Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls

by Lizzie Lane

  Each woman was given a card with a number on and told to wait until their number was called. Finally it was Phyllis’s turn.

  The bespectacled man sitting behind the desk who vaguely resembled Clement Attlee, the Labour Party Leader, asked for her name and address.

  ‘Mrs Phyllis Imogen Harvey. Number 10a, Stokes Croft.

  He wrote it all down, along with her age.

  Without moving his head, his eyes looked up from the form he was filling in. ‘So you’re a married woman. Husband in the forces already, is he?’

  She clenched her hands over her handbag. ‘He’s dead. I’m a widow, but do have a fiancée, though I’m not sure where he is. I wondered if it would be possible to be posted close to him – you know – seeing as we’re…’

  ‘Possible, but difficult.’ Expression stiffly unchanged, he scribbled something on the form before looking up again in the same distanced manner as before. Phyllis wondered if his neck ached being cricked into that position all day.

  ‘Do you have any particular skills that might be of use to the air force?’

  ‘I can type,’ she said and felt instantly proud of the fact. He suddenly looked more interested in her than he had been.

  ‘Do you have a qualification?’

  She shook her head, her raised spirits slightly dented.

  ‘I was taking a course, but the war came along so I didn’t get chance to gain my diploma. But my teacher said that I was very good at it and shouldn’t have any problems at all.’

  He nodded as though this was all quite understandable, the war getting in the way. It was the excuse for everything. ‘How fast can you type?’

  She thought quickly and embroidered the truth. ‘About seventy words a minute.’

  He grunted as though it was average, but Phyllis detected that he was somewhat impressed. His next comment confirmed it. ‘That’s very good, and I’m sure you’ll get even faster and more accurate. Practice makes perfect, and we need people who are familiar with a keyboard.’

  She beamed. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You’ll receive confirmation of your posting within the next three days.’

  ‘Have you any idea where I might have to go?’

  He became very still, his eyes narrowing slightly as he made up his mind whether to disclose any further information.

  ‘Don’t hold me to account, but with your skills I’m recommending you go to West Drayton.’

  Uncaring that he’d told her she would only be paid two thirds of the comparative rank wage, she sailed out of that office, her feet not seeming to touch the ground. She’d signed on. She’d joined the RAF! The women’s division of course. Nobody could stop her now.

  She wondered what she might find at West Drayton. Probably a lot of girls all training to be secretaries and clerks to the service’s high standards. Still, the qualifications she received would stand her in good stead after the war.

  She wanted to tell the whole world, but the world was a big place. There were two people above all others, though, that she was bursting to tell. With that in mind, she headed for the entrance to the tobacco factory in East Street. By the time she got there, it would be dark, but she had her torch and refused to allow the darkness to suppress her excitement.

  29

  The Three Ms

  Pools of light directed from a mass of handheld torches fell onto the pavements, followed by the footfall of the employees leaving the tobacco factory. Along with them came the sweet smell of tobacco but not a sliver of light.

  Phyllis chanced searching the sea of faces, resulting in a few harsh comments about the enemy being able to see it from miles up.

  There was nothing for it but to shout. ‘Is Bridget Milligan and Maisie Miles there?’

  ‘Phyllis?’

  Two figures, one smaller than the other, burst through the crowd.

  ‘Phyllis. What are you doing here?’

  ‘And where you bin?’ Maisie added.

  ‘Fancy a coffee? I’ll tell you then.’

  Over coffee at Cardwardines, the East Street branch, of course, seeing as Castle Street was no more, their eyes bright with excitement, Phyllis related all that had happened, including being evicted from York street and ending up in Stokes Croft.

  As she talked, Bridget took in her carefully applied make-up, the luscious red lips and tumbling auburn hair. A while back, she’d looked washed out. Meeting Sam had bucked her up and so had this new venture. However, she couldn’t help having reservations, though she masked these by looking interested and happy for her.

  ‘So where’s Sam stationed. Do you know yet?’

  The exuberance lessened a little. Phyllis fiddled nervously with her cup. ‘I haven’t heard yet, but I have written to him. Not that I’ll get sent overseas just yet. I have to do standard training first and I hear only officers are sent overseas. Still,’ she said suddenly, a new brightness in her eyes. ‘That should only be for about six weeks. After that, they’ll send me to wherever he is.’

  ‘Phyllis, I’m really thrilled for you. It all sounds very exciting,’ said Bridget and really meant it.

  Phyllis sighed happily. ‘I think I’ll enjoy it. So how about you two?’

  ‘I’m still taking up a bed,’ explained Maisie, ‘though it’s only temporary.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor old Aggie. I do worry about her. Not that she says much. Keeps it close to ’er chest that one. But she’s right to fear Eddie Bridgeman. Scares the life out of me,’ she said with a shiver.

  ‘Me too,’ said Phyllis recalling the time she was dragged into his car. ‘Is he still looking for Frank?’ Phyllis asked. Like Bridget, she knew that although Frank had brought her up – though dragged might be a more fitting word – he was not Maisie’s father.

  A bright smile perked Maisie’s lips and made her eyes shine. ‘We all know where Frank is.’

