‘Now then, young Freda, there’s a pile of papers on that desk that need filing away, but first you can put the kettle on and make a nice cuppa for the shift.’
Freda nodded her head and set to with her duties. She had been with the Fire Service for one week and was becoming more concerned by the hour as to how her filing paperwork and making copious amounts of tea could help win the war. The past two years had seen rationing introduced and, along with the rest of the household, she’d more than done her bit to put food on the table that was filling and nutritious. Even visiting the cinema there were tips and recipes which Freda and her friends took home to Ruby to try out. Not all were a success, but they were eaten nonetheless as food wastage was now a criminal offence. She’d closed her ears to the jokes about young girls like her working for the Service and soldiered on despite her disappointment. She’d had hopes of doing something worthwhile, but instead was bored out of her mind and, more to the point, had cut her hours at Woolworths at a time when Betty was worried about a lack of staff. So many of the younger women who’d not joined up had gone into the factories where the pay was so much better, as were the perks. Only last week George had regaled them with news of the lunchtime concert at Vickers in Crayford, where he’d seen his favourite comedian, Tommy Trinder, perform live to the factory workers. It had certainly boosted morale. If she could have turned out a tune and looked as pretty as Maisie or Sarah, she’d have joined ENSA and spent her time entertaining the workers or even travelling overseas with a variety show to entertain the troops.
As she dreamt of singing her heart out like Vera Lynn and bringing a tear to the eye of the soldiers who were missing their loved ones, the large black Bakelite telephone started to ring. Without thinking, she reached out and picked up the heavy receiver. ‘Erith fire station, how may I help you?’
‘Now that’s a voice I haven’t heard before,’ a cheery woman said as Vera picked up a pen ready to take down any information.
‘I’m Freda, part-time auxiliary and tea girl,’ she replied before silently scolding herself. The woman might have an important job and not be impressed with what Freda had just said.
‘Not another one. We lost the last girl to the navy when she found out she wouldn’t be putting out fires. You’ve got to stick to your guns and not let the old boys leave you with the housekeeping duties. I bet you’ve got a pile of papers to tidy, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, and the kettle’s about to boil and I’ve yet to wash the cups from the last round. I reckon they leave the washing up for when I arrive.’
‘Chin up, ducks, and don’t let them get to you. You should find a stack of papers I sent to your fire station giving details of worthwhile jobs for women in the Service. I doubt the old codgers have filed them away as we both know that’s not a job they think of as men’s work. If you come across something you feel you are suited to, then telephone me. My name’s Enid Roberts.’
Freda was thrilled to think she wasn’t just being selfish and that at least one other woman had felt as she did. ‘Thank you, Enid, I’ll do just that. Thank goodness I answered the telephone when it rang.’
‘I take it they don’t let you do that often either?’ the woman laughed.
‘No, it’s far too important for the likes of me. I’m supposed to call someone to tell them it’s ringing. You’d think I’d never seen a telephone before, let alone know what to say. Why, I’m always taking important calls at Woolworths when I help the manager in her office,’ she said with a small laugh. It wouldn’t do to be moaning too much to someone she’d not met. They’d think she was a right misery guts. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
Enid laughed. ‘That’s me all over. I chat that much I forget to convey the message. There’s a dispatch rider due to arrive at your station soon. Can you ask her to get in touch as there’s something needs collecting and brought back here.’
Freda dutifully noted down the telephone number and put a copy of it into the pocket of her skirt before bidding goodbye to Enid. A female dispatch rider, how exciting! That’s a job she’d love to try her hand at. She quickly made a tray of tea and took it outside to where uniformed firemen were busy polishing the brass on the fire engines. The vehicles that were present at fires and the aftermath of air raids in Erith and the surrounding areas gleamed in the sunshine. Freda could see her face in the bodywork. Hurrying back inside, she began sorting the pile of paperwork with renewed vigour and gave out a whoop of delight when she came across a box containing information about working in different sections of the Fire Service.
