2 JUNE 1941
The month of June marched in like a brass band, breathing fresh heart into everyone on the factory floor. The blue skies and dazzling sunshine were certainly putting a bounce in everyone’s step, and the women were in a noisy, ebullient mood. Even the fact that it was a bank holiday Monday and they were working, coupled with the announcement on the wireless yesterday, Whit Sunday morning, by the president of the Board of Trade that clothes were now to be rationed – and, with that, yet more coupons – hadn’t been enough to put a dent in the women’s spirits.
There was almost a carnival atmosphere on the floor that morning as thirty machinists belted out a slightly bawdier version of ‘Bless ’Em All’.
Peggy couldn’t help but grin to herself as she gazed about the factory floor, the ribald laughter drifting over the humming of the machines and out through the open windows. Nearly every worker under the age of thirty was done up to the nines, with heavy metal rollers anchored under their turbans, and lips freshly coated with crimson lipstick. The smell of Evening in Paris mingled with the scent of Californian Poppy and hung like a blanket over the factory, disguising the slightly fustier smell of Morning in Bethnal Green, Peggy thought with a wry smile.
Could the women’s improved mood perhaps be connected to the news that the first dance of summer was taking place at Shoreditch Town Hall the next day, or that a certain ship was docking for shore leave that very afternoon? Peggy had a feeling Dolly, whose presence was still felt in every nook and cranny of Trout’s, would very much have approved.
With that, Peggy gazed at Flossy’s back from the row of machines in front of her, her slight body rocking back and forth gently as she worked her treadle. She wished she could fathom what Flossy was thinking, but in the two days since her dreadful discovery, she had shut down and flatly refused to discuss the subject every time Peggy had brought it up. Goodness only knew Peggy had been appalled that any woman could leave her child, but after hearing the pitiful story of Flossy’s mother, her own heart had gone out to her.
Lucky had warned her to go easy on Flossy, and Peggy could see her emotions were raw, but surely she would have to open up and face the tragic facts of her past at some point? Learning of Flossy’s sad start in life had certainly made her more thankful for the unconditional love she received from her own mother, May. Peggy shuddered to think how wretched she had been to her when they had first moved to Bethnal Green just over a year ago. She might still have no news of her father, but she had the love of her mother, and Lucky, and for that, she was truly blessed.
When the machines shut down for mid-morning tea break, Archie strode out onto the floor and recoiled.
‘Bleedin’ hell, girls, it smells like a tart’s boudoir in here,’ the foreman sniffed, pretending to stagger and faint.
‘Give over, you great lummox,’ cackled Pat.
‘Them poor sailors don’t know what’s going to hit ’em,’ he chortled.
‘Attention please, ladies,’ interrupted the forelady, clapping her hands together.
‘HMS Avenge docks at four this afternoon and Mr Gladstone has kindly said we can all clock off early to meet them, seeing as it’s a bank holiday’ – a wave of excited chatter washed over the floor – ‘provided we finish up the day’s quota of bundles,’ Vera finished firmly. ‘The East London Advertiser, the WVS and representatives from the Mayor’s Comforts Group will also be there to greet them, and I shall of course be presenting the ship’s captain with the quilt we have stitched in honour of Trout’s special relationship with HMS Avenge.’
‘Some people’s relationships are more special than others, eh, Floss,’ called out Daisy teasingly.
Poor Flossy flushed a high pink. ‘Tommy is a special friend, that’s all,’ she replied, a coy smile playing on her lips.
‘But you’ll be giving him a little squeeze, won’cha,’ Sal winked back. ‘You know what they say, Floss – “A hug without a squeeze is like a slice of apple pie without the cheese.” You gotta give the man a proper greeting: he’s been at sea for Gawd knows how long.’
‘I’ll be giving my sailor, Ernie, a great big Pat Doggan cuddle,’ Pat said with a wicked grin.
‘That sounds like a threat, Pat,’ chuckled Archie.
‘Watch it, you,’ Pat bantered back, and jokingly ran her hands over her ample curves. ‘I’ll have you know that in my day I was known as Hot Lips, and I still got it. Some men like a mature woman. Inside here, there’s a wotcha-call-it? A femme fatale bursting to get out!’
‘Just the one, Pat?’ quipped Sal, to a roar of laugher.
