Mary Broxup has lost a lot of friends since Tommy decided to volunteer for the army, and it has been the same for Cath Kenny, Mick’s wife.
When the recruiting office opened, 104 men enlisted in just three hours. Many more failed the minimum requirements: men have to be at least 5 feet 6 inches tall, in good health, aged between nineteen and thirty-five. Old soldiers are accepted up to the age of forty-five, which can be extended to fifty for experienced NCOs.
Over 50 per cent of those who tried to enlist were below the height requirement, or had poor teeth or eyesight. Significantly, many showed signs of rickets, or were undernourished. The examining medical officer was shocked by the number of skin diseases he saw, particularly impetigo, and the number of men with various venereal diseases.
Burnley signed up fourteen men, including Thomas John Broxup, Michael Ciaran Kenny, Vincent Michael Sagar and Nathaniel Mordecai Haythornthwaite, all of whom passed their medicals with ease. Vinny (still smarting from his rejection by Burnley Football Club) and Twaites (loyal, as ever, to his pal) are both just shy of their eighteenth birthdays, but were allowed through as they scored highly on the physical tests.
At the recruiting office the four met local legend John-Tommy Crabtree, steward at the Keighley Green Club. Although beyond the age limit by several years, he had been nodded through on the basis that he would be an inspiration for future recruits and good for battalion morale. He lied about his age, saying he had never had a birth certificate, and told the recruiting officer he was only forty-one when, in truth, he is forty-six.
Feeling a sudden shiver of autumnal air coming from the broken window above the sink, Mary now moves on to Tommy’s chair and snuggles up to him.
‘How’s General Kitchener’s finest recruit?’
‘Don’t ask, lass.’
‘Same old routine?’
‘Aye, we spent t’mornin’ marchin’ up an’ down Fulledge Rec. No sign of uniforms or kit, an’ no rifles. One of t’lads said we’d get rifles next Sheffield Flood, an’ another said we’d get uniforms next Preston Guild. I reckon they’re reet. We’re like little lads laikin’ at soldiers; we ’ad to pretend we ’ad rifles, usin’ broom ’andles an’ bits o’ wood. Lads an’ lassies on t’way to shifts at Rawlinson Street Mill gee’ us some reet mockin’. We deserved it, I reckon. Only thing kept us goin’ were t’company paymaster; he arrived t’day from Accrin’ton. We get paid t’morn.’
‘That’s a relief! We’re dead skint.’
Tommy frowns and looks at Mary despondently.
‘Are we doin’ reet thing, lass?’
‘Aye, I think so; but I’m in a reet moither abaht it every day. I need to get mesen some work.’
Tommy is reluctant to mention a possibility he heard about today. He knows Mary is proud to be a four-loom weaver, a position of some esteem among fellow workers, especially as a woman.
‘How abaht pot washin’?’
‘Where?’
‘Spoke to Old John-Tommy Crabtree t’day. He said he could get thee some work washin’ pots at Keighley Green.’
Mary smiles broadly.
‘Tell ’im I’ll tek it; I’m not above washin’ a few ale pots.’
‘Reet, I’ll sort it tomorra. I thought tha might not fancy it.’
‘I’ll do any kind o’ work. When can I start?’
‘Weekend, I should reckon.’
Tommy and Mary cuddle up closer together, relieved that some money is coming into the house. Tommy smiles to himself.
‘Reet funny do t’day wi’ t’volunteers. This officer appears, must be fifty-five if he’s a day, from down south, calls ’issen a “colour serjeant”. He walks on t’Fulledge Rec in full khaki uniform wi’ brass buttons, peaked cap an’ shiny boots tha could see thy face in. He starts bellowin’ at t’lads, “Get fell in!”, “One two, one two!” and all that baloney. He says ’is name is Colour Serjeant Severn and he’s ’ere to turn us into proper soldiers.
‘So after a bit, he sees Jimmy Dowd grinnin’ – yer know, that lad we ’ad a set-to wi’ at t’Keighley Green – an’ ’e shouts: What are you laughin’ at?
‘Jimmy says: Nowt, Serjeant.
