Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts Page 39

  ‘You look excited!’ Eliza exclaimed.

  Matty pulled off the hat and her cheeks began to flush in the heat. She dropped the coat with a flourish and twirled round.

  ‘Bernie’s American scout’s offered me a job in a musical!’

  ‘Matty, that’s marvellous news!’ Eliza exclaimed, before realizing what this meant. ‘American scout?’

  Matty nodded, jumping up and down, hugging herself. Eliza hadn’t the heart to squash her joy; she forced a smile to her face. ‘You’d have to go to America?’

  Matty flopped down into a chair by the fire and her face turned serious. ‘Would have to,’ she emphasized, ‘if I was to accept it, which I’m not.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘I would never leave Nellie, not now.’

  Eliza’s emotions fought silently as she looked on at her daughter. She felt nothing but relief that Matty wasn’t going abroad, but still there was a strain of sadness that tugged at her. For Nellie, the girl would abandon all her hopes, something Eliza was sure she would never do for her.

  ‘Do you think Nellie would want you to give up your chance, Matty?’ she forced herself to say.

  ‘No, but I’m not telling her, and neither must you! I was so bursting with pride that I had to tell someone about it, though!’

  At least Eliza could be grateful Matty considered her a confidante now. ‘Well, I’m proud of you, Matty, and if the rest of the family knew, they would be too!’ she said, smiling. ‘But listen, I have my own confidences to share. You know Ernest’s brother’s a major in the RFA? Well, he’s uncovered something that gives me a glimmer of hope about Sam!’

  Matty went white, all the flushed excitement draining from her in an instant.

  ‘But this is something else we mustn’t tell Nellie, not until we’re sure!’ Eliza went on.

  ‘What have you found out?’ Matty asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Well, apparently there’s another Samuel Gilbie in the RFA, who enlisted on the same day as our Sam, and their army numbers differ by one digit…’

  Matty looked like she was about to burst. ‘And where is this other Sam, is he alive?’

  ‘Breathe, Matty dear, please.’

  The girl took a huge gulp of air.

  ‘Yes, he’s alive, in a hospital in Belgium, but badly injured, and Ernest’s brother thinks it could possibly be a case of mistaken identity… Oh, Matty, it might be our Sam!’

  ‘But if it’s our Sam, why hasn’t he told them who he is, or even sent word?’

  ‘Major James says he was brought in from a field-dressing station, unconscious, and he’s been that way for weeks, but now the doctors say he’s more lucid. The major’s stationed not far from the hospital and he’s going out to see for himself!’

  She was swept off her feet by a hug from Matty, whom she had to beg to settle down. As she saw her off, Eliza again warned her.

  ‘It may not be our Sam, Matty – don’t get your hopes up too high. And you’ve got to keep it quiet until Ernest gets confirmation one way or the other. We can’t afford to give Nellie false hope either. You’ll need to stay calm and make use of all those acting skills of yours!’

  It was Christmas Eve and snow was falling in great fat flakes outside the high windows. The custard tarts, who were finishing early, were in high spirits. They had been paying into the Christmas Club all year: tonight, in spite of the watered-down government beer and the curtailed pub hours, they intended to enjoy themselves in the Green Ginger. Those women who’d lost sons or husbands or had someone ‘missing’ wouldn’t put a damper on the other girls’ good humour. They would either quietly absent themselves or, like Nellie, would go along and ‘put a brave face on’.

  She looked at the thick white swirl outside and imagined snow falling in Flanders, the once glutinous mud now crusted into frozen peaks and the flooded shell holes turned to frozen ponds. No matter where she was, her mind seemed lodged in Belgium, as though her thoughts were searchlights and one day they might light upon Sam. She looked through the pale golden haze of custard powder and saw, instead, mustard gas creeping over barbed wire, nestling into trenches.

  ‘Nellie! Nellie! Wake up, duck!’ Ethel Brown’s voice brought her back reluctantly to the factory floor. ‘You’re wanted on the top floor!’

  ‘Top floor! Why?’ Nellie panicked. She had never been called to the offices on the top floor: that was reserved for firings or disciplinary interviews. ‘What have I done wrong?’ Perhaps her absent-mindedness had reached the notice of the bosses?

