The Carpenter's Children (21 page)

‘It’s no good, Annie, I just can’t stand them Yeomanses.’

His wife didn’t answer; whatever Eddie thought of the Yeomanses, Annie was thankful for them, and their care for Mary and their expected grandchild, her baby.

Dolly’s was one of many small licensed music halls that had sprung up in London since the war. While museums and galleries had closed, the hectic search for pleasure led many a serviceman on his
all-too-brief
leave to places like Dolly’s in Lamp Street, just off Piccadilly, crowded to capacity night after night. Cinemas provided an escape from dreary reality with silent two-reeler films, and Londoners flocked to see Charlie Chaplin’s antics – but it was the live shows like the ones at Dolly’s that drew the men to see pretty, scantily dressed girls dancing, singing and posing in brilliant tableaux. The orchestra often consisted of only a piano, a violin and a clarinet, backed by a shirt-sleeved percussionist, banging a drum and clashing cymbals. The stage was small, but could be converted into three levels by the use of movable sections and a curving staircase down which the girls trooped in a line, one hand on hip and
bestowing dazzling smiles on their audiences, many of whom sat through the two nightly performances while the bar did a good trade in spirits, wines and beers.

Grace Munday was in the chorus line, having been introduced by Madge Fraser to Mr George Dean, the owner-manager of Dolly’s; he had nodded approval and passed her on to Mrs Moore the choreographer who trained the girls at rehearsals each morning, getting even the most unpromising of them to do high kicks. Grace soon established herself as a natural entertainer, and Mrs Moore put her into a quartet of girls who danced seductively to ‘Clair de Lune’, the dimmed lights and flimsy, floating dresses adding a dreamlike quality to their act; it met with tremendous applause. Mr Dean was frequently approached by eager patrons wanting introductions to one of the ‘Dolly Girls’, to take them out to one of the many supper clubs in the West End, hoping to enjoy a pretty girl’s company for an hour or two, before having to return to the trenches. They soon discovered that he felt responsible for his girls, and was careful about which ones he chose to take up these invitations; he preferred to arrange foursomes rather than couples, and had an agreement with Madge Fraser to see that all three of her fellow lodgers at 17 Lamp Street, which included Grace Munday, were home by midnight.

Grace relished her new life and its mood of
reckless gaiety which matched her own. She, who had been rejected by Lady Neville, Everham General Hospital and finally by her own parents, was now not only accepted but applauded; there was no reason to look back, only to enjoy the present, and not waste a single hour of it.

The Zeppelins having disappeared from the skies for several months, Londoners were dismayed when they returned at the end of September, dropping bombs that caused explosions and fires, indiscriminately killing and injuring civilians, and destroying their homes; but Britain was now better equipped and experienced at locating the airships in searchlight beams and then attacking with a newly developed explosive bullet that set fire to the great balloons on impact, illuminating the night sky with a blaze of white-hot flame as the airship fell to earth, an unearthly glow reflected in the Thames. People cheered in vengeful triumph at these awesome sights, but to the Rev. Richard Storey and his
daughter-in-law
it was like looking into the mouth of hell.

The bombs had brought terror and destruction to Bethnal Green and the parish of St Barnabas’, slum districts being as vulnerable as more salubrious areas. Some houses were damaged beyond repair and Isabel saw fire-blackened rooms exposed to public gaze, and broken furniture half-buried in brick dust; banisters could be seen still curving upwards after
the stairs had collapsed and the roof fallen in. Where the houses still stood, their shattered windows were replaced by sheets of cardboard, useless as soon as rain came and soaked it.

