Keeping My Sisters’ Secrets

14th February 1936

Dearest Peg,

I’m sorry not to have written sooner but there is so much to tell you. The matron in the home is very strict about letting us out of her sight to get to anywhere near a post box, so I had to bribe one of the cleaners with some of the fags my dear old mum sent me to get this letter to you.

I had the baby, Tommy, and he is nearly one now, Peg, and the most beautiful thing ever. He doesn’t look anything like Bert to my mind, which is a blessing. We have to do a lot of chores, cleaning, helping, but I don’t mind because once you get past the matron, the rest of the staff are quite kind.

And I could do without having to repent for my sins but we have to do that once a week and go to church in a long line, pushing our prams, while the gossips in the neighbourhood stare. I had Tommy baptized as soon as I could because you never met a more innocent little baby and it seemed right.

I came to the unmarried mothers’ home up in Hampstead about three weeks before the birth. My dad threw me out long before that and I was with one of my aunts over in the East End for a while, until my bump got so bleeding obvious I looked like the back end of a bus and I couldn’t leave the house. Coming here was fine because I was with other girls who had got themselves into trouble, just like me. A lot of them didn’t want to keep their babies and they left soon after they had them. Theirs were fostered out but not mine. I’m allowed to stay here until he is one.

My dad still won’t speak to me but my mum gets up here as often as she can. She can’t afford to take us in, Peg, and in any case my dad won’t allow me to set foot in the house again, so that is that.

I am hoping that I might get some help from the Poor Law to keep him, to get a foster grant so I can put him with a foster mother during the day while I work and then have him at night and my days off. If I can do this, I have no idea where I will end up but it seems I will be far from home because my dad won’t want me on his doorstep.

How is life at the Post Office? Is that old bat Miss Fisher still ruling with a rod of iron? Write to me soon, Peggy. Just any little bit of news from you will brighten my day.

Take care,

Your friend,

Susan.

Peggy clutched the letter in her hand as she ran to meet George at the Gaumont Cinema in Walworth. Peggy had given up hope of ever hearing from her friend again. The letter came like a bolt from the blue and although it was good to hear her news, Susan had been through so much, all on her own, and Peggy knew that her future was far from certain. At least she saw having the baby as something positive and was enjoying looking after him, but how would she cope on her own, in a world in which being an unmarried mother would make her the talking point of the street? Peggy couldn’t help wondering whether Susan might have been better off just giving the baby away at the start, right after she’d had him. As a single girl at least she could have got a job somewhere new and put all of the past behind her.

Peggy wasn’t sure what she’d write to tell her. The Post Office Savings Bank hadn’t changed much in comparison with what Susan had been through. Edna was in charge now and she seemed to delight in bossing everyone about even more than Miss Fisher had. Who could have guessed that quiet little Edna from Acton would turn into such a martinet? She picked on the weakest and constantly found fault with their work. There was a new girl called Sarah, from north London. Peggy felt sorry for her and tried to show her the ropes, really she did, but Sarah was ever so clumsy and just couldn’t get her numbers right. She’d have been better off working somewhere else, maybe in one of the factories.

Peggy knew that having a clerical job meant she was brighter than most, but she also realized that there were hundreds of girls who would give their eye teeth to be able to get such a job, away from the drudgery of packing and filling and labelling, like her little sister Kathleen. Peggy felt very fortunate indeed.

She caught sight of George – tall, blond and handsome – standing around whistling to himself, carrying a single red rose, waiting for her, on their Valentine’s Day date. Peggy stuffed Susan’s letter into her purse. She didn’t want to discuss it with him but she didn’t want to leave it at home either, in case her dad found it. He’d been in a terrible depression since Mum walked out. Eva had gone too and wasn’t speaking to Peggy any more, which she found so hurtful. Eva seemed to think that Peggy had grassed her up to their dad for stealing, and no amount of talk would persuade her that this was not the case. It was more likely to have been that awful gossip Mrs Davies at number 16. She knew better than to ask her father who had told him about Eva and the Forty Thieves. It was a closed subject.

When Mum left, she went to her friend Flo’s down in the Borough at first and after a week she rented a little place, with Eva’s help, above a shop on Walworth Road. Throughout it all, Dad sat in a kind of dumb trance at the table in the scullery after work, muttering to himself under his breath. Peggy stayed with her father out of loyalty; she hated to see him like that. She’d always admired him for his strength of character, his understanding of the world and, although she wasn’t comfortable with the way he was too handy with his belt, she tried to forgive him for that. Peggy was practical enough to know that he would need help to pay the rent on Howley Terrace, so they wouldn’t lose the house. She didn’t want them to be turfed out of their family home. Deep down, Peggy was clinging to the hope that her mother would return, although with every passing week, that seemed less likely. Her brother Jim chipped in with some of his wages. He didn’t earn much as a post boy but he wanted to stay with his dad. Frankie, now twelve, had gone with Eva and their mother, while Kathleen acted as a sort of go-between, staying over at Nanny Day’s and relaying messages between the parents when required.

