Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts Page 32

  ‘I thought it was time for Matty to meet her… nephew. Nellie, this is William.’

  The child pushed past Nellie, trotting up the dark passage and into the front kitchen. Eliza, apologizing to Nellie, half ran after him but he increased his pace, barrelling headlong into the kitchen. Nellie and Eliza arrived just in time to see him launch himself at Matty’s legs, demanding to be picked up.

  ‘I made the mistake of telling him he’d be meeting his aunt, he’s very excited,’ Eliza said, shamefaced.

  ‘He’s not a bit shy, is he?’ said Nellie.

  ‘He’s… forceful, shall we say.’ Eliza smiled indulgently as she saw how Matty was immediately entranced.

  ‘Oh, he’s so like Sam! Don’t you think so, Nellie?’ asked Matty as she sat the boy on her lap, playing Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross.

  Nellie didn’t think William looked like Sam, but she didn’t say so. There was a photo of Ernest James hanging in the Labour Institute – this was obviously his son. William had a will to match Matty’s, though, and soon dragged her out of the kitchen, through the scullery and into the back yard, as though he owned the house. Nellie left Eliza in the front kitchen and went to make tea in the scullery; through the window she watched Matty showing William the penny-farthing. Eliza followed her in. Coming to stand beside Nellie, she looked intently at her two children.

  ‘Nellie, do you know how dangerous that work is at Woolwich?’ she asked solemnly.

  Nellie turned, feeling suddenly cornered by Eliza. Still in her wide-brimmed hat and travelling coat, her presence filled the tiny room. Quickly arranging the tea things on a tray, she hustled Eliza back into the front kitchen, where they could talk out of earshot.

  ‘Of course I realize how dangerous it is,’ she said, setting the tray down on the table and taking Eliza’s hat and coat, ‘and don’t think I haven’t talked to her, till I’m blue in the face. She just won’t listen, says she’s doing it for Sam.’

  ‘But they could be blown up at any moment, and those women still get paid half the men’s wages! It’s appalling,’ Eliza said fiercely, bringing the flat of her hand down on to the kitchen table so that Nellie feared for her best china.

  ‘Nothing changes there, then,’ Nellie sighed, handing her a cup of steaming tea, ‘though she’s getting better wages than she could ever get at Duff’s.’

  ‘But is it worth it?’ Eliza demanded, ready for a fight.

  Nellie tried not to feel defensive. She knew Eliza wasn’t trying to blame her, but still she felt responsible for Matty’s choices. Sometimes this woman could make her feel like that admiring sixteen-year-old custard tart all over again, instead of a woman bringing up her child, and Nellie resented it. She carefully put down her teacup, all the while fuming inwardly. ‘Of course nothing’s worth Matty being blown to smithereens!’

  ‘Nor being poisoned, either. Do you know the nickname for these women munitions workers, Nellie?’

  Nellie shot her a puzzled look and gave her the name she’d read in the newspapers – ‘munitionettes’. It was what Matty called herself.

  ‘Yes, but there’s another name,’ Eliza went on. ‘They call them the canaries…’

  Nellie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Matty’s nickname?’

  Eliza nodded. ‘Yes, ironic, isn’t it? But it’s not because the girls spend their days singing. No, the sulphur gets into their system, their skin turns yellow… and then their livers fail.’

  The two women gave each other identical worried looks as the sound of Matty’s voice, singing to William, drifted in from the back yard.

  29

  ‘Nothing to Mar Our Joy’

  Maggie Tyrell was running down the middle of the factory floor, screaming and waving a piece of paper in her hand. Nellie jumped away from the bench, spilling an entire packet of custard powder down her clean smock. She caught Maggie round the waist so that both women were propelled into a loaded trolley, spilling broken custard packets everywhere. Clouds of sticky yellow dust erupted like a spewing volcano and the entire row of women burst into laughter.

  ‘Oi, oi, oi!’ Ethel Brown’s voice boomed from the far end of the floor. ‘Behave yerselves! What’s going on?’ She waddled over, her forelady’s green overall stretched across her ample stomach. The war shortages had somehow made little impression on Ethel’s considerable bulk.

