Women on the Home Front

by Annie Groves

  ‘He told me on Thursday when we had a cup of tea together that he’s really proud of how well I’ve learned all the stations,’ Agnes continued.

  She spoke a great deal about the young man who had been helping her, and although Agnes’s emotional and sexual welfare were not strictly speaking her responsibility, Olive couldn’t help feeling a maternal twinge of concern as she listened. Agnes was virtually the same age as Tilly, and she was naïve. It wasn’t her business to interfere, of course, but since Agnes had no one to stand as a caring parent for her, and since Olive felt morally obliged to keep a protective eye on her young lodger, listening to the two girls chatting she decided that she needed – discreetly, of course – to find out a bit more about this young man.

  ‘Since he’s been so kind and helpful to you, Agnes,’ she announced. ‘you’ll have to ask him to come and have his tea with us one evening, as a thank you.’

  Immediately Agnes looked a bit uncertain. ‘I don’t think I could do that. You see, Ted’s mum likes him to go straight home from work when he’s on days so that he can give her a hand with his younger sisters, with her being widowed.’

  Olive could only accept what Agnes told her, though it raised her concern. It sounded plausible enough but who knew if this Ted was telling the truth, and he wasn’t just leading Agnes up the garden path, her being such an innocent sort.

  They’d almost reached the end of Chancery Lane. Olive pulled her warm winter coat firmly around herself as a sharp wind buffeted them when they turned onto Holborn, heading for Chancery Lane tube station.

  It was definitely time that Tilly had something new, she acknowledged, as she looked at the hem of her daughter’s coat, which barely touched her knees. Tilly must have grown at least a couple of inches since she had bought her the dark green coat with its velvet collar in an end-of-season sale at a shop on Oxford Street.

  The grumpy-looking individual from whom they bought their underground tickets, wasn’t as grumpy as he looked, Agnes told them in a whisper as they hurried along the tiled corridor, heading for their train.

  ‘Ted says he just gets a bit cross because of his gout,’ she explained, adding proudly, ‘Ted knows everything about everyone at the station, and all about the trains as well.’

  Although she smiled, Olive sighed to herself. She definitely needed to find out a bit more about this young man that Agnes so plainly admired.

  In her room at number 13, Sally tried to sleep, reminding herself that she was starting night duty this evening, but she’d been dreaming about Liverpool and her mother, and she didn’t want to go back into the dream from which she’d just woken herself. She turned over, thumping the pillow, knowing that she’d be cursing herself later on this evening if she didn’t sleep now. Sleep remained elusive, though, so she tried to focus her mind on something else. During a snatched meal in the nurses’ canteen earlier in the week, one of the ward nurses on men’s surgical, a girl called Rachel Horseley, who was around Sally’s age, had invited her to join a group of nurses who were planning to go to the pictures together. Sally had had to turn down the invitation because she would be on duty, but remembering the other girl’s overtures of friendship made her smile.

  She had made the right decision in coming to London to have a fresh start. The loss of her mother and what had followed would always cast its shadow over her, she knew, but her mother would have wanted her to be as happy as she could be and to enjoy life. Slowly, something of her old joie de vivre was coming back. She had laughed out loud at a joke one of the other girls had told them all yesterday, and she had hummed to one of her favourite songs when it had been played on the wireless, her feet starting to tap in time to the music. She’d even begun to wonder if George Laidlaw was a good dancer. Smiling to herself, Sally settled down to sleep.

  It was just over two and a half hours after they had first arrived at Portobello Market, and the whole street was now a seething mass of enthusiastic bargain hunters, the cries of the stall holders, trying to attract custom, mingling with bellowed warnings from porters bringing up fresh barrows of goods, and even the ring of bicycle bells from those cyclists brave enough to try to ride through the busy throng of people filling the narrow streets.

  Tilly and Agnes had been almost beside themselves with excitement from the moment they had arrived, Tilly especially as she had dragged them from stall to stall, calling to Olive to look at some fresh marvel that had caught her eye.

