The Poppy Factory (11 page)

Heaven knows where Alfie and me will get to live, otherwise. And I must get a job or I’ll go crazy hanging around the house, getting under Ma’s feet, as she says. I can see her point: I’ve taken over her kitchen completely for the past three days, making pies – twenty in all! We’ve only got two pie rings but I managed to borrow two more from Mrs Barker. To make the smaller ones Ma asked Pa to make me what she called a ‘dolly’, which is a simple piece of wood like a very fat rolling pin which you just press the pastry around with your hands, pulling up the sides to make the casing. You fill it with meat and cover and crimp it as usual before baking. It’s a bit of a trick, and some of the pies collapsed at first, but we soon got the hang of it.

Then I took them down to The Nelson this afternoon and sold every single one. Plus one or two said ‘keep the change, love’. I came back with nine shillings – which would buy me a single shoe (!) so if I can do it again I’ll have nearly enough to buy a pair. Not bad for a few hours’ work, and Pa hasn’t exactly said whether he wants any cash back for the meat etc. Bert says to make it official we ought to ask for people’s coupons, but he’s not telling if I’m not. Besides, the amount of meat in each of them is hardly worth the effort of accounting for.

1919

Thursday 2nd January

Dearest Rose,

I’ve hurt my leg so am in a base hospital at Boulogne. Nothing too much to worry about. They are sending me back to a hospital in London soon to get it sorted out. I will try to send a telegram when I know.

Your ever-loving Alfie.

Ma and I looked up Boulogne on a map in the library and it is on the coast of France, just over the water from England. Almost within touching distance. Of course it is worrying that he is injured but it doesn’t sound too serious. They always try to stop you fretting by telling you only half the story, if that, but this time I believe him. Now the war is over, what would he need to conceal from me?

But I can’t sit around at home waiting and wondering. On Monday I am going to look for another job. Freda and Claude are still thick as thieves so I don’t see much of her at the moment. I think she’s given up the idea of going back to work. She probably hopes Claude will have enough money for both of them. I’ve still no idea what he does for a living.

Tuesday 7th January

Depressing day, bitter cold and trying to snow. My feet are blistered and my legs feel like lead weights. I must have covered miles. This morning I put on my best skirt and coat and walked and walked, going into every factory and workshop I could find, showing them my letter of reference from the munitions factory, but they just looked at me as if I was mad.

‘Sorry, dear,’ they’d say – or something like it – sucking their teeth and gazing past me. ‘Can’t help you. We’ve got no vacancies, and a list as long as your arm of returning soldiers wanting work.’ The kinder ones tried to be helpful by suggesting other places I might try, but most of them just turned me away without so much as a by-your-leave.

Besides being exhausted, my head is weary and confused. It’s right that the boys should have jobs to come home to, so that they can start to build their lives again. But we girls have worked hard, too, and in some dangerous occupations. Surely we should be given some opportunities as well? But who should get priority? The boys, I suppose, but I still feel the smart of all those sneery looks.

I talked about it with Ma at teatime. She says her generation never expected to get jobs and nor did they want to. ‘Too much to do at home,’ she said. ‘Besides, if you girls all go out to work, who’ll stay at home to look after the babies?’ I told her I didn’t have any babies just yet, just in case she hadn’t noticed and she barked back at me to watch my cheek. ‘Any roads, even without babies, someone needs to do the washing and ironing and cooking and cleaning.’

When I said that Alfie and me would share it when we got home from work, she nearly choked on her bread and jam. ‘Catch your father cooking dinner or washing the dishes? When he’s been on his feet in the shop all day? Not a cat-in-hell’s chance. And I’ve no doubt your young Alfred will feel the same.’ It was good to see Ma getting some of her spirit back, even though it was only because she was annoyed at me giving her the lip.

Tonight I got to thinking about politics. In the election before Christmas, women were allowed to vote for the first time, but I couldn’t because we have to wait until we are thirty! It’s a stupid rule because when I am twenty-one, in two years’ time, I can become a Member of Parliament. Perhaps I’ll find out how I can get elected, so that I can campaign for equal rights for women in work and get us the vote at twenty-one, like the men.

