The Poppy Factory (17 page)

In the event, it wasn’t the seeing that mattered.

At about five minutes to the hour it seemed like every bell in London began to peal: Big Ben and Westminster Abbey, and Southwark Cathedral over the river, and lots of smaller churches besides. Then, just before eleven, the maroons went up, and the drivers of every car, bus and tram seemed to lean on their klaxons, with the booming horns of the riverboats seemed almost to vibrate through the ground. It was such a thunderous noise that Ma and me, and plenty of others in the crowd, clapped our hands over our ears.

Big Ben tolled eleven slow chimes, and then everything stopped. The traffic halted and men took off their caps and the crowd around us stood stock still for what seemed like forever, certainly far longer than two minutes. The silence was like being in the countryside at the dead of night, or down a deep tunnel lined with velvet. You could almost touch it. And the effect of being among those thousands of muted people, some of them weeping noiselessly, made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. A woman nearby gave a single sob, unable to stifle her grief.

A blackbird started up in a tree and my thoughts turned to my brothers. It seemed as though one of them, probably Ray, who was the lippy one, was calling to us through the bird’s beautiful song, comforting us and telling us all was well. I put my arm around Ma and felt her warmth running through me. It was reassuring to think that, after those terrible years, we were still here and the world would eventually heal itself.

When the single maroon went off to mark the end of the two minutes, we nearly jumped out of our skins, and still no-one moved or spoke at first, as though people felt reluctant to let go of the silence and their memories. But slowly a gentle murmur began, and people stretched themselves and turned to each other. Ma and I hugged for a long minute more and then, without saying anything, held hands and looked around.

‘Thank you for coming with me,’ she said. ‘The boys might be gone, but I’m so lucky to have you.’ It’s the first time she’s ever said that. The way she’s mourned Ray and Johnnie has sometimes made me feel that she doesn’t love me as much as she loved them. Silly really, but that’s the way a human mind works.

‘I felt they were there, didn’t you?’

‘They were definitely with us,’ was all she said back, as we started towards the bus stop.

This evening, Pa said all the traffic on the Old Kent Road had pulled to a halt and everyone stopped in the street and in the shops and bent their heads. In the warehouse, Alfie told us, all machines were turned off and a hundred men stood stock still by their workbenches, and when the two minutes ended they gave three cheers to ‘lost comrades’.

We all agreed it was a very fitting tribute. I hope they do this every year, for ever and ever.

Sunday 30th November

All the talk in the pub at lunchtime today was about the fact that women are taking over the world (according to the men) and no good will come of it! It’s all because the first woman Member of Parliament will take up her seat in the House of Commons tomorrow. She’s a toff, of course, and taking over the seat from her husband because he’s become a peer and will toddle off to the House of Lords.

Still, she was voted in properly and mostly by men because women still can’t vote until they turn thirty, so I take my hat off to her. Will there ever be a woman Prime Minister, that’s what I wonder? That’d shake them up.

Monday 8th December

Meat rationing has been lifted!

We had a right old celebration in The Nelson last night, with Pa getting in most of the rounds, so this morning Alfie and me were suffering. Now, even though his phantom pains were terrible in the night, he’s gone off to work and I’ve been doing the washing, as usual. I hate housework, it’s boring and repetitive and I want some money of my own instead of scrimping and saving all the time, and never being able to afford anything new.

Alfie says he likes me being home, keeping house and cooking him hot dinners. That would be fine, I suppose, if we had children to look after. But as yet we don’t, so I’m bored. After Christmas and New Year, I am going to look for a job.

Pa says it will take a week or two for supplies to come through and it might be slow at first because people have less cash than they did before rationing began. But he expects to be busy in time for Christmas and dropped hints that he might need help in the shop. Of course I’d be happy to serve customers for a week or two but I’d be no good at the butchery side of things, sawing up carcasses and the like. And I’ve given up the idea of making pies because I’d be working alone. I miss the company of the ‘canaries’ and would prefer to find another factory job.

