The Poppy Factory (30 page)

Monday 31st July

Is it only three weeks since I wrote the last entry in my diary? So much has happened, I can hardly think where to start.

Johnnie is coming up to his first birthday and he’s been a little terror of late, refusing to eat the things we put in front of him and throwing tantrums at the slightest thing. Alfie says it’s impossible to manage him, so Ma has been doing most of the looking after while I’ve been at work. But two weeks ago she went down with a terrible cold and so Alfie had him for four days in a row and, my goodness, did he make a fuss. At the end of each day he’d almost throw Johnnie into my arms, saying he’d had enough, and I should give up my job and stay home, and that men weren’t designed for looking after whinging snotty toddlers. Then he’d grabbed his coat and rushed off down the pub, again, not returning till the early hours.

By the end of the week I’d had enough, and that Saturday morning we had a blazing row in which we traded all kinds of insults, with me saying that unless we took care, our marriage would end up on the rocks. It ended with him agreeing to go to the flicks with me that evening, and asking his ma to look after Johnnie so we could have a good evening out together.

It didn’t work out like that: we argued about which show to see, the detective story with John Barrymore, or a vampire movie which, strangely, given his fear of blood, Alfie wanted to see but which didn’t appeal to me the tiniest bit. In the end, we missed the start of
Nosferatu
and got to see my choice after all. Alfie sighed and tutted all the way through, muttering about how Sherlock had missed obvious clues while pretending to be even cleverer than Dr Watson. All the while I was thinking about how it used to be, when he would insist on us having back row seats and we’d be so busy kissing that we hardly saw anything of the movie.

Of course, on our way home, Alfie insisted on going to The Nelson for ‘a quick half’ which turned into several pints and we ended up continuing the row when we got back to the flat, with me going to bed alone and him falling asleep on the sofa, where I found him the next morning, still wearing his artificial leg. And he knows that he has to take it off at night, to give the skin on his stump time to breathe and prevent it getting ulcerated. If it does, I’ll have no sympathy.

Things went downhill from there. On Monday when I got home exhausted from a really busy day at the machines trying to meet the deadline for delivery to an important customer, I found Alfie asleep in a drunken stupor, and Johnnie toddling around on his own with a sopping wet nappy round his ankles.

I hit the roof, threw a glass of water over Alfie and shouted at him to get up and sort himself out. He hadn’t even remembered to get milk and bread so I changed the baby’s nappy and stomped out with him to the corner shop. On the way back I met old Elsie, the neighbourhood busybody, who cooed at the baby and said, ‘He do love his pram, the little darlin’, don’t he?’ When I asked what she meant, she told me she’d seen him in it outside the pub that lunchtime. ‘There well over an hour, dearie, and not a whimper,’ she said.

Well, that was it. I’d always told Alfie not to take Johnnie to the pub. It wasn’t fair, and the way he drinks it certainly wasn’t safe. I was so angry I barely knew where to put myself, and spent the next two hours walking the streets, trying to calm down, trying to figure out what to do next.

I’d worked so hard to help Alfie get back to normal life after the war, but he seems to be on a downward slide, refusing all my offers to help and determined to drown his sorrows at every opportunity. I can understand that he is angry about the lot he’s been dealt, but it almost feels as though he wants to prove that because he’d lost a leg, he is worthless. I’m at my wits’ end and really need someone to talk to. How I miss Freda.

Everything came to a head two days ago. I had to work overtime, and didn’t get home till seven o’clock in the evening. As I approached our flat I could hear Johnnie crying, with that shrill, panicky scream that means he is really angry or really frightened. I rushed down the passageway fearing the worst and, as I passed the kitchen window, was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of Alfie, his face screwed up in a horrible scowl, holding his son out at arm’s length and shaking him so furiously that the little lad’s head and limbs were flopping like a rag doll.

