Her Father's Daughter

by Beezy Marsh

  Music seemed to make life more bearable for everyone and people were already tapping their feet to the pianist up on the bandstand, who was tickling the ivories for all she was worth.

  Strolling among the crowds, standing a head taller than most of the Londoners, were a whole bunch of American GIs in their sand-coloured uniforms. They cut a swathe through the girls and appeared to be towing half the snotty-nosed urchins from Stirling Road in their wake, who were badgering them, ‘Got any gum, chum?’

  Annie had spent ages helping Elsie get her hair just right, carefully rolling up the sides and pinning it, and sorting out a bit of lift at the front too, just like Vera Lynn. She had also reworked an old blouse for Elsie, creating the fashionable leg-of-mutton puffed shoulders that she was after, and Elsie had nipped in her waist with a belt to set off her best printed cotton skirt, which had already seen a few summers but still looked pretty.

  ‘I bet Joan’s got something new to wear,’ Elsie had confided. ‘I don’t know how she does it on the ration.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ said Annie. ‘You’ll both look lovely.’

  But Joan had pulled out all the stops. Her honey-blonde hair was pinned behind one ear, with the rest falling in loose waves, so that she appeared to be coyly peeking out from a shimmering golden curtain. Her cotton dress was covered with little roses, with a belt made from the same material showing off her impossibly tiny waist. She’d always been tall and slim, but the war work seemed to have honed her figure so when she sashayed across the park to greet them, she looked like a film star.

  Elsie’s face fell for a moment, but she wasn’t downhearted for long, because the Pioneer Corps Orchestra struck up a tune and a very handsome American soldier asked her to dance. As Elsie trotted off, Annie spied Bessie trudging across the park; she was a martyr to her varicose veins from all the years of standing on the cold, wet floors in the laundries of Soapsud Island.

  Annie waved and pointed to a couple of empty deckchairs near the bandstand and Bessie gratefully sank into one, like a deflating balloon. ‘Ooh, that walk up Acton Lane nearly did for me but I’m glad I made it. Is Harry coming along? Haven’t seen him in ages.’

  ‘No, he’s on a shift today,’ said Annie. Harry hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in having any fun with her or the children, but she didn’t want to dwell on it.

  ‘How’s he taking the fact that you’re a working woman, then?’

  Annie hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Come on,’ said Bessie. ‘You can tell me; a problem shared and all that . . .’

  ‘I can’t say he’s happy about it but it’s giving us extra money and we might be able to think about getting a bigger flat so that the children can have their own room. Might give us a bit more peace and quiet, which would be nice,’ said Annie. That was about as far as she would go in telling Bessie that there were any problems between her and her man. Bessie got the message, because she nodded sagely.

  ‘Well, he should look on the bright side, then, shouldn’t he?’ said a voice from over her shoulder.

  Annie turned around to find Vera smiling down at her. ‘Mind if I join you two?’

  Bessie’s face set like stone. ‘I was just leaving.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Annie. ‘Don’t go. Why don’t you stay and chat with me and Vera for a while?’

  ‘Can’t say I like the company in the park any more,’ said Bessie, sticking her nose in the air and pulling her cardigan around her ample bosom. ‘I’ll see you with the children another time, Annie.’

  ‘Oh, suit yourself!’ said Vera, folding her arms and glaring at Bessie.

  Bessie heaved herself back out of the deckchair and shuffled off across the park before Annie could stop her.

  Vera sat down, muttering, ‘Miserable old cow,’ but she’d barely exchanged two words with Annie before she was off again, like a rat up a drainpipe, in pursuit of a skinny-looking GI who was standing a bit forlornly watching his comrades manhandling Elsie, Joan and every good-looking girl in the borough around the grass in time to the music, in a blur of beige uniforms and swirling skirts. The soldier clapped eyes on Vera and pulled out a smoke from the packet in his top pocket. Vera leaned in close as he lit it for her and the pair of them strolled off arm in arm and that was that.

  Annie was just about to get up and go back to the Punch and Judy show, where the children were screeching ‘Oh no he doesn’t’ at the top of their voices, when her boss, Dennis, appeared in front of her, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘I hate to see you looking so lonely,’ he said, offering her his hand. ‘Care to dance?’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Pritchard?’ said Annie, glancing around.

