10 MAY 1941
Eight weeks after the bombing of the London Chest Hospital and it was still the talk of Bethnal Green. The hospital’s Gothic chapel, the north wing and the nurses’ home had been completely destroyed. Over a hundred patients transferred with the loss of only one life, so they were saying. Flossy had also heard about Lucky’s heroic role in the evacuation, and that it was he who had recovered the crucifix from the rubble in the chapel. Lucky had remained modest about his involvement; in fact, he had stayed tight-lipped about the whole incident, changing the subject whenever it was brought up.
Flossy had decided to take a leaf out of his book this morning and make no mention of the fact that it was her nineteenth birthday. Today, 10 May, also marked another milestone. It was exactly a year since she had started at Trout’s, and so much had happened in those twelve months, not least the fact that her new home was now a patch of floor in an underground Tube station!
The brown paper parcel had been delivered to Trout’s, and Flossy was once again stunned that the mystery sender of the birthday gifts knew so much about her life and was obviously keeping close tabs on her. It seemed highly unlikely now that whoever it was was her real mother, for why else would they take the trouble to send Peggy a gift? But the knowledge didn’t slice so deep any longer.
She found herself pondering on it as she fed strips of khaki material through her Singer. She might not have found her mother, but in some ways, she no longer cared. Flossy had found family in Dolly, Peggy and all the girls in the Victory Knitters; their love and close protection of her this past year had been her salvation. Not to mention the romance she had found with her pen-pal sailor. The very thought of Tommy – her Tommy – caused a little shiver of delight to tingle and swirl through her tummy.
In just three weeks’ time his ship would be docking and she, along with all the girls in the sewing bee, would be there to greet him. The local paper had got wind of the sewing circle’s friendship with the sailors on board HMS Avenge and were sending along a photographer that very afternoon to picture them for a propaganda piece.
Flossy was so lost in her daydreams and the comforting background swell of chatter that she scarcely even noticed when the machines shut down for mid-morning tea break. The floor was so quiet, though, that she soon found herself looking up to see where everyone had gone. A second later, the factory door burst open and Dolly wheeled in a cake, blazing with nineteen candles, on her tea trolley.
‘Surprise!’ she grinned. ‘I baked you a cake. Sorry it ain’t got no icing, or much sugar in it, and it’s mainly made of grated carrot.’
It was the smallest cake Flossy had ever seen, but it had been carefully decorated with chopped-up nuts, glacé cherries and candied peel.
‘Wherever did you get your hands on those?’ asked Flossy, impressed. ‘It looks divine.’
‘Oh, it was nothing,’ said Dolly, waving her hand dismissively. ‘I’ve been saving my rations, and I had the cherries and peel pre-war. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion. I’m sorry it’s not a bit more fancy.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Flossy insisted, deeply touched at Dolly’s thoughtfulness.
Soon, the floor was filled with the loudest, lustiest ‘Happy Birthday’ Flossy had ever heard as the girls belted out a full-throttle rendition. Flossy put her head in her hands in mock embarrassment.
‘Did you really think Dolly would forget your birthday?’ Peggy whispered from next to her with a grin.
‘No birthday’s complete without the bumps,’ whooped Pat, casting a mischievous wink Flossy’s way.
‘Oh no . . .’ she quavered, rising to her feet and backing up against the factory wall. But it was too late to escape, and soon Pat, Sal and the rest had wrestled an arm and a leg each and Flossy found herself being thrown up high into the room.
When at last she was allowed back down to earth, she was as red as a berry and her sides ached from laughing.
‘Here you go, love. You look like you could use a brew,’ chortled Dolly, handing her her mug. ‘Happy birthday, darlin’.’
Gratefully, Flossy sipped the piping-hot mug of tea.
‘My rag – you’ve changed the colour,’ she remarked, suddenly noticing that the pale grey piece of material Dolly used to mark out her mug from the rest had been changed to a gay and bright cerise one.
Dolly smiled fondly at Flossy and cocked her head. ‘You’re not the same shy young girl that walked through these factory doors a year ago. You’ve blossomed into a lovely young lady. You’re more a cherry red now than a dove grey, I’d say.’
