the top of her head was visible, and peered out of the window. The people around her might think she was mad, but she didn’t care. She just needed to know.

  They neared the Boleyn and Gladys held her breath. She could see a crowd of people outside the cinema, talking and laughing. But where was John? She sat up straighter to get a better look. At that moment, John stepped out from behind a tall man in a hat, with what looked like cinema tickets in his hand. Gladys breathed an enormous sigh of relief, and then, remembering herself, quickly huddled down again in her seat until the bus was safely out of sight.

  By the time Gladys had walked back to the cinema she was late and her feet were aching. But when she reached John she realised he had a look of relief on his face, too. He’d probably been wondering where on earth she was, and also worrying that she’d changed her mind.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said softly, offering her his arm, and she followed him, tottering slightly, into the cinema.

  For the first time in her life, Gladys didn’t mind one bit sitting in the back row, and she was so busy canoodling with John that they didn’t get to see very much of Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds. By the time they emerged from the dark, all the worries and insecurities that had gripped her had fallen away, and she felt as free and chatty as she had when they were 13 and hanging out together in the park.

  As they walked hand-in-hand along the Barking Road, the skies broke, and it began to pour. Gladys’s make-up was melting and her new outfit was getting soaked, but she didn’t care. Soon she was twirling around the lampposts like Gene Kelly, singing her heart out.

  John ran after her, laughing and splashing in the puddles.

  When Gladys and John decided to get married, her mother Rose was all in favour of the engagement, and it was as though poor Eric Piggott had never existed. ‘Little Johnny talks so posh now, don’t he?’ she said, approvingly. ‘Who would’ve thought he’d grow up like that.’

  Although John’s accent hadn’t changed since he went away, Gladys knew what her mother meant. His soft, serious tone of voice lent him a kind of gravitas, and he was a thoughtful, intelligent man. John was now working down at the docks, which her father also approved of, where he was known as The Albert Dock Lawyer for his ability to pen convincing-sounding formal letters for any of his colleagues who needed them. But like his fiancée he also enjoyed a good prank, and he and his friends could often be found firing large dollops of mud with a catapult at the portholes of the big liners, blocking the views of the richest passengers on board.

  Gladys’s parents might have been won over, but at John’s house it was a different story. His father had remarried and his new wife, Maude, made it very clear that she didn’t want a half-gypsy girl as a daughter-in-law. ‘Don’t expect me to come to your wedding,’ she told John.

  ‘She’ll come round, just be patient with her,’ he assured Gladys, whose first instinct was to give Maude a piece of her mind. Instead, she and John began saving diligently for their big day, hoping that Maude would change her tune when she realised that the event was going ahead with or without her blessing.

  A month before the wedding, John’s father took him to one side. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he said, ‘but Maude don’t want to go, and if she ain’t going I can’t go without her.’

  Given the non-attendance on John’s family’s side, Gladys was determined to throw a party that everyone would be talking about, with as many of her Tate & Lyle friends there as possible. She therefore took the relatively unusual step of hiring a hall – a little tin hut at the bottom of Cumberland Road, a few minutes’ walk from her parents’ house. Soon, sorting out the wedding was turning into a second job for Gladys, taking up every free afternoon when she was on the early shift, and every free morning on the late one.

  With most of the money going on the party, there wasn’t much left over for the wedding dress, but Gladys wasn’t bothered. She bought an off-the-peg white cocktail dress from C&A for five pounds, and a matching one in turquoise for her sister Rita, her bridesmaid.

  With all the running around, Gladys hadn’t had much time to think about the fact that she, too, would now have to leave Tate & Lyle. There would be no more trips to the café at break time, no more driving Miss Smith and Julie McTaggart up the wall, no more netball and athletics – and most of all, no more Blue Room girls. The department where she had once turned up as an outsider in her baggy dungarees had come to feel like a family, and now that family was breaking up. As her old friends left, new girls were starting in the Blue Room, and to Gladys they looked like children.

