11 MAY 1940
Dolly whistled to herself as she heaped tea leaves into the urn and listened to the creak and rumble of the giant kettles heating up in the staff-canteen kitchens. She loved this time of morning, half past ten, when she merrily set up her tea trolley and had some peace and quiet before the thirsty rabble descended. Although recently her own tumbling thoughts hadn’t provided any respite from the growing turmoil both inside and outside her home. Still, today was a new day and she was determined not to dwell on the trauma of the previous week.
Spring sunshine streamed in through the open windows, dappling the white-tiled walls and splashing the old copper with dancing lights. Dolly was an optimist by heart and it seemed such a sin to be fighting a war when nothing but blue skies stretched overhead.
She had left early that morning to build in time on her walk to Trout’s to detour past Victoria Park, and the flowers had been bursting into bud. They were certainly having a ravishing spring, and Dolly had savoured every breath of sweet air in her lungs. She had half wanted to stretch out on the grass and listen to the birdsong and the soft snuffling of the piglets in their pens next to the allotments. Baby pigs and potatoes in a city park? Whatever next?! Intriguing sights were certainly popping up all over, thanks to this war.
The image of Flossy Brown’s sweet, hopeful face immediately sprang to mind. Shaking herself a little, she took out a clean, dry cloth and lovingly polished all the mugs on the trolley until the heavy tannin rings faded away and they shone like new pins. If only she could wipe away every last scrap of sadness from that poor little mite so easily. Her mind cast back to the hug she had given Flossy yesterday at clocking-off time. She could still feel those bony little shoulders in her arms. Flossy had felt untreasured, nothing but a girl with a heart full of unused affection. Well, she was here now, and that was what counted. Dolly was determined to make the orphan realize she was cherished . . . before it was too late.
There was something else too, something nagging deep inside Dolly, making her feel distinctly uneasy. As she set the mug down smartly on the trolley, her heart started to palpate. Twisting the frayed cloth between her fingers, Dolly realized that her hands were trembling.
The young lady’s sudden appearance on the factory floor was bringing the events of that terrible day flooding back into sharp focus. Dolly’s stomach lurched at the memory. Exactly how much did Flossy remember of her childhood? Could she possibly remember . . . ?
No, no, no.
Pushing down the familiar waves of guilt and panic, Dolly forced herself to take some deep, calming breaths. It was all such a long, long time ago, buried in the dim and distant past, and that’s precisely where it should remain.
By the eleven-o’clock tea break, Dolly had managed to compose herself, and out on the factory floor, she spotted the new machinist, Peggy, straight away. It wasn’t hard. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Dolly chewed her bottom lip pensively. Good grief! The girl looked like she had high-stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue. She wouldn’t last two minutes at Trout’s looking like that. Best get to her before Vera did.
‘Morning, Flossy. You’ve met our new starter, then, I see . . . Hello,’ she smiled, turning to Peggy and stretching out her hand. ‘My name’s Dolly. I’m the tea lady here and all-round dogsbody. What’s your name, sweetheart, and how do you take your tea?’
‘Peggy Piper,’ the girl replied with a tight little smile, ignoring Dolly’s outstretched hand. ‘Darjeeling with a slice of lemon.’
Dolly’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Darjeeling, ducks? Not sure I’ve got any of that foreign stuff in my trolley,’ she smiled, undeterred. ‘But I do brew up a mean British cuppa.’
Dolly hesitated. ‘Listen, love, I don’t mean to be a nose ointment, but just a friendly word – the bosses here, they have a fairly strict dress code. There’s no uniform as such, just a pinny to stop you getting covered in fluff, but they don’t really like the girls wearing their hair down, as it’s a danger if it gets stuck in machinery. Or high heels. They skid something rotten on this concrete floor. I should know,’ she chuckled.
Peggy was done up to the nines. Her shining hair had been styled into soft waves, which fell about her delicate shoulders; she wore a pearl necklace at her throat and, the thing Dolly knew would most get up Vera’s nose, patent-leather high-heel T-bar sandals.
‘I can fetch you a hairnet from the canteen if you don’t have a turban?’ she offered.
At the mention of hairnets, Peggy recoiled. ‘Well, thanks awfully, Dolly,’ she replied coolly, ‘but if I wanted fashion advice from a charlady, I would have asked for it.’
The acoustics of the former workhouse, with its high, vaulted ceilings, meant that Peggy’s unfortunate remark echoed loudly around the factory floor. A sudden hush fell over the room as the inquisitive workers stopped what they were doing to stare.
‘Girls who wear patent shoes only do it so boys can see their knickers,’ Pat muttered angrily under her breath.
Sal Fowler shot Peggy a death stare that meant she wouldn’t be getting invited to dances anytime soon.
‘Suit yourself, sweetheart,’ smiled Dolly evenly. It would take more than this young upstart to upset her on such a glorious spring morning. ‘Only, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The voice from behind Dolly was as cool as steel.
‘Miss Piper. A word in Mr Gladstone’s office, if you will . . .’
Dolly turned to see Vera, arms folded in front of her like a shield, her mouth crimped into a tight line of disapproval.
‘In a minute,’ said Peggy. ‘I’ve just got to pop to the lavatory. Where is it? Outside, I presume.’
The temperature in the room seemed to plunge a few degrees as Vera’s expression froze over. Dolly almost felt sorry for the girl.
‘The lavatory?’ Vera said crisply, arching one eyebrow. ‘Why, yes, they’re outside, and please, would Madam like a red carpet rolled out in her honour as well?’
Ten minutes later, Peggy emerged from Archie’s office wearing a pinafore, her hair neatly pinned under a hairnet and her neck bare of jewellery.
‘Got you a brew, love,’ said Dolly, handing Peggy a mug of tea, the handle of which was wrapped with a flame-coloured red rag.
A tiny mischievous smile touched the corners of her mouth. ‘It ain’t Darjeeling, but it’s hotter than hell and darker than brown Windsor soup. That’s how we drink it in the East End.’
*
When Dolly moved off, Flossy turned and nervously eyed the new girl. Everything about her looked refined – even her cheekbones looked as if they had been chiselled from marble – and thanks to her proud, upright bearing, she had managed to make her hairnet look like a high-fashion item.
Gracious but she was beautiful, marvelled Flossy. Peggy’s startling violet eyes had a feline quality to them and were flecked with threads of gold. Even her ears were small and perfect, a sign of good breeding, Flossy thought with a pang.