‘I expect all representatives of Trout’s to act in a way that befits the good name of the factory,’ Vera said stiffly over the laughter. ‘Bethnal Green has proved that we can take it; now is our chance to show that we can give.’
‘Oh, lighten up, Vera,’ sighed Daisy to her fractious big sister. ‘Don’t we deserve to let our hair down a bit? Bleedin’ clothes rationing, it’s really got my goat. How’s a girl to look ’er best on sixty-six coupons a year? Honestly, I ask you. This war’s being fought in the battlefields, in the air and at sea . . . and now in my bloody wardrobe.’
‘No swearing on the factory floor, Daisy,’ ordered Vera. ‘How many times must I tell you?’
Vera looked back down at her clipboard and Daisy pulled a face.
‘Personally, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse,’ sniffed Pat. ‘“Make Do and Mend”, I ask yer! That ain’t a slogan; it’s a way of life in the East End. I was turning collars and patching socks by the age of ten. It’s just one more sacrifice.’
A silence descended as Pat’s words chimed with every worker. For eight torturous months, they had endured the bombs, and although the raids had stopped and rumour had it Hitler was planning an invasion of Russia, not a woman there didn’t live in terror of the bombers’ return. The East End was paying a heavy price for this war, and Peggy knew the workers’ gallows humour masked a deep fear of what the future held. But that afternoon at least held the promise of sunshine, companionship and the blossoming of new friendships, and that was something to look forward to.
*
The gaggle of women, plus Lucky and Archie, paraded along Commercial Road in the direction of Deptford Docks as gay and chirpy as a flock of starlings. Leather pumps clicked on the cobbles as the group spilt out into the late-afternoon sunshine in a giddy whirl.
Flossy was so nervous she could scarcely speak. Goodness knows how she had done it, but Sal had managed to get her hands on some confiscated Japanese manufacturer’s stock of material and had thoughtfully given Flossy a length of beautiful crêpe de Chine, which she had run up into the prettiest dress Flossy had ever owned. The light, silky fabric felt glorious against her bare legs, and the soft teal-green colour of the dress brought out the silver in her eyes. Her freshly combed hair fell in soft waves about her face, and she had been so touched when the members of the Victory Knitters had surprised her that morning by presenting her with a tortoiseshell hairclip, ‘just because’, which Daisy had carefully clipped in place before they set off.
‘You look pretty as a picture, Flossy,’ marvelled Peggy as they walked together. ‘Ravishing yet demure – how could Tommy resist? You know, you do deserve a little happiness.’
Flossy furiously blinked back the tears that threatened to spill down her freshly powdered cheeks. She knew what Peggy was hinting at, but she wasn’t ready to think about recent events, much less discuss them.
‘Please, Peggy, not now,’ she whispered. ‘I just want to enjoy this afternoon.’ And she really did. Nestled in her handbag was Tommy’s last letter.
She knew the contents of it by heart already.
Such a prompt response to my letter deserves a hug and two squeezes, and you can expect just that when we meet.
A burst of delight fizzed up inside her at the thought that, very soon, she would meet Tommy for real. If his written words could have this effect on her, just what would meeting her sailor in the flesh do? She knew from the photo he had sent that he was dashing. He was twenty-eight, and his black hair was shot through with flecks of silver, but it had been his startling eyes to which she had found herself drawn. They sparkled with laughter and fun, just as Dolly’s had. She couldn’t wait to see what colour they were; she had a fancy they were blue, like Dolly’s.
Flossy thought back to that fateful evening down the Tube when she had opened his letter and his photograph had fallen out. Just two and a half months ago, and yet so much had happened since it felt like a lifetime! So much revelation. So much sorrow. At least her feelings for Tommy remained reassuringly the same.
The long, busy street was as bomb-shattered as any in the East End, but despite this, it was business as usual, with queues of housewives in headscarves gossiping outside the butcher’s and baker’s, one hand clamped round a string bag, the other gripping the hand of a small child. Flossy was in two minds how she felt towards the mothers who had refused to have their children evacuated out of London, even at the height of the bombings.
