Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  Even if Frank didn’t go back to the old house, there was Eddie Bridgeman to think about. An arch criminal with his fingers in many pies, exploitation, nightclubs, protection and prostitution, He had the money to get out of difficult situations. Eddie might be inside, but his thugs were still out and about. He could also afford good lawyers so his term in prison wasn’t likely to last for too long, and when he got out? He’d be out to get Frank, who would run like a rabbit and dive into the deepest hole he could find. That’s where the problem was. No matter that she hated her stepfather, Eddie Bridgeman would assume she would know where he was. Fleeing York Street had made sense. Hopefully neither of them would track her down.

  Whilst these thoughts whirled around her head, Maisie kept working, concentrating on stripping the tobacco leaves; she was making good progress.

  She glanced at the leaves piled in front of Bridget. Her mild-mannered friend was usually way ahead of her, but today, and most of this week, her movements seemed lethargic. A little nudge was in order. She was sure she wouldn’t mind her being concerned she would get her pay docked. The Milligans were a big family and although she’d never mentioned as such, her wages were vital. As gently as possible, Maisie informed her that she was falling behind.

  At first, there was a round-eyed stare, as though she’d been caught out doing something quite outrageous. Then the legs of her stool screeched across the floor, making Maisie’s teeth set on edge, and she was gone.

  Maisie put up her hand to get Aggie’s attention, letting her know she was off to the cloakroom.

  When she got there, Bridget was leaning against the sink, the light from the frosted windows touching her face with porcelain clarity, a handkerchief held to her nose.

  Maisie snuggled up close to her, folded her arms and gave her a dig in the ribs. ‘Come on, old mate. A problem shared an’ all that.’

  Bridget chewed her lips and looked down at the floor. ‘Everything seems so strange. The house is so quiet and my mother doesn’t stop crying. My dad tries to raise her spirits. She’s all right for a time, and then she’s downhill again.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Poor woman’s got nothing to do without them kids around.’ Maisie was her usual outspoken self.

  Although used to Maisie’s frankness, Bridget didn’t let it wash over her as she often did. ‘What do you know about my mother? Or the rest of my family? I’ll thank you not to make comment about something you don’t know.’

  The sharpness of her response was surprising, but Maisie kept her head. Her words were ice cold. ‘I know nothing about your family or ’avin’ a mother like yours. I ain’t got one.’

  Bridget’s comment had smarted and, although Maisie wanted with all her heart to support her friend, there was no point offering sympathy where none was likely to be taken, so she turned away.

  ‘No.’ Bridget grabbed her arm. ‘I’m sorry, Maisie. I didn’t mean to say that.’

  There was genuine affection in Bridget’s eyes. Maisie saw it there, and although her intention had been to march off in a huff, that look rooted her to the spot. ‘No,’ Maisie said softly. ‘I know you didn’t. Time to get it off yer chest.’

  ‘It isn’t easy. I know Mum would have them back in a trice if Dad would let her.’

  ‘That would be daft,’ said Maisie, shaking her head. ‘There’s a lot of parents in Europe who wished their children had been evacuated before the bombing began.’

  She detected an instant change in Bridget’s manner, as though such an observation had not occurred to her before. A faint smile that promised to spread flickered at her lips.

  ‘You’re right, Maisie Miles, but then you usually are.’

  Back in the stripping room, their workmates sang and hummed along to the songs on the wireless.

  Maisie exchanged a barely perceptible nod with Aggie, who had also been aware of Bridget’s low mood.

  ‘Here is the news…’

  All hands stilled in their work. All conversation ceased.

  The news main topic was the evacuation from France. There were mothers, wives and sisters who knew for certain that their men had survived the evacuation of Dunkirk. To date, 300,000 men had been rescued. A few still awaited news and Maisie’s heart went out to them. She herself had no relatives involved but understood their feelings.