  ‘She died before the war,’ said Dennis, smiling resolutely. Even when talking about the loss of his wife, his chirpiness was relentless. He laughed. ‘Looking on the bright side, I get to dance with you without her interfering.’

  Before she knew what was happening, Dennis was leading her up to join the waltz. Planting one hand around her waist, they began to dance, with Dennis spinning her enthusiastically, forwards and backwards, until she felt quite dizzy. His arms were rigid and strong, and she kept bumping into his knees, but he carried on regardless, flashing a rictus grin. ‘Having fun?’

  Dennis was leaning in close, so that his bushy eyebrows almost tickled her cheek, when Annie caught sight of Harry by the bandstand, watching her with a look of disbelief on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ she cried, freeing herself from Dennis’s grasp. ‘I’ve got to go!’ Annie pushed her way frantically through the crowd of dancers but by the time she reached the bandstand, Harry was nowhere to be seen.

  Harry didn’t pop round to Grove Road that tea time before his ARP shift and Annie sank into a misery as she plunged her hands into the suds in the sink to wash up. She couldn’t tell anyone what was wrong, she was just too ashamed. What on earth had she been thinking, dancing with Dennis like that? She hadn’t really wanted to and the look on Harry’s face had said it all.

  Elsie, meanwhile, was giddy with happiness, still twirling around the scullery, stopping only to blow the most ginormous pink bubble with her American gum.

  ‘For the love of God, girl,’ said Bill, nearly jumping out of his chair as she popped it. ‘You are like a cow chewing the cud. Spit that out, will you?’

  ‘Oh, spoilsport,’ said Elsie, dodging a swipe from the back of his hand. ‘Josh gave it to me and we’re going dancing at the Hammersmith Palais next week!’

  Bill rolled his eyes and Mum tutted at him. ‘Oh, leave her be, it’s nice that she’s got a fella. Where’s he from, Elsie?’

  ‘Ohio,’ she said. ‘He’s going to bring some photos of his farm to show me.’

  Bill flicked open the Evening News and grumbled, ‘Oh, I bet he is.’

  The familiar wail of the air-raid siren cut through the evening air and normal household life came to an abrupt halt; gripes were forgotten as Annie and Mum ran upstairs to grab the kids and bring them down to the Anderson shelter. It was only just getting dark, because of double British Summer Time, but there was a chill in the air, and Annie wrapped John in a shawl to keep him snug in the top bunk next to Anita, who was still half asleep.

  Elsie brought a candle in on a dish and covered it with a flower pot and they all settled down to wait for the all-clear, as they had done so many times before. Before long the barrage of the ack-acks over at Gunnersbury started up, making deafening cracks and bangs, and then there was an almighty explosion. Annie stifled a scream as the whole ground shook and the children woke up, crying in fear. The picture of the King was dislodged from its nail and Bill only just caught it before it fell on the floor.

  Mum started praying quietly: ‘The Lord is my shepherd, he makes me lie down in green pastures . . .’ and the sickening thud of bombs dropping nearby went on for what seemed like an eternity.

  Elsie started to cry and squeezed Annie’s hand. ‘Please don’t land here, please not here . . .’

  They sa
t there by the dim light of their candle, more terrified than they’d ever been, dreading what they’d find when the all-clear sounded. Annie’s mouth had gone dry and her heart was pounding as she thought about Harry. Mum caught the look in her eye and leaned over to her. ‘He’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

  Her mum always had such a way of calming her. It sounded as if the world outside was ending but Mum gave her courage.

  It was well past midnight by the time they were able to leave the air-raid shelter, and Annie ran down to the end of Grove Road to see what had happened. A thick, black pall of smoke was rising over Acton Lane and people were rushing up and down the High Street bringing news of the bombing.

  She stopped a firewatcher, his face black with soot, who told her, ‘Park Road North’s badly hit. The Gladstone pub’s gone, the dairy’s flattened and half the street with it. Best get yourself home and count yourself lucky.’

  Annie didn’t sleep a wink that night and got up at first light to head down to Soapsud Island to see what she could do to help. Water jetted up in the air from broken pipes and the acrid smell of burning caught in the back of her throat as she turned into Park Road North. The dairy that used to stand on the corner of the street had been razed to the ground and all the shops along Park Road had been reduced to a pile of rubble, along with the pub where she’d had a drink with Vera only a few days ago.

