We were lucky. The train stopped once in a siding for twenty minutes, but we passed the time with a spirited game of I Went to the Shop and I Bought…, which ended in an unsurprising dead heat between Bernard and Larry, and showed that thinking about vegetables alphabetically could take one’s mind off nearly anything.
Wishing them a happy Christmas and thanking the boys’ mother for her kind wishes about the wedding, the four of us got off the train, and as we had decided during the journey, immediately split up. Bunty as photographer stuck with me so that we could be members of the press, and Charles and Mr. Collins would pretend to be bystanders and give the women a cheer if it looked as if they needed it.
We were to stay within eyesight in case anything funny happened, and together or not, we all had to be on the twenty past eleven train back to Paddington.
Sharing a carriage with the family on the train had meant the mood had been light, with chatter and games suitable for eight-year-olds, but as soon as our journey was over, it felt entirely different. I was back on Mr. Terry’s ground.
I didn’t know what to expect, but any giddiness around Charles racing into view earlier quickly disappeared. There was nothing giddy about what Anne and the others were doing. For all the plans to have the children wear flowers and pretend it was a parade, the reason for it remained entirely serious. Someone at some point had to begin to listen.
Charles and Guy followed Bunty and me at a distance, not looking out of place, as several soldiers also got off, as did a smart-looking naval officer.
Bunts and I walked almost in silence up to the market square to position ourselves very close to the start of the march. We planned to follow it down to the town hall, keeping our distance. My only worry was that if Ruby saw us, anonymity would go straight out the door. It would be hard to appear like a reporter if I was being a human carousel for my small friend.
Anne had been right in her prediction about the town’s being busy. On a bright winter morning, even if there was little to be bought in the shops, it hadn’t stopped people coming to browse. Women with baskets looked determined, while older couples walked more slowly, but on just as much of a mission. There were uniforms everywhere and a definite sense that Christmas was on the way.
“Hurry up, Nan,” said a brisk young Wren to a cheery-looking lady. “I’ve only got forty-eight hours and I’m halfway through that.”
The fruit and veg stall was doing a brisk trade, and a queue wound its way out of the butcher’s as clusters of women chatted together or watched their children run around in the square. As everywhere, there was little in the windows. The days of endless fat plucked turkeys hung up in rows were temporarily gone. I overheard someone saying there was chicken, and through force of habit I nearly checked my bag for my ration book.
The Christmas tree, though, hadn’t let anyone down. A healthy fir at least twelve feet high had been erected in the square and decorated with dozens of different widths of red ribbons. A small sign had been put up beside it, thanking members of the public for their donations and saying that when the tree came down after Christmas, the ribbons would be washed and sold to go towards the town’s War Bonds fund. A small child was trying unsuccessfully to untie one at the back.
To my concern, a Salvation Army band was playing carols close to the tree. A corporal was rattling a tin, again for the war effort, and wishing people a happy Christmas whether they put anything in it or not.
I frowned. None of us had thought of this. The band could well drown out the women, or, worse, the women would look as if they were trying to take attention away from the Sally Army, who were trying to raise funds.
There was nothing we could do about it now.
“I didn’t think about the band,” said Bunty, noticing me watching.
“They’ll be here soon,” I said, checking my watch yet again. My stomach was jumping all over the place with butterflies. I wondered how Anne and Betty and the others must be feeling.
“Do you think Mr. Terry will come?” whispered Bunty.
“No. I think he’ll stay well away,” I said. “But I bet he’ll send people from the factory to see which women are here.”
“And sack them?”
“If he can. But this isn’t a protest, it’s a patriotic ‘Help us in the war effort’ parade.”
“Good point,” said Bunty. “I’ll get the camera out. Guy explained twice how to use it, so I hope I’ll be okay.” She took the very up-to-date camera out of its leather case and had a practice, sizing up shots and playing with the aperture. “There’s Charles,” she said surreptitiously. “By the newsagent.”
I glanced to my right and saw Charles lost in a newspaper, as any serviceman would be. Searching the square, I could see Mr. Collins looking in the taped-up window of a ladies’ clothes shop, for all the world a baffled husband plucking up the courage to go in and buy something for his wife.
On current performance, they would both make very good spies.
The Salvation Army band had just got to the descant in “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and I wished I could have enjoyed it, as they were playing quite beautifully. As they came to the end and several people clapped, I was delighted to see the musicians putting down their instruments as their leader told them to have a break for some tea.
“That’s good,” I whispered to Bunty. “Come on, Anne.” I stamped my feet on the ground and jigged around a little, not through cold, but anticipation.
“Hold on,” said Bunty. “What’s that? Is it singing?”
We looked at each other as a group of female voices grew louder. It was singing.
Then we saw them rounding the market square corner and marching down the side by the shops.
Anne and Betty, Maeve, Violet, and Irene, together with what must have been over twenty other women.
Some of them were pushing prams, some were holding the hands of warmly wrapped-up children, and almost all of them were carrying signs. And every single one was wearing something floral.
With much of it in red, white, and blue, from their brightly coloured scarves, home-made rosette-style brooches, and little flags on sticks stuck to the prams, for all the world it really was a parade.
To the tune of “My Old Man Said Follow the Van,” they were singing the most patriotic song you might ever have heard.
My old man
Said, “Love, do all you can,
To help the war work effort every day.”