  ‘I’m sure you ain’t done nothing, love,’ Ethel said unconvincingly.

  Nellie slipped off her work smock and cap and went slowly upstairs to the offices. These rooms, where management worked and Duff had his office, were like another country to Nellie. A young secretary spotted her and led her to a wood-panelled, carpeted room with a massive walnut desk in the centre. Behind the desk, sitting in a leather chair, was the rotund figure of ‘Old Plum Duff’ himself. He got up and gestured her to come forward.

  ‘Come and sit down, Miss Clark,’ he said, in a chesty voice. She could hear him wheezing from across the room as she went to sit on the edge of the leather chair, on the opposite side of the desk. She gripped her hands together tightly. Why he had to sack her himself, she couldn’t imagine. Perhaps there had been, after all, some black mark on her record, since the strike days. Suddenly the door opened and another person was shown in.

  ‘Eliza!’ Nellie almost started out of her chair. Surely Eliza was the last person that Duff would have invited here willingly! But he was greeting her politely and then he looked towards Nellie. His chesty voice softened.

  ‘Mrs James telephoned me with some news, Miss Clark, that she wanted you to hear straight away.’

  Nellie prepared herself for what she knew must come and, now, fixing her eyes on the green patterns swirled into the ruby-red carpet, she saw only mud and blood and the broken body of her beloved Sam. She looked up at Eliza, who had walked over to her, reaching down to grip Nellie’s trembling hands.

  ‘Nellie, we’ve found him. Sam’s alive!’

  ‘Alive? My Sam alive?’ She was shaking, struggling to take it in. ‘Are you sure?’ She didn’t dare believe it was true. ‘But where’s he been all this time?’

  Nellie tried hard to concentrate as Eliza explained that Sam had been in a Belgian hospital, unconscious, for over a month and mistaken for another soldier. Her brain seemed to be working overtime to comprehend these simplest of phrases.

  ‘But how do we know it really is Sam?’ Hope was edging its way into her heart but tinged with a sickening fear that it might prove false. Old Duff’s secretary walked softly into the room and whispered in the old man’s ear. The telephone rang and he picked it up.

  ‘We have some evidence that might convince you, young lady. Here!’ He pushed the telephone across the desk and Eliza handed it to Nellie. The line crackled, a man’s brisk voice asked if he was speaking to Miss Nellie Clark, she said yes, and her heart wanted to break through her chest. She was aware of the eager eyes of Duff and Eliza looking at her; then she heard another voice on the line, weak, far away, but, oh, so familiar.

  ‘Hello, Nellie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘It’s Sam.’

  ‘My Sam?’

  ‘Yes, Nellie, your Sam.’

  Hearing his familiar, warm voice drew him close enough for her to feel his breath brushing her cheek.

  ‘Oh, Sam, I thought I’d lost you!’

  ‘No, darling Nellie, never,’ he said, and his breath sounded laboured. ‘Didn’t I promise to come home to you?’

  ‘You did!’ she whispered. ‘I should’ve believed you. Come home soon, Sam, I love you!’

  Afterwards, Nellie learned that the phone call had been Eliza’s idea – she knew Nellie would simply not accept the truth unless she had the solid form of Sam in front of her, or at least his voice, to verify it. She’d got Major James t
o pull strings and Old Duff had been only too pleased to help. That night in the Green Ginger, the celebrations were bitter-sweet. All Nellie and Sam’s family were there, even Eliza, but when Lily came in, Nellie had to take her off into the saloon bar. Lily collapsed into her arms. ‘Oh, Nell, I’m so happy for you!’ And Nellie knew, more than anyone, how Lily’s tears of happiness were mingled with bitter grief for Jock.

  ‘If they’ve found Sam, they could still find Jock,’ she whispered to Lily.

  Her friend wiped tears from her cheeks. Hugging Nellie and forcing a smile, she said, ‘Please God, they do, love, please God, they do. Now let’s go and drink to Sam… and my Jock, with some of that gnat’s piss they’re calling stout, shall we?’

