by Beezy Marsh
‘He’s away at the Front, there’s no harm in it,’ said Emma, making to take the letter back. But her mother had grabbed the whole bundle from her.
‘Oh, you’re leading him up the garden path. This one’s signed with kisses on it!’ cried Mum. ‘I ought to chuck you out right now!’ She took the bundle and marched off downstairs, to the fireplace, with Emma hot on her heels.
‘Think about the children, Emma,’ said Mum, who was almost shaking with anger. ‘You’ve already told Annie her dad’s away fighting. You are creating an unholy mess. It ain’t right. What will the neighbours think?’
Mum untied the string and cast it into the fire, where it crackled and turned black. Then she started to throw each letter in, one by one: ‘This is for the best, it’s the only way. We left all our troubles behind us in Notting Hill. It ain’t right to be stirring up more problems now. You’ve got the family name to think about.’
‘But what will I tell Annie, and what about George?’ said Emma, watching helplessly, as the flames flickered over the papers and her secret correspondence went up in smoke.
‘Well, the war has made widows of a lot of respectable women round here, from what I can see,’ said Mum, wiping her hands on her apron.
Emma thought about it for a minute. There could be no future with Arthur, she could see that now. Mum wouldn’t allow it and if word got out around the laundry about who had fathered George, it would bring shame on the whole family. Her children, sleeping soundly in the room above them, deserved better than that.
‘I s’pose you’re right,’ said Emma quietly, sitting down by the fire, watching as Arthur’s last letter turned to ash and drifted away up the chimney. ‘There’s plenty of good men went away to war and never came back. We can tell Annie tomorrow and get it over with.’
‘Yes,’ said Mum, giving her daughter a satisfied little nod. ‘There’s no shame in that.’
Perhaps it was the guilt of coming between Emma and Arthur, or just the fact that she was sick of the sight of her daughter moping around the house, but Susan Chick did everything she could to get Emma to go out with the other laundresses that summer. ‘Go on and enjoy yourself!’ she’d say, popping another one of her pies in the range. ‘I will take care of George, and Annie can help me around the house. You’ve only got one life, so go and live it.’
The girls at work liked a trip out to the varieties in Chiswick and Emma made a great pretence of enjoying herself, but inside she was broken, sick with worry about Arthur, who hadn’t written since she’d told him about Mum burning the letters and threatening to chuck them all out in the street if their correspondence continued.
The war seemed to be rumbling on forever, and even the likes of Bill, the laundry hand, had been called on to serve. Although he was still only with the reservists, he was square-bashing down in Kent. He’d caused a bit of a fuss at the laundry the other week, because he’d rolled up fresh from a fortnight’s training, looking quite dapper and trim in his uniform. He’d joined them on a night out at the Chiswick Empire, making a point of holding the theatre door open for Emma and squeezing in beside her in the stalls.
‘It must be so hard to be left a widow with two little children,’ he said. ‘And George never even got to meet his father, did he?’
Emma stared straight ahead, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. The news of her fella dying at the Front had travelled around the laundry washtubs like wildfire, it seemed. She wanted to die of shame for the lie of it.
‘He’s never got to slip a ring on that pretty finger of yours, either. Such a shame. Not that I’d ever mention anything to Annie or gossip with any of the laundry girls about it, that wouldn’t be right,’ Bill continued, leaning rather too close for comfort.
‘Yes, well, I’m very grateful for that,’ said Emma, stiffening.
‘Oh, I’ve gone and put my foot right in it, haven’t I?’ he said, clapping a hand to his forehead, as her discomfort finally registered with him. ‘I only meant to say, if you ever need anything, anything at all a man around the house can help you with, you can always rely on me. I know it can’t be easy for you.’
Emma relaxed a little and turned to look at him. His inky blue eyes stared straight into hers, unblinking. He didn’t mean her any harm, she could see that now, he was only trying to help in that clumsy way that fellas had sometimes, wasn’t he?
