Secrets of the Sewing Bee

As they had all hoped and prayed, the bombs did cease dropping nightly, which at least meant they could say their final farewells to Dolly Doolaney in peace. Seven days after her death, Bethnal Green stopped still for the funeral of the much-loved tea lady. Peggy watched, awe-inspired at how a battered but proud East End came out in their droves to mark the all-too-short life of a woman who meant something different to each of them. A woman finished off by the bombs, though not in the conventional sense.

It was astonishing how popular Dolly had been, Peggy marvelled, as she stood behind her funeral carriage in Tavern Street. Two of the most beautiful gleaming black horses Peggy had ever seen, harnessed in black leather and silver livery, pulled a black carriage, polished to such a high shine the early summer sun dazzled off the surface. The purple-feathered plumes on the horses’ heads ruffled slightly in the morning breeze. You couldn’t hear a sound as they set off, apart from the echoing of horses’ hooves on the cobbles, and the strangely melodic humming noise the wind made when it rushed past the cables of the barrage balloons hovering overhead.

Dolly was one of Bethnal Green’s own. Every person on the street stood still in the silence, simply touching their coat collar or lifting their hat as a sign of respect as the funeral cortège passed by. Even the corner shop at the end of Tavern Street had closed as a mark of mourning. It was quite the spectacle, and Peggy realized that Dolly shone as much in death as she had in life.

Initially, Peggy had been angry when Lucky had confessed that he knew about Dolly’s disease. ‘How could you keep this from me?’ she had blazed, aghast. ‘How am I to trust you if you can keep something so huge from me?’

But Lucky had remained unrepentant. ‘It wasn’t my secret to tell. I made a promise to Dolly.’

In truth, Peggy had understood. Lucky was a man of honour and a man of his word.

At the church, Dolly’s last written request was that no one bring flowers, which weren’t readily available in any case. Instead, she had asked that every mourner donate an item of food from their rations – a tin of Spam, condensed milk or even a precious egg, whatever they could spare – to the young orphaned girl left to raise her six siblings who had shown up in Trout’s that day. It was a lovely touch, and Peggy would have expected nothing less from such a bighearted woman.

For a tea lady who, in her own words, ‘was a bit thick to do much else’, she was certainly one of the shrewdest, most resourceful women Peggy had ever come across. By the time her coffin was carried across the church threshold, the boxes by the doors were groaning with enough food to see that orphaned family right for the next six months.

What was it about Dolly that inspired such loyalty and devotion? By the end of the service, when so many had risen to share a cherished memory of Dolly, Peggy knew the answer. Quite simply, she had been a true friend to everyone who had known her. An ally to the forelady, a big-sister figure to Lucky, a surrogate mother to Flossy. And to her? Peggy smiled as she remembered how Dolly had ever so gently brought her down from her pedestal when she had first started at Trout’s. Peggy had been breathtakingly rude to her, and despite that, Dolly had encouraged all the women to let her join the sewing circle. Her acceptance in the factory was down to Dolly.

What was it she had said to Flossy that day in the rest centre? The East End lives collectively. It was true to say that, in Dolly’s case, they mourned collectively too.

‘It is with a heavy heart that we now carry on,’ said the vicar, as the coffin was lifted to be transported outside for burial. A sepulchral light descended as his softly spoken words sank in. ‘For selfishly we grieve for the mortal love we have lost. But love lasts forever, and Dolly Doolaney’s spirit lives on in her beloved mother, her sister, her extended family at Trout’s, in the sewing circle she founded, in every pair of socks she knitted and every cup of tea she brewed.’ A ripple of laughter rang round the congregation. ‘And in all who knew and loved her dearly, and whose lives were enriched simply by being on the receiving end of that smile.’

