Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘You sure you’re in the right place?’ Heavily rouged beneath a coating of face powder, her lips an unnatural shade of red, a woman raised a pencilled eyebrow.

  Blinking in light strong after the unlit road, Anne nodded. ‘If Mr Thomas Bradley is here then I am in the right place.’

  ‘Hmmm, Thomas Bradley, you say?’ The woman cast a long disparaging glance at her. ‘Not his usual choice but then he does like variety. You will find him in there.’ Pointing with a fan, an amused smile on her painted mouth, she swept away in a rustle of perfumed taffeta.

  Getting in had not been difficult after all. Anne breathed deeply, gathering courage. Would getting out be as simple?

  *

  The room to which she had been directed was large and square, a many crystalled chandelier hanging from an intricately designed stucco ceiling throwing glittering shafts of light over gilt framed portraits, the eyes of their long gone subjects seeming to rest on Anne stood in the doorway.

  During her childhood and often in her teens, while constantly following behind her father, she had asked her mother to describe the home they had left behind, but though the descriptions of Butcroft House had made it sound so grand and conjured many dreams, none of them could match the tasteful splendour of what she looked at now.

  Momentarily overcome, Anne stared. Around the perimeter of a beautifully patterned blue carpet, a polished parquet floor gleamed beneath caressingly subdued crystal wall lamps while delicate porcelain figurines posed on elegant side tables.

  ‘That is Mr Thomas Bradley.’

  The perfumed woman who had swept away now stood at her elbow. Having almost forgotten the reason for being here Anne brought her gaze reluctantly to the table where another woman whispered close to the ear of a heavy set man, a thick, gold watch chain draped across a dark green waistcoat.

  ‘Who?’ he asked, irritated at being interrupted. ‘Who d’you say?’

  The whisper having been repeated, eyes enrolled in fat looked directly at Anne and when he spoke it was with dismissive sarcasm.

  ‘I don’t remember invitin’ you here.’ The jowled face, with its elaborate adornment of side whiskers, turned back to the game of cards.

  ‘There are quite a few things you do not remember, one of them seemingly being your wife.’ Anne faced the man flanked on both sides by young women, their giggles suddenly stilled.

  A bomb exploding in the centre of the room could not have had a more profound effect. Each of the several tables fell silent, all heads turning to watch in disbelief.

  ‘What the bloody hell did you say?’ His eyes almost out of their sockets, the heavy frame half rising from his chair, the man flung the hand of cards across the table.

  Fighting the turbulence in her veins Anne forced herself to answer calmly. ‘I think you heard what I said but should I be mistaken then I will repeat it more loudly. I said one of the things you have seemingly forgotten is your wife.’

  Colour riding above a white winged collar painted his heavy face with fury as Bradley rose, kicking the delicate spindle legged chair backwards. ‘D’you know who you be talkin’ to?’ he snarled. ‘I’ll wring your bloody neck!’

  ‘We all know who she is talking to.’ An amused voice called over the startled hush. ‘But what we are interested in is what she is here for… she’s not exactly dressed for entertainment.’

  ‘I don’t care what her be here for—’

  ‘Oh, come on now, Bradley,’ the voice intervened again, ‘let the wench say her piece, we could all do with a diversion… then you can wring her bloody neck.’

  Above a chorus of laughter coupled with assenting shouts the voice called again. ‘Speak up, wench, let’s all hear what you have to say, but first tell us your name.’

  ‘The name be Corby.’ Bradley’s snarl was vicious. ‘This be Jacob Corby’s spawn, the wench who thinks to be in the business of iron and steel.’

  ‘Not thinks.’ Anne’s gaze travelled over each table, its steady assuredness stilling the laughter of each man in turn. ‘I am in that business and have every intention of remaining so and should the manufacturer of iron ore whose works are situated at Darlaston Green have the slightest sense at all he will recognise that fact.’ Thomas Bradley’s splutter rose above the quick, amazed gasps of the daringly gowned and painted women and the half amused laughs of their gambling companions. His clenched fist striking the table, sending coins jumping in the air, he glared at the girl daring to speak to him as no man in the town would. ‘Be you—’ lips drew back emphasising his fury ‘—be you threatening me?’