Alfie didn’t even stop when I came in. He’d completely lost control, bellowing at the boy to ‘stop that f******* noise, for Christ’s sake’. He was clearly drunk. I tried to grab Johnnie out of his arms but he held onto him tightly, staggering to stay on his feet without his walking stick. I shouted so loudly that the baby was shocked into silence and this caught Alfie off guard long enough for me to make another grab and pull the child away from him. He staggered, tried to hold onto the side of the table, then fell on the floor with a thump.

I was that furious, I wasn’t the slightest concerned whether he’d hurt himself and just yelled at him to get out of the flat and never come back. Which he did, hobbling as fast as he could down the street in the direction of the pub.

Johnnie recovered quite quickly after I made him a bottle of warm milk with a teaspoon of honey stirred into it, which he loves, and I had half a cup, too, to calm my nerves. When he finally fell asleep in my arms I buried my face in his hair and sobbed. Even breathing his sweet baby smell could not console me.

Alfie went back to his parents’ house late that night, and has been there ever since. He hasn’t been round to apologise – and in a way I’m relieved because I am certainly not ready to forgive him, and even wonder whether I will ever be able to believe in him again. Once upon a time, I would have trusted him with my life but the Alfie I have known since I was a child, the man I fell in love with, seems to have disappeared and I’m afraid I’ll never find him again.

I think my marriage might be over. The thought is unbearable.

Friday 4th August

Last day before the summer holidays. It should be a happy time, a family time, for planning day trips or visits to the seaside. But Alfie and me are still at loggerheads. He came round last night all shamefaced and apologetic. We had tea and talked in a civilised manner but I am still so angry with him I don’t seem to be able to forgive. I cannot forget Johnnie’s terrible screams and the demented look on Alfie’s face, as if he could have killed the boy if I hadn’t walked in at that precise moment.

The only thing that’s kept me going these past few days is being at work with the girls and seeing Walter every morning. He lifts my heart with his idiotic jokes and soft-soaping words, naughty things like ‘your hair’s so shiny today I can see my reflection in it’, or, ‘I love the way you laugh’.

He is very naughty, hanging around after taking his tea break in Mitchell’s canteen as we girls arrive for ours, and secretly slipping me a chocolate bar or a flapjack to have with my coffee. Mr Mitchell keeps telling us we’re not supposed to consort with The Poppy Factory boys but Walter and me are not the only ones.

I’ve tried to warn him off, telling him that I am happily married (ha ha) and there are plenty of single girls to flirt with, but he’s so hard to resist, especially when he tells me that those few minutes seeing me each morning makes his day. As he says, we’re only walking together, after all, nothing more serious.

Except …

Today he said he would miss me during the factory’s fortnight break, and would I like to meet him for a cup of tea some time? My head was telling me ‘say no, say no, it’s not right’. But my mouth had other ideas. ‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I heard myself saying, and he pressed a piece of paper into my hand. I threw it down the lavatory but couldn’t resist reading it first. It said:
‘Station tea room, Waterloo. Just ask for me.’

Tuesday 8th August

At last, a letter from Freda arrived here this morning addressed to Alfie and me. She is safe, thank heavens. But otherwise it is not good news.

Paris, 3 July 1922

Dearest Alfie and Rose,

I am such an idiot. Why did I ever think it could work out with Claude?

The first few months were such fun, finding our way around the city, and he seemed to be making plenty of money so we rented this large airy flat in Montmartre (a hilly area to the north of the centre). He bought beautiful clothes for me and Annie, and found a French nanny to look after her so that we could go out dancing twice a week.

He went off on his business trips as usual, and was usually back within a day or two, so last month, when he didn’t reappear for a whole week, I started to worry. Turns out I was right to be concerned, because when he finally returned he could barely look me in the eye and when I pressed him he muttered something about ‘things turning out bad again’ and that he’d have to move on.

Of course I felt sick with the whole idea of starting again and asked where we would go next, and then it all got horrible. He said he was going to North Africa and that was no place for a woman, and I would have to stay here. I’m sorry to say I screamed and begged, but his mind was completely made up. He left that night, promising to come back and get me when ‘things get sorted out’. A whole month has now passed and he’s sent no word.

