Mother’s Day on Coronation Street
Mother’s Day on Coronation Street
Maggie Sullivan
‘A wonderfully nostalgic tale’ Choice MagazineIt’s 1942 and Annie Walker is the landlady of the Rovers Return on Coronation Street.With her husband, Jack, away fighting for King and Country, Annie must juggle lone motherhood with keeping the regulars happy.Gracie Ashton works behind the bar at the Rovers and thinks all the girls swooning at the American soldiers flooding into Weatherfield are plain daft. But when she meets the handsome GI, Chuck Dawson, Gracie wonders if she has her own head screwed on right.With rationing, air raids and blackouts, the wives and mothers of Coronation Street are determined to count their blessings, but when an unwelcome face from the past turns up at the Rovers it looks like Annie will have more to worry about than Hitler’s bombs…Full of Coronation Street’s trademark humour and warmth, it’s the perfect gift for Mother’s Day.
Copyright (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Coronation Street is an ITV Studios Production
Copyright © ITV Ventures Limited 2018
Jacket photographs © Keystone-France/Gamma-Rapho via Getty
Images (boy); © Stephen Searle/Alamy Stock Photo (Coronation Street).
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Maggie Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008256531
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: [eISBN] 9780008255169
Version: 2018-01-10
Table of Contents
Cover (#ua0e720c6-947c-5d89-96d4-e7cda8198619)
Title Page (#u0c1462e5-e11e-555b-a55a-2ef5f090494f)
Copyright (#u7b556760-6726-54db-be46-ea2c7c0d0073)
Dedication (#u1e26367f-fd0c-5b7a-8aa9-b2b082f98cb6)
March 1942 (#uaef1d4f1-7abc-58ec-8c2a-a77805aafe66)
Chapter 1 (#ua77bca53-2224-5b34-a6f4-3ec30366a3b2)
Chapter 2 (#ud6daeacf-d165-52e0-99fd-c4073a6f07a9)
Chapter 3 (#u9a50ef91-12eb-5a76-a420-ba7eb30f17e4)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Coronation Street – Still the Nation’s Favourite (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading… (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
To absent friends: Barbara Reid and Renée Byrne
March 1942 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
Chapter 1 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
Annie Walker lay in the middle of the generous-sized bed, ready to close her eyes. It was a rare treat for the landlady of Coronation Street’s Rovers Return to enjoy the luxury of an afternoon doze, for the pub was the busiest and best in Weatherfield as far as she was concerned. The sunlight that was slanting through the sash window illuminated the dust on the dressing-table drawers and it was almost enough to make her get up and go in search of a duster – but she resisted. Her cold wasn’t completely cured yet.
Annie yawned and stretched, lazily grateful that she had been able to persuade her mother to come and look after the children for a few days while she took to her bed.
‘You won’t have to worry about serving in the pub,’ Annie had said when she’d asked for Florence’s help. She’d sensed her mother’s hesitation at the thought of having to pull pints behind the bar.
‘It’s not that, dear,’ Florence said, almost too quickly. ‘I was just wondering whether you might be better off going to the hospital. This flu that so many people are going down with can be very dangerous, you know, and you don’t want to take any chances, not with two little ones running around.’
Annie didn’t want to admit that it was probably the two little ones and their boundless energy that had led to her getting so run-down in the first place.
Thankfully, Florence had agreed to come and Annie had been able to indulge in what she considered to be a well-deserved rest. But enough was enough. Now Florence was beginning to irritate her and, grateful as she was for her mother’s help, Annie knew it was time for her to take back control of her own household.
Annie closed her eyes, about to drop off, when Florence made an unwanted appearance. She was brandishing the Weatherfield Gazette.
‘Have you seen what it says here?’ she said, waving the paper under Annie’s nose. ‘There’s going to be a special service for Mothering Sunday at the Mission of Glad Tidings.’
‘So?’ Annie’s eyes were already heavy with sleep.
‘So, I thought we might go.’ Florence began to hum ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. ‘It might be interesting.’
‘You can please yourself.’ Annie sounded cross. ‘But I shall go to Mount Zion Baptist Chapel where I always go. It’s where Jack and I were married and where, I believe, I shall be expected.’ So saying, she closed her eyes and turned on her side.
Yes, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, it would be timely to go to church and give thanks, if only for the fact that, although German bomber planes continued to fill the skies, the barrage balloons forced them to fly so high it had been some time since the Luftwaffe had managed to drop their bombs with any accuracy on Weatherfield.
After the horrors of the 1940 Christmas Blitz that had laid bare the centre of Manchester and flattened parts of residential Weatherfield, Annie had wondered whether there could be any more bombs left in the Germans’ arsenal to be dropped on Britain. But the Air Raid Precaution wardens had warned people to be vigilant because there could still be the occasional air raid even though the Blitz was over. Their advice was to flee to the shelters at the first signs of danger. Annie dreaded the thought of being woken up by the wail of air-raid sirens and having to rush to get dressed and make herself presentable. Regardless of the fact that they were encouraged to leave immediately the sirens sounded and not wait to gather any belongings, she certainly didn’t like being bullied by one of the ARPs or the fire wardens into having to seek cover without checking first whether she was decent enough to be seen in public. Annie was thankful she at least had her own cellar where she and any of the staff and customers could flee to whenever necessary. She could not imagine having to run with her two little ones down the street where she would be crammed together with all the neighbourhood hoi polloi who were seeking shelter in the basement of the Mission of Glad Tidings. Even the thought of having to rub shoulders, quite literally, with all those people was more than she could bear.
But, when she stopped to think about it, she was already doing so many things that in the past she would have thought were beyond endurance. Since war had been declared people everywhere, not only in Weatherfield, were suffering hardships and acting in ways they weren’t used to, doing things that, until the start of the war, they would not have dreamt of doing. And they had been doing them for so long now it was hard to remember things ever being any different. Not that Annie was a stranger to change and hardship. She had endured sudden loss and a dramatic change of life style when she was a young girl to such an extent that she would have thought it was enough for a lifetime. But even she had to admit that they were now living through some of the most challenging and troublesome times she could remember.
Who would have dreamt that rationing would have become a central and essential part of their everyday lives? Nowadays ration books were crucial for daily living, and shortages and deprivation were the major topics of conversation on the street. Not only were certain foods scarce, but supplies of such basic commodities as clothing, coal, and soap were also becoming difficult to come by, even with the requisite number of coupons. There was little petrol available to fuel the few cars that were on the road, and the scarcity of goods was becoming more widespread each month as different items were added to the list of things that were unavailable or in limited supply. More things were being rationed and restricted items had become even more stringently regulated. Sometimes Elsie Foyle, who ran the corner shop, tipped off the registered customers who shopped with her regularly if she knew something was likely to become scarce, and Annie had been persuaded to buy a few extra tins of powdered eggs, sardines and pilchards before they disappeared altogether from the shelves. However, worrying that they might be considered to be black market items, she made a strict rule that she would never eat any of them herself but reasoned that she had the health of two young, growing children to consider.
Annie was also affected when stocks of the beer she had on tap were running low. She felt a blush creep to her cheeks as memories flashed through her mind of the dreadful and embarrassing time she had had shortly after Jack had gone away to fight for his country. For a brief period the pumps at the Rovers had run dry. She had learned to manage by cutting down on the opening hours from time to time, or even reducing the strength of the beer. On nights when they were not so busy she would call time early, in order to conserve her stocks, and on occasion would open a little later than usual. She had heard it was not uncommon for pubs to run dry all over the country, but Annie was determined to do everything she could to make sure she didn’t have to suffer the ignominy of running a public house that didn’t have enough beer for its regular customers.
In her thirty-two years Annie had learned how to handle whatever situations she was faced with in life and she had become nothing if not adaptable to her current circumstances. What she did worry about, however, was not about her life now, but about what life would be like for her two young children if they grew up knowing nothing but a state of siege and war. She feared for their future and she wasn’t the only one to think like that. One of the main topics of conversation at the bar each night was customers complaining about the difficulties of living with uncertainty; the uncertainty of not knowing what the future might hold.
Annie knew what that was like too. She could never forget the dreadful times that had followed the dramatic downturn of her family’s fortunes when she was young and how she had grown used to not knowing what might happen from one moment to the next. She tried hard not to look back, but sometimes it was impossible to avoid the vivid memories and the stinging feelings of humiliation they still evoked. Her life had turned out to be very different from what she had once imagined, and she was determined to do all in her power to ensure her children didn’t have to suffer the same plight.
When she woke, Annie lay still for a few moments, gathering her thoughts and unsuccessfully trying to catch hold of the remnants of a dream that was floating somewhere at the back of her mind. Gradually, as the ghost-like images disappeared, she became aware of the buzz of conversation that was wafting up from the public bar below. It sounded busy down there, as it had on previous nights, and yet thankfully they seemed to be managing without her. If they weren’t, no one had said so. She didn’t move and remained with her eyes closed for quite some time, content in the knowledge that the pub was in good hands. She smiled with satisfaction each time she heard the ping of the till drawer opening and closing.
Lottie Kemp, although several years younger than Annie, was one of her closest friends, and to Annie’s delight she had offered to lend a hand behind the bar in the evenings during Annie’s absence. As she might have expected, Lottie had proved to be a tower of strength and was totally trustworthy to look after the takings. Sally Todd, who lived on Coronation Street at number 9, could also be trusted as she had worked in the bar on and off for many years and when she offered to work a regular afternoon shift during the busy times, Annie was delighted. It was good to have such treasured and valued friends at times like this. It was just a shame that, before she took ill, the new barmaid she had hired had felt the need, after working in the bar for only a few months, to join her younger siblings who had been evacuated to the country. A replacement was something she would have to think about as soon as she was well.
Annie pulled the feathery eiderdown up to her chest, glad she had not been persuaded to change her warm winceyette nightdress for the pink lawn cotton one, even though it was prettier. The calendar might be registering that it was officially spring but there was still a definite chill in the March air.
‘Would you like me to plump the cushions for you so you can sit up and drink this?’ Lottie broke into her reveries when she suddenly appeared at the bedroom door, steam rising from the delicate china cup and saucer she was balancing in her hand.
Now she’s dressed sensibly for working behind a bar, Annie thought. She liked her staff to look neat and Lottie was wearing a plaid pinafore dress and a fine wool jumper, with her dark hair scraped back into a tidy French pleat.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be up,’ Lottie said, beaming, her rounded cheeks spotted pink, ‘but I thought you might like this.’ She crossed the room to the other side of the bed so that she could put the tea down on the bedside table by the window but she didn’t get that far; all of a sudden there was a clatter and a bang and the bedroom door was thrust back on its hinges. Annie lifted her head in alarm, uncertain what had happened. For a moment she couldn’t see anybody as she struggled to sit up, only Lottie ineffectually trying to mop up the spilled tea from the satin eiderdown cover with her pocket handkerchief. Then Annie sighed with relief.
‘Gosh, darling, you gave Mummy such a fright,’ she said, realizing it was three-year-old Billy who had crashed into the room. His fair hair was standing up in spikes and he looked like he had just crawled out of bed.
‘Where’s Joanie?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t find her.’ He ran his hands in exasperation over his hair with the gesture of an adult and Annie couldn’t help smiling.
‘Have you lost her? Or is she hiding?’ Annie asked, humouring him.
‘She’s hiding, but where is she? Doesn’t she know she can’t escape?’ He threw open the wardrobe doors and the doors of the tallboy, not bothering to close them again. He even pulled out the dressing-table drawers and left them half on the floor. Then he knocked over the wicker chair, heedless of the clothes that had been neatly folded on the seat, and finally he bent down to peer under the bed, flinging Annie’s slippers and a pair of shoes out across the landing. And all the time he was shouting, ‘Where are you, silly sister? You’ll be sorry, Joanie Pony, if you don’t tell me where you are. And when Daddy comes home I’ll make him send you back to wherever it was you came from.’
Annie laughed when he said that. ‘You’re the silly Billy,’ she said fondly. ‘She is only two years old after all, and you do know, darling, that the whole point of hide-and-seek is for you to go and look for her? There’s not much point in her telling you where she is. Where’s the fun in that?’
One of the things Annie did worry about was how much her mother pandered to the children, especially Billy, unlike Annie who tried to be firm but fair. He was reaching an age when he would really benefit from a more disciplined hand. If she was honest, he needed his father.
Billy turned to Annie and stuck out his tongue, then he pulled a grotesque face aimed towards Lottie who was standing frozen near the window, still holding the cup and saucer. ‘I wonder what I’ve done to deserve that,’ Lottie sighed while Annie gave a little chuckle and smiled indulgently. Billy stared at her without smiling back, then suddenly said, ‘I want that tea, Mam,’ and made a lunge for the half-filled cup in Lottie’s hand.
Annie sighed. ‘How many times have I to tell you not to call me that, Billy? Remember what I said? It’s Mother or Mummy. Mam’s so common.’
Billy paid her no heed. It was as if she hadn’t spoken as he grabbed the cup and gulped down some of the remaining tea, spilling what was left over his short grey flannel trousers. Lottie made a tapping gesture to indicate he should replace the cup on the saucer but instead he threw it across the room where it hit the doorjamb and smashed into several pieces.
‘Oh darling, look what you’ve done. There was no need for that, you know,’ Annie said sympathetically. ‘Now poor Lottie is going to have to clean that up. If you’re thirsty, why don’t you go downstairs and ask Grandma if you can have a proper cup of tea, then you can sit down and drink it nicely. And if you’re very good she might even find a biscuit for you.’
‘No she won’t,’ Billy said scornfully, ‘because I’ve eaten them all.’ He scuffed his feet over the carpet as he walked towards the door. ‘And I didn’t let Joanie have any.’
‘Oh, and be a love before you go,’ Annie called after him. ‘Shut the wardrobe doors will you, for Mummy, please.’
Billy looked up and aimed a kick at the wardrobe before jumping over the shattered cup. Suddenly Joanie appeared on the landing from the direction of one of the bedrooms, but Billy just pushed her out of the way, almost knocking her down the stairs as he raced ahead of her shouting, ‘Grammy, I’m hungry. I want my tea and Joanie’s been naughty so she can’t have any. Mummy says so.’
Annie didn’t hear her mother’s reply, though she could hear the clanging of pots coming from the kitchen. She turned to Lottie apologetically. ‘Boys will be boys,’ she said. ‘He didn’t mean any harm. He just doesn’t know his own strength.’ And she laughed.
Lottie’s only response was a deep sigh. She was still holding the saucer that was intact but, ignoring the smashed china, she scooped up Joanie, who was sitting on the landing trying to pair up the stray shoes and slippers, and without a word carried her downstairs.
Annie shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, a wry smile on her lips. ‘Children!’ she clucked softly. ‘They can be such a tonic and a torture all at the same time. I really should be thankful for what I’ve got. I’m very lucky to have two healthy children living safely with me. All of us together in our own home.’ It put her in mind of what her mother had said about Mothering Sunday. She would make it her business to go to church on that day, but the Baptist church not the Mission. And she would make sure she said an extra special prayer of thanks, for she was truly blessed. Not everyone, particularly in Weatherfield, was so privileged.
Her thoughts turned for a moment to the unfortunate children who, for one reason or another, had been separated from their mothers by the war and she felt an unusual prickling sensation behind her eyes. She remembered those who had been sent away when the war had only just got underway. Some, she had heard, had even been sent as far away as Canada and Australia, but most had been evacuated to the English countryside which was deemed to be safer than the industrial cities. She had watched, distressed, from her own doorstep as large numbers of local children from Bessie Street School were rounded up like sheep. Each carried a small suitcase as if they were going on their holidays but she knew that wasn’t the case. They had name badges pinned to their coats and they looked lost and bewildered as they were marched off, hand in hand, by their teacher Ada Hayes. Annie would never have let her Billy go away like that, or Joanie. Who knew where they might have ended up? She’d heard some terrible tales and some of the children actually had to come back, their billets were so dreadful. And yet some of those who hadn’t sent their children away had undergone dreadful difficulties too, in different ways.
Yes, Annie sighed. She had much to be thankful for. Manchester had suffered terrible damage as a result of the bombing raids during the 1940 Christmas Blitz and some parts of Weatherfield had been particularly badly hit. Whole streets had been destroyed and some unfortunate families had been cruelly split apart, parents or children missing presumed dead, their homes destroyed, the remaining family members left in dire distress. Fortunately, most of Coronation Street had withstood the onslaught and many lives had been saved thanks to people diving into cellars like the one underneath the Rovers or the air-raid shelter below the Mission. But the Blitz was like a wake-up call to the residents who remained, a reminder of the serious implications of the country being at war. People realized they needed to pull together and the residents of Weatherfield wanted to get involved in any way they could.
Most of the young able-bodied men, including her own beloved Jack, had signed up for the forces as soon as war was declared. Even men like Elsie Tanner’s bully-boy husband, Arnold, had joined the navy before he needed to, before any serious battles were underway, even though it meant leaving his pregnant bride to manage as best she could. The local factories that had once been the financial centre to the cotton industry had switched their production skills to war work, employing all the local women who were now being conscripted to work. Instead of being at the heart of the cotton trade manufacturing the fine cotton goods they once had, they now produced uniforms, tank and gun parts and other much needed armaments and munitions.
At the same time, those men who were not eligible to be called up into the forces, or were deemed to be medically unfit to fight, took on other war time responsibilities. Some became fire wardens who issued warnings about incendiary bombs, while others, like Albert Tatlock from number 1 Coronation Street and Ena Sharples from the Mission, became ARP wardens. Their main duties were to watch with a careful eye that no one contravened the blackout laws and to round up residents and help them to reach the shelters in time during air raids. As food became scarcer, and imported goods such as fruit and sugar disappeared completely from the shelves, those who had a patch of spare ground at the backs of their houses, no matter how small, began to create victory gardens where they grew as many of their own vegetables as they had space for. Neighbouring, which had once been a feature of life for those living in the crowded neighbourhoods with back-to-back terraced housing, began again in earnest, as people keenly looked out for their neighbours and frequently popped in and out of each other’s houses. After the Blitz, everyone in Weatherfield, from Coronation Street and beyond, began to pull together like never before. No pint of milk was left on the doorstep for long without someone enquiring about why it hadn’t been taken in. Annie herself had good reason to be thankful to her neighbours, Albert and Bessie Tatlock at number 1, whenever the sirens sounded for she needed help dressing her two little ones in their siren suits while trying to hurry them down into the cellar.
Annie had never had much time for Elsie Tanner who lived at number 11, dismissing her as common and ungodly, but even she had joined in when the whole street had rallied to help poor Elsie deal with the horrific loss of almost all her family. That event had allowed the swelling number of congregants at the Mission of Glad Tidings to catch an astonishing glimpse of Ena Sharples’ softer side and afterwards, when two of Elsie’s sisters were found alive, the singing from the Mission could be heard from one end of the street to the other. Sometimes all people could offer was nothing more than a small gesture of kindness, or a shoulder to cry on, but that didn’t make their contribution any less valued. The camaraderie and unlikely friendships that were struck during that time helped to bond the whole community. That was when Annie Walker realized, for the first time, that not only her clientele but the Rovers Return itself was at the heart of that community.
Yes, thought Annie, feeling safe and warm as she snuggled under the eiderdown, she would definitely go to church on Mothering Sunday and she would thank the good Lord for finally blessing her and her family with better luck than she’d had when she was young.
Of course, there was one person missing from her family right now; one special person who would have made them complete. A person whose safe return she prayed for every night; a person she wrote to every day and whose photograph she kissed before she went to sleep. Jack Walker, her husband, being the selfless man he was, had signed up for action as soon as he could and was now with the Fusiliers, performing what was considered to be an essential role for his king and his country in the battle against Germany and Japan. Annie understood that what he was doing was important, playing a small part in the greater war effort, like so many others, but it didn’t stop tears pricking her eyelids whenever she thought of him bravely battling in some far away corner of the Empire. He was probably cold and possibly even a little afraid, but she would never know. His letters told her nothing about where he was, or what he was thinking or feeling. Careless talk costs lives was one of the war’s most critical slogans and letters to and from all military personnel were censored to make sure nothing was given away to the enemy that could give them any clues about the whereabouts, movements, or the state of the allied troops. Annie was afraid, but such anxiety had become a part of everyday life, particularly for the women who had been left behind. Sometimes she felt almost worthless, merely standing behind the bar pulling pints, but then she reminded herself that she was fulfilling a valuable role providing solace for those who were unable to fight but who were keeping things going at home until the soldiers were able to return. She could only hope that her letters cheered him a little. She tried not to show her apprehension in any of her daily missives. Instead she gave amusing reports of the children’s antics.
At least, she told him about some of Billy’s escapades, anecdotes that she thought would make him laugh. Though she hadn’t bothered to mention the time last week while her mother was in charge, when the mischievous little devil had locked Joanie into the under-stairs cupboard. The poor little mite had apparently cried herself to sleep in there and had not been found for several hours. Annie saved that story for her own private nightly jottings in the diary she kept. But she liked to send Jack regular bulletins about the welfare of their friends and neighbours in Weatherfield and she eagerly awaited Jack’s letters, not so much for their news content, for that was limited, but, if she was being honest, she had to acknowledge that she was afraid that one day there might not be any letters. Like many women in the street she was afraid that her husband wouldn’t come back, or that if he did, he might be maimed or wounded. Every day there were stories of people she knew being hurt – or worse. But she knew she had to put her worries aside and for Jack’s sake, and for the sake of their children, she refused to let herself dwell on such dark possibilities and she tried to dismiss the wretched images that sometimes threatened to take over her thoughts. She had to stay strong and she had to believe. After all, wasn’t she keeping the Rovers going so that he could pick up where he had left off on his return? Keep the Home Fires Burning, that was what the song said. And thanks to people like Lottie and Sally she had been able to do just that. Between them they had kept things going and she hadn’t had to close the pub for a single day. She couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with herself. She did seem to have a knack for choosing loyal and trustworthy friends.
Suddenly Annie heard a piercing scream and she was brought back to the present with a jolt as she sat up sharply in bed. It took her a few moments to realize it was Billy downstairs who had been yelling at his grandmother, demanding that she give him some jam for his bread soldiers. Annie sighed. How could anyone explain to a small child that jam was rationed and that it would probably be at least a week before they would be able to go and claim their next allocation of anything sweet? But if Billy was becoming fractious, then it was definitely time for her to get up, time she went back to work. She sighed. It had been really nice to have a few days off and she had to admit she did feel much better for having had a rest; any longer, though, and it would become an indulgence. She was needed downstairs now as Sally had to go back to the munitions factory where she had been requested to work longer hours and Lottie too would soon be doing extra shifts there. She knew her mother was looking forward to getting back home too. Everyone had been wonderful, covering for her at the bar and looking after the children, but it was time now for her to pull her weight once more. And perhaps a word to Elsie Foyle in the corner shop about getting some special sweet treat for the children would have to be one of her first priorities. She resolved to get up the following morning.
She lay back on the pillows contemplating what she would wear for her first day back behind the bar. Clothes were special to her and she enjoyed planning her outfits. She would love to wear something that would help her make an entrance when she first walked into the bar, even if she did then spend the rest of the session sitting on a bar stool ringing the money into the till. She thought about her limited wardrobe but knew with the current stringency in clothes rationing there would be no possibility of getting anything new. Maybe she could dress up one of her old twinsets with the single row of pearls and matching pearl earrings Jack had given her for her last birthday. Then she could wear her newest pleated skirt that she’d bought just before the war started. She would dab on a little make-up – that always made her feel brighter – and she would tell Jack about it in her next letter, remind him how much she missed him and how much they needed him at the Rovers. She knew he would like that.
