Chapter Nine
13th March 1931
Am I superstitious? Should I have travelled to London on Friday the thirteenth? Well, I did, and I’m here, and to prove it to myself, if no one else, I am actually writing it down in my diary.
The journey from Newcastle to King’s Cross took nearly six hours and I was the only passenger who remained in the compartment for the whole journey. Other people came and went and it was fun imagining why they were travelling, where they were going and whether their journeys were happy or sad.
Eva had made some sandwiches for me and a couple of times I bought myself a cup of tea on the train. From where I was standing in the tea bar I could see through to the dining car where people were sitting at tables having proper meals. Imagine that! The tables were set beautifully with white cloths and jugs of water; the meals looked good but the knives and the forks and the glasses rattled as the train went over the points. Over the points . . . I think that’s the term.
Some of the other travellers were quite chatty but I didn’t really want to talk. I was thinking of London and what it would be like. Of course it’s our capital city and the King and the Queen live there in Buckingham Palace, but according to my lessons at school London is also the hub of our great Empire. Bustling, busy, important, and yet all I could think about was fog!
Surely everybody in the civilized world knows about the London fog. At least they do if they read novels and go to the pictures. What was I expecting? To arrive in a shrouded city with footsteps echoing on the cobblestones, where Sherlock Holmes could be seen hurrying back to his lodgings in Baker Street or, terrifyingly, Jack the Ripper might materialize before my very eyes?
One of the last films my mother and I saw together was called The Lodger. Ivor Novello was in it. A murderer is on the loose in London and Daisy, a beautiful blonde fashion model, finds that her parents have taken in a new tenant who leaves the house at night and keeps his cupboard locked. Daisy’s sweetheart is a policeman who becomes convinced that the lodger is the man they are after. But Daisy is not so sure . . .
What a laugh we had on the way home that night, Mother and I linking arms and hurrying nervously through the streets and clinging on to each other and pretending to be frightened every time we heard footsteps! We went to the fish and chip shop and bought enough chips and batter to make it up to the small fry that they hadn’t been allowed to come with us.
Just before the train reached King’s Cross it slowed down and went through a series of tunnels. The other passengers in my compartment leapt up and took their luggage from the overhead rack and hurried out into the corridor. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to leave the train first. I got my case but then I sat down again. Suddenly I was struck by the enormity of what I had done. I had left the city where I had lived since I was born and decided to make a new life for myself. Well, at least, not completely new. Wherever I went and whatever happened to me, I knew that I would never give up hope of being reunited with my brothers and sister one day and salvaging what I could of the precious years we had spent together.
Dorothy Sutton was waiting for me on the platform. She came forward as soon as I stepped off the train. She had seen all the passengers hurrying by, the scramble for porters and the queues for taxis, and had begun to wonder if I had missed the train or changed my mind.
‘Helen Norton?’ she asked challengingly as she approached me.
‘Yes.’
I stared at a young woman dressed in the height of fashion. Her belted coat had a little false cloak at the top of each sleeve and her cloche hat had no brim at all. Margery had told me that her daughter spent all her money on clothes and that she looked like a proper lady. Well, she did, but at that moment she was a very cross lady.
‘I had to buy a platform ticket,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t turn round and go home without making sure. So that’s a penny you owe me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She looked me up and down and her expression changed. ‘My Gawd, what has Mam sent me?’ she said. ‘You look like a school kid.’
‘I’m sixteen.’
‘Well, you don’t dress sixteen, do you?’
‘I suppose not.’
She’s right. I don’t. My old school coat is the only coat I have and my shoes were bought for comfort rather than fashion.
Dorothy shrugged and put on a long-suffering look. ‘I told Mam that I’d be happy to have a girl from home to share my digs. I didn’t say I was prepared to look after a kid.’
All the time she was talking train doors were slamming, people were shouting and steam was hissing up from the gap between the wheels and the platform. To my horror I thought I was going to cry, but suddenly Dorothy grinned.
‘Although come to think of it, I might enjoy that.’
‘What?’ I asked, bewildered by her change of mood as well as her words.