Isabel Storey stood before her looking glass in the room she had shared with Mark. It was morning, and time to get up. She pulled her nightgown up over her head, and before she dressed she appraised the reflection of her young naked body. Two years of marriage to an East End vicar had not changed her slim figure, but her face looked older than her twenty years. Anxiety for Mark, her brother Ernest and her sister Grace had brought shadows to her blue eyes, and there was a little droop to her mouth when in repose; but not at this moment, for she was smiling at the face which smiled back at her, rejoicing in the secret they shared – and which she did not want to share with anybody else but Mark, though as yet there was nothing definite to tell, because her period was only a few days overdue – and yet she
knew
, she was certain in her mind that Mark’s last night of desperate love-making, when he had finally and completely entered her, had begun the process of a new life taking shape within her, her child and Mark’s. She no longer saw his behaviour as brutal, but natural, a need to leave a child behind him as he faced death on the battlefield; it would be a part of him to love, nourish and care for, a reason to be courageous and resolute. She did not intend to tell
her parents and father-in-law until three months had passed; until then she would hug her secret to herself, a treasure hidden deep within her body.

She smoothed her hands down over her flat belly and smiled again at her mirrored image.

Number 17 Lamp Street was one of a row of solid terraced houses built in the mid nineteenth century as respectable West End residences for those making their way up in the world, but in the past two or three decades it had lost its former gentility and become shabby, verging on the disreputable, a dwelling place for second-rate actors, artists and musicians struggling to make a living. Since the turn of the century, however, it had begun to look up again: a public house known for its noise and rowdiness had now been closed, and an antique shop had opened, attracting bona fide collectors who welcomed the coffee shop next door. With the opening of Dolly’s at the Piccadilly end of Lamp Street, it had become acceptable, if not exactly fashionable as an address, with a quasi-Bohemian attraction very different from anything North Camp or Everham had to offer. The ground floor was rented to a small grocery and hardware shop, and the first floor was home to stage-struck young ladies employed by Mr Dean of Dolly’s. Madge Fraser occupied a good-sized room and Grace Munday a smaller one; another large room was shared by Iris and Audrey who did a high-wire
act as well as being in the chorus, and another small one called Number Four was occasionally occupied by visiting artistes. It was kept locked, and Madge Fraser had the key.

For Grace it was an ideal place to live, perfect in every way, and she was indebted to Madge for recommending it and welcoming her both as an entertainer at Dolly’s and a privileged lodger at number 17 Lamp Street, so conveniently near.

When Grace first found herself invited with Madge to a late supper after the show, by two young uniformed officers, she could hardly conceal her excitement. A taxi was booked to call at 17 Lamp Street at a quarter to eleven, giving the girls time to change into suitable dresses, and to reapply the face powder and lipstick which every smart young woman seemed to be using nowadays. The two officers were charming, and whether they were named Donald and Ronald, or John and James, or Simon and Peter, their names tended to be forgotten after they had gone back to the trenches, to be replaced by two other charming officers in need of a pretty girl’s company for an all-too-brief hour. After a glass or two of wine, Grace entertained them with stories of her experiences at Stepaside with Mrs and Miss Brangton and Mrs Bentley-Foulkes, which they found highly amusing; Madge joined in the reminiscences of the Railway Hotel, and Grace could do a splendid imitation of CC, Tubby and Ratty – though her horrifying ordeal
at the hands of Tupman was always avoided; she felt a certain vengeful glee in mimicking his surliness, making him into a figure of fun when the revelation of his treatment of Ratty earned him the sack.

Driving back in a taxicab with Donald’s arm around Madge and Ronald’s around hers, Grace’s heart fluttered when she felt a gentle kiss on her cheek and then on her lips. He whispered, ‘You’re the sweetest girl, and it’s been a wonderful evening. I’ll think of you when I’m…oh, if only…’

Madge exchanged kisses and whispers with the other doomed youth, and when the taxicab reached 17 Lamp Street, both girls put their arms around the men’s necks and gave them what Madge called ‘a proper kiss and cuddle’ before saying a last goodnight and hurrying up the dark stairs to their rooms in 17 Lamp Street.

So conveniently near…

The platoon had been marching all afternoon on a road crisping with frost, and it was almost dark when they finally arrived at Famechon, once a pretty village with a stone church standing among farms, but now a wasteland, deserted and forlorn, with scarcely a sign of human or animal life, save for two thin cows grazing on withered brown grass between the shell holes; there were no horses, pigs or chickens to be seen. The farmhouse was without a roof, and the outbuildings were in ruins except for an ancient cow byre.