Peggy suspected, but she didn’t know for sure, that Mum might have a fancy man in her life. She’d cut her hair into a fashionable long bob and went to the hairdresser to get a Marcel wave. Mum also took full advantage of the little luxuries Eva brought her – a mink stole, a new handbag, some lipstick. She felt she was unencumbered without her brutish hubby and was now a regular on Friday and Saturday nights at the pub. She let it be known that she was out to have fun. Kathleen had told Peggy that Mum had even hosted get-togethers after hours at the flat, with crates of beer and raucous singing until the early hours, until the neighbours complained and the landlord threatened to chuck her out on her ear. It was as if she was making up for lost time, all those years slogging away with the kids and being beaten by their father.

Peggy had told George a little bit about it. He hadn’t wanted to pry, he said, and he didn’t judge what her father had done harshly – that wasn’t his place – but he said that if he was ever lucky enough to marry, he would never lay a finger on his wife in anger. That made Peggy feel quite safe; just seeing him standing there made her feel warm inside. His shoulders were broad and he had a lovely smile. He gave her a little wave and offered her the Valentine’s rose. Like the perfect gentleman, he paid for their tickets and slipped his arm around her once the lights went down.

They had kissed a couple of times, just a little peck, really, but tonight when the heroine was embraced by the hero, George took that as his cue. He put his hand on her knee and tried to kiss her full on the mouth. Something inside Peggy froze. She resisted and it ended in a clash of lips and teeth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I just can’t do that yet.’ Her head was swimming with thoughts of Susan and Bert in the alleyways of Soho, of what a man’s desire would feel like and how terrified she was of getting pregnant. It all twisted into a big knot in her stomach.

She could sense that George was rather crestfallen, as he whispered back, ‘I’m sorry, Peg, I don’t know what got hold of me there.’

There was a loud shush from the row in front, and a woman wearing the most ridiculous feathered trilby turned round and said, ‘Go and get a bleedin’ room. You’re spoiling the film for the rest of us!’

When the lights came up, they both scarpered for the exit, like a pair of naughty children, in case she clouted them one with her handbag. Their botched kiss was forgotten as they strolled along, hand in hand.

George was quick to start a conversation and Peggy gratefully joined in, back on the safe ground of politics. They discussed things they had read in the paper and George seemed to relish Peggy’s views, even if they weren’t always the same as his own. She loved that too – the fact that they could really discuss things, without falling out with each other.

‘I’m going to a meeting next week, Peg; would you like to come with me?’ said George as they reached the turning for Belvedere Road. He didn’t walk her to her door as she preferred to go up the street alone, in case Mrs Davies or Mrs Avens spotted them and made comments to her father. It was just not worth the grief.

‘Well, me and some of the lads at the depot have joined the Communist Party . . .’ He lowered his voice.

‘Some of their ideas are a bit much, aren’t they?’ said Peggy, who remembered Miss Fisher’s scant regard for such left-wing political shenanigans.

‘Peggy, there are other views out there which are a lot more worrying: the Fascist lot, for a start. The Blackshirts are holding meetings all over the place, spreading hatred. They’ve got to be stopped,’ said George. ‘Their last big meeting in Olympia they beat the living daylights out of anyone who tried to speak against them. Several comrades ended up in hospital.’

‘But what can you do? It’s not like you have any power over them, working at the depot, is it?’

‘Still, we’ve got to exercise our right to oppose their views. Think about it, Peggy. Extremists like Mosley will be stopped if people are brave enough to speak out. These Blackshirts have been stirring up the East End against the Jews. People like trade unionists are already being thrown in prison in Germany. We can’t let that happen here, can we?’

Peggy thought about it for a moment and felt excitement twisting in the pit of her stomach. Her family had always struggled, worked hard, but they didn’t seem to get very far. Eva was busy lining her pockets with stolen goods and Kathleen was bottling jam, while her mother scrubbed floors and her dad was killing himself keeping the boilers going down at the cricket bat factory. They had nothing against people from other countries and places. They were all just as poor as each other. She was stuck in a safe little job as a clerical worker with not much hope of promotion. But George was different. He believed in something, a greater good. This was her chance to make a difference.

‘All right,’ she said, giving his arm a squeeze. ‘Count me in, I’m coming with you.’

Dear Peggy,

Things are pretty bad. They took Tommy away. Matron persuaded me to sign the adoption papers for a couple in Hampstead, but as soon as I had done it, I regretted it.

