Mother Knew Best (8 page)

The older girls spent a lot of their time queuing at the shops for food. The rumour would spread, ‘They've got potatoes down Chrisp Street,' and they would be off like firemen sliding down poles. Hours later they would return like victors until Mother examined their buy and pronounced, ‘Why, these are no bigger than peas. How am I to feed my hungry family?'

Food became a bigger problem later on for Father was reported missing, so his allowance was stopped by the War Office immediately. After all, if there was no father working or fighting, Mother couldn't expect wages. Mother was so worried about Father being missing that she got in touch with the Prince of Wales relief organisation. I don't know whether they gave food tickets, but they were very kind and traced Father for Mother. One of his men had taken Father's disc by mistake and was found killed in the trenches. I thought Mother cried at strange things.

One day an aunt sent her a whole 10s. postal order and Mother cried. Our country aunts began to send Mother trunks of old clothes, and night and day she would make clothes for all of us, sitting on the pot board, or on her bed. She made shirts for the little boys out of the tails of uncle's old ones, little trousers out of big ones, frocks, petticoats and pinafores, and her needle would flash in and out. She pinned the material to her knee and I was always worried she would sew through her knee as well.

Winifred was a tower of strength during the war because she was never afraid. A girl guide, she decided to get ready, to ‘be prepared,' and she stressed this necessity to Amy who was in happy agreement. Winnie made what she called gunny bags, which were to hold all their treasured possessions. These bags would be tied round their waists at night after they had donned all the clothes they possessed. They had a difficult time climbing into bed each night so fully clothed were they, and much giggling and screaming went on before they finally achieved a horizontal position by rolling each other over. It was uncomfortable to sleep like that but if Winnie thought by being prepared she was doing the Germans one in the eye, that was all the encouragement she needed. Getting ready for work in the morning was a backward process. Winnie had been reading the
Hound of the Baskervilles
and one night she was reciting ‘No moon, no stars, no Jupiter or Mars,' when the house shook with an almighty bang and two enormous girls fell down the stairs to the kitchen. It was the first night Big Bertha had fired a salvo.

On the day that the North Street infants' school was hit, Mother had given me some red gooseberries and I was standing at the top of the Grove enjoying a feast. I was biting into each gooseberry saying, ‘Here's the church, here's the steeple…' when I noticed some aeroplanes overhead puffing little clouds of smoke. Then Big Bertha started firing. In spite of the bangs, I went on eating my lovely gooseberries and I was just thinking what a lot of hairs there were on them, when suddenly policemen came running along blowing whistles, stopping trams and carts and turning them all round again. I was just looking to see how many gooseberries I had left when across the road came a galloping coal-cart. The driver had on his back-to-front shovel hat and in the crook of one arm he was carrying a little boy who seemed asleep, but the little boy's face was covered with something scarlet and so was his shirt. Running behind the cart was a woman in a pinafore and behind her another little fair boy in a white shirt, but it was the fair boy's face that kept my gaze. He looked so frightened that I thought somebody must be after him. I went home to tell Mother and she cried and I wondered if she knew the frightened little boy. She said I must stay by the front gate in future and later I learned from some other children that seventeen children had been killed while I was eating my gooseberries and ever so many had been injured. Then I realised that the Germans did not stay at the front with my father. It was different at the top of the Grove when we saw the Zeppelin shot down in flames. Everybody danced and cheered.

At the beginning of the war Winnie was already working in the City and Amy started work during the war. I don't think they worked very hard because they used to meet during the day, making some excuse about taking messages. One day Amy was hanging about in Fenchurch Street for Winnie, when there was an air raid and a horse's head was blown off. Of course Amy became hysterical and some City men had taken her down a basement to shelter when a man rushed in and said a young girl had just been killed. Off went Amy again, ‘It's my sister, it's my sister,' she cried. A gentleman decided to escort Amy to Winnie's office to impart the sad news and when this sympathetic gentleman and a sobbing Amy arrived, Winnie was sitting in the outer office of her firm enjoying a large sticky bun. She was indignant at the fuss and said Amy was a stupid idiot and should get back to work. Poor Amy.