The ten men made for the battalion headquarters, the colonel’s dugout at the side of the yard, where they were awaited by two of their number who had gone on ahead. It was deep and dry, warmed by an oil stove and the body heat of the men who now
crowded into it, footsore, hungry and tired out. They could not take off their boots or their mud-stained puttees, their socks had not been off their feet for three weeks, and their underclothing was lice-ridden; with their gaunt, unshaven faces they were grotesque shadows of the eager young men who had enlisted to fight for their country. Now they gathered round the stove, setting aside their discomforts as they hungrily consumed scalding hot tea and slices of bread and jam; then they slept where they sat, arms and legs entwined, heads lolling on each other’s chests or bellies for a few blessed hours of release from the horrors they had so far survived. An unearthly quiet wrapped around them; there were no exploding shells and whizz-bangs, no machine gun fire, no screams and groans of the injured and dying. Nobody noticed when two of them quietly got up and climbed out of the bunker.

‘Come on, let’s go to the byre, Ernest, just the two of us,’ whispered Aaron. ‘I noticed there was some straw in there, and a blanket we can use to cover ourselves.’

Above them the frosty night was full of stars as they settled down fully dressed upon the straw, wrapped in the rough horse blanket left by previous occupants. Aaron fell asleep instantly, and Ernest marvelled at the peace that surrounded them.

I’m
happy
, he reflected in astonishment; it’s
happiness
I feel at this moment, lying beside him I
love more than life. For months they’d campaigned together, faced death and every kind of misery – hunger, exhaustion, their bodies itching from lice and sore from scratching – yet they’d teased each other, quoted bits of poetry, shared their deepest thoughts, consoled by each other’s company.

As Ernest drifted into sleep, Aaron stirred and briefly awoke. Soon we shall have to go back to the front line, he thought, the stinking mud of the trenches, the constant battering of shells flying over No Man’s Land, the rotting bodies of men and horses, the ever-present fear of death. And yet it has taken this cruel war to make me understand at last how truly I love this dearest of friends, more than I could ever love a woman. Ah, Ernest, I’d rather be in the trenches with you, facing danger and death, than to be safe at home without you.

And so for a few hours they slept in deep peace with their arms around each other, closer than brothers.

Fog hung over London, and Mrs Mark Storey lit the gas mantle at three o’clock in the grey November afternoon; seated at her husband’s desk, she began to write a careful letter to her parents, telling them of her news and emphasising how well she felt, now three months into her pregnancy.

‘Please do not worry about me,’ she wrote, knowing that they would want her to come home.
‘I am convinced that the Lord wants me to stay here with the people I have grown to love and respect. They would miss me, and heaven knows I would miss them if I were to return to North Camp. Mark is not here to serve them, and his dear father needs my support in caring for the parish, especially those women and children whose menfolk are away fighting this hateful war. News from the front is rather vague, and I’ve had only one brief letter from Mark which took over a month to arrive. The men are not allowed to give details of times and places, for fear of giving information to the enemy. I have written to him to tell him about the baby which the midwife here says will be born in May. Dear Mum and Dad, I am so happy, and I thank the Lord for sending me this precious blessing.’

Isabel sat for a few moments before dipping her pen in the inkwell again. She knew that her parents worried about her, and that there was little she could say to reassure them. With the ending of the Zeppelin raids, London was now facing a new danger: enemy aeroplanes which came over to drop explosive bombs on the city, aiming with greater accuracy than the airships had. If aerial bombing were to take place on a large scale, as some predicted, Isabel had no fear for herself – but what about the baby, hers and Mark’s? Would it be fair to stay in London, exposing the child to danger? She had prayed to be given the right guidance, and decided to wait for the time
being, and see if the air raids increased. She had grown fond of her father-in-law who she considered worked too hard for a man of his age, and she knew that he depended on her support.

