The Poppy Factory (21 page)

In a space the size of several football pitches, rows of stalls were set out like real rooms in a house, only unlike any house I’ve ever been into. There were living rooms with matching carpets and upholstery, carpets of every pattern and colour combination under the sun, tiled white bathrooms with enamel baths, basins and water closets of every description, and bedrooms with beds, blankets and pillows so soft and luxurious it was tempting to snuggle down on them, right then and there.

But it was the kitchens that attracted the biggest crowds. After half an hour’s gawping at all the wonderful inventions at a stand called ‘A vision of the future,’ Freda and me agreed that we didn’t want to wait till then. Imagine, a machine to cook toast, a flat iron heated by electricity, a washtub which does everything including the scrubbing, and another which does all the wringing? The cooking ranges were so clean and compact, and could run on gas or coal, or even both. And in future people won’t need pantries – they’ll have huge steel ice-boxes which will keep the food fresh for days.

There’s a new kind of furniture for these kitchens, too, called ‘cabinets’, which come in cream or white and have special drawers for different kitchen utensils, and marble or enamel worktops that are ‘super hygienic’, or ‘ideal for pastry’.

On the bus back Freda babbled on about how she was going to furnish her new home, about colour schemes and floor coverings and, of course, how she was going to have all the latest kitchen cabinets and labour-saving devices. I listened with half an ear, watching out of the window and wondering how ordinary people will ever earn enough to buy these wonderful new things, or whether they would only be for the wealthiest, like Freda and Claude? Even if Alfie and me were both working, we’d never save enough for even one of those gadgets let alone a whole kitchen full, as Freda seems to be planning for.

Back home, I snapped at Alfie and after tea he headed down to the pub even sooner than usual. I promised to join him later after clearing up, but in truth I haven’t the stomach for it tonight. Now that I’ve seen ‘A vision of the future’, my own life seems flat and dull, our cosy little flat dowdy and old-fashioned.

I wish I’d never agreed to go to that bloody exhibition. From thinking myself the luckiest wife in the world to have my Alfie home, I’m turning into a grumpy, dissatisfied old grouch.

Saturday 17th April

Freda came round on Monday and told me she and Claude were planning to go dancing at the Palais to celebrate her birthday, and would we like to go with them? Alfie flatly refused, as I expected, mainly because of Claude. You don’t have to talk to the man, I told him after she’d left, it would just be merrier to go with another couple. Don’t we need to enjoy ourselves, once in a while? We’ve had so little fun together recently.

He set his face against the idea and it pains me to admit that I got so angry with him that I threatened to go on my own if he wouldn’t come with me. He stomped out of the house, down to The Nelson as usual, and came back a few hours later in his cups, again. But the following day he came in from work and just said, ‘You win. We’re going dancing. But don’t expect me to talk to that man.’

Of course, I threw my arms around him and immediately began to fret about what I was going to wear, until Freda said she would lend me one of her dresses. She came around later with a couple to choose from, both in the new ‘flapper’ style, with no waist and a six-inch fringe all around the hem. I loved the really colourful one with pink flowers and, with a pair of borrowed silk stockings and a splash of ‘cerise’ lipstick, I felt so modern that I barely knew myself.

‘You’ll have to do something about that hair,’ Freda proclaimed, bursting my bubble. But she was right, the wavy shoulder length I thought so stylish just a year ago suddenly looked old fashioned. She offered to lend me the cash, and I emerged from the salon with a bob, all straight and swingy and just below my ears!

Even Alfie was impressed – I could tell because he kept sneaking glances at me – and the evening began with a swing. We went to a little bar beforehand and Claude paid for delicious cocktails that came with little paper parasols which Freda and me stuck behind our ears (Alfie drank beer, of course). After two of those, I began to feel quite light headed, and Claude was in very high spirits, telling slightly risqué stories which had Freda shrieking with laughter and made me giggle in spite of myself. Alfie stayed quiet and I was just grateful he’d agreed to tolerate Claude for the sake of my friendship with Freda, and what was supposed to be our romantic evening out together.