‘Serjeant then says: Can’t yer speak the King’s fuckin’ English? What’s ‘nowt’ mean?
‘Jimmy says: It means “nothin’ ”, Serjeant.
‘Serjeant says: Non-commissioned officer on parade, say, “Nothin”, sir!’
‘So Jimmy starts to grin again an’ says: Sorry, sir.
‘Serjeant says: Do yer often laugh at nothin’, yer daft northern bastard?
‘And so it goes on an’ on, til t’serjeant, who’s ’alf a heed shorter than Jimmy, says: Listen, you big ugly twat, I’ve taken on thick-necked Boers twice your size. How old are you?
‘Jimmy says: Nineteen, sir.
‘Serjeant says: By your age I’d fought in the Zulu Wars and had an assegai in me ribs.
‘So Jimmy grins again an’ says: What’s an assegai, sir?
‘Lots o’ t’lads start laughin’. Serjeant’s grey tash twitches like a little ’edgehog an’ ’is eyes bulge. His face goes as a red as a beetroot an’ he leans for’ard an’ sticks his nose in Jimmy’s mush an’ says: It’s a spear, you cheeky bastard, and Zulus are twice the men you’ll ever be!
‘He then grabs Jimmy’s bollocks an’ squeezes ’em. Jimmy goes to lamp ’im one, but the serjeant lays his nut on ’im an’ knocks ’im reet on ’is backside. He then shouts out: Any more comedians or ’ard cases with something to say?
‘Then, some silly bugger from t’back shouts: Tommy Brox and Mad Mick Kenny, sir!
‘So he calls out us names an’ tells us to step for’ard.’
Mary pushes herself up from Tommy’s embrace and stares at him.
‘Don’t tell me, tha’s thumped ’im?’
Tommy adopts a solemn look, suggesting that he has. Then he pauses, and smiles.
‘Course not! I knows I’m daft, but I’m not that bloody daft. Serjeant spoke to Mick first: So you’re a “Mad Mick”, are yer, lad?
‘Mick says: It’s a nickname I’ve picked up, sir.
‘Serjeant says: So are yer going to be a “Mad Mick” in my company?
‘And Mick says: No, sir, only wi’ t’Germans.
‘Serjeant says: Good lad, that’s what I want to hear. Then he turns to me and says: What about you, Tommy?
‘So I says: Same as Mick, sir. I’m here to fettle t’Germans.
‘By then, Jimmy Dowd is pickin’ ’issen off t’floor. He’s got a reet shiner on ’is forheed an’ is still rubbin’ ’is bollocks. Serjeant says to ’im: See, Jimmy, these two hard cases have got a brain to go with their brawn. See if you can work out where yours is!
‘So that’s our new gaffer; an ’ard little bugger. Me an’ Mick’ll ’ave ter think on an’ keep our heeds down. We’re off on a route march in t’morn; through Brierfield an’ Nelson an’ then o’er Trawden way an’ across Widdop.’
‘But that’s miles, Tommy!’
‘I know; tell yer what, we’re gonna be as fit as whippets when we feight t’Germans.’
It takes Margaret two days to travel to Cardiff from Pentry Farm. By the time she arrives in the docklands area it is nine thirty in the evening and Tiger Bay’s pubs are crowded. The throng heaving in the fug of tobacco and perspiration is a mix of the least wholesome of the indigenous Welsh inhabitants of the host city and a similar residue of its many migrants and visitors. There are numerous merchant ships anchored in the bay – many more than usual – as war is good for business and trade.
Tiger Bay is a fascinating racial cocktail of the poor and dispossessed. There are the locals, many of whom are themselves second- or third-generation sons and daughters of those who have sought refuge on Welsh shores. Then there are the myriad sailors – including Somali, Yemeni, Greek, Irish, West African, Norwegian and legion others.
Crimes of all sorts are commonplace, but the perpetrators are rarely caught, as most of them are already at sea by the time their misdemeanours are discovered.
Using the disguise of being a member of the Band of Hope, Margaret persuades the desk serjeant at the local police station to check on the new recruits to Tiger Bay’s ‘ladies of the night’, saying she is looking for a girl of eighteen, long black hair, very pretty.
