Imagine, the Left has come to power here and there’s a Socialist coalition in France. I almost persuaded myself to go see how it is working there, except that I’ve begun to feel a great loyalty to this country and the people. For the first time in history the Spanish people have not got the Church and the monarchy on their back. But nobody is hiding their heads under the sand; the Fascists are at the gates and they have Hitler and Mussolini itching to try out their new armies and air forces in somebody else’s war.
But if only the working class back home could sniff the air of the true kind of democracy. Here is where Spaniards are citizens, not subjects, as we British are. In France, the new prime minister has ended the strikes – pay rises of twelve per cent! A forty-hour week! Two weeks’ paid holiday a year and free collective bargaining. Socialism and unions, Lu. I expect the Ezzards and their like are sweating bricks.
Ray and Bar’s baby was due in August. Not only was Ray behaving as though nothing like it had ever happened in the world before, but Mama Palccino and Lena were knitting and sewing enough small garments to set up a shop.
Lu, who loved driving Ted’s truck, took over the daily delivery of strawberries to the Portsmouth and Southampton depots. She started calling in at The Bells, where she was always greeted with great enthusiasm by Peg and Dick Briardale. They now had four children, of which they were both very proud, and another was on the way. Peg, who was now as plump as Dick, always joked that, ‘He’s trying to grow his own cricket team.’ Lu would sit with Peg and the children in the garden which, although it was quite as charming as it had been when she first saw it, seemed to have shrunk. But then so had the village, and the strawberry fields and the journey between Wickham and Portsmouth.
Two things had not changed, perhaps never could be changed. One was the panoramic view of Spithead and the Solent from the top of the Portsdown Hills. The other, Swallitt Woods and Pool, where serene nature and pagan mystery were still undisturbed.
When her deliveries coincided with the ‘Queenform’ dinner-break, Lu would drive round to the factory, taking a basket of fruit for her old workmates. There she would park, blocking the gates, and make several blasts on the horn, always hoping that one day Jacob Ezzard would want to drive through and would have to ask her to move. He never did, of course, it was a petty game, but she enjoyed it. He would know that she was there. Her skin was tanned and her hair lightened by the sun to a pale gold on top. She knew that she looked well and she took trouble to appear carefree and happy, even though, as the weeks went by, she became increasingly tense at not having resolved her future.
She still believed that her dream to go somewhere and be somebody was attainable, but could not see what move to make next. Life at Roman’s was mesmeric. She halfheartedly did a bit of French language with May, having some vague notion that she might ask M. Lascelles if he would take her. It wasn’t likely, given the Ezzard connection, but the idea fired her imagination. She imagined herself as a chic and stunning sales assistant, but she knew only too well that she would not last five minutes being ordered about by the kind of Parisian who patronized Lascelles’. French versions of a Lady Margaret Gore-Hatton.
She still thought of David Hatton quite often, and one day, when she and May were eating their midday sandwiches, she mentioned how much she’d liked him.
‘You should have persevered, Lu, told him the truth. You don’t want to take much notice of class… posh voices and cockroaches in the kitchen. You don’t need to apologize to anybody for being who you are.’
‘I know that. But how do you think the Gore-Hattons would treat me if they suddenly found out it was a factory girl David took to the dance in the officers’ mess? I’d die of shame. I made out I was one of them. I can “put it on” all right… I know a fish fork when I see one, I don’t look “common”, but I wouldn’t want to be questioned about the Wilmotts by that cousin of his, Captain Gore, or Lady Margaret – she sounded like the old queen looks.’
* * *
There is a low time at the end of the strawberry season, during which Lu spends whole afternoons alone in Swallitt Wood. Bar’s old cairn is still there, a bit toppled where a branch has fallen on to it, so Lu sets about rebuilding it. Sometimes she slips into the cool green water and floats lazily, watching the sun through the filtering willow and birch leaves. In the quiet solitude in and around the pool, she finds herself more and more thinking about her father. What was he like? It starts with thinking about herself and Duke, and then more generally about her tendency to act impetuously, her capacity for anger, her strong sexual desires. How is it that she has turned out to have such traits? Has she inherited them from him?
