The Carpenter's Children (22 page)

‘Don’t worry, duck, I can lend yer a bob or two if yer see somethin’ yer fancy. I got to get a present for me sister an’ ’er two little darlin’s – they’re gettin’ bigger, an’ so’s she, there’ll be another of ’em soon!’

Grace got out of bed and went to the shared lavatory and washroom. She quickly dressed, and applied bright-red lipstick, peering into the small mirror on the dressing table. She put on her hat and gloves and picked up her leather handbag.

‘I’m ready,’ she said.

‘Cor! Ain’t yer got a better one than that?’ asked Madge, looking at the worn state of the leather. ‘I’ll treat yer to a new one at Selfridges.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t let you do that,’ Grace replied, following her friend down the stairs and out into Lamp Street.

‘Let’s start ’ere in Piccadilly,’ said Madge, linking arms with Grace. ‘We’ll find oursel’s a nice little tea shop, somethin’ like that posh one you worked at in Everham – what was it called, Stop an’ Spend?’

‘No, Stepaside,’ laughed Grace, remembering Mrs Bentley-Foulkes.

Seated at a table by a window, Madge gave Grace a long, appraising look.

‘Ye’re a proper little beauty, Grace. Sybil Moore says so, and so do the fellers who come to Dolly’s,’ she remarked pointedly.

Grace flushed slightly and gave a modest shrug. ‘Nice of you to say so.’

‘Aw, come on, duck, don’t try to make out ye’re that innocent! Listen. Yer could earn three times as much as old George Dean doles out to us girls,
and
give the boys a treat before they go back to them bloody trenches. Ye’re brilliant when we’re out for supper with a couple o’ fellers, an’ ye’re not so bad with the kissin’ an’ cuddlin’ bit – an’ it’s only a short step from that to a bit of the other, d’yer see what I mean? Yer must do, ye’re blushin’ red as a beetroot!’

‘Yes, Madge, I think I do, but I’ve never ever done it before.’

‘Come orf it, yer must’ve done! Wasn’t there some bloke yer met at the Railway ’Otel? Yer used to meet ’im on yer way ’ome, same time as I was seein’ Sergeant Samms. Look, Grace, there’s an army captain got ’is eye on yer, ever so ’andsome, a proper gent, an’ Sybil can arrange for yer to meet ’im an’ bring ’im to number 17, an’ I’ll see that room Number Four’s ready, unlocked with the key on the inside, easy as winkin’!’

‘But Iris and Audrey will see!’ said Grace, quite shocked. ‘And hear! They’ve seen an’ heard
you
!’

Madge laughed. ‘Poor things, it gives ’em somethin’ to talk about. Now, then, shall I tell Sybil that ye’re on, so’s she can make arrangements with this ’ere captain, and I’ll let yer know what day, or rather night, an’ see that Number Four’s ready with a bottle o’ bubbly on the table. Yer don’t ’ave to ask for any money, he’ll pay Sybil before’and, an’ she’ll pass it on through me to you. What d’yer think, little Gracie?’

‘Oh, no, Madge, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I thought Mr Dean was so particular about us girls, accepting invitations to supper—’

‘Christ Almighty, don’t tell ’
im
nothin’! Mrs Moore’s in charge o’ room Number Four, an’ she lets the ol’ fool go on thinkin’ we’re all as untouched as nuns.’ Madge laughed heartily at Grace’s embarrassment. ‘Think o’ the Chris’muss presents ye’d be able to buy, an’ new clo’es an’ ’andbag for yeself!’

Grace swallowed, and made herself look Madge in the eyes. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Madge, and I’m grateful, but wouldn’t that mean…some people would call it…I mean, isn’t it selling your body?’

‘Good grief, ’ark at you! If ye’re tryin’ to say “prostitute”, that’s a different thing altogether,’ replied Madge in mock horror. ‘Prostitutes are them women who line up in Piccadilly an’ Leicester Square, lookin’ to pick up a man, any sort o’ man, an’ give ’em a good spend. Dolly’s girls ’ave it all arranged
before’and by Mrs Moore, and she sees that it’s all fair an’ above board. Now, if yer don’t want to meet this captain, I won’t try to persuade yer, just think about it, that’s all. C’mon, let’s go to Selfridges in Oxford Street, an’ see all the nice things yer could buy if yer ’ad a spare fiver or two.’