  33

  Turn the Dark Clouds Inside Out

  Nellie could hardly believe almost a year had passed since that miraculous telephone conversation with Sam, in Duff’s office. What a Christmas that had been, not just for her but for all of the family. Who cared what privations they suffered? They’d known Sam was alive and they’d celebrated with what they’d had. Nellie felt that she had been given back her life and had firmly believed she would have Sam in her arms by New Year. But it was to be many months before Nellie saw Sam again, for as soon as he was declared fit for duty, he was sent back up the line, to fight on. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of the dreadful possibility he might be snatched from her again, so through the whole of the last year she had tended the flame of hope, keeping it alive until today, 11 November 1918, when her faith in Sam’s penny-farthing ‘promise’ was finally vindicated, for the war was over and he would be coming home!

  Although the long agony of waiting to see Sam again was almost over, the end of the war seemed somehow to take her by surprise and she found she didn’t know quite how to greet it, her deep relief tinged with grief and overshadowed by too much loss. Lily wouldn’t be celebrating, not with Jock still missing, and Nellie suspected that her friend had given up hope. In the end, it was her fellow custard tarts who helped her celebrate Armistice Day properly. After clocking on that morning she found the packing room in uproar, the girls surrounding a red-faced Ethel Brown, who looked as though she were about to start another war.

  ‘Pipe down, you lot,’ Ethel roared. ‘I said I’m going to see about it!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Nellie asked Maggie Tyrell, as she pushed through the circle of angry women.

  ‘Old Plum Duff’s got a bloody cheek. He’s not letting us have no time off to celebrate! Ethel’s going up there!’ Maggie jabbed her thumb at the ceiling as Ethel marched down the factory floor, the girls cheering her on. ‘Go and tell the mean old git, he’ll have another strike on his hands if we don’t get today off!’ Maggie shouted after her.

  Nellie didn’t think much of Duff’s chances today. The women were so fired up it seemed to unlock the floodgates in her too. She finally allowed joy to bubble up in her own heart; the war was over, Sam was coming home! Letting it sink in, she suddenly found herself caught up in Maggie Tyrell’s skinny arms.

  ‘Come on, Nellie, give us a smile! It’s over!’ she said, swinging Nellie clear off the floor. They both toppled over, laughing, just as Ethel burst through the swing doors.

  ‘Come on, girls!’ Ethel bellowed. ‘Poor old Duff’s in tears up there. It was a mistake, he was gonna let us off anyway. The mayor’s up the town hall at ten, let’s go and have a party!’

  Nellie joined the custard tarts streaming out of the factory, hundreds of them, singing, dancing, holding up the traffic in Spa Road, some jumping aboard vans and car running boards, pulling the whole street into their celebration. On the way, they gathered with them the women and children queuing outside the soup kitchen; then the tramps, outside the Sally Army, peeled away to join them too. It seemed the whole of Bermondsey had stopped work to converge on Spa Road, till, like a raggle-taggle army, they all reached the town hall. There, bunting had been hastily looped around the entrance and the Salvation Army band was playing ‘Tipperary’. Nellie joined the others, singing herself hoarse, until the mayor came out on to the town hall steps and there was a hush. After his speech, the bells of St James rang out, peal after deafening peal, and she allowed herself a moment to look around. How different the steps of the town hall looked today, revellers instead of eager-faced recruits, unbridled joy instead of anxious faces peering at the names of dead and wounded. The casualty list was still posted there, but Nellie’s heart was overflowing with happiness; tears of joy streamed down her face as she realized she need never search for a name on that list again.

  It was the Friday before Christmas and she’d taken the day off work. Sam was due to arrive at Waterloo Station this very morning, and she wanted everything to be perfect, including herself. Nellie took the mirror off the kitchen wall, propping it up on a chair. It was the only way she could see herself full length. She smoothed her hands down the bodice of the midnight-blue dress she’d been saving for Sam’s homecoming. She tightened the broad, pleated sash, which emphasized her small waist, then pointed her foot; the shorter length showed off her ankles, which thankfully, were shapely. Satisfied, she hung the mirror back in its place above the kitchen fireplace and sat down to wait. Tonight the whole family would celebrate Sam’s safe return. Matty and Alice had spent all week cleaning the house. Nellie had baked a cake, with black-market butter and flour, and Freddie had ‘found’ a crate of beer outside Courage’s. They would all have their chance to welcome Sam home but now, just for an hour, she wanted him to herself.

