by Deborah Carr
‘John seems to be doing well,’ Margaret said, ‘and would have loved to have been with us today. I’m consoling myself with the knowledge that he’s happy to have been given the role of Transport Officer.’
‘Yes,’ Jesse said, ‘he’ll be good at that and no doubt relish having something to organise and get his teeth into.’
Florence was relieved she had insisted Margaret come and stay with them at St Heliers House for the festivities. She hated to think of the poor young bride alone at such a time. If she herself was missing John with all that she had going on in her life, then his wife must find his absence a bigger struggle to deal with.
Florence placed Margery opposite Dorothy and next to her own younger sister, Amy. She watched Margery chatting animatedly to Amy, telling her all her news and all that they had planned for the future of her canteen. She could almost feel her daughter’s impatience to set off to France in three days’ time. Florence thought of all the supplies Margery had gathered waiting to be taken from an empty storeroom Jesse had allowed her to use in one of their factories. They were ready to leave and were only still in Nottingham due to Florence’s insistence that Margery spend the festivities with her family. In the next couple of days, they would be loaded onto the train to go with Margery and her assistants on the ferry to Calais.
No, she thought, determined not to dwell on Margery’s impending departure. She still had two of her children with her and she would focus on them and remain as positive as she could manage. She doubted anyone was truly feeling the Christmas spirit this year but the least she could do was put on a brave face and make sure that everyone in her home enjoyed the festivities as much as possible.
On the morning of 28 December, Florence braced herself to help Margery go through final checks of her personal packing to ensure her daughter hadn’t forgotten anything important. She sat on the edge of Margery’s bed watching as she double-checked her large carpet bag.
‘I’m very proud of you, do you know that?’ Florence said.
Margery stopped folding the stockings she was holding and grinned. ‘Yes, Mother. You’ve told me many times over the past couple of months.’ She returned to her checking and placed the extra pair of stockings into the bag. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ she added without looking up.
Florence closed her eyes to try to contain her rising emotion. Her daughter knew her too well, despite how brave she was attempting to act. ‘I know you will. And who knows, you might end up meeting a handsome soldier stopping for refreshment in your canteen?’
Margery laughed. ‘I’m not looking for a husband over there. I’m going to be working, very hard too by all accounts.’
‘I know you will,’ Florence said, unable to give up the small hope that Margery might meet the love of her life and end up returning to Nottingham to be a housewife well away from any fighting.
Margery, satisfied, fastened her large bag, closed her handbag and rested her palms on the handles. ‘Well then. That’s me ready.’ She crossed the floor to Florence. ‘Truly, Mother. You mustn’t worry about me. I believe we all have our parts to play in this war. This canteen is mine. I promise I won’t do anything silly that could put me in danger. And I’ll make sure to come home whenever I have the chance so that you and Father are able to see for yourselves that I’m looking after myself properly. Agreed?’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ replied Florence, a lump constricting her throat making it difficult to speak without showing how emotional she felt.
It wasn’t really fine, but Florence knew it was the best she could hope for. She knew there was no turning back now that Margery was about to depart for France. She had failed to persuade her daughter to stay in Britain and if nothing else she was determined to show Margery how confident she was in her abilities. Letting her know how frightened she was for her simply was not the way she intended to leave things between them on this last morning they would be sharing for along time. Florence was determined to put on a brave face. She would have more than enough time after Margery’s departure to give in to the tears that kept threatening to escape.
Florence stood. ‘I’ll go and ask Meadows to come and fetch your bags and take them out to Father’s car. Then we can leave for the station.’
Florence left Margery’s room. The tension of trying to remain cheerful when really what she needed to do was have a good cry was exhausting. She made her way down the stairs to find Meadows. When she couldn’t find him anywhere, Florence walked to the kitchen hoping Mrs Rudge, their cook, might know where he might be. She opened the door and immediately saw Meadows, his face ashen, holding what looked like a telegram. Something was obviously very wrong.
Mrs Rudge, Meadows and the two maids in the kitchen with them turned wide-eyed to stare at her as she stood in the doorway.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Florence asked, walking across the terracotta tiles to speak to them. ‘Has something happened, Meadows? You look incredibly pale.’
Meadows held out the telegram in his hand. ‘It’s my sister’s boy, Lady Boot. She was recently widowed when her husband died in an accident. This says that her boy has been wounded. He’s in a hospital in France.’
Florence’s heart ached for Meadows and his unfortunate sister. ‘Do you wish to go to her, Meadows?’
‘I would appreciate the time to do so, Lady Boot. She hasn’t asked me to come in her telegram but I’m all she’s got apart from her son and I know she’ll be in a dreadful state.’
‘Then you must pack whatever clothes you need and go to be with your sister now. You can travel with Margery and me to the station. You can catch a train from there. We’re leaving in twenty minutes though, so you’ll need to pack immediately if you’re to be ready in time.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Thank you very much, Lady Boot. That’s extremely kind of you.’ He forced a smile in her direction. ‘I’ll fetch Miss Margery’s cases down to the car and then pack my things. It won’t take me a minute.’