Grace found herself being led to the various departments of the famous store, the counters full of gloves, scarves, brooches, belts and purses, and upstairs the dresses, blouses, skirts and petticoats – and the hats and shoes she would have loved to buy for herself. Madge spent extravagantly, and treated them both to scrambled eggs on toast in the restaurant, finishing with ice-cream. She made no attempt to try to change Grace’s mind, and was not at all put out by her friend’s rejection of a good offer. Give her time, she thought, just give her time.

Tom Munday’s words went round and round in Eddie Cooper’s head, and after a while they took root and became a possibility. Should he speak to Mary? No, he must first sound out Sidney Goddard, and if he refused, Mary need never be told.

So Eddie took the bull by the horns, as he later expressed it to Tom Munday, and went to Yeomans’ farm one cold December morning, at the time he knew Sidney would be at the piggery.

‘G’mornin’, Sidney!’

‘’Morning, Mr Cooper!’

Eddie hesitated, bracing himself for what might be an acutely embarrassing exchange. There was no point in beating about the bush.

‘About my daughter Mary, Sidney – is she any happier these days?’

Sidney stood up straight and pushed his cap back. ‘Yes, I think she’s looking a bit better now, Mr Cooper. I- I try to talk to her when we’re on our own in the kitchen, but that doesn’t happen very often.’

This sounded encouraging, thought Eddie. ‘No I don’t s’pose it does,’ he said, ‘but tell me somethin’, Sidney, and I’ll never repeat it to another soul. Y’know that my Mary’s expectin’ in February?’

‘Y-yes, I do know that, Mr Cooper, and I’m very sorry.’

‘
You’re
sorry? Why, are you responsible?’ asked Eddie, knowing full well that Dick Yeomans was the father.

Sidney flushed. ‘Of course not, Mr Cooper, it happened before I came to work here. I meant that I’m sorry she’s in such a…a situation, at the mercy of the Yeomanses.’

‘Ah, Sidney, I’m glad to hear you say that. S’pose it was in your power to help her, would you do so?’

Sidney shifted his feet and looked self-conscious. ‘How exactly do you mean, Mr Cooper?’

‘By marryin’ her, Sidney. She’s not a bad girl, she’s just been unlucky. She’s a good cook and house cleaner, and would make any man a good wife. I’d
help out with any expenses, and I’d pay the rent if you moved into that little white cottage by the Blackwater bridge. What d’you say?’

Sidney was clearly taken aback, but not offended. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Mr Cooper, it’s very sudden to make a decision about something as important as that. I-I’d need time.’

‘D’you like Mary?’

‘Yes, yes, of course I do, but I don’t know if she likes me, Mr Cooper. We’ve never spoken about anything like this.’

‘Then it’ll be up to her to accept or turn you down. Time’s gettin’ on for her, and if you agree to ask her before the week’s out, I’ll drop her a hint, so’s she’ll be prepared.’

‘But what about my job here?’ asked the bewildered Sidney, still unable to take in what was being put to him.

‘You could carry on with it. Blackwater Bridge isn’t far.’

‘B-but what about the Yeomanses?’

‘What about them? They can’t stop you marryin’ her, and her child will be a Goddard, and legitimate.’

‘And what about my parents?’ asked Sidney helplessly.

‘What have they got to do with it? You’re a grown man, aren’t you? Look here, Sidney, I’ll give you till the weekend. And the final decision will be Mary’s.
If she says yes, I’m on your side, and you can count on me to help in any way I can.’

There was a long pause, and Eddie was about to take his leave, but a change came over Sidney, who suddenly seemed to make up his mind. He stood up straight and tall, looking Eddie full in the face.

‘All right, Mr Cooper, I’ll ask her – and there’s no need for you to speak to her first, because I’d rather she didn’t know that we’ve talked about her. If Mary’s willing to take me on, I’m prepared to marry her and look after her and the baby.’

Eddie’s eyes were moist as he held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Sidney. You won’t regret it, I’m sure.’