I’m sure that when business picks up Pa would like to have Alfie working with him, give him a proper training, so he can take over the business when he retires, just as the boys would have done had they been spared. The journey to the warehouse is getting Alfie down, and he’s always complaining about his pay. Just like me, though, he enjoys the company of the other lads at the warehouse.

I wonder if Pa will talk to him? It’s so hard to tell what’s going on in men’s heads.

Sunday 21st December

I’ve been helping out Pa in the shop for a few days, and with my wages we’ve been able to afford a few little extras for the festive season ahead. This weekend Alfie and me went to the market and bought our very first Christmas tree, and today I used some of our precious flour and sugar rations making iced gingerbread men to decorate it. The tree looks so pretty and it’s got me into a really festive mood.

I am determined that our first Christmas together in our own home will be a memorable one, and hope the New Year brings more good things to us – perhaps even a little addition to our family.

Thursday 1st January 1920

On his first day back at work after the Christmas break, the boss called Alfie and ten of his workmates into the office and told them the warehouse had lost a major contract and they were being laid off, as of today, with just a week’s wages for goodwill. Last in, first out, no special circumstances. That was it.

He came home late afternoon, already drunk, having spent lunchtime in the pub with his laid off workmates, still cursing and muttering dark threats about joining the communist party, whatever that is. I don’t care what party he joins so long as he can find another job, otherwise we are sunk.

Thank heavens I put a bit by from my shifts in the shop, because although I spent a fair bit on presents, buying a beautiful wool scarf for Ma and a bottle of whisky for Pa, we should have enough to keep the rent paid for a couple of weeks. But then what? I couldn’t bear to go back to living with the parents, not now we’ve had a taste of having our own home. And what of our plans for starting our own family?

I am at my wits’ end.

Sunday 4th January

Pa has offered Alfie an apprenticeship in the shop. As we sat down to Sunday dinner Ma nudged him and said, ‘Go on then, John.’ Pa cleared his throat and said he’d got something important to say, and then looked across the table at Alfie and said something like:

‘I’d planned on waiting to see how trade picked up after Christmas before raising your hopes but what with you getting laid off and all, I’d like to make you a proper formal offer of an apprenticeship at Appleby & Sons. We’d like you to join the family business, lad.’

It felt like a long pause but was probably only half a minute. Ma was beaming expectantly, holding a serving spoon in mid air, and Pa took a sip from his tankard, put it down and said, ‘Well, what d’you think?’

I was that excited, I couldn’t help gabbling about what a generous offer it was, but Alfie’s face told another story: he seemed unable to meet my gaze. At last he muttered his thanks, and said he’d give it careful consideration.

‘Consideration?’ I almost shouted. ‘We’ve only got enough to pay the rent for a couple of weeks, and you’re going to give Pa’s offer “careful consideration”? Are you mad?’

Ma told me to give the lad some space, because it was a big decision, changing jobs like that. ‘He hasn’t got a job to
change
,’ I answered back. ‘And in case you haven’t noticed, dearest husband, there are more than a million people unemployed. Jobs aren’t two a penny, you know.’

Alfie’s face flushed, he pushed back his chair mumbling some excuse and limped out of the room. I went to follow him but Ma put her hand on my arm and told me to leave him be, for the moment. He’d had a shock this week losing his job, she said, and that he’d soon come round, bless him.

Pa served himself a pile of potatoes and greens and tucked into his plate as if nothing had happened, but my appetite had vanished. I picked at my food for a while and then said I should really go and find out what Alfie was getting up to, apologising for upsetting their lovely meal. I found Alfie in The Nelson, of course, ordering his second pint. He greeted me with a face like thunder.

‘What do you mean, shouting at me like that in front of your Ma and Pa?’ he said, under his breath so Bert couldn’t hear.

‘What do
you
mean, turning down the offer of a job with a decent wage, for the rest of your life?’ I came right back, not caring who heard me. ‘Have you any idea how close we are to being unable to pay our rent or buy food, let alone
that
?’ I gestured to the pint he was just about to raise to his mouth.

He took a long draught anyway. ‘I haven’t turned it down,’ he said, ‘I just want a bit of time to think.’

