Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts (33 page)

‘Oh, he’s not worried about the white-feather brigade,’ Maggie said dismissively. ‘No, he says to me,
Six kids! Mag, we’ll be rollin’ in it, that’s thirty shilling a week separation allowance!
And then he says to me,
and if I cop it you’ll get the widow’s pension
.’

Nellie shook her head. There it was again, just like Sam. Somehow the prospect of getting blown to smithereens was less of a consideration to these men than making things financially easier for their families.

‘Anyway,’ Maggie went on, with a laugh that turned into a chesty cough, ‘my old man’s like one of them bad pennies, he’ll turn up again soon enough.’

But in spite of her bravado, Maggie Tyrell told Nellie that she wouldn’t miss waving Tom off for the world. ‘They’re marching through Old Kent Road Thursday evening, so I’m taking the kids up there in the afternoon. You come with us, love, and we’ll sort you out the best spot!’

So many of the custard tarts had men they wanted to see off that Ethel Brown went to see the boss, Old Plum Duff himself. Afterwards, she stood on a packing case at the end of the factory floor, waiting for the girls to pay attention.

‘Will you shut yer traps and listen?’ Ethel boomed out, in her best coal heaver’s voice.

When the hubbub died down, she went on. ‘He didn’t bat an eyelid,’ she announced triumphantly. ‘Factory’s shuttin’ Thursday afternoon, so you can
all
go and wave ’em off.’

A cheer went up from the custard tarts and a round of hoorahs for the factory owner. Nellie reflected ruefully on how things had changed since the strike days: now, in a world where the male workforce was dwindling suddenly, the factory was only too happy to consider the women’s requests. Looking round at her friends’ beaming faces, she kept her cynicism to herself. Perhaps the boss was just being patriotic, but it was Maggie who leaned over to whisper to Nellie, ‘Got to keep us sweet now, haven’t they?’

The local schools allowed children a half-day holiday as well, so on Thursday afternoon Nellie’s cuckoo’s brood and Maggie’s six children followed the two women, in a rag-tag band, towards the Old Kent Road. They made their way to Grange Road and cut down Pages Walk, which would lead them directly to what Maggie insisted was the best spot on the Old Kent Road. There was a holiday atmosphere as they joined a crowd of mostly women and children, all heading in the same direction. Once at the Old Kent Road, Maggie’s children efficiently elbowed out a space with a good view both ways. They eagerly craned their necks for a first sight of the men, but it was the sound that came first. The deep boom, boom, boom of the marching drums and the thud of a thousand boots came echoing along the road, before ever they caught a glimpse of the soldiers. It was hard to tell how far away they were, for the sound of bugles bounced off buildings and strains of ‘Tipperary’ floated on the wind. Matty was jumping up and down at her side as the first Tommies came into view. Arms swinging, rifles shouldered, they all looked so alike.

‘Is that him?’ Matty pointed.

No, it was not him and as the first column thundered past, Nellie began to despair of picking out Sam’s face amongst the thousands. Suddenly Maggie’s sharp-eyed children spotted Tom and their shouts drew his attention. He blew kisses, but didn’t break step. Maggie’s voice broke as she called out, ‘God bless, Tom, give ’em hell, you old sod, you!’

Tom gave Maggie a cheery wave and was gone. Now Nellie scanned each face. Where was Sam? Matty would be distraught if they missed him. Her eye swept the passing column of men and noticed they were all wearing spurs. Then, when she looked up, there he was, dark eyes staring straight at her, almost pulling her gaze towards him. He was only feet away! She couldn’t believe it; he had just seemed to appear from nowhere.

‘Sam, Sam!’ She waved and jumped up and down, then he smiled, knowing she’d spotted him. Before she knew it, she was dragging Matty out into the road and they were running beside him.

‘Good luck, Sam!’ Matty called out above the din.

‘Matty!’ He was obviously overjoyed to see his sister, but he was peering at the crowd.

‘Charlie’s over there.’ Nellie pointed to their little group, who whooped and cheered even louder once Sam had spotted them. Nellie could see Jock on the far side of the column. Reaching into the ranks, she thrust a letter into Sam’s hand, panting, ‘For Jock, from Lily!’

Poor Lily had gone through agonies because she had been ordered to rest and couldn’t make the trek up from Rotherhithe. The column was moving swiftly forward; soon Sam would be out of sight, gone for who knew how long.