Freda slipped a few of the leaflets, aimed at women workers, into her gas mask case to read later. In a happier frame of mind, she continued with the duties that had been assigned to her for that day.
It was quiet in the yard of the fire station when, an hour later, Freda heard the powerful roar of a motorcycle. There was no one else there as all the on-duty staff were now out attending a serious fire down near the docks. She slipped out of the office and headed downstairs to where a woman, no older than herself, was removing her helmet and shaking out her jet-black shoulder-length hair. Freda marvelled that the woman still had perfectly painted red lips.
‘Hello there, I was told you were on your way. It’s only me here at the moment. Do you have time for a cup of tea? There’s a fresh supply of biscuits as well. They won’t last long once everyone gets back here.’
‘Thanks awfully, darling, a cup of cha would just about hit the spot. Lead on!’ she replied in a plummy voice.
Freda showed the woman up the stairs to the staffroom, where a kettle was bubbling away on top of a small gas stove ready for when the workers arrived back from fighting the flames. ‘I’m Freda, by the way. I’ve only been a volunteer for a couple of weeks. How long have you been riding your motorbike?’ she asked as she held out her hand.
‘Barbara Grosvenor,’ the other woman said, pumping Freda’s hand up and down with a firm grip. ‘The amount of bruises I have on my you-know-where, it feels like I’ve been riding for a year when in truth it’s just one week since I’ve been out of training school.’
Freda looked wistful. ‘I’d love to do something worthwhile. How do you become a dispatch rider?’
‘Like most things connected to this war, I filled out a form and never looked back. Thanks awfully,’ she said as Freda placed a mug of hot tea next to where she’d sat down and offered a tin of biscuits for Barbara to dip into.
‘As simple as that?’ Freda said dreamily, her imagination already placing her astride a bike with the wind in her hair as she delivered important information that would help win the war.
‘It helps if you can ride a motorbike,’ Barbara pointed out, bursting Freda’s bubble in just a couple of words.
‘Oh,’ Freda mumbled, disappointment showing all over her face. ‘That’s put paid to that idea!’
‘Don’t be so despondent. Surely you have someone who can show you how to ride one? I grew up with four brothers so I mucked in with what they did and became a bit of a tomboy. Riding a motorcycle was part of my life once my older brother built his own.’
Freda thought hard. ‘My brother, Lenny, is in the navy and only ever had a second-hand pushbike. My best friend’s husband has a motorbike, he calls it Bessie,’ she added with a grin, ‘but she’s been put away for the duration.’
‘Have a word with him. It’s not hard to learn. Just stay on and steer the machine in a straight line and bob’s your uncle, you’ll be an auxiliary dispatch rider in no time.’
Freda nodded in agreement. Barbara’s advice seemed straightforward enough. Yes, she’d do just that and the firefighters of Erith could make their own tea. She was going to follow her dream and there was no stopping her. As long as Alan agreed to show her how to ride his beloved Bessie, that was.
‘Why, it’s the first time in an age since I’ve seen the three of you here together.’ Betty smiled as she walked into the Woolworths staffroom and found Sarah, Maisie and Freda taking their br
eak together.
‘Aint it just?’ Maisie said with grin. ‘And with Maureen behind the counter serving up decent grub it’s just like the old days when we started work together.’
‘Not quite the old days, Maisie,’ Betty replied with a hint of sadness. ‘Back then I didn’t have to think of window displays to rally support for the war and Woolworths’ own Spitfire campaign.’
Sarah glanced at Maisie. She may be cracking jokes as usual but she doesn’t fool me, she thought to herself. A bit of rouge and an extra layer of powder didn’t quite cover her pale expression and the shadows under her eyes. She wished Maisie would talk about her fears of not having a baby. What she’d mentioned the day that Vera upset her had shocked Sarah. Did Maisie mean she’d been a good-time girl? She needed to sort this out before Maisie had a breakdown or it caused a rift with her new husband, David. The last thing Maisie needed was to lose another husband.