Peggy glanced to her left, where the tears were flowing freely down Flossy’s cheeks. In silence, she slid her hand into Flossy’s and squeezed it tight, and she kept on holding it all the way back up the aisle as they followed the coffin outside to Dolly’s final resting place, under a cherry tree in the corner of a graveyard. The plot backed onto a schoolyard. The school was closed, but in time, when it reopened, the playground would once again be filled with the whoops and cries of playing children. Peggy had a hunch Dolly would love that.

Flossy gripped Peggy’s hand in her right and Lucky’s in her left, and felt so grateful for their support. She looked around the bewildered faces that lined the graveside.

It had been left to her to return to Trout’s and break the news. The fallout had been immense. A deep and profound sense of shock and guilt had descended over the whole factory, and even now, seven days on at Dolly’s funeral, she didn’t think a single person had even begun to come to terms with it, or understand how she could have kept her terrible disease a secret from them all.

Sal and Pat had taken it the hardest. ‘How could we not have known?’ Sal had sobbed, utterly bereft. ‘She did so much for us all. We let her work too hard. This is our fault.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Vera had snapped. ‘No one could tell Dolly Doolaney to slow down. She marched to the beat of her own drum.’

Flossy knew Vera hadn’t meant to be unkind, but her grief was overwhelming her. They had even thought about cancelling the party arranged for the following week when their sailors arrived on shore leave, until Archie had interjected.

‘What, and waste all of Dolly’s hard work?’ he had admonished. ‘I may not have known Dolly as well as I thought I did, but I do know this: her sewing circle must continue as she wished.’

With that, he had pointed to Dolly’s finished quilt, with all their names and those of their sailors carefully embroidered within. ‘All life’s in that cross stitch. You girls better be there to greet your sailors and give ’em that quilt or Dolly’ll turn in ’er grave.’

Flossy stared down at the grave now as Dolly made her final journey into the earth. As the coffin was lowered, Archie stepped forward and carefully placed a crocheted blanket the Victory Knitters had made over it, as if he were tucking her in for the night.

Flossy stayed rooted to the spot as the mourners started to drift away, back to Tavern Street for the memorial tea. She stared at the mound of fresh earth covering the grave and realized that all of Dolly’s secrets had been buried with her. Only Dolly knew the real reason for her visits to the orphanage, and she, in her wisdom, had chosen not to reveal it. Flossy’s past remained buried and hidden from sight forever.

Together they stared at the grave, numb with grief as a light rain started to spatter on the earth.

‘She had a hand in all our little triumphs, didn’t she?’ Peggy murmured, her anguished face contorted against the mizzling rain.

Flossy nodded sadly, wondering what else she had a hand in. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Back at Tavern Street for the wake, it was standing room only, as the whole of Trout’s and the local neighbourhood stood, or sat on any available surface, plates perched on their laps. Every woman in the area had raided her miserly rations and brought what she could, so Dolly’s mum needn’t feel the shame of not having a decent spread at her daughter’s wake. A good send-off was a mark of pride and Flossy knew Dolly’s mother would probably starve for a fortnight to cover the expense of the funeral cortège.

Trays of sandwiches and buns had been piled up next to a piping-hot urn of tea on Dolly’s trolley, which Archie had loaned especially for the occasion. The sign Dolly’s Trolley had been replaced with another: RIP.

After an hour, the heat in the packed terrace was stifling and Flossy suddenly felt an aching pain spread up her neck and across her temples. She sought out Dolly’s mother and, after paying her condolences, bade her farewells.

The elderly lady suddenly looked quite frail as she fanned herself in the heavy blanket of heat. ‘I know I should be grateful to have had my Dolly as long as I did, but it’s not the natural way of it, is it? I should never have outlived her.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Bless you for coming.’

‘I thought the world of Dolly, ma’am,’ Flossy replied. But as she turned to leave, Dolly’s mother caught her by her sleeve.

‘Wait, dearie, I nearly forgot.’ She rummaged in her knitting bag, stowed away underneath her chair, and pulled out a small brown package. ‘I found this addressed to you while I was clearing out Dolly’s room. It was in her bedside drawer.’