Annie stretched and yawned luxuriously. She had had a good few days’ rest and she was pleased to say she felt refreshed. But now she was ready to go back to work. For all that Lottie said to reassure her, she worried that they might be struggling a little without her downstairs and one of the first things she must do was look for a new barmaid. Tomorrow she would surprise the children by giving them their breakfast, but for now she slid down on the pillows and shut her eyes again …
Chapter 2 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
When twenty-year-old Gracie Ashton came to live on Mallard Street in Weatherfield with her mother and two younger brothers she was delighted to find that Lottie Kemp, a young woman of her own age, was living in one of the houses opposite. The Ashtons had moved into a rented house that had become vacant after the Blitz and had been standing empty for some time. The family who lived there before them had flitted to the seaside because they thought it would be a safer place to be when the bombs began to fall. But Gracie didn’t really think anywhere was safe, not while the Luftwaffe were still flying overhead. And they were flying with a vengeance, retaliating against the allies’ severest bombing yet of Cologne with attacks on all the major British cathedral cities. The house where she and her family had lived had been badly damaged in a bombing raid, and her mother, Mildred, was grateful to be able to move them all at short notice to somewhere that was close to the factory where she worked.
Mildred Ashton had been the family’s mainstay while her husband, Petty Officer Bob Ashton, was recovering from the burns he’d sustained when he was with his naval unit somewhere out in the Pacific Ocean. She keenly felt the weight of having to take on so much responsibility for the family’s welfare. She had to sort out the details of their living arrangements on her own, even after Bob was fit enough to come out of hospital, and she relied heavily on Gracie’s support. In the beginning they had few things to fill the new house with, for most of their furniture had been damaged by a fire started by an incendiary bomb and then further destroyed by the gallons of water the firemen used in their efforts to put it out. Mildred had had to work extremely hard, but at least by the time Bob came home they all had enough chairs to sit on and beds to sleep in. With four sets of ration books, and Mildred’s ability to create something tasty from limited ingredients, the family was at least able to eat and they were managing to scrape by. Mildred had also persuaded the two young boys to dig a victory garden before their father came home. There was a tiny square, covered in weeds, next to the privy in the back yard that she knew could be converted with a bit of effort so that they could all benefit from having their own fresh vegetables.
Gracie met Lottie Kemp when she popped out to the local shop early one evening, not long after they’d arrived at the new house. To her dismay, most of the shelves were bare though the queue of hopefuls clutching their ration books stretched out into the street. The two young women got chatting as they stood next to each other in line.
‘I’ve come to see if they’ve any cigarettes left. It’s my only luxury,’ Gracie said diffidently. ‘They help to keep me sane. My mum and I usually share one between us on a night.’
Lottie laughed. ‘You don’t have to apologize to me, you know. I’m on your side.’ And she held up her left hand to show a homemade roll-up burning down between her fingers.
‘We both prefer the tipped ones,’ Gracie said. ‘They don’t taste so strong. But I find smoking does help me to relax, don’t you?’
Lottie nodded. She took a puff of her roll-up as if to prove her point and Gracie smiled. She wasn’t sure why she felt she had to justify her smoking habits to a stranger and blushed when she finally reached the counter and asked for her favourite brand by name. Relieved that her errand was not in vain, she slipped the red packet of Craven “A”s into her pocket.
‘I’m Charlotte Kemp, by the way, known to all as Lottie,’ the other girl said. ‘I live around the corner in Mallard Street, at number 6.’
‘Well, what do you know! We’ve not long since moved into number 9, opposite. I’m Grace Ashton, my friends call me Gracie.’
Lottie had exuded such an immediate air of warmth and friendliness as they’d begun to chat that Gracie felt drawn to her already by the time they shook hands. Lottie looked immaculate in her neat, if not stylish, clothes as she stepped forward to receive the newspaper that was usually put by for her father. Gracie couldn’t help noticing that her hands were carefully manicured and the French pleat in her hair looked as if it had been freshly pinned. Gracie felt positively unkempt beside her in her wide-legged working trousers, that would keep catching fluff in the turn-ups, and the hand-knitted sweater her mother had made up from an unravelled shawl. As usual, strands of her flyaway hair had worked their way out of the elastic band that was doing a poor job of holding together the ponytail she’d scraped off her face only an hour ago.
‘It’s really nice to meet you,’ Lottie said.
‘You too,’ Gracie said. ‘I was hoping I might meet some younger folk when we moved here, but you can’t be sure who’s still around, what with all the blokes away in the army and the women working all hours in the factories.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the people in the queue who were mostly women of her mother’s age.
‘I tell you what,’ Lottie said, ‘why don’t you pop round to ours one night, we can listen to the gramophone? I’m working most evenings at the moment, but that won’t be for much longer. I’m only helping out a friend, so you can pop in of an evening, any time after tea. I’ve got a couple of Benny Goodman records we could listen to. If you like swing, that is?’
‘I love it. Fancy you having records of the king of swing. I’ll look forward to that. Thanks.’
‘Do you know “Darn That Dream”? It was a number one hit some while back.’
‘Yes, I love it. I used to catch it sometimes on the Light Programme.’
‘Have you got a wireless? That’s something we don’t have.’
‘Not any more.’ Gracie looked wistful. ‘We used to have one, before the fire. I miss it. Maybe we’ll be able to replace it one of these days. It’s good to be able to catch the news without having to go to the pictures to see the newsreels. When my dad was first sent out to the Pacific I was always trying to listen out for news of his ship.’
‘Is he in the navy, then?’ Lottie enquired.
Gracie shrugged. ‘Not sure exactly. He’s only just come home from the hospital. His ship was hit by Japanese torpedoes and he got badly burned. We’re not sure where that puts him now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Lottie said, adding, ‘My dad’s at home. Bad eyes and a bad chest. They wouldn’t take him on in the first place, worse luck. My sister Maggie and me would both have liked to see the back of him – for a while, at any rate. We might have been able to get out a bit more then. He watches us like a hawk, always wanting to know where we’re going and who with.’
‘I know what you mean. I used to think the same about my dad, but now I feel guilty for ever having had such thoughts. It’s hard on my mum too. I try to do my bit but everything seems to fall on her. We don’t know anyone round here. We used to live on the other side of the viaduct nearer to town.’
‘I tell you what, why don’t I knock on when I’m not working nights any more and let you know when I’ll be in? I presume you’re not working the late shift?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not working at all just yet. I’m on the lookout for a job. I used to work in a school as a dinner lady and I looked after the kids at playtime. But they closed it down when most of the kids were evacuated. Those who stayed behind were sent to another school, somewhere near here. Most of their kids had been evacuated before the Blitz.’
‘You must mean Bessie Street, that’s the main elementary school hereabouts.’
‘That sounds like it.’
‘Well, finding you a job shouldn’t be much of a problem, if you really want one,’ Lottie said.
‘Course I do. I need to be able to help out at home. And I’ve heard they’ll be conscripting women of our age into jobs soon; they want to make sure we’re all pulling our weight. I’d like to find one of my own before that happens.’
‘I do know of at least one job,’ Lottie said, then she paused, ‘though it’s not in a school.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Where is it?’
‘At the munitions factory where I work. They’re desperate for women to work there. In fact, there’s an empty place on my workbench and it’s only up the road. You could probably go down there right now and apply; the office never seems to close.’
‘Do you know, I think I’ll do that. Thanks Lottie, that’s really helpful,’ Gracie said when they both emerged onto the pavement. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’
Gracie had only been at the factory for a few days when she realized that munitions work was not for her. But she wasn’t sure what she should say to her new friend who had been so kind in trying to help her get the job. She was grateful that the noise of the machinery drowned out the possibility of any private conversations on the shop floor while they were working and it was too sensitive a topic to explain by the mouthing or sign language they had to resort to if they needed to communicate. Gracie waited till the two of them were sitting down for dinner together, with their chunks of bread and slivers of cheese to be washed down by thick mugs of watery-looking tea in a quieter corner of the canteen.
‘It’s not that I’m not grateful, Lottie,’ she broached the subject tentatively. ‘I really appreciate all the help you’ve given me; I want you to know that. Honestly, I was so pleased when you told me about the factory in the first place, but the problem is, I really can’t stand it. It’s worse than I thought it would be. I need a job badly and I can’t afford just to give it up but I’m going to have to look for something else.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Lottie asked. ‘I know it’s repetitive and boring as hell, but I reckon that describes most jobs on offer at the moment for the likes of you and me. I don’t know any job that isn’t tough. It’s going to be hard work wherever you go right now.’
‘I understand that. It’s not the hard work I’m afraid of, it’s just that …’ She wasn’t sure how to say it, so she plunged in. ‘I hate the idea that we’re making guns that are actually going to kill people,’ she said.
‘But we’re not making the guns. The floor manager’s always been very clear about that.’
‘No, I know. I’ve heard him say that many times an’ all. But the truth is that we’re making bits of guns and it doesn’t really matter that it’s other people who are going to assemble them.’
‘But they’re not the guns that are killing our boys,’ Lottie argued, though it was obvious Gracie had made up her mind. ‘The guns we’re making parts for are going to help to kill the Jerries and the Japs.’
Gracie hung her head and dropped her voice as low as she could while still being heard. It felt important to get her side of the argument across. ‘The point is, these past few days, I’ve realized that I don’t care who these particular guns are killing. I don’t give a monkey’s if they’re only killing our sworn enemies. The fact is, they’re killing people and I don’t like that one bit. It’s got so’s I can’t sleep at night. All I can see is the cogs clicking into gear and me pulling the lever that brings the cutter down. And you know what pops out each time I do that?’
‘Of course I do. We’re on the same bench, remember.’
‘Exactly. So it’s something we both know is the part of the gun that holds the ammunition. And honestly, Lottie, it turns my stomach. It makes me feel physically sick. When you first told me about the job I jumped at the chance. I thought it would be like any other work. I thought I could close my mind to what I was doing. The fact is, I thought I could handle it and I actually find that I can’t.’
Lottie shrugged. ‘Someone’s got to do it. And if it means we can rest easier in our beds knowing the Jerries are being taken care of by our lads then I’m prepared to be one of them. Frankly, I think it’s a small price to pay.’ She sighed. ‘And as far as I’m concerned it pays my share of the rent.’
‘Maybe you’d feel better if we were making holsters, or bren vests,’ a stranger’s voice suddenly piped up.
‘It’s a bleeding sight better than filling shells and having your whole body turning bloody yellow, I can tell you,’ sniggered her mate.
Gracie looked up angrily. She hadn’t realized that two girls had come to their table and had parked their trays close by. She had been so involved in her explanation she hadn’t noticed that not only were they sitting within hearing distance, but they were avidly listening in to her conversation. She felt her face flush and knew her cheeks must be scarlet.
‘Don’t worry,’ the first speaker said, standing up from the wooden bench where she’d been sitting next to Gracie. ‘There’s a part of me agrees with you, so I shan’t be saying owt to nobody. And we’ve got to be getting back now, any road. Come on, Luce.’
The two girls took their trays over to the serving hatch. Lottie looked bemused.
‘You must do whatever you think is right,’ she said, but Gracie didn’t say any more. She didn’t like confrontation at the best of times and she certainly didn’t want to fall out with Lottie who had done her best to help. But she’d made a mistake. She should never have taken the job in the first place. She hadn’t realized how strong her feelings were. The fact of the matter was she didn’t like armed conflict, and certainly not wars of any kind, but she had been sucked into wanting to do her bit for the war effort and for her country. She had realized too late that she would have been better with a job that supported the allied soldiers in a different way; one that had nothing to do directly with all the killing. It was a subject they never discussed at home. There was no need. She knew how they all felt. Her father had become embroiled in the war by signing up early on and being assigned to a big ship that had been sent off to the Pacific shortly after the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. There, he’d ended up fighting an unseen enemy so he didn’t think much about it, though he did blame the Americans for his plight when his ship took a hit. She knew that her mother would have joined one of the armed forces too, like a shot, if she could. She often said that if she’d have been younger and didn’t have children she’d have gone to fight given half a chance. So would Gracie’s brothers. Thankfully, neither of them was old enough to be called up into the services yet, though she knew that didn’t please them and she was afraid that if the war continued much longer both Paul and Greg would run off to join up and lie about their age as so many young men had already done.
‘I know you don’t like war,’ Lottie said after a while in a placatory tone. ‘No one does, truth be told. But there’s lots of men from round here felt they had to fight. There’s dozens from this street, Rosamund Street, Mawdsley Street and Coronation Street alone who signed up right from the start, like you said your dad did. And I bet not many of them really wanted to go off and fight if there would have been any other way to defeat bloody Hitler. So I feel I want to try to help them in any way I can.’
Gracie nodded. ‘I can understand that, and I realize I have to do my bit now that we are in the war. None of us have any choice, really. I just wish there was a different way I could serve my country than making the actual guns, that’s all.’
‘Would pulling pints in a pub be more to your taste, then? How would that suit you?’ Lottie sounded as if she was joking and Gracie was glad that the tension of the moment had eased, but then she realized Lottie was serious.
‘Down to the ground, I’d say. That sounds like my dream job.’ Gracie was not sure how to gauge the sudden switch in the conversation so she added in a jocular fashion, ‘In my opinion, it ought to be a protected occupation.’ She was surprised when Lottie continued to look serious. Gracie frowned. ‘Why are you asking?’ she asked. ‘Is there a job going? Or are you just teasing?’
‘No, straight up, there is a job going. Why? Would you fancy it?’
‘Course I would. Where is it? Is it local?’
‘It’s at the pub where I’ve been working these past few nights. The Rovers Return in Coronation Street.’
‘Really? How come you never mentioned it before?’
‘I never thought of it before. Probably because I know the factory pays better. But Annie Walker, the landlady at the Rovers, is a friend of mine and I know she’s been looking for a barmaid for some time. She’s been trying to get someone permanent ever since her husband went into the army.’
‘I’d have thought lots of girls would have jumped at the chance to work in a place like that.’
‘Someone did, very quickly. A nice young lass called Becky. She was doing all right, but then she suddenly flitted one day. Didn’t turn up one dinnertime and left no word, but then Annie found out that she and her family had had enough of the air raids and had moved out to the country.’
At this Gracie laughed. ‘Honestly, with all the people who’ve rushed to get out of town since the war began you’d have thought the countryside would have been full up by now.’
Lottie chuckled. ‘By the same reckoning all the cities should be empty. But the fact is, Becky’s departure left a gaping hole at the Rovers as far as poor Annie’s concerned, so maybe it’s a gap you could fill.’
‘It could be just the job. How do you know her, this Annie?’
‘I used to help out in the bar occasionally before the war whenever she was tied up with little Billy and they needed an extra hand. She’s got two little ones now, she only had the one then. But during the Blitz we ended up down in the Rovers’ cellar together on several occasions when the sirens went off. Then one night there was a very long raid and we were cooped up down there for ages. Her little boy, Billy, was only a toddler and he was running riot. Poor Annie had her hands full with little Joanie who was still a babe in arms. I suppose you could say I “entertained” Billy. At least I managed to keep him quiet and well out of Annie’s way while she coped with the baby and she was very grateful for my help. She always said I reminded her of someone she used to know years ago. I can only assume it was someone she liked because we’re very different, Annie and me. But somehow we clicked that night and we’ve been good friends ever since.’
‘So what’s she like?’
‘She’s a fair bit older than you and me and …’ she paused. ‘I’m not sure how to describe her. She’s quite a character.’
‘How old? Old enough to be my mother?’
‘Not at all. I’d say she’d be in her early thirties. I’m twenty-two, by the way. So her clothes are not always at the height of fashion. But then who can keep up with the latest fads when you haven’t got enough coupons to get decent material to make anything new. But she dresses very nicely, wears a bit of make-up and I think she must have her hair peroxided and permed a bit. She’s very particular about looking neat and tidy all the time, whatever she’s wearing. And she likes to keep the bar neat and tidy too. She’s got very high standards so you do have to be on your toes. A place for everything and everything in its place, she’s always saying. And you’ve got to have a big smile for the customers, no matter how bad you might be feeling. You have to look out not to let things slide. On the other hand, it means that even when the public bar is at its worst – like first thing in the morning before Rose comes in to clean – it’s still a reasonably nice place to work although it is still full of the smell of last night’s stale tobacco and beer.’
‘Why don’t you work there full time, then?’
‘Mostly because of the money. Which is why I didn’t suggest it to you in the first place. And, somehow, I’ve never seen myself as a full-time barmaid though I do enjoy it and I’m always willing to help out the odd time. Like I say, I’ve been working there most evenings this past week while Annie was poorly. But hopefully she’ll be back by tomorrow so I won’t be needed any more.’
‘Not if she can appoint someone full time.’ Gracie didn’t want to sound too eager but she couldn’t help feeling enthused by the idea.
‘Are you interested in applying, then?’ Lottie asked.
‘I am. Do you think I’ll like her, or more to the point, will she like me?’
‘There’s only one way to find out. Though I don’t see why not. But I don’t want to speak out of turn and get any false hopes up. All I can tell you is she’ll be wanting to appoint someone as soon as she can. So, if you fancy the job, my advice would be to get in there quick. Shall I tell her you might be interested?’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course. Though I think it’s only fair to warn you that she can seem a bit snooty at times. Sometimes she has this unfortunate way of looking at you as if you’d been dragged in by the dog.’ Lottie did her best imitation of Annie Walker arching her eyebrows and looking down her nose and Gracie laughed. ‘But she’s got a good heart and if you show willing she’s a really good person to work for.’
‘I suppose if I can manage the girls on the bench at the munitions factory I can handle the likes of Annie Walker,’ Gracie said with a confidence in her voice that she didn’t feel.
‘I tell you what,’ Lottie said, ‘I’ll have a word with her tonight and if she’s going to be back at work then maybe you can pop in tomorrow evening before they get busy. Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot. Is that all right?’
‘That would be fine. I’m sure I can swing something at the factory.’
Gracie was aware that Lottie was looking at her critically. ‘You know something,’ Lottie said, ‘I don’t think you’ll regret it.’
‘No,’ said Gracie, determined to be bold, ‘I’ve got a feeling I won’t either.’
Annie came downstairs, as she had promised herself, in time to give the children breakfast the next morning and found she had forgotten how much energy it required. Florence, however, had taken her at her word that she would get up in time to see to the children and it was mid-morning before she made an appearance, ordering Rose, Annie’s young cleaner, to carry her suitcase down into the hall.
‘I asked Neil if he would pop over in the car to pick me up,’ Florence said.
Annie was shocked. Neil was her mother’s business partner, but it still sounded like a cheeky request. ‘Isn’t that a bit of an extravagance? Where will he find the petrol?’ Annie asked.
‘Oh, he’ll find some from somewhere, he always does. He knows I’m relying on him to get me back. How else would I get there otherwise? He wouldn’t expect me to go on a bus.’
‘Why on earth not? It’s what most of us mortals have to do.’ Annie couldn’t hold back her sarcasm but Florence seemed to be immune. She sat down in the kitchen and picked up the Weatherfield Gazette to read as she waited for Neil.
As the morning wore on, Annie was surprised how wobbly she felt. She was having difficulty standing for long periods and she had no energy to run after the children. She wondered if it was her imagination that Joanie was even more demanding than usual and Billy was running around so much it made her feel dizzy to look at him. She was very relieved when Rose had finished cleaning in the public areas and was free to watch them. Her mother’s departure had left her with mixed feelings. Even though a part of her was glad she had left, she realized how much she had relied on her over the last few days.
‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll fetch you a nice cup of tea?’ Rose said when Joanie was finally settled in the playpen with her teddy and doll. ‘And you have no need to worry, Mrs Walker, I won’t desert you. I’ll carry on here looking after the children till you get your strength back.’
‘Thank you, Rose. I must admit I don’t feel ready to take over everything just yet. I must have been more poorly than I realized.’
‘Well, don’t you fret. You just take your time.’
‘Why don’t you take them out to the park? I know there are no longer any swings or slides left, but at least Billy can kick his ball about and run off some of his energy.’
Sally Todd arrived in time to open the bar for the dinnertime trade. She had been such a help as she knew her way around the bar better than anyone. Annie was grateful Sally wouldn’t be returning to her normal daytime job at the factory until the following week.
When she had taken her coat off, Sally proudly showed Annie the till rolls which marked up all the bar takings since she had been out of action. Annie was surprised at how much money they had taken. As far as she was aware, the number of customers had dwindled recently since all but the old men and the wounded were away fighting. To see that the figures had actually increased while she had been away was a pleasant surprise.
‘Well done!’ Annie said, not usually known for her lavish praise. ‘I know that prices have risen a little but there seems to have been a sudden increase in customers. What’s brought that about?’ she asked. ‘Did the army suddenly discharge them all? Or have those left behind been partying every night?’
Sally laughed. ‘Nothing like that I’m afraid.’ But there was a mysterious glint in her eye. ‘You’ll soon see for yourself once we get busy.’
‘Welcome back!’
‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘Good to have you back, though Lottie and Sally have been doing a splendid job.’
Annie inclined her head from side to side in acknowledgement of all the good wishes when she finally made an appearance from behind the curtain that separated off her living quarters.
‘It’s nice to be back.’ ‘Lovely to see you again.’ ‘Thank you for your kind message.’
She let a gracious smile play on her lips as she greeted each in turn in the way she had seen Queen Elizabeth do on the newsreels as she accompanied King George on their visits round the country. She was enjoying the attention almost as much as when she had been cast in the lead role in the amateur dramatic society before the war and had taken a final curtain call. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed seeing all the familiar faces at the bar while she had been ill. She didn’t really like being shut away from everything and everybody even if it was only for a few days. She was actually looking forward to being able to take on all the duties of her customary role as landlady once more, including pulling pints, though she would have to try to ease herself back into the job gradually.
It was interesting, she thought, how she had grown used to being a publican at the Rovers. She had even become quite fond of the place and the job, and it surprised her how pleased she was to be back. Not that it had always been like that. She remembered how she had felt when she had first come here as a new bride. Running a hostelry had not been something she had ever aspired to. She had long accepted that her family’s fortunes had really gone and she knew she would never be returning to the grand life she had once known, but when Jack had first proposed and suggested they become innkeepers she had dared to dream of a small country pub set in leafy Cheshire lanes. She saw Tudor-style oak beams, and horse brasses hanging on the walls but for Jack’s sake she had been willing to consider the Rovers Return as a sort of trade apprenticeship, a place where she would learn all she could about the hospitality industry. Perhaps one of the most important lessonsshe learned in the early years was always to greet people with a cheerful smile, even if it didn’t reflect how she felt. And that was a lesson that had stood her in good stead. Even when Mr Ridley himself had come to tell them that the brewery had no country pubs available for the foreseeable future she had somehow managed to grit her teeth and smile.
But things had changed since then. She had changed and she accepted for now that she would be happy enough to remain behind the bar at the Rovers Return. Not that she would admit that to anyone, especially not to Jack, for she would never give up on her dream.
What she hadn’t expected to see on her return to the bar was so many new faces and several different uniforms and for the moment she thought she was in the middle of a Hollywood film set. For mixed in with the locals, whose voices she mostly recognised, was the unfamiliar drawl of American accents.
Sally laughed at Annie’s astonished face. ‘What do you think to that?’ she said. ‘I bet you didn’t know the Yanks had arrived in full force, did you?’
‘I knew there’d been more and more coming since the first batch arrived in January, but I hadn’t realized there were such numbers arriving up here.’
Gracie nodded. ‘We’ve got GIs, soldiers, airmen – and some Canadians as well for good measure. They’re all over the country now and, fortunately for us, one of their bases is not far from here, in Warrington.’
‘Well I never.’ Annie didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry.
‘Seems like they’re trying out all the local pubs in the area and I’m doing my darnedest to make sure this is the one place they want to keep coming back to. And you know what they’re saying? “Overpaid, oversexed and over here”.’ Annie’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment at Sally’s choice of language but the young girl seemed not to notice. ‘So I reckon we need to make the most of it,’ Sally went on, ‘because they seem to have access to all kinds of supplies we can’t get hold of – cigarettes, nylon stockings, chocolate. They’re pretty amazing.’
Now Annie laughed. ‘Well, it looks like you’re doing a good job of hanging on to them, young lady.’ She was looking at the barmaid and actually smiling.