‘Thank you, Bill, that’s very kind,’ she said, giving him a little smile. He beamed back at her.
‘Well, I’m ready to do my bit for King and Country,’ he said, puffing out his chest. ‘In fact, I’m as keen as mustard to get over there to France.’ He sat there, like an eager little rabbit, watching her face for a reaction. Emma hadn’t the heart to tell him of the horrors of war that Arthur had written to her about: the shattering noise of the shells, the gas, the fear of death and the trenches thick with mud. ‘That’s very brave of you,’ she said.
‘Do you really think so, Emma?’ Bill replied, looking at her, earnestly. ‘It would mean the world to me if you might let me write you a letter or two, when I go. All the Tommies have someone to write to, to keep their spirits up.’
Emma swallowed hard. ‘Of course, that would be fine,’ she said. ‘Although I’m not much of a letter-writer.’
But Bill didn’t go to France and he never saw a shot fired in anger. His military career came to an abrupt end when he tripped on a route march and injured his back, setting off a bad bout of lumbago. By autumn, he was dismissed on medical grounds and back in Soapsud Island, griping about his aches and pains, working as a dollyman at the washtubs. He still wore his grey armband, just in case anyone thought he was a shirker.
As Christmas approached, Emma put in lots of hours up in the ironing room, to try to get enough money together to pay for the extra coal they needed and buy a small gift for Annie and George. Late one evening, as she toiled away alone, there was a soft footfall on the stairs, and Bill poked his head around the door.
‘I wanted to ask you something important,’ he said, shuffling in, with his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s been on my mind a lot lately, but I just couldn’t get up the courage to put it to you until now, because I wanted to do it properly . . .’
Emma put down her iron and looked at him.
He went on: ‘I was hoping, I mean it would be my dearest wish, that you might have some kind feelings towards me, enough to make this man the happiest in the world, by agreeing to be my wife.’ A smile flickered across his face then, as if his little speech had gone just as he had rehearsed it, pacing up and down on the creaking floorboards by his single bed at his mum’s house. He struggled down onto one knee, clutching his back as he did so, and dipped into the pocket of his waistcoat, pulling out a thin gold band. He offered it to Emma. She hesitated.
What was love, to a widow with two children and an elderly mother at home? What was it, when the biggest worry each day was making ends meet? Love wasn’t a teenage girl losing her heart to a boy who used to bring bread and cheese round to the laundry at lunchtime; it wasn’t the bitterness of lost romance, of finding the one she was supposed to be with, only to have him cruelly snatched away by fate. It wasn’t a night of blind passion, in some vain attempt to bury the grief of what life had stolen from her. It wasn’t the tender companionship of letters penned in some Flanders field, building a relationship that could never be. No; love, real love, was doing the right thing for the living, for her two children, keeping the family going, against all odds.
She walked over to Bill. He’d never be the most handsome of fellas, but he was a good sort. He had a regular job, he didn’t drink much, and he worked hard for his pay. He was on tenterhooks, waiting for her answer, wobbling a bit on one knee, looking quite desperate to stand up again.
‘I will,’ she said.
31
February 1935
It was nearly dark by the time Mum had finished her story, and she sat together with Annie in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
>
Annie hesitated for a moment before asking the question on the tip of her tongue: ‘Did you love Arthur?’
Mum shifted in her chair and put her head in her hands for a minute. Then she looked up at her daughter. ‘A long time ago, when I was little more than a girl, I fell head over heels in love with Arthur Austin, but the love of my life was Henry, your father – you mustn’t doubt that,’ she said. ‘What happened with Arthur the night of the funeral was about grief and pain, two people taking comfort in each other. I’m not expecting you to understand it, Annie, or forgive it, but I don’t think either of us really knew what we were getting into . . .’
‘There’s nothing for me to forgive,’ said Annie. ‘I’ve fallen in love with a man who got a girl pregnant while he was engaged to someone else, so I’m not judging you, I promise.’