  She went on to explain about him being responsible for flogging rotten meat and killing people. Her look soured. ‘I think ’e should ’ave been ’ung. Poor old Edith…’

  Phyllis pulled a face. ‘I hope it’s decent food in the WAAF.’

  ‘An army marches on its stomach,’ declared Bridget. ‘Napoleon said that.’

  ‘Good. Hope the RAF and WAAF know that too. And no Hilda Harvey to worry about’

  For a moment there was laughter until Bridget turned thoughtful. ‘Just suppose that Robert is still alive, what then?’

  Phyllis looked vaguely startled, but recovered quickly. ‘I’d get a divorce,’ Phyllis snapped. This was not a question she wished to face because it made her feel guilty.

  Maisie frowned. ‘No letter from the War Office?’

  Phyllis shook her head. ‘Not to me, but maybe that old bat…’

  ‘You going round there to find out?’

  ‘Not bloody likely.’

  Fearing the situation might get out of hand, Bridget poured just enough oil on troubled water. ‘Let’s face it the world is turned upside down and a lot could change before this war is over.’

  ‘You sound like my mother,’ Phyllis said petulantly.

  All three of them lingered before leaving the warm atmosphere. Newspaper headlines from somebody close to the door screamed out at them.

  ‘FOOD CONVOY LOSSES.’

  Maisie grimaced and grumbled as she turned on her torch, Phyllis holding back the blackout curtain so they could slide more easily behind it and get out..

  ‘The way things are going we could all starve to death,’ mumbled Maisie once they’d arrived at the bus stop where Phyllis intended getting a bus to Stokes Croft.

  They didn’t wait too long. The dark shape of the bus lumbered towards them, barely distinguishable from the buildings round it.

  ‘I’ll let you know the minute I’m off,’ cried Phyllis.

  Her lithe figure was swallowed by the blackout.

  Bridget and Maisie walked home in shared silence.

  Maisie was thinking of moving on, after all living with the Milligans had
only ever been meant to be a short-term solution.

  For her part, Bridget was concerned about Phyllis. The Phyllis she’d known and loved had bounced back from her disastrous marriage, yet she felt troubled. One husband, one lover, a few casual dates and now Sam; somehow she didn’t think it would stop there. Phyllis needed romance in her life. She was of an affectionate disposition and her heart most definitely ruled her head. The trouble was, such a combination could easily lead her into hot water.

  30

  Bridget

  Bridget’s parents were over the moon when the Cottrells wrote to say they were willing to put them up over Christmas. On this occasion, there were a number of parents travelling down to call on many other billets in the area. With this in mind, a coach would be awaiting them at the station local to South Molton. Maisie had arranged to stay with her grandmother over Christmas, though Bridget’s father had generously offered to see if he could wangle it for her to go with them.

  Maisie had declined quickly, a slightly furtive look in her eyes. ‘I need some time with me gran. I need to ’ave a good ’eart-to-’eart with ’er.’

  Busily folding and packing, Mary Milligan chattered and laughed at the prospect of spending Christmas with her children. ‘Do you think Sean will like this yellow pullover? I’m not sure about the colour, but, well, I did my best.’

  When Bridget didn’t reply, her mother noted her wan expression and the slowness of her packing.

  ‘You look as though you don’t want to go.’ She hugged the yellow pullover to her as she regarded her daughter’s face. ‘You do want to, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bridget, adopting as bright an expression as she could muster. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  It was a lie. She wasn’t looking forward to it. James would be there. His mother had said so.

  Over the last few months, she’d forced herself not to dwell on that one night in the hay. When she heard from him it was by way of one of the little cards members of the military were issued with therefore, unless they were written in very small letters, it was difficult to say very much. At least she heard from him, unlike Lyndon marooned on the other side of the Atlantic. At this moment in time her love life seemed extremely hopeless.

  Sometimes when she lay in bed at night she got the two of them confused. They looked alike. In her mind she was finding it difficult to divide one from the other.

  When she thought about that roll in the hay it was Lyndon she thought of, him who aroused her desire and not James.

  Going back down to Devon was going to be embarrassing, though she could hardly tell her mother that. As far as her parents were concerned, this Christmas would be as no other.

  At first she’d thought her mother had left the room, but Bridget became aware that she was still there, a deep frown furrowing her brow and something else in her eyes. She actually looked guilty.

  Bridget stopped rolling up a pair of stockings and looked at her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Her mother looked as though she was making a painful decision. Finally she sighed. ‘I might as well give it you. It might cheer you up.’ Her mother blushed a bit deeper and the look of embarrassment was superseded by guilt. ‘The fact is… well… your American did write, but as you were no longer leaping out of the front door at the postman, I thought you’d got over him. I thought it for the best…’

  Her mother’s hand tightened on the socks she was now rolling into a ball.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Bridget whispered, a small frown denting her brow.

  Her mother left the room, went downstairs, then came back holding a letter.

  ‘This came for you this morning. You haven’t been checking the post of late, so I didn’t think you were interested in what he had to say – that American boy. I wasn’t going to bother you with it.’

  Bridget stared speechlessly and her hand shook as she took it.