‘If you’re sure you have time, Meadows,’ Florence said, unsure whether to allow him to bother with Margery’s cases when he had to sort himself out to come with them. ‘I can ask George to take the cases.’
‘No, honestly, I have more than enough time for both, I won’t need to take much with me.’
The drive to Nottingham Station was a sombre one. Florence had intended being chatty and at her most cheerful for Margery’s sake, but now that Meadows was accompanying them, albeit in the front with their driver, Alfred Parry, she didn’t think it appropriate.
‘Do you think his nephew will be all right?’ Margery whispered as the car made its way down the roads from The Park.
Florence shrugged. ‘I do hope so.’
‘You never know,’ Margery said louder so that Meadows could hear. ‘Maybe your nephew will travel via my canteen on his way home from France?’
Florence wished Margery hadn’t said what she did. None of them knew yet whether the boy would survive his injuries. But Meadows seemed happy at her suggestion when he turned around to face them as well as he could from the front passenger seat. ‘Thank you, Miss Margery. I’d like that very much. I’ll say as much to my sister.’
Florence realised that any hope of a positive outcome was better than none. The efforts she and Jesse had been making to do their best to support those fighting for their country needed to be increased, she decided. By tomorrow, she would have two children in France fighting for what they believed in and with every second that passed on the way to the station Florence felt a deeper compulsion to do whatever it took to ensure she brought them home safely.
Parry parked the motor and helped Florence and Margery out.
‘Don’t wait for us, Meadows,’ Florence said, aware that he might have to run ahead to catch the next train to his sister’s hometown. ‘Please send my and Sir Jesse’s best wishes to your sister and I hope that any news about your nephew is positive. I’ll see you when you return to St Heliers House.’
He scoo
ped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Thank you, again, Lady Boot. I promise I’ll be back as soon as possible.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now off you go. You don’t want to miss your train.’
Parry called for a porter to come and take Margery’s carpet bag. Florence went with Margery to check that the supplies had been successfully loaded and then to buy her ticket. She was almost relieved to discover that they only had a few minutes until the train departed and that it was already waiting for passengers to board. Although she hated to see Margery leave, she wasn’t sure how long she would be able to keep control of her emotions, especially now the time had come for her daughter to leave Nottingham.
The porter followed them to Margery’s carriage and helped load her larger bag. Florence heard several female voices calling for Margery and turned to see four other women waving and hurrying towards them, each with happy, excited expressions on their faces. How thrilling it must be for them to set off on this new adventure, she realised, feeling a little placated by their cheeriness.
Florence took Margery by the shoulders and bent forward to kiss her on her cheek. ‘I see your friends have arrived. I’ll let you join them on the train and say my farewells here.’ Annoyingly, her voice broke slightly, and Florence had to swallow to gather herself.
Margery pulled her into a hug. ‘I’ll be fine, Mother. Please don’t fret about me. You have more than enough to attend to with your own work.’ She moved back slightly but kept her voice low. ‘We’ll both be so busy that the time I’m away will fly by. You wait and see.’
Florence hoped so very much. ‘Yes,’ she said, determined to sound as convinced as Margery did. ‘And think of all the tales we’ll have to share when you’re next home.’
‘I was thinking the very same thing.’ Margery kissed her once more on her cheek just as her four friends reached her side. She introduced each of them to Florence, who recognised the two friends from Margery’s schooldays.
‘Off you go, then, girls,’ Florence said, her throat aching with misery as she gave them a cheery wave. ‘Go and make that canteen of yours a brilliant success.’
The women laughed and boarded the train. Margery waited while the porter closed the carriage door behind her and slid the window down to give Florence one last wave. ‘Bye-bye, Mother. Please give Father my love and, don’t forget, I’ll see you both very soon.’
Florence heard a whistle in the distance and the next thing she knew the train was slowly moving forward, building momentum as it began rolling along the tracks out of the station. She stood and waved at Margery’s ever decreasing figure, unable to focus on her properly as her eyes swam with unshed tears.
Chapter Eight
5 April 1915
Florence stared down at the tiny baby girl in her arms. ‘Nancy Jessica Bruce,’ she repeated, gazing at Dorothy and Wilfred’s first child – her and Jesse’s first grandchild – who had been born four days before. She wiped away a tear from the side of her right eye and wondered when her children had grown up into the adults they were.
‘Mother, are you crying?’ Dorothy asked, looking, Florence suspected, as if she was also about to shed a tear.
‘I was just thinking how enormously proud of you I am. You’re such a clever girl and baby Nancy is such a bonnie little thing.’
‘Thank you.’
Florence carefully passed her granddaughter back to Dorothy’s open arms and watched her daughter cuddle her baby as if she had been doing it for months rather than a mere few days.
