Dark Days for the Tobacco Girls
Page 28
For one dreadful moment, she thought he was going to kill her. There was such hatred in his eyes. There had been other times when she’d seen that look, when his hand had cuffed her head and sent her sprawling. This time was worse.
The clanking of beer bottles heralded the arrival of her mother. Her father threw her aside and she rubbed at the soreness of her neck, still gasping for breath.
Her mother, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, struggled in with a large leather bag.
Frank Miles turned his bad temper on her. ‘You bin some time. Should ’ave bin back long before now.’
As usual, her mother pretended nothing was wrong, lifting the bag onto the table as though it was the most important task in the world. In a way, it was. Frank liked his beer and Gwen Miles always did her best to keep on the right side of him. To do otherwise and she’d be the one getting a beating.
‘The off-licence was busy. I ’ad to wait and then everybody was looking up at that plane. Did you see it? A Bristol Beaufighter, that’s what they said it was called. There’s loads of them being made out at Filton in case there’s a war, but the one that flew today is the first one. Everyone was dead excited that it was being built ’ere and that there might be a war…’
Frank Miles raised a threatening fist. ‘Well, I ain’t! You goes on an errand and gets back ’ere. You don’t spend yer time gawping up at the bloody sky!’
Gwen Miles flinched and barely glanced in Maisie’s direction because she dared not. The bloke she wished she never married had a short temper and liked lashing out. Any sign of sympathy for her daughter would result in her receiving a black eye, a broken finger.
‘This stupid cow,’ he said, pointing a yellow stained finger at Maisie, ‘put ’erself down for a job as a bleedin’ kitchen maid at some fancy country ’ouse.’
Her mother blinked, looked at Maisie, then back again at her husband, afraid to say the wrong thing.
‘What sort of ’ouse was it then?’ she tried.
‘That’s not the point!’ he shouted straight into her face. ‘She ain’t leavin’ ’ere. She’s lived under my roof all ’er life and I wants paying back.’
Her mother winced and her face visibly paled. She’d always been paler than Maisie, but of late there was a greyish tinge. The only brighter spots of colour were when she was sporting the blue and yellow of a black eye.
‘So what you got in mind?’ she asked, her eyes avoiding those of her daughter, her hands trembling with nerves.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind,’ he said, purposely standing between Maisie and the door. ‘Tomorrow you take your daughter along to the Labour Exchange and get her taken on at Wills’s.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she said, frowning as she took off her headscarf. ‘I don’t know that they’re taking anyone on.’
She seemed suddenly diminished in size when Frank Miles pressed his face close to hers.
‘Of course they’re takin’ on, you stupid cow. Wills’s are always taking on. Now you take ’er down there tomorrow.
Her chest heaving with anger and disappointment, Maisie took advantage of the situation and dashed for the door.
Her father’s angry voice shouted after her. ‘Oi! I ain’t finished with you.’
But Maisie didn’t stop. She headed for the railway bridge in Midland Road, staring down onto the railway lines as she wondered at the hopelessness of her life. The lure of working in the country far away from here had buoyed up her spirits during the weeks before she’d left school.
‘It’s just a matter of time before you get a reply,’ her teacher had said. ‘You’re intelligent and always do your best and with my help I’m sure you’ll get the job.’
Her teacher had been right on one count but had presumed her parents would be pleased. The trouble was Miss Smith was a gentle soul and had no real idea of what they were like, how mean and cruel her father was and how downtrodden her mother.
A pair of arms joined hers in leaning on the bridge parapet. An elbow nudged her arm. ‘Ain’t gonna throw yerself over, are you?’
‘Nobody would care if I did.’
‘You’re my favourite little sister. I’d be gutted.’
‘I’m yer only sister,’ she responded.
Alf laughed. ‘That’s true.’