  Each item of news was abrupt and delivered without a trace of emotion: France, Norway and attacks on Atlantic convoys bringing much-needed supplies; a switch to North Africa and ships lost in the Mediterranean; raids on Gibraltar and some little island few had heard of called Malta.

  The silence lingered for some minutes after the broadcast had ended. Maisie fancied she could hear the beating of their hearts, all of them beating as one.

  The music resumed.

  Maisie sang out, determined to concentrate minds on love rather than war.

  ‘It had to be you. Wonderful you…’

  ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile…’

  They were her workmates and perhaps a bit more; her family in the absence of any real one. Her mother was dead, her brother gone away to sea and she had found out that her natural father had died not long after she was born, beaten to death, according to her grandmother, by her stepfather, Frank Miles.

  There were sounds of sniffling once the singing had stopped and was replaced by instrumentals.

  A slow murmuring of conversation resumed, talk of those not yet home interspersed with tales of ordinary family life. All Maisie had was Alf, her brother, a small contribution to talk of family. Whilst growing up, Alf had been the most stable influence in Maisie’s life and she missed him.

  ‘I heard my brother’s been to South America. Had a card from him,’ she said.

  ‘South America is a big place. Did he say which country he was in?’

  ‘He couldn’t say exactly but the place name was Spanish for I see a mountain.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bridget. ‘Montevideo. He’s in Uruguay.’

  ‘Is that what it means,’ said a delighted Maisie. ‘That’s a pretty name.’

  Bridget smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  Maisie had been purposely innocent in her response, but noted a sudden tension around that soft smile. ‘I can read the papers. I do know what happened there, Bridget. But that was back in December. There’s no pocket battleship waiting there now. I ain’t that daft, you know. I ’ave ’eard of the battle of the River Plate. It’s still dangerous, I know that, but Alf made ’is choice. It’s the life ’e wanted.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Bridget.

  Maisie smiled to herself. Well-read and interested in most things, she’d surprised her friend in being able to name the battle.

  Before Bridget could fall into another thoughtful silence, Maisie patted her hand. ‘Those kids will be fine. All them fields to run around in and all that food. There’s more food in the countryside. Everybody knows that.’

  Bridget was forced to agree with her. ‘I know. They’re probably having the time of their lives. I suppose we have to get used to it. For the duration.’

  ‘Yep. For the duration!’ Maisie said brightly. ‘Heard anything from your American sweetheart?’

  ‘He isn’t my sweetheart.’ Bridget’s response was curt.

  Maisie chewed her bottom lip as she considered what she could say next. ‘Fancy the pictures tonight? I think it’s something called The Four Feathers. Don’t know what it’s about though.’

  Her question was met with a heavy sigh, then a thoughtful tilting of Bridget’s head as though she were considering it. ‘India. The British in India and a man who’s accused of cowardice. I read the book.’

  ‘Oh,’ returned Maisie, slightly deflated.

  ‘Thing is…’ Bridget began. ‘I hate leaving my parents alone at night. I’m all they’ve got left…’

  Maisie sighed. She fancied going to the pictures, though she had a vibrant social life at the pub where the customers liked her outspokenness and youthful personalit
y.

  ‘You’re a cheeky minx and that’s for sure.’

  She smiled at the thought of the rough seamen who frequented the old pub on which Robert Louis Stevenson had based Long John Silver’s quayside inn, the Spyglass. Some of the customers regarded her as they might a daughter. Others entertained more risqué thoughts, though didn’t dare upset landlady Aggie Hill, who watched her young charge with an eagle eye and ready fists.

  Maisie thought a bit more as she hummed along with the radio to a song called ‘Stardust’. Once it had finished, she suggested they chance a bit of shopping in Castle Street on the coming Saturday.

  ‘We’re working Saturday afternoon,’ Bridget pointed out.

  ‘We can go after work. The shops are open until ten. Got any money?’

  Bridget frowned. ‘Yes. Why?’

  Maisie beamed. ‘You could buy some small presents for the kids and send them to that place they’re staying… whatever it’s called…’

  ‘South Molton. I suppose I could,’ she said thoughtfully.