  He could strike her where she stood, one blow of that hammer fist would probably save him the trouble of wringing her neck.

  ‘Not only you.’ Her answer sounding calm though every nerve jangled, Anne looked from the suffused face to others now watching with new interest. ‘It is not a threat but a message and it is for every man like you, those who scheme to take every delivery of ore for himself, those who withhold materials simply to prevent a woman using them.’

  ‘So how d’you propose to alter what we do? Invade us with the British army!’

  ‘Not quite.’ Anne ignored the sniggers. ‘The one I will bring will prove far more formidable.’

  Thomas Bradley’s laugh bounced over the tables, the confident roar of it finding several echoes in the throats of the assembled works and mine owners. To be threatened by a slip of a girl… this was amusement of a different kind.

  Standing the fallen chair back on its legs the portly figure sat down, podgy hands reaching for the scattered cards. ‘You have we all trembling in we boots, so what is this army you be threatening to bring?’

  Had she really made a mistake, would her words make any difference… what would Unity say? As if given by the woman herself the answer rang clear: words only make a difference if they be said. Drawing a deep breath, Anne said hers.

  ‘It is an army of women. There are hundreds in Darlaston, women with husbands, sons, fathers and brothers fighting a war so you and they can live in safety, every day risking their lives to keep this country free. Imagine what those women will do when they hear of vital supplies being kept from their men because you and others in this room resent a woman being part of what you see as a man’s business, you whose petty ignorance enhances the odds of their loved ones being killed through not having that with which to fight. Those hundreds will become thousands as every town within miles learns of what you are doing; they will sweep over you in a great tide which will not recede until every stick and stone of your little empire is destroyed.’

  Taking a five pound note from the table, Thomas Bradley folded it into a slim strip, his fingers following its path as he pushed it into the low décolletage neckline of his giggling friend for the night. ‘And who be going to tell this army?’ Fat fingers stroked the half exposed breasts. ‘Or do that also be a part of your fantasy?’

  It was sickening to watch the flabby lips close wetly over the heavily carmined mouth. Gossip was not unfounded in what it said about the ‘Temple’. There was nothing to prevent his doing the same to her. Anne’s nerves flicked disturbingly, yet somehow her reply sounded unafraid. ‘It is a part of no fantasy but it is a part of fact; that fact being Jacob Corby’s spawn will tell them.’

  ‘You!’ Bradley roared loud as before. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  Quiet as he was loud Anne gave her answer. ‘Through the newspapers. This may come as a surprise to you, Mr Bradley, but women can read and they will certainly read what I have to tell them and, make no mistake about it, they will act…’ Pausing enough to let her gaze touch each astonished face she went on, ‘This war has taught women many things and if you are wise, gentlemen, you will allow it to teach you one also. Women are here to stay!’

  28

  ‘You went to the “Temple”… you mean you actually went inside!’ Laban shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Not only that but her told Thomas Bradley good an’ proper, her said—’


  Laban raised a hand, halting Unity in mid-sentence. ‘I think it best her tells it herself.’

  She must have repeated the whole event at least half a dozen times, each telling continuously interrupted by Unity whose questions grew in number with every one. Patiently Anne began all over, glad of Laban’s quick frown or tiny negative shake of the head which prevented Unity’s repeating her own performance.

  ‘Eeh, wench,’ he said when she finished, ‘Thomas Bradley meks a bad enemy.’

  Halfway through cutting a slice of bread from the loaf, Unity snorted. ‘Hmmph, he don’t make a good friend neither judgin’ by what a body hears in the town! Seems it ain’t only the Glebe he be snatchin’ iron ore from, there be cries of shortage from them as works at the Vulcan foundry and John Tolley’s place along of the Green, add that to the talk coming from the Nut and Bolt, the Albion Screw and Rivet and two or three others who all says the same thing… they gets to make less each week as goes by. I reckons that them men hearing what Anne had to say will be already puttin’ two and two together and Thomas Bradley knows they won’t come up with three, they’ll see him as he really is, so crooked he couldn’t lie straight in a bed! They’ll soon realise who be drinkin’ from their pot and be like to break it over his head, and if they don’t then the women of this town will.’