  Olive couldn’t really blame her. The market was far bigger and better than she had expected, and she was obliged to admit mentally, if somewhat reluctantly, that Dulcie had been right about the quality of fabric for sale. The problem was that the bargains were almost too tempting.

  They’d agreed initially that they would walk round carefully and ‘just take a look’ but that discipline hadn’t lasted very long. That was her fault, Olive knew, but the discovery of the last precious few yards of the most beautiful warm bronze dress-weight wool that was perfect for Tilly’s colouring had been too good a bargain to risk losing, especially when the stall holder had confirmed that since Tilly was so slim there was just enough for a daytime dress and a matching jacket, which Olive had been able to bargain down to a truly unmissable price because it was the end of the roll.

  Then, of course, Olive had wanted to get something for Agnes, and they’d soon found a lovely soft blue-grey wool on the same stall. Olive however, mentally scolded herself that there had not really been any excuse for her to let the girls persuade her to give in to a deep dark red for herself, even if the prices were good.

  Despite the cold wind that was blowing, the press of the crowd and the excitement of their bargain hunting had brought a warm glow to their faces, and Olive acknowledged that she was enjoying herself far more than she had expected. It was such a pleasure to have enough money to be able to treat the girls, thanks to letting out the rooms.

  And as if their bargain-hunting shopping hadn’t already been successful enough, when Tilly had complained how much she now disliked her ‘childish’ too-short coat, the stall holder reached beneath his stall and brought out the most beautiful rolls of what he’d explained was a blend of wool and cashmere.

  ‘It’s wot the toffs all have their coats made out of,’ he told them as they huddled together under the stall’s faded green and white striped awning. Olive could believe that. The wool was unbelievably soft and warm, and in the most beautiful jewel colours. Despite her habitual need to be frugal, in the end she wasn’t able to resist either the fabric or Tilly’s pleading look, though it was more than she’d planned to spend even after she’d haggled him down. And, of course, she then felt obliged to say that Agnes must have a new coat as well, so that they bought the coat fabric in a lovely warm brown colour for Tilly, and also in a soft air-force blue for Agnes. Both girls were thrilled to bits, despite the weight of the brown-paper-wrapped parcels they insisted were no problem at all to carry.

  ‘What we need now is to find some lining fabric, oh, and buttons. Tilly, have you got those swatches of fabric the stall holder gave us so that we can match the shades up?’ Olive asked.

  Tilly nodded, but before they reached the stalls with the lining fabrics on them, Olive noticed a stall selling a range of pretty warm-looking tartans, fine enough for winter dresses.

  ‘That would make very pretty party dresses for you both,’ she pointed out to the girls.

  Tilly pulled a face, wrinkling her nose as she objected, ‘We’ll look like schoolgirls in that, Mum. Oh, but look at that velvet.’

  It was beautiful, Olive acknowledged, real silk velvet that slithered through her fingers when she touched it and in the most glamorous of colours: rich amber, warm rose, dark green, navy, and plum.

  ‘It’s a very good price,’ the stall holder told them. ‘French too. You’ll not see this quality anywhere else.’

  ‘Please, Mum,’ Tilly pleaded, her eyes shining.

  ‘I don’t know, Tilly. We’ve already bought more than I planned. It is lov
ely, but the pile on the velvet is bound to flatten.’

  ‘It’s silk velvet,’ the stall holder emphasised, overhearing her. ‘You just give it a bit of a steam and it comes up like new. This rose colour would be perfect for you, with them dark curls,’ she told Tilly.

  ‘We’ve got lining fabric to get yet for your coats and buttons and everything,’ Olive warned her daughter.

  ‘Coats, is it?’ the stall holder chipped in. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you was to have a length of this silk velvet each then I’ll throw in enough ordinary velvet for you to have a set of collars and cuffs made for your coats.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Tilly breathed excitedly, and Olive acknowledged ruefully that she’d no chance of bargaining the stall holder down now, with her daughter looking so excited.