  ‘Gawd, that’s what we must’ve been like,’ she said to Eva, watching them laughing and mucking about. ‘Poor old Julie!’

  On her last day at the factory, Gladys was 15 minutes late as usual. She didn’t have to shake Betty awake any more, but being tardy had become a sort of tradition, and she wasn’t about to break it now. At the gate, Mr Tyzack gave her a nod. ‘Late again,’ he tutted. ‘Yep,’ said Gladys, ‘you know me.’

  When she got in, the girls had filled her bench with presents, as she knew they would, and Eva slapped a great big L-plate on her back. ‘Who would’ve thought I’d last this long, eh?’ Gladys said, with a giggle. ‘I must’ve nearly got the sack a hundred times.’

  ‘Well, thank God you were good at the relay, that’s all I can say,’ Maisie laughed.

  There was still one last trip to be made to Miss Smith’s office, however, before Gladys could leave the factory once and for all. She had to go and see her to receive her severance pay – a week’s wages for each year she had worked there.

  As she made her way across the yard, Gladys cast her mind back over every misdemeanour, every run-in she and Miss Smith had ever had. The Dragon had certainly done her best to intimidate the young Blue Room girl, but Gladys had seen her victories too – scuppering the perfect line-up in the beauty contest, terrorising the bosses with mice and getting away with it, and riding in the telpher.

  Over time, she realised, she had also seen another side of Miss Smith – the woman who had looked after Betty when she was down, who took orphans under her wing, who blamed herself for Bella’s death, and who hadn’t given up on a lippy little cow like Gladys.

  ‘Hello again, Gladys,’ said Betty Harrington, as she entered the office for the last time.

  ‘Don’t worry, Betty, for once I’m not in trouble,’ she replied.

  ‘We’re going to miss your face around here,’ said Betty Phillips. ‘We’ve got used to seeing it so often.’

  Miss Smith looked up from her desk as Gladys came in. ‘So, you’re really leaving,’ she said, with a thoughtful look on her face.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Gladys, gesturing towards the L-plate around her neck.

  Miss Smith handed her an envelope with her pay in it. ‘Well, I’d like you to give your husband-to-be a message from me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes, Flo?’ said Gladys, daring to use her Christian name for the first time. ‘And what’s that, then?’

  ‘Tell him,’ she replied, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ‘that I wish him all the luck in the world!’

  23

  Joan

  The Cook family had done their best to put the shameful business of Joan’s illegitimate baby behind them, moving to a flat in Melford Road in the hope of making a fresh start. For Joan, however, the building harboured a constant reminder of the life she had lost, since their downstairs neighbour worked for Tate & Lyle.

  Her own former Tate & Lyle friends, meanwhile, were moving on with their lives. Kathy had left the factory and was working at a holiday camp, where she had met a lovely Irish man called Peter. Soon they had married and moved away. Peggy had left Tate & Lyle when she got married and was now working in the offices of a sack factory. Joan went round to see her and her new son Clive. Although she was happy for her friend, it was difficult witn
essing the simple family life that she herself had been denied.

  All she had to remember Terry by was the one little photograph she treasured. How much would he have already changed from the baby in the picture, she wondered, as she stared into his little eyes. Would he still remember her by now, or would he think that other woman was his mother?

  Meanwhile, life marched on, dragging Joan, helpless and listless, along with it. When her mother again brought up the idea of her working in an office, Joan didn’t have the energy to fight it. Mrs Cook made arrangements for her to attend an interview with a lady called Mrs Cameron Burrows at BM Philips, a coconut importer in Monument, and Joan mutely agreed.

  The interview was conducted over lunch at a smart restaurant near Billingsgate Market, and Mrs Cook was delighted when Joan reported back that she had been served a cream cheese and banana salad. Joan had to admit it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.

  ‘This is the start for you, my girl,’ said her mother, beaming. ‘You’ll see.’

