by Lizzie Lane
Just as she made ready to ask him what he wanted, he swept the cap from his head and said loudly rather than shouted, ‘Make way for a sailor!’
There was raucous laughter, coupled with the odd comment of ‘What do ’e mean by that?’
Maisie gasped and was out from behind the bar and shoving through the crowd until she at last threw her arms round her brother’s neck. ‘Alf! I didn’t know you were back.’
His grin was broad and as beguiling as ever. ‘Why, did you think one of them subs might ’ave got me?’
Her frown was as fierce as her voice, though the latter was laced with laughter and a great relief she couldn’t admit to. ‘They wouldn’t dare. They’d ’ave me to deal with if they tried that one.’
Although he laughed, a dark look clouded his eyes, enough of a message for her to realise there’d been some pretty scary moments out there on the ocean waves. ‘Little sister, I can always count on you to punch above your weight.’
‘Watch it, Alfie Miles!’
He pretended pain when she delivered a hefty punch to his shoulder. He eyed the navy blue dress she was wearing, the make-up, the wiry curls that refused to be confined in a snood or wound into a modern style. ‘You’re looking as though you’re off out. Got a date, ’ave you?’
She wasn’t one for blushing but did feel her cheeks warming ever so slightly. ‘Yeah. With all this lot,’ she said, indicating the crowded bar.
‘Not time to chat with yer old brother then.’ He shook his head and made a face as though he was deeply offended.
Maisie made a groaning noise. ‘Bloody ’ell, Alf. Why didn’t you send me a telegram or somethin’?’
‘’Tain’t that easy out at sea in the middle of a war.’
She shook her head in regret. ‘Course it ain’t. Sorry, Alf. How long you got?’
‘About three days. Depends how long it takes to turn the ship round.’
‘That’s not long. Can’t you get a bit longer? There’s a bed ’ere if you need one. Aggie’s got loads of empty rooms.’
He shook his head. ‘No chance.’
It had been some time since they’d been together and there was so much catching up to do. The sight of her brother filled her eyes and brought her to a decision. ‘I’ll ask Aggie if we can ’ave an hour.’
The expression on his finely chiselled face, more tanned since he’d been at sea, was a joy to behold. ‘That would be great.’
Aggie almost pushed them out the door. ‘Make the most of it. You ain’t seen each other for ages. I can manage.’
They headed along the old city streets, where the upper storeys of black and white timbered houses threw shadows into the evening sunlight.
As they walked, they talked – nineteen to the dozen, as Aggie would say, Maisie asking Alf about the places he’d visited, what it was like being on the ship, including the danger. She sensed he only told her the better things so she wouldn’t worry. Alf asked her what it was like living above the old pub.
‘Creepy but nice. Do you know that Long John Silver’s place in Treasure Island was based on the Llandoger? Bridget told me. Bridget knows everything – well, about books and history she does.’ She laughed in a disparaging manner. ‘Though not much about men. Can’t ever see ’er marrying. Might do though if that Yank ever comes back.’
Alf latched on to her talk of the American and told her how he’d visited the ports of New England, taking on armaments. ‘Even propellers for Spitfires – and there’s them saying they ain’t gettin’ involved in this war – and there they are, making money from it hand over fist.’
The warm glow of the sun filtered through the gaps between ancient buildings as they made their way through Mary le Port Street which was narrow and dated from the Middle Ages. A covered stone walkway connected one side of the street with the other.
‘Long way from York Street,’ commented Alf, his eyes glancing off the shop windows.
‘Good,’ returned Maisie with a shiver. ‘I wouldn’t want to be back there.’
They stopped for a beer in a small pub that wasn’t too crowded. A thin man in a dark suit was playing something soft and vaguely classic on a piano.
‘Well, that ain’t too out of tune,’ Maisie remarked.
‘No. It isn’t.’
Between sips of sweet cider, Maisie prattled on but stopped when she realised that Alf was no longer contributing anything to the conversation. She looked up into his face. ‘Cat got yer tongue?’
