Women on the Home Front (119 page)
Read Women on the Home Front Online
Authors: Annie Groves
Chris jerked her against him and kissed her hard on the mouth. âYou're bloody wonderful, know that? Not many girls would even dream of â¦'
âNever mind about other people,' she said briskly. âI reckon I could just about stand six months living here, if you can.'
âI can, Grace. And I'll find the best room there is and turn it into a little palace for you,' he vowed.
âGood. That's settled then.' She gave him a serene smile.
âIt's time to go and tell them,' Chris murmured against her forehead. âReady, Mrs Wild?'
Grace nodded and took a deep, inspiriting breath. Suddenly her smile wilted a bit. âWe're not going to ruin their party, are we, by telling them now? I'd sooner own up tomorrow if we might put a dampener on things.'
As Chris stepped out from behind the fire, Grace nibbled at her lower lip and remained in the shadows.
âWe could just say we've been held up somewhere then come clean another time,' she reasoned.
Chris held out his hand, beckoned. âCome on. Time to do it,' he gently urged. âThey've spotted us, anyhow.' He raised a hand to his father who'd stopped dancing with Pearl to squint at him. Stephen began striding towards him, his face splitting into a joyous grin of recognition. Suddenly Stephen turned to bawl out news of the couple's arrival to the others.
âNo going back, Grace,' Chris teased. âYou've got to pretend you're ten again and just jump with me, straight in at the deep end. Come on ⦠sink or swim together.' With her hand in his they went, laughing, to join their family.
Thanks to:
HBS for some amusing tales about building site shenanigans. Juliet Burton, Susan Opie, and last but by no means least, the great HarperCollins editorial team that commissioned this book to tie-in with our marvellous Queen's Diamond Jubilee Celebrations.
Kay Brellend, the third of six children, was born in North London but now lives in a Victorian farmhouse in Suffolk. Under a pseudonym she has written sixteen historical novels published in England and North America. This is her third novel set in the twentieth century and was inspired by her grandmother's reminiscences about her life in Campbell Road, Islington.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
East End Coronation Party © Hulton-Deutsch Collection/Corbis
East Ender Cleaning Doorstep © Hulton-Deautsch Collection/Corbis
Queen's Coronation Procession © Hulton-Deutsch Collection/Corbis
Party Smiles © Getty Images
Jolly Time © Getty Images
Sweet Gift © Getty Images
Coronation Party © Getty Images
Copyright © Kay Brellend 2012
Kay Brellend asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
EPub Edition © May 2012 ISBN: 978 0 00 748146 0
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LEAH FLEMING
The War Widows
For Jan, Madeleine, Menna, Lyneth, April, Kathryn and all the Lichfield Register friends, past and present.
‘We have eaten bread and salt together, sorrows and joys shared…’
Chapter 3 - An Unexpected Legacy
Chapter 4 - The Leftover Brides
Chapter 5 - The Day War Broke Out Again
Chapter 6 - Farewell to Freddie
Chapter 7 - The Olive Oil Hunt
Chapter 9 - Balancing Books and Entertaining Angels
Chapter 10 - Invitations to a Feast
Chapter 11 - Susan to the Rescue
Chapter 12 - The Olive Oil Club
Chapter 13 - A Dickens of a Christmas
Chapter 14 - Dancing in the Snow
Chapter 16 - The Joys of a Family
Chapter 17 - Cinderellas in Ballgowns
Chapter 19 - Changing the Guard
Chapter 20 - A Bit of Blackpool Air
Chapter 21 - Here Comes The Bride
Chapter 22 - Dancing in the Park
Chapter 24 - A
Brief Encounter
Moment
August 1947
Her big day was here at last, after all those years of daydreaming how it would be. The bride opened one eye and peered over her bedroom. It felt as if she’d been courting sleep all night and not a wink in her direction. But what sort of girl slept like a top on the eve of her wedding anyway? Except hers was the wakefulness of the wary, not the excitement of a nervous bride.
‘Bless the Bride’ was the popular song that went round and round in her head like a needle stuck on a gramophone record.
Her eyes skimmed across the room to where the outfit was hanging on the back of the door; not the white slub satin, cut on the bias, with beaded sweetheart neck the family would expect, nor the fancy rig-out that Princess Elizabeth would be wearing to parade down the aisle of Westminster Abbey in November. The linen two-piece suit was sensible, fit for the simplicity of Zion Chapel and all the dos thereafter. It would get a lifetime of wear
and probably be cut down into cushion covers or a kiddy’s party dress one day. This was 1947, after all, and there were few coupons to lavish on new clothing when there was a home to furnish.