She wished her other two children could be here now, so that they could all celebrate this exciting birth. The house seemed much emptier without Margery’s bright personality and John not bringing his young wife for family meals or stopping by on his way home some evenings to sit with her and Jesse. Each day now held a sense of dread and fear for her, however much she tried to push it away: the constant roll call of the dead that seemed to take up more space in every issue of the broadsheets; the drawn faces of her staff, both at the Boots stores and factories and at St Heliers House; the returning wounded as well as the constant lamenting she heard whenever she ventured into the town – all were a constant reminder of what every family in Britain and no doubt the continent now faced.
Florence pictured Margery, working so hard to cater for the thousands of wounded soldiers who passed through her canteen, and John, her beloved son, on a battlefield somewhere. She realised sadly that the majority of people who believed that the war would be over by Christmas had been wrong and she had been right when her instincts had told her to fear that the war had a long way to go yet. She wished more than anything that both her children had chosen to remain in Nottingham where it was safer.
She wondered if her concern for her family showed on her face in the same way as she had seen it on many other mothers’ and fathers’ as the months passed by. Jesse had been spending longer hours in his study at home each night as they both desperately tried to come up with new ideas to help support the war effort. However much work it took for them to help bring about an end to the war and quicken their children’s return home, Florence knew she and Jesse were determined to do it. As soon as the thought appeared in her mind another took its place and frightened her. What if her best wasn’t good enough? What if she didn’t manage to do enough to save her children? The thought was too horrible to contemplate and made her nauseous.
If only John had chosen to stay here and help run the Boots business, she thought, unable to ignore her concern for her son but aware that his conscience wouldn’t let him do anything else but enlist. He was such a decent man. She would have been proud of him whatever he had chosen to do. It seemed that now – unsurprisingly, Florence thought – he was also turning out to be a devoted husband and would soon become a father for the first time. Only four months now until his lovely wife Margaret brought their first-born into the world. What an exciting but extraordinary and emotional time it was, Florence thought. She wondered if she would ever get used to the range of emotions that hit her each day.
She recalled their last conversation when he had tried to soothe her concerns. ‘You have enough to keep you occupied, Mother,’ he had told her, hugging her tightly before leaving. ‘Finding ways to cope with all the shortages in the shops and here at the house, you probably won’t have a moment to notice I’ve gone.’
He had been right only insofar as she had a lot to focus her attention on, she decided later that day as she sat and leaved through the pages of the first issue of Comrades in Khaki. This was their most recent project, an internal Boots magazine that they had begun publishing, and she enjoyed reading through it. Comrades in Khaki was to be printed and distributed to all Boots employees from that month onwards. Florence hoped they would be able to keep publishing one issue each month for as long as possible. Jesse had been concerned that as the war progressed, there might be a shortage in paper, which she knew would affect them being able to publish the magazine, but she was hopeful that it wouldn’t be the case.
This first issue – the April issue – was about to be distributed, and as she reread the brief letter of greeting Jesse had written – and which he would write for each issue – she smiled, prouder of him than ever. Jesse never let his ailing health hold him back. His misshapen hands made it difficult for him to eat now and almost impossible for him to write but he continued to do both despite everything.
She turned the pages and her smile disappeared, the ache in her heart increasing as she read the ‘Boots Roll of Honour’ listing the names and regiments of their brave Boots employees who had fallen. The anxiety on the faces of those she worked with was a constant these days. The names of sons, fathers, brothers and uncles represented not only those she had come into contact within Boots stores and factories but the many people in the country who were doing the same thing and were also paying the ultimate price. Too many young lives ended already. She sighed, close to tears; these names were of people she knew. Florence pictured her son in his un
iform and said a prayer that he would come out of this terrifying war safely. How much longer would she and all mothers and fathers have to live in a perpetual state of fear for their loved ones’ safety?
Florence needed to finish reading through the issue. She focused her attention back on the magazine, once again, with its photographs and illustrations that helped bring the news included within it to life. She had discussed and seen all the features prior to them being printed but seeing the finished article in her hands made her eyes fill with tears. To read the letters sent to them from their staff who were now fighting at the Front, and the obituaries of others who had been killed, broke her heart. But it wasn’t only bad news that they published: she enjoyed reading the reports of employees’ activities, included in the magazine to reassure the troops that they were being supported by those at home by way of fundraising, as well as what Boots itself was doing to support the men and their families.
She finished reading the final paragraph on the last page and turned the issue over to gaze once more at the front. Florence was looking forward to reading the May issue, when they would be praising Margery’s and her assistants’ continued hard work running the canteen. She had hoped to include something about Margery in the first one but Jesse had rightly suggested that maybe they should not make the first issue about their own children but keep the feature on Margery for the next issue.
The thing John had not been right about though was that she would be too busy to have time to fret about him and his safety. He and Margery were never far from her mind and she knew from conversations she had exchanged with Jesse that he was feeling exactly the same way.