‘Irresponsible,’ Sal, who had had her two sons sent away during the first wave, had branded them, but in her heart, Flossy held a sneaking admiration for them. She knew from watching them down the Tube shelter that there were many mothers who couldn’t countenance being parted from their child under any circumstances, no matter how dangerous. Evacuation, or Operation Pied Piper, was a wartime sacrifice they simply would not, or could not, make. They would rather tear off a limb than send their child to live with a stranger. Pity her own mother had not shared their deep maternal instincts, she thought with a twist of sorrow. Quickly, she squashed down the dark thoughts before they took hold. Today was to be a happy day.
Their route down Commercial Road took the group through the neighbouring borough of Stepney, and all too soon, the girls were assailed by the sound of song, drifting out through the window of a factory. Judging by the bawdy laughter and music, it was unmistakably a garment factory.
A huddle of workers stood outside on the pavement, drawing deeply on their cigarettes, enjoying some nicotine with their fresh air during afternoon tea break, and some precious time away from machining khaki. Flossy recognized some of their faces from the singing competition at the pub, the fateful night before the bombs had started to drop.
Sal’s face lit up when she saw them. ‘Hello, girls. Good to see you,’ she said. ‘How you keeping?’
‘All right, gal. Well, we got a pulse, and the factory’s still standing, so mustn’t grumble,’ remarked one. ‘Gov’nor’s got us machining army parachutes now, would you believer? You heard about the Rego, I suppose?’
‘Yeah, copped it on the last night of the bombings, didn’t it?’ remarked Sal. ‘Trout’s nearly went for a burton an’ all. We’ve got a hole in our roof as big as Pat’s gob.’
‘Watch it, you,’ said Pat, playfully bashing Sal on the bum with her gas-mask box.
‘I heard about that . . .’ the woman faltered, ‘and we heard about Lily and Dolly too.’
A heavy silence fell over the group.
‘Yeah, well . . .’ sniffed Sal eventually. ‘Our losses are no worse than anyone else’s, I suppose. I’m sure you’ve lost girls too.’
The woman nodded and picked a stray bit of tobacco off her lip. ‘That we have, Sal. Two young girls and a couple of old-timers in the last big raid, God rest their souls, and too many to mention have been bombed out.’
‘Yep, my flat’s a bombsite now an’ all,’ Sal nodded. ‘God knows what home my boys will come back to. They’ll scarcely recognize the old place . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I do wish someone would hurry and top that Hitler bastard.’
A bell rang in the distance and the workers wearily mashed out their cigarettes on the kerbside.
‘We better let you get back to it, then,’ Sal smiled to the Stepney workers. ‘But stay safe, and God bless you girls.’
‘God bless you too.’
Hugs were exchanged, before Sal threaded her arm through Pat’s and they continued in the direction of the docks.
Sal’s voice drifted back to Flossy. ‘The awful thing is, whenever you say goodbye to someone, you just never know if it’s the last time you’ll see them.’
On the quayside at Deptford, the excitement was palpable as the sewing circle mingled with the throngs of crowds and watched as the small flotilla wearily chugged its way up the Thames and into the Port of London.
The minesweeper – a fishing trawler taken over by the admiralty – smelt of oil and was covered in coal dust. As it drew alongside, the boat looked as in need of some tender, loving care as doubtless its crew were. Tommy had never talked of his work or his precise location, but she knew the men of the minesweepers had the most dangerous jobs of all, sweeping the seas to sink any magnetic mines, while under constant threat of enemy bombardment from above.
Tommy had written to say that the vessel was docking before being taken to a dry dock in Chatham for essential maintenance, which gave its small crew one week of precious shore leave. Flossy suspected that as well as seeing his family, he probably longed for a hot bath and a pint, but she hoped there would be enough time for them to get to know one another.
HMS Avenge was joined by other sweepers coming into dock, and the squawks of seagulls wheeling overhead through the white cotton-wool clouds mingled with the excited chatter of women and children. The turnout to meet the men was tremendous, and Flossy found herself overwhelmed but gladdened at the patriotic sight.
A Church Lads’ Brigade was marching on the quayside, playing drums and bugles. Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, who had so valiantly proved their worth to the community throughout the bombs, were milling about handing out flags and cups of tea. A vendor had even set up selling winkles, whelks and shrimps. It was a deeply satisfying sight. London, like the rest of the country, was struggling to return to normality after the devastation of the bombings. How Dolly would have revelled in this, thought Flossy.