Then, perhaps because she had more reason than most to know the power of a promise, Nellie called to him. ‘Sam, remember your promise…’ He could not break step, so she held on to her hat and trotted to keep up. ‘Your penny-farthing promise, remember… come home for it, and for us!’

He turned his head and shot her a look shining with love. ‘I’ll remember, Nellie, I promise. I’ll remember!’

And with that, he disappeared, his cap indistinguishable from all the hundreds of others that followed after, but the echo of his voice stayed with her. It was enough; he had said he would remember and she had to believe this was one promise he would never break.

The crowd of onlookers began to disperse only after the last of the troops had passed. The boys were excited – the military band and the smart brave soldiers had captured all their imaginations, and even the peaceable Bobby joined in when Charlie organized them into a troop, marching with swinging arms, in imitation of the Tommies. Matty hung back, holding on to Nellie’s hand on one side and Alice’s on the other.

‘Aren’t we lucky we saw him, Matty?’ Alice said. ‘We could’ve missed him, in all that lot.’

Matty nodded. ‘But Sam would never have let us miss him.’

And Nellie felt she was right. It had been Sam’s eyes that drew her gaze to him, she was certain. In spite of her brave smile, Nellie could see that Matty still needed cheering up. Nearly thirteen, the girl was tall for her age and a recent growth spurt meant that the clothes she had brought with her were now far too short and tight. Alice had no cast-offs for her, as practically everything she wore had once belonged to Nellie anyway and was falling to pieces.

‘Tell you what, why don’t we make the most of our afternoon off? Me and Alice’ll take you down the clothes market and get you a new dress!’

Matty’s eyes lit up. Alice went to explain to the boys, who didn’t want to give up their marching to join a shopping expedition. Nellie told them to go straight home, with little expectation that the order would be obeyed. They would be out playing soldiers all night, she knew.

They turned down Grange Road towards the Bermondsey ‘Old Clo’ market. It was packed with second-hand clothes stalls on either side of the road. Crowds round each stall were like bees around honeypots, picking over the wares and moving quickly on, jostling each other out of the way, in pursuit of a bargain. There wasn’t an inch of spare pavement. People came from far and wide to get a bargain suit or dress. But there were varying degrees of age – some dresses were only second hand, others third or fourth. Nellie and Alice headed for the stall their mother used to frequent; here at least the clothes were all washed first. The Clark children had always been clean and smartly turned out. Age of clothes hadn’t counted, but cleanliness was everything, as far as Nellie’s mother was concerned. Alice and Nellie had always loved those trips for ‘new’ dresses and Nellie was surprised to see Matty hanging back, looking decidedly uncomfortable in all the jostling throng.

‘Have a look at this one, Matty!’ She held up a pretty striped-print dress, with a frilled bottom and puff sleeves. It had no apparent wear and was of a good cotton.

‘Let me hold it up against you.’

Matty dragged her feet and it became obvious that she was near to tears. Nellie despaired. What could she do to raise the girl’s spirits?

‘What is it, love? If you don’t like it, there’s plenty more to choose from.’

Matty looked up at her with a pained expression. ‘I don’t like it here, Nellie. I thought I was getting a new dress.’

‘Well, you are…’ Realization dawned. ‘What, you mean
brand
new?’

Matty nodded. Nellie was dumbfounded. Surely it wasn’t possible that Matty had been brought up in Bermondsey, without ever coming to the Old Clo’ market, and how could she think that ‘new’ meant ‘brand new’? In most homes, children’s clothes were either cast-offs from siblings or second hand from the ‘Old Clo’; brand new was reserved for weddings and funerals. She simply couldn’t imagine how the Gilbies had managed to kit Matty out in brand-new clothes all her life.

‘Did your mum used to make your clothes?’ she asked, but Matty shook her head.

‘We used to go over the other side once a year. I thought that’s where we was going.’

Nellie shot a look at Alice. Poor Matty really had been spoiled if she’d had West End clothes every year. If that was what she was used to, there would be more shocks in store for her in her new home.

‘Well, love, I’m sorry, but we just can’t afford
brand
new, but I promise you we’ll get you something nice, no old tat!’

Matty wasn’t stupid; neither was she a selfish child, and now, seeming to notice Nellie’s discomfort, she threw off her own. She picked up the edge of the dress that Nellie was still holding.

