‘How far is it?’
‘ ’Aven’t a clue; I’ll tell yer when we get t’top.’
‘An’ wot will we do when we get there?’
‘ ’Ave a slice o’ parkin an’a glass o’ beer.’
‘Give over!’
‘I’m not pullin’ tha leg; th’s a cakes an’ale cabin at t’top.’
‘Reet. Yer on, John Tommy.’
St John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, London
For Mary Broxup and Cath Kenny, the last thirty-six hours have been a bewildering whirlwind of new experiences. They felt like excited children on the train down to London from Burnley. They had only ever been in third class before, and then only twice, to Blackpool. Now they are enjoying the comfort of a second-class carriage, paid for by Henry Hyndman, on the very grand London and North-west Railway, seeing places, people and scenes unlike any they have witnessed before.
At Rugby Station, one of the nation’s most important railway hubs, they spotted a lady in the most sumptuous fur coat and pearl necklace they had ever set eyes on. She carried a tiny dog, the like of which they had never seen before, and was followed by a younger woman in a neat, navy-blue, two-piece suit, who was organizing two porters pulling a trolley piled with a heap of leather luggage taller than they were. The group disappeared into the first-class carriage amidst a flurry of feverish activity as the station manager appeared, complete with top hat resting on his ears and two assistants trailing obsequiously in his wake, to ensure that ‘Madam’ got away safely.
At Watford, the platforms were full of hundreds of dark-skinned foreign troops. With the notable exceptions of a handful of Asian faces working as cleaners in the mills and a Black American harmony group that was performing in the music hall, the only dark-skinned people they had seen in large numbers were colliers on their way home from the pit, covered in coal dust and grime. But these men were immaculately turned out, their uniforms brushed and pressed, their boots gleaming. Many of them had elaborately waxed full beards and wore khaki-coloured turbans instead of army service caps. Others were smaller, more olive-skinned men who wore slouch hats with the brim turned over on one side.
The guard on Mary and Cath’s train, a former regular soldier in the Indian Army, told them that the men were Sikhs, Gurkhas, Jats and Bhopalis shipped in from India; all were destined for the Front.
When Cath, in her usual provocative way, asked the guard why men under British rule would fight for their colonial masters, he smiled and told them that they would do so without hesitation and at least as well as their British counterparts, in many cases better.
On the approach to London the two just sat and stared out of the window in wonder. They had always thought Burnley was shrouded in smoke, from the spewing chimneys of its countless mills, but London also appeared to be clouded, in a fug from endless rows of houses, each of which belched its own thick column of smoke. As they drew closer to the centre of the city, the houses grew bigger and had multiple chimney stacks and pots. Occasionally, through gaps in the rows of houses, they could glimpse some of London’s elegant streets and squares. There they saw a plethora of two-wheeled hansom cabs, four-wheeled ‘growlers’ and the increasingly popular ‘motor taxis’. Unlike the working men of the North, London’s ‘gents’ were wearing bowlers and top hats, and its well-to-do women, instead of dowdy Lancashire shawls, sported elegant, wide-brimmed hats with feathers, bows and flowers.
Henry Hyndman met them at Euston and took them to his rooms on Baker Street for tea. There they met half a dozen more working-class northern women whom Henry had invited to London to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment. After tea, sandwiches and cakes, he told them that accommodation had been arranged at the YWCA off the Edgware Road and that he would introduce them to the senior women of the VAD at the St John Ambulance headquarters in Clerkenwell at ten o’clock the following morning.
Henry then made straight for Mary and Cath and invited them both to supper at the Beehive, a nearby restaurant on Crawford Street. There, after the renowned British socialist plied them and himself with large quantities of food and drink, Mary’s prediction about Henry’s amorous intentions came to pass. Cath nearly choked on her drink, but manages to put a broad smile on her face when she responds.
‘Henry, tha’s a saucy bugger, that’s fer sure. Do tha ollus proposition young women tha meets?’
‘Not at all, only particularly attractive ones like you two.’
Mary giggles at the absurdity of the proposition.
‘And is it ollus two at a time?’
‘No, of course not; it’s quite rare to meet two such beauties at the same time.’
Cath gets up to leave. ‘Listen, Henry, if tha’s got us down ’ere for a quick one o’er brush in exchange for an introduction to t’VAD, then we’re on t’next train ’ome!’
