by Maggie Joel
All three jumped back in alarm, Janie swinging her perambulator in such an arc it reared up on two wheels and all but tipped over. Janie shrieked and tried to regain control of the wayward perambulator, Bertha made a lunge at the screaming Herbert and Jemima leapt out of the way of the oncoming bus.
She had a confused view of the horrified face of the young man who was gripping its steering wheel, of the bus regaining the road and the word General, written in large letters on the side of the bus, flashing before her. The conductor was crouched on the step inside the bus, a passenger on the top deck clutched a bloodied handkerchief to his face, and a running, placard-waving, shouting crowd of young men banged on the bus’s side as it swept onwards.
The last thing she saw was Ronnie—her husband—emerging from the throng running alongside the bus to hurl a brick that dented the red paintwork and spun off to land on the pavement about a yard from Baby’s perambulator.
In another moment the bus had gone and the crowd had fizzled out. A trail of bricks, broken placards and a single shoe was all that remained of the affray.
There was no sign of Ronnie.
‘Alright, Herbie, alright little man, it’s all over now. The horrible men have gone,’ crooned Janie, soothing the hysterical Herbert. Her own baby, Jemima noted, had slept through the whole thing.
‘I think he’s alright, no harm done,’ said Bertha. She turned her attention to Janie’s perambulator, straightening its wheels and making sure all was in working order. ‘No damage done. Looks good as new,’ she said, experimentally pushing it back and forth a few times. Then she turned to Jemima as though she had just that moment noticed her sister had said nothing.
‘Did you see, Jem? That man on the bus was injured. Those men must have caught him with a stone or something. Did you see?’
Jemima had seen and she had seen a great deal more than that too, but perhaps, she decided, looking from Bertha to Janie, they had not seen as much as she.
Ronnie. Her own husband. In a mob of screaming, stone-throwing men. This was his precious league? This was his glorious revolution? All that talk of solidarity, of the workers’ rights, of human endeavour! What it really came down to was one man throwing a brick at a bus in High Street and another man holding a bloodied handkerchief to his face. Pathetic. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.
‘Let’s go in. Let’s wait inside the bus garage,’ she said suddenly and, not waiting for the other two, set off towards the gates of the garage pushing Baby before her.
There were two special constables on duty outside the garage who wouldn’t let them pass so they stood outside and waited. Janie walked Herbert up and down, singing to him in a low murmur.
Bertha asked the special constables whether the 17C had come in yet but they didn’t seem to know what had come in or what had gone out. But at that moment the number 17C itself swung around the corner and shot through the garage gates almost before the special constables could open them.
‘Hurrah!’ someone inside the bus called and a flag waved triumphantly from an upstairs window. Cheers from inside the garage accompanied the 17C’s return and, as the bus ground to a gear-crunching halt, the door opened and a rather green-looking conductor reeled out, followed a moment later by Matthew.
‘Matthew!’ called Bertha, pushing past the constables and in through the gates, waving madly at him.
‘The hero returns,’ muttered Jemima, but she found herself following closely at Bertha’s heels and it was clear, as they approached the bus, that it had weathered a skirmish or two. Most of the windows were broken, a large part of the paintwork was damaged, the windscreen was entirely gone and the streaked remains of a half-dozen eggs were hardening on the upper deck.
‘Matthew! Are you alright?’ gasped Bertha, taking his arm and looking up into his face.
He nodded and smiled and there was almost a glint in his eye. ‘Of course! I’m perfectly fine, my dear. The rabble did their best but we were equal to the task, eh, Bridges?’
The young, green-faced conductor in Oxford bags gave a weak thumbs-up then sat down rather heavily on the step.
‘You are brave, Mr Lake—both of you, you really are! Aren’t they brave, Herbie?’ gushed Janie, forcing the poor child to wave a triumphant fist.
Herbert dribbled in protest.
The garage superintendent, a portly man sporting an important-looking peaked cap and a bushy moustache, emerged from the office and pushed his way towards the returned crew. He shook Matthew’s hand then patted Bridges gingerly on the shoulder.