‘It
is
a pretty colour,’ she said, and Nellie sighed with relief.

Nellie paid the stall holder, and by the time they arrived back in Vauban Street Matty seemed happy to try on the dress. Walking up and down the little kitchen, she even showed off a little, swishing the skirt as she turned for them to see the back.

‘It’ll need taking up a bit, but you look lovely, don’t she, Al?’

Alice, already with a mouthful of pins, nodded enthusiastically as she knelt to tuck up the dress.

Later that night, when they were alone, Alice brought up the subject of Matty’s dress again. She had spent the evening making alterations to sleeves and hem and had just finished ironing the dress. She held it up for Nellie’s inspection. ‘How could Matty’s mum and dad afford West End clothes every year?’ she asked Nellie.

‘Well, Mr Gilbie was a foreman, but even so, they had other kids and I can’t say I’ve ever noticed Sam in really expensive stuff. When we were kids at the Settlement club, he was the same as all of us, darns and patched-up boots, but clean. But now I come to think of it, I’ve never seen a darn in anything of Matty’s.’

It was a puzzle and in the end they concluded Matty must have been spoiled because she was the youngest and perhaps because Lizzie knew she would not be there to see her grow up.

‘Poor little thing, I did feel sorry for her in that market,’ Alice said. ‘She looked like a rose among the thorns, didn’t she?’

Nellie could only agree, and determined that whatever she could not give to Matty in monetary terms, she’d make up for in love.

25

Home Soil

By the time she received the letter in December of 1914, it had travelled round the world and back. Eliza looked at the crossed-out forwarding addresses, first Mecklenburgh Square, then the villa in Melbourne, back to the NFWW headquarters in London, from where her friend Sarah had forwarded it here. She didn’t know the handwriting, but something about the looping ‘G’ was reminiscent of her father’s lovely copperplate hand: this was from a Gilbie. She ripped open the envelope and read Sam’s brief note, telling of her mother’s end.

‘Oh, no, Mum! No!’ she wailed, looking around for someone to tell, but the house was empty, except for her two-year-old son. Alone in her grief, she sat down and wept till her chest burned. The shock had set her body trembling and now she tried to understand how her mother could possibly have been dead since March – five months – without her ever knowing! Surely she should have felt something go out of the world, her mother’s flame-like spirit extinguished, and all the chances of changing their damaged past gone forever. Pulling herself to her feet, she walked unsteadily upstairs, to look at her sleeping child. She’d named him William, after her grandfather and her long-dead but still beloved older brother. She could only now feel grateful that his grandmother had at least met her child. When she’d taken the three-month-old William to see Lizzie that day in 1913, her mother had seemed pleased with the name. William, the Gilbies’ firstborn, had been a simple, sunny-natured boy who’d not long survived the family’s move to London from Hull. Eliza, aged five at the time, remembered him only dimly, but Lizzie had always said he was like a delicate flower that didn’t bear transplanting.

Looking down now at her own sturdy sleeping two-year-old, she thought how different he was from his namesake. He had Ernest’s strong-boned limbs and dark hair, but Lizzie’s eyes, which could turn from limpid pools to flashing fire in an instant, shone from his face. Perhaps it was those eyes, looking up at her from his crib, that had finally steeled Eliza to make her escape from Ernest. Fortunately, her William was no delicate flower; at three months old he’d transplanted with ease from halfway around the world. After introducing him to his grandmother, she’d returned to her birthplace, Hull, the one place she hoped Ernest would not think of looking. He’d go to find his ‘cockney sparrer’ in Bermondsey, of that she was sure.

He hadn’t let her go easily. She was surprised in the end by how much she meant to him, or perhaps he just couldn’t bear to lose a fight, and their battle over William had at times felt like a fight to the death. It hadn’t been so much a question of many rows or arguments but more a silent clash of wills. She’d never repeated her initial pleas to keep the baby; it was not in Eliza’s nature to beg. Instead she’d behaved as though she had lost, all the while knowing she had won. She’d set her will to keeping the child, whatever the consequences, and made her plans, going along with Ernest’s wish for her to take the child to the country, while a suitable foster-home could be found.

‘He is, after all, my son, Eliza, and even though he will be in the care of others I should, of course, want him to be brought up a gentleman,’ Ernest had said.