‘I think I must be doing something right,’ Sally grinned back. ‘One of the men told me last night he was even getting to love warm beer.’
Annie looked puzzled at this and pursed her lips, unsure how to take what sounded like a backhanded compliment.
‘Apparently, they serve all their drinks poured over ice cubes – “on the rocks”, they call it over in America – and they even like their beer to be ice cold,’ Sally explained. ‘At first, they complained about the Shires being warm, but now I think they’re beginning to get used to it.’
‘So long as they keep coming back for more, I can hardly complain,’ Annie said as she perched on a stool by the till and surveyed the room. She watched Elsie Tanner who was single-handedly entertaining the largest number of GIs and for once Annie was grateful Elsie was a regular customer. She was certainly the centre of attention tonight among one group of Yanks. It seemed that most of them couldn’t keep their hands off her and she didn’t mind that at all. She was flirting outrageously in true Elsie-style. At least, thought Annie, with so much misery around they’re bringing some life and fun into the place. Without them things could easily deteriorate and we’d be left with a pretty dull atmosphere. Thanks also went to Sally, who was confidently pulling pints, serving the customers with a laugh and a joke and generally keeping the clients happy while Annie tossed tanners, shillings, half-crowns and florins into the cash drawer at a steady enough rate to make her one very happy lady.
Gracie didn’t know what to wear as she sifted through the hangers on the rail that served as a wardrobe in her bedroom. Not that she had a lot to choose from. Clothes rationing meant she hadn’t bought anything new for ages and several of her old clothes were actually worn out. But her real dilemma was whether to wear a skirt or trousers. Since she had taken to wearing trousers at the factory she had felt more comfortable in them and normally wouldn’t have thought twice about wearing them when she was popping into a pub. But from what Lottie had told her about Annie Walker she began to worry that they might appear too casual for the landlady who sounded a little prim and proper. She discarded each thing onto the bed as she tried it on. Both the straight, pencil-line skirt with the side pockets and the slightly flared skirt with the patch pockets still looked to be in reasonable shape, whereas the trousers did look rather shabby. In the end, she settled for her cream pleated skirt because it went well with the coffee-and-cream-coloured jumper that she loved, even though she would have to remember not to lift her left arm for that would show up the darn there. The outfit made her feel more grown up and ladylike with its set-in sleeves that were gathered in tucks at the shoulders so that they looked like shoulder pads. It would give her a boost of confidence at what could prove to be a difficult meeting. She drew a stub of bright red lipstick across her lips, pinched her cheeks and looked at herself in the mirror. She smoothed down the tendrils of hair that persistently escaped from her ponytail and twisted this way and that to try to see her back. ‘It will have to do,’ she said out loud and ran down the stairs.
‘Let’s be having a look at you.’ Mildred stopped her as she went to open the front door.
‘I’ve no time now, Mum. I’m already late. I can’t afford to give a bad impression. I’m scared enough without having to worry about that.’
‘What on earth are you scared about? You’ll knock ’em out.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t know what the landlady can be like. Lottie’s been telling me and I can’t help worrying: what if she doesn’t like me?’
‘Of course she’ll like you. Everybody will.’ Her mother gave her a kiss. ‘Just be yourself and she can’t fail to love you. But slow down for a moment. You know what’ll happen if you keep rushing about. Your hair will fly out of its band for a start, and in no time at all you’ll be looking a mess.’
‘Oh, thanks a lot for that!’
‘You didn’t let me finish. What I was going to say was that at the moment it looks lovely. Just make sure to keep it that way.’
‘And from what Lottie says, I must remember to smile,’ Gracie said giving her mother a big grin. Mildred laughed.
‘When do you not smile? Now go. And good luck.’
‘Punctuality. That is what counts at all times, my dear,’ was the first thing Annie Walker said, glancing up at the clock in the bar. Gracie’s heart sank. As far as she understood they hadn’t set a specific time for the interview but Annie had the bit between her teeth. ‘Always remember that our clients expect us to open the doors on time and we have, by law, to close up on time. Fortunately, the bar is not officially open yet so we do have some time to talk before the rush begins.’
‘Yes, Mrs Walker,’ Gracie finally got an opportunity to say. ‘I agree. I’m quite a stickler for timekeeping myself.’ She didn’t want to explain that she might have come sooner if she hadn’t been dithering about what to wear. Annie smiled at her but there was no warmth in it and Gracie wondered for a moment if she had made a mistake in coming. Maybe this job was not for her after all. But she took a deep breath and calmed herself down. Then she lifted her chin and began to answer Annie’s questions.
‘And tell me, my dear, do you have a sweetheart away in the forces?’ Annie said finally.
‘No, I don’t,’ Gracie admitted. She was surprised by the question and wondered if that was going to make any difference to the outcome. But Annie merely looked directly at her and this time gave her a warm smile.
‘I married mine,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘And now he’s gone away, fighting abroad.’ She looked so wistful Gracie couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her, but Annie quickly became businesslike again as she handed Gracie a pen and a piece of paper.
‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind writing your details on here and then working out the answers to the little sums that I’ve written out on the back …’
Gracie hadn’t expected a test, though she supposed it was the best way to make sure she could read and write, and make the correct change if she had to handle customers’ money. So she did her best approximation of the neat copperplate-style handwriting they had been taught in school, and wrote down in figures, as quickly and as accurately as she could, the solutions to the arithmetic questions. She took a deep breath while Annie was scrutinizing her answers and nervously tucked away the stray tendrils of hair that she could feel had escaped from her ponytail. Annie was reading carefully and didn’t speak for several moments. When she looked up, Gracie stopped breathing for a second or two.
‘When would you be free to start if I were to offer you the job?’ Annie asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ Gracie said without hesitation. ‘Does that mean I’ve got it?’
Annie’s face finally creased with pleasure and the warmth of her expression at last reached her eyes. ‘I would like to offer you a week’s trial,’ Annie said. ‘At the end of that time we’ll both be at liberty to call time on the offer, if you’ll pardon the pun, if things haven’t worked out. But I feel sure they will.’ She put out her hand. ‘I look forward to working with you, Gracie,’ she said. ‘I presume I may call you Gracie?’
‘Yes, of course, and thank you very much.’ Gracie grinned. She was surprised to find Annie’s handshake was warmer than she had expected.
‘And I’m Annie,’ the landlady said. But the softness in her voice suddenly sharpened as she added, ‘Although I prefer to be referred to as Mrs Walker in front of the customers.’
Annie was pleased she had managed the interview so soon after coming downstairs from her sickbed. It would certainly make her life easier to have a permanent barmaid in place. But then, she had always prided herself that she had learned how to gather good people around her, and it was an essential attribute at a time like this when she was running the pub and bringing up the children single-handed.
The only person she had been unsure of hiring was Ned Narkin, who had turned up as a potential potman, in answer to her ad, shortly after Jack had joined up. It was not an easy job to fill as all the young able-bodied men were abroad, fighting for the cause. Even those who weren’t fit enough to join the forces, like Albert Tatlock, had taken on civic duties and become firefighters, ARP wardens or joined the Home Guard, jobs which occupied them full time. She had been forced to take on the only man who had shown up in response to the card she’d placed in the window. From the moment she first saw him she wasn’t sure she trusted Ned Narkin, for she thought he had a shifty look about his eyes. He was too old for the army and he came with no references but she had no choice but to take him on. She needed a man about the place and she was pleased when he set to work in the cellar almost immediately, heaving the crates and barrels that were too heavy for her to lift.
Then one day, in a crisis, she had seen a different side to Ned. He surprised her when he’d fearlessly challenged two youngsters who were hanging around by the back door. They looked as though they were up to no good and he’d actually been injured when they took on his challenge and picked a fight with him. Annie warmed to him after that and she had to admit she felt safer during working hours having him about the place.
But hiring Gracie, of course, was a different matter. She seemed like a nice class of girl, very much in the Lottie mould, and she sounded to come from a decent family so Annie had a good feeling about her right from the start. Annie was sure she would be staying long beyond the week’s trial she had offered her. When Sally and Lottie left, it would be a great comfort to have a bright young person like Gracie about the place.
Gracie forgot to walk with any kind of poise as she made her way back to Mallard Street and every few steps she did a little skip, followed by a hop, a step and a jump. She would have to mind her Ps and Qs with Annie, she could see that, but the idea of working behind the bar was so much better than being on the workbench in the factory. Wait till she told them at home. They might not be pleased about the cut in wages she’d had to agree to, but her mother, at least, would certainly understand that she would be much happier. She hoped Lottie would be pleased too. It would be hard work, she would be on her feet most of the day, but she wasn’t afraid of that. And she’d have a chance to get some time off if they weren’t busy. She had always been conscientious and having decided she really did want the job she would do her best to make a good impression from the start.
The only problem she could anticipate was the little tearaway she had seen several times being shooed out of the public area. He didn’t look to be more than three, but the cleaning lady, Rose, had to chase him out of the bar several times even in the short time Gracie’d been there. When Annie proudly introduced her son, she seemed very relaxed about his behaviour but all Gracie could think was that Rose was a saint for putting up with his antics. Gracie’s younger brothers had taught her all there was to know about mischief-making and she would hate to have to work with a little terror like that running round her feet. All she could hope was she wouldn’t have anything to do with him while she was working, for a public bar was certainly no place for such a little boy.
By the end of the week Annie was surprised how tired she was, given that she had spent much of her time perched on a bar stool by the till while her new barmaid, Gracie, ran around after the customers. But the constant buzz of conversation and the fog of smoke that permanently filled the atmosphere had given her a headache. Tobacco was supposed to be in short supply but there was no shortage of cigarettes among the American soldiers who were distributing packages of tens and twenties generously.
One afternoon Annie felt in desperate need of a rest and longed for a chance to go back upstairs for a brief break. As they weren’t very busy, she signalled her intentions to Gracie and got down from the bar stool. She was about to slip away behind the curtain that separated the vestibule to her living quarters from the public bar when she saw a young girl, with long blonde hair straggling over her shoulders, push her way through the double doors of the street entrance. Her greasy-looking fringe almost covered her eyebrows and her eyes were virtually invisible as she tried to peer out from underneath. Her clothes were even shabbier than most of the young women who came into the Rovers these days. The last time she had seen such a young girl in the bar was when Elsie Grimshaw, now Elsie Tanner, living at number 11 Coronation Street, had first put in an appearance when she was not yet of an age to be drinking alcohol. Not that this girl had Elsie’s poise, or the touch of glamour that had somehow surrounded Elsie even in her darkest days. The appeal and charm Elsie exerted over others was obvious right from the start, so that when Annie had insisted she be served only lemonade she knew for certain that Elsie’s friends were slipping her the odd shot of gin. This one looked even younger than Elsie had been then and Annie could feel her hackles rising. She stepped down from the stool ready to do battle.
The fair-haired girl glanced about her almost furtively as she stepped nearer to the bar and, when she caught Annie’s eye, it seemed as if she might turn and run out again. But then a resolute look crossed her face and she made a strange sight as she walked up to the counter in a determined manner. Large black shoes flapped out beneath a blue serge skirt, so that it looked like the old-fashioned Edwardian style. The skirt’s coarse material was gathered at the waist under a stiff buckram band that seemed to be cutting her in half and the whole thing looked like a hand-me-down because it was too big and much too long for her, far longer than the current fashion dictated, given the limited availability of fabric. A tight, rib-knit jumper with several holes in it flattened whatever there was of her breasts. The girl’s hands were hidden from view, plunged into the two side pockets, and a small wooden box was tucked under one arm.
‘Can I help you? Annie asked in the most superior voice she could muster. Now that she was close to, she felt as if there was something familiar about the girl’s face. Was it the unusually high cheekbones that didn’t seem to have much flesh on them, or the narrow chin giving her a diffident, almost impish, look that Annie was sure she had seen before?
‘I’ve not come to drink,’ the girl said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Annie’s laughter was steeped in sarcasm. ‘I should hope not, young lady. I don’t know who you are, but one thing I do know is that you are far too young to be in a pub at all. Now I must ask you to leave or they’ll be after my licence.’ The girl glanced down. She had released her hands from her pockets and was twisting her fingers awkwardly, only stopping now and then to pick at the cuticles. Her hands looked red and sore; Annie’s response had obviously unnerved her and she suddenly seemed unsure.
‘You’d better leave quietly before I get cross.’ Annie made a waving motion in the direction of the door but the girl didn’t move. She plunged her hands back into her pockets.
‘I’ll go as soon as you’ve answered my question,’ she said, her voice suddenly strong.
‘Oh, and what question is that?’ Annie sounded amused.
‘Is your name Anne?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for someone called Anne.’
Annie’s first reaction was to raise her eyebrows in astonishment. As the landlady of the Rovers Return she was not unknown in these parts, but she would never have expected a young girl to march in and ask for her by name like that. Then she frowned. She tilted her head trying to get a closer look at the girl’s face; there was something familiar about those cheekbones …
‘And who …’ Annie began. But the girl cut across her.
‘Did you used to work at Fletcher’s Mill?’ the girl asked.
Now Annie’s jaw fell open and for a moment she was speechless. Nobody knew about the time she’d worked at the mill. Except for her mother and Jack, of course, but the shame of it would preclude Florence from ever disclosing the fact to anyone. She glanced round the room. Quite a few of the locals and several GI soldiers still lingered, though to her relief no one seemed to be listening to what the girl was saying.
‘I think you’d better come this way,’ Annie said abruptly, her voice stiff and unnatural, and lifting the velvet curtain she led the way through the little vestibule that lay behind it, and into the living room.
Gracie had seen the young girl enter the bar and was unsure what she should do so she was pleased that Annie had not yet gone upstairs and was still around to deal with her, but she was surprised to see Annie usher her into her private quarters. Annie had been looking tired before the girl appeared and was looking even more so after speaking to her. Gracie wondered who she was. She collected all the dead glasses and went to attend to Mrs Sharples, who had just banged her pint pot on the counter demanding immediate attention in her customary way. Gracie recognised the girl’s face. She had seen her hanging round outside on her way into work but when Gracie had tried to smile at her she had quickly looked away. She had been carrying a small wooden box with her then and she was carrying it now. What could she want with Annie Walker, she wondered? What would she give to listen at the living room door in the vestibule!
‘A pint of stout when you’ve finished dreaming.’ It was Ena Sharples. Her reputation went before her and Gracie was anxious not to cross swords with her.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Gracie said. ‘What can I get you?’
Ena shook her head at Gracie’s forgetfulness, but for once she just pointed at the row of black bottles and didn’t say anything.
Annie gathered herself in the time it took to usher the girl into the room and settle her in to a chair. It took a few moments but finally her breathing rate returned to normal. She would have welcomed any excuse to leave the room while she collected her thoughts. But she knew she couldn’t do that.
She sat down opposite the girl and entwined her fingers so that her hands lay passively in her lap.
‘Now then, young lady,’ she said and smiled benignly, ‘who are you exactly? And what is it you want to know?’
‘I want to know if you’re Anne Beaumont. It’s not such a difficult question, is it?’ The girl lifted her chin and tried to sound defiant but it was obvious her bubble of initial confidence was beginning to deflate as Annie’s gaze didn’t flinch. ‘My name’s Annette, Annette Oliver,’ she added looking away.
Annie’s brows knitted together. The name didn’t immediately mean anything to her, but the similarity to her own name was not lost on her. ‘Am I supposed to know you?’ she asked.
The girl shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ She looked as if she was going to say something else but then changed her mind.
Annie’s eyes were then drawn to a white lawn handkerchief Annette was pulling out of the box that had been under her arm. She could clearly see the initials that had been embroidered in the corner in red silk thread. AB. Now it was Annie’s turn to look uncomfortable. She visibly blanched. ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, her voice sharp now.
‘It was in this box the orphanage gave me now I’m old enough.’
She passed it to Annie, who held it loosely in her fingers as if she were afraid to touch it. Then she let it fall into her lap. Even though her eyes had misted she could recognize the unevenly embroidered stitching and the sight of it brought back floods of unwelcome memories. She looked at the girl from under hooded lids. Annette was almost twelve years old, she’d said. Annie did some quick arithmetic and sat back in shock. She looked again at the handkerchief and her breathing quickened. Then she looked at the girl. There was something familiar about the girl’s face, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.
‘I grew up in the orphanage, no one ever knew my mum or dad.’ It was Annette who broke the silence. ‘And for some reason they thought I should have the box on my twelfth birthday. It was the only thing that was left with me, apparently, when I was abandoned in a shopping basket outside the gates. I was only a baby, just a few days old, one of the staff once told me, but no one had any idea where I came from.’
‘That’s very sad,’ Annie said.
‘I suppose it is, but it’s all I’ve got. That handkerchief’s my only clue, really. You recognize it, don’t you? I can tell the way you was looking at it.’ The girl was staring at her disconcertingly and Annie began to feel uncomfortable.
‘There was a dummy and a rattle in the box as well,’ Annette went on. ‘But they had no marks on them to say where they came from. Or where I came from, for that matter.’ Annette stopped and stared directly at Annie. ‘I was hoping the rattle might be silver so’s it could make me rich.’ She shook her head. ‘No such luck, though.’ Annette gave a little smile. ‘It’s shaped like a man in a funny hat and it’s got bells hanging from it. Mean anything?’
Annie looked at her, her expression blank. She didn’t know what to think. She shook her head slowly. Though she was still wracking her brains about what was so familiar about the girl’s face.
‘The box has a letter in it too, telling me to go look for Anne Beaumont. I haven’t had much time lately because I’ve started working after school and most weekends as a scullerymaid in Grant House on the edge of the big park in Cheshire.’
‘But that’s miles from here.’ Annie lifted her head and looked with pity at the young girl.
‘I know. But whenever I gets a day off I goes looking. And though I save what I earn to help pay fares, I usually have to walk most of the way so it takes me a while. But I do what I can. I really wanted to find you.’ She hesitated. ‘That’s supposing … you are Anne Beaumont?’ She peered directly into Annie’s face, as if she was hoping to recognize something, some specific feature.
Annie didn’t answer. She looked down into her lap and fingered the white lawn square. What was Annette reading into this, she wondered? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling agitated and unsure. How did Annette think she was related to AB?
‘Do you want to see the letter?’ Annette stood up and carefully unfolded the fragile piece of paper into Annie’s lap. Then she stood behind her so she could read it over Annie’s shoulder. ‘See?’ She pointed a red, swollen finger. ‘See there, it says I’m to contact Anne Beaumont from Clitheroe. That is you, init? I know I’m right.’
Annie picked up the delicate letter by the corner. It looked as if it had been torn from a notebook. She turned it over but there was nothing written on the back. The letter wasn’t signed and she didn’t recognize the tiny scrawl. Finally, she gave a little nod.
‘Yes, it is me,’ she said. ‘Beaumont was my maiden name. But … but I don’t know how my handkerchief ended up in your box. I … I don’t know anything about your mother,’ she said softly.
Annette stiffened.’
‘The trouble is …’ Annie hesitated. ‘I don’t know how you think I can help you.’
Annette didn’t reply.
‘Do you know who wrote the letter? You do realize it could have been written by anybody?’ Annie said.
Annette hung her head. She sighed and her shoulders dropped as she turned away and slumped back into the chair.
‘I’ve been looking for you for ages,’ was all she said then.
‘But the fact that your letter mentions me by name is no proof that I’ve any connection with your mother,’ Annie said, ‘or that I even know who she is. For all we know, it could be a different Anne Beaumont entirely.’
‘I suppose so.’ Annette sounded dejected. She leaned forward and put out her hands in a pleading gesture. ‘But I’ve got to find out about her. I’ve got to know where I come from and the letter says you could help …’ Her voice cracked and a tear plopped onto the carpet.
‘Are you sure you—’ the girl tried again, but Annie cut in sharply, ‘The letter is wrong.’ Her voice was firm, but then she saw the despondent look on the girl’s face and Annie had to look away. ‘I’m truly sorry, Annette,’ Annie said sadly, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
Gracie was pulling a pint of Shires for Albert Tatlock when the bedraggled young girl finally came out from Annie’s living quarters, the small wooden box still tucked under her arm. Gracie watched her make her way to the door, her shoulders slumped. Annie was only a few steps behind her, as if to make sure she didn’t turn to come back into the bar. Gracie thought Annie looked a lot paler now than she had before and somehow even more weary, though her jaw seemed set in a kind of grim determination. Neither she nor the girl spoke so Gracie was left to wonder who the stranger was and what she had wanted.
As soon as Annette had gone, Annie climbed the stairs as fast as her unsteady legs would carry her but she stood uncertainly on the landing for a few moments, remembering the feel of the handkerchief, seeing again the words of the letter. Her legs were trembling and she had to work hard to control her breathing as her mind was flooded with memories. She gripped hold of the bannister and opened her eyes wide, hoping the sight of the vase of silk flowers tucked into the recess on the landing would help to shut out the images that assailed her.
Annie felt sorry for Annette. How dreadful not to have any idea who your parents were. She had seemed a nice enough child, but Annie really hoped she would never have to meet her again. For Annette, even in her short visit, had managed to rake up so many painful memories of heat and lung-filling dust, memories of long, uncomfortable hours in a loom shed; memories Annie would rather forget.
Chapter 3 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
1927
Annie was eighteen years old when she went to work in Fletcher’s Mill; not something, even in her wildest imaginings, that she had ever thought she might be doing. Her dreams had been of stage and screen stardom. She had assumed she would be living the life of a lady, once she had secured a good marriage to some rich eligible young man, someone who matched the standing of her own prestigious background, and she had never thought beyond that. But then their family fortunes had changed dramatically and their status and upper-middle- class life style had disappeared overnight.
When she saw her parents being unceremoniously dumped out of the back of their erstwhile gardener’s old wagon and left at the front door of the two-up, two-down terraced cottage on the poorest side of Clitheroe, Annie rushed out of the house to greet them. She could see at once how hard this was going to be for them to grasp that this was, for the foreseeable future, to be their new home.
‘They can’t expect us to live here!’ Edward Beaumont stood, shoulders hunched, amid the straggling weeds on the moss-ridden flagstones. The bowler hat he was clutching seemed so out of place he didn’t try to put it back on and he scratched his almost bald head in puzzlement.
‘Who’s “they”? Annie asked wearily. She knew what her father would say, but she thought that hearing him put voice to the words might help all of them to make sense of their plight.
‘The authorities … the mill owners … Oh, I don’t know. Whoever owns these kinds of places.’ He gestured towards the front door in exasperation.
Annie shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t we have to live here? It’s no worse a house than lots of people live in.’ She was feeling wretched and deflated but was determined not to show it in her parents’ presence.
Having arrived first and already explored what she could only describe as a doll-sized house, she felt helpless and knew they would too. She had never been to this part of the town before and now she was here she knew why. Inside herself she was feeling as lost as her parents were. They were all still trying to make sense of what they had been reduced to, to work out how their fortunes had turned so completely around, but Annie thought it politic to try to put on a brave face.
‘I’ve had a little time to have a look around before you came,’ she said, ‘and from what I’ve seen and heard from the neighbours I think this one’s a step up from what some people have to put up with round here.’
‘What do you mean by a step up? We would never have let one of our tenants live in a hovel like this, never mind us. This is nothing but a working-class slum that should have been cleared years ago,’ her father blustered.
‘I suppose even the working classes have to live somewhere, and if they don’t have enough money to do them up—’ Annie began.
‘But we’re not like those lower sort of people,’ Florence cut in, ‘and we can’t live in a place like this.’ She sounded most indignant. ‘We can’t be expected to live amongst them.’ Now she was openly dismissive. ‘Just because we have no money doesn’t bring us down to their level, you know.’ She flapped her arms vaguely, as if to dismiss the whole neighbourhood. ‘It doesn’t matter what our financial situation is, we could never be considered to be the same as the labouring classes. They are of a completely lower order. That is just the way it is.’
There was an old lady sitting on the doorstep of one of the terraced houses opposite, with some tired-looking knitting in her lap. She must have thought Florence was waving and she waved back.