‘Looking after you. Showing you the ropes. Passing on my valuable knowledge and experience. Well, we can’t stand here gassing all night; I’d better get you back to the diggings. Can you manage that?’ she asked, giving my case a cursory glance, and turned to hurry away without waiting for my answer. ‘I’ll buy your ticket, you can settle up with me later.’
My first ride on the underground! Going down the moving staircase everyone else looked so casual, chatting, looking bored, looking cross, anything but impressed that they were being carried down into the underworld! I was scared on the platform and wished that Dorothy wouldn’t stand so near the edge. Then there was a rumbling sound, a rush of warm air and the train hurtled into the station. There were no seats and I almost became separated from Dorothy as people pushed and shoved and got on and off the train at different stations. But my reluctant new friend took charge and brought me safely to Kilburn and what she called ‘the diggings’. And here I am writing it all down before I forget a moment of it.
I am alone. Dorothy had a date with Mr Barker, her gentleman friend, so she showed me the room that was to be my own, the tiny kitchen, the bathroom we share with the flat downstairs, and told me to get an early night as she would be taking me into work with her early tomorrow to the restaurant in Soho to see if Stefano would take me on.
Tomorrow . . . I can’t sleep for thinking about it.
Several exercise books had been filled since that night when Helen had arrived in London. She didn’t make an entry every day. Sometimes she was too exhausted when she got home from work at the restaurant and sometimes she made the editorial decision that the events of the day simply weren’t interesting enough to record for history.
Over the months Helen would get the exercise books out and flick through the pages, going over days she had enjoyed and days she had hated, and trying to decide what exactly – or rather who exactly – she was writing this for. She had borrowed the works of diarists from the library. Some of them were also writers, such as Louisa May Alcott and Beatrix Potter. Then there was Dorothy Wordsworth, sister of William, to whose notes and observations Helen decided the famous poet owed much, especially his poem ‘Daffodils’.
These diaries were fascinating because they revealed more about interesting people. Who would ever want to read about the daily life of a waitress? Helen wondered. What’s so fascinating about endlessly clearing and wiping down tables, taking orders from the table d’hôte menu or pushing the more expensive à la carte? Or explaining tactfully to customers that you couldn’t just order a cup of tea at the busiest time of the day and that you had to have a sandwich at least?
Even though Helen suspected that no one else would ever read her diaries, she had found the writing of them compulsive. So she had gone on writing with pen and ink in school exercise books even after she had bought herself a second-hand typewriter at the market in Portobello Road. The typewriter was for writing of a different sort altogether.
16th July 1931
I’ve been in London for four months now. Dorothy has been as good as her word and looked after me. She persuaded Stefano to take me on as she’d promised. ‘Go on,’ she’d said, ‘you know how hard we northern lasses work,’ and he had to agree.
I like working at Stefano’s. Being a waitress is incredibly hard work but it’s so interesting. Stefano is a pet lamb but Marina, his wife, is a tartar. Here in Greek Street the customers are a varied bunch, much more diverse than the clientele of the Cosy Café at home in Newcastle.
Living with Dorothy can be trying at times. She isn’t the world’s best housewife – or anywhere near. Sometimes I tease her, asking her what she will do if Mr Barker asks her to marry him.
‘Oh, I shan’t have to do any cooking or housework,’ is her usual answer. ‘I shall be living in a nice house in Pinner and I shall have a maid and a cook and someone to come in and do the washing and ironing.’
She makes a joke of it but a long time ago I suspected that Mr Barker, whom I’ve never actually met, is never going to make an honest woman of her because he is already married. But, even though we are the best of friends, I’ve never felt able to ask Dorothy about this.
Dorothy and I seldom go out together. She spends as much time as possible with Mr Barker and, in any case, we very rarely have the same days off work. So I explore London on my own. I bought maps and guide books just like a tourist. I go to look at interesting buildings, I visit museums and art galleries, I love the old markets, and I go to the pictures.
I’ve recorded all this in my daily jottings, but what I haven’t admitted until now is that as I’m walking along busy streets I’m not just taking in the passing show. I know the Partingtons are here because I see pieces about Mrs Partington’s social life in the society pages of the newspapers that customers leave in the café. I haven’t found out where they live. They aren’t listed in the telephone directories – there are so many for London – but it seems that you don’t have to be if you choose not to.