The minister at South Camp Methodist Church was not won over by the offer of money from the bride’s father. It was young Mr Goddard’s urgent need to marry the listless, pregnant girl that persuaded him to agree to a quick, quiet wedding just before Christmas, the news of which rapidly spread. The fury of the Yeomanses provoked a second wave of gossip in North Camp, and opinions about the match were divided: there were those who thought that Goddard was actually the father of the unborn child, and those who believed that Eddie had offered him his life savings to make it worth his while to take on Dick Yeomans’ child. Generally speaking, Sidney’s image was enhanced, especially when it became known – and the story lost nothing in the 
telling – that he and old Yeomans had had a
stand-up
row in the farmhouse kitchen that had almost come to fisticuffs.

‘Yeah, Tom, we got them Yeomanses over a barrel!’ chortled Eddie with satisfaction. ‘If they was to sack Sidney, he’d leave the farm, takin’ Mary with him as his wife, carryin’ the child who’ll be registered a Goddard when it’s born. Besides which, they can’t manage without Sidney now, he’s worked like a slave all hours, in all weathers, learnin’ to be a stockman to be relied on. Short sight ain’t a handicap when ye’re workin’ with cows and pigs, or sittin’ up behind them two great shire horses ploughin’ a field. Sidney’s been up early on dark mornin’s, freezin’ cold, to dig turnips and mangolds for winter feed, chilblains on his hands and feet…’

‘So, not such a booby after all,’ grinned Tom Munday slyly.

‘No, I never should’ve said that, Tom – and I owe you a lot, too, for bringin’ it about. And not only that, but somethin’ else – when Mrs Yeomans got huffy with Mary over it, Sidney told her she should make it up with my Annie, and brought her round to see us. Mary burst into tears, but I stood back and left it to Annie to comfort her, and she did. Meant everythin’ to me, that did. Now they get on like a pair o’ sisters, makin’ up for lost time, and Annie’s doin’ a weddin’ breakfast at our house.’

Tom smiled in acknowledgement, silently
thanking his lucky stars that his scheming had paid off. He and Violet were privileged in being the only non-family guests invited to the wedding, the Yeomanses having declined to attend. Once married, the couple were to move into Eddie’s and Annie’s home temporarily, until the Blackwater cottage could be cleaned up and rented, and Sidney would continue to work at the farm, though Mary would not return there.

Sitting beside Tom in the Methodist church, Violet watched Mr and Mrs Goddard and their daughter Betty putting a brave face on their son’s choice of a wife, for they had not been consulted or given a chance to object to it. Mary looked pale and serious in a loose-fitting grey coat and matching hat decorated with one blue silk rose; she trembled as her father put her hand into Sidney’s, but looked up trustingly as he stood by her side, a proudly defiant expression on his face, and his responses clearly audible.

‘It’ll be a nine-day wonder, I dare say,’ said Tom Munday when the ceremony was over, and they made their way on foot to the wedding breakfast at Eddie’s. ‘But it’ll be the making o’ Sidney, just you see.’

But the hasty wedding was forgotten in news of a very different kind that arrived by telegram to the Bird household on the following day, bringing utter desolation to them: their eldest son Tim had been
badly injured and had died of his wounds in a field hospital, so now both their sons were lost, never to return. There was also news that William Hickory had been wounded, but was on his way home. It was Phyllis Bird’s only consolation over that dark Christmas.

Standing beside Violet in their usual place on Christmas morning, Tom Munday looked around the church, and could not remember a more sorrowful Christmas. The loss of the Birds’ two sons brought a desolation that was beyond words or tears, and the Rev. Saville offered up prayers for all bereaved families in the parish, including the Yeomans family who did not attend church, but who mourned the loss of their only son, killed so soon after being forcibly conscripted. The vicar then went on to name all North Camp and Hassett families who had sons, brothers or other relatives serving in the war, and these included the Nevilles, the Mundays, the widowed Mrs Hickory and the Savilles themselves; he also mentioned Mrs Storey, formerly Miss Isabel Munday, whose husband was in the army as a chaplain. 

Tom saw Lady Neville in her front pew, flanked by Mr Cedric who was on home leave, and Miss Letitia, pale and unsmiling as ever. Mr Bird occupied a pew near the back of the church with his daughter Phyllis beside him; they sat, knelt or stood at the appropriate times, and spoke to no one, except when the service was over, and Mr Bird replied briefly to the whispered enquiries about his wife with a polite ‘She’s much the same, thank you.’

