Secrets of the Sewing Bee

For the rest of that tense, hot and dusty summer of 1940, Peggy, along with the rest of the world, had watched bewildered at the devastating developments of the war. Countless British ships were attacked in the Channel, and a battle for Britain broke out in the skies above as the Luftwaffe fought for air superiority so that the German Army could invade. Bethnal Green had even had several screaming bombs dropped not one week ago, tragically leaving nine dead. How Peggy hoped that was an end to it.

In response, the women sang louder than ever before. Pat had even pinned a note to the door of the factory – Go home, Huns. You will never take Trout’s – but the gallows humour did little to disguise the fear that cloaked the factory floor.

And to think Peggy had thought the war would all be over in a matter of months. How hollow her protestations sounded now. She had been wrong; in fact, she had been wrong about so many things. With that, she looked up from her machine just as Lucky was passing by her workbench. They locked eyes and she smiled, but he quickly looked the other way. She had tried her hardest to win his forgiveness, but she had wounded him far more deeply with her words than he had Gerald with his fists, and now that he had started courting Lily Beaumont, she had given up trying. The factory glamour puss had had Lucky in her sights from the moment she had clapped eyes on him, and Peggy had known that a steely, ambitious girl like Lily wouldn’t rest until she had made him hers.

Besides which, Lucky kept himself so busy with work and the Local Defence Volunteers, which had changed its name to the slightly snappier-sounding Home Guard, he scarcely stayed still for a moment.

As for that rat Gerald? Peggy was still stunned at how blind she had been to his betrayal. How many other Lyons Corner House waitresses had he wooed in that dining room? He clearly had a penchant for the uniform, and as soon as she had left, her appeal had diminished. To think she had genuinely believed he loved her and wanted her for his wife, when all she had been was just a bit of fun.

Peggy supposed she ought to be grateful that she could finally see Gerald for the man he really was, but her heart ached with loss and regret. Worse still, there was only one person to blame . . . herself! Lucky was a diamond in the rough, and she had thrown away something priceless.

Flossy, meanwhile, seemed to spend every spare minute she wasn’t in the factory pounding the cobbles, searching through every available record to see if she could find clues to her past. She knew Dolly worried about her desperately, but for all her fragility, Peggy knew her friend was a determined little thing. A ring of steel ran through those mysterious grey eyes.

Even Peggy’s own mother was scarcely around now that she was working so hard in her new office job, and for the first time in her life, Peggy had had to pull her weight around the home, cooking her own meals and helping to keep the house spick and span when she wasn’t in the factory.

Peggy watched as Lily rose from her workstation and tweaked Lucky’s ear suggestively as she sashayed past. Lily shot Peggy a triumphant grin before flouncing to the toilet, pulling Lucky by his tool belt behind her.

Curiosity drew Peggy to the grimy window and she gazed out at the small yard that housed the old soot-stained brick toilet block. A few moments later, Lily and Lucky ran giggling into the yard, her pulling him by the hand until they reached the furthest secluded corner. Hands entangled, they leaned together against the wall, melting at the shoulders.

Peggy watched enviously as Lily nestled into the crook of Lucky’s strong arm and gazed up at him.

Lucky had such a powerful physical presence – close her eyes and Peggy could still feel him opposite her in that steamed-up dining room that fateful evening. As for Lily, she was so pretty and curvy, all saucer eyes, husky voice and shiny black hair. Little wonder she had scooped Miss Bethnal Green 1938. What man could resist her? Obviously not Lucky, as a second later, he removed his cap, bent down and brushed his lips against hers. Lily responded by eagerly throwing her arms round his broad shoulders and kissing him back passionately.

It was like a leaden blow in the solar plexus, and for a dreadful moment, Peggy thought she might be sick. Tears blurring her eyes, she stumbled away from the ledge and back to her workstation.

Thank goodness for the sewing circle and her friendship with Flossy, both of which were thriving. Thanks to Dolly’s tireless fundraising, the Victory Knitters had managed to purchase a reasonable quantity of wool and they had just completed a second bundle of comforts for the sailors on board HMS Avenge. When it came to her involvement, Peggy sensed she hadn’t been totally accepted, or forgiven, and would always be something of an outsider to the tough tribe of feisty factory workers. How could she blame them? She had been so offhand and snooty when she first arrived at Trout’s, mistaking resilience for wretchedness, time and time again. For layered beneath the squalor of the housing bubbled a vibrancy of life that helped Bethnal Green to survive. The question was, did Peggy have what it took to survive? Throwing herself into the work of the sewing bee might or might not bring about her redemption, but at the very least it provided a respite from her heartache.