He was her older brother. He had a wicked grin, a handsome face and his looks were totally the opposite to her own. Whereas she was short with a mass of curly black hair and brown eyes, he was tall with blue eyes and corn-coloured hair. His fingers were long, his nails clean and neatly trimmed. His only flaw was that he followed where his father led, both made a living by stealing, either from commercial premises or from the posh houses in Clifton on the north side of the river overlooking the Avon Gorge. The river ran far below those houses, spanned from one side to the other by the Clifton Suspension Bridge, a wonder of Victorian engineering built by the great engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The big difference between father and son was that Alf had never been violent towards either her or her mother. He could be tough, but not with his own family.
Maisie turned and looked at her brother’s handsome profile, saw his well-combed hair, his tailored double-breasted suit. Her nose twitched at the heady scent of cologne.
‘Where you bin then?’ she asked.
Her brother flicked the stub of a cigarette down onto the railway line. ‘With friends.’
‘Lucky you. Wish I ’ad some friends,’ she said glumly.
The truth was that she did have friends, though only at school. They’d kept their distance from her and her family. The Miles family had a reputation and she’d heard rumours of her father’s wandering hands.
Alf offered her a cigarette. ‘It’ll calm you down and you can tell me all about it.’
‘If I smoke, I’ll end up smelling like our dad. He stinks. I hate ’im.’
‘Ah!’ Alf exclaimed. ‘So that’s why yer out ’ere. The old bugger’s ’ad a go at you. Come on. Tell me all about it.’
Alf was the only bright spark in her life. Maisie’s narrow shoulders, stiff with tension up until his arrival, began to relax as she told him why she was out here feeling her life was at an end before it had even started.
‘I want to get away from yer, Alf, but that old bugger won’t let me.’
Her brother listened patiently and with kindness in his eyes. His little sister was the only female he truly loved. He could remember her as a baby lying in a cot covered by a thin blanket and sucking on an old Camp coffee bottle filled with milk. The funny thing was although he was old enough to do so, he couldn’t recall his mother being pregnant – in fact, he couldn’t recall those months before her birth at all.
He remained silent for a while once she’d finished what she was saying, then, as though he’d come to a conclusion, he took out a packet of Passing Cloud – one of the best W. D. & H. O. Wills produced and made only from the finest Virginia tobacco. Alf took great pride in smoking something made from tobacco produced in the United States of America. It had come all the way across the Atlantic to Avonmouth, Bristol’s larger port that sprawled at the mouth of the river. Ships still did make their way beneath the Clifton Suspension Bridge and up the river, but those who discharged their cargoes at Avonmouth were too large to navigate its treacherous bends and glutinous mudbanks.
Alf liked hearing sailors’ tales of where those ships had been – places he’d never heard of that fired his imagination.
‘It ain’t the end of the world,’ Alf finally said. ‘You’ll be well paid and you’ll make good friends at Wills’s.’ He lowered his head so that his blue eyes were looking directly into her brown ones. ‘I’m tellin’ you the truth, ar Maisie. You’ve only just left school, but believe me, you’ll find yer feet and make the most of things. You’ll make good mates too. I guarantee it. Give it a bit of time and if a war starts there might not be any factory. They reckon they’ll be more bombs than the last war. Might see the end of this place too.’
He jerked his chin into the night.
As though in response, the lonely screech of a train whistle split the night. The lights were on in the marshalling yards, black shapes moving around in clouds of steam even at this time of night.
Like hell, she thought, and wondered if something much better might replace it.
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About the Author
Lizzie Lane is the author of over 50 books, a number of which have been bestsellers. She was born and bred in Bristol where many of her family worked in the cigarette and cigar factories. This has inspired her new saga series for Boldwood The Tobacco Girls.
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About Boldwood Books
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First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
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Copyright © Lizzie Lane, 2021
Cover Design by The Brewster Project
Cover Photography: Colin Thomas
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The moral right of Lizzie Lane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-80048-499-3
Large Print ISBN 978-1-80048-500-6
Hardback ISBN 978-1-80162-967-6
Ebook ISBN 978-1-80048-498-6
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