‘This is Cardiff, miss, most of the girls have long dark hair and look pretty – at least, at the start.’
‘She comes from a small town on the English border, so perhaps her Welsh accent is not that strong.’
The serjeant looks at his log book.
‘There is one very pretty lass; she’s been arrested twice in the last month, name of Alice.’
He also tells Margaret which of the local pubs ‘Alice’ has been seen in. But he finishes with a note of caution.
‘Be careful, miss, it’s not the sort of area you should be going into alone.’
Margaret, now feeling distinctly uncomfortable in the neat and prim clothes of a middle-class lady, manages to make herself heard above the multilingual din of the Bute Dock Hotel, West Bute Street. She asks the barman if he knows a girl called Alice.
‘No one of that name here, miss.’
Margaret slips a twopenny piece into the barman’s palm.
‘If you see her, can you tell her that a good friend wants to speak to her?’
‘Don’t know the lady, miss.’
Margaret is convinced that she is in the right place and decides to bide her time. She orders a gill of milk stout and a glass of port. They are the tipple of the local girls and, although a little incongruous for a woman of her status, the alcohol helps her fit in with the crowd and its potency soon makes her feel better.
After about twenty minutes, during which Margaret has to fend off several admirers who feel certain that she is a well-to-do lady looking for a ‘bit o’ rough’, a young woman appears at her shoulder.
‘I hear … you … you’re … a friend … o’ mine?’
Bronwyn’s speech is slurred and she seems to have aged ten years. She has lost a lot of weight and her once shiny black locks are lank and knotted. The flawless pale skin of her face has become dappled and acned. Her eyes are bloodshot, her clothes grubby and she has the seedy aroma of destitution about her.
‘I need to talk to you privately.’
‘No.’
Margaret notices that the landlord is staring at the two of them very intently.
‘Can we go somewhere?’
Bronwyn smirks at Margaret.
‘Is that what yer after? I’ve ’eard ’bout women like you. It’ll cost yer five shillin’.’
Margaret has to think quickly, the landlord is on his way over to them.
‘Agreed, but four shillings.’
‘Give it t’ George … the landlord. Wait five minutes, then … come up.’
When Margaret hands George two florins, he grasps her wrist tightly.
‘I ’ope you’re not one of them do-gooders lookin’ for “fallen women”. Because if y’are, I’ll come up an’ fuck you myself. It looks like you could do with it.’
Margaret pulls her hand away and gives him a withering look.
‘Take your money and get out of my way.’
When Margaret enters Bronwyn’s room, the girl has already stripped to her petticoat and chemise; her skirt and bodice are discarded on the threadbare carpet. The bed is unmade, the sheets stained and the room reeks with an unpleasant mingling of cheap scent and human body odour. Bronwyn starts to unbutton her chemise, but is finding it difficult in her drunken state.
‘What’s yer name?’
‘Margaret.’
‘Come here … Margaret …’elp me wi’ these.’
‘You can stop undressing. I’m here with some things from Philip Davies.’
Bronwyn’s fingers stop fumbling. She glares at Margaret and tries to clear her head.
‘I don’t know anyone called … Philip Davies.’
‘Here’s a letter from him.’
As Bronwyn accepts the letter from Margaret’s hand, she collapses to the floor in a heap and begins to sob uncontrollably, her tears only adding to her pitiful appearance. Her hands shake as she tears open Philip’s letter. It takes her several minutes to read the three pages of small, precise handwriting.
Margaret watches the girl closely. She does the mental arithmetic on the timing of Bronwyn’s descent and shivers when she realizes how dramatically sudden it has been – just a few short weeks. She is worried about drug use of some sort in addition to the girl’s palpable drunkenness. She looks around the room and notices a squat brown bottle of Papine on the mantelpiece, a well-known opiate used by doctors to treat pain but also in widespread use in the opium dens of Britain’s docklands.
Her other concern is the likelihood that Bronwyn has contracted at least one venereal disease. If she has, she hopes that it is something treatable, like gonorrhoea, which she sees regularly in her army patients, rather than something like syphilis, which she sees more rarely and for which the treatment is prolonged and usually unsuccessful.