Flossy nervously tugged her own ears, which protruded out like two Toby-jug handles, then glanced down at her well-worn shoes. She felt herself sink lower into her seat and instantly Matron’s words tore through her: Straighten up, girl!
Flossy didn’t know if her slight hunch was born from having almost no self-belief or whether it was rooted in a medical problem, but anytime she felt inferior – which was almost always – she began to hunch over. As soon as it had become apparent, Matron had ordered her pockets to be sewn up to prevent her slouching further, and she had been placed on the delicate dorm, with all the sickly, less robust children.
Not only that but she had also had her precious copy of Black Beauty confiscated, and a fresh Bible put in its place in her bedside drawer.
‘The reading of such frivolous literature is not aiding your condition,’ Matron had said with a disapproving grimace. ‘The Bible is the only book you need rely on.’
Black Beauty had never found his way back to her, and oh, how she had pined for him.
A stoop and scuffed shoes! Flossy suddenly felt about as treasured as an old discarded button and hot tears pricked her eyelids. Angrily, she blinked them back. Forcing a smile on her face, she remembered that Trout’s was supposed to be her bright new start in life. She and Peggy were doing the same job now, so surely that put them on a level pegging, regardless of their background.
‘I’m Flossy Brown,’ she said. ‘And you must be Peggy. I only started yesterday myself, so hopefully we can save each other from making too many mistakes. Is it how you imagined it to be?’ she ventured.
‘And worse . . .’ Peggy snapped. ‘That forelady is an absolute harridan. Do you know she confiscated my necklace and has placed it in a safe in the foreman’s office?’
‘I’m sure you’ll get it back at dinner break,’ Flossy replied.
‘When is that, anyhow?’ Peggy asked, eyeing her sewing machine as if it were a live grenade.
‘One o’clock sharp, or whenever Mrs Shadwell comes out and rings the bell,’ Flossy replied. ‘We get forty-five minutes for dinner. A lot of the women here rush out to do their shopping, but yesterday I went to the canteen. Food’s not terrific, chips with everything, but it fills the hole until the three-o’clock tea break, and at least it means you don’t have to use your coupons up. We get two tea breaks as well, plus four minutes for toilet breaks.’
‘How regimented,’ Peggy snorted in derision. ‘Sounds like the army.’
‘I rather like it,’ Flossy admitted. ‘Least you know where you are, and yesterday, the day flew by. Why, there was even singing . . .’ Suddenly, she felt foolish. There she was again. Showing herself up. Was she really so marinated in routine that the highlight of her day was chips at dinner break and a sing-song?
‘Well, it’s all pretty decent, I’m sure,’ she mumbled. ‘The girls are good sorts. They were ever so helpful to me yesterday, showing me the ropes. I can show you too and help get you started, if you like? The old-timers like Pat do the trickier work, sewing the uniforms together on an assembly line. Us apprentices are just on pockets and bandages at the moment, but who knows – work hard enough and we could end up on piecework like Pat . . .’ Her voice trailed off as Peggy surveyed her curiously through long, spidery lashes.
‘Look here, I appreciate your help, but I really wouldn’t bother trying to befriend me if I were you, as I shan’t be here long,’ she said in a cool voice. ‘This has all been a dreadful mistake, but you can show me how to work this wretched machine if you like just so I can get through the day.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ said Flossy, leaping from her seat to give Peggy a rundown of the machine. By the time she’d finished, Peggy looked baffled.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, why are you here machining?’ Flossy asked boldly, her curiosity overcoming her nerves. ‘You could be working up West as a shop girl,’ she smiled. ‘You’ve certainly got the looks to be one.’
‘I told you,’ Peggy retorted. ‘It’s a mistake. I used to work as a nippy at Lyons Corner House in Marble Arch, but we’ve had to move back to Bethnal Green, where my mother hails from. She went down to the labour exchange and they came up with this . . . this factory. But as I said, I shall only be here a day or so at best.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it, love,’ piped up a veteran worker by the name of Ivy, taking her foot off the treadle and turning round with a wicked grin. ‘You’re stuck with us lot now, or rather, we’re stuck with you.’
‘Whatever can you mean?’ Peggy replied defensively.
‘What I says,’ sniffed Ivy. ‘You’re in essential war work now. Government won’t let you just up sticks and work wherever takes yer fancy. I’d make the best of it if I was you, and stop agitating Vera an’ all, or you won’t half catch it off her. Pearl necklace to work . . . I asks yer. Whatever next? Pat manning the press in a cocktail dress? Our Doll pouring the tea in white gloves?’ She cackled as if she’d said the funniest thing ever and returned to her work.
‘Ivy’s right,’ said Daisy, seated next to the older woman. ‘I tried to join the Land Army – fancied the uniform and getting out of Bethnal Green – but when they heard I worked here, they refused to release me. There’s no getting out now.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Peggy snapped. ‘My chap’s high up in the MOI. He’ll be able to wangle me out, I’m sure.’
‘What’s that, then?’ quizzed Daisy. ‘Sounds posh.’
‘Ministry of Information, of course,’ Peggy retorted. ‘He won’t stand for this.’
‘Well, he better have friends in high places, love,’ piped up Pat, grunting slightly from the row in front as she shifted her vast bulk on the tiny wooden chair. ‘’Cos something tells me stitching uniforms is a damn sight more important than serving scones.’
Flossy looked up to see Vera marching towards them, the heavy set of keys she wore attached to her waist clanking like a jailer’s.
‘Is there a problem, ladies?’ she said when she reached their bench, glaring at Peggy.
‘No . . . no,’ flushed Peggy.
‘Then could Madam please deign to start work? Or would you like the man on the moon to come down and join in your little chat too?’
As soon as the forelady was out of earshot, Flossy saw Pat lean over towards Ivy.
‘’Ere, Ivy. Times must be hard when the labour exchange’s sending us bleedin’ nippies. You’re either born into the rag or you ain’t. Betcha we’ll be able to see her stitches from ’ere to Aldgate.’
Ivy nodded. ‘She’ll never manage eight stitches to the inch. Half-hour in and she’s already rubbed me up the wrong way. She wants to watch ’er mouth or else she’ll end up with a smack in the gob, and I don’t care how high up ’er fella is in the Ministry of Whatnot.’
