Secrets of the Singer Girls (30 page)

When the bus reached her stop, Poppy virtually floated off and ran all the way back along Burnham Street to her lodgings. Inside her room, she breathlessly removed the new
writing pad she had purchased with what little money she had left from her wages and began to write, the words flying over the page in her haste to put them down on paper. Why was it, she mused,
that she found it so much easier to express herself on paper than in person?

She wrote back with a little smile on her flushed face:

Poppy hesitated and nibbled the end of her pencil. There was more, of course, so much more. She wanted to tell him everything. The truth about why she had been banished to the
East End, the real reason why the mere mention of her name probably still raised eyebrows in Little Framshalton, but she did not dare. She could spill all her secrets onto this page and, in doing
so, free a little part of her soul forever, but she knew that would be utterly foolish if she wanted this fledgling romance to continue. Freddie seemed like a decent, upstanding chap. She would
never hear from him again if she told him the dreadful truth about what really happened that night. So she tried her hardest to bury the past as always and keep her tone light and chatty.

Ever so carefully she folded the letter, planted a delicate kiss on the seal and popped it in her bag ready to post the following day. Next, she undressed and changed into her
white nightgown before snuggling down under the eiderdown and flicking off the little oil lamp by her bed.

In the darkness, her thoughts uncontrollably strayed, as they always did, back to Norfolk. With her sense of sight cut out, her imagination burst into life. She could see the old kitchens back
at Framshalton Hall as vividly as the day she left over six months ago.

There was Cook’s harassed voice ordering her to season the dishes, the flash of copper pans through the steam and the distant chiming of a gong. Then her thoughts turned inevitably to the
scullery. That hateful small, dark, window-less room, a few feet lower than the kitchen so it was always colder in there. Poppy shivered and pulled the covers a little tighter, but it was no good.
She felt it again, hot breath on her neck, hands encircling her waist . . .

Gasping for breath, Poppy sat bolt upright in bed. What on earth was she playing at with this Freddie chap? Had experience taught her nothing? No good could come from this liaison, and yet she
knew that when tomorrow dawned, she would post the letter.

It was Christmas Eve on the factory floor and Sal was tingling all over with excitement, for today was the day her boys were coming home to the East End at last. It had been a
little over a month since she had written to the postmistress requesting their return, but it had been decided best all round that they be allowed to finish their term at the local village school
and then arrive home in the holidays.

Sal had not dared to complain. She had waited so long anyway, what were a few extra weeks? Now, she stared out of the high factory windows at the soft snowflakes drifting down from the white
skies and settling on the chimney pots outside. She sighed contentedly. At seven o’clock that evening, when she collected them from Paddington Station, she would be a proper mum again and she
had years of love and cuddles to make up for. Reggie was gone for good. The dark spectre of his return no longer hung over her and for the first time in years, she felt free.

Sal’s happiness was infectious and all the women were in high spirits, belting out a tuneful chorus of Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ as it crackled out from the
wireless tuned to
Music While You Work.
There were many other festive songs around, but that one was the Christmas favourite this year.

Archie had agreed to let everyone off work early if they finished their bundles, so the sounds of humming machines, laughter and song filled the air. The floor was a hive of industry and
excitement. Even Vera sang along, exchanging a little smile with Archie as he passed by her desk. Sal chuckled to herself. There was no mistaking the look of pure adoration that took over her
face.

Vera’s whole persona was changing; her green eyes were softer, and even her scars seemed to have faded a little. It was obvious to everyone but Vera that she was in love. Why could she not
see that Archie was a diamond in the rough?

‘Sing as you sew, girls. Sing as you sew!’ hollered Ivy from behind her machine.

Sal laughed along with the rest of the Singer Girls. They were all facing their fourth Christmas in wartime, and rationing was escalating something savage, but nothing could stop them from
celebrating with a brave face.

Paper chains recycled from old bandage boxes were painted in bright colours and slung from the ceiling, and some wag had drawn a picture of Hitler and his cronies as donkeys, where at dinnertime
a raucous game of pin the tail on the donkey would ensue. The war may have been grinding the nation down, but at Trout’s everyone was working hard to bring back the magic and sparkle of
Christmas.

There was just one person not joining in the festive fun. Sal glanced over at Poppy. Her young friend was lost in her own thoughts. Abruptly, Poppy put her arm up and requested a toilet break.
When Vera granted it, she hurried from the floor, chewing her lip nervously as she went.

Poppy had received the letter from Freddie the previous evening, and after reading it, she knew she had no choice but to end their relationship without delay. The contents had
sent her into spasms of anxiety all morning.

Hurrying across the yard, she gasped as the sharp December air hit the back of her throat like needles. Slamming the toilet door closed behind her, Poppy breathed hot air into her frozen hands
and, with chattering teeth, fished the letter from her pocket.