On impulse, Flossy reached out and threw her arms round Dolly, knitting her tiny body tightly to hers. She wanted to say that Dolly was not the same as when she had started either, that she was a ghost of herself. The tea lady wore the same sunny smile, but her cheekbones jutted out from her pale face, and there was an aching sadness in those blue eyes. Only the scent of her remained the same, the calming aroma of violet water that gently perfumed the air around her and had come to personify Dolly almost as much as her pillarbox-red lips.
As winter had thawed to spring and the mercury had risen on the thermometer so too had Flossy’s disquiet over Dolly. Somewhere along the way, they had swapped places. Flossy was now the strong one. By claiming her right to sanctuary and daring to fall in love, she had proved to herself that she had the strength not to be defined by her childhood in the orphanage. She was no longer just a foundling but a woman in control of her destiny.
Dolly was now the pale, vulnerable-looking one, and try as she might, Flossy just could not put her finger on why. She wanted to attribute it to the past eight months and the horror and heartache they had all endured, yet something told her Dolly’s deterioration was something more.
Instead, she kept her counsel and returned her smile.
‘Thanks, Dolly. For everything you’ve done for me. I was scared witless when I started here and you took me under your wing and looked after me, and you’ve been doing it ever since.’
Dolly stared back at her, her blue eyes shining as fiercely as beacons from her slender face. ‘I think the world of you, love, that’s why. I’ve grown to love you like . . . well, like a . . .’ she hesitated, ‘like a member of my own family . . .
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ Dolly added. ‘I got you a little something else, love.’
With that, she reached behind her tea urn and pulled out a small package.
‘You didn’t have to do that, Dolly. The cake was more than enough . . .’ Her words trailed off as she pulled apart the packaging. For clutched in her hands was her old rag doll, beautifully bought back to life with bright new button eyes, blonde plaits and even a new pink dress covered in a smattering of tiny blue flowers.
‘Oh, Dolly, she’s better than before,’ Flossy marvelled. ‘She’s absolutely perfect, in fact. Thank you!’
‘It’s nothing,’ Dolly said with a shrug. ‘I just think some things are worth holding on to.’
Suddenly, both women became aware of Archie calling everyone to attention.
‘All right, girls, it’s time to scrub up. The photographer and journalist from the East London Advertiser are here,’ he announced.
‘What, already?’ squawked Daisy. ‘I thought they weren’t coming until this afternoon.’
‘Yeah, well, they’re early, so look lively.’
The news caused an excited commotion on the floor as every woman dived for her handbag and started fishing out tubes of lipstick and combs.
‘It’s only the East London Advertiser, not Woman’s Own magazine,’ said Archie, shaking his head in bewilderment.
‘Women,’ sighed Lucky, pausing on his way to the loading bay with an armful of bundles. ‘London’s on fire and they’ve still gotta have their face on.’
In no time at all, the photographer had arranged all the workers round a Singer sewing machine, with Peggy standing in the middle, supported on either side. Protective Lucky had tried to ensure she remain seated, but she had proudly insisted on putting her stick on the floor.
Flossy couldn’t help but smile when she found herself elbowed to the side by Daisy. Not that she cared. She was more than content to let the factory glamour girl take centre stage.
Dolly nestled in next to her, looping her arm through hers. ‘Hark at us,’ she whispered to Flossy, as the photographer raised his camera and the flashbulb started to pop. ‘Reckon our little factory will be famous?’
‘If Daisy has her way,’ Flossy replied under her breath.
She felt Dolly stifle a giggle, before her body was wracked with coughs.
‘Are you all right, Dolly?’ Flossy murmured.
‘Fine,’ she spluttered, waving her other arm dismissively as she whipped a hanky from her pocket.
‘Look here, girls, my editor tells me you’ve knitted and sewed a record number of blankets, socks, woollies and mittens, more than any other sewing circle in London apparently,’ said the journalist, glancing down at his notebook. ‘There’s three hundred and twenty-one women in Bethnal Green in sewing circles. What’s the secret to your success, girls?’