Florence tossed her head in disgust and turned away. But Annie waved to their new neighbour and gave her a tired smile. ‘That’s Mrs Brockett, that old lady over there,’ Annie said. ‘She’s lived here all her married life. She’s actually very nice.’
Florence peered down her nose and looked at Annie as if she was mad. ‘How on earth did you come to that conclusion? The poor old thing looks like she’s a permanent fixture in that chair.’
Annie laughed, trying to lighten the mood. ‘You’re right there, Mother. I think she sits out on the doorstep every day unless it’s raining, but I had a chance to chat to her before you arrived.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ Florence didn’t look impressed and she actually shuddered.
‘As long as we’re stuck here she might turn out to be a very useful lady to know. She seems to know most of what goes on in the street,’ Annie said.
‘I hope you didn’t tell her any of our affairs?’ Florence’s reprimand was as swift as it was sharp. ‘I know I certainly shan’t be giving her the time of day.’
Annie ignored her mother. ‘She thinks we’re very fortunate that we have our own lavatory and she says we should be grateful we have a tap for water actually in the kitchen.’
‘Grateful? For a lavatory and running water? Are you mad, girl?’ Now her father spoke up. ‘This is the end of the 1920s. Surely everyone has water and water closets these days?’
‘It seems not,’ Annie said carefully. ‘Not round here at any rate. But, apparently, it’s a real bonus having our own lavatory, just for the family’s use. Although …’ She hesitated, thinking of their old home. ‘It is outside.’ She tried not to pull a face as she said this for she didn’t want to tell them just yet that it would need a jolly good clean before any of them could think of using it. ‘Apparently,’ she thought she’d better add, ‘many of the houses in these terraces have to share a toilet with half the street. And there are several who have to carry their water indoors in buckets that they fill from some kind of communal standing pipe in the yard.’
Annie thought her mother was going to faint when she said this, so she quickly pushed open the front door and ushered them inside. But that didn’t improve either of her parents’ demeanours. Florence looked so lost and bewildered standing in the middle of the single downstairs room that was to serve as a living room-cum-kitchen for the three of them that Annie almost felt sorry for her. But when Florence wailed, ‘We can’t possibly live here! There’s no room for anything,’ Annie thought she would lose patience. She watched Edward and Florence as they stood regarding the few meagre items they had begged to salvage from the bailiffs, while the rest were ignominiously sold, together with the bedding they had been allowed to keep. The few selected items of clothing they had clung on to had been bundled up like rags and lay discarded by the front door.
‘At least there’s two separate bedrooms upstairs,’ Annie said quickly, hoping to distract them. ‘They’re off a small landing.’ She indicated the stairs at the back of the room.
‘And where will the servant sleep?’ Florence enquired.
Then Annie’s patience snapped. She felt so exasperated at her mother’s inability to grasp the magnitude of the tragedy that had befallen them that she thought she was going to scream out loud. She herself was struggling to understand what had happened to them, but how could she get it into her mother’s head that life was never going to be the same as it had once been? When Florence began to cry, it was all Annie could do not to strike out and hit her. Surely she, as the child, was the one who needed her parents’ support?
‘Shall I show you the bedrooms?’ Annie said, gritting her teeth. ‘Then you can see for yourself exactly how much room there is.’
Florence shook her head. ‘Not just yet, dear. I haven’t the strength.’
There was a wooden table and a bench and two chairs that had been left by the previous tenants by the window in the front room. Florence wiped the seat of one of the chairs with her white lawn handkerchief and sat down. She also tried to wipe away the powdery film of dust that covered the scratched wood of the table, but when she leaned against it the table wobbled back and forth, so she pulled back, sitting up as straight as she could. Edward sat in the other chair without paying heed to the dust that was being transferred from the splintered wooden seat to his best Crombie overcoat. Annie kept her back as erect as possible when she took a place on the bench.
They all stared in the direction of the window, though it was too grimy to see out of it. Suddenly, there was a wailing sound that made Annie jump.
‘What’s going to become of us?’ It was Florence who had cried out. ‘And what’s going to happen to our lovely home? Who’s going to look after it until we’re ready to go back?’ She prodded her husband who was sitting beside her, looking bemused. ‘We can’t desert it now, Edward. It’s been in your family for generations.’ She shook her head from side to side as though in disbelief. ‘The beautiful summerhouse and the old oak tree down by the lake … I know how much you love it all, Edward. Will the gardener really look after it while we’re away? How much will he do if you’re not there to prod him and remind him?’ She covered her face with her hands for a moment.
‘You can ask my father about the house and the estate when you next see him,’ Edward growled angrily. Scowling, he kicked a piece of garden rubble from where it had stuck to his shoe to the other side of the stone floor.
‘Don’t be disrespectful of the dead.’ Florence sounded horrified.
‘What respect did he show me when he left me the legacy of all his debts? Don’t call me disrespectful, madam, when it’s me who’s had to sacrifice the family inheritance to pay off his creditors. When it’s me and my family who’ve been reduced to this.’ He looked round the room in disgust. ‘How can you respect someone who, despite his years, still had no idea what made for a good business deal and what made for a bad investment?’
‘I always thought Grandpa was rich,’ Annie intervened, for she recognized the expression on her father’s face as one that meant they were in for a long harangue.
‘He was when I was a young lad. But I was too young to understand that money was leaking out of the estate faster than it was coming in. As I grew older, if ever I questioned anything, he always found ways to cover up his incompetence.’ Edward closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I can’t say I blame the family entirely for turning their backs on us. I suppose we must look like a piteous lot.’
At this Florence had a fresh outburst of tears. ‘Not one of them put out a hand to help. I wouldn’t have expected the bailiffs to show much sympathy, but Edward, your own brothers? I ask you.’
‘I know.’ Edward sounded resigned. ‘Charity begins at home, I told him. But that meant nothing to him. He was too busy feeling smug about how he had managed to hang on to his own fortune that, fortunately for him, had nothing to do with the family’s money.’
‘Uncle William was in the same position but at least he did find you a job,’ Annie chipped in.
‘Doing what?’ Edward was scornful. ‘As a clerk at a mill?’
‘A senior clerk,’ Florence corrected him.
‘A clerk nevertheless,’ he repeated. ‘At Fletcher’s Mill. In the worst part of Clitheroe I’ve ever seen.’
‘At least Uncle William was true to his word,’ Annie said as patiently as she could. ‘You said the mill does have a job for you?’
Edward nodded. ‘I suppose that’s something. I understand there’s not much work about these days.’
‘I know,’ Annie said. ‘The country is still struggling from the disastrous financial effects of the war and it’s affecting everyone.’
‘But what do I know about cotton mills?’ Edward was still grumbling. ‘I’ve never done a day’s work outside of the estate in my life. All I know is about managing smallholdings and woodlands, supervising the gardeners, and collecting the rents from the tenants’ cottages. That’s my line of work. Not cotton mills.’ He got up and stomped round the room.
‘At least it’s a clean job and it’s honest work,’ Annie said.
‘Well, Daddy certainly couldn’t have entertained getting a manual job like those dreadful men we passed on the way here. They looked so rough.’ Florence was trembling as she spoke. ‘Really low, working-class men they looked. They probably spend half their lives in a pub,’ she added contemptuously. ‘You must never forget, Annie, that regardless of what has happened to us we are not like the common people of the lower orders.’
‘At least whatever wages you get will put some food on the table,’ Annie said to her father who seemed to be preoccupied peering into cupboards.
He stood up. ‘As I see it, most of whatever pittance of a wage I earn will be going in rent. Imagine, we have to pay rent for this … this hovel.’
‘Don’t worry, Daddy,’ Annie said encouragingly. ‘I’ll go to work too. Just as soon as I can find a job.’
She thought that would please him, but instead of looking happy her father shook his head. ‘That’s wonderful. We are descendants of the line of the great Beaumonts of Clitheroe; we can trace our roots back to William the Conqueror and we’re used to having nothing but the best. We should be enjoying servants to make our lives comfortable as we get older and instead my only daughter is talking about going out to work.’
‘Not just me. Mummy, you will have to work too,’ Annie said, though she was not sure how that would be received.
Her father raised his eyebrows and Florence looked aghast. But Annie sounded determined. ‘Don’t you agree, Mummy? I suggest you make it known among the neighbours that you’re an extremely able needlewoman. It would help enormously if you could begin to take in some sewing.’
Florence looked shocked. ‘You seem to have an answer for everything, young lady,’ she admonished. ‘So tell me, who’s going to doall the cooking and cleaning, not to mention the shopping? We’ll need to get someone in to see to all of that. Small as it is, the house will still need to be looked after, not to mention that we’ll need someone to look after us. You’ve already told us there are only two bedrooms, so I imagine the servant will somehow have to sleep down here.’
Annie looked at her mother with pity now, but Florence was following a new train of thought as she looked round the dismal room.
‘Those wretched bailiffs have allowed us to keep so few possessions that I don’t know where to begin, but I need to start making a list of what we’ll need to buy and what the servant will need to do.’ She sniffed. ‘Not that there’s sufficient space to bring in much in the way of furniture.’ There was barely enough room for the few bits they had been allowed to salvage from their old house. Annie thought back to the morning of the previous day when she’d watched helplessly as the bailiffs piled their few bags onto a wagon that the horses then drove away. By some miracle, the boxes were waiting for them when Annie had first arrived, but they didn’t actually amount to much. Annie stood up. She couldn’t sit here and listen to more of her mother’s delusional ramblings. There were things to be done – and even if it hadn’t dawned on Florence yet, Annie understood that she and her mother were the ones who would have to do them.
She looked at the ashes in the grate that must have heated the range at the back of the room near the stairs. Perhaps the first thing she needed to do was to learn how light a fire. Not that it was cold, fortunately, but as long as there was no fire, she now realized, there wouldn’t be any hot water for tea. She went into the back yard and then into the alleyway beyond to look for some kindling and old scraps of paper which she had seen their kitchenmaid turn into a fire at home. She collected what she could and went back inside.
‘And who’s going to do the shopping and the cooking? You haven’t answered me that one.’ Florence was trailing round after her now, following her into the scullery where Annie was searching for any usable pots. ‘We’ve lost cook and the butler and all the servants,’ her mother was wailing. ‘I don’t know how we shall begin to replace them.’
To Annie’s disgust she thought her mother was going to cry again. Instead, Florence whined, ‘Who’s going to feed us?’ And she sat down again by the table once more, only this time with her head in her hands.
‘Sadly, we need to wake up to the fact that nobody but us is going to feed us, Mother.’ Annie had tried to be gentle but now she spoke more sharply. ‘We’ll have to learn how to feed ourselves.’
At that, Florence jerked up her head but before she could say anything Annie jumped in. ‘The fact of the matter is that you and I will have to learn some new housekeeping skills. I’ve already spoken to Mrs Brockett, the old lady we saw before, across the road.’ She held up her hands before her mother could respond. ‘Not that I’ve told her much about our exact position but she has agreed to try to help us. In exchange for the odd loaf of bread, she’ll give me some cooking lessons.’
Florence looked bemused. ‘Where will we buy the bread from to give her?’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Annie became exasperated. ‘That’s the whole point. We won’t buy it. We’ll make it ourselves. She’ll show me how to do it and how to cook a few simple meals. She’d help you too if only you’d agree. She has very kindly said she’ll tell me what ingredients we have to buy and where to get them and then she’ll show me how to cook them over the fire.’
Then Florence did begin to cry in earnest. She had barely been inside the kitchen in the grand house in Clitheroe except first thing in the morning when she used to check in with the housekeeper and issue orders for the day’s meals to the cook. But Annie had no time for her.
‘Oh, really, Mother, do pull yourself together.’ She could no longer hide her exasperation. ‘Here, have a look at this.’ She threw the Clitheroe Echo down onto the table. ‘Maybe you can find yourself a job this way. I know there’s not much around at the moment, particularly for women. These are depressing times, as Daddy said. The men claimed back all their jobs after the Great War so there’s precious little available for ladies right now. But you never know.’ The front page was filled with classified ads and she had ringed a few items. ‘I’m hoping I might have something lined up pretty soon. I shall be going into town this very afternoon to at least one shop where I believe there’s a vacancy.’
Florence looked up. ‘Really, darling! Some of the things you say. The very idea of it. Are you trying to shock me or something?’
Annie stared at her mother in disbelief. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, how can you say such a thing? A daughter of mine even thinking of going out to work in a shop. You can’t seriously want to do that – what on earth would people say?’
Annie shook her head and gave a disdainful laugh. ‘It’s not a question of wanting to, Mother, but it’s needs must when the devil drives, you have to know that.’
‘Annie, for goodness sake. I do hope you’re not implying that it’s the devil that’s driving you.’
Annie held her breath for a moment before replying. She was afraid her mother really didn’t understand the seriousness of their situation. ‘I fear I am, Mother,’ she said eventually. ‘But the trick is: we can’t allow the devil to win.’
‘But what will you do in this “job” of yours? Where have you decided to work?’ Florence made no attempt to look at the paper. ‘I can’t read in this light without my glasses.’
Annie sighed. ‘It may not be a question of choice.’ Annie was trying to be practical and realistic, though she had no doubt about her ability to carry out any one of the first few jobs she had marked. ‘Obviously, I shall look for as good a position as possible but I may have to take whatever I am offered.’
Florence looked horrified, so Annie went on, ‘My preferred position would be as a saleslady in one of the fashionable hat shops in town. See, I’ve noted the first one here.’ They were brave words, spoken with more confidence than she felt, but Annie was frustrated that neither of her parents seemed to understand the gravity of their predicament. If her father’s wages would only cover the rent and she and her mother didn’t find a job quickly they might well be in danger of starving.
Upstairs, in the tiny bedroom under the roof, the one with the single bed, Annie crouched over the laundry bag of clothes she had managed to bring with her. Most of them she now realized would be completely unsuitable for the kind of life she would be leading in the future, but maybe she could persuade her mother to put her skill with a needle to good use in her own home first.
She picked out the smartest of the dresses she had been able to keep. It was in a soft blue wool and she thought it would be very suitable for working in a milliner’s shop. It had three-quarter-length sleeves and a nipped-in waist and she knew it was very stylish. Fortunately, only a few weeks before the bailiffs had come, she’d bought a pert little felt hat from her own milliner’s that matched the blue of the dress perfectly. She might as well wear it for the interview before she had to go through the whole shaming process once more of selling her clothes, or worse still, having to pawn them. The blue hat was really cute with a sideways-tilting brim and a small ostrich feather slotted into the petersham ribbon that ran around the base; it sat on top of her blonde sausage-curls in the most flattering way. She was glad she had thought to keep it when she had had to sell all her other lovely clothes. She didn’t know how long she would be able to hang on to it but for now at least it seemed like the perfect outfit for a job interview.
Annie set off into town where the shop was located. She didn’t have enough money for the bus fare both ways so decided she would walk back and took the bus to her destination, not wanting to appear hot and flustered even though that was how she was feeling. The sign above the door said Elliott’s Fine Millinery in gold script lettering. As she pushed open the door a bell tinkled in the distance and an older lady popped out immediately from a room behind the shop.
‘Good afternoon and how may I help you? I’m Mrs Elliott.’ The woman beamed at her as if she were a customer and looked prepared to show her an array of hats.
Annie thought she should come right to the point. ‘Good afternoon. I am here about the vacancy,’ she said. ‘I saw from your advertisement in the Clitheroe Echo that you have a retail position available. I hope I am not too late to apply?’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Elliott said affably, although her smile faded a little, but her eyes examined Annie from top to toe. Annie met her gaze; she felt equal to any such scrutiny.
‘May I ask how old you are?’
‘I’m eighteen.’
‘That’s perfect,’ the older woman agreed.
Annie began to feel more confident. The job would be hers, she was sure of it. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to fill out this form.’ Mrs Elliott produced an official-looking piece of paper from under the counter. ‘It’s so that we may have your details on file.’
Annie thought this sounded promising until she actually began to write. No sooner had she written her name than she hesitated on the next line. She was tempted to give the more impressive Clitheroe address of her former home, but what if they tried to contact her and found out she no longer lived there? She took a deep breath and, with a flourish, wrote 16 Alderley Street, Norwesterly Clitheroe, before handing it back across the counter.
Mrs Elliott looked at it, the smile never wavering from her face, but when she posed her next question the eagerness had gone from her voice.
‘And what previous retail experience do you have, Miss Beaumont?’ she asked. ‘Is it in millinery or in some other commodity of ladies’ fashion wear?’
Annie felt her own smile begin to fade. ‘I-I don’t have any such experience, I’m afraid. But I’m an extremely quick learner,’ she added eagerly.
‘I don’t doubt it. But perhaps you have some other working experience that may be relevant?’
Annie realized, with dismay, that saying she had no experience of work of any kind would not be to her advantage. She wracked her brains but could think of nothing she had done in the past, other than being a valued client, that would prepare her for working in a hat shop. It hadn’t occurred to her that just being Annie Beaumont late of Clitheroe Town might not be sufficient recommendation, as it had been in the past, for whatever she decided to turn her hand to.
As the silence lengthened, Mrs Elliott said, ‘I’m afraid we must insist on taking on someone with prior ex-perience and impeccable references as I’m sure you understand. The job calls for a trained saleslady who would be able to step in and pick up the reins immediately. We don’t have the time to train someone up.’
‘May I ask how I’m supposed to gain this experience if you won’t give me a job where I could learn?’ Annie could hear the desperation in her voice and hated herself for it. It sounded almost like begging.
Now Mrs Elliott’s smile was positively condescending as she said, ‘I’m sure there are plenty of small local shops where you could gain an invaluable apprenticeship. Although not, perhaps, ones in the immediate vicinity of Alderley Street. They may not offer the kind of experience we would be looking for. I mean you could hardly expect a—’
Annie didn’t wait to hear the rest. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster. And she turned on her heel and walked out, trying to hide the burning tears of humiliation that stung behind her lids.
She had been so convinced she would be offered the job at Elliott’s Fine Millinery she hadn’t bothered to write down the addresses of the other retail positions she had seen advertised in the local paper, though she had noted they were all within walking distance of each other. So, after her initial disappointment, she set off scouring the neighbourhood to see if she recognized the names of any of the shops and if they matched the shops that had advertised they had positions available. She found two more milliners’ shops and a retail dress shop that had placed ads in the paper and at first her hopes soared when she found them. But when the shopkeepers’ reactions were similar to Mrs Elliott’s, she soon began to feel deflated. Even if they didn’t balk visibly when she gave her address as Alderley Street, Norwesterly Clitheroe, in what she now realized was the slum heart of the working-class neighbourhood, they were not prepared to overlook the fact that she had no retail experience, or indeed, experience of work of any kind. After each interview, she began to feel so disheartened it was difficult to pick herself up again ready for another one. Even when she found two more shops, one selling ladies’ underwear and one selling ballgowns, that had not been advertised in the Echo, but which had discreet postcards propped up in the window, the result was the same. After the initial question and response routine exposed her lack of experience, she turned on her heel and walked away. By the time she had visited all the retail shops that she could find that required staff, it was getting dark and she thought about the long walk home. As she turned in the direction of Norwesterly, she accepted there was no point in trying for any more similar jobs. It was time to admit defeat and look for something else.
There had been one other job in the Clitheroe Echo which had caught her attention but she had initially discounted it as not the kind of work she wanted. However, after such a fruitless day, she now realized that unskilled labour might be the only kind of work she was fit for. She knew where Fletcher’s Mill was, even though she hadn’t actually been there, for it was where her father worked in the administration offices. Not that their paths would cross if she did get the work, for the job on offer was for a loom operator, to work in the loom sheds which involved longer hours than any clerical job. The ad had said there would be training available and that, despite the long hours, she would be earning a pittance of a wage. She knew her mother would not find it palatable that any daughter of hers should have to be nothing better than a mill girl, and in this instance she wondered what her father would have to say about it too. Not that it mattered; she had tried her hardest to find more genteel work but it seemed obvious to her now that no matter how hard she tried there would be nothing forthcoming on the retail front.
The following morning, when Annie first set eyes on the sprawling complex that was Fletcher’s cotton mill, she was appalled. The only word she could think of to describe it was ‘Victorian’, but it was a far cry from the wealthy Clitheroe kind of Victorian buildings she was used to. This was a forbidding-looking compound surrounded by high walls that looked more like a prison. It was old-fashioned and out of date, a relic of the industrial revolution. As she approached the grimy, red brick buildings with the tall chimneys belching foul-coloured smoke she didn’t change her opinion. It was like taking a step back in time and she couldn’t believe she was about to put herself forward for a job in such a place. What was she thinking of? If only Mrs Elliott had been able to see beyond her lack of experience.
Fletcher’s Mill was quite some way out of the town centre in Norwesterly and the only thing in its favour, if she could get the job, was that she wouldn’t have to spend precious pennies, or too much time, travelling to and from work each day. No longer so confident that she would even be offered a job, she approached the man at the gate cautiously and asked to see the manager.
The first thing that hit her as soon as she entered the building was the hot, steamy atmosphere. There seemed to be no ventilation and, as she inhaled the dense, foggy air of the main looming shed, she knew she was making a mistake. She wanted to turn and run away while she still could, back to the fresh air and sunshine outside, but she had no choice. She desperately needed this job, any job, and for a moment she was rooted to the spot. It was like entering an alien world. The air was dense with cotton dust so that it was hard to see through the haze, and the heat and humidity made it very difficult to breathe. The fibres caught the back of her throat and made her cough.
The other thing that struck her was the noise, for what assailed her ears even before the doorman let her into the shed was the din, the like of which she had never heard before. The clatter and racket of the machinery, pounding down hundreds of times a minute, was compounded by the ceaseless whirring of a million hissing wheels rendering any kind of conversation almost impossible. As the sore, bloodshot eyes of the loom operators turned towards her momentarily, she fancied she could hear wolf-whistles even above all the cacophony. At least, she could see many lips pursed into whistle shapes as men and women alike eyed her up and down, eyebrows raised.
She was wearing what she thought of as her interview outfit and suddenly felt foolish. It might have been suitable for impressing Mrs Elliott, but it certainly wasn’t appropriate for the interview she was about to have. She wished she had thought to wear something more appropriate. But then she straightened her back and stood as tall as she could when she saw the manager coming towards her. As he negotiated his way down the narrow passageway between the looms she could see him chastising the floor workers with a flick of his finger, indicating they should be watching their machines rather than watching her. Then he directed her to the glass booth at the end of the shed that served as his office. When he closed the door, she was aware that it only shut out the highest decibel level of noise and she still had to strain to hear what he said.
Annie sat down and fanned her face with a cotton handkerchief she kept in her pocket now that she had relinquished all her leather handbags. It was unevenly embroidered in red silk with her initials. ‘Is it always so hot in here?’ she asked.
‘It’s got to be, unless you want the thread to keep breaking,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Annie felt dismayed, but what could she say?
‘How do you like the racket?’ Mr Mattison asked, grinning as he shouted louder than necessary.
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But I suppose you get used to it.’ Annie’s throat already felt sore from shouting.
He shrugged. ‘There are five hundred sodding looms out there thumping down two hundred times a minute, so it’s no wonder they make such a bloody racket. And that in’t going to change either.’ He laughed a mirthless laugh, then he began to bark some basic questions at her. Annie shouted back her answers, hoping he could hear them. Then after only a few moments, she thought he said she could have the job. Under the circumstances, she wasn’t sure whether she’d heard him correctly.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/maggie-sullivan/mother-s-day-on-coronation-street/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Maggie Sullivan
‘A wonderfully nostalgic tale’ Choice MagazineIt’s 1942 and Annie Walker is the landlady of the Rovers Return on Coronation Street.With her husband, Jack, away fighting for King and Country, Annie must juggle lone motherhood with keeping the regulars happy.Gracie Ashton works behind the bar at the Rovers and thinks all the girls swooning at the American soldiers flooding into Weatherfield are plain daft. But when she meets the handsome GI, Chuck Dawson, Gracie wonders if she has her own head screwed on right.With rationing, air raids and blackouts, the wives and mothers of Coronation Street are determined to count their blessings, but when an unwelcome face from the past turns up at the Rovers it looks like Annie will have more to worry about than Hitler’s bombs…Full of Coronation Street’s trademark humour and warmth, it’s the perfect gift for Mother’s Day.
