Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts

by Mary Gibson

  ‘Dozy mare,’ was Lily’s loving response. ‘No one’s surprised but you!’

  ‘But you’re happy for me?’

  For answer, Lily kissed her and asked her if they’d set a date. Nellie shook her head.

  ‘Sam wants to wait till after the war.’

  ‘No!’ Lily’s shock would be felt by most girls. It was usual for engagements to be short when the proposal came on a soldier’s leave, for when marriage could be cut short so easily by a sniper’s bullet, or a German shell, there seemed little point in delaying. But Sam had insisted he didn’t want her to rush into marriage just because of the danger he faced. Nellie didn’t want to wait, but she would, for Sam’s sake.

  Jock kissed her loudly on the cheek, whispering in her ear, ‘If he’s got you to come back to, that’s the best thing to keep him going out there.’ He turned to shake hands with Sam.

  ‘Well done, mate,’ he said, ‘well done!’

  Had she been that frightening? Nellie wondered. It was as though Sam had performed some superhuman feat of daring. Certainly, at one time, she’d tried to scare Sam off, but the boy of sixteen waiting at the factory gates had never quailed or faltered. He’d simply been quietly persistent through all her indifference and then faithfully, through their friendship, he’d persevered still, until finally she’d seen him. And seeing him, she couldn’t help but love him. Nellie smiled to herself and thought, Yes, well done, Sam… well done.

  The day she’d dreaded dawned, when their charmed time together came to an end. She’d been wakeful all night, the words of that sentimental song going round and round in her head: Let no tears add to their hardships, as the soldiers pass along… Yes, she was determined to be brave. She was up early to see him off, the morning grey and full of a fine drizzle. Shivering, she quickly dressed and crept downstairs. It was far too cold for spring. The others had said their goodbyes the night before, leaving Nellie and Sam to say their farewells before the rest of the house was stirring. He was already up and in his uniform and she made him sit at the kitchen table to eat a slice of bread, even though he said he wasn’t hungry. She took comfort in the amount she’d fed him during his leave, and in the cleanliness of his clothes and the package of food she’d just put in his knapsack, but these were the only comforts she could find that morning. He stood in the passage, holding her, as she cried. She had so wanted to be courageous, but she cursed the words of the song in her head that mocked her: And although your heart is breaking, Make it sing this cheery song. It was no good, no cheery song had any place in her heart at that moment. The best she could do was tell him she loved him and make him swear, for the thousandth time, to be careful.

  ‘Remember that promise you made on the penny-farthing, before you went away?’

  ‘Of course I do, darling Nellie. You’ve kept your penny-farthing promise ten times over and don’t think I won’t keep mine. You’ve got me for life now!’

  He hugged her tightly. He was bundled up in a greatcoat and webbing with a huge pack on his back, and she couldn’t get her arms all the way round him. As she laid her head on his breast she remembered the image of him in the bath, the pale skin of his chest and the raw scar. She let herself feel that her head now rested on warm skin, not on the horrible scratchy khaki. In the end, he had to untwine her arms.

  ‘Nellie, my love, I’ve got to go. No more tears now. What do I always say?’ He lifted her chin and she said obediently:

  ‘Keep smiling!’

  ‘Well, give me one, then, to keep in my heart.’

  Full of misery, she gave him a brave smile and then he was gone from her arms. When he reached the end of Vauban Street, he looked back. She was still there and he blew her a kiss.

  ‘Goodbye, Nellie.’

  Returning to the lonely kitchen, she sat down heavily and twined her own arms about her, trying to recall the memory of his. Then she made a decision: she knew if she allowed the tears to return, she might never stop. So instead she repeated Sam’s injunction to ‘keep smiling, Nellie’, and decided that from now on, every smile would be for him. There would be no false cheerfulness, just heartfelt gratitude that a man like Sam could love her.

  She was glad she’d made the decision before the others appeared for breakfast. They were all so morose, especially Matty. As they drank a pot of tea together and ate bread and dripping, Nellie announced, ‘Sam’s told me we’ve all got to keep our peckers up, so all you misery guts had better liven up. We’ll do exactly as he wants and keep smiling! Hear me?’

  Charlie gave her an approving, ‘Too right, Nell!’ Chewing the last of his bread, he marched out of the kitchen as if he were off to the front himself. ‘I’m off to do me bit.’