Two hours later, at Friday dinnertime, Dolly and Vera called a meeting of all the members of the Victory Knitters in the staff canteen.

‘Ladies, I’m deeply gratified to announce our sewing circle as one of the most successful in the East End,’ announced the forelady with a rare smile. ‘No one can hold a candle to it. I’m so proud of you all, and really feel I can hold my head up high in the WVS. Some of the other work parties only managed half of the comfort items we’ve produced. Why, Cole & Sons factory sewing bee only made a paltry twelve items,’ she added smugly.

‘Not that it’s a competition,’ Dolly chipped in. ‘Every little bit helps.’

‘Yes, quite,’ the forelady added hastily, and Peggy stifled a giggle as Flossy nudged her under the table.

‘However, our reserves of wool are dwindling,’ Dolly warned. ‘We urgently need more and there is no money left in our funds. So, any ideas?’

‘Oh, here we go,’ piped up Ivy, as she rummaged through her knitting bag. ‘Don’t tell me – we can start unravelling our socks, unpicking our old man’s long johns. I’ve already donated me spare pans for Spitfires; the rate this war’s going on, I won’t have a pot to p—’

‘No one’s asking you to do any such thing, Ivy,’ Vera interrupted sharply. ‘Hear Dolly out, won’t you?’

‘Yeah, hear Doll out,’ teased Sal. ‘Last I heard, your old man was sewn into his long johns anyway.’

‘I just wondered if anyone had any ideas how we can get our hands on more wool and fabric,’ said Dolly. ‘There’s rumours that clothing’s next to be rationed and then we really will be stuck.’

The voices quieted at the dread of yet more rationing. For the first time ever, Peggy had seen her mother flustered when she returned from the shops the previous evening. She had queued for the best part of an hour after work, only to have the shopkeeper slam down the shutters in her face when she reached the front, as his meagre stock had run out. They’d had to content themselves with a bread roll and a mug of Oxo for tea. Now, Peggy found the grumbling in her tummy had the unusual effect of sharpening her brain.

‘How about entering a singing competition?’ she suggested. ‘I remember seeing one advertised for every Friday evening at a public house up by Columbia Road. They had a small cash prize, a pair of glass peacocks and a tea set for the winner. We could raffle the tea set off too if we won.’

‘Ooh, not half!’ said Kathy. ‘And there was me thinking you was all meat and no potatoes.’

‘I think what Kathy is trying to say is that is a really excellent idea, love,’ said Dolly, beaming at Peggy. ‘Don’t push your luck, though, Kathy,’ she added. ‘You’re far too young for the pub.’

‘Who’s going to sing, though?’ Flossy asked. ‘We can’t all get up on stage.’

‘I could do that new Vera Lynn number, blow them other turns out the water. Lucky reckons I look a bit like her,’ Lily said modestly. ‘I am used to being up on stage after all. I was crowned—’

‘Miss Bethnal Green 1938. Yeah, yeah, we know – you have mentioned it once or twice,’ interrupted Sal, winking at the rest of the group.

‘Actually, sweetheart, I know you have a smashing voice, but I was thinking perhaps it would be nice to let Peggy do it,’ suggested Dolly, trying to head off the row before it broke out. ‘Seeing as how it was her idea. Also, Peggy, I’ve listened to you singing on the sly. You’ve got a cracking little voice, darlin’.’

‘I . . . Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Peggy replied, flustered, as she saw Lily’s green eyes narrow to slits. ‘I’m happy to let Lily take the stage.’

‘Nonsense,’ insisted Vera. ‘I’m sure Lily will be happy to take a back seat for once.’

‘Well, if you insist,’ Peggy said. ‘But when? I shall need some time to prepare.’

‘No time like the present,’ said Dolly, grinning. ‘Let’s go after work tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Peggy blustered. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . I think my mother needs me home this evening to help with chores.’

