Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  What with Victoria the cat waiting on the step and Mrs Proctor throwing her apron up over her face and bursting into happy tears, Sam Proctor stated that he really felt he was home.

  ‘Me old queen, I smell something cooking.’ His nostrils narrowed as he inhaled the smell of his favourite meal – faggots and peas – the meal she always made for him on the day she knew he was coming home on leave.

  He looked disapprovingly at Phyllis. ‘You told me it was fish.’

  She grinned. ‘I lied.’

  After much talking and laughing, the meal was eaten and Mrs Proctor was told that they were going out.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said, yet Phyllis saw a flash of concern and a nervous tic flicker beneath her right eye. Before she’d moved in, Mrs Proctor would have had her son to herself, she thought. Well, Sam was a fully grown man and she a fully grown woman. His mother had to accept that.

  They joined the queue at His Majesty’s picture house and managed to get in the one and six’s, though would have preferred the circle. All the same, they enjoyed themselves.

  Sam held her hand all the way through the film and she felt protected.

  ‘Did you enjoy the film?’ he asked as they exited out of the stuffy interior and into the night air, their arms entwined.

  ‘Loved it.’

  The truth was she hadn’t been able to concentrate. It had been an age since a man had sat so close to her, even longer since someone had held her hand. The flickering of the film had been hypnotic. She hadn’t been watching people but a series of black and white flashes interspersed with her past and those who’d peopled it. Robert was one of them, of course, admirable at first until she’d realised that he was taking her over body and soul. Alan also figured, his easy-going manner and low-key irresistible sexuality.

  It struck her that Sam was totally different to either of them. She didn’t have to be anybody else but herself when she was with Sam. He didn’t dominate as Robert had done. Even Alan, she now realised, had recognised her vulnerability and taken advantage.

  Suddenly Sam’s laughter burst into her thoughts. ‘It was a bloody awful film. It might have been dark in there, but I saw you yawn. Thought you’d drop off at any minute.

  ‘It was terrible,’ she cried, her laugh matching his.

  ‘Too right it was. My mind was elsewhere too. I reckon that big shiny beam from the projector more interesting than the film!’

  Laughing and with linked arms, they took a longer route home to York Street than the one they’d taken earlier. Sam was talking about the war and his part in it.

  ‘I fancy serving abroad,’ he was saying.

  ‘Abroad!’ Phyllis felt instant panic. ‘Surely you don’t have to go.’

  ‘No. I don’t have to. I think I want to. How about you? I reckon you’d look good in a uniform.’

  Hilda Harvey came to mind and Phyllis burst out laughing.

  Sam laughed because she laughed. ‘Something funny?’

  ‘Have you seen those middle-aged miseries protesting that women shouldn’t serve alongside men?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I have. Who are they?’

  Phyllis pursed her lips to stop herself from mentioning any names and certainly not admitting the woman who led them was her mother-in-law. This was not the time to tell him that. ‘A women’s church group.’

  ‘It would be,’ he said with a knowing grin. ‘Do you know any of them personally?’

  She opened her mouth to deny the fact, when a van pulled out from a side alley.

  ‘Blimey, that stinks,’ said Sam, wrinkling his nose.

  Phyllis glanced at the driver. Although it was dark, a random handheld torchlight picked up features that looked surprisingly familiar. She held her breath. Though she’d only seen him once, on the occasion when he’d attacked Maisie outside the tobacco factory, she recognised Frank Miles. If it really was him, did he know that Eddie Bridgeman was looking for him?

  ‘Do you know him?’ Sam asked, noticing her gaze.

  She barely stopped herself from blurting out that she did know him but held back. To do so would mean her past unravelling in record time, so instead she shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. Let’s get home. Terrible smell though.’

  ‘Bone yard,’ said Sam. ‘I’d recognise that smell anywhere.’

  As they crossed the opening to the alley, a number of people came out, some clutching bundles wrapped in newspaper, one or two carrying a brown paper carrier bag. Phyllis recognised a face; Edith Jones who worked in the stripping room at Wills’s at the same time as she had.