  Maisie breathed an inner sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s settled then. Tell you what, instead of you goin’ ’ome and us meetin’ up, ’ow about you coming back with me and Aggie to the Llandoger? It’s only for a couple of hours. You won’t be leavin’ yer mum and dad alone for too long,’ she said quickly on seeing the sudden doubt on Bridget’s face. ‘Anyway, they might appreciate ’avin’ a bit of free time together. What do you reckon?’

  She waited with bated breath to see if her crafty ploy had worked and was relieved when Bridget agreed to it.

  Bursting with self-satisfaction, Maisie slapped her hands down on the table. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll tell Aggie you’re coming back with us on Saturday and you tell yer mum and dad that you’ll be a bit late ’ome after work.’

  When Saturday came, Aggie, queen of the stripping room and landlady of the Llandoger, fed them liver and onions swimming in thick gravy. ‘Spotted dick for afters,’ she added. ‘We don’t do afters during the week, but we do on a weekend. A little bit of luxury we all deserve in these troubled times.’

  As expected from somebody of Aggie’s size, the portions were big.

  ‘I’m not sure I can make it to Castle Street,’ Bridget pronounced once the meal was finished. ‘Does she always dish up such big portions?’

  Maisie laughed and patted her stomach, which was far rounder than it used to be. ‘How do you think I got this?’

  Even though goods were scarce and shop windows were unlit, the shopping area in and around Castle Street was busy. Crowds of people, some in uniform, were taking advantage of a fine evening in May before darkness descended and everything was pitch black.

  Some deep-seated instinct told Maisie that all this jollity was a brittle veneer and that beneath the surface these people were afraid. The news from France had affected everyone and the distance between England and France was very small indeed – just twenty-two miles of the English Channel. Rumours were rife that an invasion was imminent.

  Maisie wasn’t the only one aware of the electric atmosphere.

  ‘It’s as though everyone is out to enjoy themselves while they can,’ Bridget suddenly pronounced.

  ‘At least your youngsters are out of the way if they do start bombing. How about going into this shop?’

  They had stopped in front of a plate-glass window. Though unlit thanks to the blackout regulations, it displayed small items and even a placard saying:

  Small Enough to Send Overseas

  The idea was that as little room as possible would be taken up on any form of transport heading to forces stationed overseas, military supplies having priority.

  Maisie pointed. ‘How about these? Not that you’re sendin’ ’em overseas.’

  The small items, pencil sets, handkerchiefs, notebooks, drawing books and ribbons, caught Bridget’s attention. ‘Katy would love that colour,’ she said, pointing at a silky blue ribbon.

  Maisie pointed out that a queue was forming. ‘I think other people got the same idea,’ she remarked and before Bridget had chance to change her mind, she dragged her into the queue.

  Once inside the shop with the items in front of her, Bridget became absorbed in choosing gifts for her siblings. For the boys it was pencil sets and notebooks. For the girls, ribbons, sketchbooks and packets of crayons.

  ‘Do you need them wrapped?’ asked the assistant.

  Bridget opted for them to be wrapped, first in newspaper and then brown paper and string ready for posting.

  ‘We can post it for you,’ the assistant added helpfully.

  Bridget didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes please. I only wish I could see their faces when it arrives. I’ve got the address of the local post office in South Molton. They collect regularly from there.’

  Maisie sensed it was a different Bridget who exited the shop than the one who had gone in. It was obvious from the excitement in her eyes that this was a kind of link between her and her brothers and sisters. They were far away but sending the parcel somehow brought them closer.

  They both stopped and took another look in the window.

  ‘They’ve got some nice things in here. Hopefully they’ll still have things at Christmas – unless the war’s over by then of course.’

  Maisie leaned forward beside Bridget and scrutinised the display. ‘They’ll still be here and Christmas will happen as it always does, no matter what.’

