Lemon Sherbet and Dolly Blue (13 page)

Annie was not entirely sure why Willie had come back. If she asked outright, Willie would say was she fishing for a compliment, or simply shrug his shoulders and smile. And Willie only had to smile, and she was done for. If Annie had to find one word to describe the effect Willie Thompson had on her it would be ‘dazzled'. His smile, his eyes, his hair: the number of times she mentioned his forget-me-not blue eyes and corn-coloured hair,
you would think him the most handsome man on earth, and so he was to Annie soon enough.

‘Who's Willie Thompson when he's at home?' her father teased her, though Dick knew perfectly well who Willie Thompson was, and only asked to watch Annie blush. Betsy said very little about Willie's reappearance, but the fact that she said little, made her opinion clear enough. She could not fathom what her daughter saw in him, compared with good, kind, reliable George.

Are School Teachers Stuck Up?
This question, being asked about ‘lady teachers', now that there were even more of them in evidence, was the title of another article that found its way into Annie's commonplace book, and had a particular piquancy for her around this time. ‘
The constant quick speaking as she instructs her class… is apt to give her conversation a dictatorial tone [but] when a school teacher has the good sense and good feeling to make the most of her opportunities, then indeed a man may search the whole world over before he finds a more delightful person… the woman with a trained intelligence is able not only to rule her household wisely and well, but be a good companion for her husband
.'

Willie Thompson's education could not compare with Annie's or that of his rival, George (just as theirs suffered in comparison with college-educated teachers). Willie had left school at the age of twelve, dragged away from classes by his father who obtained an exemption to get him into work as soon as possible. What did a lad want with school? Joiner, farmer, coffin-maker,
master
builder, or so he claimed, in later years (‘Oh ay?' I hear my great-grandma say), William Thompson senior had never put much faith in learning, or in idealistic dreams, come to that. A taciturn man with enormous pride in his own achievements, he was nevertheless
curmudgeonly with his eight children. Though he helped with deliveries in the bakery's early days, he watched his eldest son build the business in silence – and worse. When Jim earned his first hundred pounds, he bought himself a pair of shoes, the first leather shoes – proper lace-up shoes, not working boots – he'd ever owned, with a pattern pricked out on their perfect toes. His mother shared his pride at what they represented. When she'd finished admiring them, Jim left them on the hearth, where he found them the next day, chopped into half a dozen pieces. His father had taken an axe to their smooth black leather. It didn't do to flaunt your hopes before William Thompson senior. Whatever dreams young Willie had, he made damn sure he kept them to himself.

Willie was working for his brother once again, and paying court with smiles and songs and fancy cakes and scones. He was winning rosettes and national medals too. He could bake enormous loaves shaped like sheaves of wheat or corn, and decorate cakes with elaborate icing that carried off first prizes in competitions. His skills helped put Jim's business on the map. Thompson's became a ‘gold medal' bakery, a thriving, expanding concern. Their baby brother Bernard also joined the firm; as soon as he left school, he took over the deliveries from their father.

Jim Thompson had political ambitions and was already learning that connections are made and influence wielded via social engagements and conversations with the right people. Shortly after his return, Willie invited Annie to a garden party held by Jim and his wife, Edith, where tea was served in fine china cups and women with lace parasols ate strawberries from little glass dishes. Afternoon tea and parasols, and tales of Willie's American adventure – Annie felt quite giddy.

In the summer of 1915, Jim was appointed to Chesterfield's Urban District Council. Never one to do things by halves, he hired a tram to drive along Whittington Moor and stood on the platform, the man of the day, thanking all those who'd cast their vote for him. Annie and Willie were among the half dozen invited to make up the party. She spent hours trimming her hat (shaped like a giant upturned soup plate, as was the fashion then) with an abundance of silk flowers in order to look her best for the occasion. Standing on the open deck beside Jim and Edith and their close friends, Annie and Willie leaned against the rail and waved to the pedestrians below. There was something faintly regal about their progress along the Moor in their own special car with its chocolate and yellow livery, its windows plastered with can-do posters of Jim. For all that it was wartime, the day had a holiday atmosphere: it was a relief to have something to celebrate.

George was still around – George was always around – and knowable in a way Willie was not. He asked Annie out on two or
three occasions and was a dear, kind friend, but he did not make her heart leap or her fingers stutter over the buttons on her gloves when his sleeve brushed against hers, as Willie's had on the open deck of the tram. George invited Annie to accompany him to a wedding. Which was all very nice, but when the photographer required the guests to position themselves, Annie hung back. She was the only one who was not part of the family.