  It was lovely fabric, though. Mentally she calculated how much they’d already spent. It would mean going over the budget she had set herself if they had the velvet, but she could afford to, thanks to the rent from the lodgers.

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed, ‘but we’ll need only two lengths,’ she told the stall holder. ‘Which colour do you like, Agnes?’

  Agnes’s reaction was to gaze at her with disbelief. ‘Me? When you said two lengths I thought it was for you and Tilly.’

  Poor Agnes – she had had so little, growing up, that she automatically expected to be excluded from treats, Olive thought.

  ‘Of course you must have a new dress too, Agnes,’ she told her firmly. ‘Now which colour? This dark green will suit you, I think.’ Holding the velvet up to Agnes, Olive saw that her whole face was illuminated with joy as, speechless with gratitude, Agnes could only beam at her. That look on Agnes’s face made her decision all the more worthwhile, Olive admitted to herself, even if that did make her a sentimental softie.

  ‘What about you?’ the saleswoman pressed. ‘I’ll give you thruppence a yard off if you have three lengths.’ She pointed to a roll of amber velvet. ‘Perfect for you, that would be.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mum, do have it,’ Tilly cajoled her. Olive reached out and touched the fabric. It was beautiful and she knew the colour would suit her. She paused and then shook her head, saying firmly, ‘What do I need a party dress for?’ before telling the stallholder, ‘Just the two lengths, please.’

  The velvet bought, they all agreed that a cup of tea and something like a nice fresh hot meat pie were needed to give them the energy to finish their shopping.

  There were plenty of stalls selling food, but Olive insisted that they find a café. She didn’t really approve of eating in the street, and besides, her feet needed a rest.

  They found a welcoming café down a narrow side street, the smell of the hot pies they were selling making Tilly declare that her mouth was watering already.

  The pies turned out to be as good as they smelled, hot and tasty, warming chilled fingers and filling hungry stomachs.

  The women didn’t waste much time in the café, though. The crowd milling around the market had grown throughout the morning, and Olive wanted to get their shopping done before it got even busier.

  Once they had eaten their pies and emptied the generously sized pot of tea they’d had with them, the three of them headed for a stall Olive had noticed earlier that sold lining fabrics. The local dressmaker would charge her a little bit less, Olive was sure, if she provided her own lining fabric, thread and buttons, and make allowances for the time it would save her in not having to go out and buy them.

  It was whilst she was carefully matching the swatches of fabric she had retrieved from Tilly that Olive suddenly realised that her daughter and Agnes had disappeared. Uncertainly she looked round. The market was busy; she didn’t want them getting themselves lost in the bustling crowd. Then to her relief she caught sight of them hurrying towards her.

  ‘You mustn’t go off like that,’ she scolded them vigorously. ‘What on earth were you doing?’

  ‘Oh, I just wanted to show Agnes some lace I’d seen earlier that would make a pretty collar,’ Tilly told her airily.

  ‘Just because you’ve persuaded me to let you have a velvet dress instead of a plaid one, that does not make you grown up enough to go wandering off without a by-your-leave,’ Olive warned. ‘There’ll be pickpockets and all sorts here.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ said Tilly obediently.

  When Olive turned back to finish choosing the lining fabrics Tilly and Agnes exchanged secret smiles. When they’d gone to the ladies’ after they’d finished having their dinner Tilly had told Agnes that she wanted to go back to the velvet stall to buy the amber velvet for her mother, and immediately Agnes had said that she wanted to go halves on the cost with her. Now the amber silk velvet was parcelled up with their own and the two of them were excitedly anticipating surprising Olive with it when they got home.

  * * *

  The house was finally quiet, Tilly, Agnes and Dulcie all in their beds and Sally working at the hospital. Olive, lying in her own bed, was thankful to be able to rest her still aching feet. In the glow of her bedside lamp Olive could see the brown-paper parcels, open now, their string removed and carefully rolled into balls for future use, stacked on her dressing-table stool, including the amber fabric that Tilly and Agnes had surprised her with earlier in the evening. A tender smile curved her mouth, her eyes misting with emotion and maternal pride.

