Rough Clay

by Chrissie Loveday

  When the following winter arrived, Carole developed a cough that wouldn’t seem to leave her. They called the doctor and to their horror, he diagnosed pneumonia. For several dark days, the parents anxiously watched their precious child fighting for breath and burning with fever. Dora slept hardly at all and Archie was near to dropping with fatigue and worry. The doctor visited daily and when he was at his most worried, he suggested a new medicine, not yet fully on the market, but one which was proving most effective in the treatment of a number of illnesses. The child was given penicillin and showed a rapid improvement. Dora wept tears of relief as Carole slept peacefully for the first night in weeks. Though the worst was over, both young parents knew that this could herald many future problems for their precious daughter . . . the only child they would ever have. The doctors had finally forbidden any further pregnancies. For Archie it was a relief to have the issue finally closed. For Dora, it was a huge disappointment but it made her all the more determined to take the greatest care of her little girl.

  Everyone had become used to the restrictions imposed by the war but the friendships between the most unlikely people was growing. The men set off for the Home Guard meetings with a bravado that came from knowing they were unlikely to be tested. Sparsely equipped, they were practising various routines so they could play their part should the invasion happen. Wearing their caps and tunics, a gesture towards uniform, they practised marching with broom handles to replace rifles.

  ‘You know, if anyone had ever told me I’d go crawling across the Downs Banks on me belly, five nights a week, I’d’ve told them they were off their rockers.’ Archie stood up, brushing leaves and grass out of his jacket top.

  ‘Get down, yer daft bugger,’ yelled the sergeant. ‘That’s not only you wiped out but it’s given away our position.’

  ‘Oh yes? Who to? Nobody around as I can see.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ The sergeant was getting more frustrated with a company who refused to take things as seriously as he did. ‘Oh bugger it. We’ll call it a night. You’re right, lad. What self-respecting Gerry’s going to come round these parts?’

  The weary men rose to their feet and dusted themselves down. They broke up into small groups as they tramped back to their homes. They mostly all lived on the estate and walked silently through the night, all too aware that they’d be up for work again in a few hours.

  While their men were doing their bit for the war effort, several of the women would get together in each other’s homes, drinking tea and chatting. They took turns to nip back to their own homes to make sure the children were sleeping. It all helped make the long evenings pass. They too found something to laugh about, a bonhomie found through their deprivations. There was union in knowing they were all equals in a world once used to a strong class system.

  Once a week, Dora and Archie organised a baby-sitter and went to the local pub, a new building put up at the same time as the housing estate, where the locals and many of the Americans billeted in the area could share a drink and a bit of social life. They became pally with a couple about the same age as themselves and invited them to come round to their home when they had time off. They were delighted with the chance to share a proper home and spent many evenings with their new friends.

  ‘Are Uncle Bud and Auntie Mary a Mister and Mrs?’ Carole asked. The adults looked slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘Not exactly, honey, but we both come from the same town back home, so we’re very good friends. Say, how’s about I send you a new dolly to play with when we get back home?’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ the child said, her eyes alight with pleasure. ‘But what will she be called?’

  ‘We’ll have to think of a nice American name, won’t we?’ The distraction from the awkward questions had worked. It would be many months before Carole received her doll, Jackie-Lou, they had decided it should be called.

  ‘First thing I’ll do when we get back home is to visit the toy store and find a doll that looks like a Jackie-Lou,’ promised Mary. She hugged the child and gazed wistfully over her head towards the man she had fallen in love with. Unfortunately, his wife back home would be waiting so theirs was a brief interlude, as were so many other wartime romances.

  In every home on the estate, there was a determined effort to prove they could overcome anything. Large groups of mothers and children set out for the lanes to gather blackberries during late August. The allowance of extra sugar for jam was a great incentive and happy groups of purple stained children played around together and competed to fill their jars. They took picnic meals with them and experimented with bread and marg filled with the gritty fruit in its uncooked state. Never had food tasted so good. The mothers chatted while the children recognised that this was what life should be like. The last bits of crust were fed to the ducks as the weary trail dragged themselves home. The distant booms from the factory, so much a part of their lives now, were largely ignored. The final blackberrying triumph came the following day when each home in the road put out pots of freshly made jam, served on huge wedges of new bread. No need to waste any of the precious margarine ration with such delights.

  The children usually went to the end of the road to wait for the works’ bus to come back and greet their fathers as they returned home. Carole ran to her father and slipped her hand in his, walking along, trying to hear and understand what the men were talking about. She desperately wanted to tell him about her day, the jam and the new bread, but he was grim faced and didn’t seem to be listening to anything other than his workmate.

  ‘Dreadful business,’ Jack was saying.

  ‘Certainly makes you think. Never expect anything like that, not here.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’ Carole persisted as she tugged his hand.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry over, love. See you tomorrow, Jack. Bye.’ They went inside and the little girl pointed at the table.

  ‘See what we’ve made, Daddy? I helped, didn’t I, Mummy?’