He raised his eyes from the surface of his beer. His amiable countenance had turned serious. ‘Have you heard anything from the old man?’
Suddenly it seemed as though the last of the evening sunlight had gone and her own expression followed suit, her smile gone and a flash of concern in her eyes.
She hesitated before shaking her head.
Alf frowned. ‘You don’t seem that sure.’
Maisie lowered her eyes and thought back to when she’d accompanied Bridget to buy presents and had espied a reflection in the plate glass window.
Brother and sister had always been close, so thus it was that Alf noticed her ongoing hesitation. ‘What is it?’
‘I thought I saw him.’
‘To speak to?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It was only a glimpse.’
Alf ran his fingers through his hair, a deep frown creasing his brows. ‘He’s not around York Street. I collected a few things from there. The landlord’s let it to a widow and her son.’
Maisie nodded. ‘That can only be a good thing.’
There was hesitance in Alf’s expression. She knew him well enough to realise that he was holding something back. ‘What is it?’
His sky blue eyes met her midnight dark ones. He took a deep swig of beer and slumped back in his chair, hands plunged deeply into his pockets. His look was troubled. ‘Eddie Bridgeman will be after ’im. ’E don’t forgive easily.’
Maisie frowned. ‘But he’s in prison – ain’t he?’
A cold shiver ran through her body when he shook his head.
‘’Fraid not. The word is ’e used some bigwig lawyer to plead ’is case. It’s become government policy to transfer criminals from prison to the army. Eddie was only convicted of receiving and a bit of thieving. Nothing violent. Of course being Eddie…’
Maisie sat forward in her chair. ‘He’s out of prison?’
Alf nodded. ‘Yeah. Didn’t keep ’is part of the bargain though. Got let off on ill health grounds, though rumour ’as it that it wasn’t ’im that was examined at the ’ospital, that ’e paid somebody else to pretend to be ’im. Only hearsay, mind, but it worked. Eddie’s out! He’s expected to do some kind of war work, like being an ARP or something.’ He sighed. ‘Can’t see that ’appening.’
Maisie was inclined to agree with him, but all of that paled into insignificance against what really worried her. ‘He’ll be after Frank.’
‘That’s right.’
Her eyes, now filled with fear, met his again. ‘He’ll be asking around, after anyone who might know where he is.’
Alf nodded.
‘Including me.’
Alf nodded again. ‘Be careful, sis. Be bloody careful.’
‘Thank God I left York Street.’
Alf glugged back the last of his beer. ‘Thank God we both did.’
7
Bridget and Maisie
It was a week or so after Bridget and Maisie had sneaked into the hospital and Alf Miles had gone back to join his ship, that both were on their way to the red-brick factory in East Street where millions of Woodbines were made every year.
Jostled by the increasing crowd of women and girls, all keen to get into work, Bridget waved at Maisie and Maisie waved back. Despite there being a war on, it was just another ordinary working day for the tobacco girls. Crowds of women and girls, some looking tired out due to the fact that they were doing fire watches and other part-time war work, swelled as they filtered from side streets and progressed further into East Stree
t and closer to the factory.
The aim was to clock in by eight fifteen and everyone allowed enough time to get in, clock their card, then make their way to where they worked via the cloakroom where they could hang up their things. Today they were brought to a standstill. A group of women had formed a barrier at the top of the steps, waving pamphlets and shouting over the heads of the puzzled workforce. The voices were strident, their actions close to menacing.
‘Women are meant to be wives and mothers as ordained by God. They are not meant to wear a uniform and enter the armed forces. It is their God-given duty to stay at home, to be there for the warrior’s return. For women to join the armed forces is a sin against God. They will be tempted, as Eve was in the Garden of Eden, with sins of the flesh. I urge you ladies, stay in your homes, stay in your jobs until you are married; refuse to wear khaki, navy or air force blue… Your job is to maintain the Home Front, keep your husband happy and raise a family.’