  Then Matty began gathering her things for work. ‘Well, sitting here ain’t getting the shells made, is it?’ she said.

  Then Bobby jumped up, always eager to please her, announcing he was off to his early morning job at the vicarage, where he did odd jobs before school.

  ‘Won’t get the vicar’s boots blacked either!’ he said brightly.

  The rest of them dispersed one by one, leaving only Alice who walked arm in arm with Nellie to Duff’s and, with her quiet delicacy, never once dared ask about her sister’s parting from Sam. Nellie was determined this would be a day like any other day.

  And it was an ordinary day, which made her feel proud of herself and of her family, that they could carry on as normal, even though the heart had been ripped out of them. And that ordinary day was followed by a succession of others, until a month later she came home to a letter from Eliza. After enquiries about Matty’s welfare, Eliza gave her apologies for being unable to come down for Sam’s leave at such short notice. There had been union work she couldn’t drop and a meeting of the No-Conscription Fellowship she couldn’t cancel – all excuses that Nellie thought little of. If Eliza had really wanted to see her brother, she would have been on the next London train; not that Sam had missed her presence. But Nellie was surprised Eliza had mentioned the No-Conscription Fellowship, for she rarely spoke of her work with conscientious objectors. Perhaps she feared Nellie would see it as a betrayal of Sam. But that was far from the truth. When conscription had been introduced earlier that year, all Nellie could think of were her young boys, Charlie, Freddie, Bobby. The eligible age for call-up had dropped to eighteen; how soon before they started snatching boys from their classrooms?

  She read on, until the news of what Eliza called ‘an odd coincidence’ dropped like a bomb into Nellie’s day. Eliza wrote:

  At first I didn’t know him. He’s changed from that handsome young firebrand of five years ago. I’m sure you would remember him, Ted Bosher? I think you may have even had a soft spot for him! I was astonished to hear he’s been living in Russia! I always knew he was a radical, but to exile oneself for the cause is not easy. He’s come home with the very laudable intention of offering his services to the No-Conscription campaign. The upshot is that we spoke of the strike days in Bermondsey and I mentioned that my sister and brother were now living with you.

  Nellie could read no more. Her stomach lurched, tightened and twisted, like a coil of snakes. All the equilibrium of ordinary days was undone with one stroke of Eliza’s pen. Nellie was filled with dread at the mere thought of Ted being back in the country. She forced her limbs to stop trembling, trying to identify what it was that frightened her so much. Russia or Hull, did it make so much difference where in the world he was, when he had no interest in her, or in her life? Was she frightened she might succumb to his charms again? Or was it her newfound happiness with Sam that had made her so vulnerable? Somehow she knew, if Ted ever found out about Sam, he would see it as a challenge. Even though Ted’s interest in her had been fleeting, she was sure that in his vanity he would imagine her waiting her whole life for him. Ted loved nothing more than to be adored. Still, at least for now, he was two hundred miles away in Hull and, please God, he would stay there.

  However sensibly she spoke to herself, she could not settle; s
he decided to go to Lily’s. Unable to even face waiting for a tram, she threw on her coat and jumped on the penny-farthing. The old thing was more and more of an oddity these days and now that motor cars were increasingly common, a little more dangerous to ride amongst the traffic. Still, it did for the Co-op round and the times when she couldn’t afford the tram fare, and today she relished its speed and power. She wanted to be on the move, and it served her well in that respect. She dashed down Spa Road, into Jamaica Road and on towards Rotherhithe Tunnel, pedalling so fast she sometimes found it necessary to lift her feet clear of the pedals as the wheels flashed round. She wasn’t sure what she was fleeing, but when she arrived at the chandler’s shop, she was panting like a hunted animal. She leaped off the bike, letting it clatter to the cobbles, and she took the back stairs to Lily’s two at a time. Lily answered her knocks almost immediately, holding the baby tight to her. The immediate look of panic on Lily’s face finally calmed Nellie down. She had frightened her friend, and she knew why.

