‘She seemed very kind,’ she insisted. ‘She’s called Mrs Goldsmith and she’s a nurse. She promised to give me an old highchair for Anne when she needs it, so don’t go disrespecting her. Remember it’s us who have to fit in here. Not everyone is happy to have evacuees moving in. And she lives on her own so she’s not used to having people around.’
The girls were a little surprised to hear their mother, always fiercely protective of her daughters, sticking up for someone she hardly knew. But because of this they took her caution to heart.
Overhearing the conversation, Pierce thought how lonely life must be not to have a loving family around you. After Annie and his daughters were evacuated he had enjoyed one or two peaceful moments when he knew he could just relax at home and not be bothered or answerable to anyone, but the novelty was fleeting and he’d frequently sought out his sisters for company that week.
That evening, he and Annie were in a melancholy mood as he packed his bag in the bedroom and prepared to leave his family once more to return to Bermondsey.
‘This just all seems so strange,’ said Annie.
‘Yes, and I can’t see things changing any time soon,’ he replied.
‘Will you be OK?’ Annie asked.
Pierce smiled. ‘I’m fine. It’s you and the girls I’m worried about.’
‘It’s a different life but I have to say, I do feel safer here,’ said Annie.
Pierce leant over to kiss her gently. Back downstairs, he hugged and kissed his family in an echo of the scene a week earlier on the doorstep of 103 Abbey Street.
‘I’ll be back down next Friday, now that I’ve found you.’ He smiled. ‘Be good for Mummy, everyone,’ he added, glancing quickly at Kath. With a final kiss for Annie he departed, waved off by his family at the garden gate. And, once more, he felt a lump in his throat.
Annie’s advice to her daughters about trying to fit in with the locals was put to the test a couple of days later when Kath decided to fight fire with fire. She was walking along Battle Road with Pat on their way into town. As they passed the junction with North Street, a group of local girls started chanting a song that dated back to before the Great War.
Ginger, you’re barmy,
You ought to join the army.
You’ll get knocked out by a bottle of stout,
Ginger, you’re barmy.
The two sisters felt very frightened and Pat snuggled up close behind Kath for protection. Although Kath wasn’t feeling very protective she made an instant decision to brazen it out, come what may.
‘Let’s run, Kath!’ urged Pat.
‘No,’ said Kath, with a steely look and clenched fists. ‘We’re not running from anyone. Mum has always told us to stick up for ourselves.’
One of the girls stepped into the middle of the pavement, blocking their path. In response, Kath rolled up her sleeves theatrically in an unmistakeable show of getting ready for a fight.
‘Here. Hold my hanky,’ she said to Pat – she didn’t have a coat, so this was the best she could do – and proceeded to pass her sister the scrunched-up kerchief that had been festering inside her sleeve. Pat took it like a boxing trainer being passed his fighter’s robe.
To Kath’s amazement, as she approached the lead girl, the girl turned and fled, closely followed by the others. Kath couldn’t quite believe it. Her heart was thumping with nerves but her chest was pumped up with pride. She had seen them off and she continued the walk into town with something of a swagger in her step, while Pat shot glances of pure admiration up at her heroic sister.
Over at the rec the Jarman sisters encountered further hostility, during their early days in Hailsham, from local girls who objected to them playing on the swings, roundabout and slide. One girl, who had obviously been listening to her parents, told Joan haughtily, ‘You shouldn’t be playing here. It’s for the people of Hailsham. We pay our rates and taxes.’ In contrast, most of the boys were more than happy to have a new girl around, although Joan was a little young to have figured out why.
The rec also became a regular haunt for Annie during the afternoons. She would push Anne there in her pram and sit with the other evacuee mums from London for a chat. Once a week a military band performed at the bandstand, playing popular tunes such as ‘Sussex By The Sea’, and they would always end with the national anthem. If the band expected the mothers to be patriotic and stand in traditional fashion at that point, then they were disappointed because as soon as the anthem began the women took it as a signal that the musical performance was over and it was time to go home. The conductor would triumphantly lead the band through an impressive crescendo to the final resounding chord and turn for applause with gusto, only to see that the audience had gone!
