Big Dreams for the West End Girls

by Elaine Roberts

  Arthur got up from his chair and dropped to his knees at her feet. ‘You don’t have to choose. Without you there is nothing to keep me in London. I do need to talk to Joyce; I feel I owe her an awful lot.’

  Dot nodded.

  Arthur took Dot’s hands in his. ‘Look I don’t know whether I’m doing the right thing or not and I want us to be together again but I also want there to be complete honesty between us.’ He paused, and swallowed hard. ‘I’ve put an offer on the farm next door. It’s a low offer because it needs a lot of work doing to it but perhaps we could live here while we sort it out.’ Arthur’s words tumbled over each other in their bid to escape. ‘That way you are close to your family but we can still live together as man and wife. What do you think?’

  *

  Simon stretched his legs out in front of him and rested his head on the back of his late father’s prized black leather wingback chair. He stared into the open fireplace. The golden flames danced up the chimney, while occasionally spitting ash out on to the hearth. There was something mesmerising and comforting about an open fire. He shook his head. They would need more money for coal and kindling for the next couple of months. He wondered if his mother and sister would understand if he asked them to light the fire later in the evening, or maybe go to bed earlier. Simon’s gaze turned to his mother knitting; he had no idea what she was making but the needles constantly clicked together with every stitch. She pulled at the wool that was wrapped around her fingers and the ball slipped off her lap and rolled across the floor. He leant forward and picked it up and passed it to her.

  ‘Thank you, Simon.’ Mavis rested the knitting needles on her lap, creasing the natural folds of her black dress flat. ‘Is everything all right? You’re very quiet tonight.’

  Simon closed his eyes for a moment, instantly forgetting about how the price of coal had shot up recently. He had tried not to think about what he had done, but now his throat tightened as the enormity of it hit him.

  ‘Is it the café? If it is then I don’t want you worrying about it. We’ll manage one way or another.’ She paused but Simon said nothing. ‘I don’t want you worrying about any of it. I can always get a cleaning job or take in washing.’

  Simon’s eyes snapped open. ‘I don’t want you doing no such thing. The café is doing well enough.’

  ‘So what’s going on? And don’t say nothing because it’s clear something is. I can feel it in me water. Are you still worrying about signing up?’

  Simon smiled at his mother’s words. ‘You and your water.’

  Mavis chuckled. ‘You may laugh but my water isn’t very often wrong. So what is it?’

  Simon looked grim as he shook his head. ‘You’ll be pleased to know your water isn’t wrong this time either.’ He couldn’t bring himself to look at his mother. He didn’t want to see the pain he was about to inflict on her. ‘I’ve enlisted.’ He sighed, glad he had managed to say it.

  Silence sat between them for a few minutes.

  Mavis sighed. ‘I’d say I’m surprised but I’ve been expecting it since the war began and all your friends joined up.’

  Simon opened his eyes and looked over at his mother.

  Mavis held his gaze. ‘You only have to look around you to know there’s a lot of pressure for men to enlist, and let’s face it, women whose husbands and sons have gone are asking why others haven’t, so I do understand.’

  Simon jumped up out of the chair and went to kneel at his mother’s feet. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’

  Mavis scowled at her son. ‘You don’t think I worry about what others are saying, do you? Where were they when my Bill died all those years ago? I don’t care what any of them think; you and Barbara are all I care about. To be honest I’m not sure I even care about that blooming café that was your father’s dream. I can’t help feeling it’s robbed you of yours and now this war is going to wipe away what little hope you had of earning money from your paintings.’

  ‘Ma, my paintings are just my way of relaxing. I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough to make a living from it, and anyway most painters aren’t appreciated until after they’re dead.’

  Mavis rested the palm of her hand against Simon’s bristled cheek. ‘In that case I don’t want you to do well out of it. I can’t deal with thoughts like that, let alone it actually happening, so you just make sure you come back in one piece.’

  Simon reached up and kissed his mother’s soft cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  Mavis frowned. ‘For what?’