  One swift glance and Edith hurried on with her head down. Like everyone else, she was carrying a folded-up shopping bag beneath her arm.

  Not wanting to be seen, Phyllis quickened her step. ‘Come on. It’s beginning to rain.’

  Hurrying her steps, Edith Jones held tightly to her shopping bag. The smell of raw meat permeated the newspaper it was wrapped in. The family would eat well enough this week, what with bones for a stew, plus liver, lights tightly, the name applied to the pale meat of a cow’s lungs, and a bit of caul. Mixed with onions and breadcrumbs, she’d bought enough to make at least six faggots.

  Buying from the black market was a necessity but usually the prices were beyond the contents of her purse, so she counted herself lucky to have happened on this bloke. Her purchases had been incredibly cheap and carried out late at night so she knew it wasn’t legal, but what did she care as long as it put a meal on the table?

  Scurrying out from the alley, she’d kept her head down, only glancing up that one time, seeing the soldier and his girl cross her path. The young woman had looked vaguely familiar, all the better to get out of there and home as quickly as possible.

  It wasn’t until she was placing her purchases into the green tin meat safe that it came to her. Phyllis Mason – as had been – not exactly a workmate, but they’d known each other by sight. Phyllis had left and got married, though rumour had it that her husband had been killed. Now here she was out with another man! Well, she didn’t let the grass grow under her feet, did she!

  A bit of a smell wafted out from the gap between the meat safe and its door before she slammed it shut. The meat wasn’t that fresh. Still, she thought, once cooked it would be fine. There was a war on. Eat it or starve.

  21

  The Three Ms

  October had been as glorious as September, but was replaced by the dark grey skies of November. Not a chink of sunshine split the heavy cloud and if it wasn’t foggy or frosty it was raining. To Bridget’s mind it seemed the dark days were only getting darker and her feeling of foreboding was difficult to shift.

  It was a Saturday afternoon, there was no Sam Proctor and Phyllis had Saturday off work. Luckily so did Maisie, who had moved in with Bridget occupying the boys’ old bedroom until such time as they came home from the countryside. As arranged, they met up for a spot of window shopping.

  Their footsteps took them the length of Castle Street and nearby Mary le Port Street, a narrow medieval thoroughfare where an overhead footbridge imitating an Italian design, connected one side of the street with the other. After they’d drooled a while over the things in shop windows that they couldn’t afford to buy on all of their wages combined – even if they had enough ration coupons – they headed for coffee at Carwardines.

  Each of them was dressed in their best in honour of meeting up and the pleasure of being at the heart of the city.

  Phyllis was back to her old self again, bright red lipstick and an application of face powder and eye make-up. The black snood she’d knitted at Hilda Harvey’s behest had been discarded on the banks of the Malago, hooking on a stone in the narrow waters of the brook.

  Despite the war, the shops were bustling, mainly with people who could afford to pay high prices without the need of handing over their precious ration books. The three musketeers were content to window shop, Bridget taking special notice of the cut of expensive clothes and the shape of hats.
She couldn’t afford them but she could memorise the details and pass them on to her mother, a dab hand with a pair of scissors and a needle and thread.

  After ordering coffee and teacakes, they leaned closer across the table, all speaking at once, keen to hear news and pass it on.

  Maisie and Bridget wanted to know how Phyllis was coping with her new life.

  Phyllis, her face blooming with health and happiness, heaved a happy sigh. ‘Now where do I start?’

  Maisie’s eyes bored into her, read all the signs and blurted, ‘Start with Sam. What’s ’e like?’

  Bridget gulped. If there was one thing you could count on, it was Maisie getting straight to the point.

  To her credit, Phyllis didn’t hold back. Her eyes sparkled and her complexion was more peaches and cream than the deathly pallor it had been.

  They sat back when the coffee and tea cakes arrived, the latter only lightly smeared with butter.

  ‘I like butter on my tea cakes,’ Maisie said to the waitress.

  ‘There’s a war on,’ sniffed the waitress and left them to it.