Copyright (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Coronation Street is an ITV Studios Production
Copyright © ITV Ventures Limited 2018
Jacket photographs © Keystone-France/Gamma-Rapho via Getty
Images (boy); © Stephen Searle/Alamy Stock Photo (Coronation Street).
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Maggie Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008256531
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: [eISBN] 9780008255169
Version: 2018-01-10
Table of Contents
Cover (#ua0e720c6-947c-5d89-96d4-e7cda8198619)
Title Page (#u0c1462e5-e11e-555b-a55a-2ef5f090494f)
Copyright (#u7b556760-6726-54db-be46-ea2c7c0d0073)
Dedication (#u1e26367f-fd0c-5b7a-8aa9-b2b082f98cb6)
March 1942 (#uaef1d4f1-7abc-58ec-8c2a-a77805aafe66)
Chapter 1 (#ua77bca53-2224-5b34-a6f4-3ec30366a3b2)
Chapter 2 (#ud6daeacf-d165-52e0-99fd-c4073a6f07a9)
Chapter 3 (#u9a50ef91-12eb-5a76-a420-ba7eb30f17e4)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Coronation Street – Still the Nation’s Favourite (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading… (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
To absent friends: Barbara Reid and Renée Byrne
March 1942 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
Chapter 1 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
Annie Walker lay in the middle of the generous-sized bed, ready to close her eyes. It was a rare treat for the landlady of Coronation Street’s Rovers Return to enjoy the luxury of an afternoon doze, for the pub was the busiest and best in Weatherfield as far as she was concerned. The sunlight that was slanting through the sash window illuminated the dust on the dressing-table drawers and it was almost enough to make her get up and go in search of a duster – but she resisted. Her cold wasn’t completely cured yet.
Annie yawned and stretched, lazily grateful that she had been able to persuade her mother to come and look after the children for a few days while she took to her bed.
‘You won’t have to worry about serving in the pub,’ Annie had said when she’d asked for Florence’s help. She’d sensed her mother’s hesitation at the thought of having to pull pints behind the bar.
‘It’s not that, dear,’ Florence said, almost too quickly. ‘I was just wondering whether you might be better off going to the hospital. This flu that so many people are going down with can be very dangerous, you know, and you don’t want to take any chances, not with two little ones running around.’
Annie didn’t want to admit that it was probably the two little ones and their boundless energy that had led to her getting so run-down in the first place.
Thankfully, Florence had agreed to come and Annie had been able to indulge in what she considered to be a well-deserved rest. But enough was enough. Now Florence was beginning to irritate her and, grateful as she was for her mother’s help, Annie knew it was time for her to take back control of her own household.
Annie closed her eyes, about to drop off, when Florence made an unwanted appearance. She was brandishing the Weatherfield Gazette.
‘Have you seen what it says here?’ she said, waving the paper under Annie’s nose. ‘There’s going to be a special service for Mothering Sunday at the Mission of Glad Tidings.’
‘So?’ Annie’s eyes were already heavy with sleep.
‘So, I thought we might go.’ Florence began to hum ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. ‘It might be interesting.’
‘You can please yourself.’ Annie sounded cross. ‘But I shall go to Mount Zion Baptist Chapel where I always go. It’s where Jack and I were married and where, I believe, I shall be expected.’ So saying, she closed her eyes and turned on her side.
Yes, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, it would be timely to go to church and give thanks, if only for the fact that, although German bomber planes continued to fill the skies, the barrage balloons forced them to fly so high it had been some time since the Luftwaffe had managed to drop their bombs with any accuracy on Weatherfield.
After the horrors of the 1940 Christmas Blitz that had laid bare the centre of Manchester and flattened parts of residential Weatherfield, Annie had wondered whether there could be any more bombs left in the Germans’ arsenal to be dropped on Britain. But the Air Raid Precaution wardens had warned people to be vigilant because there could still be the occasional air raid even though the Blitz was over. Their advice was to flee to the shelters at the first signs of danger. Annie dreaded the thought of being woken up by the wail of air-raid sirens and having to rush to get dressed and make herself presentable. Regardless of the fact that they were encouraged to leave immediately the sirens sounded and not wait to gather any belongings, she certainly didn’t like being bullied by one of the ARPs or the fire wardens into having to seek cover without checking first whether she was decent enough to be seen in public. Annie was thankful she at least had her own cellar where she and any of the staff and customers could flee to whenever necessary. She could not imagine having to run with her two little ones down the street where she would be crammed together with all the neighbourhood hoi polloi who were seeking shelter in the basement of the Mission of Glad Tidings. Even the thought of having to rub shoulders, quite literally, with all those people was more than she could bear.
But, when she stopped to think about it, she was already doing so many things that in the past she would have thought were beyond endurance. Since war had been declared people everywhere, not only in Weatherfield, were suffering hardships and acting in ways they weren’t used to, doing things that, until the start of the war, they would not have dreamt of doing. And they had been doing them for so long now it was hard to remember things ever being any different. Not that Annie was a stranger to change and hardship. She had endured sudden loss and a dramatic change of life style when she was a young girl to such an extent that she would have thought it was enough for a lifetime. But even she had to admit that they were now living through some of the most challenging and troublesome times she could remember.
Who would have dreamt that rationing would have become a central and essential part of their everyday lives? Nowadays ration books were crucial for daily living, and shortages and deprivation were the major topics of conversation on the street. Not only were certain foods scarce, but supplies of such basic commodities as clothing, coal, and soap were also becoming difficult to come by, even with the requisite number of coupons. There was little petrol available to fuel the few cars that were on the road, and the scarcity of goods was becoming more widespread each month as different items were added to the list of things that were unavailable or in limited supply. More things were being rationed and restricted items had become even more stringently regulated. Sometimes Elsie Foyle, who ran the corner shop, tipped off the registered customers who shopped with her regularly if she knew something was likely to become scarce, and Annie had been persuaded to buy a few extra tins of powdered eggs, sardines and pilchards before they disappeared altogether from the shelves. However, worrying that they might be considered to be black market items, she made a strict rule that she would never eat any of them herself but reasoned that she had the health of two young, growing children to consider.
Annie was also affected when stocks of the beer she had on tap were running low. She felt a blush creep to her cheeks as memories flashed through her mind of the dreadful and embarrassing time she had had shortly after Jack had gone away to fight for his country. For a brief period the pumps at the Rovers had run dry. She had learned to manage by cutting down on the opening hours from time to time, or even reducing the strength of the beer. On nights when they were not so busy she would call time early, in order to conserve her stocks, and on occasion would open a little later than usual. She had heard it was not uncommon for pubs to run dry all over the country, but Annie was determined to do everything she could to make sure she didn’t have to suffer the ignominy of running a public house that didn’t have enough beer for its regular customers.
In her thirty-two years Annie had learned how to handle whatever situations she was faced with in life and she had become nothing if not adaptable to her current circumstances. What she did worry about, however, was not about her life now, but about what life would be like for her two young children if they grew up knowing nothing but a state of siege and war. She feared for their future and she wasn’t the only one to think like that. One of the main topics of conversation at the bar each night was customers complaining about the difficulties of living with uncertainty; the uncertainty of not knowing what the future might hold.
Annie knew what that was like too. She could never forget the dreadful times that had followed the dramatic downturn of her family’s fortunes when she was young and how she had grown used to not knowing what might happen from one moment to the next. She tried hard not to look back, but sometimes it was impossible to avoid the vivid memories and the stinging feelings of humiliation they still evoked. Her life had turned out to be very different from what she had once imagined, and she was determined to do all in her power to ensure her children didn’t have to suffer the same plight.
When she woke, Annie lay still for a few moments, gathering her thoughts and unsuccessfully trying to catch hold of the remnants of a dream that was floating somewhere at the back of her mind. Gradually, as the ghost-like images disappeared, she became aware of the buzz of conversation that was wafting up from the public bar below. It sounded busy down there, as it had on previous nights, and yet thankfully they seemed to be managing without her. If they weren’t, no one had said so. She didn’t move and remained with her eyes closed for quite some time, content in the knowledge that the pub was in good hands. She smiled with satisfaction each time she heard the ping of the till drawer opening and closing.
Lottie Kemp, although several years younger than Annie, was one of her closest friends, and to Annie’s delight she had offered to lend a hand behind the bar in the evenings during Annie’s absence. As she might have expected, Lottie had proved to be a tower of strength and was totally trustworthy to look after the takings. Sally Todd, who lived on Coronation Street at number 9, could also be trusted as she had worked in the bar on and off for many years and when she offered to work a regular afternoon shift during the busy times, Annie was delighted. It was good to have such treasured and valued friends at times like this. It was just a shame that, before she took ill, the new barmaid she had hired had felt the need, after working in the bar for only a few months, to join her younger siblings who had been evacuated to the country. A replacement was something she would have to think about as soon as she was well.
Annie pulled the feathery eiderdown up to her chest, glad she had not been persuaded to change her warm winceyette nightdress for the pink lawn cotton one, even though it was prettier. The calendar might be registering that it was officially spring but there was still a definite chill in the March air.
‘Would you like me to plump the cushions for you so you can sit up and drink this?’ Lottie broke into her reveries when she suddenly appeared at the bedroom door, steam rising from the delicate china cup and saucer she was balancing in her hand.
Now she’s dressed sensibly for working behind a bar, Annie thought. She liked her staff to look neat and Lottie was wearing a plaid pinafore dress and a fine wool jumper, with her dark hair scraped back into a tidy French pleat.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be up,’ Lottie said, beaming, her rounded cheeks spotted pink, ‘but I thought you might like this.’ She crossed the room to the other side of the bed so that she could put the tea down on the bedside table by the window but she didn’t get that far; all of a sudden there was a clatter and a bang and the bedroom door was thrust back on its hinges. Annie lifted her head in alarm, uncertain what had happened. For a moment she couldn’t see anybody as she struggled to sit up, only Lottie ineffectually trying to mop up the spilled tea from the satin eiderdown cover with her pocket handkerchief. Then Annie sighed with relief.
‘Gosh, darling, you gave Mummy such a fright,’ she said, realizing it was three-year-old Billy who had crashed into the room. His fair hair was standing up in spikes and he looked like he had just crawled out of bed.
‘Where’s Joanie?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t find her.’ He ran his hands in exasperation over his hair with the gesture of an adult and Annie couldn’t help smiling.
‘Have you lost her? Or is she hiding?’ Annie asked, humouring him.
‘She’s hiding, but where is she? Doesn’t she know she can’t escape?’ He threw open the wardrobe doors and the doors of the tallboy, not bothering to close them again. He even pulled out the dressing-table drawers and left them half on the floor. Then he knocked over the wicker chair, heedless of the clothes that had been neatly folded on the seat, and finally he bent down to peer under the bed, flinging Annie’s slippers and a pair of shoes out across the landing. And all the time he was shouting, ‘Where are you, silly sister? You’ll be sorry, Joanie Pony, if you don’t tell me where you are. And when Daddy comes home I’ll make him send you back to wherever it was you came from.’
Annie laughed when he said that. ‘You’re the silly Billy,’ she said fondly. ‘She is only two years old after all, and you do know, darling, that the whole point of hide-and-seek is for you to go and look for her? There’s not much point in her telling you where she is. Where’s the fun in that?’
One of the things Annie did worry about was how much her mother pandered to the children, especially Billy, unlike Annie who tried to be firm but fair. He was reaching an age when he would really benefit from a more disciplined hand. If she was honest, he needed his father.
Billy turned to Annie and stuck out his tongue, then he pulled a grotesque face aimed towards Lottie who was standing frozen near the window, still holding the cup and saucer. ‘I wonder what I’ve done to deserve that,’ Lottie sighed while Annie gave a little chuckle and smiled indulgently. Billy stared at her without smiling back, then suddenly said, ‘I want that tea, Mam,’ and made a lunge for the half-filled cup in Lottie’s hand.
Annie sighed. ‘How many times have I to tell you not to call me that, Billy? Remember what I said? It’s Mother or Mummy. Mam’s so common.’
Billy paid her no heed. It was as if she hadn’t spoken as he grabbed the cup and gulped down some of the remaining tea, spilling what was left over his short grey flannel trousers. Lottie made a tapping gesture to indicate he should replace the cup on the saucer but instead he threw it across the room where it hit the doorjamb and smashed into several pieces.
‘Oh darling, look what you’ve done. There was no need for that, you know,’ Annie said sympathetically. ‘Now poor Lottie is going to have to clean that up. If you’re thirsty, why don’t you go downstairs and ask Grandma if you can have a proper cup of tea, then you can sit down and drink it nicely. And if you’re very good she might even find a biscuit for you.’
‘No she won’t,’ Billy said scornfully, ‘because I’ve eaten them all.’ He scuffed his feet over the carpet as he walked towards the door. ‘And I didn’t let Joanie have any.’
‘Oh, and be a love before you go,’ Annie called after him. ‘Shut the wardrobe doors will you, for Mummy, please.’
Billy looked up and aimed a kick at the wardrobe before jumping over the shattered cup. Suddenly Joanie appeared on the landing from the direction of one of the bedrooms, but Billy just pushed her out of the way, almost knocking her down the stairs as he raced ahead of her shouting, ‘Grammy, I’m hungry. I want my tea and Joanie’s been naughty so she can’t have any. Mummy says so.’
Annie didn’t hear her mother’s reply, though she could hear the clanging of pots coming from the kitchen. She turned to Lottie apologetically. ‘Boys will be boys,’ she said. ‘He didn’t mean any harm. He just doesn’t know his own strength.’ And she laughed.
Lottie’s only response was a deep sigh. She was still holding the saucer that was intact but, ignoring the smashed china, she scooped up Joanie, who was sitting on the landing trying to pair up the stray shoes and slippers, and without a word carried her downstairs.
Annie shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, a wry smile on her lips. ‘Children!’ she clucked softly. ‘They can be such a tonic and a torture all at the same time. I really should be thankful for what I’ve got. I’m very lucky to have two healthy children living safely with me. All of us together in our own home.’ It put her in mind of what her mother had said about Mothering Sunday. She would make it her business to go to church on that day, but the Baptist church not the Mission. And she would make sure she said an extra special prayer of thanks, for she was truly blessed. Not everyone, particularly in Weatherfield, was so privileged.
Her thoughts turned for a moment to the unfortunate children who, for one reason or another, had been separated from their mothers by the war and she felt an unusual prickling sensation behind her eyes. She remembered those who had been sent away when the war had only just got underway. Some, she had heard, had even been sent as far away as Canada and Australia, but most had been evacuated to the English countryside which was deemed to be safer than the industrial cities. She had watched, distressed, from her own doorstep as large numbers of local children from Bessie Street School were rounded up like sheep. Each carried a small suitcase as if they were going on their holidays but she knew that wasn’t the case. They had name badges pinned to their coats and they looked lost and bewildered as they were marched off, hand in hand, by their teacher Ada Hayes. Annie would never have let her Billy go away like that, or Joanie. Who knew where they might have ended up? She’d heard some terrible tales and some of the children actually had to come back, their billets were so dreadful. And yet some of those who hadn’t sent their children away had undergone dreadful difficulties too, in different ways.
Yes, Annie sighed. She had much to be thankful for. Manchester had suffered terrible damage as a result of the bombing raids during the 1940 Christmas Blitz and some parts of Weatherfield had been particularly badly hit. Whole streets had been destroyed and some unfortunate families had been cruelly split apart, parents or children missing presumed dead, their homes destroyed, the remaining family members left in dire distress. Fortunately, most of Coronation Street had withstood the onslaught and many lives had been saved thanks to people diving into cellars like the one underneath the Rovers or the air-raid shelter below the Mission. But the Blitz was like a wake-up call to the residents who remained, a reminder of the serious implications of the country being at war. People realized they needed to pull together and the residents of Weatherfield wanted to get involved in any way they could.
Most of the young able-bodied men, including her own beloved Jack, had signed up for the forces as soon as war was declared. Even men like Elsie Tanner’s bully-boy husband, Arnold, had joined the navy before he needed to, before any serious battles were underway, even though it meant leaving his pregnant bride to manage as best she could. The local factories that had once been the financial centre to the cotton industry had switched their production skills to war work, employing all the local women who were now being conscripted to work. Instead of being at the heart of the cotton trade manufacturing the fine cotton goods they once had, they now produced uniforms, tank and gun parts and other much needed armaments and munitions.
At the same time, those men who were not eligible to be called up into the forces, or were deemed to be medically unfit to fight, took on other war time responsibilities. Some became fire wardens who issued warnings about incendiary bombs, while others, like Albert Tatlock from number 1 Coronation Street and Ena Sharples from the Mission, became ARP wardens. Their main duties were to watch with a careful eye that no one contravened the blackout laws and to round up residents and help them to reach the shelters in time during air raids. As food became scarcer, and imported goods such as fruit and sugar disappeared completely from the shelves, those who had a patch of spare ground at the backs of their houses, no matter how small, began to create victory gardens where they grew as many of their own vegetables as they had space for. Neighbouring, which had once been a feature of life for those living in the crowded neighbourhoods with back-to-back terraced housing, began again in earnest, as people keenly looked out for their neighbours and frequently popped in and out of each other’s houses. After the Blitz, everyone in Weatherfield, from Coronation Street and beyond, began to pull together like never before. No pint of milk was left on the doorstep for long without someone enquiring about why it hadn’t been taken in. Annie herself had good reason to be thankful to her neighbours, Albert and Bessie Tatlock at number 1, whenever the sirens sounded for she needed help dressing her two little ones in their siren suits while trying to hurry them down into the cellar.
Annie had never had much time for Elsie Tanner who lived at number 11, dismissing her as common and ungodly, but even she had joined in when the whole street had rallied to help poor Elsie deal with the horrific loss of almost all her family. That event had allowed the swelling number of congregants at the Mission of Glad Tidings to catch an astonishing glimpse of Ena Sharples’ softer side and afterwards, when two of Elsie’s sisters were found alive, the singing from the Mission could be heard from one end of the street to the other. Sometimes all people could offer was nothing more than a small gesture of kindness, or a shoulder to cry on, but that didn’t make their contribution any less valued. The camaraderie and unlikely friendships that were struck during that time helped to bond the whole community. That was when Annie Walker realized, for the first time, that not only her clientele but the Rovers Return itself was at the heart of that community.
Yes, thought Annie, feeling safe and warm as she snuggled under the eiderdown, she would definitely go to church on Mothering Sunday and she would thank the good Lord for finally blessing her and her family with better luck than she’d had when she was young.
Of course, there was one person missing from her family right now; one special person who would have made them complete. A person whose safe return she prayed for every night; a person she wrote to every day and whose photograph she kissed before she went to sleep. Jack Walker, her husband, being the selfless man he was, had signed up for action as soon as he could and was now with the Fusiliers, performing what was considered to be an essential role for his king and his country in the battle against Germany and Japan. Annie understood that what he was doing was important, playing a small part in the greater war effort, like so many others, but it didn’t stop tears pricking her eyelids whenever she thought of him bravely battling in some far away corner of the Empire. He was probably cold and possibly even a little afraid, but she would never know. His letters told her nothing about where he was, or what he was thinking or feeling. Careless talk costs lives was one of the war’s most critical slogans and letters to and from all military personnel were censored to make sure nothing was given away to the enemy that could give them any clues about the whereabouts, movements, or the state of the allied troops. Annie was afraid, but such anxiety had become a part of everyday life, particularly for the women who had been left behind. Sometimes she felt almost worthless, merely standing behind the bar pulling pints, but then she reminded herself that she was fulfilling a valuable role providing solace for those who were unable to fight but who were keeping things going at home until the soldiers were able to return. She could only hope that her letters cheered him a little. She tried not to show her apprehension in any of her daily missives. Instead she gave amusing reports of the children’s antics.
At least, she told him about some of Billy’s escapades, anecdotes that she thought would make him laugh. Though she hadn’t bothered to mention the time last week while her mother was in charge, when the mischievous little devil had locked Joanie into the under-stairs cupboard. The poor little mite had apparently cried herself to sleep in there and had not been found for several hours. Annie saved that story for her own private nightly jottings in the diary she kept. But she liked to send Jack regular bulletins about the welfare of their friends and neighbours in Weatherfield and she eagerly awaited Jack’s letters, not so much for their news content, for that was limited, but, if she was being honest, she had to acknowledge that she was afraid that one day there might not be any letters. Like many women in the street she was afraid that her husband wouldn’t come back, or that if he did, he might be maimed or wounded. Every day there were stories of people she knew being hurt – or worse. But she knew she had to put her worries aside and for Jack’s sake, and for the sake of their children, she refused to let herself dwell on such dark possibilities and she tried to dismiss the wretched images that sometimes threatened to take over her thoughts. She had to stay strong and she had to believe. After all, wasn’t she keeping the Rovers going so that he could pick up where he had left off on his return? Keep the Home Fires Burning, that was what the song said. And thanks to people like Lottie and Sally she had been able to do just that. Between them they had kept things going and she hadn’t had to close the pub for a single day. She couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with herself. She did seem to have a knack for choosing loyal and trustworthy friends.
Suddenly Annie heard a piercing scream and she was brought back to the present with a jolt as she sat up sharply in bed. It took her a few moments to realize it was Billy downstairs who had been yelling at his grandmother, demanding that she give him some jam for his bread soldiers. Annie sighed. How could anyone explain to a small child that jam was rationed and that it would probably be at least a week before they would be able to go and claim their next allocation of anything sweet? But if Billy was becoming fractious, then it was definitely time for her to get up, time she went back to work. She sighed. It had been really nice to have a few days off and she had to admit she did feel much better for having had a rest; any longer, though, and it would become an indulgence. She was needed downstairs now as Sally had to go back to the munitions factory where she had been requested to work longer hours and Lottie too would soon be doing extra shifts there. She knew her mother was looking forward to getting back home too. Everyone had been wonderful, covering for her at the bar and looking after the children, but it was time now for her to pull her weight once more. And perhaps a word to Elsie Foyle in the corner shop about getting some special sweet treat for the children would have to be one of her first priorities. She resolved to get up the following morning.
She lay back on the pillows contemplating what she would wear for her first day back behind the bar. Clothes were special to her and she enjoyed planning her outfits. She would love to wear something that would help her make an entrance when she first walked into the bar, even if she did then spend the rest of the session sitting on a bar stool ringing the money into the till. She thought about her limited wardrobe but knew with the current stringency in clothes rationing there would be no possibility of getting anything new. Maybe she could dress up one of her old twinsets with the single row of pearls and matching pearl earrings Jack had given her for her last birthday. Then she could wear her newest pleated skirt that she’d bought just before the war started. She would dab on a little make-up – that always made her feel brighter – and she would tell Jack about it in her next letter, remind him how much she missed him and how much they needed him at the Rovers. She knew he would like that.
Annie stretched and yawned luxuriously. She had had a good few days’ rest and she was pleased to say she felt refreshed. But now she was ready to go back to work. For all that Lottie said to reassure her, she worried that they might be struggling a little without her downstairs and one of the first things she must do was look for a new barmaid. Tomorrow she would surprise the children by giving them their breakfast, but for now she slid down on the pillows and shut her eyes again …
Chapter 2 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
When twenty-year-old Gracie Ashton came to live on Mallard Street in Weatherfield with her mother and two younger brothers she was delighted to find that Lottie Kemp, a young woman of her own age, was living in one of the houses opposite. The Ashtons had moved into a rented house that had become vacant after the Blitz and had been standing empty for some time. The family who lived there before them had flitted to the seaside because they thought it would be a safer place to be when the bombs began to fall. But Gracie didn’t really think anywhere was safe, not while the Luftwaffe were still flying overhead. And they were flying with a vengeance, retaliating against the allies’ severest bombing yet of Cologne with attacks on all the major British cathedral cities. The house where she and her family had lived had been badly damaged in a bombing raid, and her mother, Mildred, was grateful to be able to move them all at short notice to somewhere that was close to the factory where she worked.