  ‘It’s Maggie,’ Nellie spluttered, her mouth full of sickeningly sweet powder. ‘She’s got the telegram.’ Ethel’s face fell as Nellie held Maggie tight in her arms ready for the inevitable explosion of grief. The laughter died away as all eyes turned sympathetically towards Maggie, who now alarmingly started laughing hysterically. She extricated herself from Nellie’s arms. It was well known that women took the news in all sorts of ways, but Nellie had never seen hilarity.

  ‘No, you silly cow!’ Maggie finally turned to Nellie. ‘It’s not the telegram! My old man’s got a Blighty. He’s coming home!’

  Now the women’s concern turned to cheers and congratulations.

  ‘Oh, Maggie, I thought you’d gone mad with grief!’ Nellie explained, brushing down her smock.

  ‘But what’s his Blighty, Mag, is it a bad ’un?’ asked Ethel.

  The group of women nearest craned to hear as they went back to the rhythmical filling and packing of the custard powder.

  ‘Well, bad enough, he’s got a lump of shrapnel in him size of an egg. Got to come home and get it operated on.’

  ‘How is he taking it?’ asked Nellie

  ‘Taking it? Well, he’s overjoyed. Listen to this. She read from the letter. “My Dear Mag, you’ll be pleased to hear that I have got my Blighty! I’m the luckiest of fellers, I shall be coming home with a piece of German metal in me groin, but rest assured, the Family Business is still intact!”’

  The women in earshot roared with laughter and Ethel said sympathetically, ‘Well, small mercies, love, eh?’

  ‘Small mercies?’ Maggie pondered. ‘To be honest, love, with six kids, it would’ve been a mercy if that shrapnel had gone a bit lower!’

  Nellie was pleased Tom Tyrell had got his Blighty. For Maggie the war had been particularly hard, with so many small children to cope with. Nellie started imagining what sort of Blighty wound she would find acceptable for Sam, how much of him would she want damaged or missing in order to bring him home. It wasn’t a game she enjoyed playing. That evening she decided to visit Lily after work. When she missed Sam badly, she would often go to Lily’s, just so they could talk about ‘the boys’, as they still called Jock and Sam. Christmas of 1915 had come and gone and still there was no sign of the long-promised leave. She’d received a letter from Sam just before Christmas, saying that they’d been posted to another front line and were on the move. She’d made a parcel of knitted socks and thick wool underwear and some hard-to-come-by slabs of chocolate. The children had written individual messages and Nellie had cried as she’d waited in line at the post office, trying to infuse the little parcel with every ounce of love that she felt for Sam. As the year had turned, the lists of casualties reached appallingly high numbers. Perhaps, after all, a missing hand or a useless leg would indeed be worth it, if they came home alive.

  When Nellie arrived at Lily’s that night, her friend handed her the grizzling Johnny, instead of putting him to bed as she usually did at that time.

  ‘Here, take him!’ she said, thrusting the child at her. ‘He’s not stopped all day! I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He’s driving me mad.’

  Nellie looked down into Johnny’s red-cheeked, screwed-up face, his little trembling chin wet with drool. Nellie had far more experience with babies than Lily, who was the youngest in her family.

  ‘Ohh, poor little bleeder, he’s just getting another tooth! You make the tea. I’ll get him off to sleep.’

  Nellie gave Johnny a knuckle to chew on and began marching up and down the kitchen with him, rocking him all the while. As soon as she saw his eyes beginning to droop, she laid him carefully in his crib
and began rocking it with her foot.

  ‘Oh, Nellie, you’re so good with him,’ Lily sighed admiringly. ‘You’ll be the same with your own kiddies, when they come.’

  ‘When they come? Don’t you think I’ve got enough to do, with my lot at home?’

  ‘But they’re not kids any more, are they?’

  It was true. Bobby was the only one still at school, and not for much longer. Sometimes she missed the boys’ raucous presence. Most evenings they were out with their friends, or working with Freddie’s ‘business’, and Matty, too, was absent all day at Woolwich and two evenings at the Star.