Outside on the street, Flossy stared unblinking at the package in her hand and realized she was shaking. ‘I can’t do this alone,’ she said out loud, and turning, she headed back inside the terrace and threaded her way through the throng until she found Peggy chatting to the girls.

Flossy held up the package. ‘It’s from Dolly. Will you sit with me while I open it?’

The girls wandered a little way up the street, before sitting down on the kerbside, the warmth of the sun on the cobbles burning their legs. Flossy hardly felt it. Her breath seemed trapped in her throat as she stared, fixated, at the package. The bombs had stopped, yet Flossy felt she was holding something explosive, something that might finally banish the ghosts of her childhood. Whatever it contained, she had a premonition that her life was about to change irrevocably. Flossy had not dared to allow the seed of thought that had taken hold in her head to flourish, but her instincts were screaming. Could Dolly have been more to her than just a friend? Did they share blood? Had she in fact found her real mother, only to have lost her again?

‘But you don’t smoke,’ said Peggy, smiling at her with a baffled look on her face. ‘Come on, just open it.’

Ever so carefully, Flossy eased her thumb along the join of the brown paper and it slid apart in her hands. A painful lump lodged in the back of her throat. Nestled in the folds of the paper was a tiny white wool matinee jacket. A delicate baby’s jacket, with a pale pink eyelet trim and a matching pink ribbon bow, it even had two tiny pockets stitched onto the front.

The slight yellowish tinge told Flossy this jacket had been stowed away for years, concealed from light and air. Hardly daring to breath, she lifted it up between thumb and forefinger as delicately as if it were a butterfly’s wing. Instinctively, she pressed the soft garment to her cheek, closed her eyes briefly and caught the faintest trace of violet water. A small white envelope fell onto her lap. Spellbound, Flossy carefully placed the matinee jacket on her knee and opened the envelope.

The strangest of sensations overcame her, as if she weren’t merely unwrapping packages and letters, but peeling back layers of history.

Quivering with emotion, she unfolded the paper, and suddenly, there was Dolly’s voice in her ear, as rich and warm as if she were sitting on the kerb next to her.

To my dearest Flossy,

I know you will be reading this letter after my death. I also know you’ll be shocked and hurt that I never told you I was dying, though, Flossy, I know you had your suspicions I was ill. You’re as bright as a button; you always was.

Please believe me, if there was any way I could have found it in myself to tell you, I would have. I think the world of you. I always have done, right from when I first met you nineteen years ago, when you was nothing but a little scrap. Yes, that’s right. Our paths crossed many years before we met at Trout’s. I’m going to tell you a true story that I hope explains what has driven me all these years.

When I was eighteen, I was enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon off work in Vicky Park. My father was gravely ill in the Chest Hospital and I had just come from visiting him. I’d bought myself a ha’p’orth of broken biscuits and I’d just settled myself down by the boating lake when along comes a young red-headed woman pushing a perambulator. Poor soul, she didn’t half look on her downers. She’d tucked her hair under an old black felt cloche hat, but a few curly red locks had escaped from beneath.

Thin as a whippet she was, and clothes hanging off her. Life looked like it had beat her down and she was all hunched over. In fact, she could scarcely meet my eye when she asked if I’d do her a great favour by looking after her baby while she ran a quick errand. I didn’t want to. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, but she pleaded with me in her strong Irish accent, even promised to buy me a chocolate bar for my troubles. She explained how she was recently widowed and had no one else to help her. She was so pitiful that in the end I agreed.

Well, when I looked in the pram, I don’t mind telling you I lost my heart, hook, line and sinker. Staring back at me was the most heavenly little creature you ever set eyes on. The baby girl was adorable. All chubby legs and velvet-soft skin, big grey eyes and shiny round red cheeks. She was a treasure. Her mother told me she had given birth not eight weeks before at a maternity home nearby.