Picking up her pen again, she wrote, ‘I am so sorry to hear that Grace has not re-appeared, and I can give you no news of her. She knows where I am, and surely knows that I would be overjoyed to see her if she came to me. I’m thankful at least that you have had a postcard from her. Have you had any news of Ernest? The Schelling and Pascoe families have received a letter from Aaron, they told me. They live in Tamarind Street in Whitechapel, and manage a small tailoring business there.’

She paused again. Her father-in-law had thought it strange that an Anglican vicar’s wife should visit a Jewish family, but Isabel was sure that her brother Ernest would have appreciated it, and news of Aaron meant news of Ernest too. And soon there would be another recruit to the army: Aaron’s younger brother Jonathan was now eighteen and so due to be called up. Isabel shivered; oh, when would all this fighting and killing come to an end?

She sighed, realising that she was tired, and brought her letter to an end. It was now time to tell her father-in-law and Mrs Clements, also the headmistress of Barnett Street School, for she would not be able to continue teaching after the February half-term, when her condition would have started to
show, and could be a secret no longer. She thought again of the night when conception had taken place, and longed with all her heart to see her husband again, and to hold him close against her body and their child growing within her.

Tom Munday’s thoughts were far from hopeful as he worked on a new kitchen table for Hassett Manor, and he suspected that Lady Neville had ordered it just to give him work. Carpentering jobs were not easy to come by, and there was almost no outdoor work at all: farmers mended their own fences and gates, and Harry Hutchinson’s team could replace roof tiles and repaint door frames; the builder was quick to canvass work that should rightly be Tom’s or Eddie Cooper’s.

Poor old Eddie, he was going through a fiery hoop, and no mistake, thought Tom. Some people were so unkind about his daughter being six months’ gone, and although she never left the farm, gossip could see through walls, and Mary’s plight was known in North and South Camp, with much head shaking and reference to her mother, as if Joy Cooper’s alcohol addiction could affect her daughter’s morals. Tom Munday was angry on Eddie’s behalf, and only wished that he could do something for the friend who had always shared his own troubles. Violet had been like all the rest of the women, condemning Mary as a girl no better than she should be, and
the identity of the child’s father was discussed with a certain relish; while anybody might assume that Dick Yeomans had taken advantage of her before he went away, there was always the possibility that his name was used to cover up for some other man, now that Dick was dead and unable to clear his name. When Tom Munday rebuked his wife for repeating such idle speculation, she had rounded on him and accused him of showing more sympathy to Eddie Cooper and his wayward daughter than to herself, who dreaded every minute to hear that their own son had gone the same way as poor Dick Yeomans, whose death had made him a faultless hero.

The latest news from Eddie was that Sidney Goddard had come to him after dark to avoid being seen, and had told him that Mary was very unhappy and cried a lot. When Sidney had shyly asked her what was the matter, she’d burst into another gush of tears and said that the Yeomanses were only keeping her at the farm because of Dick’s baby, and that when the child was born they would take it from her and bring it up as their own, because after all it was their grandchild, and Mary feared being sent away. Sidney had tried in his way to comfort her, but to no avail; and remembering Eddie’s request that he should keep an eye on Mary and report anything upsetting her, he had duly come to her father.

‘He didn’t actually say she was being badly treated, Tom,’ said Eddie, ‘just that she was unhappy
and afraid they’d dismiss her after the baby’s born. I s’pose they’d keep her on as long as she was feedin’ it, but they could turn her out as soon as it’s weaned.’ Eddie spoke contemptuously, and went on, ‘Y’know, Tom, I never did think much o’ them Yeomanses, and if she feels bad enough for
Sidney
to notice, she must be really upset and feelin’ alone when it’s just the time she ought to be calm an’ easy in her mind. But what the devil can
I
do, Tom? Go an’ see her an’ tell her to come home to me and Annie? Y’know there’s always been ill feelin’ there, though not on Annie’s part.’

Tom Munday listened in silence, frowning as he pondered over Eddie’s dilemma; then he looked up and asked a question.

‘What does young Goddard think, d’ye suppose? Does he like Mary?’

‘Well, yeah – enough to come and tell me about her. Why?’

‘How d’ye think he’d feel about marryin’ her, Eddie?’