‘Sorry, Peggy, but didn’t you tell me your mother had a work social this evening?’ said Flossy with a little grin.

‘Oh, come on,’ urged Pat. ‘Gawd knows we could all do with some light relief. We’ve been working our fingers to the bone and a night out is just what the Victory Knitters need. Besides, I heard half the mob from London Brothers are going tonight. We can’t let that lot bag it from under our noses.’

‘Very well, then,’ Peggy sighed, knowing she was beat. She had to admit it would feel good to earn the women’s praise, and who knew, it might even help take her mind off Lucky.

At seven o’clock that evening, Flossy found herself in Peggy’s terrace, after agreeing to go to the competition with her.

Once the girls had eagerly devoured the cold luncheon meats and pickles May had thoughtfully left out for tea, they sat back in their seats and warmed their toes by the embers of the fire she had lit before she left for the evening.

‘Your mother is a really wonderful woman,’ sighed Flossy, as she stared into the golden glow of the fire. ‘She never seems to stop thinking of ways to make your life more comfortable. I hope you appreciate her.’

A strained silence fell over the room and Peggy forced a smile on her face. ‘Why don’t you let me doll you up a bit, Flossy? You’re about the same size as me. An eight, yes? I could lend you a dress.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t wish to sound mean, Flossy, but if you spent a little more time on yourself rather than searching for your mother, perhaps you might find more contentment.’

Flossy shook her head vehemently and winced as she felt her neck stiffen. ‘No, thanks,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m quite happy the way I am.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Peggy replied. ‘I know it’s hardly the Albert Hall, but no way am I getting up on stage wearing my work pinny. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.’

Peggy turned and clattered up the creaky wooden steps of the terrace. Once she heard her bedroom door slam shut, Flossy pulled the letter from her pinafore pocket and felt her heart give a little flip.

Tommy’s reply to her second letter had arrived at the factory that very morning.

My dear Flossy,

What a total fool I am – fancy me rambling on about my family without stopping to think. Trust me to put both my size-ten feet right in it. Please forgive me. You sound as if you’ve had a sorry start in life, but you’ve dusted yourself down and got on with things. I admire that in a woman. Your words about life in the factory make me smile. They remind me of my days down at Tate & Lyle, and I think you and I could be good friends.

It’s hard for me to express in words how important letters are on board this ship. A letter from a wife, sweetheart, parent, child or even a stranger is all it takes to give us that connection to the home we are fighting for. The contents of the mailbag, well, that can make or break the mood at camp or on board. Jerry ain’t making things any easier and we sleep in our life-jackets now. What little time off we have, we try and sleep, but who can do that these days? Instead, we play Uckers. We play for cigarettes, Martins. Horrible things, they are. The Red Cross send ’em. I don’t even smoke, but you can’t gamble for money on board.

The next three lines had been blacked out by the censor, so Flossy was unable to read whatever it was Tommy had shared, but the end of his letter certainly had her smiling.

I hope I’m not being forward, but, well, we’ve both endured our fair share of heartache and we’re still here to tell the tale. Thanks ever so for the comforts, which arrived this week. I can’t even begin to describe the pleasure on the men’s faces when they collected their bundles. It really makes all the difference during the long, cold hours on duty. My feet are lovely and snug in these new socks. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but on board this ship, I reckon it’s by giving him warm toes! If there weren’t hundreds of miles of ocean separating us, I should have married you on the spot. Thanks, Flossy. You’re a diamond. You haven’t just warmed me up. You’ve brightened my life up.

Yours,

Tommy x

A childlike feeling of excitement tingled up Flossy’s spine. Tommy had signed his letter off, Yours. Maybe, just maybe, she could belong to someone after all.

She was still grinning like the cat who had got the rationed cream when Peggy re-emerged from her room. The transformation was quite spellbinding.

And she really was. Peggy was pure molten glamour. Flossy had become so accustomed to seeing her in her drab factory attire and headscarf that she had forgotten quite how beautiful her friend was.

Her hair had been brushed out and her glossy chestnut curls gleamed in the firelight. A sweep of hair had been pulled back by a single diamanté hairslide. Her tall, willowy figure was encased in a column of shimmering coral silk, and on her feet she wore the same patent-leather high-heel T-bar sandals that had got right up Vera’s nose on her first day.