‘Which means she’s breaking her heart over her two lost boys and wishing she was where they are,’ commented Violet Munday, sadly shaking her head. ‘I’m surprised at Bird leaving her alone in the house this morning.’

‘She’s not alone, she’s got Mr Bird’s sister over from Aldershot staying,’ said Mrs Lansdowne, wanting to correct a wrong impression.

‘But I thought the two sisters-in-law never got on – they fell out years ago, something to do with the boys’ confirmation.’

‘This is no time for bearing grudges, Mrs Munday,’ came the sharp retort from Mrs Lansdowne. ‘Bert and I went round there last night with a few bits and pieces for the larder, and Miss Bird – the elder Miss Bird, was most civil to us, and said she was doing her best in a very difficult situation.’

Violet Munday, suitably rebuked, joined the congregation filing out through the south door; Mr Saville shook hands with everyone, and instead of
‘Happy Christmas’, said ‘Peace be upon you.’

Outside in the churchyard people spoke in hushed tones. Lady Neville exchanged a word or two with as many as she could, and enquired after Ernest.

‘Wasn’t it a happy chance that Cedric met your son and his friend at Gallipoli?’ she said, adding that he had been most impressed by their bravery. Tom noticed that Cedric looked thin and war-weary, but smiled when he approached them.

‘What about that jolly daughter of yours, the one who entertained us so well at Hassett Manor?’ he asked, and Violet’s face fell.

‘Grace worked at Everham General Hospital for a few weeks, and now she’s in London,’ Tom replied, trying to speak lightly. ‘She doesn’t tell us much, but we gather she’s well and making new friends – doing her bit for the war effort, no doubt!’

‘And your elder daughter, the one who married that clergyman – my mother mentioned that he’s away at the front, too?’

‘Yes, Mr Neville, he is, and Isabel still lives in Bethnal Green in East London, and does a lot of good work there, we hear,’ said Tom with pride. ‘Of course we worry about her, with these bombing raids going on, but…’ he shrugged. ‘Isabel always followed the path of duty – a good girl, she’s been to us.’

‘Though I can’t understand why she couldn’t leave that dreary vicarage, just for Christmas,’ interposed Violet. ‘We are her parents, after all,
and with Mark away, I’d have thought we meant more to her than those rough East Enders – like that young widow she’s taken up with – what’s her name, Tom? Tanner!’

‘Sally Tanner probably needs Isabel more than we do, to see her through Christmas,’ said Tom gravely. ‘As long as no harm comes to our girl and the baby—’

He stopped short, realising he’d said more than he’d intended. Violet flashed him a furious look that said,
Wait till I get you home
! Talking to a
man
about such intimate family matters, it was too bad of him; and other people may have overheard!

Cedric smiled and tactfully changed the subject. He told them that he would not be going straight back to the front after Christmas, but was to take a course at a place he could not mention, to learn about the use of a new form of transport on the battlefield, a heavily armoured vehicle that had no wheels but moved on a ‘caterpillar’ track and could plough through barbed wire and cross a ditch eight-feet wide, its occupants able to fire at the enemy whilst protected from German machine gun fire.

‘And the sooner we get it up and running, the shorter the war’s likely to be,’ he said to Tom, ‘before the Jerries get on to the idea.’

It took Grace Munday just two weeks to change her mind. Madge Fraser laughed and gave her a congratulatory kiss.

‘Good gal, I knew ye’d come round to it once ye’d thought it over – easy money for doin’ a valuable service to the nation, that’s what Mrs Moore calls it! I’ll let ’er know ye’ve seen the light, an’ she’ll pick yer out a nice young chap who needs cheerin’ up. You’ll be fine!’

Grace’s nightmare memory of Tupman’s attempted rape had lost much of its horror after more than two years had elapsed; the young men who had taken her out to supper in a ‘foursome’ with Madge or some other ‘Dolly’s girl’ had all been good fun, and their kisses and cuddles pleasant rather than otherwise; it was the same with the wounded men she had met at Hassett Manor.