Mildred Ashton had been the family’s mainstay while her husband, Petty Officer Bob Ashton, was recovering from the burns he’d sustained when he was with his naval unit somewhere out in the Pacific Ocean. She keenly felt the weight of having to take on so much responsibility for the family’s welfare. She had to sort out the details of their living arrangements on her own, even after Bob was fit enough to come out of hospital, and she relied heavily on Gracie’s support. In the beginning they had few things to fill the new house with, for most of their furniture had been damaged by a fire started by an incendiary bomb and then further destroyed by the gallons of water the firemen used in their efforts to put it out. Mildred had had to work extremely hard, but at least by the time Bob came home they all had enough chairs to sit on and beds to sleep in. With four sets of ration books, and Mildred’s ability to create something tasty from limited ingredients, the family was at least able to eat and they were managing to scrape by. Mildred had also persuaded the two young boys to dig a victory garden before their father came home. There was a tiny square, covered in weeds, next to the privy in the back yard that she knew could be converted with a bit of effort so that they could all benefit from having their own fresh vegetables.
Gracie met Lottie Kemp when she popped out to the local shop early one evening, not long after they’d arrived at the new house. To her dismay, most of the shelves were bare though the queue of hopefuls clutching their ration books stretched out into the street. The two young women got chatting as they stood next to each other in line.
‘I’ve come to see if they’ve any cigarettes left. It’s my only luxury,’ Gracie said diffidently. ‘They help to keep me sane. My mum and I usually share one between us on a night.’
Lottie laughed. ‘You don’t have to apologize to me, you know. I’m on your side.’ And she held up her left hand to show a homemade roll-up burning down between her fingers.
‘We both prefer the tipped ones,’ Gracie said. ‘They don’t taste so strong. But I find smoking does help me to relax, don’t you?’
Lottie nodded. She took a puff of her roll-up as if to prove her point and Gracie smiled. She wasn’t sure why she felt she had to justify her smoking habits to a stranger and blushed when she finally reached the counter and asked for her favourite brand by name. Relieved that her errand was not in vain, she slipped the red packet of Craven “A”s into her pocket.
‘I’m Charlotte Kemp, by the way, known to all as Lottie,’ the other girl said. ‘I live around the corner in Mallard Street, at number 6.’
‘Well, what do you know! We’ve not long since moved into number 9, opposite. I’m Grace Ashton, my friends call me Gracie.’
Lottie had exuded such an immediate air of warmth and friendliness as they’d begun to chat that Gracie felt drawn to her already by the time they shook hands. Lottie looked immaculate in her neat, if not stylish, clothes as she stepped forward to receive the newspaper that was usually put by for her father. Gracie couldn’t help noticing that her hands were carefully manicured and the French pleat in her hair looked as if it had been freshly pinned. Gracie felt positively unkempt beside her in her wide-legged working trousers, that would keep catching fluff in the turn-ups, and the hand-knitted sweater her mother had made up from an unravelled shawl. As usual, strands of her flyaway hair had worked their way out of the elastic band that was doing a poor job of holding together the ponytail she’d scraped off her face only an hour ago.
‘It’s really nice to meet you,’ Lottie said.
‘You too,’ Gracie said. ‘I was hoping I might meet some younger folk when we moved here, but you can’t be sure who’s still around, what with all the blokes away in the army and the women working all hours in the factories.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the people in the queue who were mostly women of her mother’s age.
‘I tell you what,’ Lottie said, ‘why don’t you pop round to ours one night, we can listen to the gramophone? I’m working most evenings at the moment, but that won’t be for much longer. I’m only helping out a friend, so you can pop in of an evening, any time after tea. I’ve got a couple of Benny Goodman records we could listen to. If you like swing, that is?’
‘I love it. Fancy you having records of the king of swing. I’ll look forward to that. Thanks.’
‘Do you know “Darn That Dream”? It was a number one hit some while back.’
‘Yes, I love it. I used to catch it sometimes on the Light Programme.’
‘Have you got a wireless? That’s something we don’t have.’
‘Not any more.’ Gracie looked wistful. ‘We used to have one, before the fire. I miss it. Maybe we’ll be able to replace it one of these days. It’s good to be able to catch the news without having to go to the pictures to see the newsreels. When my dad was first sent out to the Pacific I was always trying to listen out for news of his ship.’
‘Is he in the navy, then?’ Lottie enquired.
Gracie shrugged. ‘Not sure exactly. He’s only just come home from the hospital. His ship was hit by Japanese torpedoes and he got badly burned. We’re not sure where that puts him now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Lottie said, adding, ‘My dad’s at home. Bad eyes and a bad chest. They wouldn’t take him on in the first place, worse luck. My sister Maggie and me would both have liked to see the back of him – for a while, at any rate. We might have been able to get out a bit more then. He watches us like a hawk, always wanting to know where we’re going and who with.’
‘I know what you mean. I used to think the same about my dad, but now I feel guilty for ever having had such thoughts. It’s hard on my mum too. I try to do my bit but everything seems to fall on her. We don’t know anyone round here. We used to live on the other side of the viaduct nearer to town.’
‘I tell you what, why don’t I knock on when I’m not working nights any more and let you know when I’ll be in? I presume you’re not working the late shift?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not working at all just yet. I’m on the lookout for a job. I used to work in a school as a dinner lady and I looked after the kids at playtime. But they closed it down when most of the kids were evacuated. Those who stayed behind were sent to another school, somewhere near here. Most of their kids had been evacuated before the Blitz.’
‘You must mean Bessie Street, that’s the main elementary school hereabouts.’
‘That sounds like it.’
‘Well, finding you a job shouldn’t be much of a problem, if you really want one,’ Lottie said.
‘Course I do. I need to be able to help out at home. And I’ve heard they’ll be conscripting women of our age into jobs soon; they want to make sure we’re all pulling our weight. I’d like to find one of my own before that happens.’
‘I do know of at least one job,’ Lottie said, then she paused, ‘though it’s not in a school.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Where is it?’
‘At the munitions factory where I work. They’re desperate for women to work there. In fact, there’s an empty place on my workbench and it’s only up the road. You could probably go down there right now and apply; the office never seems to close.’
‘Do you know, I think I’ll do that. Thanks Lottie, that’s really helpful,’ Gracie said when they both emerged onto the pavement. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’
Gracie had only been at the factory for a few days when she realized that munitions work was not for her. But she wasn’t sure what she should say to her new friend who had been so kind in trying to help her get the job. She was grateful that the noise of the machinery drowned out the possibility of any private conversations on the shop floor while they were working and it was too sensitive a topic to explain by the mouthing or sign language they had to resort to if they needed to communicate. Gracie waited till the two of them were sitting down for dinner together, with their chunks of bread and slivers of cheese to be washed down by thick mugs of watery-looking tea in a quieter corner of the canteen.
‘It’s not that I’m not grateful, Lottie,’ she broached the subject tentatively. ‘I really appreciate all the help you’ve given me; I want you to know that. Honestly, I was so pleased when you told me about the factory in the first place, but the problem is, I really can’t stand it. It’s worse than I thought it would be. I need a job badly and I can’t afford just to give it up but I’m going to have to look for something else.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Lottie asked. ‘I know it’s repetitive and boring as hell, but I reckon that describes most jobs on offer at the moment for the likes of you and me. I don’t know any job that isn’t tough. It’s going to be hard work wherever you go right now.’
‘I understand that. It’s not the hard work I’m afraid of, it’s just that …’ She wasn’t sure how to say it, so she plunged in. ‘I hate the idea that we’re making guns that are actually going to kill people,’ she said.
‘But we’re not making the guns. The floor manager’s always been very clear about that.’
‘No, I know. I’ve heard him say that many times an’ all. But the truth is that we’re making bits of guns and it doesn’t really matter that it’s other people who are going to assemble them.’
‘But they’re not the guns that are killing our boys,’ Lottie argued, though it was obvious Gracie had made up her mind. ‘The guns we’re making parts for are going to help to kill the Jerries and the Japs.’
Gracie hung her head and dropped her voice as low as she could while still being heard. It felt important to get her side of the argument across. ‘The point is, these past few days, I’ve realized that I don’t care who these particular guns are killing. I don’t give a monkey’s if they’re only killing our sworn enemies. The fact is, they’re killing people and I don’t like that one bit. It’s got so’s I can’t sleep at night. All I can see is the cogs clicking into gear and me pulling the lever that brings the cutter down. And you know what pops out each time I do that?’
‘Of course I do. We’re on the same bench, remember.’
‘Exactly. So it’s something we both know is the part of the gun that holds the ammunition. And honestly, Lottie, it turns my stomach. It makes me feel physically sick. When you first told me about the job I jumped at the chance. I thought it would be like any other work. I thought I could close my mind to what I was doing. The fact is, I thought I could handle it and I actually find that I can’t.’
Lottie shrugged. ‘Someone’s got to do it. And if it means we can rest easier in our beds knowing the Jerries are being taken care of by our lads then I’m prepared to be one of them. Frankly, I think it’s a small price to pay.’ She sighed. ‘And as far as I’m concerned it pays my share of the rent.’
‘Maybe you’d feel better if we were making holsters, or bren vests,’ a stranger’s voice suddenly piped up.
‘It’s a bleeding sight better than filling shells and having your whole body turning bloody yellow, I can tell you,’ sniggered her mate.
Gracie looked up angrily. She hadn’t realized that two girls had come to their table and had parked their trays close by. She had been so involved in her explanation she hadn’t noticed that not only were they sitting within hearing distance, but they were avidly listening in to her conversation. She felt her face flush and knew her cheeks must be scarlet.
‘Don’t worry,’ the first speaker said, standing up from the wooden bench where she’d been sitting next to Gracie. ‘There’s a part of me agrees with you, so I shan’t be saying owt to nobody. And we’ve got to be getting back now, any road. Come on, Luce.’
The two girls took their trays over to the serving hatch. Lottie looked bemused.
‘You must do whatever you think is right,’ she said, but Gracie didn’t say any more. She didn’t like confrontation at the best of times and she certainly didn’t want to fall out with Lottie who had done her best to help. But she’d made a mistake. She should never have taken the job in the first place. She hadn’t realized how strong her feelings were. The fact of the matter was she didn’t like armed conflict, and certainly not wars of any kind, but she had been sucked into wanting to do her bit for the war effort and for her country. She had realized too late that she would have been better with a job that supported the allied soldiers in a different way; one that had nothing to do directly with all the killing. It was a subject they never discussed at home. There was no need. She knew how they all felt. Her father had become embroiled in the war by signing up early on and being assigned to a big ship that had been sent off to the Pacific shortly after the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. There, he’d ended up fighting an unseen enemy so he didn’t think much about it, though he did blame the Americans for his plight when his ship took a hit. She knew that her mother would have joined one of the armed forces too, like a shot, if she could. She often said that if she’d have been younger and didn’t have children she’d have gone to fight given half a chance. So would Gracie’s brothers. Thankfully, neither of them was old enough to be called up into the services yet, though she knew that didn’t please them and she was afraid that if the war continued much longer both Paul and Greg would run off to join up and lie about their age as so many young men had already done.
‘I know you don’t like war,’ Lottie said after a while in a placatory tone. ‘No one does, truth be told. But there’s lots of men from round here felt they had to fight. There’s dozens from this street, Rosamund Street, Mawdsley Street and Coronation Street alone who signed up right from the start, like you said your dad did. And I bet not many of them really wanted to go off and fight if there would have been any other way to defeat bloody Hitler. So I feel I want to try to help them in any way I can.’
Gracie nodded. ‘I can understand that, and I realize I have to do my bit now that we are in the war. None of us have any choice, really. I just wish there was a different way I could serve my country than making the actual guns, that’s all.’
‘Would pulling pints in a pub be more to your taste, then? How would that suit you?’ Lottie sounded as if she was joking and Gracie was glad that the tension of the moment had eased, but then she realized Lottie was serious.
‘Down to the ground, I’d say. That sounds like my dream job.’ Gracie was not sure how to gauge the sudden switch in the conversation so she added in a jocular fashion, ‘In my opinion, it ought to be a protected occupation.’ She was surprised when Lottie continued to look serious. Gracie frowned. ‘Why are you asking?’ she asked. ‘Is there a job going? Or are you just teasing?’
‘No, straight up, there is a job going. Why? Would you fancy it?’
‘Course I would. Where is it? Is it local?’
‘It’s at the pub where I’ve been working these past few nights. The Rovers Return in Coronation Street.’
‘Really? How come you never mentioned it before?’
‘I never thought of it before. Probably because I know the factory pays better. But Annie Walker, the landlady at the Rovers, is a friend of mine and I know she’s been looking for a barmaid for some time. She’s been trying to get someone permanent ever since her husband went into the army.’
‘I’d have thought lots of girls would have jumped at the chance to work in a place like that.’
‘Someone did, very quickly. A nice young lass called Becky. She was doing all right, but then she suddenly flitted one day. Didn’t turn up one dinnertime and left no word, but then Annie found out that she and her family had had enough of the air raids and had moved out to the country.’
At this Gracie laughed. ‘Honestly, with all the people who’ve rushed to get out of town since the war began you’d have thought the countryside would have been full up by now.’
Lottie chuckled. ‘By the same reckoning all the cities should be empty. But the fact is, Becky’s departure left a gaping hole at the Rovers as far as poor Annie’s concerned, so maybe it’s a gap you could fill.’
‘It could be just the job. How do you know her, this Annie?’
‘I used to help out in the bar occasionally before the war whenever she was tied up with little Billy and they needed an extra hand. She’s got two little ones now, she only had the one then. But during the Blitz we ended up down in the Rovers’ cellar together on several occasions when the sirens went off. Then one night there was a very long raid and we were cooped up down there for ages. Her little boy, Billy, was only a toddler and he was running riot. Poor Annie had her hands full with little Joanie who was still a babe in arms. I suppose you could say I “entertained” Billy. At least I managed to keep him quiet and well out of Annie’s way while she coped with the baby and she was very grateful for my help. She always said I reminded her of someone she used to know years ago. I can only assume it was someone she liked because we’re very different, Annie and me. But somehow we clicked that night and we’ve been good friends ever since.’
‘So what’s she like?’
‘She’s a fair bit older than you and me and …’ she paused. ‘I’m not sure how to describe her. She’s quite a character.’
‘How old? Old enough to be my mother?’
‘Not at all. I’d say she’d be in her early thirties. I’m twenty-two, by the way. So her clothes are not always at the height of fashion. But then who can keep up with the latest fads when you haven’t got enough coupons to get decent material to make anything new. But she dresses very nicely, wears a bit of make-up and I think she must have her hair peroxided and permed a bit. She’s very particular about looking neat and tidy all the time, whatever she’s wearing. And she likes to keep the bar neat and tidy too. She’s got very high standards so you do have to be on your toes. A place for everything and everything in its place, she’s always saying. And you’ve got to have a big smile for the customers, no matter how bad you might be feeling. You have to look out not to let things slide. On the other hand, it means that even when the public bar is at its worst – like first thing in the morning before Rose comes in to clean – it’s still a reasonably nice place to work although it is still full of the smell of last night’s stale tobacco and beer.’
‘Why don’t you work there full time, then?’
‘Mostly because of the money. Which is why I didn’t suggest it to you in the first place. And, somehow, I’ve never seen myself as a full-time barmaid though I do enjoy it and I’m always willing to help out the odd time. Like I say, I’ve been working there most evenings this past week while Annie was poorly. But hopefully she’ll be back by tomorrow so I won’t be needed any more.’
‘Not if she can appoint someone full time.’ Gracie didn’t want to sound too eager but she couldn’t help feeling enthused by the idea.
‘Are you interested in applying, then?’ Lottie asked.
‘I am. Do you think I’ll like her, or more to the point, will she like me?’
‘There’s only one way to find out. Though I don’t see why not. But I don’t want to speak out of turn and get any false hopes up. All I can tell you is she’ll be wanting to appoint someone as soon as she can. So, if you fancy the job, my advice would be to get in there quick. Shall I tell her you might be interested?’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course. Though I think it’s only fair to warn you that she can seem a bit snooty at times. Sometimes she has this unfortunate way of looking at you as if you’d been dragged in by the dog.’ Lottie did her best imitation of Annie Walker arching her eyebrows and looking down her nose and Gracie laughed. ‘But she’s got a good heart and if you show willing she’s a really good person to work for.’
‘I suppose if I can manage the girls on the bench at the munitions factory I can handle the likes of Annie Walker,’ Gracie said with a confidence in her voice that she didn’t feel.
‘I tell you what,’ Lottie said, ‘I’ll have a word with her tonight and if she’s going to be back at work then maybe you can pop in tomorrow evening before they get busy. Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot. Is that all right?’
‘That would be fine. I’m sure I can swing something at the factory.’
Gracie was aware that Lottie was looking at her critically. ‘You know something,’ Lottie said, ‘I don’t think you’ll regret it.’
‘No,’ said Gracie, determined to be bold, ‘I’ve got a feeling I won’t either.’
Annie came downstairs, as she had promised herself, in time to give the children breakfast the next morning and found she had forgotten how much energy it required. Florence, however, had taken her at her word that she would get up in time to see to the children and it was mid-morning before she made an appearance, ordering Rose, Annie’s young cleaner, to carry her suitcase down into the hall.
‘I asked Neil if he would pop over in the car to pick me up,’ Florence said.
Annie was shocked. Neil was her mother’s business partner, but it still sounded like a cheeky request. ‘Isn’t that a bit of an extravagance? Where will he find the petrol?’ Annie asked.
‘Oh, he’ll find some from somewhere, he always does. He knows I’m relying on him to get me back. How else would I get there otherwise? He wouldn’t expect me to go on a bus.’
‘Why on earth not? It’s what most of us mortals have to do.’ Annie couldn’t hold back her sarcasm but Florence seemed to be immune. She sat down in the kitchen and picked up the Weatherfield Gazette to read as she waited for Neil.
As the morning wore on, Annie was surprised how wobbly she felt. She was having difficulty standing for long periods and she had no energy to run after the children. She wondered if it was her imagination that Joanie was even more demanding than usual and Billy was running around so much it made her feel dizzy to look at him. She was very relieved when Rose had finished cleaning in the public areas and was free to watch them. Her mother’s departure had left her with mixed feelings. Even though a part of her was glad she had left, she realized how much she had relied on her over the last few days.
‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll fetch you a nice cup of tea?’ Rose said when Joanie was finally settled in the playpen with her teddy and doll. ‘And you have no need to worry, Mrs Walker, I won’t desert you. I’ll carry on here looking after the children till you get your strength back.’
‘Thank you, Rose. I must admit I don’t feel ready to take over everything just yet. I must have been more poorly than I realized.’
‘Well, don’t you fret. You just take your time.’
‘Why don’t you take them out to the park? I know there are no longer any swings or slides left, but at least Billy can kick his ball about and run off some of his energy.’
Sally Todd arrived in time to open the bar for the dinnertime trade. She had been such a help as she knew her way around the bar better than anyone. Annie was grateful Sally wouldn’t be returning to her normal daytime job at the factory until the following week.
When she had taken her coat off, Sally proudly showed Annie the till rolls which marked up all the bar takings since she had been out of action. Annie was surprised at how much money they had taken. As far as she was aware, the number of customers had dwindled recently since all but the old men and the wounded were away fighting. To see that the figures had actually increased while she had been away was a pleasant surprise.
‘Well done!’ Annie said, not usually known for her lavish praise. ‘I know that prices have risen a little but there seems to have been a sudden increase in customers. What’s brought that about?’ she asked. ‘Did the army suddenly discharge them all? Or have those left behind been partying every night?’
Sally laughed. ‘Nothing like that I’m afraid.’ But there was a mysterious glint in her eye. ‘You’ll soon see for yourself once we get busy.’
‘Welcome back!’
‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘Good to have you back, though Lottie and Sally have been doing a splendid job.’
Annie inclined her head from side to side in acknowledgement of all the good wishes when she finally made an appearance from behind the curtain that separated off her living quarters.
‘It’s nice to be back.’ ‘Lovely to see you again.’ ‘Thank you for your kind message.’
She let a gracious smile play on her lips as she greeted each in turn in the way she had seen Queen Elizabeth do on the newsreels as she accompanied King George on their visits round the country. She was enjoying the attention almost as much as when she had been cast in the lead role in the amateur dramatic society before the war and had taken a final curtain call. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed seeing all the familiar faces at the bar while she had been ill. She didn’t really like being shut away from everything and everybody even if it was only for a few days. She was actually looking forward to being able to take on all the duties of her customary role as landlady once more, including pulling pints, though she would have to try to ease herself back into the job gradually.
It was interesting, she thought, how she had grown used to being a publican at the Rovers. She had even become quite fond of the place and the job, and it surprised her how pleased she was to be back. Not that it had always been like that. She remembered how she had felt when she had first come here as a new bride. Running a hostelry had not been something she had ever aspired to. She had long accepted that her family’s fortunes had really gone and she knew she would never be returning to the grand life she had once known, but when Jack had first proposed and suggested they become innkeepers she had dared to dream of a small country pub set in leafy Cheshire lanes. She saw Tudor-style oak beams, and horse brasses hanging on the walls but for Jack’s sake she had been willing to consider the Rovers Return as a sort of trade apprenticeship, a place where she would learn all she could about the hospitality industry. Perhaps one of the most important lessonsshe learned in the early years was always to greet people with a cheerful smile, even if it didn’t reflect how she felt. And that was a lesson that had stood her in good stead. Even when Mr Ridley himself had come to tell them that the brewery had no country pubs available for the foreseeable future she had somehow managed to grit her teeth and smile.
But things had changed since then. She had changed and she accepted for now that she would be happy enough to remain behind the bar at the Rovers Return. Not that she would admit that to anyone, especially not to Jack, for she would never give up on her dream.
What she hadn’t expected to see on her return to the bar was so many new faces and several different uniforms and for the moment she thought she was in the middle of a Hollywood film set. For mixed in with the locals, whose voices she mostly recognised, was the unfamiliar drawl of American accents.
Sally laughed at Annie’s astonished face. ‘What do you think to that?’ she said. ‘I bet you didn’t know the Yanks had arrived in full force, did you?’
‘I knew there’d been more and more coming since the first batch arrived in January, but I hadn’t realized there were such numbers arriving up here.’
Gracie nodded. ‘We’ve got GIs, soldiers, airmen – and some Canadians as well for good measure. They’re all over the country now and, fortunately for us, one of their bases is not far from here, in Warrington.’
‘Well I never.’ Annie didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry.
‘Seems like they’re trying out all the local pubs in the area and I’m doing my darnedest to make sure this is the one place they want to keep coming back to. And you know what they’re saying? “Overpaid, oversexed and over here”.’ Annie’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment at Sally’s choice of language but the young girl seemed not to notice. ‘So I reckon we need to make the most of it,’ Sally went on, ‘because they seem to have access to all kinds of supplies we can’t get hold of – cigarettes, nylon stockings, chocolate. They’re pretty amazing.’
Now Annie laughed. ‘Well, it looks like you’re doing a good job of hanging on to them, young lady.’ She was looking at the barmaid and actually smiling.
‘I think I must be doing something right,’ Sally grinned back. ‘One of the men told me last night he was even getting to love warm beer.’
Annie looked puzzled at this and pursed her lips, unsure how to take what sounded like a backhanded compliment.
‘Apparently, they serve all their drinks poured over ice cubes – “on the rocks”, they call it over in America – and they even like their beer to be ice cold,’ Sally explained. ‘At first, they complained about the Shires being warm, but now I think they’re beginning to get used to it.’