  ‘No, no, everything’s all right with Sam,’ she said, before Lily had a chance to speak.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s up, then? I thought you’d got a telegram for sure! You look like a whirling dervish. Look at the state of ya!’ Lily pushed her angrily towards the mirror, where Nellie hardly recognized herself. Her hair was a tangled frizz, her face a sheen of sweat, and there was a wild-eyed look about her that frightened even herself.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to frighten you, love,’ she said repentantly. ‘I don’t know what got into me… well, I do. Here, let me take him, you read this.’

  She reached out for the baby, who, sensing her own agitation, began to whine.

  ‘No, he’s hungry.’ said Lily. ‘You just get your breath back a minute.’

  As Lily began to nurse Johnny, Nellie forced herself to concentrate on the calming ritual of making them tea. Soon the baby’s contented nuzzling noises gave Lily her opportunity to take the letter from Nellie. After a few minutes she looked up, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  ‘So he never let you know?’ Nellie asked.

  ‘Not a dickie bird, the bastard!’

  Lily’s vehemence caused Johnny to protest. She went on in a hushed, angry voice. ‘Heartless git hasn’t told Mum, or no one. Not that I give a monkey’s whether he’s home or not… but Mum…’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘But why’s it got you in such a two ’n’ eight? You’re surely not telling me you think anything of him—’

  ‘No! It’s not that, Lil. To be honest, since that business—’ she dropped her voice ‘—with the bomb… I’m scared of having anything to do with him.’

  ‘Look, if he’s not told me mum he’s back, I reckon he’s still lying low in Hull. You probably won’t hear nothing more about him.’

  Nellie was not convinced, but instead she asked, ‘Will you tell your mum?’

  Lily shook her head and the sadness of her expression told Nellie just how deeply Ted Bosher had managed to break his mother’s heart. But Ted was a man who held hearts far too lightly, and Nellie knew it was quite possible for him to turn up on her own or the Boshers’ doorstep, expecting all to be forgiven and to be loved, as he had once been.

  Eliza thought it an odd coincidence. She was in Sculcoates, visiting her old Aunt Annie, one of the few remaining Hull relatives she had contact with. When she’d first returned to Hull she’d made a courtesy call, not expecting a warm welcome as she hadn’t seen the old lady for over twenty years. But Aunt Annie had an old lady’s vision – the past was more in focus than the present – and she saw Eliza as the little girl who’d lived in a back-to-back in Dock Road. After hearing she was bringing up her boy alone, Aunt Annie insisted on seeing him. Her aunt had no children of her own; instead she’d lavished her attention on Eliza and her brother. Now, as her own little William played in the cosy kitchen, Eliza remembered days when she and his namesake, her simple brother William, would do the same. Sometimes it felt more like coming home than her return to Bermondsey had.

  On this particular day, she didn’t really have the time or inclination to visit, but the old lady was now all alone and she had been kind. Eliza’s work with the No-Conscription Fellowship had become much more demanding. She was now being called upon to speak at rallies of the local branch, which had expanded since the introduction of conscription in January that year. More and more young conscientious objectors were coming to them, in need of aid and advice. Sometimes a desperate young man, on the run from the military police, would need a safe house. But she largely left this dangerous side of the work to other members: William’s safety came first and she could not be a mother to him from prison.

  On the day she visited her aunt, her thoughts were full of a nervous young boy who’d arrived in a state of near collapse the night before, begging for their help. He had declared himself an Absolutist, who would undertake no war work at all, not even in ambulances or on the land. If he were caught, he could be shot or sentenced to years of hard labour. She needed someone reliable she could pass him on to. When she’d walked into her Aunt Annie’s parlour and seen the dimly remembered Ted Bosher sitting at his ease, drinking tea out of her aunt’s best china, she was astonished and, at first, bewildered. He stood up to shake her hand, answering her questioning look.

  ‘Ted Bosher, Bermondsey? Nineteen-eleven strike?’

  Now she remembered him, but he was changed. A rough life seemed to have scuffed those youthful good looks. His rather long red-gold hair still fell across his forehead, but now it was carefully arranged to hide a burn scar running from his forehead across his cheek. His face was quite gaunt and his good suit hung loosely on a rather emaciated frame. Whatever he had been doing in the intervening years, life had obviously not been kind. But his eyes were the same: they had a sea-green phosphorescence that burned with a slow intensity, reminding her why she’d been wary of him all those years ago.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. You did marvellous work, supporting the factory girls! I do remember you had a way with them,’ Eliza said, thinking specifically of Nellie Clark. ‘But how do you come to be here, of all places?’