Madge lost no time in telling Mrs Moore, and the very next day she beckoned to Grace after their morning rehearsal.

‘Sybil’s found us a couple o’ fellers, an’ tomorrer night after the show we’ll get into a taxi with ’em, so ol’ Dean’ll think we’re goin’ out on a foursome, but we’ll go straight to 17 Lamp Street,’ she said with businesslike authority. ‘Yours is a poor boy goin’
over there for the first time, an’ mine’s ’is pal who’s arranged this little rendy-voo for ’im, an’ a bit for ’imself as well. Yours is Derek, mine’s Bob, an’ I’ll take ’im to me own room.’

The following evening the girls were duly introduced by Mrs Moore to their clients. Derek had said goodbye to his parents that morning, and they’d thought him on his way to Southampton and the ship to take him to Calais; it had been Bob’s idea to find a couple of girls to enjoy before looking death in the face.

‘There’s the key to Number Four,’ said Madge. ‘Lock it be’ind yer when yer go in. There’s clean sheets on the bed, an’ a bottle o’ bubbly on the table with glasses an’ a corkscrew. Make sure yer knock back a couple o’ glasses ’fore yer get down to business. Ye’ve got a decent-looking little feller there –’e may not want to do it, only talk – but make sure ye’ve got the doin’s in.’

The ‘doings’ was a piece of bathroom sponge about the size of a plum, that had soaked in a jar of vinegar. Madge had expertly shown Grace how to push it up into the vagina – for which Madge had an extremely vulgar name – as a preventive measure.

‘No need to be scared, kid, one man’s much the same as another, an’ they all look the same in the dark!’

So Grace found herself leading Derek up the stairs and into room Number Four. She locked the
door and turned to him, her first client.

‘We’ve got a b-bottle of champagne to share,’ she said shyly. ‘Er…are you any good at opening bottles?’

With cold hands that shook slightly, he drew the cork; there was a pop, and the glasses were filled with the sparkling, bubbling liquid. They clinked them together.

‘What shall we drink to?’ she asked.

‘Victory!’ he answered at once, and she replied, ‘Death to the old kaiser!’ She swallowed hers straight away, and he poured her another. Presently she felt herself relaxing under its influence, and her nervousness eased a little. His arms went round her waist, his face was near to hers, and she closed her eyes as his lips touched her cheek and then found her mouth. They stood together, swaying slightly, and it occurred to her that he was as nervous as herself. Madge had told her that a nervous client needed gentle encouragement, and should not be hurried; she should help him remove his clothes, and ask him to help remove hers, unbuttoning and unhooking as necessary, slowly and between kisses.

‘Let ’im see yer tits, an’ ’old ’em up for ’im to kiss,’ her mentor had advised.

‘Most of ’em don’t need no second biddin’, but it’s up to you to bring ’em on. Get into a nice, steady rhythm, not too fast, not too slow. Once ’e’s kissed yer tits, it’s time to let yer ’and go wanderin’ down to
’is trousers, an’ see if e’s risin’ to the occasion.’

Grace was now definitely feeling the effect of the drink, and her body was soft and pliant in Derek’s arms. Her clothing seemed to melt away, and she gave a little hiccup as they lay down on the bed. The room circled slowly round, and then to her surprise they were both naked, and he was lying on top of her.

‘Oh, Grace – you dear girl – are you ready?’ he asked thickly, knowing himself to be so. ‘You don’t mind?’

She gave a little laugh, and what happened next was so surprising, so different from what it had been like with Tupman; this was nice and warm and comfortable. Derek tried to be gentle as he entered her, and after a few thrusts he ejaculated, groaning incoherently. This was
very
different from Tupman!

‘Good, good, that’s so
good
, Grace – oh, Grace, oh,
Grace
!’

Grace’s head was swimming, and she scarcely realised that it was over. She lay peacefully and contentedly until roused by the sound of weeping: it was Derek, trying to stifle his sobs. She sat up, pulled the sheet and blankets over them, and put her arms around him, hugging him to her bare breasts and stroking the top of his head.

‘Sssh, sssh, Derek, it’s all right, don’t cry,’ she whispered.

‘It’s
not
all right, Grace, I’ve got to go to
hell
tomorrow, and the chances are I won’t be coming back,’ he sobbed against her softness. ‘I don’t want to go – I’m afraid – I’m so afraid, Grace.’