Poppy stared down at the letter in her hand like it was a loaded grenade. This game was getting out of hand. She was toying with Freddie’s emotions, for she’d had no
intention whatsoever of meeting him in person. Hadn’t she? That hadn’t been her intention when she started writing letters. Or had it? Her brain started to spin with the repercussions
of what she had instigated, but it always came back to the same point. She was simply too scared to meet him in the flesh. He had written that the thought of meeting her made his heat beat faster.
It made Poppy shake in fear. With a soft moan of despair, she crumpled the letter into a ball in her fist and exited the toilet.

In her rush to get inside to the warmth of the factory, she didn’t notice Sal and bumped straight into her. The note was knocked clean from her hands.

‘What’s this?’ smiled Sal, reaching down to pick it up and uncreasing it. ‘You got yourself a sweetheart? Fancy that! You told me at the party that no one had replied.
Good thing I followed you out here. Spill the beans.’

‘No one had replied back then,’ Poppy whispered glumly. ‘But then I wrote one more note and someone did reply. Ever such a lovely chap. Private Freddie Beecroft is his name.
He’s shy and sweet, a farmer’s lad from Devon. He found my letter when he arrived injured at a hospital near the front.’

‘Why, that’s wonderful news,’ gushed Sal brightly. ‘I couldn’t be happier for you. With any luck he’ll get leave soon and then you’ll get to meet
him.’

‘He’s home in March. He wants to come to Bethnal Green and meet me.’

‘But that’s marvellous, surely?’ said Sal.

‘You don’t understand, Sal. I can’t meet him,’ Poppy said.

‘But why ever not?’ she gasped. ‘Especially if he’s half the man you say he is. He sounds perfect for you. You deserve a little happiness, sweetheart.’

‘I’m shy, Sal, you know that,’ Poppy muttered, stamping at a little drift of snow on the yard floor.

Sal stared at her curiously, then took Poppy’s chin in her hands and gently tilted her face so she was looking up at her. Snowflakes drifted down and settled on Poppy’s lashes,
framing blue eyes that shone with unshed tears. Sal longed to shake her secrets out of her.

‘But it’s not just that, is it, sweetheart? You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Do you remember all those months ago when I discovered you here alone sewing notes in
bandages?’

Poppy blinked nervously but said nothing.

‘Well, I do,’ Sal said softly. ‘You told me you were scared and I told you I was too. Even showed you my scars and confided in you about Reggie. You can tell me
anything,

Poppy, and I will never stand in judgement over you,’ she urged. ‘Please tell me one good reason why you can’t meet this Freddie chap and see if he isn’t the one to sweep
you off your feet.’

At Sal’s show of kindness, Poppy choked back a sudden sob. ‘I can’t tell you, Sal,’ she wept. Poppy suddenly felt suffocated by the power of her emotions; she longed to
reach out and confide in Sal, the way she had in her, but all that came were tears, not truths.

Poppy started to shiver, the cold December air working its way into her bones, and Sal reached out and hugged her so tightly she felt the breath leave her body.

‘I just hope one day you’ll trust me enough to tell me what’s really running through that head of yours,’ she urged.

Pulling back from her embrace, Sal fixed a bright smile on her face. ‘Look here, why don’t you come with me to collect the boys later? That’ll cheer you up.’

Poppy smiled for the first time since opening Freddie’s letter. ‘Oh, I should like that,’ she replied, feeling a little brighter at the prospect.

When the final end-of-shift bell sounded, a loud cheer rang out through the floor as the Singer Girls downed tools and exchanged hugs and season’s greetings. They only
had Christmas Day off, but everyone was determined to enjoy it, and most of the workers were already heading to the door in a rabble of excited chatter.

‘Now remember, girls,’ said Vera, turning to Poppy and Sal, ‘as soon as you’ve collected the boys, you’re to come straight to mine.’

‘You better had,’ piped up Archie, as he went round lovingly oiling all the sewing machines, like he did at the end of every shift. ‘Vera’s cooked enough food to sink a
battleship.’

‘Behave, Archie,’ Vera said, but she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. ‘I just thought it’d be nice for the boys to get a good meal in their tummies after their
long journey, and besides, I’m dying to see them.’

‘Don’t worry, Vera,’ Sal smiled. ‘We’ll be there in a jiffy.’ With that, she threaded her arm through Poppy’s. ‘Now come on, let’s get going
to the bus stop. Don’t want to be late. I’m so excited my stomach feels like a bag of ferrets.’

Out in the street, Poppy and Sal weaved their way by the little row of local shops that had piled-up carrots in their windows in place of fruit in an effort to look decorative, past the local
ARP centre, where the hopeful wardens had stuck mistletoe to the front of their helmets, and smiled cheerily at the bedraggled group of Salvation Army carol singers bravely facing the cold to bring
a little festive cheer.

By the time they reached Paddington Station, the crowds had intensified, as hundreds of war-weary souls battled to make their way home for Christmas.