‘Think about what, exactly? About all those other wonderful jobs out there, paying great wages, what with millions of people unemployed?’ He shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘why not’, which infuriated me even further. But I knew I was on a hiding to nothing, so I stomped out and came home and now here I am, writing away, and waiting for him to roll in, stinking of beer and cigarettes, like so many nights before.

Is this what married life is supposed to be like? What happened to all those dreams we had, before this bloody war destroyed everything? Sorry to swear, dear diary, but that’s how angry I feel at the moment.

Sunday 18th January

It’s been a fortnight since Pa’s offer and Alfie is still flatly refusing to discuss it with him, which is downright rude, in my book. If I try to raise the subject he clams up, and he seems to be trying to avoid me, heading out every morning looking for work at the factories and warehouses he’s already tried a dozen times. You can’t fault him for perseverance.

I’ve been doing the same, knocking on doors, feeling like a beggar, and they look at me as though I’ve got a screw loose. ‘A million men out of work and she thinks there might be a vacancy for a lassie?’ I can hear them saying to themselves. It is clearly hopeless.

To make matters worse, Alfie’s nightmares seem to have returned, just when I’d been hoping they had disappeared for good. Last night he tossed and moaned words I couldn’t understand at first, but after a while I could make out what he was saying, in a desperate, pleading whisper that sounded like: ‘Don’t let him die, don’t let him die’. Then he started up with heart-wrenching sobs that shook his whole body, whimpering, ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no,’ repeating it time and time again.

I woke him and held him in my arms, whispering that it was only a dream, and he was safe here at home, with me.

In the morning I asked if he wanted to talk about it but he shook his head and clammed up. I can only assume that whatever happened is just too horrible for him to recall.

Sunday 1st February

Yesterday the landlord came for the rent and when I went to the jar on the mantelpiece where I’d been saving it, I found there wasn’t nearly enough. He’s given us a week’s grace, but is not noted for his patience with late payers.

When Alfie got back I challenged him, and he admitted taking ‘a couple of half-crowns’ out of the pot. ‘For beer, I suppose?’ I shouted, and he looked so shamefaced that I knew it was true. Even though it’s bitterly cold I suggested we went for a short walk in Burgess Park. Somehow it’s usually easier to get him to talk if we’re not facing each other. So, as we walked, our conversation went a bit like this:

Me: We have to do something, Alfie. We’ll lose the flat unless we can find the money by next week.

(Long silence)

Me: Alfie?

(An even longer silence)

Me: For goodness’ sake, what
is
the problem? Butchery’s not that bad, is it? Pa’s been happy doing it all these years, and his father before him. It’s a skilled trade, a good step up from factory work and makes a good living, when there isn’t any rationing.

Him: It’s nothing to do with that, Rose. I just can’t …

Me: You can’t what? Is it that you don’t think you’ll be up to it, managing the money and all? Pa’ll teach you everything, he’s very patient like that.

Him (after another great pause): No, it’s not that. I can’t explain why …

Me (trying not to lose my temper, but failing): Well, instead perhaps you’d like to explain to me how we’re going to pay the rent and what we’re going to eat, if you turn this down. He’ll have to take on someone else, and then where would we be?

Him (resigned sigh): All right, all right. I’ll talk to your pa this evening.

Me (relieved sigh): Thank you. And for goodness’ sake, tell him you’re sorry for taking so long about it, will you?

Him: Let’s go home and light the fire. It’s cold as buggery out here.

Monday 9th February

Hurrah! Alfie’s gone into the shop with Pa today. To see if it works out, he says. Quite why he didn’t agree weeks ago I’ll never know, but I held my tongue and said I was sure he’d enjoy it, learning a craft and how to manage the business side of things. Suggested we went out for a drink to celebrate this evening. At least now we can afford it.

Sunday 15th February

It’s the strangest thing. Pa asked me to come round to the house, on my own, as there was ‘something he wanted to discuss’. Oh, and I was not to tell Alfie. Perhaps I could go when he was having his usual Sunday lunchtime pint?