A local woman, a spinster who lived with her father, regularly took a walk through the rec and would stop to listen to the band. She would smile and say hello to the mothers, and to Annie in particular. After a while, the two women started engaging in lively conversation and the lady was very interested to hear about the Jarmans’ life in London and their experience as evacuees. A kindly if rather lonely soul, she arrived at the house on Battle Road one day with a pie that she had made for the family. Annie was touched by her act and called the girls into the kitchen to introduce them to Miss Hunt.
Miss Hunt was dressed in black, as usual, with striking steel-grey hair and a pale face, which made the girls imagine she was very old indeed, although she was probably little older than their mother.
‘Miss Hunt has very kindly cooked a pie for us, girls. Isn’t that lovely?’ said Annie.
The girls thanked Miss Hunt enthusiastically and she left with a smile on her face, seemingly pleased to be cooking for more than just herself and her father for a change. Now others would be able to appreciate her culinary skills. Unfortunately, although the family appreciated her kindness, the same could not be said when it came to the pie.
‘We can’t eat this, Mum,’ Joan said to Annie as she sliced into it. ‘The pastry hasn’t been made or cooked properly. It’s still very pale. And the meat doesn’t look right.’
Annie came over and agreed that it looked unappetizing and was probably inedible. After poking it for a bit and trying a morsel, she reluctantly – because she hated waste – threw it in the bin.
‘Can’t we give the pastry to the birds, Mum?’ Sheila asked.
Annie screwed up her face. ‘I wouldn’t want to poison them,’ she replied, making the girls giggle.
A couple of days later, as she was pushing Anne in her pram at the rec, Annie met Miss Hunt again.
‘How did you enjoy the pie?’ asked Miss Hunt.
‘Oh, lovely. Thank you so much,’ said Annie.
‘The girls ate it all up?’
‘There wasn’t a scrap to be seen,’ said Annie, with an element of truth.
Miss Hunt beamed. ‘I’ll make some cakes next time,’ she said.
Annie forced a little smile. ‘Please don’t put yourself to any trouble. You’ve been more than generous. You really shouldn’t.’
Miss Hunt held up a restraining hand. ‘I want to. It’s my pleasure.’
Sadly the pleasure was hers alone as her regular deliveries of cakes and pies to Battle Road were dumped in the bin unceremoniously as soon as she had left.
Mrs Hassen, from the WVS, was also a regular visitor to the house. Each week she arrived to ask if the family had all they needed. Annie, taking advantage of her kindness, managed to convince her that they had one less blanket than Mrs Hassen thought. This scam worked successfully on a couple of occasions before Annie decided not to press her luck any further. Now she would have two spare blankets to take home with her once war was over. But that would be some time in the future. For now Annie and her girls had to get used to life in Hailsham.
Evenings on the residential street were deathly quiet and pitch black, with only the occasional hoot of an owl or bark of a dog to break the silence. It was a far cry from the streets of Bermondsey, where the locals were out
and about until pub closing time.
Saturday nights in Dockhead were particularly raucous. At around ten o’clock, the girls would watch from their bedroom window to see the local characters returning from the pubs. Amongst them were close neighbours Mr Jeffries and Mr Beecham – best pals during the week, fighting foes once they got a few beers down them at the weekend. Luckily, they were always so drink-sodden they rarely managed to land a punch on each other, which the girls found endlessly hilarious. Then there was Mrs Pacey. Every Saturday, she would stagger up the street singing ‘On Moonlight Bay’. She would take three steps forward and two steps back, all the way home, invariably with a policeman walking behind her to see that she didn’t come to any harm.