Peggy spotted Flossy looking at them and grinned wickedly. ‘Well, we’re not in the factory now, are we?’

Flossy shook her head. She didn’t know where her friend got the nerve. You could take the girl out of the West End . . . ‘Come on,’ she chuckled, ‘or else we’ll be late. Best take my arm or you’ll break your neck on the cobbles.’

Flossy had a hunch that she might just have dolled herself up in the hope that a certain brown-eyed boxer might be watching from the audience.

Outside, it was dusk and the sun was sinking, burnishing the soot-caked buildings in a fiery glow. The street was filled with the scent of cooking and coal fires. The girls paused on the doorstep and became aware of Peggy’s neighbour, Kate, perched on her window ledge in a wrap-over apron, smoking a fag.

‘Evening, girls. Don’cha look lovely?’ she said. ‘Mind how you go – especially you, Peg. One blast o’ wind in that dress and yer drawers’ll fly off.’

‘Who says I’m wearing any?’ Peggy shot back, before teetering off, leaving Kate and Flossy to stare after her open-mouthed.

Dolly paused outside the pub door and attempted to smother a yawn with her hand. She hadn’t gone home after work like most of the factory workers; instead, she had helped Lucky load up the borrowed Tin Lizzie to deliver their second consignment of comfort items to the depot, stopping at the WVS to drop off some tins of Klim powdered milk and her salvage.

Dolly needed a night in a smoky pub like a hole in the head. She longed for a hot mug of Ovaltine and to curl up in her nice warm bed. But that was hardly putting a good face on it, was it? All the girls were expecting her and she didn’t like to let them down. Besides, another part of her knew her mother would only beg her to stop in with her and rest had she gone home. Her mother had always been protective of her, but recently . . .

Dolly gazed up past the impressive tiled facade of the old Victorian public house, its windows already heavily blacked out, and saw the sun sinking in the west, drenching row after row of smoking chimney pots in a honey-coloured glow. Skeins of smoke drifting over from the factories were lit up a dazzling pink in the fading light.

These streets were usually such a grey and bleak landscape, coated as they were with centuries of industrial grime and coal dust. Dolly took a moment to stop and drink in the spectacle of colour.

Her eyes were drawn to a poster nailed to the community noticeboard facing the pub door, as if to warn tongues who had imbibed too much ale, Careless talk costs lives.

Dolly breathed in deeply. For a moment, she caught an infinitesimal trace of an odour she didn’t recognize in the evening breeze. She had the queerest of sensations, not so much a premonition, more an instinct that something was brewing in the skies above. Anticipation hung heavy in the air as the sun went down over the East End for another day.

Shaking herself, Dolly pushed open the door to the pub. A wall of smoke and noise hit her, and gasping slightly, she wove her way through the tables. The pub was heaving with groups of women, from office and shop workers to rag-trade factory groups, most of whom Dolly knew, all cock-a-hoop that it was a Friday and, more importantly, payday.

She had never seen so many exuberant women per square metre than were crammed joyfully into this pub. She spotted the Victory Knitters first; it wasn’t hard. They were easily the noisiest people in there, all huddled round a table nearest the makeshift stage, guzzling watered-down ale in a fug of cigarette smoke. Their garrulous laughter filled the saloon bar. How she loved her gossiping sisterhood, desperate to find fun despite of, or maybe even because of, this war.

Sal spotted her first and her face lit up. ‘Oh, here she is. Wotcha, Doll. Shift up, everyone,’ she ordered. ‘I got you your usual, a gin and lime.’

‘Thanks, Sal, but I don’t feel like drinking tonight – you have it and I’ll grab a lemonade in a bit. I’m dead on my feet.’

‘Blimey. You sure you’re feeling all right, Doll?’ said Sal, jokingly touching her forehead. ‘Not like you to be on the wagon. Come to think of it, you do look a bit peaky. You’ve got a proper flush on yer cheeks.’

‘I’m fine,’ she reassured. ‘I just want to keep a clear head so I can make sure I remember the look on the faces of London Brothers when we scoop the prize from under their noses.’ She said it loud enough for her pal, a seamstress at the nearby factory, to hear.