  ‘Making it easy for me to tell you. I’ve been dreading it.’

  Mavis wrapped her arms around her son’s shoulders. ‘I’m lucky you didn’t go straight away like the thousands of other men did.’

  Simon breathed in his mother’s lavender perfume, trying to commit it to his memory. ‘You will write to me won’t you?’

  ‘It’s not my strongest point but I promise to write to you every day, even if it’s only two lines.’ Mavis blinked quickly and forced a laugh. ‘I’ll also knit you lots of socks.’

  Simon forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’ He moved back to perch on the edge of his armchair. The fingertips of both hands came together as he pursed his lips.

  The two of them sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Simon glanced up at his mother. ‘I know you said you weren’t bothered about the café but you haven’t asked about it.’

  Mavis tightened her lips. ‘I trust you’ll do whatever you think is right. As I said, I only really care about you and Barbara.’

  Simon nodded. ‘I’ve asked Joyce to keep it going for us but I would appreciate it if you could offer to help out from time to time, and make sure Barbara is kind to her.’

  Mavis peered at her son’s troubled expression. ‘I’ve never met Joyce and yet I have felt for a long time that you like her a lot.’

  Simon looked up and their eyes locked. ‘I more than like her, Ma, and I know she likes me. Actually she said, “No one could love you more than I do.” But I can’t help thinking she sees us as just good friends or brother and sister.’

  ‘Have you told her how you feel?’

  ‘Yes.’ Simon paused. ‘The trouble is we’re always so busy and tired, plus I’m a coward. I’ve never taken her out somewhere nice, and when we talk it’s always about the café.’ He frowned, and leant back in his chair. ‘What happens if she doesn’t like me in the same way?’

  ‘What happens if she does? Tell me about her.’

  Simon’s face lit up. ‘She’s wonderful, so shy, kind and thoughtful. She’s a great cook. She’s not long started making cakes for the café and they’re proving to be very popular. We even have three young ladies who have taken to coming in regularly for a slice of her chocolate cake.’

  Mavis watched her son’s animated features as he talked about the woman he clearly loved. ‘I know you can marry whoever you wish but maybe it’s time I met her.’

  Simon nodded. ‘As much as I’d like there to be, I’m not sure it has any future but please be kind to her. I noticed when Barbara was working in the café she kept staring at Joyce and I don’t want her to feel so uncomfortable that she leaves altogether.’

  Mavis leant forward ran her hand down her son’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on things and if necessary I’ll have words with Barbara.’

  ‘Thanks, Ma.’

  Mavis took a deep breath. ‘When do you go?’

  ‘Tomorrow will be my last day in the café. I have training first before I’m sent off to fight.’

  Mavis opened her mouth to speak but fear gripped her as her throat tightened and she tried to hold back the tears that were now ready to fall.

  6

  Joyce stood outside staring at the gold block lettering of the sign hanging above a shiny black door, which read: Jeremiah King Solicitors. The wind cut through her coat, took hold of a loose tendril of hair, and whipped it across her face. Her fingers quickly grabbed it and tucked it behind her ear. Joyce took a deep breath, fighting t
he urge to run away, and wishing she’d taken up the offers of someone to come with her. Her stomach churned as she looked around her, not noticing the grand architecture of the Victorian buildings that made up the road.

  Voices carried in the air and along the street towards Joyce, making her stop and glance over her shoulder. Thankful the glistening frost on the pavement had melted away, Joyce turned and looked at both sides of the street but couldn’t see anyone though the shouting was getting nearer.

  The large, round clock hanging from the watchmaker’s shop a couple of doors down caught her attention. It was nearly eleven o’clock. She jumped as a single chime came from it. She took a deep breath and mumbled to herself, ‘Come on, girl, you can’t put it off any longer.’ She pushed on the black door and it swung open. As she stepped inside the door swung shut behind her, locking out the sun that was trying to break through the grey clouds.