‘Stupid cows! This ain’t a church, it’s a factory,’ muttered Aggie Hill, never one to mince her words and big enough to topple the lot of them if she cared to barrel through.
‘What are they up to?’ asked a very put-out Maisie.
Bridget was tall enough to see six solid women in thick tweeds and stout shoes, waving leaflets and shouting at the tops of their voices. ‘Don’t want us to join up by the sound of it,’ Bridget suggested.
The grumbles of disapproval from the girls round her changed to shouts of derision.
‘You’re working for Hitler by the sound of it,’ an angry voice shouted.
Others joined in. ‘Get out of our way. We’ve got work to do.’
Shorter than Bridget but undeterred, Maisie managed to poke her nose through. The women causing the mayhem wore tweed suits and their plain features were animated and unadorned with lipstick or powder.
‘Come on, girls. Push them out of the way,’ Maisie shouted. In her head, she was ticking away the minutes and the money that went with them if she was late.
‘You sure they ain’t Salvation Army,’ asked a girl with glasses who worked in the wages department.
‘No. They ain’t got any tambourines,’ declared Maisie in a loud voice
‘Just as well,’ added Aggie. ‘I ain’t that musical anyways.’
Their amused response was more than laughter; it was a battle cry. These women were standing between them and making a living. The labour force of W. D. &. H. O. Wills heaved forward en masse. Leaflets held aloft in gloved hands waved like flags and hats balanced on primly primped hair went flying.
Although they toppled and were being buffeted by a crowd growing angrier by the minute, the women’s voices still rang out.
‘Stay home,’ shouted one far more shrill than the others. ‘Join British Urban Mothers and keep your husband happy.’
‘Keepin’ my old man ’appy means I end up on me back and it nearly always ends up in a bigger family,’ shouted one woman. The comment was met with raucous laughter.
Maisie frowned. ‘British Urban Mothers?’ She burst into laughter. ‘B.U.M! Well, I for one ain’t joining anything with a name like that!’
The word was savoured with outright laughter but no matter the mockery, the staid women in the stiff suits and hair didn’t budge.
Bridget blanched as a leaflet was thrust in her face, a paper cut glancing off her nose.
‘Look.’ Maisie dug her elbow into Bridget’s side. ‘Isn’t that Phyllis’s mother-in-law?’
The bane of dear old Phyllis’s life stood taller than all the other women. She also shouted the loudest. Waving aloft a bunch of leaflets, she held her ground in front of the pair of double doors leading to the factory. Three women had taken up position to either side of her, waving their leaflets in gloved hands, repeating everything Hilda Harvey shouted. ‘I urge you sisters, not to take the unwomanly path of serving alongside men.’
‘Unwomanly path,’ repeated the others.
‘Women are not meant to be soldiers or to serve alongside soldiers. Their task is to keep the home fires burning, to tend to their home and bring their children up to be good Christians.’
‘Good Christians. Not soldiers,’ repeated Hilda’s colleagues.
Maisie stuck out her chin and shouldered her way forward until she was glaring up into Hilda Harvey’s face. ‘Some of us can fight as well as any man – especially where I comes from,’ she added, warming to the occasion and the audience of friends round her. ‘And if we’re needed to wear a uniform and fight, then we will.’
A chorus of agreement erupted.
Unperturbed and with one hand on her hat, Hilda carried on. ‘Great temptations happen when men and women are thrown together. Fornication! Wickedness!’
Some of the women behind Maisie burst into ribald laughter. ‘You’re right about that. It ’appens in ’ere all the time.’
Gossip had always been rife in the factory about romances going on between them that shouldn’t be carrying on. More so in war when husbands were away fighting. Despite the rhetoric of officialdom, people feared that today might be all they had, that there would be no future.
Clinging tightly to her hat, Hilda continued. ‘Desist from going into pubs, from dancing close to male bodies, from watching American pictures and, most of all, refuse to put on a uniform…’
Aggie Hill had decided that enough was enough and rallied her troops. ‘We lose money if we don’t clock on in time,’ she shouted. ‘Come on, girls. Follow me.’