But this was not a day of sadness or reflection, so Flossy painted on a bright smile, nervously smoothed down her dress and watched as Archie and Vera, along with the mayor of Bethnal Green, formally stepped forward to present their quilt to the ship’s captain.
‘On behalf of all the men of HMS Avenge, I would like to personally thank you for all the good things produced for the ship’s company. Myself and the twenty-seven men aboard this command have been greatly cheered during the long months at sea by the fruits of your labours,’ said the captain over the noise of the crowd. ‘I am deeply indebted to the Victory Knitters for the unending morale instilled in my crew through your kind letters and comforts . . .’
But Flossy had stopped listening, because at that moment, the crew themselves started to troop down the gangplank, broad smiles blinking into the dusty afternoon light.
Flossy stood back, waiting patiently as the crowds surged forward and the photographer’s flashbulb popped. The sun dazzling off the Thames and the lights of the camera temporarily blinded Flossy, but when her vision cleared, her heart leaped into her mouth. There was a man she recognized from a grainy black-and-white photo. Tommy, her Tommy, and oh my, he was even more handsome in the flesh. The girls in the factory had often talked about how sailors took a great deal of pride over their appearance, and they were right. Tommy looked immaculate in his dark blue bell-bottomed trousers, blue collar over a snowy-white vest and natty blue-topped cap.
He was much taller than she had imagined he would be, but she had been right in one respect. His eyes were pale blue, and they were scanning the crowds intently.
Suddenly, his face lit up into a dimpled smile of recognition as he set down his kit bag and spread his arms wide. With her stomach tumbling, Flossy raised her arm and returned his smile. Should she walk into his arms or . . . ? Gosh, she was nervous.
‘H-ello there . . .’ she mumbled hesitantly.
Suddenly, her smile froze and her voice trailed away, for with a sickening lurch, it dawned on her . . . She was not the one Tommy was smiling at.
Out of the crowd tore a young girl.
‘Daddy!’ she hollered, flinging herself into Tommy’s outstretched arms with such force she nearly knocked him clean off his feet. A bilious dread rose up sharply in Flossy’s throat; she stood rooted to the ground and watched in horrified fascination as, a second later, a pretty, flushed-faced young woman joined them. Flossy felt a sob escape her mouth as Tommy threw his arm round her too. The happy family stood embracing in the crowds, clearly oblivious to all but each other.
Searing agony ripped through Flossy’s chest.
No, no, no.
‘How could you?’ she sobbed, before, turning and stumbling, she pushed her way back through the crowd, humiliated tears blurring her vision.
Flossy ran to the only place she could think of. Dolly’s grave. Trembling, she sank to her knees on the damp earth.
It was Lucky who found her there later that day, as the sky bruised a deep purple in the settling dusk. Found her sitting hunched over, knees drawn into her chest, surrounded by the scattered pieces of a torn-up photograph.
‘He’s a bleedin’ cad, Flossy, and I ought to box his chops,’ he said, as he plonked himself down next to her.
‘Oh, please don’t, Lucky,’ she said, looking up suddenly.
Lucky took one look at her blotchy face and the heartbreak that came off her in waves, and tenderly draped his jacket round her shoulders. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘But if it were anyone but you, I still would have given him a proper clump,’ he added.
‘It’s my fault for trusting a man I had never even met,’ Flossy replied. ‘I thought . . . No, I really believed he was mine. But he was stringing me along all the time, Lucky.’
With that, Flossy groaned and allowed her head to slump despairingly into her hands.
‘I feel so stupid. My name is embroidered next to his on the quilt,’ she said, her voice muffled. She turned once more to face Lucky and shivered in the fading light.
‘You’re a man – tell me, why would he betray me in such a way?’
‘I don’t know, Floss darlin’,’ he shrugged. ‘You can’t have your cake and eat it too, but some men like second helpings, and in some cases, thirds. Remember that toerag Gerald? He had a rag on every bush.’
Flossy rolled her eyes. ‘I think this is my problem, Lucky. I expect too much. First Dolly, then my mother, now this . . . I know now of all times we just have to put a brave face on things, but I really don’t know how much more I can bear, Lucky. I just want to belong to someone. Some hope!’