  The row of terraced houses opposite now had a gaping hole in the middle of it, as if a giant had come and stepped on people’s homes, reducing them to chunks of plaster and matchsticks. Air-raid wardens were digging through the rubble with their bare hands, shouting, ‘Is anybody there?’ but there was no reply, only an eerie silence.

  The whole neighbourhood was struck dumb with shock. Women stood around in little clumps, dressed in their housecoats and curlers, huddling together for comfort, and Bessie was among them, beside Vera’s mum, Mrs O’Reilly, who had a small child clinging to her arm.

  When the last stretcher was carried out, Annie knew it was Vera. A blanket had been thrown over her, half covering her face and reaching just to her thighs, but the headful of dirty blonde curls and mottled legs spotted with rows of blackening bed-bug bites confirmed the worst.

  Mrs O’Reilly let out a sickening wail and sank to her knees as Bessie cried, ‘Oh my Gawd, Vera!’

  The housewives’ murmurs filled Annie’s ears. ‘She weren’t using the shelters no more, you know?’, ‘Poor soul, that Vera’, ‘What a way to go, she deserved better.’

  Bessie took off her shawl and struggled down onto the ground to kneel beside Vera’s body. With shaking fingers, she adjusted the hem of Vera’s nightie, pulling it downwards for decency’s sake, before gently placing her shawl over Vera’s naked legs and tucking it in under her feet, as if she were trying to keep her warm. Mrs O’Reilly had to be held back by the ARP to stop her from hurling herself onto the battered remains of her daughter.

  ‘Bloody German swines, they’ve killed her!’ said an old man, shaking his fist at the rubble.

  ‘They’ll never win!’ said one of the housewives, as the assembled crowd nodded in agreement. ‘Rule Britannia!’

  Annie went over to Bessie and helped her up.

  ‘We’ve all killed her, haven’t we?’ said Bessie, her shoulders sagging as she turned to go back to her flat, the cat and her life in Stirling Road.

  Annie was lying in the dark, pretending to be asleep, when Harry finally came home and got into bed that night.

  She felt his arms slip around her waist and he pulled her close. ‘I won’t lose you, Annie.’

  Annie rolled over and felt his lips brush hers and they clung to each other for a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry about the dance,’ she began. ‘It meant nothing to me.’

  ‘I’ve been a fool to neglect you,’ he said. ‘The war is no excuse. It’s just easier to shut things out, the memories, what I’ve done. There are things a woman shouldn’t have to hear, but please understand that I can’t bear to lose you, Annie. You’re the love of my life.’

  She ran a finger down his cheek and kissed his face, which was wet with tears.

  ‘Vera died,’ she whispered. ‘She was killed in that blast. I saw her brought out of the rubble on a stretcher. So, talk to me, Harry, please. I can’t change the past, but we’ve all suffered terrible losses in this war. I’m here for you, but you’ve got to tell me what happened to you.’

  In the black of the night, she felt his shoulders start to shake.

  ‘I’ll try, Annie, but God knows, I want to forget most of it.’

  14

  Ethel

  Newcastle upon Tyne, June 1923

  She’d been saving up for ages to buy a new hat for the Hoppings fair and now Da wouldn’t let her go. Ethel dried her tears and pressed her ear to the bare floorboards in her bedroom as Mam did her best to persuade him otherwise, downstairs in the scullery.

  ‘She’s a good lass, she’s been working so hard, it doesn’t seem right that she should miss out when all the others from the shop are making a day of it.’

  A fist thumped the table. ‘It’s the wrong sort of place for her, all those hawkers, freak shows and fortune telling. It’s ungodly!’

  ‘Nathan, please,’ said Mam. ‘She knows right from wrong and it’s run by the Temperance Society so there’ll be no one supping pints there and she won’t be tempted to do anything daft, I know it.’ There was some murmuring and then Ethel heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, so she leaped onto her bed, picked up her Bible and pretended to read.