And then she turned and left, walked out of there like her heels were on fire, didn’t even turn round once.

Looking back, so many people have told me I must have been daft as a brush not to have guessed what would happen next, but her wedding ring led me to believe she was trustworthy . . . that she would return.

Ten minutes turned to an hour, then two. The baby grew cold, hungry and started to wail. I noticed for the first time how dirty her blankets were, and when I felt under them, they were soaked through. The back of her matinee jacket was that damp she was starting to shiver, so I took it off her and headed for home, so that I might fetch her some warm clothing. I’d just reached the gate with the pram when a park policeman stopped me and enquired as to the whereabouts of the baby’s mother. I assured him she’d be back before long. He told me I’d been duped, that she was long gone.

I was beside myself when he took the pram handles from me and told me he was taking her to the police station and then a home for foundlings. Foundlings! Such a funny word, I remember thinking at the time.

Then he walked off with the pram, that poor abandoned mite crying until she was red in the face, her little hands squeezed into tight fists. The emotion of that moment has never left me. I ran after him, pleaded with him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen to me, just kept on marching in the direction of the police station. I didn’t half cause a scene – shouted blue murder, told the desk sergeant he had no right, that baby was left to me to look after – but they didn’t give two hoots for the opinion of an eighteen-year-old girl, told me I’d do well to mind my manners.

As I walked home, I was that stunned I half wondered if I hadn’t just imagined the whole thing, except for the matinee jacket I was still holding in my hand. At home, I carefully washed it and prayed to God to forgive me for not saving that baby.

I was told later by the matron of the home that she had slight curvature of the spine, and they didn’t hold out much hope of finding a family to adopt her. I know you will have worked out by now, Flossy, that the baby girl was you. The matinee jacket contained in this package was the one you were wearing when your mother left you with me.

Flossy stifled a scream and instinctively threw the letter into the gutter as if it were on fire. She heard Peggy’s concerned voice, but it didn’t even begin to permeate the deep layer of shock that had coated her. The truth was so far removed from what she could ever have imagined. In a trance, she retrieved the letter, unfolded it and began to read again, her hands shaking violently.

I was tormented by not being able to save you, Flossy. I even dragged my poor mother to the orphanage and begged with the matron and her to be able to keep you. They told me that quite aside from my age and being single, it was a ridiculous idea. But it wasn’t to me. You see, my condition meant having children of my own was impossible. My heart could never have withstood childbirth. Sounds daft, I know, but I honestly believed that finding you in the park was a sign from the good Lord somehow. That you were the child I would never be able to have.

I can only guess at the dark depths that drove your mother to leave you with me. I know it looks like neglect, but it was in fact the ultimate sacrifice. She would never see you again, poor lady, but at least she knew you would be warm, fed and clothed come nightfall. In time, I came to understand that, but back then, aged eighteen, it was hard for me to grasp.

Shortly after that day in the park, I lost my lovely father. I was broken-hearted and wanted so desperately something, or someone, to call my own. It was around then that my mother and the doctor decided it would be best if I were sterilized, in case I were to accidentally fall. They never said as much, but I could see how worried they were that I might do something rash; I wanted a baby that dearly. I believe the wisdom was that if my womb was removed, it would also somehow remove the longing for a child. It didn’t.

After that, I could either let the pain of losing you, my father, my future as a mother drown me or I could make every second of what was left of my life count. Bring a little happiness into the lives of others. Despite this, not getting the opportunity to save you, Flossy, ate away at me and so I started to send small parcels to you on your birthday. A second-hand spinning top from the market, a hand-stitched rag doll, a used copy of Black Beauty . . . Not much, I know, but they were at least chosen with love. It also eased my guilt somehow. I’d made a promise to look after you, and in my mind I had broken that promise.

I pestered the poor matron of the orphanage to allow me to visit you. I wore her down, poor woman, and from time to time, she even allowed me into the orphanage playroom so I could spend some time with you.