  ‘It be all well and good to talk,’ Laban answered, ‘but Thomas Bradley be slippery as fish in the Tame…’

  ‘Ar… and tastes just as bad!’

  ‘That be my Unity,’ Laban grinned at Anne, ‘got a plaster for every sore.’

  It was true, Unity was ever ready with an answer; hopefully the one she had just given would prove true. But if it did not, if Thomas Bradley continued to snatch each consignment of iron ore, would she carry out her own threat? Holding the supper plates in her hand Anne stared at the cloth covered table, the pretty pattern of scarlet poppies at its corners suddenly becoming patches of blood, the blood of men injured… of men killed… and she knew. Yes, she would carry out her threat if need dictated; she would reach out to every woman in the country, and they would not let her down.

  *

  She had not told Unity everything despite the questions. She had not spoken of the painted women, of the gowns which her friend would have said ‘showed more flesh than you sees in a butcher’s window’, or of the five pound note tucked where a man’s fingers ought not to be. The whole room with its gambling cards, its glasses of brandy and giggling, fawning women, had reeked of more than perfume and cigar smoke; it had held an aroma of something else, of something she never wanted to remember yet never quite forgot; it held the memory of the inn at Radiyeska. True, the room in the old Templeton House had not the stench of dirt and grease as had the inn in that Russian village, nor had the people in it been dressed in foul, evil smelling furs and unwashed linen, yet their finery had not hidden the looks she had been given, the mocking smiles of the women, the lustful stares of their companions. That was what had unnerved her most, the looks she had seen as some of those men had watched her; they were the eyes which stared in her nightmares.

  Not wanting to be caught in the mesh of dreams, even waking ones, Anne reached for her nightgown, slipping it over her head before going to the drawer which held the letter. Forgetting the braiding of hair which fell in rippling folds about her shoulders, she took the envelope, holding it to her breast. This was what had given her the courage to go to that place, to face Thomas Bradley.

  Carrying the envelope to the bed she sat. Unity and Laban had asked so many questions, going over every detail of that visit and she had answered, yet deep inside she had wanted to be alone, to read again the letter from a soldier, a man she could not thank, for the only address given was the solitary word, France.

  Who was the man who had taken the trouble to write? Was it a man or, as the composition of his letter suggested, a lad for whom schooling had been as brief as for some of those she knew were already working in the munitions factories and foundries? A lad who had lied about his age in order to join the army? Slipping the sheets of paper free she opened the first, her gaze scanning the uncertain script. Unity had read this and her look too, had shown gratitude as she finished, but she had barely glanced at the second sheet, the one which bore the name Anne.

  Holding it now closer to the lamp beside her bed she read slowly, absorbing every line of the clear strong hand, anxious not to miss even a comma.

  My dear Anne,

  Forgive my writing, I know it is a liberty I should not take but in a few moments our unit will be part of a special offensive and it could be I will not have another chance. I want only to say how much I valued our friendship… how I value it still; that ever since we were children you have held a special place in my heart, and it is thought of you keeps that heart alive in these regions of hell. I thank you for that friendship as I thank Unity and Laban for theirs.

  God keep you, Anne.

  Abel

  … it is thought of you keeps that heart alive…

  The music of those few words played like an anthem in her mind as she touched the paper to her lips.

  She had been special to him – she looked again at the letter – special only in friendship it was true but she would carry those words in her heart for ever.

  Returning the pages to the envelope she slipped it under her pillow, then, putting out the lamp, crossed the room to sit beneath the moon dappled window. Was it night where Abel was, was the moon as bright? Did it bathe those awful trenches she had heard wounded men talk of in the same liquid silver light? Did Abel think of her when he looked at it?