The wiry woman with quick blue eyes looked up and a wicked grin creased her face. There was nothing her old mate Babs, a machinist of twenty-odd years’ experience, loved more than a bit of verbal fisticuffs.

‘Behave, Dolly Doolaney,’ she cackled, drawing heavily on her cigarette. ‘You Trout’s girls are going home with nuffink tonight except sore heads. London Brothers can sing you lot under the table.’

‘Well, Babs, I suppose every dog has its day,’ chipped in Pat with an arch smile. ‘So maybe tonight you might get lucky. Talking of which, how’s your Neville? Still spending money like a man with no arms?’

‘No better or worse than your Bill,’ Lil shot back, blowing a long stream of blue smoke in Pat’s direction. ‘Still got a set of teeth on him like a Whitechapel graveyard at midnight, has he?’

Pat’s laugh was booming as she slammed an enormous hand on the table. ‘Do you know what we say about you London Brothers mob? The girls from London Brothers pretend they’re saints to their mothers, charming lasses, full of airs and graces, but you wanna see their lovers. I’ve seen better-looking nags at the Kempton Races!’

Rising to the challenge, Babs mashed out her cigarette in a glass ashtray, rose and slurped back her beer, before wiping away the frothy moustache with the back of her hand. ‘There was a factory called Trout’s. The workers had a reputation for being devout. So how come there are sailors queuing up outside? Is it something to do with the saucy letters they hide?’ Babs raised her eyebrows teasingly and a chorus of lusty wolf whistles rang out round the saloon bar.

Dolly felt a smile return to her dimpled cheeks, but poor Daisy and all the other girls who had been secretly leaving notes in the uniforms flushed a deep red. You really couldn’t keep anything secret for long in the East End.

‘Ladies, I enjoy a bit of factory rivalry as much as the next, but let’s keep this a clean fight, shall we?’ laughed Dolly. ‘Honestly, what a caper!’

Her words were drowned out when somewhere in the corner of the room, a piano started up.

‘Crash, bang, wallop!’ boomed the publican, who looked to Dolly as if he had been enjoying too much of his own beer. He bashed his tankard down on the bar with a thump that made poor Flossy jump in her seat. ‘Come on, then, girls. Less jawing, more singing!’

London Brothers were up first and Dolly recognized a sweet local girl she knew by the name of Ethel take to the stage. Her frizzy hair was scraped back, and she had an unfortunate boss eye that meant you weren’t quite sure where she was looking, but what she lacked in looks, she made up for in enthusiasm, and soon she was belting out a proud but slightly warbling rendition of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.

As she reached the crescendo of the song, Dolly spotted two men at the bar nudging each other.

The crowd gave up listening after a while, and by the time poor Ethel trudged off the stage, half the pub had resumed their conversations or nipped to the lav.

Next up was a very nervous-looking Peggy. Dolly squeezed her hand in support as she walked past.

Soon her stunning voice filled the pub and the room fell silent, as if under a spell. She sang the number-one Frank Sinatra hit everyone was talking about, ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’. Dolly knew she was talented, but by golly, she didn’t know she was this good. Her crystal-clear voice was utterly mesmerizing, her shimmering looks beguiling. The lyrics of loss and love were haunting and seemed to resonate with everyone. Even the heckler at the bar had fallen silent and seemed to have something in his eye, judging by the way he kept wiping it.

Flossy gazed open-mouthed. Only Lily sat sulkily, glaring into her port and lemon.

As Peggy reached the crescendo of her song, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her chestnut hair sliding over one milky shoulder.

Just then, a movement by the door caught Dolly’s eye and she watched as Lucky slipped in and removed his cap. He stood motionless by the heavy red velvet curtains, as he watched Peggy sing through the clouds of smoke, and Dolly knew in a heartbeat . . . The man was still infatuated. He could not wrench his gaze from Peggy’s smoulderingly beautiful face.

Lily spotted him too and rose sharply. ‘I’ve got a headache. I’m going,’ she muttered under her breath to Dolly. A moment later, she and Lucky left.

Peggy finished her song, and for a split second, you could have heard a pin drop, before a round of thunderous applause filled the room.

That night, Dolly fancied that Peggy had won more than just prize money and a pair of glass peacocks. She had finally won the approval of all the women. Her time on the sidelines was now over.

Six