Mum reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘You’ve grown up such a lot. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. There’s still time for you, if you will just give yourself a chance to start again, back here, where you belong, in Soapsud Island.’
Annie wasn’t ready to leave Drury Lane straight away but the bond with her family grew stronger over the coming months, and she spent her days off with them back in Acton whenever she could and wrote to Elsie, Ivy and her mum every week, sharing her news and becoming a part of their lives again.
She told no one what her mum and she had discussed that afternoon, but just knowing the truth lifted a huge weight from her shoulders. She understood at last the choices her mother had made and why she’d been so reluctant to share her secrets. It couldn’t erase the past or right wrongs, but Annie saw, as a grown woman herself, that her mum and Nanny Chick had tried to make the best of things for the sake of respectability in a world which was quick to judge. Sometimes she’d lie awake at night and ponder whether she would have done anything differently, in her mother’s shoes. Little by little, Annie began to realize that family was more than just who your father was, who’d made you: it was about who raised you. She counted herself lucky to have been born into a family of strong, determined women who were prepared to look life in the face and do their best for their kids.
Back at the pub, Mavis was delighted that Annie seemed more like her old self. ‘I knew it was right for you to see your folks,’ she clucked. ‘There’s no one more understanding when you’re down in the dumps than your own mother!’
Wilf did his level best to keep her too busy to mope about Stanley too. He taught her everything he’d learned about costume-making, so that by the autumn, she was thinking about buying her own sewing machine and taking in piece-work for the West End shows, to make a little extra cash. ‘I’ll put your name forward, Annie,’ he said. ‘Then all you’ve got to do is let those little fingers work their magic. It’s good extra money for you and it’ll keep you out of trouble!’
Inside, in the quiet moments, Annie still yearned for Stanley, but the memory of the night she’d spent dancing in his arms grew more distant, almost like a film playing in her head when she was bored. She started to see him as Mavis and her mum saw him – a selfish man, someone who charmed the pants off women but with little thought for the consequences. In place of heartbreak, she took comfort in solitude; she’d be turning thirty this year, way past marrying age for most, and had resigned herself to the single life. Annie was someone who’d be there to support her mum as she got older and also to offer advice to Elsie and Ivy as they started their careers in secretarial work, which she was so proud of.
As the long hot days of a London summer gave way to the colder nights of autumn, Annie knew in her heart that the time was fast approaching when she would be ready to say goodbye to Drury Lane. Daphne would soon be starting school and that meant Mavis wouldn’t need her as much. Although she always knew she’d be part of their life, the pull of her real family was growing stronger.
She spent Christmas back in Acton, enjoying every moment of decorating the house with paper chains, helping Mum get the dinner ready and having a glass of sherry and a natter with Aunt Clara and Dora. Bill was just slicing the turkey – serving himself and George first, of course – when Elsie said: ‘When are you going to tell Annie the big secret?’
Annie almost jumped out of her skin and glanced over at Mum, who was smiling.
‘Well,’ said Mum, ‘things have been looking up, with both girls working, as well as me and Bill, so we’ve rented a place up the other side of the High Street. We’re moving in the New Year and you can have your own room!’
‘And the best bit is, I’ve found a job for you at the factory,’ said Bill, handing her a plate of turkey with all the trimmings. ‘If you want it, that is . . .’
Grove Road was only up the street and around the corner, but it might as well have been another planet as far as Soapsud Island was concerned. It wasn’t exactly posh, but it was a step up from the slums of laundry land.
They’d rented a smart three-bedroomed terrace, with a lavvy out the back. The yard was big enough to sit out when it was sunny. It had a gas stove – which might take a bit of getting used to after the range, but Mum was looking forward to that. On moving day, George borrowed a van from his mates down at White City and he and Bill heaved their furniture into the back of it, while Mum, Annie and her sisters carefully wrapped up their china in old newspaper and put it all in a big tea chest. The whole street came out to see them off and a few of the neighbours made comments about them ‘going up in the world’, which Mum brushed aside, saying she’d see them down at the laundry tomorrow in any case.