‘Why, our devastating looks and charm, of course,’ replied Daisy with a flirtatious smile.
‘The WVS was gifted three thousand three hundred and sixty pounds of free wool from America, which was allocated to boroughs most in need . . .’ interrupted Vera, but the journalist wasn’t listening, his gaze was fixed firmly on Daisy, who was gazing up coyly from beneath her long eyelashes.
‘We’ve knitted everything from comforts for the troops to baby clothes,’ Daisy purred. ‘We like to do our bit.’
‘I bet you do, miss, and I’m sure receiving anything from you is a great comfort,’ the journalist flirted back.
‘We ain’t stopped knitting, all through the bombs, over a million of us in the WVS, from charladies to duchesses,’ piped up Pat. ‘We’re the army Hitler forgot, or so the WVS tells us.’
‘And let’s not forget our Doll,’ chipped in Sal. ‘There might be hundreds of sewing bees, but there’s only one Dolly Doolaney. It’s her what’s been driving us. I don’t think she’s slept in the last eight months. Working class and staunch to the bone she is. Our Doll’s one of the best!’
A murmur of agreement rang out, and smiling, Flossy turned to look at Dolly. The smile froze on her face.
‘Dolly . . . Dolly!’ she gabbled. In horror, she felt Dolly’s arm grow loose in hers and her face faded to the colour of mist. The tea lady slithered to the factory floor in a heap.
*
Dolly heard her name being called, but the voices were muffled, as if she were a hundred leagues under the sea. Gradually, she came to, but when she struggled to sit up, her body felt as heavy as lead and she slumped back.
Concerned faces hovered over her.
‘Stand back, everyone,’ ordered Vera. ‘Give her some space to breathe, for pity’s sake.’
‘I’m all right, Vera,’ Dolly protested weakly.
Lucky and Archie gently lifted her to her feet and helped her into the office. Once she was settled in a chair, Dolly felt a burning shame sweep over her. She could hear the hubbub from outside, and the photographer had resumed taking photos of the girls, but she was acutely aware she had ruined the moment.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she blustered, closing her eyes. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Well, I do,’ said the forelady sternly. ‘You haven’t stopped this past eight months. Look at the state of your ankles. They’re so swollen. You’re to go home, put your feet up and rest.’
Dolly sat up and immediately felt her heart start to race. ‘No,’ she said, wheezing heavily. ‘I haven’t had a sick day in years. Besides, who’ll do the teas this afternoon and clean up? I’ll be right in a minute.’ She drew a clenched fist into her chest, as if to quell a spasm of pain before exhaling slowly.
‘Besides,’ she joked feebly, when the palpitations had subsided, ‘apart from that week off to care for my auntie in Margate last May, I’m never not here. Those girls don’t know one end of an urn from the other.’
Vera scrutinized her with a puzzled frown. ‘I thought you said your auntie lived in Dagenham?’
Dolly could have kicked herself. ‘Sorry, Vera, I meant Dagenham. I’m getting myself confused.’
Vera said nothing, just looked at her strangely.
‘Whatever, Doll, it don’t matter,’ rang out Archie’s gravelly voice. ‘But the bottom line is this: Vera’s right. You’re to go home and rest, and that’s an order. We can cope with making our own tea for one day.’
Dolly sighed and slowly rose to her feet. ‘Very well.’
‘Lucky, see Doll gets home all right, would yer?’ ordered Archie.
‘Okey-dokey, Gov’nor,’ agreed Lucky, taking Dolly’s arm in his.
Outside on the cobbled streets, Dolly could scarcely bring herself to look up at Lucky’s face as she leaned in heavily to his arm. By the time they reached Tavern Street, Dolly was so out of breath she could barely speak.
Lucky’s question took her by surprise. ‘Where were you really last May? You obviously weren’t looking after a sick auntie in Dagenham.’
Dolly found she didn’t have the strength left in her body to deny it; besides, she was sick of the lies.
‘Mum found me unconscious on the scullery floor one morning, so I was admitted to hospital for a week to monitor my disease,’ she stated in a flat voice. ‘How could I admit that to Vera and the girls?’