The words were whispered, but loudly enough to be heard on the bench behind, which was, of course, the point. Flossy witnessed Peggy’s humiliation and vowed there and then that no matter how haughty her new workmate might be, she would try her hardest to bring her into the fold. She got the distinct impression that Peggy’s rudeness was a front for something. She didn’t know what, but instinct told her the new girl was hiding something.
As she watched Peggy snap her thread for the third time, she realized she would have a job on her hands.
‘Allow me,’ Flossy said, deftly threading Peggy’s needle for her. ‘I know you don’t want a friend,’ she whispered, ‘but something tells me you might need one.’
The rest of the morning passed by without incident, and come dinner break, Peggy, with Flossy’s help, had at least managed to get some bundles of work past the eagle-eyed passer, whose job it was to inspect the finished articles, and into her well.
As the bell rang throughout the factory, the air was filled with the sound of thirty women scraping back their chairs. The relief was palpable. When Pat and Ivy rose creakily to their feet, rubbing their backs and grabbing their string shopping bags, they shot Peggy a look that told Flossy it would take a long while before she was going to be accepted.
Seeing their venomous stares, Peggy tapped Flossy on the shoulder. ‘Look here,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘I think I will come to the canteen with you after all.’
‘Be my guest,’ Flossy grinned back. ‘It’s right this way.’
Once seated at the scrubbed wooden table, the two girls tucked into their dinner. For Flossy, Spam fritters with chips; for Peggy, a bowl of watery soup and a marg-scraped roll. A stream of factory workers bustled past with their trays, relieved to be on their precious dinner break, and smiled warmly at Flossy. She couldn’t help but notice the curious nudges that Peggy’s presence aroused.
Peggy seemed not to notice as she stirred her soup miserably.
‘Cheer up,’ grinned Flossy. ‘It’s really not so bad here, you know. There’s even a pen-pal scheme where you can write to serving sailors if you like. I wrote to mine last night. Tommy’s his name. I’m sure there’ll be a sailor who’d love to hear from someone as glamorous as you.’
‘A sailor?’ exclaimed Peggy, looking up sharply from her soup. ‘I think not. Besides, I hardly think Gerald would approve. He’ll go spare as it is when he finds out I’m working in this grubby little place.’
‘Is Gerald your chap, the one you mentioned earlier who works for the Ministry of Information?’ said Flossy, between mouthfuls.
At the mention of her sweetheart’s name, Peggy’s demeanour softened. ‘Yes, Gerald Fortesque. We’ve been stepping out for six months now after I served him luncheon at Lyons.’
‘How exciting. He sounds terribly grand,’ gushed Flossy. ‘I’ve never courted, but here’s hoping. So is it serious between you and Gerald?’
‘Not if he sees me in this ghastly thing,’ Peggy shuddered, gesturing to her hairnet. ‘Yes, it is, I think. Gerald hasn’t formally proposed as such, but we have discussed it. Gerald thinks it’s best we wait until after the war is over before we think about it. He’s terribly busy in the ministry, but I’m working on him. After all, any woman not engaged at our age simply isn’t trying hard enough.’
‘Oh right,’ Flossy mumbled.
‘Besides, we shouldn’t have long to wait,’ Peggy sniffed. ‘The war will be over in the next six months. All this talk of invasion is so ludicrous. You know the orchestra is still playing at Lyons?’
Flossy sighed and an image of the orchestra on board the Titanic, playing on as the ship slowly sank into the icy depths, sprang to mind.
‘Where does Gerald live? In the East End?’ Flossy asked.
‘Hardly,’ Peggy snorted. ‘He lives in Belsize Park with his mother. Well, actually his mother has relocated to their country house in Wiltshire, just for the duration of the war. That’s why I haven’t been able to visit him at home yet. Gerald thinks it’s not appropriate I visit his London property until his mother is there to receive me formally.’ She smiled for the first time since entering Trout’s. ‘Dear Gerald, he is a little old-fashioned.’
Flossy smiled back politely. It occurred to her that throughout their entire conversation not once had she heard Peggy say what she felt was best for her.
‘That’s why I know he would prefer to see me working back at Lyons,’ Peggy went on. ‘The uniform there is far more becoming for a young woman, and waitressing is wonderful practice in the art of domesticity.’
Peggy glanced around the works canteen at the babble of lively machinists, tucking into their hot dinners with gusto, and could scarcely conceal her distaste. The heat in the room was something else, and even though the window was jammed open, the cloying smell of distemper that oozed from the flaking plaster walls mingled with the stench of fried food.
‘I know this might not be a Corner House, but you’ll get used to it,’ Flossy said, following her gaze. ‘The women really are lovely, if you just give them a chance, because honestly, Peggy, I have a feeling this war is only just starting. Besides, I’m sure your Gerald will support you working here. After all, like Pat said, you are aiding the war effort now.’
Peggy said nothing, just stared dully into her bowl. ‘I don’t want to talk about the war anymore,’ she replied, finally taking a tiny nibble of her roll. ‘Urgh, this margarine tastes like cart grease,’ she winced, throwing the roll back onto her plate.
Flossy’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘So why is it you and your mother have moved back to the East End? You never said.’
Peggy stiffened. ‘I said I don’t want to talk about it, Flossy.’
And with that, she stood abruptly and swept angrily from the canteen, colliding with Kathy, causing her to drop her plate of meat pie and chips all over the floor with a loud crash.
‘Oi, mind yourself!’ Kathy shrieked as chips and gravy splattered over the scuffed linoleum floor. ‘Ain’t you even gonna say sorry?’
Peggy didn’t even turn round. Flossy suspected Kathy would be waiting a long time for an apology. Peggy couldn’t eat a bowl of soup, much less a slice of humble pie.
*
Dolly opened the door to Archie’s office and ushered the new boy onto the factory floor. She knew what was coming and the women didn’t disappoint. Poor lad, she felt like she was turning him loose into a lion’s den, not a garment factory. The women were rowdy at the best of times, but, honestly, with a full belly after dinnertime, they were positively incorrigible.
Not that she could blame them. The lad might have been small, barely skimming five foot six inches, but he was strong and powerfully built, with a boxer’s physique and a slightly crooked nose. But it had been his twinkling eyes, not his biceps, Dolly had found herself drawn to when Vera had introduced them just moments before in the foreman’s office. They were the colour of milk chocolate and as warm and melting as hot cocoa.
His earthy good looks wouldn’t half stir things up, though, she had also thought sagely as he had shaken her hand firmly in his. She had seen it before, after all. The last chap who had worked here as an odd-job man, Alf, had been the cause of that many a catfight he had been relieved to be called up. Dolly prayed Lucky had a thicker skin than Alf.
