IF WILLIE WAS FULL OF STORIES BEFORE LEAVING FOR AMERICA, he had plenty to tell on his return. Two years in Pittsburgh: his first weeks working alongside his brother Harry until he found a bakery job; and the highways, the buildings, and the cars – oh, the cars. He’d seen New York and the Statue of Liberty; he could spin a dollar like a true American. The picture Willie painted of himself, sitting on the quayside on the day he arrived, sounded like something out of the films. But, despite his adventures, he was glad to be home and especially pleased to reach dry land. His ship docked in Liverpool a year and a day after the sinking of the Titantic.
Annie was not entirely sure why Willie had come back. If she asked outright, Willie would say was she fishing for a compliment, or simply shrug his shoulders and smile. And Willie only had to smile, and she was done for. If Annie had to find one word to describe the effect Willie Thompson had on her it would be ‘dazzled’. His smile, his eyes, his hair: the number of times she mentioned his forget-me-not blue eyes and corn-coloured hair, you would think him the most handsome man on earth, and so he was to Annie soon enough.
‘Who’s Willie Thompson when he’s at home?’ her father teased her, though Dick knew perfectly well who Willie Thompson was, and only asked to watch Annie blush. Betsy said very little about Willie’s reappearance, but the fact that she said little, made her opinion clear enough. She could not fathom what her daughter saw in him, compared with good, kind, reliable George.
Are School Teachers Stuck Up? This question, being asked about ‘lady teachers’, now that there were even more of them in evidence, was the title of another article that found its way into Annie’s commonplace book, and had a particular piquancy for her around this time. ‘The constant quick speaking as she instructs her class… is apt to give her conversation a dictatorial tone [but] when a school teacher has the good sense and good feeling to make the most of her opportunities, then indeed a man may search the whole world over before he finds a more delightful person… the woman with a trained intelligence is able not only to rule her household wisely and well, but be a good companion for her husband.’
Willie Thompson’s education could not compare with Annie’s or that of his rival, George (just as theirs suffered in comparison with college-educated teachers). Willie had left school at the age of twelve, dragged away from classes by his father who obtained an exemption to get him into work as soon as possible. What did a lad want with school? Joiner, farmer, coffin-maker, master builder, or so he claimed, in later years (‘Oh ay?’ I hear my great-grandma say), William Thompson senior had never put much faith in learning, or in idealistic dreams, come to that. A taciturn man with enormous pride in his own achievements, he was nevertheless curmudgeonly with his eight children. Though he helped with deliveries in the bakery’s early days, he watched his eldest son build the business in silence – and worse. When Jim earned his first hundred pounds, he bought himself a pair of shoes, the first leather shoes – proper lace-up shoes, not working boots – he’d ever owned, with a pattern pricked out on their perfect toes. His mother shared his pride at what they represented. When she’d finished admiring them, Jim left them on the hearth, where he found them the next day, chopped into half a dozen pieces. His father had taken an axe to their smooth black leather. It didn’t do to flaunt your hopes before William Thompson senior. Whatever dreams young Willie had, he made damn sure he kept them to himself.
Willie was working for his brother once again, and paying court with smiles and songs and fancy cakes and scones. He was winning rosettes and national medals too. He could bake enormous loaves shaped like sheaves of wheat or corn, and decorate cakes with elaborate icing that carried off first prizes in competitions. His skills helped put Jim’s business on the map. Thompson’s became a ‘gold medal’ bakery, a thriving, expanding concern. Their baby brother Bernard also joined the firm; as soon as he left school, he took over the deliveries from their father.
Jim Thompson had political ambitions and was already learning that connections are made and influence wielded via social engagements and conversations with the right people. Shortly after his return, Willie invited Annie to a garden party held by Jim and his wife, Edith, where tea was served in fine china cups and women with lace parasols ate strawberries from little glass dishes. Afternoon tea and parasols, and tales of Willie’s American adventure – Annie felt quite giddy.
In the summer of 1915, Jim was appointed to Chesterfield’s Urban District Council. Never one to do things by halves, he hired a tram to drive along Whittington Moor and stood on the platform, the man of the day, thanking all those who’d cast their vote for him. Annie and Willie were among the half dozen invited to make up the party. She spent hours trimming her hat (shaped like a giant upturned soup plate, as was the fashion then) with an abundance of silk flowers in order to look her best for the occasion. Standing on the open deck beside Jim and Edith and their close friends, Annie and Willie leaned against the rail and waved to the pedestrians below. There was something faintly regal about their progress along the Moor in their own special car with its chocolate and yellow livery, its windows plastered with can-do posters of Jim. For all that it was wartime, the day had a holiday atmosphere: it was a relief to have something to celebrate.
George was still around – George was always around – and knowable in a way Willie was not. He asked Annie out on two or three occasions and was a dear, kind friend, but he did not make her heart leap or her fingers stutter over the buttons on her gloves when his sleeve brushed against hers, as Willie’s had on the open deck of the tram. George invited Annie to accompany him to a wedding. Which was all very nice, but when the photographer required the guests to position themselves, Annie hung back. She was the only one who was not part of the family.
In case she needed reminding of his interest, Willie sent Annie another silent card. This one, dashed into the post with stamp askew, came from nearby Staveley, and showed a picture of the Thompson’s bakery cart. Though more prosaic than a Pittsburgh scene, its message was loud enough.
But this was 1915, and there was a larger story taking place. All over the country, fit young men were deciding whether to do their bit and volunteer. In July, George enlisted.