‘Now, don’t you go talking like that,’ said Lucky gruffly, wiping his eyes. ‘Next to my Peggy, you’re the sweetest girl in all the world and you deserve so much. Dolly we can never bring back, but your mother . . .’ His voice trailed off as he searched his mind for the right thing to say. ‘I’m not one with the words, but the way I see it is this – what your mother did that day, leaving you in the park with Dolly, some may see it as abandonment, but all she wanted was for you to be warm, safe and fed. She couldn’t care for you any longer herself, so she left you with Dolly, the safest, most loving pair of hands in the East End.’
‘But she didn’t know what kind of woman Dolly was, did she?’ Flossy protested. ‘She was a perfect stranger to her.’
‘Trust me, Floss, when you’ve lived where your mother did, the Brady Street slums, you quickly develop a sense of who to trust. I’m going to tell you a few home truths now, Flossy Brown, and you might not like it, but when you was growing up, staring out of the windows of that orphanage, you only saw one view of life, not the complete picture.’ He shivered, the hairs on his arms standing on end in the chill of the darkening graveyard.
‘I’ve seen sights that would make your hair curl. Some of them slums are the closest you will ever get to hell on earth. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I’m from Russia Lane, don’t forget, where police only dare go in pairs. You should hear the whistling off the balconies when they walk into the buildings to shut down whatever gambling ring’s going on.’ He snorted in a way that told Flossy he wasn’t joking.
‘Tenement blocks riddled with poverty and disease; damp, peeling walls; no running water; families of up to fifteen raised in two rooms; one godforsaken lav on the landing between five families . . . I spent that long in the cleansing station when I was growing up, I started to think it was my second home.’ His voice cracked slightly and Flossy listened, transfixed, as Lucky spilt out the sad, unflinching details of his childhood.
‘Do you not remember when I told you why I was risking my life night after night? It’s for my people. My kind. Some of them vulnerable, the so-called dregs. Your mother was one of them, a victim of her times, not a villain. For most in Bethnal Green, and certainly true of my family, we lived Friday to Friday, earning just enough to keep our heads above water. The true picture of the East End is many thousands working desperately to pay the rent man and put food on the table.
‘After my mother died, my father fought tooth and nail to keep a roof over our heads ’cos he knew the alternative. Kids crammed into the poorhouse, sleeping six to a bed, food doled out by the ounce . . . But we survived. Just. We was the lucky ones, but for your mother, well, the dice landed a different way.
‘Your father died when she was in the family way with you, and then she fell ill. Can you even imagine? She was a penniless, dying widow with a babe in arms! What hope did she have? So she gave you to a kind-looking lady in the park to try and save you from the other alternative, the workhouse. She made the ultimate sacrifice a mother can make. It’s just another kind of love, ain’t it?’
Just another kind of love.
Flossy’s head spun as she digested his words and gazed up at the sky. At that moment, a white feather drifted down and settled at her feet. Flossy and Lucky watched, captivated, as a breath of wind lifted the feather up and it swirled and twisted through the air before coming to rest lightly on Dolly’s grave.
‘Looks like someone agrees with me,’ said Lucky.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Flossy.
‘When angels are near, feathers appear,’ he replied. ‘I think it’s time to forgive your mother and lay her memory to rest.’
A slow light of understanding dawned in Flossy’s soft grey eyes, and for a moment, she was silent with her thoughts.
‘I think perhaps you’re right,’ she said eventually.
‘I know I am, Floss,’ Lucky smiled, laying a tender kiss on the top of her head. ‘You’ve spent your whole life searching for family. Well, we love you like family. You’re like the little sister I never had. You do belong to us, for what it’s worth.’
‘Thank you, Lucky,’ Flossy replied with a grateful smile. ‘It’s worth ever such a lot.’
‘So you’ll take this?’ he asked, fishing around in his pocket and producing her mother’s embroidered heart. ‘And try to find it in your heart to treasure it? It is a token of love, Flossy.’
Flossy took the piece of fabric and put it back in her pocket. She wasn’t ready to look at it, much less discuss it, but hopefully, in time, she would come to look upon it so.
‘Come on, you,’ he grinned, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘Let’s get you home.’
As Flossy walked arm in arm with Lucky out of the darkening graveyard, it struck her that perhaps that was the rub. Her home was a Tube station.