We would go for walks near the docks on Sunday mornings and wonder where the children were whose houses were cut in half. Once we saw a little kitten mewing and my friend took it home.

The King and Queen came to Poplar during the war to cheer us up and visit the little children injured at North Street school. They gave presents to the wounded children—one boy of four received a large coarse shirt for a working man, which had no collar. My friend said it would not fit the little boy's father for he was only a tiny man. It didn't seem fair to me that the little boy was injured and his father got the present, and suppose his father was in France, he might be killed and not need a working shirt.

Some friends of ours took shelter in a High Street school during the raids. They would all sleep in the hall of the school having been told it was the safest place in Poplar. Because the school was surrounded by streets of houses there was no room for a playground, and this had been built on top of the school and covered over by wire netting. The experts informed the shelterers that any bomb landing on Dingle Lane school would bounce off the wire netting, and I wondered if it would keep on bouncing until it reached the river.

By lucky chance Father and Arthur arrived home on leave from France on the same day and it was decided that a family portrait should be taken, not only as a monument to posterity, but as Mother sadly said, ‘It might be the last time the whole family are together.'

An appointment was made at Whiffen's the photographers in East India Dock Road for twelve people could not just march in on the off-chance, and a Sunday morning was arranged for this great event. All the girls, and the younger boys, were very excited, the girls rehearsing beautiful poses and romantic smiles ready for the day. Dad and Arthur spent hours on their spit and polish routine while Charlie ignored the whole proceedings.

Mother rose early on the Sunday morning to prepare as much of the dinner as possible, and after breakfast we younger ones were dressed in our Sunday best and asked to sit quietly until the older ones were ready. Cecil kept dashing off at every opportunity and had to be hauled back. In the end Mother had to change the boys' white blouses for blue jerseys. My frock wouldn't show the dirt because it was navy blue. Miss Cook, a court dressmaker, who lived next door but one and was very fond of us, had made it for me, and thinking it would please me she had made a bright silk collar for the plain frock. I loved the silky feel of the collar which was striped with all colours of the rainbow.

There were so many arguments for Mother to settle, so much pouring of oil on troubled waters, she had less free time than anyone for her own preparations. Agnes was in tears. Although she had a new cream tussore frock with a lace collar she also had new shoes, and she thought her frock would be too long and so hide her shoes. When Mother said the oldest ones would be at the back of the photograph, therefore her shoes would not show in any case, her tears flowed so fast she was advised to go and bathe her face. Winnie had won a watch. It was a cheap gun-metal affair but the first watch in the family and she was anxious to show it. Future evidence of her past affluence. Mother suggested that she stood behind Cecil and rested her hand and wrist on his shoulder. In this way not only would the watch be shown but it would also capture sisterly love, especially if Winnie wore a tender expression. Amy had hogged the mirror, not only to try out different hair styles but also different film star expressions. Mother said vanity was a besetting sin which Amy resented, to say the least of it.

Finally when we had all been inspected and passed muster Charlie was missing and to the family's disgust he appeared with a silk muffler around his neck. Father ordered him to put on a collar and tie, and when he finally appeared he was wearing a soft collar with his tie. There was no more time for any further delay and we all climbed up the wooden staircase to glorify and amaze the outside world (especially the neighbours). Father carried baby Marjorie, gave Mother his arm and the Sergeant and his Lady sailed down the Grove followed by the motley results of their union. Arthur, that immaculate soldier of the King, looked round at the rest of us, and, who shall blame him, decided he could not face public association with us and marched off alone, in a military manner, to Whiffen's. Agnes, still sniffing, took my hand, Winnie walked with her hand on Cecil's shoulder practising the watch position. Amy followed alone, checking that her two ribbon bows were still fluffed out, and David and Leonard didn't walk but seemed to fall about laughing at nothing.