  Joan realised it was true – with a new address and a new job where nobody knew anything of what had happened, it would be quite possible to simply reinvent herself. But somehow the old spark, the old vitality that had been the very cornerstone of her personality, was gone. Answering the phones at BM Philips, she simply couldn’t disguise the loss and unhappiness in her voice.

  Before long, Mrs Burrows decided she couldn’t allow Joan to stay in the role. ‘I don’t think phone work suits you just now,’ she said, kindly, ‘but how about a little job in bookkeeping instead?’

  Joan nodded, her cheeks burning. She felt she had fallen at the first hurdle.

  She was duly sent downstairs to learn the ropes from a friendly girl named Eileen, who was around her own age and who lived in a prefab house in Beckton. Alongside her were two other office girls, Jackie from Dagenham and Pat from Blackfen.

  Joan recognised in them the same lust for life that she remembered having herself when she had started at Tate & Lyle, eager to join in the social life there. The three girls were always going out in the West End, and they made an effort to invite Joan along, but she felt too jaded to accept their offers.

  One day, however, Eileen burst into the office with the news that Frankie Vaughan was doing a concert and that she had managed to get hold of four tickets. ‘You’ve got to come, Joan,’ she insisted. ‘We can’t let that ticket go to waste!’

  Joan knew Eileen could probably flog the ticket for twice what she’d paid for it, and was just trying to find a way to include her. She was won over. ‘Well, in that case I’d better take it,’ she said, smiling.

  That Saturday, Eileen, Pat, Jackie and Joan put on their glad rags and headed into town together. Joan hadn’t dressed up for anything in ages, and she realised it felt good.

  Going out with Eileen, Pat and Jackie soon became a regular event, and Eileen in particular was becoming a close friend. But Joan still felt as if she were holding a part of herself back, in a way that she hadn’t with Peggy or Kathy. She knew she couldn’t risk telling Eileen or anyone in her new life about Alfie and the baby she had given up, and that meant there was always a certain distance between them.

  One day Eileen told Joan that her uncle was getting married and she didn’t have a guest to take with her to the wedding. ‘Do you want to come with me?’ she asked.

  Joan was touched that Eileen would invite her to a family event, so she agreed. It was an afternoon wedding in East Ham, and when the service was over everyone went back to Eileen’s grandmother’s house in Aragon Road to party the rest of the night away.

  After a few drinks most of the younger guests, and a few embarrassing older relatives, were dancing around energetically in the little front room. Joan was doing her best to ignore Eileen’s pleas to join them, busying herself with the buffet.

  ‘Oi,’ said Eileen, nudging her spoilsport friend, ‘that bloke over there keeps looking at you. Think maybe he can get you to dance?’

  Joan looked up from her sandwich and her eyes met those of a very tall young man. He smiled shyly at her.

  ‘Oh God, no,’ said Joan. The man had nice broad shoulders but his face was marred by a white scar running over the top of his left eye.

  ‘He’s coming over!’ giggled Eileen. ‘I’ll leave you to tell him yourself.’

  ‘Wait!’ Joan hissed, but it was too late. Emboldened by Eileen’s exit, the man hastily shuffled over to take her place.

  ‘Hello, I’m Lenny,’ he said, in a voice that was surprisingly soft and quiet given his looming frame.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Lenny,’ she replied, staring straight ahead. ‘Joan.’

  ‘Would you like to dance, Joan?’ he asked.

  She chuckled. If anyone could dance till she dropped it was her. The poor bugger wouldn’t have a chance of stealing a kiss.

  ‘I bet you one pound that I can keep dancing longer than you can,’ she told him.

  ‘Deal,’ he said, reaching out his hand. She shook it, and followed him into the middle of the room.

  An hour and 20 minutes later, Joan and Lenny were the only couple still dancing. Most of the guests had either left or collapsed tipsily into chairs, while a few little boys were picking at what was left of the buffet. But Joan was determined not to give in. For a start, a pound wasn’t nothing, and secondly, she couldn’t stand to lose at a dancing contest, of all things.