‘Alright, lads, well done. Well done all round. Any particular black spots we need to be aware of? What route did you take exactly?’
‘Followed the route pretty much exactly,’ said Matthew, busying himself with the cash box.
‘Think we were in Cricklewood at one point,’ said Bridges, looking up at Matthew for confirmation.
‘Near Cricklewood,’ corrected Matthew. ‘There was a sign for it certainly, though I don’t believe we were actually at Cricklewood...‘
‘Good, excellent. Very good. Now, get yourselves a strong cuppa.’
‘And Neasden,’ added Bridges thoughtfully. ‘Definitely went through Neasden.’
‘Doesn’t the 17C go to Oxford Circus?’ said Jemima to no one in particular.
Bridges was led away by the superintendent and Matthew stepped nimbly down from his bus and almost landed on Jemima’s foot.
‘Sorry, so sorry,’ he muttered, flushing darkly and busying himself with the cash and the door and his armband.
Jemima moved away suddenly, wishing she hadn’t suggested coming here, that she had stayed at Mum’s house with Baby and watched Mum do the washing. Instead here she was in a bus garage with Matthew, who had just run the gauntlet of the mob halfway across west London (and well beyond, if Bridges was to be believed), and now he was blushing like a schoolgirl because he had almost stepped on her toe. Or perhaps it wasn’t that he had almost stepped on her toe, perhaps it was simply because she was here?
And where was Ronnie now, and his little gang of hoodlums? Snatching the purse of some elderly lady in Horn Lane? Pushing over a perambulator? Robbing a charity box?
‘Dearest, why are you here? This really isn’t a place for women and children,’ Matthew was saying to Bertha, having recovered himself after the toe-stepping incident. ‘I would much rather you waited for me at home.’
‘Oh, but I was worried, my dear—’ began Bertha, but she was interrupted by Janie’s excited shout.
‘Look, look over there! They’re enrolling women as bus conductors. There’s a sign—look! We could all join!’
The sign, handwritten and stuck on the door of the office, announced:
WOMEN OF ACTION
Are you a Woman of ACTION?
SPECIAL CONDUCTORS NEEDED!
Sign up NOW to help
Your Country in this
TIME OF THE DIRE NEED!
Training and Armbands provided!
Before Jemima could open her mouth to point out the absurdness of such a thing, two young girls in very ugly hats, clutching each other in excitement, appeared in the doorway of the office holding their forms and admiring their new red armbands.
‘Fancy!’ said Janie. ‘Look, Herbie! Do you think Mumsy could be a bus conductor? Do you?’
Herbert replied with a dribble.
As the two young women stood there enjoying the spectacle they were creating Bertha gave a disdainful sniff. ‘It’s all very well if you’re a single young lady but that sort of thing is hardly dignified for the married woman,’ she declared, then looked up at Matthew as if she had said this for his benefit.
‘What rubbish!’ Jemima scoffed. ‘You might be too afraid but I shall join up. I expect it will be quite fun.’
‘Jemima!’ gasped Janie.
‘Jem, you can’t!’ said Bertha. ‘What about Baby?’
Baby had so far slept through all the excitement and appeared unconcerned by this latest development.
‘Mum will look after Baby.’
‘But what about Ronnie?’
‘What about Ronnie? He isn’t around to object, is he?’
Bertha looked shocked. ‘But I mean, he wouldn’t like it. What about the league? The workers...?’ and here she glanced again at Matthew, but this time tentatively, as though she feared some dark hidden inner sympathy for the strike might suddenly become apparent. ‘I mean, you know, all that he’s worked for...’
‘Pah! A woman can have her own principles, can’t she?’ Jemima retorted. ‘I happen to believe very strongly that the country needs me. At this time of dire need.’
‘Bravo!’ said Janie.
Bertha just looked at her.
‘I think it’s marvellous, Jemima—Mrs Booth,’ said Matthew suddenly, and they all looked at him. Even Herbert seemed dumbstruck. ‘I mean, why shouldn’t young ladies be given the chance to do their bit? And it’s brave, too, if I may say so.’
Here Bertha appeared to fairly burst with indignation but she said nothing. Jemima smiled.