Stiff from having floated too long in the pool, she climbs out, stands on the flat dervishing stone where Bar showed her how to spin into a trance. Smiling at the sweet memories she has of those two young girls spinning their way to ecstasy, she spreads her arms and begins to revolve. She remembers how wonderful it felt then. At first the leaves quivering against the twinkling sun, the smooth green surface of the pool appearing and disappearing. She remembers Bar, a short girl with womanly hips and breasts. Don’t start raising your arms till the pool is all round you.
It was like that, when you were spinning fast enough: the pool became a shining blur.
Still smiling, she raises her arms, stretches them until she can temple her fingers. Trees, sun and pool become a cylinder of twinkling green, with herself whirling at the centre, twisting on the ball of her left foot, giving herself spinning impetus with the right.
Now she can see nothing except light, feel nothing except the air moving across her bare skin, hear nothing except her own shallow breathing.
But all that happens is that she gets giddy. Warm now, she slips on her clothes and makes her way back to Roman’s. The sky spirit has not sent a nice dream down the invisible thread. Perhaps it dealt only with girls, women have to find their own dreams.
She has at least decided where she should look for them.
Leaving
Lu, determined now to become Louise Wilmott – she might well change her surname too – is leaving on the London train. Travelling third class, she watches the beautiful, undulating landscape of rural Hampshire rolling past, a diorama of crops and grazing animals.
Since she left the factory, she has used some of the time at Roman’s Fields in solitude, trying to take an unbiased look at herself. She amended the thought that had passed through her mind that evening at the Fire Boys Fair. She was cleverer than many of her peers, but whereas she had thought herself less worthy because of her desire for something better, she has begun to allow that a desire to get out and get on in the world is not shabby. She now acknowledges what her subconscious has been telling her since Kenny left home. Do what you want. Be who you want.
She had turned her back on what mattered for too long. It took the sight of Kate Roles’ bloody accident before Lu realized that what she had learned at the evening classes was just theory, just the ideal. Jacob Ezzard might live in a democratic society, but the girls who worked for him did not.
It was this thought that gave her a fierce determination to do something about the poor hand she had been dealt. She might have been born the daughter of a beached woman, and brought up in the slums, but now she is resolved to play and win.
She has got a passport, has paid off her clubs and debts, withdrawn her savings, sold most of her clothes except her gold satin dance dress and the Lascelles model, packed her few possessions in the overnight case that has served her on two previous important journeys. Sonia has cut her hair short.
She left Number 110 quickly and early in the morning.
The Waterloo express thunders through small stations. Rowlands Castle, Liss, Liphook; all that part of the rural south she first glimpsed from Uncle Hec’s lorry when she was twelve. This time she sees a landscape that is familiar and loved. For a second the thought occurs to her: this could be the last time I shall ever see the downs.
This is
a big step. As big a leap into unknown territory as when she left Lampeter in Uncle Hec’s lorry. A clean break. The only way, or she would have stayed there for ever. This time, though, it is a more permanent leaving. It is the start of the rest of her life.
These days in the newsreels, there is always something about Spain.
Basque refugees. The bombing of Madrid. Fascist troops, Fascist war planes, Fascist wounded.
Republican wounded.
Neutral corpses.
The first news item shows a small group standing outside Victoria Railway Station in London. They are surrounded by a large crowd and a parade is passing. The commentator explains that ten thousand people have come from Hyde Park to march past and honour these brave youngsters.
The group is swamped, flowers are pressed into their hands. Mayors and mayoresses from six London boroughs, representatives from the London County Council, the Labour Party and the Trades Union Congress, have all come to wish them Godspeed.