Betty collected a cup of coffee from Maureen and joined the girls.
Sarah wrinkled her nose. ‘Ew, Camp Coffee, how can you drink that stuff?’
‘I’ve come to enjoy the taste. It makes a change from tea but, if truth be known, I’d kill for a decent cup of coffee.’
‘I’ll have a word with my friends on the docks,’ Maisie said with a wink.
Betty looked more than a little horrified, but Sarah noticed that she didn’t refuse the offer. The war had certainly changed people’s views of what was right and wrong. Goodness knows how many times she’d heard customers say that, if it didn’t hurt anyone, it was all right to have something on the black market.
‘Now, while I have you all together, I wondered if we could put some thought to our window displays? I feel it is important we continue to raise money towards the war effort without rattling collecting tins under our customers’ noses. If we could possibly make the display entertaining and raise morale, all the better. I’ve been offered the loan of a wing from a damaged Spitfire. Do you think we could make use of this for a display?’
Maisie was thinking hard. ‘P’raps we could add straw and some of our gardening tools, along with packets of seeds and stuff, to make it look like the plane came down in the countryside. We could ’ave a bucket to collect coins as well.’
‘How does that boost morale?’ Sarah asked. ‘It would upset me to see it and think Alan or his comrades may have crashed.’
‘I think it may have been the wing of a German aircraft now I come to think about it,’ Betty said, looking confused. ‘How can anyone tell the difference between all the different planes?’
‘Haven’t you seen the leaflets and posters showing their planes and ours?’ Freda asked. ‘We could have some of those in the window as well.’
‘What about that poster that shows a bombed-out German Woolies with the words underneath, “If you think we’re suffering, take a look at theirs.” It would look good alongside the wing of that German plane?’
‘This all sounds extremely positive. Thank you, girls. Please let me know if you have any other ideas. I’ll speak to all the staff about this. We need a team effort to raise funds.’
‘What about a dance?’ Freda asked.
‘What, in the shop window?’ Maisie laughed.
‘No, I mean what about asking if we can use the hall at the Prince of Wales and sell tickets? We could ask head office for some prizes and perhaps scrape enough together for a bit of a buffet.’
Betty thought for a moment then smiled. ‘I think it’s an admirable idea, Freda. Can I put the three of you in charge of organizing things?’
‘Count me in as well,’ Maureen called from behind her counter. ‘I’m not missing out on a bit of fun.’
The girls headed back to their counters full of ideas for the dance.
‘We could have spot prizes like we used to at the Woolies Christmas parties,’ Freda said.
‘But we need a dance band. Maureen may know who we can ask. She knows a lot of people and used to sing at dances when she was younger. Alan told me she would have been a professional if she’d not met her husband and settled down to family life.’
‘Lucky her,’ Maisie mumbled as they reached the door that led to the shop floor.
Sarah caught Maisie’s arm and held her back from following Freda through the door. ‘Can I have a word, Maisie?’
Maisie nodded her head. ‘I thought you’d want to after my little outburst. It is that, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’ve been so worried about you, Maisie,’ Sarah said as she sat on the bottom step of the stairs that led up to the office and staffroom.
Maisie squeezed onto the step next to her friend. ‘I didn’t mean to worry yer. It’s just that I can’t believe me luck being married to David and finding friends like you and Freda after everything that went on before.’ Her eyes took on a distant look. ‘What if me life went pear-shaped and I lost David and ended up on me own, all through something I did just to survive? I should ’ave told him but it was a long time ago . . .’
‘What did happen, Maisie?’ Sarah asked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the nitty-gritty of her friend’s former life but felt it would help if she unburdened herself.
‘It was after I left home and earned a living working in bars and then at that cafe over Deptford way. The owner of the cafe forced ’imself on me one night when he’d had a few. He said that if I fought too much, he’d have me out on the street by the morning and tell folk I’d been on the game.’ She looked at Sarah beseechingly. ‘I didn’t ’ave anywhere to go. What choice did I ’ave?’