The worst thing is this: I have run out of money. The landlady is threatening to turn us out onto the streets unless I pay her next week, and we barely have enough to eat. In my heart of hearts I do not believe Claude will ever come back again, not after all this time, and I am so anxious about our future. This is no life for little Annie.

I have been so lonely and miss you all so much. Now I am desperate to come home, but I don’t even have enough money for the train and ferry fares, and am afraid Ma and Pa will not accept me after the way I have treated them. I am sorry for writing to you like this but I cannot think what else to do. Please forgive me for being such a fool.

Freda

Of course I went straight round to the Barkers’ house and showed them the letter. Mrs B burst into tears while Mr B and Alfie shouted a lot about how they were going to kill that b****** if they ever laid eyes on him again. I made tea and after a while everyone quietened down a bit and started to talk about what we could do.

Mrs B sniffled and said we’ve got to get her home, she didn’t care what it takes. Mr B said he had some money put by, ready to pay back Pa for the loan, but I told him I was sure it wouldn’t be a problem waiting another month, so he popped out to the butcher’s to ask if he could defer the repayment.

He was back within an hour saying it had all been arranged. Pa had told him to take as long as they needed, and he’d also been to the Post Office and sent a telegram to Freda. He gave me the copy: ‘TICKET MONEY EXPRESS MAILED C/O YOUR NAME MONTMARTRE MAIN PO STOP COME AT ONCE DO NOT TALK CLAUDE STOP PA.’

After that, Alfie suggested we all go to The Nelson for a celebration, but I cannot bear to watch him get drunk again, so I made an excuse. Things are as frosty as ever between us and I can’t see anything improving until he starts to prove that he is seriously looking for work, and keeps away from that ruddy pub.

Friday 11th August

I met Walter for tea today. It’s wrong, I know, but I couldn’t help it.

What with the factory being closed I’ve been going crazy stuck in the house by myself and not having the distraction of the girls at work. I am so anxious about Freda; last night I was almost ready to pack my bags and take the train and ferry to Paris myself, to try to find her and make sure she gets out of that man’s clutches. Alfie has made no further move to talk to me or even visit his son. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since Tuesday lunchtime. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s even forgotten that it’s Johnnie’s first birthday tomorrow.

I was feeling so low – and then realised that what I was really missing was my daily dose of laughter with Walter. Don’t they say it is ‘the best medicine’? Once the idea wormed its way into my head I couldn’t seem to get rid of it. He makes me happy, just for a few moments each day, whereas much of the time I’ve been feeling quite miserable: guilty about Alfie, or about being an inadequate mother for Johnnie, or just simply exhausted from holding down a job, shopping, cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing. I never seem to have time for any fun these days.

I hated lying to Ma, saying I’d seen a notice for a big sale of children’s clothing near Waterloo and since Johnnie was growing out of everything so fast this was an opportunity not to be missed, so would she mind having him for a couple of hours?

My heart was hammering in my chest when I arrived at the tea room, and realised that I didn’t even know his surname. I was about to make a run for it when a woman behind the counter asked if she could help and I blurted out that I was looking for Walter. She didn’t bat an eyelid: it seems he shares a bedsit just opposite the station with one of the chefs there so they sent a young lad over the road to fetch him. He arrived within minutes and greeted me with that cheeky grin and handed me a slightly ragged pink carnation (wherever did he get that, at such short notice?). Then he paid for tea and buttered teacakes for both of us and I carried the tray for him (he can do most things, but not that, with one arm) over to a quiet corner table.

It was really uncomfortable at first; I felt strangely tongue-tied, wondering what on earth I was doing here in this gloomy restaurant with a stranger. His cheery banter seemed to have abandoned him. We chatted about weather and the latest movies people are talking about, which neither of us have seen and, after about quarter or an hour, ran right out of conversation.

In the silence, the words seemed to burst out of my mouth without any warning: ‘I shouldn’t have come. It’s wrong, I’m a married woman with a child.’