So, off I went and signed up to be a worker,
Proud to help our boys, cos us girls are never shirkers.
Now we say to you daughters, you mothers and supporters
Of our boys who fight so we are free,
Please all sign up and join us, but we also beg, please help us.
’Cos us factory mums with kids need nurseries.
It was inspired. As their voices rang out across the square, for all the colour and spectacle it made on a Saturday morning in a small town, you could see that to a woman, the marchers were serious.
They may have been singing and wearing pretty scarves, but their signs and placards were clear.
Anne had tied one to Tony’s pram that read MY MUMMY WANTS TO HELP WIN THE WAR. Maeve and her girls had used chalk to write on blackout cards NURSERIES FOR KIDS, WAR WORK FOR MOTHERS, while another pram sported a sign saying HELP MUMMY HELP OUR DADDY. Two women I didn’t recognise held pieces of cardboard that read WE NEED NURSERIES TO HELP WIN THE WAR.
Irene walked next to Anne. She was without Sheila and Enid, who were staying with Anne’s mum, as it was far too soon for them to be involved in a public show. Betty was on Irene’s other side, placard in one hand and holding Irene’s hand with the other. Irene’s sign simply said WAR WIDOWS NEED NURSERIES.
And at the front of them all, holding tightly on to Anne’s coat, marched Ruby, wearing a cardboard crown covered in scrunched-up pieces of newspaper that had been painted in different colours. She wonkily carried her own little sign, which she must have written herself. It was one great big lovely scribble.
They all looked so spectacular, it was all I could do not to jump up and down and cheer, but keeping incognito for now, I ducked behind two women who had stopped to watch. Bunty hid behind the camera, trying to get the best angles, her walking stick under one arm for now, with Bunts choosing her shot carefully so as not to waste precious film.
When the song came to an end, the women began to chant.
“To win the war, we’re asking, please,
Help us get our nurseries.”
It was impossible to ignore them, and the Christmas shoppers began to stop and watch, some with amusement, others with interest.
“Look at his little face,” said a woman near me, pointing at Baby Tony in his pram. “Isn’t he a cherub?”
“That looks like your Edna,” said someone else in surprise.
“Give a woman the flaming vote,” muttered an elderly man, who then stomped away in the opposite direction.
The marchers started singing again as they continued walking around the square, and more people began to watch. I thought I saw Mrs. Noakes from Chandlers at one point but couldn’t be sure. There was no sign of Mr. Terry or Mr. Rice.
When they came round the second time, to stop outside the town hall, Ruby started to wave at the growing crowd while trotting along on her little stubby legs, gamely managing to keep up. She was hard to resist, and several people waved back, which only encouraged her more, until she was waving so furiously that her paper crown was halfway over her face.
Just as Anne bent down to fix it, Bunty stepped forward and took a photograph. It was enough to catch Anne’s eye, and before I slipped back into the growing crowd, I was able to give her a huge smile. Now she knew we were here. Having sorted out Ruby’s crown and with a quick beam of recognition, Anne nudged Betty, who then broke into a smile as well.
Now, as the march came to a stop, they passed the Salvation Army band, who were watching, as curious as anyone. A contingent of the women broke ranks to put pennies in the collecting tins. It was a gesture that could not go unmissed.
At the town hall, the women stopped singing and gathered into a group. Several people clapped, although they kept their distance, waiting to see what would happen next. Betty, who was now at the edge of the marchers, was both unsurprised and ready when the fruit and veg man nipped over and handed her two wooden crates. I guessed she had charmed him into it before the start of the march.
It would have been easy to stand back and enjoy watching my friends, but as I knew the plan was for them to now speak to the crowd, my nervousness returned. There was no doubt that Mr. Terry would have sent people, I just didn’t know who or where they would be. I began to search the crowd, looking for men I thought might fit the bill. Anyone in uniform could be ruled out, of course, and that cut things down significantly. I kept looking.
The first candidate who fitted the bill was Mr. Rice.
I put my head down and swiftly about-faced. He was standing with a pleasant-looking woman in a brown hat, and they could have been any middle-aged couple out for the Saturday shop. But he was watching Anne and the others intently.
Just near him were two taller, younger men, in civilian dress. I perhaps wouldn’t have picked them out, but one appeared to be searching the crowd as much as I was and the other had his hands in his pockets and was making a show of whistling and not being interested in the march. As bad acting went, it was a winner. I watched him closely. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he might have been one of the foremen I’d seen at work on my first visit to Chandlers.
I moved back towards Anne. She was wearing the same black coat that she’d had on when we first met, and I hoped she had layered up underneath. As well as her floral scarf, she was wearing a silver sweetheart brooch. She had a megaphone in her hand and looked apprehensive, but as I watched, she said something to Irene and then climbed up onto one of the crates.
I took out my notebook.
The women stopped their chant and broke into applause for Anne, who cleared her throat and took a deep breath.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. Then she cleared her throat again. “My name is Mrs. Anne Oliver and I am a war worker.”
The other women clapped again. A soldier nearby shouted, “Good girl!” and his friend joined in with a “Well done, love. Good on you.”
Anne gave them a shy smile and continued. “I am a war worker and a mother. I have two small children.” She glanced down at Ruby, who was with Violet and trying on her scarf. “I want to tell you about their father, my husband. His name was Corporal Anthony Oliver, and he was killed at Dunkirk.”