The lusty chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls that rang out now were deafening. Dolly chuckled as she looked about the factory at the workers, hooting with laughter. They were an uproarious tribe of women, and no one, not even Hitler, could put a dent in their spirits this bright spring afternoon.
‘Calm down, yer daft mares! Blimey, a bit of meat pie and you’re anyone’s. Ain’t any of yer seen a fella before?’ Archie bellowed over the din, holding his hands aloft.
Sal stood up and teasingly blew a kiss in their direction. ‘Not one as handsome as this lovely chap, Mr G. What’s your name, sweetheart? My machine could do with some oiling.’
‘Shut yer trap and sit down, Sal Fowler,’ the factory foreman ordered. ‘Watch that one – she can be trouble at times,’ Archie muttered to Lucky. ‘Come to think if it, they all are.’
‘Don’cha worry about me, lad,’ boomed imperturbable Pat. ‘I got bottles of sauce in my cupboard older than you, but you ain’t half a sight for sore eyes.’
‘Give it a rest,’ said Archie. ‘Anyone would have thought I’d employed Ernie bleedin’ Flynn.’
Lucky coughed. ‘Actually, sir, I think you mean Errol Flynn.’
‘Errol, Beryl . . . whatever,’ sighed Archie, as the floor fell about. ‘As I was trying to say, this is Lucky Johnstone, the new odd-job man I was telling yer about yesterday. Too many hens and not enough cocks in this factory. It’s nice to have another bloke about the place, truth be told, even if he does have more hair than me.’
With that, Archie gave the young lad a gentle nudge and Lucky removed his cap, to reveal a fine mop of dark brown curls, and stepped forward with a bashful smile.
‘Glad to be at your disposal, ladies,’ he said in a voice as rich as treacle. ‘Anything you need a hand with, don’t hesitate to ask.’
‘Yeah, but where can we have the hand?’ hollered Sal.
Giggling uncontrollably, Daisy pulled her back to her seat.
‘Hands off,’ piped up Kathy. ‘You’re married.’
‘Yeah, but a slice off a cut loaf ain’t missed,’ Sal shot back. ‘I’m only joking,’ she added. ‘My Reggie would murder me if he found me doing the double shuffle.’
If Lucky seemed intimidated by the women’s crude banter, he didn’t show it. An affable grin creased over his strong, handsome face, and his brown eyes twinkled in the spring sunshine.
‘I’m flattered, ladies,’ he grinned, holding his flannel cap and placing it over his heart.
‘’Ere,’ screeched Pat. ‘Whatever happened to your ’and?’
‘Pat!’ scolded Vera. ‘Don’t ask such personal questions.’
‘Please, it’s all right, Mrs Shadwell,’ replied Lucky. ‘I don’t mind. I used to work as a cabinetmaker on Brick Lane.’
The women all nodded approvingly. The area had a proud history of carpentry, and those who didn’t work the docks went into one of the many small timber yards that clustered around Bethnal Green Road.
‘I had an accident in the sawmill and lost the tops of two of the fingers on this hand,’ he said ruefully, holding his right hand aloft. ‘Ended my career in carpentry. ’Fraid they won’t let me join the army neither on account of not being able to hold a rifle.’
‘Not surprised, lad,’ heckled Ivy. ‘You’d be about as much use as a chocolate fireguard on the front line.’
For a moment, Dolly thought she saw a flash of shame, but he recovered himself quickly.
‘You’re probably right,’ he grinned good-naturedly. ‘Still, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? And it means I get to work here. Trout’s has, er, quite the reputation.’
‘The British Army’s loss is our gain, I say,’ beamed Archie, clamping his arm round Lucky’s shoulder. ‘Trout’s reputation is soon going to extend to being the most prolific producer of army and navy uniforms in the East End. Ain’t that right, girls? We’ll be able to rival London Brothers at the rate we’re going. So yer see, Lucky, you’re still doing yer bit to beat the Boche.’
Lucky nodded respectfully at his new boss, and there it was again, Dolly noted – pain and disappointment, flitting just beneath the surface of those mesmerizing eyes. It must have been a terrible blow to a young man like him not to be able to join his pals from Russia Lane and wear the uniform of the British Army. She knew all too well the misery of being let down by your body.
With one arm still slung protectively round Lucky’s shoulder, Archie gestured to the silent army of sewing machines lined up on the workbenches. ‘They ain’t rifles, but they are our weapons in this war against tyranny. What was it Churchill said to the nation yesterday? “Our aim is victory!” Well, let’s start stitching our way to victory!
‘I wanna hear them machines sing from dawn until dusk, girls. You hear me? Sing, sing, sing I say!’ he said with an explosive laugh as he slapped Lucky on the back. ‘Right, chop-chop, back to work.’
‘Archie,’ coughed Dolly, ‘you said I could have five minutes of the women’s time.’
‘Sorry, Doll, so I did,’ he apologized. ‘Our Doll has a cracking idea, so lend her yer lugholes.’
Dolly stepped forward. ‘Vera and I had an idea how we can help our new sailor pals. Letters are all well and good, but what do you reckon our boys really need?’ she asked.
‘One thing springs to mind,’ Sal laughed, arching her eyebrows suggestively.
‘Behave, you dirty bugger,’ screeched Ivy.
‘Back at yer with knobs on,’ quipped Sal.
‘Comfort items,’ said Dolly firmly. ‘You know – socks, fingerless gloves, polo-neck pullovers, sea-boot stockings, wristlets, balaclavas and so on. The waters around this country that they are so bravely sweeping for mines are perishing cold.’
Dolly cleared her throat before going on. ‘So . . . Vera and I thought we could start a sewing circle through the Women’s Voluntary Services, of which she is a member, and send bundles for our boys through them. We’ve asked about it and they reckon it can be done, perhaps through the Mayor’s Comforts Group. There has to be a way, they reckon, as long as it’s Vera running it. The WVS can achieve anything. It’s not beyond the wit of man,’ she chuckled. ‘Or should I say woman?’
She gazed about the floor expectantly. ‘Well, wotcha think? Should be a piece of cake for you girls. There’s not one of you who couldn’t pick out a bit of material from Green Street Market in the morning, stitch up a nice dress at dinner and be wearing it come nightfall. You’re the most talented needlewomen in all of the East End. You have a feel for fabric that goes beyond instinct. It’s in the blood, and it comes from being raised in the heartland of the rag trade.’