Unfortunately it didn’t turn out like that.

We’d had a few numbers on the dance floor, doing our simple jigging and arm waving to the music and trying to ignore all the clever dancers like Claude and Freda who knew all the proper steps, when they swirled up to us and Claude shouted over the music to Alfie, ‘May I have the pleasure of dancing with your beautiful wife?’

Now, I know it is considered quite normal, even polite, to ask your friend’s partner for a dance, but Alfie obviously wasn’t aware of it because his face was like a thundercloud, not so much out of jealousy of Claude, I suspected, but more about him being worried about keeping up with Freda. But in the circumstances he could hardly refuse, so he nodded and Claude whisked me away in a ballroom hold, spinning me around at such a pace that I got quite giddy. Then he started on another dance style, kicking out his heels and swinging my hands from side to side so that I nearly fell over, but after a while I got the hang of it and began to enjoy myself and, when the music ended, I agreed to another one.

Alfie stood up for me when we got back to the table, and I thought he was being unusually courteous until I realised that he wasn’t going to sit down again. He hissed in my ear, ‘I’m going to get my coat now, whether you want to leave or not. You can stay, or come if you like, I don’t care.’

When we got home we had the most terrible, vicious row, and said things to each other that I am sure we will regret. But for now, he has gone to bed and I am sitting up writing, because I know I will not sleep for all the thoughts scrambling my mind.

I want the old Alfie back.

I don’t care a jot about his missing leg – it’s become quite normal for me now – but I don’t like what he has become: angry, jealous, bitter and miserable much of the time. I am trying my best to make it work, but sometimes it feels as though nothing will help.

Sunday 2 May

Today I turned twenty! Alfie bought me my very own pair of sheer silk stockings and Ma made a beautiful cake, so I felt very spoiled.

I think we might be turning a corner. I’ve written this many times before, I know, but this time there are several good reasons for hoping it might be true.

Reason 1: Alfie is so much happier now he’s not fighting his fear of blood and raw meat every day. It took him three weeks to recover fully from his collapse (and a fortune in doctor’s bills which Ma and Pa kindly stumped up), but that gave us time to think. He was all for going back to the shop –‘got to beat the bloody thing’ he kept saying – but after a while he agreed it wasn’t worth making himself miserable over, and Pa said he’d given it his best shot so shouldn’t feel bad about admitting defeat. He is now unemployed again, but so much happier.

Reason 2: I start next week as a trainee machinist at Mitchell’s collar factory. It’s only a ten minute walk from home, just the other side of the Old Kent Road, and I’d been there several times before asking for work, but they never had any vacancies. This time a friend of Ma’s put in a good word and they asked me to go in for a test. I’d never used a sewing machine before but it seemed pretty straightforward, so long as you’re careful not to put your finger in the way of the needle. I must have done okay because they wrote the next day and offered me the job. Apparently they only employ women for this work because it requires delicate fingers and an eye for detail, so I don’t feel as though I am stealing the job from Alfie or any other demobbed soldier. The pay’s no great shakes but it will help eke out his pension until he can find himself work.

Reason 3: Alfie and me are getting on so much better in every way. He’s affectionate and loving again, and sometimes we can’t wait to get to bed! We’re trying to be careful, though. Don’t want to get pregnant just as I’ve started my new job – and while Alfie is still unemployed.

Monday 31st May

Terrible weather. It’s been raining cats and dogs for three days, but here in London we’ve had it lucky. The newspapers are reporting that in Lincolnshire more than twenty people drowned in floods over the weekend.

Sunday 6th June

All the talk in the pub today was how Pa’s favourite singer in the world, Nellie Melba, sang a song in Chelmsford yesterday which could be heard all over the country through something they’re calling an ‘electric wireless’. Apparently with one of these contraptions you can listen to your favourite music in your own living room just by turning a button! But even if we had the electric in our house I’m sure we’ll never be able to afford such a wireless, let alone the licence, which costs ten shillings a year.