It was just that she didn’t feel like a new bride-or a shop-soiled one either-and pink was not really her normal shade, but it would brighten up a grey Division Street for the few minutes it was on show.
Her ensemble was a modest Grimbleton version of the New Look that was all the rage in Paris, with its tight-fitted jacket and full skirt to her calf.
A year ago, she would never have imagined herself wearing anything so daring.
A year ago, she hadn’t even known the women who’d sewn it up, embroidered the lapels and sorted her matching gloves, hat and shoes with such loving care.
A year ago, they would’ve been just strangers’ faces in a crowded street.
A year ago, she would have chosen Glacier Mint white or caramel cream, not rose pink. What a colour to put on Lily May Winstanley!
She sank back down onto the bed with a deep sigh, burying her head under the eiderdown, not ready to face the morning. Who would she be at the end of this momentous day?
One thing was for certain. She owed everything to the bunch of dolly mixtures chance had thrown her way last November. Their arrival had turned her world upside down. Where would she be now without her Olive Oil sisters? What must she do next? How had it all begun?
Business as Usual
November 1946
It was a normal Monday washday rush at 22 Division Street, Grimbleton. First there was a mound of coloureds and whites to be sorted out, young Neville Winstanley’s silk blouses and knitted jumpers separated for hand washing, a pail of his soaking pants to be scrubbed, last week’s overalls from the market stall and Levi’s boiler suit left until last.
Polly Isherwood, the daily help, came in early to watch the setting-up of the new Acme Electric Agitator enthroned in the outside shed. Esme Winstanley came down in her tweed dressing gown to inspect the whole procedure. She still couldn’t believe a machine could do a week’s washing without shredding seams or blowing up the whole building.
‘If that thing tears all our smalls, don’t come asking me for coupons, Lil,’ she snapped at her daughter, never at her best first thing. ‘It’s the slippery slope to idleness in the home, relying on machines to do your dirty work.
I don’t trust those paddles. Whose big idea was this? Someone’d better stand over it, just in case.’
‘I’d have thought you of all women would be glad to see the back of all that slavery in the scullery, pounding dolly tubs and winding up the mangle. What’s wrong with a bit of help in the home?’ Lily argued back.
Mother was always preaching how women were the backbone of this country and had kept the Home Front going in two world wars. She had marched the streets in her Suffragette colours in her youth, on fire with indignation at not getting the Vote. Middle age was softening her militant ideas.
There was no time for anyone to be standing around like a statue with three generations in one house. The Winstanleys were lucky enough to be the first in the street to own this labour-saving device and Lily, for one, thought it was a godsend.
‘I’ve no time to stand and watch over it,’ she said. ‘Polly’ll be around for the morning. She’ll keep her eye on it with the handwritten instruction sheet stuck on the wall, and she can slip a few of her own things in the washer.’
‘All that electric it’s using up-what if the power goes off and all our week’s wash is trapped in the drum? Your father would turn in his grave…’ Esme snorted back, wanting the last word on the matter.
‘Don’t start all that again. Dad was all for progress. He’d be pleased no one has to rise before dawn to heat the copper boiler. We’re living in the modern age now. I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up.
Business is doing nicely; we’ve never missed an electric bill yet.’
‘When you’re a married woman with a home of your own you’ll worry about bills and lights left on. We’ve spoiled the lot of you, giving you driving lessons, a van and a fancy education. Now you’ve all got ideas above your station.’
There was no arguing with Esme when she had got her Monday mood fired up.
‘Oh, Mother! I’m duly grateful so let me get on with my breakfast or I’ll be late for work! There’s many round here who’d give their false teeth for an Acme.’
‘Lily, that’s very cruel. You know I can’t stand for long without my hip giving me jip.’
‘All the more reason to let Polly get on with her job then. That’s what we pay her for.’
‘I suppose so, but it doesn’t feel right to be standing around like Lady Muck, giving orders. It’s the thin end of the wedge. Vacuums, irons…it’ll be refrigerators next. It wasn’t like this in my day,’ Esme sighed.
‘Lil’s right for once. We’re the envy of the street for having a washing machine,’ said Lily’s sister-in-law, Ivy, from the doorway, carrying yet another armful of her little son’s clothing.
She was wearing her glamorous pink quilted dressing gown, which puffed out like a satin eiderdown. The effect was spoiled by a line of steel waving clips in her hair, making her look like one of Flash Gordon’s robots.
‘While I remember, Lil,’ she added. ‘Remind my husband to fetch some butterscotch sweets back from the Market Hall. Callard and Bowser’s, the best, not
that cheap stuff from the corner shop, and a quarter of dolly mixtures for the little laddie. No use me asking Levi, he’ll only forget.’