The silence stretched on, so Dolly filled it, anxious to win the women over. ‘We can make it a working party and knit and sew on breaks, evenings and Sundays,’ she said eagerly. ‘There are pattern books being issued by the Personal Services League. Not that you lot’ll need ’em, mind.’
‘That’s right,’ interjected Vera, sensing the women’s hesitation. ‘There are millions of women just like us starting sewing bees. There are already three hundred and twenty active members right here in Bethnal Green, from nurses to factory workers. Why, even Her Royal Highness is in on the act.’
‘Behave!’ chuckled Archie.
‘Honestly, Mr Gladstone,’ Vera insisted knowingly. ‘My contact at the WVS assures me that Her Highness holds two weekly sewing bees in the blue drawing room at the palace.’ Vera was a staunch royalist, and Dolly had a suspicion that was why she had agreed to start a sewing bee in the first place.
‘If it’s good enough for the Palace, then it’s good enough for Trout’s. Right, girls?’ Dolly grinned.
Pat frowned. ‘I hear you, Doll. It’s just that, well, we’ve got our work cut out as it is just keeping on top of uniforms. Besides, ain’t the WVS for toffs?’
‘All the more reason to start a sewing bee,’ Dolly insisted. ‘Vera tells me the centre organizer up at the Green Street branch is from Hampstead, and the Comforts rep is from Chelsea. Do we really want our neighbourhood represented by women who ain’t even from Bethnal Green? Come on! We can sew them toffs under the table.’
The floor fell silent and Dolly started to worry that perhaps she had misjudged the hard workers of Trout’s. But then, at the back of the room, she saw a figure rise to her feet.
‘I’d like to join,’ mumbled Flossy.
Dolly winked at her. ‘Good girl. Anyone else? Cold, wet, sore feet are the enemy as surely as the German troops, so let’s get our boys some warm socks.’
‘Go on, then,’ grinned Pat, shaking her head so that her metal curlers clanked under her turban. ‘I must be certifiable. Stick me down. Half the lads what grew up in my street are in the merchant or on a destroyer.’
‘I’d like to help too, Dolly,’ piped up Lucky. ‘I know I ain’t much good with a needle and thread, but I have got access to a Tin Lizzie, so I can deliver the bundles to the depot. I’ve got a load of mates down Petticoat Lane what owe me favours and can pass me scraps and swatches.
‘I also do a lot of coaching with youth groups down at the Repton Boys’ Boxing Club in my spare time,’ he added. ‘A lot of those boys are pretty resourceful, so I’ll get them involved in finding us material.’
‘Oh, would you mind, Lucky?’ gushed Dolly. ‘That’d be smashing, love. The WVS have already told us their wool and fabric are in very short supply, so we’ll have to foot the cost of the materials ourselves.’
‘Mind?’ he grinned. ‘Why, I’d be honoured to do my bit.’ With that, Lucky raised both his fists in a mock fight stance. As he did so, his overalls strained tight over his broad chest and a thick lock of his dark hair tumbled over one eye. ‘They call me the “Pocket Rocket” when I fight. Thirty matches and I ain’t never been defeated yet. No guts, no glory – that’s our motto in the ring,’ Lucky grinned with a swagger. ‘But I think it applies just as much outside the ring. Way I see it is, we have a duty to help our boys any way we can.’
‘Now you’re talking, Lucky me lad,’ beamed Archie, ruffling Lucky’s hair. ‘That’s what I call using yer loaf. I knew you’d be a useful asset to Trout’s. So, Flossy, Pat and Lucky are in. Who else?’
The change in mood was like the flick of a switch. At the mention of Lucky’s involvement, a sea of hands shot into the air.
‘Yeah, I could maybe spare some time after work or on Sundays,’ offered Kathy, shooting Lucky her most winsome smile.
‘Yeah, me and all,’ smiled Daisy, looking as fresh as morning dew, despite being out late the night before at the dance. ‘Don’t want to miss out on all the fun,’ she winked, smiling coyly at Lucky.
‘I’ll definitely be joining up if you’re involved, Lucky,’ purred a sultry young machinist. ‘My name’s Lily. Lily Beaumont. I expect you’ll have heard of me.’
Dolly allowed herself a little smile. Lily had been crowned ‘Miss Bethnal Green’ in a beauty contest at the Arabian Arms two summers ago and she had dined out on it ever since.
‘’Ere, Doll, perhaps we can hold jumble sales or wool drives?’ piped up Ivy.
‘Or how about a singing competition to raise money?’ added Kathy.
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Lily, who was known throughout the factory for her beautiful singing voice.
A clamour of excitement swept over the floor as the women all chipped in with ways in which they could source the much-needed materials for the sewing bee. Dolly shot Vera a wry grin. She knew from years of working alongside these resourceful women that their famed ingenuity would come into its own in a wartime sewing bee. Funny how it took a man with muscles of steel and a smile like silk to make them see that.
She glanced over to where the man of the moment was standing, to see whether Lucky realized what an effect he was having on the women. But as she looked into his brown eyes, she realized his focus had shifted.
Lucky’s gaze had cut through his sea of admirers and was trained firmly on the back of the room. Dolly realized he was looking intently over at the flighty new girl, Peggy Piper. Every feature on his face had softened as if he had just been struck by an epiphany.
Peggy appeared not to have noticed and was digging around in her handbag.
‘Just one more thing before we get back to work,’ Vera’s voice cut in. ‘The sewing bee needs a name.’
‘There’s only one,’ shrugged Pat. ‘The Victory Knitters!’
‘It’s perfect!’ grinned Dolly, clapping her hands together.
‘Spot on,’ chipped in Archie. ‘Our very own army of girls, knitting for the troops. Right, now that’s settled, hop to it. Them uniforms won’t sew themselves, and let’s have a song while we’re at it.’
The women dispersed and started to drift back to their stations, while Dolly readied herself to collect her broom and begin her afternoon sweep round. But when she looked up, Lucky was standing straight in front of her, blocking her path. The new odd-job man was grinning from ear to ear like a love-struck fool.
‘Well, Lucky lad,’ Dolly said with a chuckle, ‘I’ll say this – you’ve certainly made a big first impression on the girls.’
‘Good. I really think I’m going to like it here,’ Lucky replied. ‘Everyone said I was mad to come to Trout’s and I should have gone to London Brothers, what with them being a bigger concern and all, but this place, well, it seems smashing so far . . . I was just wondering, Miss Doolaney . . . Who’s that girl at the back of the room?’