  ‘What’s wrong, love?’ Dora asked, seeing the expression on her husband’s face. He shook his head, indicating the presence of the child. ‘Was it something to do with that great bang this afternoon? I did wonder. Louder than usual.’

  ‘What are the big bangs, Daddy?’

  ‘They’re testing paintbrushes, love,’ he replied absentmindedly. It satisfied the child and she went off to play with her dolls.

  ‘Testing paintbrushes?’ spluttered Dora. ‘That the best you can come up with?’ Her laughter died quickly, as he began to speak.

  ‘Some detonators went off when they were packing the shells. Terrible accident. Oh, love, I couldn’t bear to look. One poor woman . . . pregnant she is . . . lost both her hands. Blown right away. Several of the others were really badly burned.’

  ‘Oh God. How awful. Will she lose her baby as well?’ She shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Nobody knows. She was lying there screaming, “How can I look after my baby without hands? How can I hold it? I won’t be able to stroke its hair.” Just kept on and on about it. I doubt I’ll ever forget today. I’ll tell you one thing. I’m going to look round the whole workshop. See if I can’t come up with a few ideas to make some of it a bit safer. There has to be a way of making some improvements.’

  ‘When’s it all going to end? Year after year. Such terrible loss and injuries. How many more people have to suffer? They said it would never be like the last war. Not even the people staying at home are safe in this one. They said it would end in a few weeks. What is it now? Five years? Do you realise Carole will be going to school in a few months? I can’t believe it.’ The horror stayed with him for many months.

  After Easter the next year, Carole started school. It was a total change in the lives of mother and daughter. They both had to get used to the changes and some days, Carole begged to stay at home. It was very tempting but Dora would not listen to her pleas and sent her off on the school bus. The school was dark and old-fashioned and suffering badly from lack of
resources. They mostly learned to write on pieces of board, painted black. The older children used slates but even these were getting to be in short supply as breakages could not be replaced. Carole was a bright child and was soon moving up the school to the older classes. She discovered the pleasures of reading for herself and was always lost in one book or another. War time was simply a way of life, the only life the child had ever known.

  When May arrived, the news was better. The end of the dreadful war seemed to be imminent. Rumours flew round the world that Hitler was dead but it took a few more days for the final announcement of peace to be made. Celebrations in the streets of London filled the news broadcasts and finally, May 8th was to be V.E. day. Victory in Europe. Schools were to be given a holiday and every town in the country was set to celebrate It seemed that things were going to return to whatever counted for normal. Despite the announcements, some people were holding back, unable to believe it was finally over. That night, there were to be fireworks in the town square and everyone was going. Hastily gathered flags and bunting were put up on every available post and even some coloured lights were found from the depths of the cellars at the council offices. Carole and some of her younger friends were put to bed early, promised that they would be woken later and taken to the town. Sleepily, she rode on her father’s shoulders, wondering what on earth was happening. Everyone was cheering and the excitement soon filled her and she joined in with great glee, mainly because it was the latest time she had ever stayed up. She saw her friends from their road and they ran wildly around, weaving between the adults’ legs. Whatever the end of the war meant, it was good to see everyone laughing and singing together. It was the first time she had ever seen lights shining out at night. There were no blackout curtains covering any windows. It was beginning to dawn on everyone that the war years were finally over.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Dora asked her husband. ‘You’ll be out of a job at Swynnerton, thank God.’

  ‘What else but go back to the pot banks? I’m sure Leslie will have me back. The decorating will be starting up again soon.’ Throughout the war years, plain white pottery had been the only manufacturing that had taken place, except for special orders for the export market. It was considered a waste of resources, when the talents of the largely women painters could be used in the war effort. Apart from the manpower issues, the cost of materials for a non-essential commodity was possibly a greater saving.

  ‘I can’t believe we shall get back to running our lives again, instead of being told what we should do. Oh, Archie, isn’t it wonderful?’ They clung to each other, relieved they had come through it all, relatively unscathed. For a moment, they remembered Ralph. Though he had not been fighting abroad, he was nonetheless a victim of the war.

  ‘Can I be in this hug please?’ said Carole, clinging to their legs.

  It was amazing how quickly everyone settled back into a normal life. In many ways, the camaraderie was fast disappearing, as people fell back to their old jobs and some degree of a class structure crept back into society. Many of the men stayed on at the munitions factory, making things safe and closing down the work sheds. Speculation was rife about the possible future of the place and rumours of factories and new jobs ran round the estate. Air-raid shelters were quickly turned into spare rooms or general dumping grounds for junk.

  Food rationing continued but there were many things coming back into the shops. Mary began a weekly routine of visits and brought some of her own and Harry’s sweet ration for their grandchild.

  ‘You shouldn’t, Mum,’ Dora told her. Her mother had always had a sweet tooth and she knew what it meant for her to give them up. ‘You don’t send sweets to Margaret’s kids, do you?’

  ‘I don’t see much of them, do I? How are things with Frances, by the way?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Haven’t seen her to tell the truth. She made it plain I wasn’t really welcome. She got her welfare handout after the mine disaster and somehow, she seems to have gone a bit funny. Archie goes to see her a bit but it seems I’m not wanted. Not that I mind. She’s a miserable old cow, to say the least.’