  ‘You’re right, the house is getting too bloody quiet! Gives me too much time to think…’

  The young women fell silent. Only the rhythmic rocking of the crib and the soft breathing of the baby intruded on their thoughts. They sat sipping their tea, until Lily went to a small kitchen cupboard. She drew out a tin and brought it with her to the chair by the fire.

  ‘I had a letter from Jock,’ she said. They were in the habit of reading their letters to each other, leaving out what Lily called ‘all the lovey-dovey stuff’. Nellie grew excited; the boys were in the same battery, riding the same six-horse team that transported the heavy guns wherever they were needed. A letter from one generally meant that a letter from the other would not be far behind.

  ‘Does he say anything about leave?’ she asked eagerly.

  Lily shook her head. Looking glum, she unfolded the letter and read, ‘“My darling wife Lily…”’ Lily pulled a face at Nellie. ‘You don’t want to hear all his sweet nothings, do you, love? “I know you’ll be as happy as I am, when I tell you that I will be home and in your arms, this time next week!”’

  Nellie jumped up, wagging an accusing finger at her friend. ‘You little mare, you!’

  Lily laughed. ‘Surprised?’

  ‘I can’t believe you kept me in the dark all this time I’ve been sitting here!’

  ‘Well, I wanted you to get the baby asleep first, didn’t I?’ she joked.

  ‘Oh, Lily, you always get the letters first. Do you think that means Sam’s got leave too?’

  ‘’Course it does. They drive the same team. Stands to reason they’ll all get a rest together, don’t it?’

  Nellie could hardly wait to get home to see if she too had a letter, even though she knew it was now far too late for a delivery. She was impatient all the next day, and when no letter came, she began to despair. Perhaps Lily had been wrong and the boys wouldn’t be on leave together after all. If Jock’s letter had taken two days to get from France, Lily could expect him as early as the end of that week. But the week dragged on and still there was no letter from Sam. Nellie’s misery was obvious to the whole family.

  On Friday night, Alice was going out to the Time and Talents Club with her friends. ‘Why don’t you come too, Nell?’ she asked gently, during tea. ‘It’s no good sitting in worrying, is it?’

  ‘No, love, you go and enjoy yourself with your friends. Don’t worry about me.’

  Soon after Alice had left, Matty came home from the Arsenal and began her usual Friday night routine, dashing to get ready for the evening performance at the Star, curling her hair, dressing, eating and practising her song all at the same time. She was like a fiery whirlwind and Nellie knew not to get in her way on ‘turn’ nights. She dashed through the kitchen, kissing Nellie briefly on the cheek,

  ‘I’ll be late tonight, Nell. Don’t wait up,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Bernie says we’ve got an American scout in, looking for singers!’ Matty’s eyes shone, and she turned at the door. ‘Might end up in vaudeville, you never know!’

  Nellie smiled. If only Sam could see this confident, radiant young woman now, he wouldn’t recognize his little Matty.

  ‘Well, I will wait up, and don’t make it too late!’ Nellie called, but the front door had already slammed closed. Nellie stayed in the chair, letting the quiet emptiness of the house settle around her. She thought of Matty, all unquenchable youth and hope, and all she could say to her was, ‘Don’t make it too late!’ She sounded like an old mother hen, which, she had to admit, she was. But all the same, at twenty-one, wasn’t she still entitled to dream of a life full of promise, as Matty did?

  The clock ticked away and the spring sunshine finally gave up the day, casting a warm orange glow through the front kitchen window and across Nellie’s folded hands. Into the silence, a scraping sound intruded. It was coming from the scullery, behind her. Nellie started up. Was someone in the house after all? She darted through into the scullery, to find the back-yard door swinging wide open. The golden evening light filled the doorway and spread across the scullery’s tiled floor. The sound was coming from outside. Going gingerly to the door, she saw a figure scraping his boots on the step. He must have heard her intake of breath: looking up from his task, he said, ‘Hello, Nellie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

  Nellie, fearing that she had indeed seen a ghost, flung herself forward into Sam’s arms and squeezed him tightly to her. He certainly felt like solid flesh! His body against hers was warm! His chest rose and fell with the breath that spoke of life and she felt it, there it was, his breath soft on her cheek. She was certain this was no phantom.

  ‘Sam, you’re really here! You’re home!’