They both turned as one and looked over to where Peggy had clearly found what she was looking for and was now filing her nails.
‘She’s the most beautiful woman I have ever clapped eyes on,’ he breathed. ‘She looks like she’s stepped right out of the silver screen.’
Dolly sighed heavily. ‘Oh, Lucky. First, call me Dolly, won’t you? Second, take a tip from a good friend, because I truly hope that’s how you’ll come to regard me, but trust me, sweetheart’ – her blue eyes softened with concern and she touched the lad lightly on the cheek, causing a soft red flush to bloom across his skin – ‘that way only leads to trouble. She already has a fella. Unrequited love is a heavy burden to carry.’
She smiled to let him know she had his best interests at heart. ‘Even more than not being able to serve your country.’
Lucky’s proud jaw stiffened as he replaced his cap firmly and shot a last lingering look at Peggy. ‘We’ll see, Dolly. Fortune favours the brave.’
With the details of the sewing bee all wrapped up, the women resumed their duties. Soon the room was filled with the sounds of industry, the humming of machines meshing with the women’s beautiful lilting voices.
‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ had a resonance that touched all the women’s hearts. Dolly leaned into her broom, resting her chin on the handle, and stared out of the window at the floating army of anti-aircraft barrage balloons hovering silently in the blue skies of the East End. But for once, instead of being comforted by their presence, she felt a haunting wave of fear break over her. She would need a far stronger line of defence to save her from the heartache that inevitably lay ahead, just as Lucky would if he continued on his foolish quest.
A cacophony of emotions tumbled through her. Dolly loved Trout’s, and she adored the women within it. They were like family to her, and the factory was her second home.
The East End was filled with garment factories, from Horne Brothers in Hackney to the north to Stripes in Stepney to the south, with Bethnal Green slap bang in the middle. But of all the factories in all the neighbourhoods, Trout’s was Dolly’s place.
Her lifeblood pulsed through every joist and joint of this creaky old building, and she could probably walk round the whole place with her eyes shut. She had loved coming to work every single day of the past twenty-one years. Her desire to stay another twenty-one and see through her work was powerful, but as her head began to swim and she gripped the broom handle tighter, Dolly knew. Her time in the factory was running out.
*
At the end of the shift, Flossy waited until the floor had nearly emptied before tapping Dolly on the shoulder.
‘Do you have a moment, Dolly?’
The tea lady was busy clearing down the benches and looked up, bemused. ‘What you still doing here, Flossy love? The night shift’ll be clocking on soon. I’m only staying on to make up my hours after being off. You get yourself home.’
‘I know, but I . . . I wanted to ask you a favour.’
‘Ask away, ducks,’ Dolly grinned, her blonde curls working loose from her turban as she resumed her vigorous polishing of the wooden bench top. ‘Least I can do after you offered to join in the sewing circle.’
‘I thought I might stop off at the town hall on my way home, see if I can’t ask about finding my birth certificate, and I wondered if you might come with me.’
‘Your birth certificate,’ Dolly replied sharply, looking up from her polishing. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Well, how do I put this . . . ? I know nothing about my real mother or father and why – or how – I came to be in the orphanage. Growing up there, we were discouraged from asking too many questions.
‘Matron told us that we should regard the staff and Christ as our real family, and the orphanage our home. The problem was, Dolly . . . it never felt like a home, at least not to me, anyhow.’
‘Oh, love,’ said Dolly, pushing back the stray curls from her face. ‘I can see how upsetting this must be for you, but why start searching now?’
‘Because yesterday I turned eighteen. I can go my own way now,’ Flossy replied, ‘and, well, the town hall seems as good a place as any to start.’
She was surprised and a tiny bit disappointed to see a frown spread over Dolly’s face. ‘Oh, you think it’s a bad idea?’ she blustered.
‘No, no, it’s not that, but is it really what you want, Flossy?’ she replied cautiously, choosing her words with care. ‘I mean, digging away at the past ain’t always such a good idea. At the risk of sounding like your old matron, why don’t you see me and the girls as your family now?’
‘Oh, Dolly, I’m so grateful to you all,’ she replied. ‘But I need to do this.’ Flossy hesitated, stumbling over her words. ‘The . . . Well, the package I received yesterday, somehow I just know it’s connected to my past. Maybe even to the identity of my real mother. Now that I’ve left the home, I have the freedom to start trying to find out how. I know you’ll think I’m daft.’
Dolly’s face softened, and reaching over, she squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t think it’s daft in the slightest, Flossy. We must all journey with hope in our heart.’
‘So you’ll come?’ she asked eagerly. ‘You’ll help me try to unlock my past?’
Dolly drew in a deep breath. ‘Of course I will. But I should warn you the town hall will probably be closed by now.’
‘Oh no,’ Flossy said brightly. ‘I saw a poster on the way to work saying that it’s staying open late as they’re doing an ARP demonstration and the Red Cross are down there doing first-aid courses.’
Dolly shook her head in amazement. ‘Determined little thing, ain’cha? Very well, let me finish up here and then we’ll be on our way.’
The town hall was thronged with residents watching eagerly as a serious-looking man in a tin helmet demonstrated how to operate a stirrup pump, and efficient ladies from the WVS bustled about handing out tea and garibaldi biscuits. Kids ran shrieking and sliding up the parquet corridors on their knees.
‘So many kiddies come back from being evacuated,’ Dolly remarked, as they walked through the maze of corridors. ‘I wonder at the wisdom of it, mind you.’
Flossy was saved from answering when they stopped abruptly outside the registrar’s office.
‘Please, miss. I’m just here to enquire about finding my birth certificate,’ Flossy said politely to a clerk.
‘We’re closing. Come back in the morning,’ she replied brusquely.
Flossy felt the familiar feeling of disappointment pool in her belly.
‘She can’t,’ said Dolly. ‘She works in a factory. Essential war work, so I’m sure you won’t mind obliging her under the circumstances.’
‘Very well,’ snapped the clerk, irritated. ‘Mother and father’s full names, occupations and dates of birth.’
‘But that’s just it,’ faltered Flossy. ‘I don’t know them. I can provide you with my details. Flossy Brown. I was baptized and raised in the Shoreditch Home for Waifs and Strays.’
‘If you can’t provide me with their details, then I’m afraid I can’t help you. You’ll have to go to the home and ask them to see your files.’
