The Poppy Factory (25 page)

So there we are: my husband and father-in-law both unemployed and facing a possible criminal charge and prison sentence, my best friend up the duff, engaged to a crook and her whole family deep in debt and threatened with homelessness, all on account of a man who duped them with his slick suits and silver cigarette case into believing he was a legitimate businessman.

And this is the world that all those boys fought and died for?

Friday 30th September

Little Johnnie is seven weeks old and yesterday I caught him smiling! Of course it might have been wind, but it looked like a smile to me.

Alfie missed it, of course, being at the pub as usual. This Claude business, plus having no work, has hit him really hard and he is taking solace in the beer, which is no help at all. He’s done a bit of job hunting, but with more than two million unemployed it’s looking even bleaker than before.

Still no news from the police. Freda is understandably miserable, and barely ventures out of the house. The news is all over the neighbourhood and she says she can’t bear the critical looks of people who grew used to seeing her and Claude together in happier times. Her ma has taught her how to knit, which is how she passes her days, mostly. The baby is due in less than two months.

Friday 14th October

I read about this in
The Daily Sketch
and found it so inspirational, a little glimmer of hope in what feels like such a gloomy time for our family, that I had to write it down in my own words.

They showed a photograph of women selling artificial flowers on the streets of London – red poppies – in memory of those who died in the war. The flowers were made by French soldiers who have been disabled in the fighting, and all the money they raise from selling them goes to restore places ruined in the war and also for orphaned children.

What a brilliant idea – providing work for injured soldiers and helping others at the same time. It was dreamed up by someone called Anna Guerin, and what a woman she must be! She’s even been to visit Field Marshal Earl Douglas Haig, in person, and persuaded him to adopt the poppy as an emblem for the British Legion.

Apparently she took her lead from another extraordinary woman, an American teacher called Moina Michaels, who was inspired by a poem written by a Canadian soldier to buy some artificial poppies and start selling them herself in America, in memory of all who died in Flanders Fields. She must be a determined soul too, because she’s already managed to get the powers that be over there to adopt the poppy as their official symbol.

Imagine, two such clever and influential women: one chose the poppy as an emblem so we won’t ever forget, the other used it as a way to help injured soldiers get back to work. And now we’ve got it in Britain too, in time for Remembrance Day. I wonder if they will start making the poppies here, like they do in France? Anyway, I plan to buy one just as soon as I can and will persuade everyone I know to do the same.

I took the newspaper over to Ma, who is going to show it to the charity she sometimes helps with, to see if they can drum up support for it at their end. We read the poem together and of course we both cried buckets, thinking of my brothers and all those other young men. They are building graveyards in France, and Ma and me promised ourselves that one day we will go to visit their graves.

The Sketch
printed the poem by John McCrae that started it all off:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Friday 11th November

We didn’t go to the Cenotaph again this year because Ma has a heavy cold and wasn’t feeling up to it. But we got hold of some poppies and persuaded Bert to sell them in The Nelson. He raised nearly £5 from donations – a tremendous success.

It’s only two weeks until Freda’s baby is due, and there is still no news from Claude. I have persuaded her to help me walk Bessie each morning in the park because Johnnie sleeps so well when he’s being pushed in the pram and that leaves me free for chatting. I think it’s finally coming home to her that his ‘business’ was actually illegal, and he’s run away to France to avoid the police and his debts. But she still believes that he truly loved her and was only doing it to raise money for their lives together. I haven’t the heart to tell her I think he’s doing a runner from her and the baby, too.

She’s very low and a bit tearful – not really surprising I suppose, when I consider how I felt in the last few weeks of my own pregnancy, and all the other worries she has on top of that. Life in the Barker household is grim at the moment, Mr B working all hours desperately trying to drum up more business so he can repay his debts, Mrs B has been reduced to taking in washing and ironing to make a few extra pennies, and Freda locks herself up in her bedroom, hiding from what she calls the prying eyes and tittle tattle of the neighbours. I’m sure the neighbours have moved on to other scandal by now, since her condition has been plainly obvious for months, but of course I didn’t say that.

We are all on tenterhooks waiting for the police to come knocking at the door again.

Monday 21st November

Freda’s baby girl was born yesterday – Annie Louise. She is beautiful and so tiny (not quite 6lbs) that Johnnie seems a lump of a boy beside her. I am envious of the fact that her labour was so straightforward. In the last few weeks Freda’s been talking about giving her up for adoption but seeing them together now I don’t think there’s any chance of that. They’ll muddle through, somehow. Heaven knows what kind of life is in store for little Annie, but in spite of the difficult circumstances and the shame of being born out of wedlock, just for the moment it is wonderful to see the joy that a baby brings to the family.

It’s been a strange, gloomy weekend with thick fog blanketing the whole of the south of England for three whole days. Lorries, trains and ships have all been out of action because it was too dangerous to travel, and this is having a knock-on effect on trade. Half of Pa’s meat deliveries failed to arrive this morning and when I went to the corner shop for bread the shelves were empty. So I bought flour instead and took Johnnie round to Ma’s and we made bread together, which was a lot of hard work but quite fun, and certainly the most delicious bread I’ve tasted for a long year.

Thankfully the fog is lighter today and seems to be lifting.

Thursday 1st December

Claude has been arrested! The first we heard of it was a letter Freda received yesterday.