Once the New Year was seen in, Annie told Mavis and Ralph about the job offer back in Acton and her plans to leave at the end of the month.
‘You’re always welcome here, love, and we will hate to lose you,’ said Mavis, ‘but it sounds like regular work with good prospects and you want to be at home with your mum, now, don’t you?’ Mum had spent ages getting her room ready, before she’d even said she was definitely coming home, so there was no going back, Annie knew that.
On her last night in Drury Lane, Mavis and Ralph held a surprise farewell party in her honour and Wilf did a turn which just about brought the house down, singing the old music-hall favourite: ‘Goodbye-ee, Goodbye-ee, wipe a tear, baby dear, from your eye-ee . . . Bonsoir, old thing, cheerio, chin-chin!’
He clasped her hands and pulled her into a little dance routine as the punters clapped and cheered: ‘Don’t be a stranger, Fan-Ann,’ he said, ‘or I’ll come and find you in Acton!’
32
August 1936
It took a while to get used to the rhythm of factory life, after the freedom of being a nanny and the fun of the London pub trade, but Annie didn’t regret returning home.
Bill had treated her with renewed respect since she joined the factory workforce. He even made a point of making up her sandwiches every morning and they walked along Acton Vale together before clocking in at C.A.V., the electrical engineering works, housed in a sprawling four-storey red-brick building with arched windows.
It was different to the stifling and close-knit atmosphere of the laundry, being a massive factory, but there were little rituals – clocking in and out, the production line, tea breaks and chatter when the foreman wasn’t watching – which broke up the monotony. Annie was never one for gossip, but she did look forward to the camaraderie of having other women to chat to, although many were a good deal younger than her and they were a bit of a flighty bunch. Still, no one dared to misbehave on the shop floor, with the foreman stalking about between the rows of work benches. Annie perched on a high-backed stool, like the other workers, and got on with the task in hand. If you needed to go to the lavvy and it wasn’t your break time, you had to ask permission from the foreman or there’d be raised eyebrows.
She soon found herself being looked up to by a lot of the other factory girls, because she’d worked up in town. That sense of her being ‘older and wiser’ only increased when she was quickly singled out by the bosses for her nimble fingers and attention to de
tail. All that needlework that Wilf had taught her hadn’t been in vain, it seemed, as she was chosen to test diesel engine fuel injection pumps, which required meticulous precision. All the workers had it impressed upon them that accuracy was key, because otherwise the engine would fail, so there was no chance of anyone sloppy being given such a crucial job.
Managing the section was a Geordie bloke, Harry, who was a few years older than Annie and didn’t seem to say much – unless there was a union meeting. He was the branch secretary of the electrical engineers’ union at C.A.V. and had no trouble calling the room to order and taking complaints to management about unfair treatment of the workers.
Bill was often to be found chatting outside with him at lunch, having a smoke together; it was probably more a case of Bill listening to what Harry had to say about the latest political situation while Bill nodded in agreement. Harry seemed to be more worldly and well read than any man Annie had ever met, and she was a bit overawed by him, to be honest.
‘Aren’t there any decent fellas for you to go out with up at that factory?’ asked her mate Esther, as they strolled around Gunnersbury Park one Sunday afternoon. Esther was now pregnant with her third, and Leonard was growing into a charming little boy – until he yanked his sister Evelyn’s pigtails.
‘I think I’m over men,’ said Annie, watching closely as the children threw some stale bread to the ducks, in case either of them fell in the water. ‘They’re just more trouble than they’re worth. I’m happy enough.’
‘Well, I envy you, in some ways,’ said Esther, patting her growing tummy. ‘All I’ve got to look forward to is more sleepless nights and washing nappies! At least you’re using your brain. I know I shouldn’t say it, but sometimes I’m just desperate to do something other than keeping house, but my Paul won’t hear of it.’