‘I don’t know why you don’t sign up yourself, Bert, unless you’re afraid of a few daft schoolboys calling you names? I’m going to do it right now!’ she announced. ‘Bert, you and Mum’ll have to look after Baby when I’m working.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘Perhaps I shall be your conductor tomorrow?’
But Ronnie was there to object. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a scowl on his face when Jemima got home. When she saw him she felt a flicker of something unpleasant in the pit of her stomach.
Was it fear?
She brushed it aside and told herself it was the strike that made him glare at her. She left Baby in the hallway and went straight into the bedroom without so much as saying hello.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded, following her and standing in the doorway.
She sighed irritably and took off her hat. God forbid I should be out by myself for a change and not clearing up after you and Baby, she thought, but she concentrated on putting her hat on the hatstand so it would keep its shape.
‘I got home and there was no one here,’ he continued in an annoying, whining way. ‘So I went over to Wells Lane and your mum said you’d all been out since eight o’clock this morning.’
Jemima squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that little lights exploded before her eyes. Then she opened her eyes and turned to face him.
‘And what of it? I’m stuck in here with Baby all day every day, but you never think of that, do you? While you’re out playing with the other silly little boys, throwing bricks...’ She saw him open his mouth then close it again, his eyes dropping from hers, and her anger turned to triumph. ‘Throwing bricks. Yes, don’t think I didn’t see you and I was ashamed. Ashamed. What kind of a man does that? I was glad no one else saw it. How do you think that made me feel?’
Ronnie was silent but she could see the fury, the shame, the dismay there on his face, and from the perambulator in the hallway Baby stared at him silently, condemning him, it seemed.
‘And anyway, Mum will be looking after Baby a bit more from now on. I have signed up as a special bus conductor. I start tomorrow,’ and she swept past into the kitchen.
‘You’ve done what?’
He stumbled after her.
In the kitchen the remains of a loaf of bread stood on the table and Jemima’s hands clenched tightly around its stale exterior, squeezing it between her fingers.
‘But...but this is a betrayal!’
Jemima picked up the bread knife and calmly began to slice the loaf. She said nothing. She found she had nothing to say.
‘This is...’ His voice trailed off as though he hadn’t the energy to say the word a second time. ‘You are my wife!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘MY WIFE! How dare you do this without...without... I forbid it, do you hear? I absolutely forbid it.’
Aside from an urge to laugh, Jemima found that not only was there nothing to say, there was, rather conveniently, nothing to feel either. There was only a curious throbbing, pulsing beat at her temple making her feel quite light-headed. She hardly noticed Ronnie leave, the front door banging shut. She sliced the now oddly shaped loaf and hummed quietly to herself.
‘Here you are, Baby. Let’s have some lovely bread and jam. Daddy’s gone out for a while but we’ll have tea without him and it will be lovely, won’t it?’
But there was no jam, there was only dripping and milk, so they had that instead.
‘Are you really going to go through with it, Jemima?’ asked Aunt Nora the following morning as they sat around the table at Wells Lane after breakfast.
Mum was clearing away the breakfast things silently, Janie, round-eyed with envy, was dabbing absent-mindedly at Herbert’s chin and Aunt Nora, replete after her third cup of tea, was looking at her niece as though Jemima had just announced she was going to marry a negro.
And Dad was there too, standing silently at the mirror attaching his collar and fussily tying the red special constable’s armband around his arm.
‘Well, the girl’s got spirit, I’ll give her that,’ was his only comment, earning him a look of horror from his wife. Bertha, watching from the doorway, remained expressionless, her attention focused on Baby, who was obligingly batting at a piece of hat ribbon and seemed oblivious to the adults all around.
‘Of course I’m going through with it,’ replied Jemima, sitting up straighter. She almost gave Dad a grateful look, but no, she no longer needed Dad’s approval. It was no one’s business but her own.
‘What did Ronnie have to say?’ said Mum, glancing at Dad a little fearfully.
‘I don’t see what business it is of his,’ retorted Jemima as she studied Bertha’s face carefully. Yes, it was turning red. With fury? Envy? Oh, Bertha, always so predictable!