‘My dear Cath. What do you take me for? I’ve asked; you’ve said no; let that be the end of the matter. I make no apologies for the proposition: you brought that upon yourself by being so gorgeous. It’s got nothing to do with the VAD. I want you involved because you and Mary are the sort of intelligent young girls who can change the lot of working women all over the country.’
Cath sits back down. She is puzzled, so is Mary. ‘Dost mean that if we don’t g’ t’bed wi thi, tha’ll still give us t’introduction t’VAD and pay us a wage in France?’
‘Of course. The two things are quite separate. I’m not a cad, just a man sorely tempted by beauty and the thrill of pursuing it. I trained as a mathematician at Cambridge; I’m good with numbers. The odds on both of you saying yes were perhaps a thousand to one; on one of you saying yes, much less, perhaps as low as a hundred to one. I thought it worth a flutter. But God forbid at the cost of your respect.’
‘You know wot, Henry, tha’s a dirty sod, but tha’s got a nice way o’ goin’ abaht it.’
Cath brings the conversation to a close. ‘Alreet, Henry; nowt more said abaht it. Now get us another drink in. Mary will ’ave a Mackeson an’ a ruby port and, for once, after all your shenanigans, I’m breakin’ t’pledge. I’ll ’ave a brandy.’
‘My pleasure. I would recommend a large fine champagne cognac.’
‘No, a brandy, Henry.’
‘Cath, cognac is the finest of brandies – in fact, the only one worthy of the name.’
‘Oh, well, a large one o’ them’ll do nicely.’
After the drinks are brought over Henry proposes a toast.
‘To the VAD and their work in France, to the future of British working women and to you two, my Burnley beauties. And not forgetting, of course, Mick, Tommy, Vinny, Twaites and John-Tommy.’
An hour later, after several more drinks, Mary and Cath walk arm in arm to their YWCA digs. Cath, who has only drunk alcohol a couple of times in her life, needs help to walk in a straight line.
‘Dost think Henry gets many yeses.’
Mary laughs. ‘Mebbe when he were younger; expect he were ’ansome then.’
‘S’pose some girls tek to ’im cos he’s a clever bugger, an’ an important man.’
‘Aye, but not fer me.’
Mary changes the subject. ‘Is tha moithered abaht tomorra?’
‘Aye.’
‘So am I.’
When Mary and Cath arrive at St John’s Gate, the HQ of St John Ambulance, Henry is there to meet them, as are the other northern aspirants. Henry is, as usual, full of enthusiasm and optimism and does not look in the slightest sheepish about the events of the previous evening. He reminds the women that St John Ambulance and the Red Cross have agreed to unite in their war effort and that both have taken the VAD under their wing to help it with its work.
‘So, ladies, this morning, you will meet Katherine Furse, the head of the VAD. She is a passionate and very capable woman. As early as August last year, she went to the battlefields with a small group of women to help in any way they could. The BEF hierarchy didn’t like it, but she won them over with her forbearance, despite the hardships. So, she’s worthy
of respect. But don’t be intimidated: she’s a woman, a mother, a widow – she’s no different from all of you.’
‘Except she’s rich!’
Cath, who has a sore head from her indulgences of the night before, cannot resist shouting out her prickly comment. Henry just smiles.
‘That’s true, Cath, but she’s not that rich. Money doesn’t buy courage, determination and generosity, and she has all of those as well.’
Cath is reluctant to accept Henry’s point and shrugs her shoulders.
‘You’ll also meet Katharine Stewart-Murray, a VAD board member. She is a very accomplished pianist, highly intelligent and has a title through her marriage to the heir to the Duke of Atholl. She is already a marchioness …’
‘Wot’s one o’ them, Henry?’
Cath’s apprehension about the impending meeting is exhibiting itself in aggression. Again, Henry is undaunted. ‘Her husband is the Marquis of Tullibardine, the second title of the dukedom.’
‘Dost mean he’s got more ’n one title; that’s bloody greedy if tha asks me!’
‘Oh, he’ll have more than that when he’s a duke. He’ll probably have half a dozen.’
Mary, emboldened by Cath, adds a brief but pithy comment: ‘Bugger me!’
