Lemon Sherbet and Dolly Blue (11 page)

Eva made friends quickly among the children of the Mill; she was used to pitching in, and fast at games of run-and-tag, but she also discovered the entirely new pleasure of being by herself. She could dawdle or stamp in puddles if she wanted, or set out to walk nowhere in particular, and even stay outside till dusk, if she liked. She could wander along the towpath up to and beyond Wheeldon Lock, and out towards Bluebank Wood, and run or skip all the way home if that was what she wanted to do. Sometimes, Eva ran for the sheer joy of running, stopping only when the back of her throat burned and the wind took away all her breath. Whatever happened to her now, she would never have to go back there.

Everything about my great-aunt's new life felt different, with one exception – school. There was little to choose between one elementary-school regime and another except the schoolmarm, and Eva's was particularly sour. Miss West's full-length apron and elbow-length cuffs suggested a nursing matron rather than a teacher of healthy girls; she ruled her class with matronly authority and was furious if her cuffs became soiled. Tall and thin, with
a nose as sharp as her elbows, she looked to Eva like someone who'd just swallowed a spoonful of raspberry vinegar. Adults were reassured by Miss West's strong pious face but she had long bony fingers with which to prod her pupils in the back.

There were thirty girls in Eva's class, though one was a mere ghost of a child who did not look long for this world. Several wore dresses large enough to grow into, with deep bulky hems for turning down, and one had shorn hair that had been hacked at with a knife because of nits, but Eva was the only Orphanage Girl.

Most of her classmates lived higher up the hill, in Brimington, but Eva walked to school with near neighbour Maud Evans, whose mother would shortly teach her piano, and sat next to Carrie Rice. Carrie, Eva discovered on her very first day, had rough and tumble brothers who liked to tease her; she could sympathise when some of the other girls called Eva names.

Under Dick and Betsy's care, Eva lost her look of vulnerability and learned to feel proud of herself. Their message was simple: though no better than anyone else, she was just as good. She should be well mannered and kind but, if picked on, retaliate, and by blows, if necessary (though not strike first). Unlike Annie, Eva needed no instruction in fighting back: you couldn't survive an orphanage without meeting an assortment of bullies and pinchers.

Miss West was more difficult to subdue. Eva's friend, Carrie, was slight, like Eva, which made her an easy target for their teacher's prodding finger. One day Miss West was particularly provoking, bullying Carrie while Eva sat beside her. Their shared desk had inkwells which could be eased out of position from beneath, and so, leaning forward while seeming to be engrossed in her sums, Eva worked her fingers round the inkwell and gradually, then forcefully, pushed. Bullseye: Miss West's blouse was splattered with
ink. For once, she was completely speechless. It was worth six ‘stripes' of the cane to see her face. The blouse was parcelled up and dispatched to Betsy for starching, but Eva had made her point.

Unfortunately Miss West had other ways of asserting her authority, which Eva was equally determined to resist. Their war of nerves continued. Miss West insisted that Eva bring extra ingredients for the domestic science class – her mother had a shop: they could afford it. Flour, butter, sugar: quite a list. Eva said nothing to Betsy. She wanted to resolve this herself. It did not matter how often Miss West waved her cane, the request offended Eva's sense of justice. This particular stand-off was eventually won by Eva continuing to bring the same quantities to the class as the other girls, but the cane was her teacher's answer to most things. The intakes of breath my great-aunt produced when
describing these stripes to me more than fifty years later showed how much they bit into her skin.

Not everything about school was purgatorial, however. Eva developed a strong sense of mischief. One especially vexing girl, conscious that her hair was her best feature, was constantly tossing her head. The ends of her long plaits repeatedly struck the edge of Eva's desk, until Eva stopped that lark by tying the girl's hair ribbons to her chair. Eva discovered she could run fast and win races. She also enjoyed recitations and declaiming aloud in class; one rhyme particularly appealed: ‘Curly locks, curly locks, wilt thou be mine?/Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,/But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,/And feed upon strawberries and sugar and cream.' It reminded Eva of Annie.

My grandma decided to stay on at Staveley Netherthorpe Grammar School and train as a pupil teacher (the option for those whose parents could not afford college fees). For three years, she combined taking classes in its Pupil-Teacher Centre with teaching at Brimington's Princess Street Infants' School. By now, Zoe had left Netherthorpe and was keeping her mam company at home, but Gwennie Peat, George Hardcastle and Maurice Unwin were still classmates, and all planned on teaching in elementary schools.

George was the kind of boy mothers described as ‘a nice young lad'. He had a way of looking at you as if uncertain how much space he should occupy, and of brushing his hand across his hair when he felt nervous. But he was clever and kind, and could be funny too, and he was certain about one thing – his feelings for Annie. One afternoon, George slid a picture-postcard on to her desk. On the back were scrawled four pencil words, ‘I love you Annie,' sealed with a tentative kiss.

Annie was fond of George and enjoyed their conversations, but her school crush was Maurice Unwin, with his straight blond hair and slightly curling lip. He had a rather nice way with him, or so Annie thought, until she met Willie Thompson.

He was laughing the first time she saw him, his head thrown back as if taking a deep drink of laughter. That was the thing about Willie: he generally had a smile on his face. A baker at his brother's firm on Whittington Moor, Willie did the occasional Saturday delivery, managing to hand Betsy her box of cakes as if conveying precious jewels across the counter.