  Maisie pulled a disgruntled face. ‘If I hear that once more, I’ll strangle somebody. It’s bleedin’ obvious there’s a war on! I don’t need anyone to tell me that. It’s just their excuse for being mean with the butter.’ She lifted the teacake to her nose. ‘If it is butter! I bet it’s marge!’

  Phyllis flashed Bridget a long-suffering look, which, to her surprise, Bridget did not return. Something was going on here that she was not party to, but she so wanted to impart her own news before she exploded. ‘I’m in love,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m in love with Sam Proctor.’

  ‘That’s nice, Phyl. And ’ow does ’e feel about that?’ Maisie eyed her.

  Phyllis sighed like a girl in love for the very first time. ‘It’s early days, but…’ A faraway look came to her eyes. ‘I’ve never felt like this before. When we’re together, it feels as though we’ve known each other for ever.’

  It occurred to Bridget that her life was quite simple in comparison to that of Phyllis.

  ‘He looked a nice man when we first met him,’ Bridget said brightly. She recalled the amiable expression, the honesty in his eyes and the way he’d addressed his mother and Victoria the cat. She badly wanted to give her sound advice, as well as set out a few home truths, but thought this might be tactless.

  As it turned out, she needn’t have concerned herself. Maisie jumped in with both feet and asked the question Bridget had left unasked. ‘Does he know you’re married?’

  The smile vanished from Phyllis’s face and her cheeks burned pink. ‘No. I haven’t told him. Anyway, I don’t know for sure whether I’m still married or a widow. So I thought I’d say nothing, at least until I know for sure. But there is something else I want to tell you.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, her long hair in danger of dipping into her tea as she leaned closer across the tabletop. ‘Guess who I saw a few weeks ago?’

  ‘Surprise us,’ said Maisie before shoving the last of her teacake into her mouth. Her manner was nonchalant.

  ‘I saw your old man.’ She directed her statement at Maisie. ‘He was driving a van.’

  For a moment Maisie’s facial features froze. She took a deep breath. ‘What kind of van?’

  Phyllis shrugged. ‘Some kind of butchers’ van. No,’ she said, on reconsidering and remembering what Sam had said. ‘It was something to do with a slaughterhouse out at Ashton.’ Her frown deepened. Ashton was sandwiched between city and countryside, where there were more cows and sheep than people, yet she’d seen him in the heart of the city. The van was a long way from where it should be. Phyllis frowned. ‘I’ve seen ’im going into the rendering yard too, though driving a lorry not a van,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Maisie. ‘Don’t tell me he’s got a job?’ She’d never known Frank Miles to have a job. ‘That’ll be a turn-up for the books.’ She fell to silence and took a sip of lukewarm, weak tea, a worried look on her face. She felt Bridget’s eyes on her.

  ‘Sean and Michael’s bed is yours for as long as you want it.’

  ‘Until they come ’ome,’ ventured Maisie. ‘But I’m a bit scared about Eddie Bridgeman finding me. I ’ave to make plans.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Just a thought,’ said Phyllis, ‘but couldn’t you tell Eddie Bridgeman where your old man’s working? Then he could take it from there and wouldn’t be after you.’

  Maisie shook her head. ‘I don’t want to get tangled up with Eddie Bridgeman. Once he’s got his claws into you, he don’t let go. I’d only shop the old man if I’ve got to, unless the old sod’s done somethin’ really rotten.’

  Phyllis frowned. In her mind, she saw again that dark alley, Frank Miles and the writing on the side of the van. She pushed her cup and saucer to the middle of the table and looked at each of her friends. They had looked out for each other from the start and they still did – would forever, she hoped. ‘A lot of people came out of that alley where the van came out of. According to Sam, it’s a well-known haunt for people flogging stuff on the black market.’ Her eyes flashed at Maisie. ‘Meat being one of them.’

  For once Maisie said nothing, too busy thinking of what might happen if Eddie Bridgeman ever did catch up with her.

  ‘I saw somebody else too,’ Phyllis went on. ‘I saw Edith Jones. Is she still working in the stripping room?’