Bronwyn has finished reading Philip’s letter and is crushing it into the palm of her hand. She has her eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if trying to purge her memories.
‘We need to get you out of here.’
Bronwyn opens her eyes. They are just red-rimmed pools of tears. She looks totally devastated.
‘And go where? I belong here. Philip’s wife was right, I’m just a whore.’
‘No, you’re not. You’ve just been knocked down by some terrible events. We can get you back on your feet.’
It takes a long time for Bronwyn to answer. She is rocking herself and shaking her head; her tears are still flowing down her cheeks, blurring her make-up.
‘You don’t know what I did. If you knew, you would agree with Clara Davies!’
‘Listen, you are not the first and you won’t be the last woman to have gone through what you’ve experienced. You need to be strong. If you are, you can get over this.’
‘Leave me be! There’s no way back for me. When I left Presteigne, I walked and walked, until I couldn’t walk any further. I had no money, so I stole food and milk, anything I could find. I was at my wits’ end. I managed to get to Brecon, sleeping rough. I must have looked dreadful; dirty clothes, hair all over the place. It was late and I was exhausted –’
‘You don’t have to tell me this.’
‘I do; I want you to understand what I’ve become.’
‘You haven’t “become” anything. You’re just a little girl lost.’
‘I’m not a “little girl” any more! Philip Davies saw to that. And then the landlord at the Boar’s Head in Brecon … It’s by the river. I was going to throw myself in, but I couldn’t do it. I ended up sleeping in the pub doorway. He found me the next morning, said I could trust him. He gave me money, cleaned me up. But, of course, he wanted something in return. First with him, then his regulars.
‘When I’d saved a few bob, I ran away and got the bus to Cardiff. But it was the same there. I had nowhere to go, but I knew what to do. It didn’t take long to find Tiger Bay. It was horrible, but the gin helped, and then my little bottle of Papine. So you see, that’s what I’ve become!’
‘Bronwyn, I’m a nurse, nothing shocks me. I’ve been in France with the army. Philip died in my arms. I know what happened between you. And your brother told me about what happened at Pentry. As for the shame in what you did, it’s a guilt you share with thousands of women. Including me.’
Bronwyn turns to stare at Margaret. Her words have made a connection with her.
‘You didn’t do what I did, end up shaggin’ men, an’ worse, for two bob!’
‘I’ll tell you what I did … one day. But for now, we need to get you out of here.’
‘Was Philip badly injured?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he in pain?’
‘Yes, he was, but he was very brave. His final words were for you.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked me to tell you that you made him very happy and that you should take wing and fly.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I think he meant that you were capable of doing good things, or important things. And that you should try to achieve them.’
Bronwyn begins to heave with more sobs. Margaret takes advantage of the moment and grabs the bottle of Papine. She empties its contents out of the window, then does the same with the gin flask standing next to it. Finally, she pulls Bronwyn up and steadies her.
‘Is there a back way out of here?’
‘Yes, but George will see us.’
Margaret looks at her fob watch; it is turned 10 p.m. She hopes the landlord is going to be busy at the bar.
‘Come on, let’s go. Do you have many things?’
‘They’re in a bag under the bed. I have fourteen shillings in my purse; it’s all I have.’
Margaret helps Bronwyn to get dressed, then manoeuvres her down the stairs to the carriage she has asked to wait for her.
The cab driver is suddenly roused from his sleep, his horse from its nosebag.
‘I nearly gave you up, miss. Is this the young lady you were looking for?’
‘Yes, and I’m very relieved you’re still here. Take us back to my boarding house, please.’
As the carriage pulls away, Margaret looks back to the Bute Dock Hotel. The light from its windows is spilling on to the pavement outside, where dozens of men are drinking and smoking. She can hear English and Welsh but also several languages that she has never heard before, spoken by men who seem to represent all the nations of the earth. She turns to Bronwyn, who has closed her eyes and is resting her head in the corner of the carriage.
Although she has tried to reassure Bronwyn, she reflects on how far and how disastrously the girl has fallen: a young and innocent farm girl from a quiet valley in Radnorshire just a few months ago, and now a two-bob whore in Tiger Bay. Getting Bronwyn’s life back to even a semblance of normality is not going to be easy.