So I go into the most fashionable shops and look at rich women buying clothes for themselves and their daughters. Elsie will be twelve years old now. Perhaps she no longer looks like a child but I’ll recognize her. Of course I will. The question is, will she recognize me, and if she does what will I do? The likelihood of bumping into them in a shop like this is far-fetched, I know, but I spend hours imagining it might happen.
Could Joe and Danny have come to London? This is a place where they would be able to vanish if they wanted to. But why would they want to vanish? Why didn’t they just come to me when they ran away from Haven House? What happened there? Whatever it was, didn’t they know that I would have done anything in my power to help them?
But of course they didn’t know that. How could they? What use had I been to them? I had allowed the family to be split up and the only promise I had given was that one day we would be together again. I don’t blame them for not putting much faith in that. Wherever they are, I’m sure that Joe will take care of things. At least that’s what I tell myself.
What if they aren’t in London? What if they aren’t even in the British Isles? They could have gone to Liverpool and made for America. That’s one of my worst fears. I try not to think about it.
25th December 1931
The second Christmas without my sister and brothers, but I haven’t had time to brood. Stefano kept the restaurant open and I was amazed at how busy it was. What sort of people would prefer to eat in a restaurant rather than at home on Christmas Day?
Well, some people have to work, Christmas Day or not. A lively bunch of girls from one of the theatres came in and ordered the full Christmas dinner. How on earth were they going to do their high kicks, Dorothy wondered, when they were full of turkey and roast potatoes, stuffing and plum pudding? All the while the girls were eating they kept glancing hopefully at a couple of serious-looking men at the next table. The men were dressed in pinstripe suits and they were obviously discussing business. Dorothy said they had an office in Wardour Street and were part of a film company.
Then there were some of the usual bunch of reporters, men and women who work in Fleet Street. He was there – Matthew Renshaw, they call him, he doesn’t come in often. I think he works abroad a lot. Dorothy showed me a report in a newspaper that he had written from Berlin. It was serious stuff. Political. All about the Nazi party winning one hundred and seven seats in the Reichstag, that’s the German parliament, and it was obvious from the way Matthew had written his report that he didn’t think that was a good thing.
When he does come to the restaurant he looks as though he’s got a lot on his mind. Even when he gives his order from the menu he barely glances at you. He’s tall and not exactly skinny but looks as though he could do with a few more good meals. He wears a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and Dorothy says he looks like a schoolmaster or a socialist. His face is interesting rather than handsome, and a swoop of dark hair sort of flops over his forehead. Sometimes I wonder how much he can actually see through the lenses of those owlish glasses of his. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize me if we met outside the restaurant and I try not to let this bother me. Why should it?
Today he didn’t seem to notice what he was eating, even though he emptied his plate. I would have taken him seconds at no extra cost if only he had smiled at me.
As well as the workers there are the lonely people, who haven’t got a proper home to go to, and there are a lot of people like that in London. They live in flats and bedsitting rooms in rundown houses that were once grand mansions with whatever possessions they have managed to bring with them. There are always rumours that some of them have smuggled the family jewels out by stitching them into their clothing. Particularly the Russians. Well, if they have, good luck to them. How else are they going to live?
All over Europe, it seems, there are people leaving their homes and walking for miles until they find somewhere safer to live. ‘DPs’, Stefano calls them, Displaced Persons who just happen to be the wrong religion or race, even if their ancestors have lived in their towns or villages for hundreds of years.
Groups form like little social clubs and they come to Stefano’s at their own special time on their own special day and discuss in their own languages the news from home. Stefano says that none of them will ever go home again and, what’s more, it’s going to get much worse before it gets better – if it ever does. From reading Matthew’s report it would seem that he agrees with him.
Everyone was very jolly until they started singing and then people began to cry. Songs from their homelands, I suppose, which brought back painful memories. Marina was having none of it. ‘For God’s sake, this is Christmas Day!’ she announced in that smoky voice of hers. ‘We’re supposed to be rejoicing.’ She said that we would sing some proper carols and she persuaded, well, let’s be honest, ordered, Stefano to take the lead.