She could only try to comfort him with her warmth and nearness, and gradually he became calmer. ‘Want to stay here for ever,’ he muttered. ‘Wish there was an air raid, and a bomb to kill us both – we could die together.’

Grace had no such wish for death, and held him closer. ‘Sssh!’

After a while he spoke more clearly. ‘I’ll remember you all the time I’m in those trenches, Grace. All the time. God bless you, Grace. I’ll never forget you.’

Presently the drink and their love-making had its effect on them, and they both fell asleep, their limbs entwined, to be awakened by a knocking on their door at five o’clock. Grace unlocked the door and saw Madge and Bob; he was dressed and ready to go to Waterloo Station, and from there to Southampton and the troopship.

‘Come on, come on, Derek! It’s time we were up and away – hurry up!’

With a sinking heart Grace helped Derek, still half-asleep, to find and pull on his clothes; he gave her one last kiss before going off with his friend, and Grace was left to ponder on the experience. Her thoughts turned to Nick, probably dead, and to her brother Ernest and his friend Aaron. And her sister Isabel’s husband. Surely, if what she had done had
given comfort to one young soldier going off to war, it couldn’t be entirely wrong – could it?

When Madge handed her the money in a sealed envelope, she was amazed. Even after Mrs Moore had taken her share, and Madge had generously waived hers, it was still equal to two weeks’ pay at Dolly’s. For some reason she did not want to spend it straight away, but put it into a post office savings account.

The cold January days passed mournfully by. The news from the front, what there was of it, was not encouraging. Casualty lists continued to lengthen, and under the new prime minister, Mr Lloyd George, regulations and restrictions seemed to proliferate, and shortages began to be felt.

‘Lucky for us, growing our own spuds,’ remarked Tom Munday to Eddie as they heaved a sack out of the coal shed where the potatoes were stored to keep them frost-free. In the towns shops were running out of vegetables and all kinds of goods; the public were asked to cut down on the amount of bread they ate, and flour became scarce. Yeomans’ farm was a centre for meat and dairy produce in North Camp, and even at this winter season Sidney and the land girls were kept busy.

‘We hardly ever see Sid,’ said Eddie. ‘He’s up and out ’fore it’s light, an’ don’t get back till after dark. Not much of a marriage for him and Mary, but—’ He
hastily checked himself, thinking of Tom’s daughter Isabel who saw nothing at all of her husband, and who like Mary was expecting her first child. ‘How’s she doin’, your Isabel?’ he asked.

‘She’s the only one we hear from, and the poor girl tries her hardest to give us good news,’ replied Tom heavily. ‘We didn’t get so much as a Christmas card from Grace, and Ernest’s too busy just staying alive in those winter conditions over there. Have you heard anything about young Hickory since he came home?’

Eddie hesitated. ‘Poor lad, he’s in a bad way. He’s stone deaf from shellfire, and his brain’s been affected as well. His mother don’t encourage visitors.’

‘When did you hear this, Eddie? Who told you?’

‘Well, to tell you the truth, I overheard Betty Goddard tellin’ Mary when she came to visit her. They used to be friends at school, along wi’ your Isabel and poor Phyllis Bird.’

‘Phyllis Bird? Oh, yes, she and young Hickory were…er, sweethearts, weren’t they? There was a time when she had her eye on Ernest, but he…well, he was never much interested in girls. She must have been counting on Will Hickory to bring a bit o’ sunshine back into her life. So – did she go to see him?’

‘She did, Tom, and that’s what Betty Goddard was tellin’ Mary about. It must’ve been terrible. Phyllis told Betty that Mrs Hickory wouldn’t let her
in at first, but Phyllis begged to see him, and at last Mrs Hickory took her into the kitchen where he was sittin’ by the oven. She said he was so altered, and wasn’t sure if he knew her at first. He kept his eyes on his mother who stayed in the room, callin’ him her poor boy, and sayin’ what he’d been through – and when Phyllis went to take hold of his hand, he drew back and turned to his mother, just like a kid. He said somethin’ like “pretty girl”, but he didn’t actually speak to Phyllis at all, only his mother.’