Those antics seemed far away now, as Saturday nights in Battle Road were just as peaceful as any other night of the week. Sunday evenings saw all the girls quite subdued following the departure of their father as he made his way back to London, and they knew that the week ahead would seem like an eternity until he returned. Each night in bed, Sheila would hear her sisters gently snoring as she lay awake, picturing him arriving at the familiar house in Abbey Street, which she sorely missed. She wished, more than anything, that she’d been able to travel home with him, holding his hand.
CHAPTER 3
Fitting In
Annie with Anne, aged about eighteen months.
MARY TURNED FIFTEEN on 2 October 1939, and she and Annie decided it was time for her to look for a job. The extra income would be a welcome boost to the household and Mary, like her parents, had a strong work ethic, so was eager to start earning her own money once more.
Back in Bermondsey, Mary had left school at the age of fourteen to get a job. Annie had taught all of her daughters how to cook, sew and knit, and they also had homemaking lessons at school. Mary had been particularly good with a needle and thread, and enjoyed making clothes for herself and for her sisters, so dressmaking seemed a natural choice of career.
As Mary prepared to leave school, the head teacher had arranged for her and a few other girls to visit a labour exchange in Great Portland Street, in London’s West End, where Mary was told that Koupy Gowns was looking for a trainee machinist. Koupy, named after its American owner Charles Kuperstein, was an upmarket dress manufacturer situated in Poland Street, just off Oxford Street, the thriving hub of London’s shopping scene.
On the day of her interview, Mary had been excited but nervous, tripping over her words as she answered questions about her previous sewing experience. She was so sure her nerves had scuppered her chances that she couldn’t believe it when they offered her the job.
At Koupy, Mary had looked enviously at the beautiful dresses, which were sold in prestigious stores such as Harvey Nichols, and dreamt that one day she might get to wear one herself.
‘It’s really posh, Mum,’ she’d told Annie after her first day at work. ‘The dresses are beautiful. Made of such lovely material.’
Mary was taught how to use a sewing machine and follow patterns, and gradually got used to working with the luxurious silks, satins and crêpes, learning how to make neat, professional seams. She loved to handle the glamorous day dresses, with their puffed sleeves, calf-length flowing skirts and belted waists which were so fashionable amongst the wealthier women of London.
Her favourite moments, though, were when she was allowed to help dress the mannequins in the showroom. That was when she could daydream. As she handled each smooth silk gown and fastened it around the mannequin, Mary imagined that the slim, static figure was a glamorous film star and that she was her personal dresser.
Another of her tasks had been going out to buy Mr Kuperstein’s lunch every day. Although it was menial, she enjoyed this too because it provided a break and her boss would also give her a treat.
‘Buy yourself an ice-cream with the change,’ he’d said to her on her first day. From then on she would regularly give herself treats of either ice-cream, cake or sweets while out on the lunchtime errand.
Mary had liked Mr Kuperstein who, in turn, found her youth and cockney accent charming, and would make a fuss of her whenever he saw her. ‘How are you today, Mary?’ he would ask. ‘Enjoying it here? You know, back in the States you would still be at school. They start them so young here.’
Mary had been very happy to be at work, though. She’d learnt all she needed to know to make a good fist of life. She was paid 12 shillings per week and gave it all to her mother as soon as she got home every Friday. Annie would promptly give her 2 shillings back for pocket money, which Mary would use to go to the cinema with a friend, buy an ice-cream and also a pair of stockings.
She’d had to resign from her job once the evacuation process started and Annie had needed her eldest daughter to be a child once more so that she could be evacuated with her sisters. Annie had gone back to Mary’s school and asked the headmistress, Sister Francis, if she would put Mary back on the school register, and Sister Francis was happy to oblige. Now Mary was settled in Hailsham, though, she had to put her thoughts once more to getting work.
The biggest employer in Hailsham was Green Brothers factory in Summerheath Road. The company had an excellent reputation for their skilled workforce and standard of product. They made high-quality ropes, including those used by the hangman, sail cloth, high-quality garden furniture and camping equipment. As part of the war effort they had also diversified into making sand bags: for the troops on the front line to provide protective barriers, and also on the home front to be stacked along the walls of important buildings, such as the War Office, police stations and schools, for additional protection from bomb explosions.