‘But they’ve been evacuated,’ Flossy replied.
‘So write to them. Look here, I really can’t assist you further,’ she retorted, taking her coat from a peg. ‘Besides, there is a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘And a little kindness goes a long way, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Dolly shot back, placing a defensive arm round Flossy. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Out on the pavement, tears flooded Flossy’s cheeks.
‘I feel like such a fool,’ she sobbed.
‘Oh, love, you’re not a fool – far from it,’ Dolly soothed. ‘What does that snooty old cow know, anyhow? But maybe it’s a sign that perhaps you need to look forward, instead of back . . .’
Flossy felt a fresh wave of resolve prickle up her backbone. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I don’t see it that way, Dolly. Really I don’t. I can’t even begin to think of moving forward until I have discovered who my mother was and why she gave me up. How can I dream of a future when I have no clue whatsoever as to my past? My life feels a bit like a jigsaw puzzle with lots of missing pieces. All I want is to find out who I really am.’ She stared at the crowd of mothers and children spilling out onto the town-hall steps. ‘Everyone belongs to someone, don’t they? Who do I belong to?’
Tears pooled in Dolly’s big blue eyes as she delicately cupped Flossy’s chin in her hands. ‘You fit in at Trout’s. I know that much.’
‘Well, my face didn’t fit at the home,’ she wept fiercely.
And suddenly, right there on the street, as the sunlight bleached from the sky, Flossy found herself blurting out the truth about her adolescence to a woman she barely knew but instinctively trusted.
‘All my life I’ve felt like a spare part, Dolly. Only the thought that one day my mother would come and claim me gave me any hope. When potential foster parents came to the home, they never even bothered looking in on the delicate children’s ward. After all, who’d want the bother of a sickly child?’
Dolly stared at her, thunderstruck, and Flossy wished she could stop, but something about the tea lady was urging her to be truthful.
‘I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this . . .’
‘Go on, love,’ Dolly coaxed.
‘The worst moment came when my best friend, Lucy, was picked by foster parents and left without me even getting a chance to say goodbye.’
As the pitiful story tumbled out, Flossy felt herself begin to slouch again.
‘Lucy was chosen by a childless couple from Wales. I’m not surprised: she was ever so pretty and in the peak of good health. A rumour went round the orphanage that they had renamed her Dilys, because apparently it means “perfect and true” in Welsh—’ She broke off, her face pale and contorted with guilt. ‘God forgive me for saying this, but I was so jealous that she was getting a fresh new start and leaving me behind.
‘It was soon after that that I started to wet my bed and sleepwalk, which didn’t much help matters with Matron.’
Flossy felt her head droop further in shame at the memory, and she stared hard into the gutter. ‘I suppose what it all boils down to was that I just wasn’t good enough for anyone.’
‘Don’t you ever think that,’ gasped Dolly. ‘It’s . . . it’s simply not true.’
‘But don’t you get it?’ Flossy protested. ‘Every time I saw another girl leave the orphanage with new parents, it just made me feel even more worthless. No one wanted me. I even began to half wonder if I wasn’t invisible. So you see, Dolly? You see why I have to believe that the sender of those parcels is my mother, and why I have to find her?’
‘I do see, love,’ Dolly replied. ‘I can’t ever pretend to truly understand what it must have felt like growing up in a place like that. And I promise I’m not siding with Matron, but have you considered why she has never made herself known?’
‘It’s simple,’ Flossy shrugged. ‘I’m illegitimate. She probably had me out of wedlock. I don’t know much about life admittedly, but I do know enough to know that plenty of girls get themselves in trouble and are forced to give up their babies. The gifts, well, I’m certain they are my mother’s way of securing my forgiveness when she decides it’s safe to make herself known. And I shall forgive her . . . when I find her.’
Dolly gazed at her, deeply shocked and saddened by all she had heard, and without saying another word, gathered her in her arms.
*
Peggy trudged past the town hall and spotted Flossy being comforted by that rather brassy charlady. For a moment, she thought about stopping, but instead, she put her head down and scurried past, her heels clipping on the pavement. Besides, she thought, what did that girl know about heartache? She had enough on her plate dealing with her own troubles without taking hers on board.
Dusk was descending on Bethnal Green, but it was still a stiflingly warm evening, and it felt like an age before she finally spotted her turning.
The tired-looking street of shabby terraces in which her mother had rented a house seemed to stretch on forever, and Peggy’s spirits plunged with every step she took.
‘Damn this wretched war and double damn the East End,’ she muttered despairingly. At the same time, she tore off her hairnet, allowing her mane of gleaming chestnut curls to tumble defiantly down her back. She glared at the ugly thing in her hand and angrily tossed it into the gutter. And to think, just a couple of days ago she had been working in the genteel surrounds of Lyons Corner House. There had been no noisy machinery or raucous singing there, just the soft tinkling of silver spoons against bone china and an orchestra in black tie gently serenading the clientele.
Since leaving her grammar school, Peggy had worked there as a waitress, and oh, how she had adored her job. She knew the iconic black-and-white dress showed off her trim waist to perfection; it had been what first caught Gerald’s eye, after all.
As a nippy, she had been required to wear the coveted uniform, but in Peggy’s mind, she had never been simply a waitress. Truth be told, she had only taken the job to meet a man with decent prospects, and twenty-five-year-old Gerald Fortesque was definitely a man with prospects. She didn’t care what Pat, Flossy or anyone, for that matter, had to say on the subject. This cursed Hitler chap was not derailing her domestic plans.
Gerald had said he would be collecting her tonight at seven thirty prompt to take her out to a dance at the Lyceum, and she would be ready and waiting. She glanced down at the wristwatch her father had given her for her eighteenth birthday and realized in alarm it was later than she thought. She had better hurry if she wanted to wash the smell of the factory off and be looking her best.
As she quickened her step, Peggy became aware of the twitching of net curtains as curious faces peeked out, which only depressed her further. When she arrived at her new home, she reached through the letterbox and tugged the key tied to a piece of string through it.
Peggy’s next-door neighbour, a large woman, was sitting on a chair outside her door, with a fag dangling from her bottom lip, both feet plunged into a bucket of cold water, while she shelled peas into her pinafore. Council workers had sprinkled some sort of pink disinfectant around the drains in the kerb, but it did little to disguise the smell emanating from the sewers.
Peggy had hoped to get through the door without having to enter into conversation with the woman. No such luck.