They are not calling him Tommy any more. They changed his name to Reginald and they wrote me a letter saying how much they love him and will promise him the best of everything because they haven’t been able to have kids of their own. I will get a picture of him every year on his birthday, they said.

I’m broken in pieces, Peggy. The day after he went, I slashed my wrists with a kitchen knife. The matron found me and I got carted off to hospital and now they are keeping me here, saying I am not right in the head. They won’t let me go until I say I’m happy about Tommy being with his new family. I don’t think I will ever feel that way.

Write me when you can.

Your friend,

Susan

Peggy was so shocked that she didn’t know what to say or do. It was worse than when the woman in the street had cancer and everyone knew but no one could say much about it. She looked at the address of the hospital and wondered whether she’d be able to go and see her at least. Susan didn’t even say whether she was allowed visitors and her writing looked scrawled, as if she had written it in a hurry. Peggy decided she’d write back, just keeping things light, and say she would come the week after next.

After finishing her note to Susan and tucking it in her handbag, she had to find a way of sneaking out of work early to go to the meeting with George. In the end, she tried to leave ten minutes early while Edna’s back was turned, but her boss caught her putting on her coat.

‘With whom?’ A little smile was playing on Edna’s lips. She was enjoying every moment of the power she had over Peggy, at the thought that she might ruin her evening by making her stay late. ‘You wouldn’t be gadding off to the Chiswick Empire with the other girls later on, by any chance?’ Peggy knew that Sarah and some of the others had been planning a trip to see Vesta Tilley and Max Miller – who was meant to be hilarious – but she wasn’t going with them.

‘It’s a political meeting, actually,’ said Peggy, reddening with fury that Edna was doing this. All the times Peggy had worked late . . .

‘Politics?’ said Edna. ‘It’s best to keep your nose out of politics . . .’

‘I’m going to see Oswald Mosley speak.’ She had blurted the words out before she could stop herself.

Instantly, Edna’s features softened and she came over to Peggy’s side. ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘I had no idea. Of course, you must go. It is such an honour to see him. He is so inspiring.’ She had a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I saw him at Olympia. Such an orator! He held the crowd in the palm of his hand. He has some very interesting ideas. If you ever need to leave work early to go to a meeting again, please don’t hesitate. I can let girls go early at my discretion.’ She gave Peggy’s arm a little pat.

Peggy swallowed hard. She couldn’t believe her ears. Edna was a supporter of Oswald Mosley and his Fascist Blackshirts! She could hardly tell her that she was going to disrupt the meeting with George and his friends, could she? It was best to say nothing. Edna smiled beatifically at Peggy and, as Peggy was leaving, she heard her say, ‘No, Sarah, that will not do at all. Go back to your desk and start again. Your work really is disgraceful.’

She caught the bus to Notting Hill Gate and then hopped onto the Tube to Stratford. On the way, she started to have second thoughts. What if there was a riot, like the one years ago in her street, when the mounted police had charged at them? Might she be better off just going to have a laugh at the Empire with the other girls from work? But when she caught sight of George, carrying his copy of the Daily Worker tucked under his arm, waiting for her at the Tube station, all her worries melted away. They could fight injustice together, the two of them. It was as if all the years they had chatted about politics as kids had a purpose now.

Crowds were milling about outside the town hall, an imposing white-stone building with a tall, domed tower, and there were mounted police trotting beside a swarm of perhaps fifty policemen on foot. Women in black shirts, berets and long wool skirts strutted past, their waists accentuated by thick leather belts. They were met on the town hall steps by men in black polo necks and trousers, their hair slicked back. They greeted each other by raising their right arms to head height.

‘Turns my stomach,’ said George, under his breath. ‘That’s the salute they use in Germany.’

Peggy clasped his arm. Seeing Blackshirts close up brought it all home to her. She was revolted by their extremist views but now these Fascists were all too real and, from what she’d heard from George, they were dangerous and likely to get a bit handy if you crossed them.

‘There are about ten of us dotted about the auditorium,’ he explained as they were ushered inside. The odds seemed stacked against them: only ten protestors against a crowd of at least four hundred. ‘The rest of them are going to try to make a noise outside,’ said George, failing to see the colour draining from Peggy’s face. She hadn’t really thought about what this would mean. They were supposed to protest against a hostile crowd and there were so few of them. What would happen to them? Part of her wanted to turn back but George had a determined look on his face and, before she knew it, a man in a black shirt and red armband checked their tickets and gestured for them to take their seats. Peggy smiled nervously at him and noted with a chill the white lightning-strike embroidered into the band. She and George were sitting about ten rows back from the front of the room. In front was a little podium with a table draped with the Union Flag, and men and women dressed all in black sitting directly behind.