‘So long as they keep coming back for more, I can hardly complain,’ Annie said as she perched on a stool by the till and surveyed the room. She watched Elsie Tanner who was single-handedly entertaining the largest number of GIs and for once Annie was grateful Elsie was a regular customer. She was certainly the centre of attention tonight among one group of Yanks. It seemed that most of them couldn’t keep their hands off her and she didn’t mind that at all. She was flirting outrageously in true Elsie-style. At least, thought Annie, with so much misery around they’re bringing some life and fun into the place. Without them things could easily deteriorate and we’d be left with a pretty dull atmosphere. Thanks also went to Sally, who was confidently pulling pints, serving the customers with a laugh and a joke and generally keeping the clients happy while Annie tossed tanners, shillings, half-crowns and florins into the cash drawer at a steady enough rate to make her one very happy lady.
Gracie didn’t know what to wear as she sifted through the hangers on the rail that served as a wardrobe in her bedroom. Not that she had a lot to choose from. Clothes rationing meant she hadn’t bought anything new for ages and several of her old clothes were actually worn out. But her real dilemma was whether to wear a skirt or trousers. Since she had taken to wearing trousers at the factory she had felt more comfortable in them and normally wouldn’t have thought twice about wearing them when she was popping into a pub. But from what Lottie had told her about Annie Walker she began to worry that they might appear too casual for the landlady who sounded a little prim and proper. She discarded each thing onto the bed as she tried it on. Both the straight, pencil-line skirt with the side pockets and the slightly flared skirt with the patch pockets still looked to be in reasonable shape, whereas the trousers did look rather shabby. In the end, she settled for her cream pleated skirt because it went well with the coffee-and-cream-coloured jumper that she loved, even though she would have to remember not to lift her left arm for that would show up the darn there. The outfit made her feel more grown up and ladylike with its set-in sleeves that were gathered in tucks at the shoulders so that they looked like shoulder pads. It would give her a boost of confidence at what could prove to be a difficult meeting. She drew a stub of bright red lipstick across her lips, pinched her cheeks and looked at herself in the mirror. She smoothed down the tendrils of hair that persistently escaped from her ponytail and twisted this way and that to try to see her back. ‘It will have to do,’ she said out loud and ran down the stairs.
‘Let’s be having a look at you.’ Mildred stopped her as she went to open the front door.
‘I’ve no time now, Mum. I’m already late. I can’t afford to give a bad impression. I’m scared enough without having to worry about that.’
‘What on earth are you scared about? You’ll knock ’em out.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t know what the landlady can be like. Lottie’s been telling me and I can’t help worrying: what if she doesn’t like me?’
‘Of course she’ll like you. Everybody will.’ Her mother gave her a kiss. ‘Just be yourself and she can’t fail to love you. But slow down for a moment. You know what’ll happen if you keep rushing about. Your hair will fly out of its band for a start, and in no time at all you’ll be looking a mess.’
‘Oh, thanks a lot for that!’
‘You didn’t let me finish. What I was going to say was that at the moment it looks lovely. Just make sure to keep it that way.’
‘And from what Lottie says, I must remember to smile,’ Gracie said giving her mother a big grin. Mildred laughed.
‘When do you not smile? Now go. And good luck.’
‘Punctuality. That is what counts at all times, my dear,’ was the first thing Annie Walker said, glancing up at the clock in the bar. Gracie’s heart sank. As far as she understood they hadn’t set a specific time for the interview but Annie had the bit between her teeth. ‘Always remember that our clients expect us to open the doors on time and we have, by law, to close up on time. Fortunately, the bar is not officially open yet so we do have some time to talk before the rush begins.’
‘Yes, Mrs Walker,’ Gracie finally got an opportunity to say. ‘I agree. I’m quite a stickler for timekeeping myself.’ She didn’t want to explain that she might have come sooner if she hadn’t been dithering about what to wear. Annie smiled at her but there was no warmth in it and Gracie wondered for a moment if she had made a mistake in coming. Maybe this job was not for her after all. But she took a deep breath and calmed herself down. Then she lifted her chin and began to answer Annie’s questions.
‘And tell me, my dear, do you have a sweetheart away in the forces?’ Annie said finally.
‘No, I don’t,’ Gracie admitted. She was surprised by the question and wondered if that was going to make any difference to the outcome. But Annie merely looked directly at her and this time gave her a warm smile.
‘I married mine,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘And now he’s gone away, fighting abroad.’ She looked so wistful Gracie couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her, but Annie quickly became businesslike again as she handed Gracie a pen and a piece of paper.
‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind writing your details on here and then working out the answers to the little sums that I’ve written out on the back …’
Gracie hadn’t expected a test, though she supposed it was the best way to make sure she could read and write, and make the correct change if she had to handle customers’ money. So she did her best approximation of the neat copperplate-style handwriting they had been taught in school, and wrote down in figures, as quickly and as accurately as she could, the solutions to the arithmetic questions. She took a deep breath while Annie was scrutinizing her answers and nervously tucked away the stray tendrils of hair that she could feel had escaped from her ponytail. Annie was reading carefully and didn’t speak for several moments. When she looked up, Gracie stopped breathing for a second or two.
‘When would you be free to start if I were to offer you the job?’ Annie asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ Gracie said without hesitation. ‘Does that mean I’ve got it?’
Annie’s face finally creased with pleasure and the warmth of her expression at last reached her eyes. ‘I would like to offer you a week’s trial,’ Annie said. ‘At the end of that time we’ll both be at liberty to call time on the offer, if you’ll pardon the pun, if things haven’t worked out. But I feel sure they will.’ She put out her hand. ‘I look forward to working with you, Gracie,’ she said. ‘I presume I may call you Gracie?’
‘Yes, of course, and thank you very much.’ Gracie grinned. She was surprised to find Annie’s handshake was warmer than she had expected.
‘And I’m Annie,’ the landlady said. But the softness in her voice suddenly sharpened as she added, ‘Although I prefer to be referred to as Mrs Walker in front of the customers.’
Annie was pleased she had managed the interview so soon after coming downstairs from her sickbed. It would certainly make her life easier to have a permanent barmaid in place. But then, she had always prided herself that she had learned how to gather good people around her, and it was an essential attribute at a time like this when she was running the pub and bringing up the children single-handed.
The only person she had been unsure of hiring was Ned Narkin, who had turned up as a potential potman, in answer to her ad, shortly after Jack had joined up. It was not an easy job to fill as all the young able-bodied men were abroad, fighting for the cause. Even those who weren’t fit enough to join the forces, like Albert Tatlock, had taken on civic duties and become firefighters, ARP wardens or joined the Home Guard, jobs which occupied them full time. She had been forced to take on the only man who had shown up in response to the card she’d placed in the window. From the moment she first saw him she wasn’t sure she trusted Ned Narkin, for she thought he had a shifty look about his eyes. He was too old for the army and he came with no references but she had no choice but to take him on. She needed a man about the place and she was pleased when he set to work in the cellar almost immediately, heaving the crates and barrels that were too heavy for her to lift.
Then one day, in a crisis, she had seen a different side to Ned. He surprised her when he’d fearlessly challenged two youngsters who were hanging around by the back door. They looked as though they were up to no good and he’d actually been injured when they took on his challenge and picked a fight with him. Annie warmed to him after that and she had to admit she felt safer during working hours having him about the place.
But hiring Gracie, of course, was a different matter. She seemed like a nice class of girl, very much in the Lottie mould, and she sounded to come from a decent family so Annie had a good feeling about her right from the start. Annie was sure she would be staying long beyond the week’s trial she had offered her. When Sally and Lottie left, it would be a great comfort to have a bright young person like Gracie about the place.
Gracie forgot to walk with any kind of poise as she made her way back to Mallard Street and every few steps she did a little skip, followed by a hop, a step and a jump. She would have to mind her Ps and Qs with Annie, she could see that, but the idea of working behind the bar was so much better than being on the workbench in the factory. Wait till she told them at home. They might not be pleased about the cut in wages she’d had to agree to, but her mother, at least, would certainly understand that she would be much happier. She hoped Lottie would be pleased too. It would be hard work, she would be on her feet most of the day, but she wasn’t afraid of that. And she’d have a chance to get some time off if they weren’t busy. She had always been conscientious and having decided she really did want the job she would do her best to make a good impression from the start.
The only problem she could anticipate was the little tearaway she had seen several times being shooed out of the public area. He didn’t look to be more than three, but the cleaning lady, Rose, had to chase him out of the bar several times even in the short time Gracie’d been there. When Annie proudly introduced her son, she seemed very relaxed about his behaviour but all Gracie could think was that Rose was a saint for putting up with his antics. Gracie’s younger brothers had taught her all there was to know about mischief-making and she would hate to have to work with a little terror like that running round her feet. All she could hope was she wouldn’t have anything to do with him while she was working, for a public bar was certainly no place for such a little boy.
By the end of the week Annie was surprised how tired she was, given that she had spent much of her time perched on a bar stool by the till while her new barmaid, Gracie, ran around after the customers. But the constant buzz of conversation and the fog of smoke that permanently filled the atmosphere had given her a headache. Tobacco was supposed to be in short supply but there was no shortage of cigarettes among the American soldiers who were distributing packages of tens and twenties generously.
One afternoon Annie felt in desperate need of a rest and longed for a chance to go back upstairs for a brief break. As they weren’t very busy, she signalled her intentions to Gracie and got down from the bar stool. She was about to slip away behind the curtain that separated the vestibule to her living quarters from the public bar when she saw a young girl, with long blonde hair straggling over her shoulders, push her way through the double doors of the street entrance. Her greasy-looking fringe almost covered her eyebrows and her eyes were virtually invisible as she tried to peer out from underneath. Her clothes were even shabbier than most of the young women who came into the Rovers these days. The last time she had seen such a young girl in the bar was when Elsie Grimshaw, now Elsie Tanner, living at number 11 Coronation Street, had first put in an appearance when she was not yet of an age to be drinking alcohol. Not that this girl had Elsie’s poise, or the touch of glamour that had somehow surrounded Elsie even in her darkest days. The appeal and charm Elsie exerted over others was obvious right from the start, so that when Annie had insisted she be served only lemonade she knew for certain that Elsie’s friends were slipping her the odd shot of gin. This one looked even younger than Elsie had been then and Annie could feel her hackles rising. She stepped down from the stool ready to do battle.
The fair-haired girl glanced about her almost furtively as she stepped nearer to the bar and, when she caught Annie’s eye, it seemed as if she might turn and run out again. But then a resolute look crossed her face and she made a strange sight as she walked up to the counter in a determined manner. Large black shoes flapped out beneath a blue serge skirt, so that it looked like the old-fashioned Edwardian style. The skirt’s coarse material was gathered at the waist under a stiff buckram band that seemed to be cutting her in half and the whole thing looked like a hand-me-down because it was too big and much too long for her, far longer than the current fashion dictated, given the limited availability of fabric. A tight, rib-knit jumper with several holes in it flattened whatever there was of her breasts. The girl’s hands were hidden from view, plunged into the two side pockets, and a small wooden box was tucked under one arm.
‘Can I help you? Annie asked in the most superior voice she could muster. Now that she was close to, she felt as if there was something familiar about the girl’s face. Was it the unusually high cheekbones that didn’t seem to have much flesh on them, or the narrow chin giving her a diffident, almost impish, look that Annie was sure she had seen before?
‘I’ve not come to drink,’ the girl said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Annie’s laughter was steeped in sarcasm. ‘I should hope not, young lady. I don’t know who you are, but one thing I do know is that you are far too young to be in a pub at all. Now I must ask you to leave or they’ll be after my licence.’ The girl glanced down. She had released her hands from her pockets and was twisting her fingers awkwardly, only stopping now and then to pick at the cuticles. Her hands looked red and sore; Annie’s response had obviously unnerved her and she suddenly seemed unsure.
‘You’d better leave quietly before I get cross.’ Annie made a waving motion in the direction of the door but the girl didn’t move. She plunged her hands back into her pockets.
‘I’ll go as soon as you’ve answered my question,’ she said, her voice suddenly strong.
‘Oh, and what question is that?’ Annie sounded amused.
‘Is your name Anne?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for someone called Anne.’
Annie’s first reaction was to raise her eyebrows in astonishment. As the landlady of the Rovers Return she was not unknown in these parts, but she would never have expected a young girl to march in and ask for her by name like that. Then she frowned. She tilted her head trying to get a closer look at the girl’s face; there was something familiar about those cheekbones …
‘And who …’ Annie began. But the girl cut across her.
‘Did you used to work at Fletcher’s Mill?’ the girl asked.
Now Annie’s jaw fell open and for a moment she was speechless. Nobody knew about the time she’d worked at the mill. Except for her mother and Jack, of course, but the shame of it would preclude Florence from ever disclosing the fact to anyone. She glanced round the room. Quite a few of the locals and several GI soldiers still lingered, though to her relief no one seemed to be listening to what the girl was saying.
‘I think you’d better come this way,’ Annie said abruptly, her voice stiff and unnatural, and lifting the velvet curtain she led the way through the little vestibule that lay behind it, and into the living room.
Gracie had seen the young girl enter the bar and was unsure what she should do so she was pleased that Annie had not yet gone upstairs and was still around to deal with her, but she was surprised to see Annie usher her into her private quarters. Annie had been looking tired before the girl appeared and was looking even more so after speaking to her. Gracie wondered who she was. She collected all the dead glasses and went to attend to Mrs Sharples, who had just banged her pint pot on the counter demanding immediate attention in her customary way. Gracie recognised the girl’s face. She had seen her hanging round outside on her way into work but when Gracie had tried to smile at her she had quickly looked away. She had been carrying a small wooden box with her then and she was carrying it now. What could she want with Annie Walker, she wondered? What would she give to listen at the living room door in the vestibule!
‘A pint of stout when you’ve finished dreaming.’ It was Ena Sharples. Her reputation went before her and Gracie was anxious not to cross swords with her.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Gracie said. ‘What can I get you?’
Ena shook her head at Gracie’s forgetfulness, but for once she just pointed at the row of black bottles and didn’t say anything.
Annie gathered herself in the time it took to usher the girl into the room and settle her in to a chair. It took a few moments but finally her breathing rate returned to normal. She would have welcomed any excuse to leave the room while she collected her thoughts. But she knew she couldn’t do that.
She sat down opposite the girl and entwined her fingers so that her hands lay passively in her lap.
‘Now then, young lady,’ she said and smiled benignly, ‘who are you exactly? And what is it you want to know?’
‘I want to know if you’re Anne Beaumont. It’s not such a difficult question, is it?’ The girl lifted her chin and tried to sound defiant but it was obvious her bubble of initial confidence was beginning to deflate as Annie’s gaze didn’t flinch. ‘My name’s Annette, Annette Oliver,’ she added looking away.
Annie’s brows knitted together. The name didn’t immediately mean anything to her, but the similarity to her own name was not lost on her. ‘Am I supposed to know you?’ she asked.
The girl shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ She looked as if she was going to say something else but then changed her mind.
Annie’s eyes were then drawn to a white lawn handkerchief Annette was pulling out of the box that had been under her arm. She could clearly see the initials that had been embroidered in the corner in red silk thread. AB. Now it was Annie’s turn to look uncomfortable. She visibly blanched. ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, her voice sharp now.
‘It was in this box the orphanage gave me now I’m old enough.’
She passed it to Annie, who held it loosely in her fingers as if she were afraid to touch it. Then she let it fall into her lap. Even though her eyes had misted she could recognize the unevenly embroidered stitching and the sight of it brought back floods of unwelcome memories. She looked at the girl from under hooded lids. Annette was almost twelve years old, she’d said. Annie did some quick arithmetic and sat back in shock. She looked again at the handkerchief and her breathing quickened. Then she looked at the girl. There was something familiar about the girl’s face, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.
‘I grew up in the orphanage, no one ever knew my mum or dad.’ It was Annette who broke the silence. ‘And for some reason they thought I should have the box on my twelfth birthday. It was the only thing that was left with me, apparently, when I was abandoned in a shopping basket outside the gates. I was only a baby, just a few days old, one of the staff once told me, but no one had any idea where I came from.’
‘That’s very sad,’ Annie said.
‘I suppose it is, but it’s all I’ve got. That handkerchief’s my only clue, really. You recognize it, don’t you? I can tell the way you was looking at it.’ The girl was staring at her disconcertingly and Annie began to feel uncomfortable.
‘There was a dummy and a rattle in the box as well,’ Annette went on. ‘But they had no marks on them to say where they came from. Or where I came from, for that matter.’ Annette stopped and stared directly at Annie. ‘I was hoping the rattle might be silver so’s it could make me rich.’ She shook her head. ‘No such luck, though.’ Annette gave a little smile. ‘It’s shaped like a man in a funny hat and it’s got bells hanging from it. Mean anything?’
Annie looked at her, her expression blank. She didn’t know what to think. She shook her head slowly. Though she was still wracking her brains about what was so familiar about the girl’s face.
‘The box has a letter in it too, telling me to go look for Anne Beaumont. I haven’t had much time lately because I’ve started working after school and most weekends as a scullerymaid in Grant House on the edge of the big park in Cheshire.’
‘But that’s miles from here.’ Annie lifted her head and looked with pity at the young girl.
‘I know. But whenever I gets a day off I goes looking. And though I save what I earn to help pay fares, I usually have to walk most of the way so it takes me a while. But I do what I can. I really wanted to find you.’ She hesitated. ‘That’s supposing … you are Anne Beaumont?’ She peered directly into Annie’s face, as if she was hoping to recognize something, some specific feature.
Annie didn’t answer. She looked down into her lap and fingered the white lawn square. What was Annette reading into this, she wondered? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling agitated and unsure. How did Annette think she was related to AB?
‘Do you want to see the letter?’ Annette stood up and carefully unfolded the fragile piece of paper into Annie’s lap. Then she stood behind her so she could read it over Annie’s shoulder. ‘See?’ She pointed a red, swollen finger. ‘See there, it says I’m to contact Anne Beaumont from Clitheroe. That is you, init? I know I’m right.’
Annie picked up the delicate letter by the corner. It looked as if it had been torn from a notebook. She turned it over but there was nothing written on the back. The letter wasn’t signed and she didn’t recognize the tiny scrawl. Finally, she gave a little nod.
‘Yes, it is me,’ she said. ‘Beaumont was my maiden name. But … but I don’t know how my handkerchief ended up in your box. I … I don’t know anything about your mother,’ she said softly.
Annette stiffened.’
‘The trouble is …’ Annie hesitated. ‘I don’t know how you think I can help you.’
Annette didn’t reply.
‘Do you know who wrote the letter? You do realize it could have been written by anybody?’ Annie said.
Annette hung her head. She sighed and her shoulders dropped as she turned away and slumped back into the chair.
‘I’ve been looking for you for ages,’ was all she said then.
‘But the fact that your letter mentions me by name is no proof that I’ve any connection with your mother,’ Annie said, ‘or that I even know who she is. For all we know, it could be a different Anne Beaumont entirely.’
‘I suppose so.’ Annette sounded dejected. She leaned forward and put out her hands in a pleading gesture. ‘But I’ve got to find out about her. I’ve got to know where I come from and the letter says you could help …’ Her voice cracked and a tear plopped onto the carpet.
‘Are you sure you—’ the girl tried again, but Annie cut in sharply, ‘The letter is wrong.’ Her voice was firm, but then she saw the despondent look on the girl’s face and Annie had to look away. ‘I’m truly sorry, Annette,’ Annie said sadly, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
Gracie was pulling a pint of Shires for Albert Tatlock when the bedraggled young girl finally came out from Annie’s living quarters, the small wooden box still tucked under her arm. Gracie watched her make her way to the door, her shoulders slumped. Annie was only a few steps behind her, as if to make sure she didn’t turn to come back into the bar. Gracie thought Annie looked a lot paler now than she had before and somehow even more weary, though her jaw seemed set in a kind of grim determination. Neither she nor the girl spoke so Gracie was left to wonder who the stranger was and what she had wanted.
As soon as Annette had gone, Annie climbed the stairs as fast as her unsteady legs would carry her but she stood uncertainly on the landing for a few moments, remembering the feel of the handkerchief, seeing again the words of the letter. Her legs were trembling and she had to work hard to control her breathing as her mind was flooded with memories. She gripped hold of the bannister and opened her eyes wide, hoping the sight of the vase of silk flowers tucked into the recess on the landing would help to shut out the images that assailed her.
Annie felt sorry for Annette. How dreadful not to have any idea who your parents were. She had seemed a nice enough child, but Annie really hoped she would never have to meet her again. For Annette, even in her short visit, had managed to rake up so many painful memories of heat and lung-filling dust, memories of long, uncomfortable hours in a loom shed; memories Annie would rather forget.
Chapter 3 (#ue0f48c2e-51e7-5fd7-89bb-e473972121c6)
1927
Annie was eighteen years old when she went to work in Fletcher’s Mill; not something, even in her wildest imaginings, that she had ever thought she might be doing. Her dreams had been of stage and screen stardom. She had assumed she would be living the life of a lady, once she had secured a good marriage to some rich eligible young man, someone who matched the standing of her own prestigious background, and she had never thought beyond that. But then their family fortunes had changed dramatically and their status and upper-middle- class life style had disappeared overnight.
When she saw her parents being unceremoniously dumped out of the back of their erstwhile gardener’s old wagon and left at the front door of the two-up, two-down terraced cottage on the poorest side of Clitheroe, Annie rushed out of the house to greet them. She could see at once how hard this was going to be for them to grasp that this was, for the foreseeable future, to be their new home.
‘They can’t expect us to live here!’ Edward Beaumont stood, shoulders hunched, amid the straggling weeds on the moss-ridden flagstones. The bowler hat he was clutching seemed so out of place he didn’t try to put it back on and he scratched his almost bald head in puzzlement.
‘Who’s “they”? Annie asked wearily. She knew what her father would say, but she thought that hearing him put voice to the words might help all of them to make sense of their plight.
‘The authorities … the mill owners … Oh, I don’t know. Whoever owns these kinds of places.’ He gestured towards the front door in exasperation.
Annie shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t we have to live here? It’s no worse a house than lots of people live in.’ She was feeling wretched and deflated but was determined not to show it in her parents’ presence.
Having arrived first and already explored what she could only describe as a doll-sized house, she felt helpless and knew they would too. She had never been to this part of the town before and now she was here she knew why. Inside herself she was feeling as lost as her parents were. They were all still trying to make sense of what they had been reduced to, to work out how their fortunes had turned so completely around, but Annie thought it politic to try to put on a brave face.
‘I’ve had a little time to have a look around before you came,’ she said, ‘and from what I’ve seen and heard from the neighbours I think this one’s a step up from what some people have to put up with round here.’
‘What do you mean by a step up? We would never have let one of our tenants live in a hovel like this, never mind us. This is nothing but a working-class slum that should have been cleared years ago,’ her father blustered.
‘I suppose even the working classes have to live somewhere, and if they don’t have enough money to do them up—’ Annie began.
‘But we’re not like those lower sort of people,’ Florence cut in, ‘and we can’t live in a place like this.’ She sounded most indignant. ‘We can’t be expected to live amongst them.’ Now she was openly dismissive. ‘Just because we have no money doesn’t bring us down to their level, you know.’ She flapped her arms vaguely, as if to dismiss the whole neighbourhood. ‘It doesn’t matter what our financial situation is, we could never be considered to be the same as the labouring classes. They are of a completely lower order. That is just the way it is.’
There was an old lady sitting on the doorstep of one of the terraced houses opposite, with some tired-looking knitting in her lap. She must have thought Florence was waving and she waved back.
Florence tossed her head in disgust and turned away. But Annie waved to their new neighbour and gave her a tired smile. ‘That’s Mrs Brockett, that old lady over there,’ Annie said. ‘She’s lived here all her married life. She’s actually very nice.’
Florence peered down her nose and looked at Annie as if she was mad. ‘How on earth did you come to that conclusion? The poor old thing looks like she’s a permanent fixture in that chair.’