What a surprise. Our boss has the most haunting tenor voice; his customers listened in amazement and Marina’s purpose to jolly everyone up was defeated when people started to cry again at the sheer beauty of it.
Nevertheless everyone was agreed that we’d had a good time.
The tips were generous and Dorothy, as the senior waitress, shared them out equally between the girls, even though she was entitled to keep a little extra for herself.
I got a taxi home. Dorothy has gone to some West End Club or other with Mr Barker. I wonder how he has managed to get away from his wife – I’m sure he has one – on Christmas Day. Perhaps she’s an invalid and he dopes her to the eyeballs when he sneaks out of the house . . . Perhaps he murdered her a long time ago and he’s hidden her body in the cellar of his house in Pinner . . . Do the houses in Pinner have cellars?
Oh dear, maybe I’m too full of the Christmas spirit to write any more. I only had one glass of red wine. Why am I feeling guilty? Perhaps it’s because I’ve suddenly realized that in spite of the circumstances, I actually enjoyed myself today.
15th October 1932
Dear Helen,
Well, here’s my monthly report although I don’t have much to tell you. Your aunt doesn’t change. She still complains about everything and she is making no effort to help herself. In my opinion she could do a lot more than she does but she likes to play the martyr. Dr Salkeld calls on her every week – sometimes twice – and then sends in his bill, no doubt.
And there’s the chemist, too. Whenever your aunt reads of some miracle potion or pill in one of her magazines, some newly discovered vitamin or other, she sends me along to buy whatever it is. Honestly, Helen, you should see her bedside table. And the smell of some of those bottles is disgusting. All they seem to do is make her fatter. My mam says lying around in bed or on the sofa all day and eating as much as she does will kill her rather than the stroke she had.
At least she doesn’t interfere with the way I run the house. So long as I keep serving up good grub and doing the basic housework, she doesn’t complain too much. Mind you, she keeps me on the hop, so now my younger sister, Louie, calls by when she can to run errands for me. I’ve got to be honest with you, Helen, when Louie calls she often stays to eat with me. I hope you don’t think that’s dishonest – particularly as your aunt doesn’t know about it.
Well, Helen, that’s it for this month. I look forward to your reply as ever. News from the big city and all!
As usual I end by saying there haven’t been any letters for you. You know I would forward them if there had been.
Yours truly,
Eva
Helen had saved the letter to read when she came back from work. She had lit the gas fire and it popped and spurted complainingly as she drew up the battered armchair to make the most of its grudging warmth. The restaurant had been busy but, as usual, Stefano had made sure the girls had a good supper before he locked up so all Helen wanted was a cup of tea before falling into bed. Even though Stefano had stumped up for a taxi, Dorothy had not come home. Again. Helen wasn’t privy to where her friend went most nights or how she managed to turn up at work each morning and work as hard as ever.
Before going to bed Helen put Eva’s letter into the old shoebox with the others. When they had started writing to each other Helen had asked how her aunt was and how Eva was coping and, somehow, this had developed into what Eva called her monthly reports. Do I care? Helen wondered. Do I really want to know how my Aunt Jane is, or am I suffering from guilt because she and I really are family? Was there ever a time when she and my mother were loving sisters, and did they share memories just as precious as those my sister and brothers and I have?
Eva never told her whether her aunt mentioned her. Perhaps Aunt Jane had decided to forget her, or perhaps what she said was too hurtful for Eva to report. Remembering how her aunt had called her a viper, Helen smiled. If that was still how she referred to her, Eva might think it tactful not to say anything.
Helen thought for a moment about what Eva had told her about Louie. It was wrong of Eva not to let Aunt Jane know and yet what harm could it do? Her little sister being there to help meant that Eva could devote more of her time to her mistress. But it must be on Eva’s conscience all the same, Helen thought. Otherwise she wouldn’t have told me.
She put the lid on the shoebox and placed it back on the shelf in her wardrobe. A little later when she climbed into bed a gust of wind blew a spattering of rain against the ill-fitting window and the curtains billowed out in the draught. She was tired enough but for a while she lay awake, fretting as she often did that there still hadn’t been a letter from Joe and Danny. Was she foolish to hope that one day there would be?