I’ve been at the collar factory a full month, and I’m loving it: the sewing is tricky and keeps you on your toes, we work hard but have a great laugh in the tea and lunch breaks. Today, the boss said I was making excellent progress. If I carry on like this I will be fully trained in just two months’ time and my pay will go up by two shillings.

It’s good to be in the company of other women my age again – hadn’t realised how much I missed it. Getting that cash at the end of the week is really satisfying, not only because it’s keeping a roof over our heads, but because it makes me feel worthwhile, that I’m not just living off the back of my husband.

Which is just as well because, despite trudging the streets every day, Alfie has found nothing, yet. Mr Barker has given him the odd little job in the second hand furniture trade, which keeps him in beer money and he seems to be keeping reasonably cheerful, even in the face of all the knockbacks he’s had.

PS Butter rationing is over. Hurrah!

Monday 14th June

Percy Gittins has started as Pa’s butcher’s apprentice. It was a tough moment for us all, seeing someone who isn’t even part of the family working alongside Pa where my brothers ought to be, or Alfie, if only he’d been able to cope with it.

But Pa says the business has got so busy now that he has no choice but to take on someone else to help him, and why not support another lad who’s had his fair share of suffering after doing his bit for the war?

Percy is still breathless as a consequence of the gassing, and his mum told Ma that the doctors don’t reckon his lungs will ever fully recover. But he looks so much better than when he first returned, and he was always a strong lad if not the brightest at schoolwork.

Pa says he may never manage the business side but he’s becoming quite skilled at the butchery.

Saturday 3rd July

Ma called round for tea this afternoon, looking flushed and feverish, but when I asked if she was unwell, she said it was precisely the opposite.

‘Never felt better, dearest,’ she babbled. ‘It’s so exciting, I barely know where to start.’

It seems she’d read in the newspaper about a man called Alfred Newsom, who claimed to be able to talk to people’s lost loved ones. When she mentioned it to Pa, he told her, ‘don’t touch it with a bargepole, it’ll only lead to trouble’. But the idea preyed on her mind, she said, and then she saw a poster in the corner shop about ‘psychic sessions’ and noticed that the man would be appearing at the community hall in the Old Kent Road just a few minutes’ walk away.

‘You know I would never do anything to go against your Pa,’ she said. ‘But when I saw the date, I knew right deep in my heart that I’d never live with myself if I didn’t try it, just the once. I’d do anything to ease the pain.’ Turns out the session in our neighbourhood was on none other than July 1st, the very day my brother Johnnie died, at the Somme, three years ago.

Ma reckoned that, being a Thursday evening, Pa would be at his regular darts match either at The Nelson or at an away event, so she would be able to get to the session and back without him ever knowing a thing.

So she paid her sixpence and went into a hall packed to the brim with women, the mothers and wives of lost soldiers. ‘There was a comfort in just being there, I suppose,’ Ma said, ‘all of us suffering in the same way.’

After about forty minutes of summoning up other people’s fathers, sons and husbands, Mr Newsom asked if there was anyone in the room who knew John? Ma swears he looked in her direction but she wasn’t going to own up at first because it’s such a common name. Then he said that this John was also known as Johnnie, and he knew that his family would be especially sad today, because this was the very date of his death and there was no grave to visit.

Well, that was too much for Ma. ‘It must have been him. How else would he know that Johnnie died today and had no grave?’ In her excitement she completely forgot to be shy or careful, shouting out that this must be her son Johnnie and pleading to speak to him.

I bit my tongue to stop myself saying that twenty thousand British boys died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, many of them were never properly buried, and a fair few of them could have been named John. But I could also imagine how easy it would have been to be swept away by the moment, especially being surrounded by so many other women desperate for reassurance.

She went all wide eyed as she described what happened. Apparently Mr Newsom was quite calm, ‘like it was something you do every day’. He said Johnnie wanted to tell her that he was quite well and in no pain and, even though we had no grave to visit, he would always be with us in our hearts so all we had to do was find ourselves a quiet place and think of him, and he would hear us. Ma said she found herself ‘coming over all faint’, and had to be helped out of her seat to the back of the hall where a couple of kindly ladies gave her a cup of sweet tea and looked after her till she felt better.