Hilda Harvey finally lost the battle to hold onto her hat as Aggie’s arm swept her aside. She and the rest of the women were knocked over like a set of wooden skittles. Like a human tidal wave, the women surged past them and into the factory, an unstoppable mass more concerned with earning a living for their families than adhering to any high-minded oratory by women they regarded as living in the past and a very different world to the one they lived in. Besides that, they would do everything they needed to do to achieve a final victory.
‘If you might only stop and listen…’ Hilda shouted after them.
‘What, and lose quarter of an hour’s money? Not on your nelly!’
Nobody wanted to do that if they could help it. On the dot of five fifteen they would surge in the other direction, the tide going out more quickly than it had surged in.
The atmosphere in the stripping room was uncommonly warm and there was a lot of laughter as they went over what had happened on the front steps.
‘Well, that old trout was certainly full of herself,’ remarked Aggie.
A grinning Maisie, pink faced and somewhat pleased with herself, enlightened her. ‘That was Phyllis’s mother-in-law. Wonder if she’s noticed what British Urban Mothers stands for. Bum!’ She giggled every time she thought of it.
Aggie’s face dropped. Phyllis had been one of her ‘chicks’, a girl straight from school she’d taken under her wing. ‘And she’s livin’ with ’er? Poor kid. Must be like being in ’Orfield Prison.’ She tutted and shook her head at the thought of the exuberant Phyllis incarcerated in something like the sprawling brick building hidden behind high walls and fronted by the very green Horfield Common. ‘Still,’ she added with a chuckle. ‘She must ’ave been cock-a-hoop when you two went visiting at the hospital. And dressed as nurses. You two will cop it one day you will. Is she ’ome now?’
Bridget pulled out her stool and dragged a heap of fresh tobacco leaves towards her. ‘I did go round there. Mrs Harvey answered the door and told me Phyllis was lying down and couldn’t be disturbed.’
Aggie was hanging onto what Bridget was saying. ‘But you didn’t believe ’er.’
Bridget shook her head and bent back to her work. One memory above all others from that particular day was still vivid in her mind. As she’d opened the garden gate, she’d glimpsed a black-edged card in the window, the curtains behind it pulled tightly shut so not a chink of light slipped through. Her eyes had misted at the sight of it; she knew it would say ‘Alice’.
Hilda Harve
y had answered the door and, as expected, was far from friendly.
Swallowing the memory, Bridget went back to telling her friends what had transpired.
‘I asked her if Bridget was going back to live with her mother seeing as Robert hadn’t come back. Goodness, I should have kept quiet. She went wild. Told me that Robert was coming home and that it was Phyllis’s duty to stay put and wait for him despite losing the baby.’
Aggie patted her back. ‘Never mind, pet. Something will turn up.’ She paused as a thought crossed her strong features. ‘Ain’t that in one of the books you told me about?’
‘Yes,’ said Bridget, head bent over her work. ‘Mr McCawber. He was always in trouble and of the opinion that something would turn up.’ She sighed. ‘I hope it does for Phyllis.’
The baskets were waiting to be filled with stripped leaves and as she carried out her daily task, Bridget’s thoughts kept going back to her visit to the Harvey house in Bedminster Road. On her way back towards the garden gate, she’d heard raised voices, followed by one of pleading and it occurred to her that Aggie wasn’t far off the mark with her comment that Phyllis might just as well be in Horfield Prison. She also knew full well what Mrs Harvey thought of the girls who worked in the tobacco factory. She’d overheard her say so to Phyllis on her wedding day.
‘Only common girls work at the tobacco factory. You’re marrying my Robert. The likes of them are best forgotten. I wouldn’t have invited them if I’d had my way. But there. It’s Robert’s wedding.’ She ground her teeth at the memory.
Aggie shouted at Maisie to climb onto a table and turn up the volume on the wireless set which hung from a bracket on the wall. The sound was always turned low until first the news came on, followed by an announcement from the Ministry of Food, which in turn was followed by music.