  They stood for a few minutes admiring the display. Other people were also looking, their faces mirrored in the plate glass just as theirs were.

  And they’re all smiling, thought Maisie, glancing from one face to another. She too smiled until suddenly she spotted a face she’d wished never to see again.

  ‘I quite fancy going for a drink before going home. How about you?’

  Maisie jerked away from the window and faced Bridget, a cold shiver running down her back. ‘What?’

  It was obvious from her expression that Bridget noticed the sudden pallor of Maisie’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I was miles away. What was it you said?’

  ‘I suggested we go for a drink at the Bear. What do you think?’

  Maisie recovered quickly. ‘Yes,’ she said with more enthusiasm than she actually felt. ‘Yes. Why not?’

  Her eyes scanned the crowds as they moved away from the shop window. The face she’d seen was no more. Perhaps I was imagining it, she thought to herself.

  For reassurance, she slipped her arm into that of Bridget’s. Not once did she look over her shoulder for fear she hadn’t been imagining things, for fear that she really had seen Frank Miles, the man she hated most in all the world.

  3

  Phyllis Harvey

  Phyllis woke up and immediately clamped her eyes shut again. The sight of the dull green curtains hanging at the bedroom window made her feel sick, a stark reminder that she was living with her in-laws in Bedminster Road.

  She’d been dreaming she was somewhere else where the curtains were rose-coloured and the room far prettier than this one. Perhaps it might have been more bearable if Robert had not gone away to fight, leaving her to fend off both boredom and the ongoing whining and barely concealed dislike of Robert’s mother.

  In her head, she was her old bubbly self, her titian hair gleaming, her greyish green eyes shining, her lipstick, powder and clothes exactly the right colour to suit her porcelain complexion. In the dream, she could hear her mates, Bridget and Maisie, laughing and singing as they walked along the prom at Weston-super-Mare last September. It had been the firm’s outing and, to her mind, her last really happy time before marrying Robert Harvey – because she had to.

  It was shortly after the trip that she’d begun typing lessons in a bid to better herself, only she’d got much more than that. ‘A bun in the oven,’ as the likes of young Maisie said. Only it hadn’t been her fiancée Robert’s ‘bun’. It had been her typing teacher, Alan Stalybridge. Luckily for her, pregnancy had coincided with Robert insisting they
get married. Robert had always made the decisions in their relationship rather than ask her opinion, and in this instance, she welcomed it. To do otherwise, she would have been ruined.

  Now, here she was, married to a man she didn’t love, heavily pregnant and living with his parents. His father, Tom Harvey, she could stand. His mother was an entirely different matter, a dried-up stick of a woman who found fault with everything she did.

  Phyllis sighed and turned over in bed. Oh how she wished she was still working. Although most women gave up work when they got married, others continued and even when expecting continued to work for the allowed time of up to six months. Robert had insisted that no wife of his was going to work. So that was it.

  Would things be better if Robert was here? Phyllis frowned and tried to remember how it had been with him. Nothing very eventful came to mind except that she recalled no softness, no real signs of affection. She’d turned to Alan for that, a one night stand that she’d wanted to be much more. He’d shot off even before she’d found out she was pregnant; just a fleeting moment that she’d wished had been so much more. Robert had assumed the child was his, conceived on their honeymoon, so at least her reputation had been saved. It was accepted that a girl wanted to save her reputation, but she wasn’t so sure about that now. She’d been unhappy ever since tying the knot.

  She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, as if that alone might blot out the grinding whirr of the alarm clock when it struck seven thirty. Robert’s mother insisted everyone was out of bed by seven thirty, though stretched it on Sunday to eight o’clock. Breakfast was only available within that sacrosanct first hour.

  ‘If you can’t be bothered to get up, there’s no breakfast. I’ve no time to wait on people.’

  Hilda Harvey’s voice jangled the nerves – just like the alarm clock. Suddenly, there it was, rattling and jangling, vibrating across the bedside table as though it had suddenly sprung legs.