A hush fell over the hall as Mosley appeared, wearing the same black uniform. Peggy was struck by his commanding presence; he stood a full head taller than most of the other men in the room and carried with himself a cool self-assuredness. A murmur started up and then Mosley saluted the room, prompting a chant of ‘Mosley! Mosley!’ which rose to a roar as the audience stomped and clapped. A line of Blackshirts guarded the ends of each row and they stood and returned his salute. Peggy felt George’s hand at her elbow; she’d frozen rigid at the sight of Mosley so she hadn’t noticed that everyone else was standing and they were starting to look at her oddly.

Mosley cleared his throat and a hush fell over the hall. He looked out over the audience and began to speak. He was mesmerizing, just as Edna had said he would be, but what started as a speech about putting the needs of Britain first, protecting the home economy and bringing higher wages to the masses soon degenerated into hatred for immigrants and Jews in particular. Peggy thought of the lovely Jewish tailor who worked down at the Elephant and Castle and of her father’s secret Canadian Indian heritage and felt a chill creep over her. She reached for George’s hand and clasped it tight.

Mosley had spoken for no more than ten minutes when a young, bespectacled man stood up and yelled at him, ‘Hitler means war, you fool!’

Peggy watched in horror as Lionel was seized by a Blackshirt and pulled from his chair. In a split second, another floored him with a punch. She felt George tense with fury beside her.

‘And so,’ said Mosley, looking on with a glint in his eye, ‘Our detractors discover, one by one, how uncomfortable it is to be on the wrong side of Fascism.’ There were cheers and laughter from his supporters as Lionel was dragged to his feet and thrown out through the double doors at the back of the room. His glasses lay broken in the aisle, crushed under a jackboot.

Nonetheless, Lionel’s outcry was followed by a young woman and an older man who must have been about the same age as Peggy’s father. ‘Shame on you and your hatred!’ they shouted and disappeared beneath a hail of blows from Mosley’s guard, who roughly ejected both of them into the arms of a waiting police officer. Blackshirts patrolled the aisles, looking for troublemakers.

‘George, please don’t,’ whispered Peggy, her eyes growing wide with terror.

But he was already on his feet. ‘Fascism means murder! The people do not support you!’ shouted George. A Blackshirt grabbed him from the row behind and pulled him back into his seat and a tussle began. Before she knew what she was doing, Peggy hit George’s assailant with all her might, in an attempt to make him loosen his grip. Suddenly, a pair of arms was around her waist and in an instant she was being carried, backwards, out of the hall.

Peggy kicked, hard, pushing her heels into the Blackshirt’s shins, but he would not let her go. ‘Now, miss. Now, stop that!’

George tried to stand again and carry on speaking but was silenced by a punch in the mouth from a Mosley supporter, not in uniform. ‘Shut it, mate! I came here to hear him speak.’

Then Peggy was through the doors and dumped at the feet of a waiting police officer, who scolded her, ‘What is a nice girl like you doing getting mixed up with that Commie lot? Just think of your parents and how ashamed they’d be. Now, get along home.’ He pulled her to her feet, just as George tumbled through the doors, his lip cut and bleeding.

The police officer pulled out his truncheon and raised it above his head but Peggy threw herself in front of him, ‘No, please. He’s with me.’

‘Off with you both, then!’ said the copper, opening the doors to the town hall and shoving them into the fracas unfolding outside. A mob of Communists was engaged in a running battle with the mounted police and the sound of horses’ hooves clattering up and down the road was punctuated by the shouts of men trading blows with each other.

George looked at Peggy, who had started to cry. ‘Come on,’ he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘We’d better get out of here.’

They ran along the high street and up a side road, until the shouts of the protestors and the yells of the police grew more distant. They stopped in a doorway, under a gas light, to catch their breath. Peggy pulled out her best handkerchief and started to dab George’s lip, which was still bleeding. ‘Look at the state of you!’ she said.

He pulled her to him. ‘It doesn’t matter, Peg, we did what was right. We stood up for our beliefs.’

They were both flushed from running so fast. Glancing down, she noticed then that her best work dress was torn; a beautiful blue dress she had saved up for and sewed from a Paton’s design with her Singer sewing machine.

George reached out and touched the rip in the material. ‘Oh, Peggy, I’m so sorry. Your lovely dress – it’s ruined.’ He felt the edge of the torn fabric, just touching her skin underneath.

Her heart beat faster, as she felt his arms around her waist. Their eyes met. He leaned forwards, brushing his mouth against hers. She tasted the blood from his cut lip but she didn’t care. She just wanted to kiss him and to feel his hands on her body. It was a desire she couldn’t stop and she didn’t want to, not now, not ever.