  Lenny’s resolve was strong too, though. Despite the sweat on his brow and the increasingly languid movements of his long arms and legs, he hadn’t given up. You had to hand it to him, thought Joan – the bloke had persistence.

  Suddenly, the needle on the record player was yanked away and Eileen’s grandmother announced that she’d had enough and was heading off to bed. The light was turned off and, quick as a flash, Lenny pulled Joan onto his lap and planted a kiss on her lips. It came as such a surprise, and she was so exhausted, that she didn’t protest.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, as soon as he drew away. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘I’ll drive you home if you like,’ Lenny replied, hopefully.

  Joan was about to say no, but the word ‘drive’ stopped her in her tracks. She was still a Cook girl, after all, and here was a man with his own car.

  Joan let Lenny help her into her coat and followed him out onto the street. They walked up the road and came to a stop in front of the scruffiest old banger she had ever seen in her life.

  ‘You don’t mean that’s your car?’ she asked him, horrified.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘it’s not mine. It’s my brother-in-law’s. He’s a lobster fisherman in Jersey. I’m just borrowing it for the weekend.’

  Joan climbed in, speechless, wondering what her poor mother would say if she saw her draw up at Melford Road in such a monstrosity – and next to a man who was certainly no oil painting.

  When they neared her neighbourhood, Joan spotted an opportunity. ‘This is me,’ she lied. ‘Roman Road. You can stop just here.’

  Lenny pulled over. ‘Can I see you again?’ he asked.

  Joan considered him for a moment. He was shy, quiet, and not a looker by any means. In fact, he was about as far away from Alfie as you could get. For her that sealed it.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Where are we going to go?’

  Over the next few weeks, Joan discovered that it was possible to go to the pictures with her new man without running the risk of being spotted by friends or family. When the film finished, she would wait in the cinema toilets until everyone else had gone home and he was standing alone outside. Just as he was on the point of giving up and walking off, she would run and catch him up, putting her arm through his. Whenever he dropped her home, she would say goodbye to him on Roman Road as before, and walk the rest of the way back on her own.

  In temperament the two of them couldn’t have been more different. While Joan was rediscovering her former outspoken, sociable personality, Lenny was an introvert, never happier than when he was on his own, tin
kering with an engine. A fork-lift truck repairer at the Keiller’s jam factory in Silvertown, his greatest ambition in life was to own a sky-blue Citroën DS. Before long he was giving Joan driving lessons in his brother-in-law’s old banger, and she discovered that despite its appearance she rather liked being behind the wheel. A scooter was duly provided, courtesy of Mr and Mrs Cook, and from then on Joan could be seen zooming from the East End to Monument every morning.

  To Joan’s surprise, the features that had at first seemed off-putting in Lenny’s face gradually became lovably familiar, and she grew to care less and less about them being spotted together. Soon she couldn’t bear to be away from him, and even a few days apart felt painful. After all the losses Joan had suffered, being separated from those she loved had become hard for her.

  Those losses still played on her mind, and as their relationship progressed the secret she was hiding from Lenny weighed heavily on her. Joan knew her mother would be horrified if she discovered that, after all the efforts made by the Cooks to erase Joan’s scandalous past, she was now considering volunteering information about it to Lenny. But she believed it was the right thing to do. In any case, if Lenny was worth his salt he would stand by her. If he didn’t, then he wasn’t the man she wanted to be with.

  Despite her conviction, she was annoyed to find that she was incredibly nervous about telling him, and somehow the right moment kept eluding her. Finally, she blurted it out one night over pie and mash.

  Lenny chewed thoughtfully as he heard the full story. He was naturally a good listener, which made it very easy for Joan to go on talking indefinitely, but for once she forced herself to stop. All that really mattered now was his response.

  ‘Joan,’ he said, softly, ‘I love you. The past is the past. It don’t change anything now.’