‘I thought your Ronnie was a socialist chap,’ said Aunt Nora, looking from Mum to Dad for confirmation. ‘Won’t he mind you joining the other side?’
‘I do have my own opinions and thoughts, thank you, Aunt Nora,’ Jemima replied tartly and Aunt Nora bridled, shifted huffily in her seat, and looked at Dad to put his youngest daughter in her place.
‘Ha!’ was all Dad said, aiming this remark at his reflection in the mirror.
‘But won’t it be risky, dear?’ said Mum anxiously. ‘You hear awful things about gangs of delinquents and folk being attacked...’
‘I’m going to be a conductor on a bus that might go to Chiswick or perhaps Wandsworth. I’m not leading an expedition down the blooming Zambesi!’
‘Language,’ warned Dad.
Jemima stood up. ‘Well, I must be off.’ She smoothed down her skirt. ‘Wish me luck!’
At that moment Bertha dropped the ribbon she was holding for Baby and suddenly her face was flushed and angry.
‘Anyway I think you’re just showing off, Jemima! You don’t care two hoots for the strike or the country or anything. You’re just doing it to—to show off!’
Mum, Janie, Aunt Nora, even the two babies stared at her.
‘Now then,’ began Dad, turning around with a frown on his face, but Jemima didn’t need anyone to defend her. She tossed her head and reached for her smart black bus corporation hat.
‘Think what you like. I shall know in my heart that I’m doing the right thing and that no amount of danger shall put me off.’ She turned to the others. ‘Well, goodbye.’ She went down the passage to the front door, pausing at the last minute to call back, ‘And perhaps I shall be on Matthew’s bus, Bertha. Won’t that be nice?’
Outside, the sun reflected brilliantly off the shop windows and the windscreens of the line of vehicles that had already begun the slow crawl towards the city.
Jemima set off briskly, stepping nimbly over the mounds of steaming horse dung, her head high, the peaked cap cutting a dash in the early morning sunlight, her right arm at an angle that showed off her new armband so that many a passer-by stopped and stared. One elderly gentleman actually patted her arm and said, ‘Bravo!’
As
she passed the end of Acton Lane a delivery van squeezed beneath the iron railway bridge, loaded so high with wooden crates it had to drive through the central arch, barely scraping through so that the top-most box wobbled and then fell with a crash, splitting open and sending potatoes rolling across the street. Jemima laughed to see it.
At the bus garage on the corner of Steyne Road a small crowd had already formed and the buses stood lined up ready to go. The two young women who had also signed up the day before were being shown to their vehicles and behind them two more women were just signing up. And now, Jemima saw, the sign was asking not just for conductors, but for women drivers too.
‘Jemima—Mrs Booth! Hullo there!’ And there was Matthew seated in the cab of the number 17C, waving eagerly, and his next words, when he said them, were so exactly the words she had known he would say that it was no surprise at all: ‘It seems my conductor, young Bridges, is unwell, so I shall need a new volunteer. Are you game?’
And Jemima laughed and jumped up onto the platform and into his bus.
Caroline and Deirdre
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE PAINT THEY’D USED to decorate the hospital corridor wall was surely the exact same shade of duck-egg blue that had covered the brick walls of the outhouse at 15 Oakton Way.
Caroline attempted to raise her head off the pillow in order to study the colour more closely but it was too much effort, her head being at least three times its normal weight, or else the rest of her was three times weaker. Instead she squinted at the wall through narrowed eyes, but that didn’t help either.
She considered asking Mr Milthorpe for his opinion but abandoned the idea almost immediately; speaking was even less of an option than raising one’s head from the pillow. Besides, asking Mr Milthorpe whether he considered the corridor wall to be the same colour as the outhouse at 15 Oakton Way might be considered a rather odd question in the present circumstances—quite apart from the fact that Mr Milthorpe had never been to Oakton Way. Indeed no one had been to Oakton Way for the best part of twenty years, the whole street having been demolished to make way for a supermarket. Or was it a new municipal car park? At any rate, Oakton Way was gone, and so too the outhouse and the duck-egg walls.