When they reach Margaret’s room close to Cardiff Castle, she gets to work with her usual expert efficiency. Bronwyn’s clothes are discarded and she is deposited in the boarding house’s bath for a prolonged soak. She washes her thoroughly from head to toe, brushes and combs her hair and then checks for lice. Fortunately, although there are a few nits, Margaret doesn’t find the infestation she had feared.
When she gets the girl to bed, she gives her a small sip of laudanum to help her relax and then sits with her until she falls asleep – probably the first decent night’s sleep she has had in a long time. Margaret smiles to herself. Bronwyn already looks more like a young farmer’s daughter than a docklands’ tart.
Margaret watches over Bronwyn until the early hours. After a while, the temptation to read Philip’s letter becomes too strong. She rescued it from Bronwyn’s grasp in her grimy room earlier and put it in her handbag.
It begins not unlike many soldiers’ letters to their sweethearts. She has read several; men in her care will often ask her to proofread their stilted prose. Some even dictate to her what they want to say to wives and girlfriends back home because they cannot write themselves, either as a result of their injuries or through a lack of education.
Philip’s immaculately penned letter is, at first, written in the formal Edwardian style of the day, almost as if composed by a town clerk, telling of the Welch Fusiliers’ journey to France and what they have been doing since. But then, towards the end, the language changes. Margaret guesses the latter part might have been written on the eve of battle, or after witnessing the death of a comrade. The final passage makes her weep.
I know not what will become of me. This war is becoming a hell on earth and I fear many of us will not survive it. But what will be, will be. Far more important is what will become of you. I readily admit that my initial attraction to you was born of lust, which then became an infatuation of blissful proportions. However, I want you to understand that everything changed. I fell in love with you, and I’m still in love with you – a deep and abiding love that will never go away. You have a wonderfully inquisitive mind, a strong will and a shrewd intelligence – so much so that there is little you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it –
The letter ends at that point. Philip must have intended to write more, but his wounds at Mons prevented it. Margaret eventually falls asleep in her chair as Bronwyn continues her deep slumber.
The next morning, wearing Margaret’s clothes and make-up and with her hair brushed to restore a semblance of its dark lustre, Bronwyn could easily pass as her nursing colleague.
‘Are you ready for this, Bronwyn?’
‘No, I need a drink and a smoke.’
‘Sorry, you’re off the booze and cigarettes – and anything else you’ve been using.’
‘But I can’t cope without them.’
‘Yes, you can; you have to. If it gets too bad, there is something I can give you.’
‘What?’
‘A little laudanum. But in decreasing doses.’
Bronwyn answers like a forlorn child.
‘I’ll try …’
In contrast, Margaret responds like a stern headmistress.
‘You had better! If you let me down, I’ll let you go. You must understand that, Bronwyn.’
Bronwyn composes herself and smiles at Margaret.
‘Please call me Bron. And tell me one thing: why are you doing this for me?’
‘Because of the promise I made to Philip. And because of what you have had to suffer.’
‘Doesn’t what we did disgust you?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘And what about what I’ve become?’
‘That doesn’t disgust me either. But that was yesterday. Today is a new beginning for you.’
‘I can’t believe what’s happening to me.’ Bronwyn embraces Margaret and clings to her. ‘Is it really true?’
‘Of course it is. Come on, let’s get moving.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To Hereford General Hospital. I can get us into the nurses’ quarters there, where you can be looked after.’
Bronwyn recoils.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Bron, I have to be blunt with you. You have head lice and, from the look of your pubic area, you have gonorrhoea and vaginal warts at least; you may have caught other things as well. You have a bad cough from smoking and drinking, and we have to get you off that Papine you’ve been taking. It’s liquid opium, highly addictive.’
Bronwyn looks devastated.
‘One more thing; we need to make sure you’re not pregnant.’
‘I know I’m not pregnant.’
‘How?’
‘I lost Philip’s baby two weeks ago.’
Margaret pulls the girl more tightly to her.
‘You poor thing. Let’s get going, so that we can make you better.’