There was something about Willie Thompson – an assurance, an ease – that immediately distinguished him from the other young men Annie knew. Her classmates were courteous and polite, and destined for positions of respect and authority. Already they were developing the quiet consideration and balanced views they'd be required to demonstrate in the future. Even Maurice Unwin, who liked to think himself debonair, talked to Annie as if he'd read up on how to do it. The Wheeldon Mill lads didn't have much to say for themselves in front of Annie, although she'd known some since they were scab-kneed boys. Long before her education came between them, there was always an unspoken reserve. The fact that she was the shopkeeper's daughter established a barrier; grammar school erected a high wall.

Willie Thompson was different. Everything about him seemed fresh, newly minted. He was not much of a reader, he'd admit, but he loved a good music-hall turn and seemed to know all the popular tunes. Annie heard him whistling them while he unpacked their bread. He was not daunted by her schooling either, but joked about lady teachers being bossy. Should he mind his Ps and Qs?

The corner shop was one of Willie's last deliveries, so he and
Annie generally found time to exchange a few words, though she had to walk at quite a clip to ensure she did not miss him when returning from her Saturday-morning class. Then just when she was becoming accustomed to her heart leaping at the sight of the baker's horse and cart, Willie announced he was leaving. He had a passage booked for New York, Philadelphia, on to Pittsburgh. His brother Jim, the baker, was paying his fare.

Their older brother Harry had made his home in America, having sailed two years earlier: an expedient departure, if you believed what you heard. Several irate husbands were rumoured to be on Harry's tail. Oh, he was doing fine now, in Pittsburgh: Harry always came up smelling of roses. And now young Willie was off to join him.

‘Is that it, then, lad?' Dick asked when Willie delivered their Saturday cakes for the last time. America was the end of things, as far as my great-grandfather was concerned, the place where people disappeared off the map. ‘Who knows, Mr Nash?' said Willie, answering Dick, but looking at Annie.

He sailed on 18 January 1911, a few days short of his eighteenth birthday, but gave his age as twenty-one. Sometimes, you had to tell a story to get by.

Will Willie write or won't he? This question vexed my grandma; it also vexed her mother, who was none too keen on the thought of Willie Thompson writing from America. Betsy hoped Annie would forget him once the Atlantic Ocean was between them. Willie was not the young man she had in mind for her daughter, though Betsy knew better than to interfere. The lad's gone now. Let it rest.

‘
What Are Your Views? Do you think boys and girls ought to be
stopped by their parents from talking to one another or corresponding?
' Annie cut this article from a newspaper and pasted it into her commonplace book. ‘
Do you think a boy of 16 years ought to be stopped speaking to a girl of 16 years if there has been nothing said about their conduct? Don't you think a father and mother of a girl ought to let her speak to boys if she be under 21?
'

The editor asked his readers for their opinions on ‘this delicate subject'. Annie awaited their replies. ‘
We don't know much about the “ought” of the matter, but we should rather like to meet the parents who can
.' Snip, snip, snip went her scissors.

It was difficult to conceal correspondence when there were three posts a day and you were not in the habit of receiving letters. Whether Willie was forewarned of my great-grandma's views and judged circumspection the best course, or was too busy enjoying America, he appears to have been silent for much of the time, but he did not want my grandma to forget him. One May morning, a picture-postcard of the Commonwealth Building, Pittsburgh, landed on the corner shop's mat. Though addressed to Miss Annie Nash, it contained no greeting whatsoever, nor any indication of the sender, yet Willie's silent postcard reads like a declaration of intent.

L
IFE AT THE CORNER SHOP HAD SETTLED INTO A ROUTINE
– the family woken by the sound of workmen's boots striking cobbles on their way to early shifts at pit and foundry; deliveries from butcher, baker and wholesaler; the shunt and exhalation of trains pulling into the branch-line station, and the frequent rumble of passing trucks and coal carts. The rag-and-bone man and knife sharpener cried their wares from the top of the canal bridge, where the muffin man also stopped to ring his bell. A far less appealing sound was the lowing of cattle taking their last desperate stumble up to the slaughterhouse off Brimington High Street.

One of the more attractive sights to be seen from the sweet window was the bunting fluttering around the station for the Coronation of George V, and the neighbourhood parading its Sunday finest (and the power of Betsy's laundry soap). More entertaining still were the crowds emerging from excursion trains on Race Days, the local station being the closest to the Chesterfield course.

As in years gone by, race-goers were a mixture of pleasure seekers and ne'er-do-wells, all parties dressed to the nines. These days,
many more revellers travelled by train, and were as likely to be lured by the swing boats, roundabouts and helter-skelter as the actual races. Theirs was a procession to watch. It was well worth kneeling on the box to glimpse the effusive confections some of the women wore on their heads, a profusion of feathers, bows, silk flowers and birds; sometimes, a whole nest. (‘Isn't she the bobby dazzler. She must have raided Jenkins' window.')

There was a lot going on at the back door too. The family were seeing more of their neighbours via the house door as well as in the shop. There was always someone calling; if the shop was closed, they came round to the back. There were those who stood on the threshold, others who were invited into the room and a further select few, such as Mrs Graham, the publican's wife, and Dick's friend, colliery foreman Bob Britt, who were asked to sit down and talk.

No such hierarchy existed within the shop itself. Anyone could claim a seat on the box. Mildred Taylor was a frequent visitor. A hefty woman, whose bulk made Betsy fear for the sides of the crate, she walked to the shop via the canalside path and felt she'd earned a good chat when she got there. Her three sons were pit-pony drivers, whipping their charges along the underground road; a coveted job as well as a dangerous one, seven shillings and sixpence the weekly rate, though her lads did not say as much to her. They were becoming as close as their father, a collier himself, though too old for their daredevil game. Mildred's was a house full of swagger, the three young drivers as proud and fiery as the ponies they subdued. Looking at them now, it was extraordinary to think she'd dandled each one on her knee.