  ‘Yes, she is. That poor woman,’ said Bridget, shaking her head. ‘I don’t blame her buying on the black market, not with four hungry mouths to feed and no husband.’

  Although she was putting on a brave front, Bridget could tell by the dark lines beneath her eyes that Maisie was worried.

  Maisie puffed out her chest. ‘I plan to rent somewhere, but it means clopping around like a ruddy cart’orse until I do. I’ve got a copy of the classifieds from the Evenin’ World. One of them’s bound to suit. I’m gonna give it my all next Sunday.’

  Bridget arched her eyebrows. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘We’ll both come with you,’ said Phyllis with an air of finality.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Bridget, nodding enthusiastically.

  ‘Next Sunday,’ said Bridget, raising her empty cup.

  ‘Sunday here we come,’ added the other two.

  22

  The Three Ms

  Sunday came. Accompanied by her best mates, Maisie was off to find somewhere to live.

  The day was cold thanks to a sharp easterly wind broadcasting in no uncertain terms that winter was coming. Unusually for them, Maisie, Phyllis and Bridget, walked in silence, each contemplating their individual problems.

  There was little traffic on the roads and even fewer people out and about. Piles of fallen leaves rustled beneath their feet and all three were wearing winter coats that they’d had the good fortune to buy before the outbreak of war.

  During the week, there existed a sense of urgency in the city, crowds of people, men and women, some in uniform. In contrast, the weekend was sombre, the sky, the buildings and the river varying shades of grey.

  Maisie had circled a couple of rooms to let in the newspaper’s classifieds. None of them were close to the tobacco factory or at a rent Maisie could afford, except for one in a grimy five-storey house in Stokes Croft.

  Maisie peered above the knitted scarf entwined round her neck at the grim looking building. ‘Blimey. It’s worse than York Street.’

  ‘A lot worse,’ stated Phyllis. Although living in York Street was a bit of a comedown, she felt obliged to go on the defensive. Sam lived there, which somehow made it a lot better than it actually was.

  So,’ said Bridget, her hands thrust deep into her pockets. ‘Do we chance going inside?’

  ‘Might as well,’ grumbled Maisie.

  Phyllis merely grunted something about preferring to stay outside.

  Bridget grabbed her arm and tugged her inside. ‘We said we’re sticking together and we are.’

 
; The landlady’s eyes were buried in wrinkles. Her eyebrows were as bushy as old-fashioned sideburns and the chenille blouse that strained over her breasts was breaking at the seams.

  The outside of the house had been bad enough, but one look at the peeling plaster, the smell of damp, grime and cats’ pee confirmed the reliability of their first impression.

  The landlady kept six cats in her ground-floor flat and proudly stated that they were never allowed out but wandered the building from top to bottom.

  ‘They’d get runned over, dear,’ she’d said, wiping a trickle of brown snuff from her nostrils with a handkerchief the colour of mud. ‘Come on up and I’ll show you the room.’

  There was a stove and kitchen cupboard behind a faded curtain, a threadbare carpet on the floor, peeling wallpaper and a bed covered with a dirty eiderdown.

  Maisie considered what else might be in that bed, more so when she spotted a cockroach crawling up the wall.

  Before she’d even opened her mouth, the landlady held out her open palm. ‘Ten shillings a week.’

  It was cheap, but nothing could persuade Maisie to share her living quarters with bugs and cockroaches.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said, gagging against the rising bile as she headed for the fresh air, Bridget and Phyllis right behind her.

  ‘Better hurry up about it, dear. At that price, it won’t be around for long. There’s a lot of foreigners around and they ain’t as fussy as you!’

  The last comment was accompanied by a slamming of the door.

  ‘I can still smell that place,’ said Phyllis as they strode off towards St John’s Arch, an old city gate that straddled a narrow street. She wrinkled her nose. ‘What a pong.’

  Bridget shook her head disconsolately. ‘How could anybody live in a place like that?’

  Maisie suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Plenty of company though. Cockroaches and cats. What more could you want?’

  They were still laughing when Phyllis suggested they walk through St Nicholas Market.