  It was no good; she couldn’t sit still. Was that footsteps? She went to the door, peering the length of Vauban Street. No, it was only a neighbour, bashing a rug against her front wall. She went back to the kitchen mirror, checking the back of her hair, which was caught up softly at the nape of her neck. Walking to the window, she twitched the net curtain. If he’d been lucky enough to get a lift on an army lorry, he might be turning the corner any minute. Resisting the urge to check the front door yet again, she sat there, willing him to hurry up, her imagination clearing his way through the weekday traffic, speeding his feet along the crowded pavements. What was taking him so long? What was there to keep him? She imagined farewells to his mates at the station; had he stopped for a beer? But, no, surely he wanted her arms round him, as much as she wanted his.

  She’d almost given up, thinking perhaps his troopship had been delayed, when she heard it – the sound of boots ringing on cobbles. She flew to the door, flinging it open, and in a moment was in his arms, kissing him unashamedly in full view of the neighbours.

  ‘Oh, Sam, thank God, thank God, you’re home!’ she said, pulling him into the passage. He kicked the door shut behind them, taking her in his arms, squeezing her so she could barely breathe.

  ‘Ohhh, Nellie.’ His voice was thick with an emotion that seemed more like pain than joy. ‘Ohhh, Nellie.’ He kept repeating her name till she pulled away from him and looked him full in the face for the first time.

  He was gaunt, grey, his chin dark with stubble. She searched his eyes. Their dark depths had always been lit by a gentle, welcoming warmth, so often revealing his feelings when his words could not. But not now. With a shock that made her take a step back, she realized there was no answering look in those eyes, which before had always sought her own. They told her nothing.

  He noticed her recoil and, heaving the pack off his back, looked down at himself, shamefaced. ‘Look at the state of me, and I’ve made your new dress dirty.’ She began to protest, but he went on, ‘It’s been a long old haul, I must stink to high heaven and I’ve not slept all night…’

  Putting her fingers to his lips, Nellie said softly, ‘Sleeping can wait…’ And, grabbing his hand, she led him into the kitchen.

  Heedless of his filthy tunic, she twined her arms around his neck till he dipped his head, kissing her with a probing hunger she’d never experienced with him. His kisses were fierce but, after four years surrounded by death, had she really expected gentleness? She found
herself matching the depth of his kisses. He still smelled of the battlefield, but she clung to him, her own mouth searching for that old answering tenderness. But with each kiss he felt further away and instead of finding him, she succeeded only in losing herself.

  Nellie’s relief that Sam was back, and in one piece, carried her through the rest of the day. She filled the tin bath for him with boiling water from the copper, she fed him mounds of toasted ‘real’ bread, with the black-market butter, and put all his muted reactions down to his tiredness.

  But when the others came home and still no spark returned to those dull, bruised eyes, Nellie had to admit that something was very wrong.

  There had been a case of mistaken identity; it had robbed her of Sam for many months, but then he’d been restored to her, or so she’d believed. But identities are fluid things, she now realized, and in the furnace of a war, such as Sam had experienced, how could his have stayed intact? Surely the metal of any soldier’s character would melt and re-form every time they faced death, or saw a pal blown to pieces in front of them? Her foolishness shamed her. She’d believed she was getting back ‘her Sam’ from the war, but from the first time he’d held her in his arms, his uniform still caked with mud, still smelling of blood and sulphur, she felt this was not her Sam.

  The signs were there to see, from the start. Their reunion had left her feeling anxious; she was hoping for a word from him, that he was overjoyed to be back, even that he loved her. But she’d got neither. In the evening, during the family celebration, he sat like the silent centre, around which all their emotions of relief and happiness swirled. Matty, dressed in her stage finery, sitting next to him, her arm through his, sometimes leaned her head on his shoulder. Nellie wondered if the young girl had noticed Sam’s odd remoteness too. Looking across the table at Sam picking at his food as the chatter got louder, Nellie thought he looked uncomfortable, cornered almost, and her heart sank as she realized he would rather not be the centre of all this loving attention.