  Nellie wouldn’t let go and Sam didn’t seem to want her to relinquish her hold on him. He tightened his arms round her and for a long time they simply rocked back and forth, reassuring each other that they were indeed both real. By the time Nellie’s tears had soaked through Sam’s tunic, the sun had set. Finally, he lifted her face from his chest and dipped his head to meet her lips with his own. It was their first lover’s kiss and if Sam had not been holding her so tightly, she was certain her legs could not have supported her. A mutual passion, fuelled by absence and peril and long denial, came on with the night and shone brighter for Nellie than the rising moon and all the sky full of stars. How long they kissed, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she loved and felt most completely and satisfyingly loved in return.

  When Sam went to move away, she clasped him more tightly still. ‘Not yet, Sam. Don’t go away yet,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve made us wait so long… Since you’ve been gone, all I could think of was how much time we could’ve had together. I was such a fool.’

  Sam chuckled gently. ‘I’m going nowhere, Nellie, not now I’ve got you in my arms! And you mustn’t blame yourself, this is perfect. Oh, Nellie, love, if you only knew how the thought of this has kept me going out there…’

  He buried his face in her abundant chestnut locks. ‘Ahhh, your hair…’ he said. ‘I’ve dreamed about your hair...’

  A breeze began to swirl around the little back yard and she shivered. Sam eased her away gradually and looked into her eyes.

  ‘We’ll have to move some time, my sweet girl, and you’re getting cold.’

  Reluctantly, she let go and allowed him to pick up his pack. Once they were inside, she made him sit down in her father’s old chair, while she made him tea and toast. While he ate and drank, she sat on the floor next to him and plied him with questions.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me know you’d got leave? I could have had everything ready for you!’ she chided.

  She looked up as she spoke, not wanting to take her eyes off him. She thought she must look very foolish, but she didn’t care, nothing seemed more important to her at this moment than Sam’s next word or look. All the world was reduced to the little circle that encompassed Nellie and Sam, and from the way his eyes followed hers, she was certain he inhabited that same bubble. He put down the tea on the tiled hearth and leaned forward, seeming to want to feel her lips as much as she wanted to feel his.

  ‘Ah, Nellie…’

  And then she remembered he hadn’t answered her question. ‘Jock sent Lily a letter.’

  ‘Didn’t you get my letter, then?’ he asked, as though he’d only just registered her question.

  Nellie thought it was very strange,
the way they each seemed to be reacting at a dreamlike pace. She gave up trying talk sensibly about anything and allowed herself to surrender to his kisses. Words could wait.

  She knew that their first few magical hours were over when Alice’s key turned in the front door. They looked at each other, reluctantly letting go of each other’s hands and moving apart. Sam rose to greet Nellie’s sister. Alice’s shock was almost as great as Nellie’s own and shortly afterwards, when the boys all tumbled through the back door, poor Sam had to repeat everything over again. He’d come down from the line a fortnight ago: men and horses were in bad need of a rest, he said. Nellie read in his expression untold reasons why they needed that rest and resolved to ask him more later. He and Jock had sailed together from Boulogne the previous evening and caught the military train to Victoria. They’d been lucky enough to cadge a lift on an army truck travelling through to London Bridge and the two friends had walked from there. It was only after they’d exhausted him with their questions that he asked: ‘Where’s our little canary?’

  Sam insisted on waiting up for her and when the others went off to bed, Nellie stayed with him. It was after midnight when Matty came home, calling from the passage, ‘Oh, Nellie, I told you not to wait up!’ She walked into the kitchen and her hands flew to cover her mouth.

  ‘Sam!’ She let out a cry. She was across the room before he had a chance to get up. Draping her arms round his neck, she sat herself on his lap just as she had as a little girl.

  Sam laughed. ‘Little canary’s not so little any more! Look at you, in your finery!’ He lifted her off his lap, and letting go of his hands she stood before him. She was wearing a new gown, which she’d paid for in weekly instalments. The pale green chiffon draped fashionably across her shoulders and at her throat she wore a gold and green choker.

  Sam couldn’t hide his pride and astonishment. ‘Matty, you’re beautiful!’ he gasped.