Green Brothers’ war effort far exceeded the manufacture of sand bags, however. In November 1939, they were given a top-secret contract to construct, in kit form, hundreds of dummy Hurricane fighter planes made of wood and canvas, which were deployed across the country on decoy airfields to mislead enemy bombers. A real Hurricane cost between £4,000 and £5,000 but these dummy ones were just £50 each.
It was Annie who had noticed a sign outside the Green Brothers premises, advertising for factory hands, and she suggested to Mary that she should give it a try. Mary, who had had a taste of glamour and sophistication at Koupy Gowns, was not exactly enamoured with the idea.
‘I don’t know about factory work, Mum,’ she said.
‘We’re not in London any more, Mary,’ Annie reminded her. ‘You can’t be as choosy here. There aren’t so many jobs. Why don’t you go for it and see what happens? Even if it’s just a temporary measure.’
The following day, Mary, in her freshly washed and ironed dress, walked down to the factory gates, where she asked to speak to the foreman. After asking Mary about her life in London, the foreman was impressed by her experience as a machinist and was happy to try her out.
On her first day, Annie kissed her daughter goodbye and Mary took the short walk to Green Brothers. It was a large, red-brick building and, making her way through the tall, arched metal gates at the entrance, Mary wondered what this new chapter in her life would bring. In the event, it turned out to be less of a chapter and more of a half-finished sentence …
After reporting to the foreman, Mary was shown to the factory floor where there were stacks of old sacks piled almost to the ceiling, ready to be made into sandbags. The stench of manure emanating from them was overpowering and each time one of the factory workers pulled out a sack, prior to cutting and stitching it to size, it sent yet another haze of thick, pungent dust swirling around, making Mary choke and feel nauseous. The foreman stood with Mary as she watched how the other women were making the sandbags and, after he left, Mary carefully pulled out an old sack to work on. She tried not to disturb the dust too much and, at the same time, hold her breath but with everyone else working around her, it wasn’t long before she was covered in filth.
It was a morning of dirty, unpleasant work and a deeply depressed Mary was relieved to get out and breathe the fresh air at lunchtime. She walked home quickly to get
a bite to eat.
‘What on earth do you look like?’ asked a shocked Annie when Mary walked through the door, covered in dust and grime and reeking to high heaven.
‘Oh, Mum, it’s disgusting. The sacks are all old and stinky. You can smell manure on them. It’s horrid,’ Mary blurted out. She began to cry at the thought of returning but, to Mary’s surprise, Annie had no intention of making her go back to the factory.
‘I’m not having that,’ said Annie, appalled that one of her girls should be put to work doing such a dirty job. ‘You’re not going back. You’re a dressmaker who has worked with luxury gowns in the West End.’
Mary felt relieved but worried. ‘But they’ll be expecting me,’ she said.
‘They can expect on,’ retorted Annie.
‘But I’ll have to tell them.’
‘You can pop back in the morning and let them know.’
‘Oh, Mum, I don’t want to,’ Mary whined.
‘You mean you want to carry on working there?’
‘No. I don’t, but …’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Annie asked.
Mary nodded. ‘But you won’t make a scene, will you, Mum?’ she said, only too aware of her mother’s temper and that familiar flash of anger in her eyes.
‘No, I won’t make a scene. Now go and have a good wash. You smell like a pig farm.’
The following morning Annie didn’t have much to say on their walk to Greens, which made Mary feel even more uneasy.
‘You won’t start shouting, will you, Mum?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be perfectly calm. Don’t worry. You can do the talking.’
The pair walked into the factory – Mary miserably and Annie defiantly – and Annie asked one of the workers for the foreman. After a few minutes’ wait, he appeared and ushered them into an office.
‘I don’t think the job is right for me. I’m sorry but I don’t want to work here any longer,’ a nervous Mary mumbled.
The Sisters of Battle Road Page 5