The last visit came when you were nearly seven, when there was talk of you being sent overseas for a new start in life. After that, it was felt my visits should stop; they were no longer ‘appropriate’, in case you formed an attachment to me. But it was too late, for I had already formed an attachment to you. I never forgot you after that, Flossy. The parcels were all I could do for you, but I thought of you every single day. The only reminder I had that I had come so close to motherhood was your matinee jacket, which I kept carefully hidden in my cupboard at home.

When you walked into the factory a year ago, I felt as if it were divine intervention. I had you back in my life for one very precious year, and I was so proud to see the beautiful young woman you had become. I was privileged to see you grow and blossom even more in that time. Sharing your life this past year, well, it meant I could die a happy woman.

You held a place in my heart that no one else could occupy, so please, try to find it in yours to forgive me for not telling you sooner. There is no easy answer to why I could not tell you this in life, beyond the knowledge that you would have had questions that I couldn’t answer. Maybe there is also a small part of me that simply won’t allow death to have the final word.

As for your precious future, I cannot tell you what to do, but I urge you not to try to find your real mother. I fear only heartache lies along that path. She did what she had to do, out of love, not neglect, and you should remember her in that spirit. The proof of this is contained within the jacket pocket.

I don’t presume ever to be remembered as a mother figure to you, but I loved you like one. Do you remember what I said to you that day outside the hair salon? You’re an unpolished diamond. Don’t be afraid to shine. I have never meant anything so much in all my life.

Please, my dearest Flossy. Fall in love. Have the children I never had. Live your life to its fullest.

Yours for eternity,

Dolly x

Flossy stared down at the letter and felt a rush of love so powerful she scarcely felt Peggy’s arms wrap round her. Without saying a word, she handed it to Peggy, while she sat motionless, stunned by the revelations of the letter and the enormity of the truth it contained.

By the time Peggy had finished Dolly’s letter from beyond the grave, the tears were flowing freely down both their cheeks and they hugged fiercely.

‘But why did she suddenly start sending me parcels?’ asked Peggy, when at last she found her voice.

‘Knowing Dolly, I can only imagine that after you were injured, she wanted to help you in any way she could,’ replied Flossy. ‘She was obviously starting to live on borrowed time by then; the risk of being found out mattered less, I suppose.’

Finally, the mystery of Dolly Doolaney, the tea lady with the heart of gold, was revealed. Her compulsion, the insatiable desire to help others, made sense to Flossy. It’s who Dolly was. Every small act of kindness, every parcel, every bundle of sewing, each pair of knitted socks, right down to the cups of tea she lovingly brewed, went some way to appeasing the tearing guilt she felt at not saving Flossy. Dolly wanted so much to make her brief time on earth count.

‘All those hours she spent stitching for the sewing circle throughout the Blitz and we urged her to rest. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she used to say,’ murmured Flossy. ‘Well, let’s hope she’s finally at rest now.’

Another thought also occurred to Flossy, and the realization made her shiver despite the hot sun beating down.

‘The rag doll she gave me aged nine. She patched it up, and it was the last thing she ever gave to me when I turned nineteen. She really did never stop thinking of me.’

‘I think the fact that she kept the matinee jacket you were wearing when your mother left you, for all those years, rather proves that, doesn’t it,’ agreed Peggy.

‘The jacket pocket!’ Flossy exclaimed, drawing back. ‘Dolly mentioned something about there being proof in the pocket.’

Slipping her hand into the tiny pocket, she felt nothing inside, except a stab of disappointment . . . until she checked the other pocket. In silent dismay, she pulled out a faded swatch of cream calico fabric. Embroidered round the edges were the prettiest pale blue birds and butterflies in flight, but it was the centre of the swatch to which Flossy’s glittering grey eyes were drawn. A heart, darned in red thread with thirteen heart-wrenching words embroidered within.

Fourteen