‘Good God, no! A booby like young Goddard marryin’ my girl? Not likely!’

Eddie looked quite offended, and Tom thought it wise not to continue along that train of thought; but the seed had been sown, and Eddie could think it over and perhaps change his mind. Stranger things had happened.

‘At least you know where your daughter is, Eddie,’
he said. ‘We’ve only had two postcards from Grace, and no real news on either o’ them, just that she’s got a job and lodgings in London.’

Eddie looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, Tom. I hope she’ll see sense one o’ these days. And – what about Isabel?’

Tom’s mouth hardened into a straight line. ‘We’ve just had a letter from her. She’s expecting, too – after Mark Storey as good as promised me and his father that there’d be no children until the war was over, whenever
that’ll
be. And now he’s gone off to be an army chaplain over there, and she’s on her own in a slum parish and says she’s going to stay there. God knows whether he’ll come back or catch a bullet like Dick Yeomans. And now Jerry’s sending over aeroplanes to drop bloody bombs on London, so – these are bad times all round, Eddie.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. How old is she now, your Isabel?’

‘Not quite twenty-one.’

‘Old enough to have a kid, and she’s the sort that’d look after it well. So, Tom, we’re both goin’ to be granddads, then.’

The two men looked at each other with a rueful smile; there just weren’t any more words to say.

‘She did, she took him upstairs, Grace – we saw ’er, didn’t we, Audrey?’

‘You mean – she took him up into her room?’ asked Grace incredulously.

‘No, they went into Number Four,’ said Iris. ‘We ’eard the key turn in the lock.’

‘And…er, when did he leave?’ Grace inquired.

‘Dunno, but it must’ve been well after midnight, ’cause we was both fast asleep, wasn’t we, Audrey?’

Grace considered this piece of information about Madge Fraser, the friend who had been so good to her, introducing her to Dolly’s and thereby changing her life. Now that she came to think of it, there
had
been times lately when she had heard unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs of 17 Lamp Street, and the sound of a door opening and shutting after Iris and Audrey had gone to bed. And the last time that she and Madge had been taken out for supper by two servicemen, Madge and her escort had disappeared while Grace was still having a long goodnight kiss and cuddle in the back of the cab with hers; the driver didn’t mind, it added to the fare and meant a good tip. When Grace had finally extricated herself from the arms of her admirer and run up the stairs to the first floor, there had been no sign of Madge, and Grace
assumed that she had cut short the ritual goodnight kiss and gone to her room without waiting for her friend. But after hearing the high-wire girls’ story, she began to wonder; had Madge really taken her fellow to her room? And was it a regular occurrence? Grace told herself that it was no business of hers, but she was troubled by it, and wondered if she should speak to her friend and find out for certain what was going on. Madge had become a self-assured woman of the world since their days at the Railway Hotel – but this was surely going too far, if it was true.

In fact, it was Madge who spoke first.

‘Come on, lazybones, it’s only three weeks to Chris’muss!’ she cried, bouncing on Grace’s bed. ‘It’s gorn ten o’clock, time yer was up an’ doin’!’

Grace yawned and marvelled at her friend’s exuberance. None of the girls were early risers, having been on stage the evening before at Dolly’s. ‘Shouldn’t we be at rehearsal with Mrs Moore?’ she murmured, sitting up and stretching her arms.

‘Nah, it’s Sat’day, an’ Sybil Moore’s gorn off Chris’muss shoppin’, an’ that’s what
we’re
goin’ to do, soon as ye’ve shifted yer carcase out o’ that bed an’ put on some clo’es. C’mon, we’ll parade oursel’s down Piccadilly an’ see what’s on offer!’

‘I…I haven’t got a lot of spare cash, Madge,’ Grace admitted, turning down the corners of her mouth. She quite often found herself short of ready
cash, and wondered how Madge managed to look so smart; today she was wearing a dark-blue hobble skirt with a tight navy jacket with white piping that showed off her waist to perfection. Her blonde hair was pinned up, and two stray locks were carefully arranged to fall in front of her ears when her
wide-brimmed
hat was put in place.