I read in the newspaper that 18,000 soldiers marched to Brighton Town Hall yesterday demonstrating about the slowness of demobilisation. There was a photograph of some of the demobbed lads who had dressed up in crinolines and bonnets to complain about the lack of jobs and being treated ‘little better than women’.

It would be funny if things weren’t so serious.

Monday 13th January

AT SOUTHAMPTON STOP WILL PHONE

YOU NELSON 6PM STOP ALFIE

HURRAY! Alfie is safe on home soil at last!

It had nearly turned seven and I’d pretty much given up hope when Bert shouted that there was a ‘call for Miss Rose’. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, and I almost flew across the bar and through into their office.

Our conversation went a bit like this:

‘Alfie?’ (though who else I thought it could be, I don’t know).

‘Yes. It’s me.’ For an awkward moment, neither of us knew what to say. ‘Listen, I’ve only got tuppence for the phone. And I had to borrow a pair of crutches to get here. There are never enough to go round. I can’t talk long.’

‘What’s the matter with your leg? When are they letting you home?’

‘Don’t worry it’s nothing too serious, but they say it’ll take a few weeks yet. They’re going to move me to a hospital in London, though.’

‘So I can come and see you?’

‘With a bit of luck. Will you let my folks know, and Freda?’

‘Course I will. I’ll pop round right away. It’s so wonderful to hear your voice. I love you, Alfie.’

‘I’ll let you know when I’m being transferred.’ I could hear him sigh and felt sure he was about to say something important, but all he managed was: ‘Oh, Rose, it’s …’ when the pips started and I couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence, then the line cut off.

Freda’s first question was: what did he sound like?

Just like the usual Alfie, I said. Not soppy, that was never his style, but perfectly matter-of-fact. He told me nothing about his injury except that it was going to take a while to heal, and he would probably be transferred to a hospital in London fairly soon.

‘Well that’s a blessing,’ his ma said. ‘At least we’ll be able to see him for ourselves. I never trust the telephone.’

In the newspapers today was a report about how Lloyd George had talked to 3,000 soldiers who marched on Downing Street complaining about the slow demob process. I’d rather Alfie hadn’t been injured, but at least he’s home, unlike so many thousands of others still waiting.

Sunday 19th January

I have been scanning the newspapers for vacancies but absolutely NOTHING is coming up. Bert at The Nelson has asked me to make him more pies – he’d like twenty each weekend. But I had to turn him down – it is impossible to get hold of enough meat or flour, even though it’s not rationed.

Sunday 26th January 1919

It’s been such a day I barely know where to start.

On Friday we received this telegram:

PLEASED TO INFORM PTE A BARKER TO BE TRANSFERRED

KING GEORGE MILITARY HOSP LONDON SAT 25 JAN STOP

I nearly whooped out loud with joy. Waterloo is only a couple of miles walk away, or two buses: up the Old Kent Road and then change at the Bricklayers’for Elephant and Castle. So close I could almost reach out and touch him.

Oh, we were so excited, all of us, and went to The Nelson to celebrate. Even Ma put on a brave face. Out of three boys in our two families, at least one of them has come back safely, so that’s something. There are families along our street where every single male, fathers and sons included, will never return home.

Freda and me went to the public baths for a good old soak and hairwash yesterday evening, but I could barely sleep for excitement and the thoughts of what I was going to say and do when I saw my darling Alfie at last, after twelve long months.

This morning when I woke up, my heart sank: it was snowing! What typical bloody luck. I rose early to tog up in my old blue serge and spent a great deal longer than usual on my hair (by the way, I have postponed having it cut off into a bob until I’ve asked Alfie’s opinion. It seems only fair). Then me, Ma and Pa met Mr and Mrs Barker and Freda at the corner as arranged and although the side streets and pavements were all white, the Old Kent was still clear enough. We decided that walking would be difficult but, judging by the tracks, the buses were still running and one would come along soon. Ha!