‘Blimey, it was cracking the cobbles today, weren’t it, love?’ the woman muttered through the cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘Could’ve filled a bucket with me sweat. Him indoors says there’s going to be a storm tonight, but he can’t tell shit from clay.’ With that, she shrieked with laughter, causing the peas to bounce off her pinafore-covered lap like jumping jacks.
‘Welcome to Bethnal Green,’ she grinned, extending a large pink clammy hand. ‘I’m Kate, mother of nine, for my sins. What’s yer name, ducky?’
Peggy gaped at the woman and frantically searched her mind for something polite to say, but was saved from answering when her mother, May, flung open the door.
‘Oh, there you are, darling,’ she gushed, her pretty features a mask of worry. ‘I’ve been sitting here on tenterhooks waiting for you to come home.’
‘Good evening, Kate,’ May smiled politely to their new neighbour. ‘I’ll make sure to return that cup of sugar tomorrow.’
Kate waved dismissively as she lit a fresh cigarette with the embers of her old one.
‘Don’cha worry about it, darlin’. Every little helps, as the old woman said when she pissed in the sea. Me door’s always open, so pop in anytime for a brew.’
‘I’ll do that, Kate,’ May called, as she ushered Peggy through the gloom of the passageway and into the small kitchen.
‘Gosh, isn’t she friendly? Now sit down, love. I’ve got your tea all ready, but first you must tell me how you got on at Trout’s.’
‘Oh, Mother, why did you cook?’ Peggy snapped, pushing away the bowl of Spam casserole her mother had prepared for her. ‘I’m going out dancing with Gerald tonight. Remember I told you?’
May’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but, well, you just missed him. He said to say he’s ever so sorry but something’s cropped up at work and he has to take some important visitors out to dinner. He was terribly apologetic . . .’
‘What! Why ever didn’t you keep him here until I got home?’ Peggy shrieked. ‘I was so looking forward to seeing him.’
‘I know you were, and believe me, I did try,’ May protested. ‘But he seemed in a dreadful hurry to get away. Let’s try and look on the bright side, though. At least it means we get to spend our first proper night in our new home together.’
Peggy was so disappointed she thought she might cry.
‘I’m sure you’ll see him soon, love,’ soothed May. ‘Now, please put me out of my misery and tell me how you got on at the factory.’
‘Well, if you must know, the forelady was absolutely rotten to me, and the rest of the women weren’t much better,’ Peggy cried, letting her emotions get the better of her. ‘Please don’t make me go back there, Mother. I beg of you.’
‘It’s bound to be hard on your first day. Things will feel brighter tomorrow,’ May said, smoothing back a stray hair from Peggy’s face. ‘Whistle a happy tune and all that . . .’
Peggy pushed her hand away, irritated. She knew it wasn’t her fault Gerald had stood her up, but in his absence there was no one else to take it out on but her mother.
‘And what exactly will you be doing while I slog my guts out in this wretched sweatshop?’ she muttered accusingly. ‘It’s all very well for you. After all, you’re not the one who’s going to suffer the consequences of our fall from grace. I’ll bet the real reason Gerald couldn’t wait to get away is because he couldn’t stand to sit in this fleapit.’
May’s sweet face crumpled at her daughter’s acid remark. Her eyes were ringed with heavy dark circles and she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks.
‘Please, Peggy,’ she wept, feverishly wringing the edge of her apron. ‘There’s no call for rudeness. I don’t like this situation one bit more than you do, but now we’re all in it, well, we’ve just got to make the best of it. Think of it as an adventure,’ she smiled bravely, sweeping her arm around their new cosy terrace, filled with packing boxes.
‘I’ll have finished unpacking this lot by the time you get back tomorrow and have the place looking much more like a home. Maybe we could even go to Smart’s Picture Palace, take in a flick? I know it’s not quite dancing up West with Gerald, but it could be fun, just you and me?’
‘But it’s not our home, is it, Mother?’ Peggy wept. ‘Our home and where we belong is back in Islington with Father. I don’t want to go to the pictures. I just want to go home.’
May was by her side in a heartbeat, dabbing at her only daughter’s eyes with a hanky. ‘I know you’re hurting, darling, truly I do, and I miss him too, but your father . . . Well, your father is gone now and we have to make him proud of us. Show him what us Piper women are made of.’
It was a brave attempt at cheer, but a stony silence fell over the small kitchen as Peggy stared hard at the warped wooden floorboards.
‘I just don’t understand why I can’t continue working at Lyons,’ she replied. ‘At least it would be easier for me to continue seeing Gerald on his lunch hour.’
‘We’ve been through all this,’ said May despairingly. ‘No one knows when or how Hitler will strike – gas attacks, so they say – and I don’t want you travelling into the centre of town day after day on your own. It’s simply not safe in London anymore. The threat of invasion is all anyone talks of these days, and if Gerald truly cares for you, then he will understand that.’
‘Utter rot,’ said Peggy, her voice querulous. ‘Everyone has their knickers in a twist over this war, and in a few months, it’ll all be over, you’ll see. Why are all the evacuees returning home? Hardly seems like a country on the brink of invasion, if you ask me. Meanwhile, king and country now seem to come before home and hearth!’
‘It’s not just the war to consider, though,’ cautioned May. ‘The simple fact of the matter is, we need the money now we don’t have your father’s income from the business. Machining is a more secure – not to mention better-paid – job prospect in these troubled times than waitressing.
‘Besides,’ she added gently, ‘there’s nothing wrong with serving tea, but it doesn’t call for the same guts. You’ll aid the war effort far more behind a sewing machine than as a nippy, darling.’
Peggy rose stiffly to her feet and glared hard at her mother. ‘Very well, Mother,’ she said icily. ‘But I shall never forgive you if Gerald refuses to marry me and I end up on the shelf . . .’ Her violet eyes glinted with malice as she readied herself to twist the knife further. ‘Just as I don’t forgive you for not fighting harder to save Father.’
She threw the last accusation like a handful of needles and swept from the house, slamming the front door so hard behind her that the tiny aged terrace rattled from roof to foundation.
May rose to her feet, blinking back tears of hurt. Despite her daughter’s cruelty and capricious behaviour, her instinct as a mother to protect her child remained absolute.
‘Wait, darling . . .’ she cried, running to the front door and calling up the darkening street. ‘Where are you going? You haven’t had any tea . . . At least take your gas mask.’
But it was too late. Peggy was already too far gone.