The other women are incredulous, partly at hearing of the Stewart-Murrays’ many titles but mainly because of Cath and Mary’s outspoken comments. Henry tries to calm the Burnley women. ‘I don’t really know the marchioness, but I hope she doesn’t have you standing on ceremony. If she does, the correct address is “Lady Katharine”.’
Again, Cath cannot resist the temptation. ‘I’m callin’ ’er Katharine, whether she likes it or not!’
Henry smiles to himself; her comments reminding him why he so admires the feisty Lancastrian.
‘As you please, Cath. Now, you’ll all go in as individuals, or in small groups if you’ve come with friends. Finally, remember this: these are not job interviews. You are volunteers. The British Socialist Party will pay your way, so all they’re interested in is your commitment to the cause of the war.’
Henry goes to the office door, opens it slightly and beckons to Cath and Mary. ‘Cath, Mary, you’re first. Good luck.’
The two Burnley lasses are suddenly on their own. Self-conscious in their Sunday-best ruffled white blouses and long, pleated skirts, thinking it the correct pose, they stand to attention like soldiers. Sitting behind the long mahogany table in front of them are two formidable women, pillars of Edwardian society. Neither smiles nor makes more than a token glance upwards. There are two chairs in front of them, and Katherine Furse nods at the two women to take a seat. There are several moments of silence as the two VAD senior officers scrutinize the paperwork in front of them. Cath and Mary look at one another, wondering whether they should speak first. Cath is just about to do so when Furse looks up.
‘So, Kenny and Broxup, you are weavers from Burnley, Lancashire?’
Cath answers confidently, trying to soften her East Lancs dialect and strong accent. ‘Yes, Katherine; I’m Cath and this ’ere is Mary. We’re pleased to be ’ere.’ She then looks at Kitty Stewart-Murray. ‘You must be t’other Katharine; I’m a Catherine too, but call me Cath. Pleased to meet you.’
Mary then speaks out. ‘I’m pleased to meet you as well.’
Furse and Kitty look at one another and raise their eyebrows. Neither Cath nor Mary can decide whether it is a look of surprise, horror or admiration. Kitty Stewart-Murray asks the next question.
‘Cath, why do you want to join the VAD?’
‘Oh, that’s easy. Our Mick – me ’usband – he were a collier; he’s gone off tunnelling under t’German lines at t’Front. So I want to do my bit.’
‘He must be a brave man.’
‘Not sure abaht that; he’s as daft as a yard brush ’alf o’ t’time.’
To the mild bewilderment and significant amusement of Furse and Kitty, both Lancastrians are slipping back into Lanky.
‘And you, Mary?’
‘Our Tommy’s in camp in Caernarvon; 11th Battalion, East Lancs. He volunteered fo’ Kitchener’s Army last year. So, ratha than sit at ’ome on me arse doin’ nowt, I want to ’elp t’lads at t’Front.’
‘Another brave man.’
‘He’s an ’ard man in a fist feight, or when tha’s some cloggin’ goin on. Don’t know abaht feightin’ t’Germans wi’ guns an’ bayonets. He might run a mile!’
‘Sorry, Mary, what’s cloggin’?’
‘It’s when t’lads feight wi’ hobnail clogs on; thi kick one another to buggery.’
‘Really! Can he not find his recreation in other ways, like sport?’
‘Oh, he plays football and cricket and a bit o’ knur and spell.’
‘Knur and spell?’
‘Aye, thi laik at it on t’moors fer brass. Thi’av to ’it a little ball a long way wi’ a bendy mallet; futhest wins all t’brass – money.’
‘How interesting. Slightly more wholesome than brutal street-fighting.’
Cath is beginning to tire of the inquisition. ‘Aye, but not as brutal as shootin’ ’elpless bee-asts wi’ a shotgun.’
Kitty bristles at Cath’s unnecessarily prickly aside. ‘You are a woman of strong opinions, Cath – perhaps too vociferous at times?’
Cath realizes that her comment was uncalled for. ‘Sorry, Katharine, th’s no need fer me to be rude.’
‘Forgotten, Cath. I like to speak my mind as well. You said you didn’t want to be at home, as you put it, on your arse doing nothing. What about your weaving jobs?’