  ‘Aunt Annie’s a relative of my mother. She was a Gilbie,’ he explained.

  ‘His mother, Betty, was your father’s cousin!’ Aunt Annie chimed in as she brought another cup for Eliza. ‘You two chat about your Bolshevism,’ she said benignly, ‘while I take this little fellow out to the back yard. He wants to help feed my chickens.’ She took William by the hand and left them alone.

  Then Ted told her about his years in Russia, his involvement with the Bolshevik cause, and the reasons he had decided England needed him more.

  ‘What bigger oppression is there than for a government to tell men what they must die for? That’s the sort of dictatorship I want to fight!’ he said passionately.

  His green eyes flashed, and he stood up, pacing the little parlour like a caged animal.

  ‘If you ever wanted to do something nearer to home,’ she suggested, ‘I hear the Bermondsey No-Conscription Fellowship could do with some help.’

  This got his attention.

  ‘Could you recommend me to them? I shall declare myself an Absolutist… though it might bring trouble.’

  She didn’t doubt Ted Bosher would bring trouble, wherever or whatever he was involved in, but the NCF was growing and it was a fact that many of their members would do nothing at all to aid the war effort.

  ‘I’ll recommend you, Ted, but first I wonder if you can help with a little problem we have in the Hull branch?’ She explained the arrival of the young man the previous evening.

  He nodded decisively. ‘I think I can help. I know people I can pass him on to.’

  She thanked him and decided to ask no more questions. The quivering young man who’d arrived at their branch meeting would never survive hard labour, let alone the Western Front. She would take any help she could get.

  ‘And I’ll be in Hull for a few more weeks,’ Ted added, ‘so any more waifs and strays, send ’em
my way!’

  They talked for another hour. Ted never left off in his railing against the war government; the generals; the profiteers. As she listened to his stream of condemnation and resentments, she was reminded of Ernest’s unyielding focus.

  ‘There’s only one war to be fighting at the moment and that’s the class war. Any other just benefits the profiteers. Look at the way the munitionettes are being exploited now!’

  She mentioned that her sister was a munitionette at Woolwich and he became attentive.

  ‘Your sister!’ His tone was rather accusing, which Eliza didn’t appreciate. ‘A lot of the girls are fed up being on half the men’s wages,’ he went on. ‘If you’re blown sky high, doesn’t matter what sex you are, does it?’

  His words chilled her: she had tried everything to dissuade Matty from munitions work, but the girl had an even stronger will than her own.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve got very little influence over my sister. But she wouldn’t listen to me, or my brother Sam, or even your old friend Nellie Clark, and that young lady can be persuasive when she wants to be!’

  When she told him that Matty was now living with Nellie, he sat down again, elbows on the arms of the chair, his long fingers steepled under his chin, as though he were trying to recall Nellie to mind. Eliza noticed then his rather elegant wrists, too fine for a docker, she thought. She tried to picture Ted dock-labouring. It was like imagining a highly strung thoroughbred doing the work of a carthorse. No wonder he chafed and railed so.

  ‘Nellie Clark?’ He sat back and smiled. ‘Yes, I do remember her persuasive ways now.’

  The other thing that hadn’t changed about him was his smile, which, in spite of the puckering scar, was still charming. She said goodbye, wondering if she’d been wise to confide in him so much. Still, they were on the same side in this conflict – the opposite side to the warmongers – and she judged that a common enemy must make him a friend.

  Several weeks later Eliza received a letter from Ernest, forwarded by her loyal friend Sarah at the NFWW. He wanted to see William. Since his return from Australia last year, she’d met him only once. Although she believed his bitterness against her outweighed his concern for the boy, he seemed intent on pursuing his son. She knew that sooner or later she must face him, so she’d agreed to a meeting in London earlier this year, on one of her trips to see Matty. His letters had hinted at legal action; she hoped if she met him that their contact could at least remain civilized. Unwilling to return to Mecklenburgh Square, she’d suggested the more neutral territory of the NFWW headquarters. Sarah was to serve them tea in a small parlour on the top floor, a dusty room crammed with an assortment of odd bits of furniture and filing cabinets. Ernest strode in with a businesslike air, pausing to give her a long stare.