Annie laughed, trying to lighten the mood. ‘You’re right there, Mother. I think she sits out on the doorstep every day unless it’s raining, but I had a chance to chat to her before you arrived.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ Florence didn’t look impressed and she actually shuddered.
‘As long as we’re stuck here she might turn out to be a very useful lady to know. She seems to know most of what goes on in the street,’ Annie said.
‘I hope you didn’t tell her any of our affairs?’ Florence’s reprimand was as swift as it was sharp. ‘I know I certainly shan’t be giving her the time of day.’
Annie ignored her mother. ‘She thinks we’re very fortunate that we have our own lavatory and she says we should be grateful we have a tap for water actually in the kitchen.’
‘Grateful? For a lavatory and running water? Are you mad, girl?’ Now her father spoke up. ‘This is the end of the 1920s. Surely everyone has water and water closets these days?’
‘It seems not,’ Annie said carefully. ‘Not round here at any rate. But, apparently, it’s a real bonus having our own lavatory, just for the family’s use. Although …’ She hesitated, thinking of their old home. ‘It is outside.’ She tried not to pull a face as she said this for she didn’t want to tell them just yet that it would need a jolly good clean before any of them could think of using it. ‘Apparently,’ she thought she’d better add, ‘many of the houses in these terraces have to share a toilet with half the street. And there are several who have to carry their water indoors in buckets that they fill from some kind of communal standing pipe in the yard.’
Annie thought her mother was going to faint when she said this, so she quickly pushed open the front door and ushered them inside. But that didn’t improve either of her parents’ demeanours. Florence looked so lost and bewildered standing in the middle of the single downstairs room that was to serve as a living room-cum-kitchen for the three of them that Annie almost felt sorry for her. But when Florence wailed, ‘We can’t possibly live here! There’s no room for anything,’ Annie thought she would lose patience. She watched Edward and Florence as they stood regarding the few meagre items they had begged to salvage from the bailiffs, while the rest were ignominiously sold, together with the bedding they had been allowed to keep. The few selected items of clothing they had clung on to had been bundled up like rags and lay discarded by the front door.
‘At least there’s two separate bedrooms upstairs,’ Annie said quickly, hoping to distract them. ‘They’re off a small landing.’ She indicated the stairs at the back of the room.
‘And where will the servant sleep?’ Florence enquired.
Then Annie’s patience snapped. She felt so exasperated at her mother’s inability to grasp the magnitude of the tragedy that had befallen them that she thought she was going to scream out loud. She herself was struggling to understand what had happened to them, but how could she get it into her mother’s head that life was never going to be the same as it had once been? When Florence began to cry, it was all Annie could do not to strike out and hit her. Surely she, as the child, was the one who needed her parents’ support?
‘Shall I show you the bedrooms?’ Annie said, gritting her teeth. ‘Then you can see for yourself exactly how much room there is.’
Florence shook her head. ‘Not just yet, dear. I haven’t the strength.’
There was a wooden table and a bench and two chairs that had been left by the previous tenants by the window in the front room. Florence wiped the seat of one of the chairs with her white lawn handkerchief and sat down. She also tried to wipe away the powdery film of dust that covered the scratched wood of the table, but when she leaned against it the table wobbled back and forth, so she pulled back, sitting up as straight as she could. Edward sat in the other chair without paying heed to the dust that was being transferred from the splintered wooden seat to his best Crombie overcoat. Annie kept her back as erect as possible when she took a place on the bench.
They all stared in the direction of the window, though it was too grimy to see out of it. Suddenly, there was a wailing sound that made Annie jump.
‘What’s going to become of us?’ It was Florence who had cried out. ‘And what’s going to happen to our lovely home? Who’s going to look after it until we’re ready to go back?’ She prodded her husband who was sitting beside her, looking bemused. ‘We can’t desert it now, Edward. It’s been in your family for generations.’ She shook her head from side to side as though in disbelief. ‘The beautiful summerhouse and the old oak tree down by the lake … I know how much you love it all, Edward. Will the gardener really look after it while we’re away? How much will he do if you’re not there to prod him and remind him?’ She covered her face with her hands for a moment.
‘You can ask my father about the house and the estate when you next see him,’ Edward growled angrily. Scowling, he kicked a piece of garden rubble from where it had stuck to his shoe to the other side of the stone floor.
‘Don’t be disrespectful of the dead.’ Florence sounded horrified.
‘What respect did he show me when he left me the legacy of all his debts? Don’t call me disrespectful, madam, when it’s me who’s had to sacrifice the family inheritance to pay off his creditors. When it’s me and my family who’ve been reduced to this.’ He looked round the room in disgust. ‘How can you respect someone who, despite his years, still had no idea what made for a good business deal and what made for a bad investment?’
‘I always thought Grandpa was rich,’ Annie intervened, for she recognized the expression on her father’s face as one that meant they were in for a long harangue.
‘He was when I was a young lad. But I was too young to understand that money was leaking out of the estate faster than it was coming in. As I grew older, if ever I questioned anything, he always found ways to cover up his incompetence.’ Edward closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I can’t say I blame the family entirely for turning their backs on us. I suppose we must look like a piteous lot.’
At this Florence had a fresh outburst of tears. ‘Not one of them put out a hand to help. I wouldn’t have expected the bailiffs to show much sympathy, but Edward, your own brothers? I ask you.’
‘I know.’ Edward sounded resigned. ‘Charity begins at home, I told him. But that meant nothing to him. He was too busy feeling smug about how he had managed to hang on to his own fortune that, fortunately for him, had nothing to do with the family’s money.’
‘Uncle William was in the same position but at least he did find you a job,’ Annie chipped in.
‘Doing what?’ Edward was scornful. ‘As a clerk at a mill?’
‘A senior clerk,’ Florence corrected him.
‘A clerk nevertheless,’ he repeated. ‘At Fletcher’s Mill. In the worst part of Clitheroe I’ve ever seen.’
‘At least Uncle William was true to his word,’ Annie said as patiently as she could. ‘You said the mill does have a job for you?’
Edward nodded. ‘I suppose that’s something. I understand there’s not much work about these days.’
‘I know,’ Annie said. ‘The country is still struggling from the disastrous financial effects of the war and it’s affecting everyone.’
‘But what do I know about cotton mills?’ Edward was still grumbling. ‘I’ve never done a day’s work outside of the estate in my life. All I know is about managing smallholdings and woodlands, supervising the gardeners, and collecting the rents from the tenants’ cottages. That’s my line of work. Not cotton mills.’ He got up and stomped round the room.
‘At least it’s a clean job and it’s honest work,’ Annie said.
‘Well, Daddy certainly couldn’t have entertained getting a manual job like those dreadful men we passed on the way here. They looked so rough.’ Florence was trembling as she spoke. ‘Really low, working-class men they looked. They probably spend half their lives in a pub,’ she added contemptuously. ‘You must never forget, Annie, that regardless of what has happened to us we are not like the common people of the lower orders.’
‘At least whatever wages you get will put some food on the table,’ Annie said to her father who seemed to be preoccupied peering into cupboards.
He stood up. ‘As I see it, most of whatever pittance of a wage I earn will be going in rent. Imagine, we have to pay rent for this … this hovel.’
‘Don’t worry, Daddy,’ Annie said encouragingly. ‘I’ll go to work too. Just as soon as I can find a job.’
She thought that would please him, but instead of looking happy her father shook his head. ‘That’s wonderful. We are descendants of the line of the great Beaumonts of Clitheroe; we can trace our roots back to William the Conqueror and we’re used to having nothing but the best. We should be enjoying servants to make our lives comfortable as we get older and instead my only daughter is talking about going out to work.’
‘Not just me. Mummy, you will have to work too,’ Annie said, though she was not sure how that would be received.
Her father raised his eyebrows and Florence looked aghast. But Annie sounded determined. ‘Don’t you agree, Mummy? I suggest you make it known among the neighbours that you’re an extremely able needlewoman. It would help enormously if you could begin to take in some sewing.’
Florence looked shocked. ‘You seem to have an answer for everything, young lady,’ she admonished. ‘So tell me, who’s going to doall the cooking and cleaning, not to mention the shopping? We’ll need to get someone in to see to all of that. Small as it is, the house will still need to be looked after, not to mention that we’ll need someone to look after us. You’ve already told us there are only two bedrooms, so I imagine the servant will somehow have to sleep down here.’
Annie looked at her mother with pity now, but Florence was following a new train of thought as she looked round the dismal room.
‘Those wretched bailiffs have allowed us to keep so few possessions that I don’t know where to begin, but I need to start making a list of what we’ll need to buy and what the servant will need to do.’ She sniffed. ‘Not that there’s sufficient space to bring in much in the way of furniture.’ There was barely enough room for the few bits they had been allowed to salvage from their old house. Annie thought back to the morning of the previous day when she’d watched helplessly as the bailiffs piled their few bags onto a wagon that the horses then drove away. By some miracle, the boxes were waiting for them when Annie had first arrived, but they didn’t actually amount to much. Annie stood up. She couldn’t sit here and listen to more of her mother’s delusional ramblings. There were things to be done – and even if it hadn’t dawned on Florence yet, Annie understood that she and her mother were the ones who would have to do them.
She looked at the ashes in the grate that must have heated the range at the back of the room near the stairs. Perhaps the first thing she needed to do was to learn how light a fire. Not that it was cold, fortunately, but as long as there was no fire, she now realized, there wouldn’t be any hot water for tea. She went into the back yard and then into the alleyway beyond to look for some kindling and old scraps of paper which she had seen their kitchenmaid turn into a fire at home. She collected what she could and went back inside.
‘And who’s going to do the shopping and the cooking? You haven’t answered me that one.’ Florence was trailing round after her now, following her into the scullery where Annie was searching for any usable pots. ‘We’ve lost cook and the butler and all the servants,’ her mother was wailing. ‘I don’t know how we shall begin to replace them.’
To Annie’s disgust she thought her mother was going to cry again. Instead, Florence whined, ‘Who’s going to feed us?’ And she sat down again by the table once more, only this time with her head in her hands.
‘Sadly, we need to wake up to the fact that nobody but us is going to feed us, Mother.’ Annie had tried to be gentle but now she spoke more sharply. ‘We’ll have to learn how to feed ourselves.’
At that, Florence jerked up her head but before she could say anything Annie jumped in. ‘The fact of the matter is that you and I will have to learn some new housekeeping skills. I’ve already spoken to Mrs Brockett, the old lady we saw before, across the road.’ She held up her hands before her mother could respond. ‘Not that I’ve told her much about our exact position but she has agreed to try to help us. In exchange for the odd loaf of bread, she’ll give me some cooking lessons.’
Florence looked bemused. ‘Where will we buy the bread from to give her?’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Annie became exasperated. ‘That’s the whole point. We won’t buy it. We’ll make it ourselves. She’ll show me how to do it and how to cook a few simple meals. She’d help you too if only you’d agree. She has very kindly said she’ll tell me what ingredients we have to buy and where to get them and then she’ll show me how to cook them over the fire.’
Then Florence did begin to cry in earnest. She had barely been inside the kitchen in the grand house in Clitheroe except first thing in the morning when she used to check in with the housekeeper and issue orders for the day’s meals to the cook. But Annie had no time for her.
‘Oh, really, Mother, do pull yourself together.’ She could no longer hide her exasperation. ‘Here, have a look at this.’ She threw the Clitheroe Echo down onto the table. ‘Maybe you can find yourself a job this way. I know there’s not much around at the moment, particularly for women. These are depressing times, as Daddy said. The men claimed back all their jobs after the Great War so there’s precious little available for ladies right now. But you never know.’ The front page was filled with classified ads and she had ringed a few items. ‘I’m hoping I might have something lined up pretty soon. I shall be going into town this very afternoon to at least one shop where I believe there’s a vacancy.’
Florence looked up. ‘Really, darling! Some of the things you say. The very idea of it. Are you trying to shock me or something?’
Annie stared at her mother in disbelief. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, how can you say such a thing? A daughter of mine even thinking of going out to work in a shop. You can’t seriously want to do that – what on earth would people say?’
Annie shook her head and gave a disdainful laugh. ‘It’s not a question of wanting to, Mother, but it’s needs must when the devil drives, you have to know that.’
‘Annie, for goodness sake. I do hope you’re not implying that it’s the devil that’s driving you.’
Annie held her breath for a moment before replying. She was afraid her mother really didn’t understand the seriousness of their situation. ‘I fear I am, Mother,’ she said eventually. ‘But the trick is: we can’t allow the devil to win.’
‘But what will you do in this “job” of yours? Where have you decided to work?’ Florence made no attempt to look at the paper. ‘I can’t read in this light without my glasses.’
Annie sighed. ‘It may not be a question of choice.’ Annie was trying to be practical and realistic, though she had no doubt about her ability to carry out any one of the first few jobs she had marked. ‘Obviously, I shall look for as good a position as possible but I may have to take whatever I am offered.’
Florence looked horrified, so Annie went on, ‘My preferred position would be as a saleslady in one of the fashionable hat shops in town. See, I’ve noted the first one here.’ They were brave words, spoken with more confidence than she felt, but Annie was frustrated that neither of her parents seemed to understand the gravity of their predicament. If her father’s wages would only cover the rent and she and her mother didn’t find a job quickly they might well be in danger of starving.
Upstairs, in the tiny bedroom under the roof, the one with the single bed, Annie crouched over the laundry bag of clothes she had managed to bring with her. Most of them she now realized would be completely unsuitable for the kind of life she would be leading in the future, but maybe she could persuade her mother to put her skill with a needle to good use in her own home first.
She picked out the smartest of the dresses she had been able to keep. It was in a soft blue wool and she thought it would be very suitable for working in a milliner’s shop. It had three-quarter-length sleeves and a nipped-in waist and she knew it was very stylish. Fortunately, only a few weeks before the bailiffs had come, she’d bought a pert little felt hat from her own milliner’s that matched the blue of the dress perfectly. She might as well wear it for the interview before she had to go through the whole shaming process once more of selling her clothes, or worse still, having to pawn them. The blue hat was really cute with a sideways-tilting brim and a small ostrich feather slotted into the petersham ribbon that ran around the base; it sat on top of her blonde sausage-curls in the most flattering way. She was glad she had thought to keep it when she had had to sell all her other lovely clothes. She didn’t know how long she would be able to hang on to it but for now at least it seemed like the perfect outfit for a job interview.
Annie set off into town where the shop was located. She didn’t have enough money for the bus fare both ways so decided she would walk back and took the bus to her destination, not wanting to appear hot and flustered even though that was how she was feeling. The sign above the door said Elliott’s Fine Millinery in gold script lettering. As she pushed open the door a bell tinkled in the distance and an older lady popped out immediately from a room behind the shop.
‘Good afternoon and how may I help you? I’m Mrs Elliott.’ The woman beamed at her as if she were a customer and looked prepared to show her an array of hats.
Annie thought she should come right to the point. ‘Good afternoon. I am here about the vacancy,’ she said. ‘I saw from your advertisement in the Clitheroe Echo that you have a retail position available. I hope I am not too late to apply?’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Elliott said affably, although her smile faded a little, but her eyes examined Annie from top to toe. Annie met her gaze; she felt equal to any such scrutiny.
‘May I ask how old you are?’
‘I’m eighteen.’
‘That’s perfect,’ the older woman agreed.
Annie began to feel more confident. The job would be hers, she was sure of it. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to fill out this form.’ Mrs Elliott produced an official-looking piece of paper from under the counter. ‘It’s so that we may have your details on file.’
Annie thought this sounded promising until she actually began to write. No sooner had she written her name than she hesitated on the next line. She was tempted to give the more impressive Clitheroe address of her former home, but what if they tried to contact her and found out she no longer lived there? She took a deep breath and, with a flourish, wrote 16 Alderley Street, Norwesterly Clitheroe, before handing it back across the counter.
Mrs Elliott looked at it, the smile never wavering from her face, but when she posed her next question the eagerness had gone from her voice.
‘And what previous retail experience do you have, Miss Beaumont?’ she asked. ‘Is it in millinery or in some other commodity of ladies’ fashion wear?’
Annie felt her own smile begin to fade. ‘I-I don’t have any such experience, I’m afraid. But I’m an extremely quick learner,’ she added eagerly.
‘I don’t doubt it. But perhaps you have some other working experience that may be relevant?’
Annie realized, with dismay, that saying she had no experience of work of any kind would not be to her advantage. She wracked her brains but could think of nothing she had done in the past, other than being a valued client, that would prepare her for working in a hat shop. It hadn’t occurred to her that just being Annie Beaumont late of Clitheroe Town might not be sufficient recommendation, as it had been in the past, for whatever she decided to turn her hand to.
As the silence lengthened, Mrs Elliott said, ‘I’m afraid we must insist on taking on someone with prior ex-perience and impeccable references as I’m sure you understand. The job calls for a trained saleslady who would be able to step in and pick up the reins immediately. We don’t have the time to train someone up.’
‘May I ask how I’m supposed to gain this experience if you won’t give me a job where I could learn?’ Annie could hear the desperation in her voice and hated herself for it. It sounded almost like begging.
Now Mrs Elliott’s smile was positively condescending as she said, ‘I’m sure there are plenty of small local shops where you could gain an invaluable apprenticeship. Although not, perhaps, ones in the immediate vicinity of Alderley Street. They may not offer the kind of experience we would be looking for. I mean you could hardly expect a—’
Annie didn’t wait to hear the rest. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster. And she turned on her heel and walked out, trying to hide the burning tears of humiliation that stung behind her lids.
She had been so convinced she would be offered the job at Elliott’s Fine Millinery she hadn’t bothered to write down the addresses of the other retail positions she had seen advertised in the local paper, though she had noted they were all within walking distance of each other. So, after her initial disappointment, she set off scouring the neighbourhood to see if she recognized the names of any of the shops and if they matched the shops that had advertised they had positions available. She found two more milliners’ shops and a retail dress shop that had placed ads in the paper and at first her hopes soared when she found them. But when the shopkeepers’ reactions were similar to Mrs Elliott’s, she soon began to feel deflated. Even if they didn’t balk visibly when she gave her address as Alderley Street, Norwesterly Clitheroe, in what she now realized was the slum heart of the working-class neighbourhood, they were not prepared to overlook the fact that she had no retail experience, or indeed, experience of work of any kind. After each interview, she began to feel so disheartened it was difficult to pick herself up again ready for another one. Even when she found two more shops, one selling ladies’ underwear and one selling ballgowns, that had not been advertised in the Echo, but which had discreet postcards propped up in the window, the result was the same. After the initial question and response routine exposed her lack of experience, she turned on her heel and walked away. By the time she had visited all the retail shops that she could find that required staff, it was getting dark and she thought about the long walk home. As she turned in the direction of Norwesterly, she accepted there was no point in trying for any more similar jobs. It was time to admit defeat and look for something else.
There had been one other job in the Clitheroe Echo which had caught her attention but she had initially discounted it as not the kind of work she wanted. However, after such a fruitless day, she now realized that unskilled labour might be the only kind of work she was fit for. She knew where Fletcher’s Mill was, even though she hadn’t actually been there, for it was where her father worked in the administration offices. Not that their paths would cross if she did get the work, for the job on offer was for a loom operator, to work in the loom sheds which involved longer hours than any clerical job. The ad had said there would be training available and that, despite the long hours, she would be earning a pittance of a wage. She knew her mother would not find it palatable that any daughter of hers should have to be nothing better than a mill girl, and in this instance she wondered what her father would have to say about it too. Not that it mattered; she had tried her hardest to find more genteel work but it seemed obvious to her now that no matter how hard she tried there would be nothing forthcoming on the retail front.
The following morning, when Annie first set eyes on the sprawling complex that was Fletcher’s cotton mill, she was appalled. The only word she could think of to describe it was ‘Victorian’, but it was a far cry from the wealthy Clitheroe kind of Victorian buildings she was used to. This was a forbidding-looking compound surrounded by high walls that looked more like a prison. It was old-fashioned and out of date, a relic of the industrial revolution. As she approached the grimy, red brick buildings with the tall chimneys belching foul-coloured smoke she didn’t change her opinion. It was like taking a step back in time and she couldn’t believe she was about to put herself forward for a job in such a place. What was she thinking of? If only Mrs Elliott had been able to see beyond her lack of experience.
Fletcher’s Mill was quite some way out of the town centre in Norwesterly and the only thing in its favour, if she could get the job, was that she wouldn’t have to spend precious pennies, or too much time, travelling to and from work each day. No longer so confident that she would even be offered a job, she approached the man at the gate cautiously and asked to see the manager.
The first thing that hit her as soon as she entered the building was the hot, steamy atmosphere. There seemed to be no ventilation and, as she inhaled the dense, foggy air of the main looming shed, she knew she was making a mistake. She wanted to turn and run away while she still could, back to the fresh air and sunshine outside, but she had no choice. She desperately needed this job, any job, and for a moment she was rooted to the spot. It was like entering an alien world. The air was dense with cotton dust so that it was hard to see through the haze, and the heat and humidity made it very difficult to breathe. The fibres caught the back of her throat and made her cough.
The other thing that struck her was the noise, for what assailed her ears even before the doorman let her into the shed was the din, the like of which she had never heard before. The clatter and racket of the machinery, pounding down hundreds of times a minute, was compounded by the ceaseless whirring of a million hissing wheels rendering any kind of conversation almost impossible. As the sore, bloodshot eyes of the loom operators turned towards her momentarily, she fancied she could hear wolf-whistles even above all the cacophony. At least, she could see many lips pursed into whistle shapes as men and women alike eyed her up and down, eyebrows raised.
She was wearing what she thought of as her interview outfit and suddenly felt foolish. It might have been suitable for impressing Mrs Elliott, but it certainly wasn’t appropriate for the interview she was about to have. She wished she had thought to wear something more appropriate. But then she straightened her back and stood as tall as she could when she saw the manager coming towards her. As he negotiated his way down the narrow passageway between the looms she could see him chastising the floor workers with a flick of his finger, indicating they should be watching their machines rather than watching her. Then he directed her to the glass booth at the end of the shed that served as his office. When he closed the door, she was aware that it only shut out the highest decibel level of noise and she still had to strain to hear what he said.
Annie sat down and fanned her face with a cotton handkerchief she kept in her pocket now that she had relinquished all her leather handbags. It was unevenly embroidered in red silk with her initials. ‘Is it always so hot in here?’ she asked.
‘It’s got to be, unless you want the thread to keep breaking,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Annie felt dismayed, but what could she say?
‘How do you like the racket?’ Mr Mattison asked, grinning as he shouted louder than necessary.
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But I suppose you get used to it.’ Annie’s throat already felt sore from shouting.
He shrugged. ‘There are five hundred sodding looms out there thumping down two hundred times a minute, so it’s no wonder they make such a bloody racket. And that in’t going to change either.’ He laughed a mirthless laugh, then he began to bark some basic questions at her. Annie shouted back her answers, hoping he could hear them. Then after only a few moments, she thought he said she could have the job. Under the circumstances, she wasn’t sure whether she’d heard him correctly.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/maggie-sullivan/mother-s-day-on-coronation-street/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Maggie Sullivan
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: ‘A wonderfully nostalgic tale’ Choice MagazineIt’s 1942 and Annie Walker is the landlady of the Rovers Return on Coronation Street.With her husband, Jack, away fighting for King and Country, Annie must juggle lone motherhood with keeping the regulars happy.Gracie Ashton works behind the bar at the Rovers and thinks all the girls swooning at the American soldiers flooding into Weatherfield are plain daft. But when she meets the handsome GI, Chuck Dawson, Gracie wonders if she has her own head screwed on right.With rationing, air raids and blackouts, the wives and mothers of Coronation Street are determined to count their blessings, but when an unwelcome face from the past turns up at the Rovers it looks like Annie will have more to worry about than Hitler’s bombs…Full of Coronation Street’s trademark humour and warmth, it’s the perfect gift for Mother’s Day.