Without saying another word, Lucky stopped and whipped Dolly’s handkerchief from her coat pocket.
‘No, Lucky . . .’ she protested weakly, but it was too late. He held the bloodstained hanky aloft, the dark red stain of blood vivid against the white of the cotton.
‘This can’t go on, Dolly,’ he cried in anguish. ‘I’ve kept your secret now for nearly two months, but so help me God, I won’t stand by and watch you keel over and die on the factory floor. I could never live with myself.’
Dolly felt tears prick angrily at her eyes, but she was helpless to stop them and soon they were spilling down her cheeks and dripping onto the soot-stained cobbles beneath her feet.
‘Please, Lucky, just hold me, would you?’ she sobbed. ‘I’m scared.’
In silence, Lucky folded her into his broad arms. She rested her head against his warm chest and listened to the steady drum of his strong heart beating in her ear. She felt her own heart splinter into thousands of tiny pieces.
And just like that, Dolly knew. It was over. The end was not far. Her body held ancient and unique wisdom, intuition and powers beyond medical logic. Now was the time to make her peace.
Upstairs and alone in her bedroom, she took the small package out from its hiding place under the mattress and placed it in the drawer of her bedside table. Then she lay down and folded her hands over her chest in prayer.
11 MAY 1941
The night of the photo shoot with the East London Advertiser, the bombers had returned with one of the most earth-shattering raids of all. Flossy had gazed up fearfully at the huge full moon hanging in the sky as she had descended the steps to the Tube, and the lyrics to ‘They Can’t Black Out the Moon’ played ominously through her mind. When she and the girls had emerged the next morning, it was to scenes of unparalleled devastation. The Luftwaffe had taken advantage of the full moon and a low tide to start almost 2,500 fires and nearly 1,500 people had been killed.
In the factory, it was all anyone could talk about.
‘Look at this,’ Sal said, holding up a copy of the paper on their tea break.
Everyone gathered round and read, stunned. The front page showed a picture of St Paul’s silhouetted against the flames. Flossy drank in the majesty of the splendid cathedral rising up through the smoke, seemingly indestructible. By some act of God, the much-loved London landmark hadn’t been destroyed, but according to the reports, many other institutions, from the House of Commons to Westminster Abbey, had been damaged. The Rego garment factory in Bethnal Green had copped it too, and Archie was there now, helping the foreman salvage what machines he could from the wreckage.
‘At least they didn’t get St Paul’s,’ remarked Ivy. ‘I couldn’t have stood it.’
‘Why?’ asked Kathy.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘It’s like the heartbeat of London, ain’t it? Like our soul.’
‘Like Dolly is to Trout’s, you mean?’ said the girl, with a wisdom that belied her tender years, Flossy thought privately.
‘Yes, just like that, Kathy love,’ Ivy replied, and with that the women all lapsed into a reflective silence.
It had felt strange not having Dolly with them down the Tube last night after her fainting fit, stranger still that she wasn’t here today manning her giant tea urn as usual. One of the canteen workers had stepped in, but not having Dolly’s comforting smile to look at behind the trolley was like taking a sip of tea only to find it was missing the sugar.
‘She’ll be back very soon, I’m sure,’ remarked Vera. ‘Her mother popped in yesterday afternoon to say the doctor had called round. She’s not looking too bright and he’s ordered five days of complete bed rest.’
‘She’ll be right as rain soon, I’m sure,’ remarked Pat. ‘Tough as old boots our Doll.’
A ripple of agreement rang out around the floor, and Flossy noted that only Lucky was not joining in, his usual chipper demeanour strangely guarded as he looked up at the giant patch of tarpaulin that covered the hole in the roof.
‘I’m going up on the roof. There’s a hole in that cover, I’m sure,’ he muttered darkly, setting down his mug and stalking from the floor.
‘Who’s rattled his chain?’ asked Daisy.
‘He’s tired,’ said Peggy. ‘He had quite a night last night, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
Flossy nodded her head sympathetically, but inside she wasn’t so sure that was it. First Dolly, now Lucky. What was happening to them? A feeling of deep unease crawled the length of her spine.