So we waited, and waited, and waited. I was so impatient to see my lovely boy that I could barely keep still, thinking we could have been there by now if we’d walked, but I was wearing my Sunday best shoes that would have been ruined in the snow. By the time the bus finally arrived half an hour later, my feet were like blocks of ice.

When we got to the hospital around midday it was mayhem, with Red Cross ambulances and other military vehicles all queuing to unload stretchers and walking wounded. The place is enormous – five storeys high and taking up the whole of Stamford Street, corner to corner.

We went inside a great echoing foyer full of people taking no notice of us, and tried to find someone in charge. Pa got talking to a porter who told him the building had never been intended as a hospital, hence comings and goings were always chaotic. It was built as a government office but got taken over as a military hospital just after the war started and has been ever since. I’d been scanning the faces of every patient arriving just in case Alfie’s transfer had been postponed until today, but the man explained that some patients are brought in through the tunnels which reach all the way to Waterloo station.

It was all so overwhelming that we began to despair of ever finding him today, after our cold and difficult journey. I even started to wonder whether his transfer might have been cancelled because of the snow. There were no seats, we were perishing and famished, and Mrs Barker started sniffling, though she was doing her best to conceal it, bless her soul. Pa and Mr B were busy approaching anyone who might be able to direct us to the right ward.

Eventually they asked a fierce-looking nurse wearing a white starched headdress like a nun, who said there were over sixty wards and nearly two thousand patients so how could she know the name of every single one? In any case, it wasn’t visiting hours yet. We should come back at four o’clock.

This time I nearly started crying too, I was that disappointed. We had more than two hours to wait but how could we possibly afford to sit in a café all that time? But Pa and Mr Barker went into a confab and said they would stand us all a cuppa and a teacake if we could find somewhere nearby.

When we got back at four, feeling a lot better, the place was a good deal calmer and we joined the queue of anxious families waiting at the front desk. The nurse in charge looked on her list and directed us to ‘Ward 42, fourth floor’. As we set off she shouted at us to come back.

‘Excuse me, how many are there of you in this party?’

‘Six,’ Pa said.

‘Next of kin?’

‘His parents, sister and wife, and parents-in-law.’

‘Don’t you know that it’s only two at a time by each bedside?’ My, she was a right battleaxe. ‘You’ll have to go in by turns. Visiting hours end at six o’clock prompt.’

I checked the huge clock on the wall and did a quick calculation: it was already half past four – we would have, at most, half an hour for each pair. Only thirty short minutes, after what had seemed like a lifetime.

My hand is cramped from writing so much. I’ll have to carry on tomorrow.

They’ve started the Peace Conference, in Paris. Let’s hope it works.

Monday 27th January

As we peeped through the door we could see a long room with iron bedsteads in a row down each side like – well, my first thought was that they looked like gravestones, because they were all white and neat and the people in them all in uniform pale blue hospital pyjamas, lying or sitting stock still so you barely saw them at first. Ma and Pa found a bench seat in the foyer at the top of the stairs, and told the rest of us to try our luck.

It didn’t work.

‘Only two persons by a bedside,’ the nurse barked, but one of the patients, sitting up in bed half way down on the left, by a window, was waving and calling to us: ‘Rose, Rose. Over here.’ He could see us hesitating and he bellowed even louder: ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, let them in. She’s my wife!’

Well, I wasn’t waiting any longer, not for anyone, so I sprinted down the ward before anyone could stop me and threw my arms around him and held him tight and kissed him until he whispered, ‘Ma’s behind you, better give her a turn.’ As he was hugging her, I stood back and took a proper gander at him. He was my Alfie, all right, but thin faced and ghostly pale which made his eyes look even deeper set and his eyelashes even longer, but his hair was growing back curly as ever, and his grin was just the same, cheeky and confidential, the kind of smile that feels like it’s just for you, and you alone.

But under the bedcovers was some kind of box. What had happened to his legs? Mrs Barker took the chair and held his hand, and I sat on the bed till the nurse came and told me that was forbidden, so I stood and took his other hand.

She asked him how he was feeling and he grimaced. ‘Been better. But at least I’m back in Blighty, and in good hands.’