  ‘I think Margaret will be coming over to stay with us for Christmas this year. It’s months since we saw them. Will you and Archie come for the day, as well? Be nice to be all together again.’

  ‘It’s months till Christmas, Mum,’ Dora laughed. ‘But yes, when the time comes. If that’s what you want. I was going to ask you here. Be the first time I’ve done it myself. William is getting his de-mob by then and I thought he could come over on Boxing Day. Let’s see what happens, shall we?’

  For Archie, being back at Sansom’s was wonderful. He quickly settled back into a routine and met up with many of his old ‘girls’. They cheerfully teased him, as they worshipped him for his cheerfulness and good leadership. He never lost his temper, as most of the managers did, and always listened to their problems. They knew they could trust him with their secrets and worked all the harder. Carole and Dora came to visit the factory occasionally, and the ‘girls’ all made a terrific fuss of the child. She was a serious little girl, always asking questions and wanting to have a go at everything they were doing. One of the ‘girls’ sat her on her knee and held her little hand as she tried to paint the permitted blue coloured edge on a plate. The plate was ruined but nobody minded.

  ‘I can do it better when I’m bigger,’ decided Carole. ‘I’ll practise with my paints at home.’ The massive rows of plates and cups were quite amazing to the child and she wondered where all the people could be to use them.

  As the months went by, Archie once more began to get frustrated with always having to follow the same routines. As Christmas approached, he did some painting himself for Christmas presents. He painted a tea set for Mary and Harry, his favourite primroses with a standard print border, even though they were not supposed to take any decorated ware for the home market. Everyone was still having to accept plain white or cream-ware. He also managed to organise a dinner service for Dora, an elegant gold rimmed, bone china set. It was the beginning of having the sort of china on his table that once he’d dreamed of as a child.

  ‘I wish Mum and Dad were coming here now,’ Dora said. ‘I’d like to show off my new china. It’s so beautiful.’

  ‘There’ll be other times. It’ll be nice to see Margaret again, won’t it?’

  ‘I doubt it. We’ll no doubt get an ear bashing about how we’ve spoilt Carole and how we’re too snooty for our own good.’ Archie looked surprised. He’d never quite realised the depth of feeling held by his wife towards her sister.

  ‘By the way, Mum wants to see Carole,’ Archie told her. ‘I hope it’s OK, but I’ve said I’ll take her over on Christmas Eve. Just for an hour or two.’

  ‘I take it she didn’t want to see me?’ asked Dora crossly.

  ‘She didn’t say but you can come if you want. I didn’t think you’d want to.’

  ‘I don’t. No, of course I don’t mind you going. How will you work it?’

  ‘Can you put her on the bus and I’ll meet her off it, at the other end when I come out of work. Then we can go on to Mum’s.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be all right? She’s only little. I’m not sure. I think I should go with her. I can always do a bit of shopping after.’ In the event, that was what happened. Dora spent a couple of hours shopping in Longton and enjoyed the atmosphere of post-war shops and their bright lights. She bought a large chicken at the market and planned to cook it on Boxing Day when her brother-in-law was to come over. She felt pleased and content with herself. She had a loving husband, a beautiful child and two very dear parents. The only blot on the landscape was the impending day to be spent with her sister and family.

  Archie’s visit to his mother was reasonably successful. The old lady was mellowing a bit, he decided. She gave her grandchild a parcel to be opened the next morning. Archie was pleased that she’d taken the trouble to produce something and remembered the day he’d first been given a present. The exer
cise book and pencils. It was probably still upstairs in his old room.

  ‘You’ll have a glass of port,’ Frances told him, rather than asked. ‘There’s glasses in the cupboard.’ He took out two small glasses and poured from the bottle that was standing on the side.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said lifting the glass. He hated port but dared not refuse it. ‘I’ve got a card for you. And I’ve put a little something inside. I didn’t know what you’d like for a present so you can buy yourself something with it. Hope that’s all right.’

  ‘Thanks, son. Good of you, I’m sure.’

  ‘When’s William due back?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll see him when he decides it’s time I s’pose. He’s a law to himself these days.’

  The stilted conversation went on and Carole sat bored and waiting to go home. She was asked various questions from time to time but apart from that, felt as if she was wasting time. It was never like that when she visited her other grandparents. There was always something to do. The button box to sort out or some paper to fold into something.

  ‘Can I sort out your button box?’ she asked timidly, half afraid of the rather dominating woman she hardly knew.

  ‘Button box? I don’t have such a thing. Now, Archie, tell me about the factory. How many workers are there?’ Carole continued to sit on the edge of the sofa, looking bored.

  Archie was amazed at the apparent interest and replied mechanically. He could see the little girl was bored and was trying to think of some way he could make his escape. He downed the last of the revolting port and politely stood up.

  ‘I suppose I should be getting this one home. Be bedtime by the time we’ve got there. Don’t want to miss out on Santa, do we? I’ll just go up the yard, if that’s OK. Do you want to go, Carole?’