  ‘Sorry, me darling, but I thought it for the best. He unsettled you, he did, so when you said that his parents were out for him marrying one of his own class… well… there seemed no point in him upsetting you any longer.’

  ‘And now?’ said Bridget, her face flushed with anger.

  Her mother took a deep breath. ‘It suddenly occurred to me that I was being unfair. ’Tis you must make your own decisions. Sorry, love. My fault.’

  Her fingers as numb with shock as the rest of her, Bridget tore open the envelope.

  My dear Bridget,

  I’ve had no reply from you to my previous letters, including the one telling you that I’d avoided my parents’ attempts to get me married off! I escaped! None of my letters have been returned, so I am presuming – and hoping – that you are fit and well.

  I can only imagine how difficult things are; we’re hearing a lot about food shortages thanks to Ed Morrow and his broadcasts from London, along with details of enemy air raids.

  I fondly remember that day when you took me to see the historical sites of Bristol. It was all quite an eye-opener – as are you of course.

  I feel it in my bones that I will return there at some time in the future and perhaps we might even meet up again. However, I quite understand that you may by now be favoured by another admirer – which is not surprising at all. Your sparkling charm will stay with me until I’m in my rocking chair.

  Please respond if only to confirm that you are safe and well, after that, if you no longer wish to hear from me then so be it.

  Fond memories and best wishes,

  Lyndon.

  ‘How many letters,’ she asked her mother, her words trembling on her tongue. ‘He said ‘them’. More than one?’

  Her mother swallowed. ‘I threw them on the fire.’

  Bridget was still feeling numb when she boarded the train with her parents. Her mother looked sheepish, and her father confused, which meant except for the one letter that he had asked his wife to keep, he hadn’t known about the letters which came later and what his wife had done with them.

  Unlike their last trip down when it had only been them and they’d been picked up by car, on this occasion a whole load of parents was taking the opportunity to visit their offspring. As they took their seats on the coach, Bridget found that listening to the fussing and regional accents – mostly London – took her mind off what her mother had done. Bags and parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied with string were pushed onto overhead shelves or piled onto laps. Some voices were louder than others, bragging as to who had suffered the worst bombing, how far it got to their street, how much damage had been done to their house and of the thieves taking advantage of empty houses.

  ‘If I gets the buggers who pinched my aspidistra, I’d swing for ’im I would!’

  ‘Someone stole your aspidistra?’ remarked Bridget, unable to understand why anyone would wish to steal a plant.

  ‘It was in a mother-of-pearl pot,’ declared the same woman. ‘Me mother gave it me.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Bridget sympathetically. ‘A family heirloom, was it?’

  ‘Yeah. Me gran got it from a ’ouse she used to work in. The lady of the ’ouse owed ’er wages. Wouldn’t pay ’er. Said she was lying when she said the woman’s ’usband had been too free with ’is ’ands.’

  There was laughter as well as congratulations that her grandmother had got something out of an unpleasant situation. Some level of jollity persisted for most of the journey, quietening as one lot of parents got off the coach to join the families their kids were billeted with.

  Bridget knew for a fact that not all the houses who’d taken in evacuees were as big as Winter’s Leap, so goodness knows how they would fit them all in.

  One set of parents after another were dropped off until only Bridget and her parents remained, the farm being that much further out from the town.

  Day had long gone by the time the tall chimneys of the old manor house came into sight, stark and solid against a blanket of blackness.

  Bridget’s mother almost sprang down the
step of the coach, impatient to see her children and breaking into a quick run towards the house.

  ‘Where are they? Where are they?’

  The strong odour of mud and manure reminded everyone that although this was a manor house, it was also a working farm.

  With a care for the blackout, it wasn’t that easy to see the door, just a sliver of light for a split second until the figure of Mrs Cottrell blanked it out and her voice rang across the yard.

  ‘You must be dog-tired, me dears. Now come on in. James is here too but gone out to ’elp a neighbour with a difficult calving,’ she said as she pressed back against the wall to let Bridget in. ‘He’ll be like a dog with two tails when he sees you, me dear. Everyone’s in the best room, including Ruby and Katy. The vicar brought them out earlier. It’s more convenient if they stay overnight.’

  The warmth inside took the chill from their bones. Logs that were only a little less in size than tree trunks crackled and glowed in a huge inglenook fireplace. The eldest three children were red-faced, toasting forks held at arms’ length. A large china butter dish was placed out of danger of melting behind the youngest girls.

  There were shouts of joy and a scrambling to welcome their much-loved parents, toast retrieved so it wouldn’t get burnt. For a moment their supper was forgotten until Sean offered his father the first slice.

  Mrs Cottrell laughed. ‘Good job I baked two more loaves today and churned extra butter.’

  One of the things that impressed everyone from the city was the proliferation of food available in the country. Chickens scratched all day in the yard, pigs rooted in the ancient orchard where gnarled apple trees presided above the last of the fallen fruits of autumn. There were plenty of eggs, cheese, butter and meat. Even bread, despite the Ministry of Food taking the lion’s share of cereal, was eaten warm from the oven.

  Bridget’s parents were more than satisfied that their children were being well looked after.