‘The brave adventure of these doctors and ambulancemen has started, and we too wish them the best of luck.’
The camera plays on the faces of the doctors and the ambulancemen.
One of the doctors is a woman.
Seven of the ambulancemen are women.
‘Look, look!’ says Lena. ‘There she is!’
The red ‘Exit’ light flickers on.
Bar absorbs every detail of the scene she and Lena have already watched at the matinee. ‘She looks happy.’
Lena says, ‘See that bloke: he had his arm round her.’
‘They all had their arms round each other.’
‘I just wondered if it was that one you said she was keen on.’
‘She don’t want any blokes now.’
The house lights go up. Bar and Lena stay put as the familiar pretentious voice booms, ‘The Eyes and Ears of the World!’ and the ‘Gaumont British News’ symbols fade away.
‘Yeah,’ Lena says, looking admiringly at the happy face of Lu, whom she can still see in spite of the velvet curtains that come swishing down. ‘Yeah, Lu don’t want no blokes now.’
Thanks
Although this book is a complete fiction, I acknowledge and give thanks to the many women who so generously contributed their time and experience of the industry – some from more than sixty years ago – so that I might get it right. They include:
Iris Idellier – Portsmouth; Mrs K. Godden – Bristol, Chilcott & Williams; Miss Florrie Allnutt – Portsmouth, Leethams Twilfit factory; Mrs B. Appleby – Tyne and Wear, Marina Corset factory; Mrs Mary Griffin – Milton, Twilfit; Mrs N. Wandby – Copnor, Sultan Road factory; Mrs B. Emmett – Copnor; Mrs S. Bailey – Farlington, All Saints Road factory; Mrs V. M. Head (Alder) – Bideford (father owned Alder’s Corset factory); Mrs Nellie McCann, her father, mother and great aunt – Gosport, Allens factory; Mrs D. Ramage – Southbourne, Emsworth, Weingartens Ltd; Mrs Doris Smith (Stapleton) – Gosport, Leethams factory; Mrs Jackie Wilson – Havant, Twilfit; Mrs I. P. Mapletoft – Nottingham, Twilfit; Mrs P. Loader – Portchester; Margaret Stevens’ mother; Mrs Hoad (Connie Stoner) – Havant, ACTA factory; Marjorie Jermy (Townley) – Portsmouth, Regent Street & Mile End factory; Mrs Elsie Marland – worked in administration; Barbara Avis – Bedhampton, fifty years in the industry; Mrs Maijorie Jeram – Fareham, Twilfit; Mrs Dolly Cox and Mrs Audrey Arnold (mother and daughter) – Havant, Twilfit, Corners; Joan Sadden – Gosport; Joan Archer – Barrow-in-Furness, Twilfit, Berlei, Alders, Fletchers; Mrs Iris Hayward – Isle of Wight; Mrs S. A. Newton – Fareham, Landport factory; Mrs Horder, her grandmother and six others of the family – Portsmouth, Twilfit; Mrs J. Gray – Waterlooville, Charles Bayer; Mrs D. Dyer – Waterlooville, George Curtis’ factory; Mary Stokes – Havant, Izods Corset factory; Mrs Olive Samphier (Cowdrey) – Portsmouth, Chilcott & Williams; Margaret Windsor and her sister – Portsmouth, Goldsmith Avenue factory; Mrs Stallard – Eastney; and Mrs Doris Young – Liss, Ward Road, garment factory. As Doris Watt, whilst still in her teens, she formed a branch of the Garment Workers’ Union, received a medal and citation from Sir Walter Citrine, and was interviewed for local and national newspapers of the time.
Also to those many others whose names I am not able to record here because it was only in passing that they made their contributions – in the street, the swimming pool, the supermarket, at Weight Watchers, Guilds, women’s groups, meetings, Institutes and writers’ circles.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1995 by HarperCollins
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Betty Burton, 1995
The moral right of Betty Burton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788630306
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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