  The bedroom door creaked open and her father stood in front of her, his thumbs tucked into the thick leather belt around his middle, his moustache twitching a bit. He was tall and striking, with high cheekbones and clear blue eyes, which seemed to pierce her. ‘All right, pet, you can go but there’s to be no funny business or you’ll feel the back of my hand, do you hear? A whip for the horse, a bridle for the donkey and a rod for the back of fools, so says the Lord.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Ethel, running into his arms. She listened to his heart beating through the rough wool of his waistcoat. ‘Thanks, Da.’ He’d always held her like this, ever since she was a little girl, but even though she was nineteen now and many lasses her age were already married, Ethel still loved to feel his arms around her. He was protecting her from the world outside, keeping her safe, she knew that.

  ‘You’re precious to me,’ he said, as he stroked her hair. ‘I just want the best for you, that’s all.’

  The next morning, all the talk on the haberdashery counter at Fenwick’s department store was about the trip to the Hoppings. Even Miss Simpson, her snooty supervisor, was in a better mood than usual, rather than stalking about the shop floor with a face like she was sucking on a lemon.

  Ethel hung on to every word of the chatter because she’d never been allowed anywhere near the fair before. It was the biggest social event of the year in Newcastle, when everyone could enjoy the spectacle and let off steam, but her mate Ada reckoned this year wouldn’t be as good as in the past. The Hoppings used to be held on the Town Moor but nowadays the powers that be had shifted it to Jesmond Vale, which meant it was a bit smaller, with fewer rides.

  ‘Oh, you should have seen it before the war!’ Ada cried. ‘It was packed as far as the eye could see, the moor was heavin’.’ Of course, there was always the possibility that Ada was trying to show off that she’d been loads of times, to get one up on Ethel; as they were friends, she was prepared to let Ada have her moment.

  Legend had it that a gypsy curse meant it always rained on the Hoppings, which dampened the atmosphere. ‘Let’s hope it’s not ploating down later,’ said Ada, with a laugh. ‘Me hair will gan all frizzy and I’ll bet there’ll be loads of canny lads there.’

  Miss Simpson decided she’d had enough gossiping. ‘Come along, girls,’ she said, pulling open a drawer full of cotton reels beneath the glass-topped counter. ‘This lot needs sorting out before opening time. We must remember our standar
ds; this is Fenwick’s, jewel of the North, not Paddy’s Market, Ada.’

  Ada shot her a filthy glance. Everyone knew that Newcastle’s flea market was full of bargains and there was no shame in shopping there. Ordinary folk couldn’t afford the likes of Fenwick’s fancy goods.

  Miss Simpson really stuck the boot in. ‘And, Ada, please address the customers politely today, like Ethel does. We’re not in the collieries now.’

  Poor Ada, it wasn’t her fault she had the broadest accent imaginable. Her dad was a miner and she was full of pit-yacking talk – ‘hoy that here hinny’, ‘creels and clarts’ and even worse sayings that made Miss Simpson blanch. The living end was when she once exclaimed, ‘Hadaway an’ shite,’ when Ethel had told her how much a particularly posh lady had just spent on an order of silk; Ada had almost got the sack for that.

  Ethel made a point of trying to better herself. She was just a girl from the terraces of Benwell, so it wasn’t a case of putting on airs and graces, but she tried to live up to what her father wanted her to be. For as long as she could remember, she’d practised reading aloud from the Bible on Sunday evenings and he’d corrected her, occasionally rapping her across her knuckles with a wooden ruler if she struggled with long words. It had stood her in good stead because she’d learned to speak clearly. She could slip into Geordie slang like Ada, because she’d grown up playing out in the back alleys, but these days she tried to copy the soft, lilting tones of the well-to-do women she served as a shop girl, day in and day out.

  She loved her job, being surrounded by so much colour and finery; the excitement of new bolts of material arriving weekly, in rich shades and textures. Ethel didn’t mind sorting through buttons or threads and she had a good eye for colour, Miss Simpson said so, which meant she could help people choose and customers liked that. Every season brought new dress patterns and Ethel studied them, feeling a little well of excitement inside her, because she would buy one for herself, and with her work discount she’d usually be able to get an offcut or two to make a new blouse or a summer dress. Mam was very handy with a needle and thread and she’d always made beautiful things for her, ever since she was a bairn, so Ethel had help with the sewing if she needed it.