  Of course she had remonstrated with Tilly, saying that she and Agnes had no business wasting their money on silk velvet for her when she had no need of a party dress. A party dress. The last time she had had one of those she had been Tilly’s age. It had been pale blue silk and she had been wearing it the night she had met her husband, at a dance she had gone to with some friends. Jim had loved her in that dress, begging her to have a photograph taken of herself wearing it for him. She had loved dancing. She had loved Jim too, but she didn’t want Tilly’s youth to be like hers, over almost before it had begun, her life filled with the responsibilities of being a wife and a mother. She already knew what war did to young hearts and how it urged their owners to seize the moment in case it was snatched away from them. For a moment Olive’s heart was filled with remembered pain. She had been widowed for so long that she rarely thought of how it had felt to be a wife any more, or how it felt to be loved by a man and to love that man back in return, and then to lose him.

  This war would not be like that, she tried to reassure herself. Everyone said so. She hoped that they were right.

  The papers were saying that the war would be over before Christmas, Hitler put in his place and the British Expeditionary Force brought back from France and Belgium. Mothers who had parted with their children, allowing them to be evacuated, fearing the worst and that London was going to be bombed, were now bringing them back, and Nancy next door was complaining that the streets were full of children causing mischief who should have been at school, except that the schools had been closed down when the children were evacuated, adding that she was glad that Article Row was free of children, and that Barbara Simpson hadn’t decided to move back to London with their four. Olive didn’t agree with her. She thought it was rather a shame that they could no longer hear the voices of the four young Simpson children.

  Another week and they’d be at the end of October; two months and it would be Christmas. She’d have to start getting a few things in ready, and find out what her lodgers planned to do. Dulcie, she assumed – and hoped – would want to spend Christmas with her own family, but Agnes would be with them, and Sally possibly. She could get some wool and knit both Tilly and Agnes gloves and scarves for Christmas to go with their new coats. Perhaps she’d knit a set for Sally, as well, a nice bright red that would match the lining of her nurse’s cloak.

  Christmas. She’d have plenty of shopping to do with her house so full, and perhaps the sooner the better. Nancy had been talking gloomily about the probability of food shortages and even rationing if the war continued. She needed to get started with making her Christmas pudding, Olive decided. Olive still use
d the recipe that had been her own mother’s, given to her by the cook of the family with whom Olive’s mother had been in service.

  Somehow the thought of following her familiar routine helped to push away the fear that knowing they were at war brought.

  War was such a small word with such a big meaning and overwhelming consequences. Olive reached out and switched off the lamp. It was church in the morning, and she’d be able to tell the vicar’s wife about Sergeant Dawson offering to give her and Mrs Morrison driving lessons.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘It’s St John Ambulance this afternoon,’ Tilly reminded Agnes as they stood together outside the church after morning service. ‘I hope I don’t have to be injured again. Johnny Walton bandaged my arm so tightly last time it went numb.’

  ‘Learning first aid isn’t as bad as when we have to move all those sandbags that are supposed to be collapsed buildings, to get the injured out,’ Agnes reminded her. ‘Ted is on fire-watching duties for the street he lives in when he’s not working nights. He says when there’s a full moon he can see the barrage balloons as clear as anything, and right over to the river. Do you think that Hitler will really bomb us, Tilly?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tilly admitted. People talked a lot about the war, but so far nothing really bad had happened, and it was hard to imagine what war was like, even though she knew that Britain’s soldiers had been sent to France.

  People were already complaining about the inconvenience of the blackout, and having bossy Air Raid Precautions wardens coming round threatening to fine you if you showed even the smallest chink of light. Plain daft, Nancy next door had said to Tilly’s mother when she had been grumbling about it, when there wasn’t a German in sight.

  Where there had initially been a sense of purpose and determination because of the war, there was now almost a sense of anticlimax.