Sarah wrapped her arms around her friend as she wept silently. ‘Shh, I’d have done the same and so would many other women. Men can be such bastards,’ she exclaimed bitterly.
Maisie gasped. ‘Why, Sarah Gilbert, I’ve never ’eard you say such a word.’
Sarah smiled guiltily. ‘I don’t ever think I’ve used it word before. Can it be our secret?’
Maisie nodded. ‘But secrets can be our undoing. He chucked me out when he found I was in the family way.’
‘Oh no,’ Sarah murmured. She didn’t want to hear what happened next.
‘Yeah, I ended up on the street and with a bun in the oven. I got myself a live-in bar job pretty quick. The landlord took a fancy to me and before I knew it he was leaving his wife each night to visit my bed. I hated myself but I ’ad a plan, see.’
‘Go on,’ Sarah urged.
‘I waited fer a night when he’d had a bit too much ter drink and I nicked the takings and legged it. I ’eaded out ter Woolwich dockyard where I’d heard about a woman who helped girls like me. Mind you, I walked out of her place with me ’ead held high, determined to make a fresh start, and I never gave it another thought until recently. I met my first ’usband, Joe, not long afterwards. I reckon losing our baby last Christmas was God’s way of punishing me. I’m never going to ’ave David’s baby.’
As horrified as Sarah was by her friend’s confession, she knew that Maisie was a good person deep down. She couldn’t and wouldn’t dwell on the baby. Maisie was more than suffering for what she did and who was she to judge? ‘Please, Maisie, don’t say such things. If God does have a hand in things, he will know what you’ve been through and he’ll know you feel guilty enough for what has happened. Time to move on, eh?’
‘But, David . . . I feel I should tell him.’
‘Not now, Maisie, you’ve not been yourself for a few weeks. Get yourself strong again and then think about the future. Promise me?’
Maisie nodded slowly. ‘I will, but it’s got to be done before too long, regardless of what ’appens to me.’
‘But promise, no running away if things get bad?’
Maisie nodded her head but didn’t answer.
‘I’ve been thinking about your Pat,’ Bob said as he carried in a bag of vegetables he’d collected from the allotment he shared with the Caselton family. Ruby had been more than grateful when Bob offered to take on their gardening chores. What with Freda hardly seen these days since she started he
r duties at the fire station and also working as many hours as possible at Woolworths, and Maisie and Sarah no longer living at number thirteen, Ruby had been finding it hard to keep playing their part in the Dig for Victory campaign. The girls, as well as George when he had time, did give a hand, but life was so busy now the war was well into its third year.
Ruby looked into the bag that Bob had placed on the kitchen table. She would put some of the veg aside for Maureen and Maisie, she thought to herself, before moving a few items from the sink so Bob could wash his hands. ‘I’ve done nothing but think about her, Bob. I know she never said anything, but I’ve a feeling so strong that something might be wrong. What if she was planning to bring them back home? I know they say that if a bomb’s got our name on it we could die anywhere, but it’s nigh on safer down in Cornwall than it is up here.’
Bob nodded in agreement. ‘I was thinking the same as I was working on the allotment. That’s when the idea hit me.’
‘Well, cough it out. I can’t stand here chatting all day. I’ve a list as long as my arm of things to do and that’s without queuing for some fish for our tea.’
‘I was thinking you should get yourself down to Cornwall and check things out for yourself. At least then you’d have peace of mind.’
‘What? Me go all the way to Cornwall?’ Ruby scoffed before frowning at Bob. ‘I wouldn’t even know how to get there.’
‘They do have trains that go to the South West.’
‘On my own you mean? Why, I don’t even know my way to London. Anything north of Woolwich is a foreign land to me. Even when I’m with one of the girls, I’m that worried I’ll get lost and never find my way home.’
Christmas at Woolworths Page 6