  A woman sat at a large oak desk facing the door, and looked up as Joyce entered. Her mousy brown hair was neatly rolled into a chignon and she looked impeccable in her crease-free white blouse. She gave a faint smile. ‘Good morning, what can I do for you?’

  Joyce’s heart pounded. ‘I … I have an appointment … with … with Mr King.’

  The lady raised her eyebrows and peered down at a large open book. ‘Can I take your name please?’

  Joyce fought the urge to giggle; she could hear Peter’s voice mimicking the plums in posh people’s voices. ‘Joyce … Miss Joyce Taylor.’

  The lady appeared relaxed as she patted the back of her hair. ‘Please take a seat and I’ll let Mr King know you are here.’

  Joyce nodded and gladly perched on the edge of the nearest red velvet seat of a dark oak chair. She leant forward, straining to look around the dark room. There were many bookshelves lining the wall on one side of the large oak desk. Each shelf was laden with books all standing to attention in size order. A small console table stood underneath a large portrait of a formidable-looking man, which faced the door she came in.

  ‘Mr King will see you now.’

  Joyce jerked round at the voice that appeared to come from nowhere; the thick carpet had hushed the woman’s footsteps. ‘Thank you.’ She stood up, pulled back her shoulders and ran her hands down her lightweight coat.

  The woman led her into a large smoke-filled office. Leather-bound books and paper files were scattered over a large oak desk. Books, of various sizes, and paperwork were stacked on the floor next to the desk. A grey-haired man sat behind the desk puffing furiously on his wooden pipe, adding more grey clouds of smoke into the office.

  Joyce coughed as the rich, earthy tobacco smoke filled her lungs.

  Mr King peered over the top of his glasses as she entered the room behind the secretary.

  Joyce placed her hand over her mouth before mumbling, ‘Sorry.’

  Mr King took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘Please come in and sit down.’ He waved one hand at her while the other placed his pipe on a glass dish. He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Miss Taylor, it’s lovely to finally meet you.’

  Joyce took in his pristine black three-piece suit before stepping forward to take his fingertips in hers to shake his hand.

  ‘Please sit down.’ Jeremiah King indicated a wooden chair in front of his desk. He stared at her for a few minutes, taking in her thin, young features. ‘You’re not what I expected. You’re not much more than a child.’

  Joyce felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she sat down. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t actually know why I’m here.’

  Jeremiah frowned. ‘I assumed you knew.’ He took a breath. ‘I am acting on behalf of your grandmother, Mrs Edith Taylor.’ He picked up some papers and pushed others aside before he looked at her pale features again. ‘I take it you do know your grandmother?’

  Joyce nodded. ‘Not very well though.’

  Jeremiah shook his head. ‘Well, she’s a patient in St Thomas’ Hospital.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry to tell you she’s in a coma, and unlikely to come out of it.’

  Joyce gasped, but stayed silent. She became aware that Mr King was waiting for her to say something. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’ She stood up. ‘I’m not sure I needed to come to the office to be told that.’

  Jeremiah stood up, just catching the arm of the chair as it swung backwards. ‘No, you misunderstand, that’s not why you are here; well, it is partly.’ He shook his head. ‘Please sit down.’

  Joyce slowly lowered herself back on to the chair.

  ‘I have represented Mrs Taylor for many years and there was always an agreement that if she became so ill that she was unlikely to survive I was to start putting her instructions into practice, and that’s why I wrote to you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Mr King took a deep breath. ‘Your grandmother claims to have written to you on a number of occasions but has never had any response from you. Consequently I’ve been given instructions on how to move forward with a certain situation.’

  Joyce frowned. ‘What situation? And I’ve never received anything from my grandmother. I would have answered if I had. I didn’t think she wanted to see me.’

  ‘Well, that may well be your account of things but I can tell you she was hurt when you didn’t reply.’ There was a rustling as Mr King put some papers in order. ‘There’s very little point raking up the past. We need to get down to business.’