  Touching her fingers to the glass she traced the pale feathery streaks. ‘God keep you too, Abel,’ she whispered, ‘God keep you, my love.’

  *

  … part of a special offensive…

  Anne thought of the words contained in the letter old Mrs Davies had brought to her all those weeks ago, weeks in which she had hoped another might follow if only in the same way, weeks in which, like so many other women, she had poured her prayers into the ears of God, prayers asking Abel be kept alive. But there had been no more letters, no word from him or his unknown friend.

  ‘Be this all right, Miss Anne?’

  Caught by the question she glanced at the girl watching her with fine dark eyes, her pert nose covered with freckles. Taking the proffered strap she examined it closely, the only way she had learned satisfied the hard working girl.

  ‘It’s very neat, Amy,’ she smiled handing back the finished strap, ‘keep that up and the saddlers will find themselves with a competitor.’

  The girl grinned, pleased at the compliment, but her answer came with a shake of her head. ‘That don’t never be like to happen, the leather ’aves jobs as be only done by men an’ no matter how clever a wench’s hands they won’t never do no cutting out nor no assembling of the pieces together. We can do the stitching but when it comes to the meking of a saddle and the likes of special work like that it needs skills a woman won’t never be learned.’

  Anne moved on, an encouraging smile given to each girl working the sewing machines, to each woman at her clamp. What Amy had said was true enough three years ago but with this war things had changed. Before that women had never been taught or even thought to serve as conductresses on trams, as railway clerks, ticket collectors or porters; they had not dreamed of becoming ‘munitionettes’, filling shells with explosives which turned their skin and hair yellow, or of replacing their menfolk in the making of chains and bricks: there had been many changes in many walks of life so who was to say a woman could never become a saddle maker?

  Setting work aside as Unity rang a brass bell announcing midday break, the women and girls brought out their respective packages of sandwiches while Anne turned to the kettle simmering on a round, cast iron stove.

  ‘Well, that were how I ’eard it!’

  A plaintive voice rose on a note of pique while a chorus of quieter ones murmured anxiously.

  ‘I tells y
ou, I heard plain as I hears you now. It were in Billingsley’s tobacco shop in Victoria Road. Dick Billingsley were serving a man and they was talking about the numbers of casualties, said as there was hundreds… nobody knowed truly how many.’

  ‘Might not have been our lads, could have been the other side, you might not have heard the all of it.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ Indignation undisguised the first woman rallied her defence. ‘I don’t be deaf, Maudie Sinkins, and I don’t be daft neither. I was left to stand ’til that man were served and I heard every word was said.’

  ‘We can be sure of that, Maudie.’

  A chorus of laughter circled the table where the women sat to eat bread and cheese each had wrapped in a piece of cloth. Brewing tea in a large enamelled pot, Anne was only half listening.

  ‘Can’t but hear in that shop,’ Maudie snapped, ‘the place be no bigger than a pocket handkerchief.’

  ‘So what did you hear?’

  Her audience fully attentive at last, the first woman glanced at their faces. ‘I heard as how our troops had made this big push in France, gone right over the line and that hundreds was dead and injured in a place called Wipers.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ A woman crossed herself while Anne mentally corrected the mispronounced Ypres.

  ‘According to what Billingsley said there was so many hurt and dead the authorities couldn’t never bring ’em all home, hundreds he said there was an’ that not accounting for them as be missing.’

  In the silence these words brought, the woman who moments before had crossed herself piously now brought an angry fist to the table. ‘It be his fault,’ she hissed, ‘how many more poor souls be going to give life or limb afore the swine of a Kaiser be knocked back? Lord, what wouldn’t I give to get my hands round the throat of the wicked bugger!’

  Used to the chatter of women lightening the long hours of the day with conversation, Anne’s mind remained with her own thoughts. Abel had written to her once, why did he not do so again? Was it because she had sent no reply… did he think her affronted, annoyed by his forwardness? But surely he must realise he had put no address…