As the photographer ushered us into his studio he gave Mother's hand a squeeze and whispered sympathetically that he was going to produce a wonderful photograph. I suppose he thought that, with two members in uniform and one more nearly of fighting age, it was a good-bye gesture. The studio was a dim musty-smelling room, something like a cavern. The walls appeared to be covered with a sort of shiny canvas on which had been painted rustic seats, urns of flowers, and in the centre, a large pink lady with fluffy dark hair, and a very low-necked flowing dress. She wore a rose for modesty at the bottom of her cleavage and, holding a fan, she was glancing up coyly at a young man in scarlet uniform. He had a sword at his side. As the canvas was somewhat cracked with age and bulged from the walls in places, at the entry of such a large number of people, some rushing, a displacement of air took place. The lovers' expressions changed so comically with the moving canvas that Len, who was really trying to control himself, let out a sort of high strangled squeak, which set half the family off into giggles.

At last the poor photographer got us all into position and more or less subdued but when he said, ‘Watch the birdie,' Len said to Dave, ‘Don't look up,' and the photographer flew out from under his large black cloth. But all was then still and silent. He said, ‘Now, all smile please,' but Winnie's arm bearing the watch had somehow crept right down to Cecil's hips. From then on it became a silent battle between the photographer and Winnie, she trying to judge the exact moment he would take the photo, he knowing she was doing this and determined to get the better of this obstinate female. All this time Amy had been taking her dramatic poses so that because of the prolonged battle which had been taking place, she had lost the sense of timing she needed to hold the pose long enough. At least the photo was taken when she wasn't ready, so the photographer had beaten Winnie in the end.

When the photograph was delivered at the little house it caused amusement, anger, satisfaction and disappointment according to each one's opinion of their ‘likeness.' Mother always took a good photograph. Dad looked like the father of Tallulah Bankhead. Arthur, left hand on hip, looked like a soldier for the Queen. Charlie was pleased his soft collar appeared as a muffler. Agnes and Amy, the two prettiest girls, came out the plainest, indeed Amy had moved and was on the cross-eyed side. It was obvious Len was trying to stop laughing and Cecil one could see had been giggling. David came out very sad-looking. The whole family agreed the photograph had been very kind to Dolly. At the time I was pleased with this unanimous compliment. Although Mother laughed every time she looked at it, she thought it was lovely and extravagantly ordered a framed enlargement which had a permanent place of honour on the front room wall at No. 13.

Father had the final word, apt as usual. He said we all looked a winkle-eyed lot.

We moved house during the war while Father, Arthur and Charlie were away. It came about in rather a strange way and I think it was because Mother had taught us all manners. Further down the Grove in one of the bigger houses lived a maiden lady, a Miss Walker. She would say, ‘Good morning, Mrs Chegwidden, I hope you and your family are well and you are still receiving good tidings of your men at the front.' Then Mother would say, ‘Good morning, Miss Walker. My family are all well, thank you, and I hear from my husband and the boys from time to time.' My mother always said, ‘My husband'; my friends' mothers would call their husbands either ‘Mr So and So' or ‘my old man,' but Mother never referred to my father as Mr Chegwidden, always without fail, ‘my husband.' Miss Walker was very fond of children and carried in her handbag a long round tin filled with peardrops, which she would offer to us children, and Mother told us not to rush up to Miss Walker because of the sweets. However, there was no danger we would miss a sweet by not tearing up through the little house to catch her as she passed, for she always hesitated and looked down at our area. She never gave us a sticky peardrop but always offered us the tin, and laughed at our struggles to take only one, often popping an extra one into our mouths.

She called on Mother one day to say she was moving to the country and if Mother would like her bigger house, no. 13, it would be 19s. per week and an agent would call every Monday for the rent. She added that she would very much like to feel that the dear children were living in her house, it would make her very happy. Mother was ‘over the moon,' not only because she hated the little house but because Miss Walker's offer was a compliment to her on the way she had tried to bring us up. Who else would have wanted such a crowd in a house they owned but dear Miss Walker?