  Joyce stared at him. Did her grandmother write to her after all? If she did where were those letters? Does that mean they could have stayed in contact and Joyce wasn’t the terrible child she had thought she was when they moved out of her grandmother’s house? Her mind had been thrown into turmoil.

  Jeremiah King coughed, jolting Joyce out of her thoughts. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands. ‘You are here because I have been unable to find your father—’

  ‘My father died on the Titanic.’

  The solicitor scowled. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, but I have been unable to find any paperwork on his death.’

  Joyce shook her head. ‘I don’t know about that but, as far as I know, his body was never found. I do have an uncle. His name’s Arthur.’

  Jeremiah tightened his lips for a moment. ‘Not according to your grandmother you don’t—’

  Joyce’s heart was suddenly racing; she could hear it pulsating in her ears. ‘What? I don’t understand. Are you sure?’ She lifted her hand to rest at the base of her neck.

  Jeremiah raised his eyebrows. ‘I can assure you, Miss Taylor, in my business it doesn’t pay to make mistakes like that.’

  ‘No, I’m sure.’ Joyce swallowed hard and gave her head a slight shake. ‘But … but it can’t be true. I’ve been living with him for years. My father took me there before going off to work on the Titanic.’

  Jeremiah studied her. ‘Maybe we should contact the police if this man is masquerading as your uncle.’

  Joyce’s head flinched back slightly. ‘No, maybe I’ve misunderstood.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve always called him uncle so I just assumed…’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to involve the police if there’s been any misconduct going on.’

  Joyce shook her head. ‘Uh no, sir, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure everything will be all right when I’ve spoken to him.’ Her thoughts began running around her head out of control. Who was Arthur Bradshaw? Why hadn’t he told her he wasn’t her uncle? Her hands balled into fists as they lay in the folds of her coat.

  Jeremiah studied the young girl in front of him for a moment before pulling a fob watch from his waistcoat and checking the time. ‘Well, if that’s the case we should get down to business.’ He pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose and peered down at the paperwork in front of him.

  Joyce jerked and fidgeted on her chair. She pulled herself upright, wondering what she was actually there for.

  ‘Now, as I said your grandmother is in a coma and I have strict instructions to make sure a chest is delivered
to you.’

  ‘A chest?’

  Jeremiah peered over his glasses at Joyce. ‘Yes, a chest. I have no idea what’s in it, if anything, but it will be delivered to your home some time over the next week or so.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, there is something much more serious that your grandmother wants you to do.’ He paused.

  Joyce stared at the solicitor, wondering what he could have to say to her that was more serious than Arthur not being her uncle. ‘What?’

  Jeremiah cleared his throat. ‘She wants you to look after a five-year-old boy who has been left in her care.’

  ‘What?’ Joyce’s eyes widened. ‘You can’t be serious?’

  He watched what little colour she had drain from her face. ‘Since your grandmother has been in hospital her housekeeper has been looking after him but, long term, that is not possible.’

  ‘A five-year-old boy?’ Joyce folded her arms. ‘I don’t know anything about children, let alone boys. How am I meant to look after him? Surely, there must be someone else who is more suitable to bring up a child?’

  ‘Apparently there isn’t.’

  ‘Who is he and why has my grandmother been looking after him?’ Anger took hold when she thought about her father being made to leave her house and yet she took in a stray. ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand why I have been thrown into this problem when it’s nothing to do with me.’

  Jeremiah stared down at the paper and read the specific instructions not to tell her anything about the boy. He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you much, except his name is Philip Edwards, his mother was a family friend and she died. Your grandmother always said there’s nothing more important than family, so she took the boy in and now your grandmother is adamant you are the one to look after him.’

  Joyce wanted to shout: “Family wasn’t important enough for her to keep me,” but she didn’t. Instead she pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘What will happen to him if I refuse?’

  Jeremiah shrugged. ‘I expect he will end up in an orphanage because there’s no one else. You are his only hope.’