In case she needed reminding of
his
interest, Willie sent Annie another silent card. This one, dashed into the post with stamp askew, came from nearby Staveley, and showed a picture of the Thompson's bakery cart. Though more prosaic than a Pittsburgh scene, its message was loud enough.

But this was 1915, and there was a larger story taking place. All over the country, fit young men were deciding whether to do their bit and volunteer. In July, George enlisted.

A
T THE CORNER SHOP, THE
G
REAT
W
AR STARTED WITH A
scramble for food. Everyone anticipated shortages. Anyone with any pennies to spare bought extra tea and sugar; Mrs Graham wanted the largest tin of golden syrup my great-grandma could supply.

Eva was chosen to be Britannia and lead a fund-raising parade which wound through Brimington, down into Wheeldon Mill and back up the hill again, following the colliery band. Neighbours stood on their doorsteps and Betsy left the shop to see Eva enthroned, with helmet, shield and trident (garden fork), in a dress made over especially for the occasion. Her float was festooned with Union Jacks and garden flowers and accompanied by half a dozen younger children in assorted national dress – handmaidens from Wales, Scotland, Ireland, India, the Colonies. One young lad, intended to represent the globe, looked stuffed to bursting, showing off all the pink bits on the map. ‘John Bull', ‘Peace' and Red Cross nurses marched behind them.

Gradually, the local landscape changed. Men still worked the pit – coal was essential – but anyone travelling into Chesterfield
saw the khaki tide transforming its pavements. The Brimington Parish Magazine published its own Roll of Honour, listing local heroes who joined the Colours. Some were in a great hurry to join up, others harried into it by recruiting sergeants. Young Rolly Cook signed his papers before August 1914 was through, and came into the shop to announce that he was a soldier.

Kathleen Driver would have packed her husband off in a jiffy if she could, but as a winder at the colliery, he was secure. Instead, she bought a cake of laundry soap and rubbed it across the stairs and along the edge of each tread. ‘The bugger's still standing, though,' she told Betsy. She'd hoped the brute would slip and break his neck. The next time Betsy saw Harold he was wearing his weekend suit and Sunday muffler, and heading for the Great Central Hotel. He raised his cap, as usual: ‘Afternoon, Mrs.' You would think that butter wouldn't melt.

Ethel's younger brother Sid, her nearest in age, had his portrait taken in uniform and presented a copy to Betsy, practising a confident air his eyes disputed. Jimmy Frith did the same, his cheeky smile captured for ever in black and white. Someone gave Betsy a small album for these and other photographs neighbours' sons started bringing in to the shop. There they all were in their caps and insignia, looking like they'd borrowed their fathers' clothes. Most managed a smile, some looked wary; one, completely petrified. His under-exposed image seemed bleached with fear. The album was so discreet it could be tucked into a pocket, safe from harm, which was more than could be said for the lads themselves.

Eva turned fourteen during the First World War and started working alongside Betsy. She was quick at mental arithmetic, deft at transferring flour and sugar from the sacks on the floor to the
small bags on the counter (blue bags for sugar, white for flour). Standing all day was tiring, and shifting sacks of chicken feed heavy work, but she loved greeting customers and was much happier serving behind the counter than reciting the Rivers of England for Miss West.

The stock acquired a patriotic flavour:
Bovril gives strength to win
…
Don't Forget the Man at the Front. Post him Oxo Cubes. They Warm, Invigorate and Sustain in a Moment.
Shopping lists began to include little extras that could be parcelled up and sent to France: a bar of Cadbury's or Five Boys; a packet of shortbread; a Christmas tin of Doncaster Toffee; plus liberal quantities of Keating's Powder and Hawley's I.K: Destroys Insects, Vermin & Body Parasites.

Uniformed portraits notwithstanding, there was still the tramp of boots to the pit. Derbyshire farmers complained of the number of colliery workers exempt from soldiering compared with those drawn from the land. The nation needed food as much as coal: what was the point of decimating the farms?

George was granted embarkation leave and came to the house to say his farewells. He looked broader in uniform, as if he'd grown into himself; the war put meat on his bones. Before leaving to catch his train, George also presented Dick and Betsy with a photograph. It was a much larger picture than those of local lads, and a fitting image of the young man my great-grandparents regarded so highly. There are no comparable portraits of Willie.

There is a photograph of Willie from around this time, however. He's in mufti still and is looking quite the dandy, with a centre parting in his hair. The gold watch chain clipped to a waistcoat button grins twice over and almost as broadly as Willie. His hands
are in his pockets and he's lolling in his chair (two counts of etiquette dashed in one go). Annie stands beside him, her hand on his left shoulder. She looks as if she is claiming a prize.