My dearest, most beautiful one
(he’s such a creep)
,

You will gather from this letter that I am in gaol, in Dover. I was on my way back to see you, my darling, because you are the love of my life and I cannot live without you, when the police arrested me. I have tried to persuade them that it has all been a terrible mistake, but to no avail.

It is imperative that I am freed, so that I can visit the people who will vouch for me and clear my name so that we can start our lives together again. But the police have set bail at £200 which is currently beyond my means. Could you ask your father and the Barkers if perhaps they can help? I have also written to Bert at The Nelson.

Please don’t worry yourself as I am sure that all will get sorted out and we will be in each other’s arms again soon. But only if you can act quickly, my dearest, to ensure my freedom.

Your ever-loving fiancé

Claude

The gall of the man! He doesn’t even ask about the baby even though he knew she would have been born by now. Of course Freda was in a great fret, wittering on about how she could raise the money to get him freed. Alfie came back unexpectedly and she had to tell him what was going on. When he read the letter he nearly blew a gasket, and shouted a lot until I managed to calm him down. Between us we finally managed to talk some sense into her.

Then, today, the coppers came knocking at the Barkers’ door, putting everyone into a spin. They told them Claude had been trying to get back into the country using a stolen French passport which he’d doctored – not too well it seems, because the customs men immediately smelled a rat and held him while they alerted their colleagues in the police. So now he’s been charged with fraud and evading arrest, on top of the theft he was already being sought for.

It turns out that the police are now inclined to believe Mr B’s claim that he sold the furniture for Claude in good faith, and gave him the money for it less a small commission, even though there’s no paperwork to prove it, and that he genuinely had no idea that on several occasions rather large sums of cash failed to find their way back to the clients.

So they’re not pressing any charges against him or Alfie (phew) on condition that they appear as witnesses to give evidence against Claude when his trial comes to court. They were both so relieved not to be facing charges that they readily agreed. ‘Anything to see that b***** locked way’, is what Alfie says.

The trial is set for early in January.

Monday 12th December

Johnnie is four months old today. I can hardly believe that he’s growing so fast. He is so solid now, twice the size of little Annie, can hold up his head and is starting to make noises that sound like words. Alfie claims his first word was Dada although I know it’s only baby babble really. He lies happily in his pram, gurgling and cooing to himself, and it makes my heart burst with love just to listen to him.

Being more alert to the world has drawbacks though. He’s not sleeping so well these days, and sometimes cries when I put him to bed. Ma suggested that we sing to him, which Alfie refuses to do (says he’s got a voice like a crow), but she reminded me of all those nursery rhymes she used to sing to us, like
Rock-a-bye Baby
, and
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star
. I find that the singing calms me down, too. There’s so much anxiety in our lives at the moment, what with no money coming in and the trial looming next month.

In the corner shop today I met a girl I used to know from the collar factory. I asked how she and the other girls were getting on and was shocked when she told me the place has closed down. But there’s talk of it reopening in new premises, so they’re all keeping their fingers crossed.

Sunday 1st January 1922

My New Year wishes:

• Get the trial over with and see Claude safely behind bars.
  
• Alfie finds a job and can get some of his self-respect back instead of spending all his time down the pub.
  
• Mr B’s business starts to take off again and he can repay his debts to Pa.
  
• Freda meets a nice, ordinary young man who falls so much in love with her that he is happy to accept Annie as his own.
  

I’d be so happy if all this could come true, but life is never quite as straightforward as that.

Monday 16th January

Claude’s trial was scheduled to start today, but there was a heavy blizzard all over the weekend. Alfie and Mr B set off early this morning to struggle through the snow to reach the court, only to be told that the judge was stuck in the country and the trial was postponed until the following day.

They weren’t very happy, and Alfie spent the rest of the afternoon in the pub and came home tonight drunk as a newt. I am trying to be patient because I know he is under great strain at the moment, but his drinking is getting out of hand again. What worries me most is where he’s getting the money from. Although he denies it when I confront him, I’m really afraid that he is running through his army savings without telling me.

Tuesday 17th January

They went to the court again today, and sat all day in a little back room not being allowed to talk to anyone else, and then were never called to give evidence. Alfie went to the pub afterwards and didn’t come home till gone ten o’clock looking white as a sheet but beyond telling me they’d been stuck in that little room all day he refused to talk to me and went straight to bed.

Wednesday 18th January

I had a thought that I might go with Alfie today to keep him company, and now I so wish that I had, but Johnnie has been so fretful these last few days (could he be teething, already?), and I can’t take a crying baby into a courtroom. I’d have left him with Ma but she’s still a bit poorly with another cold.

Alfie and his pa set off early this morning and didn’t mention a word and it was only when Freda came round with little Annie this morning that I learned about the horrible things that happened yesterday. Now, both of us are sitting here in such a state of anxiety that we barely know what to do with ourselves.

Apparently Alfie and his pa were followed as they left Southwark Crown Court by two heavies, who cornered them and threatened to beat them up if they gave evidence against Claude. They refused to say who was paying them but they must be working for Claude. Heaven knows where he’s getting the cash from when he is stuck in gaol. Is there no end to this man’s evil?

Mr B was cussing away, saying he wouldn’t let a couple of thugs stop him making sure that b***** goes to prison for a good long time, but Mrs B made him promise that they would tell the police, when they got to the court this morning. Of course I knew nothing about all of this. Alfie just stumbled out of bed, threw on his clothes and left without any breakfast, in a great hurry to meet his pa at the time they’d agreed.