Mary decides to intervene. ‘We got sack from t’mill. Thi said we were troublemakers, which were reet; we are.’
‘I see. Will you be troublemakers in the VAD?’
‘Don’t reckon so. We’re being paid properly and, as long as we’re treated reet, fair and equal like all other women, we’ll be as good as gold.’
Cath adds her comment. ‘It’s t’lads feightin’ t’Germans that’s more important than us. Like Henry Hyndman sez, we can deal wi’ t’other issues when war’s over. Fer now, sendin’ Germans packin’ is all that matters.’
Kitty looks at Furse. They both nod to one another. Furse smiles at Cath and Mary.
‘You two are the kind of young women we are looking for. We know you’re not women of means, but Mr Hyndman has taken care of that. By the way, as a matter of interest, are you both socialists and supporters of the suffragettes?’
Cath answers quickly. ‘Yes, and republicans.’
Furse swallows hard. ‘I thought so, but we’re a Catholic cause and welcome all shades of opinion – although you two seem to have the full set of radical views.’
The grin breaks first across Cath’s face, but the other three soon follow as Furse’s sardonic remark sinks in.
‘So what can you do for us?’
Mary is strident in response. ‘Wi can both drive, turn our ’ands t’most things; but better ’n that, we don’t mind ’ow ’ard it is. We’ve lived wi’ nowt – no coal fer t’fire, no brass fer candles, nowt t’eat ’cept tatty soup. No matter ’ow tough it is fer t’lads at t’Front, wi can fettle it.’
‘Fettle?’
‘Cope wi’ it.’
‘Very good. Do your driving skills include driving large trucks?’
‘Them’s all wi can drive.’
‘Good, we’ll have you in France by the weekend – probably in St Omer, near the headquarters of the British Expeditionary Force. There’s a good deal to be done there. We have several routes to the Front in the south with vehicles going back and forth all the time.’
Cath and Mary are overjoyed and hug one another before shaking hands with their VAD superiors. Cath is bold enough to kiss both women on the cheek, who, although they try hard to hide it, are taken aback by her audacity.
‘Thank you, ladies. We won’t let you down.’
After Mary and Cath leave, Kitty Stewart-Murray and Katherine Furse reflect on the encounter. Kitty is thoughtful. ‘We
ll, quite a pair; insolent in an endearing sort of way.’
‘Aren’t they? You were right – socialists, suffragettes – but the world is changing, and there’s no doubt they are formidable women. I think we’re right to take them, especially as Hyndman is funding them. What Kenny said at the end was ominous. The end of the war will be an interesting time for all of us. But I’m not sure I’m going to be kissing my servants!’
‘That I would like to see, Kitty. But I agree: they’ll do well for us. There is no doubt they’re cunningly intelligent and will mature with time. More importantly, as they said, they’ll handle the horrors at the Front better than most. After all, this is a “people’s war” and they are certainly people! But am I ready for this new world Kenny and Broxup tell us is nigh? No – and I’m sure they’ll not be on my dinner-party list this year.’
‘Nor mine. But they’re both pretty girls; I rather think they would raise the blood pressure of the men at my table!’
‘Frightening, Kitty. Clever, pretty and angry; an awesome mix.’
Cath and Mary hold their own inquest as they stroll from Clerkenwell through Holborn on their way to the Edgware Road YWCA. Mary grabs Cath’s arm and locks it into her own.
‘So, our Cath, wot dost think?’
‘Not a bad couple o’ lasses fer toffs. Ave not met any before; funny that they’re like anybody else.’
‘Fer a moment I thought you we’re gonna rise t’Marchioness’ bait, or whatever she’s called.’
‘She did moither me a bit, but it were a fair feight.’
‘Aye, it were. So, we’ll be in France soon. Wot a t’do.’
‘I know. I were full o’ blather in there, but, t’tell t’truth, I’m reet windy abaht it.’
‘So am I.’
Mary smiles, thinking of last night at the Beehive. ‘So, Henry finally showed ’is ’and last night, Cath.’
‘Wot yer mean is he tried to show us ’is little knob. At least he were honest abaht it.’
‘Aye, s’pose he’s not a bad lad.’
‘No, he’s alreet, just a lad, like all on ’em. None of ’em can keep their little willies in their trousers.’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 16
