Jam and Roses (46 page)

‘I don’t know why you’re being penalized. I see they’ve taken your Ada back in the boiling room.’

Kitty shrugged. ‘Suppose I spent too much time on the picket line shouting me mouth off! They know my face, simple as that. What’s it like in the picking room?’

‘Chaos, up to our ears in strawberries going rotten before we can sort them. There’s just not enough of us. I heard that Hartley’s were back up and running straight away. It won’t be long, love, before our lot see sense and take you all back. They can’t afford not to. Want me to have a word with Tom today, see if he can put a word in for you?’

‘Oh, would you mind, Mill? Mum’s been up to the Guardians every day, but a loaf of bread’s all you get and our Percy’s such a gannet it’s gone in no time!’

No wonder her friend looked half starved; she was probably giving all her share to Percy. ‘Look, I’ve got to dash now, Kit, but I’ll do me best with Tom!’

She hurried through the gates and across the yard. Half a dozen trolleys that would normally be transporting filled jars to the warehouses were standing idle, and as she passed the boiling room she could see that only half the copper pans were steaming away. The whole place, which normally ran like clockwork, had a ramshackle, untidy feel to it. Shipped-in labour was keeping the wharf running, but they took a day to unload what an experienced gang of dockers could do in an hour.

And it wasn’t just the factory that felt this way. Milly sensed unease permeating the whole of Dockhead. The strike had felt like civil war at times, and now headlines of triumphant celebrations were a bitter pill for those left on the breadline. And all around her, those who laboured to keep London’s Larder full, dockers and jam girls alike, were returning to work, feeling that they counted for nothing. A heaviness hung in the air, a stink of betrayal, more acrid than the coke and smoke from the hundred chimneys that forested Bermondsey. The noxious smell of their defeat fought with the sweet scent of strawberry jam boiling in Southwell’s copper pans, and was equally inescapable.

She made her appeal for Kitty that dinner time. Tom was one of the more sympathetic foremen, but his response wasn’t encouraging.

‘My hands are tied, Milly. They don’t listen to me.’

She was about to walk away, but thought better of it. ‘Well, a friend of mine works in Hartley’s order department, says they’ve started stealing all our business. Customers won’t hang about out of loyalty these days, will they, Tom? Not when there’s Lipton’s, and Pink’s as well, for them to choose from.’

Tom smiled. ‘I always said you should be a forelady. Want to come and tell management that?’

‘They wouldn’t listen to the likes of me!’

‘Maybe not, but it’s a fair point and I’ll be sure to pass it on.’

‘What about Kitty Bunclerk?’ she pressed.

He scratched his forehead and sighed. ‘Oh, all right, you cheeky cow. I’ll get her in somehow, just to get you off me back!’

Milly gave him her sweetest smile, wishing that she was on equally good terms with the foreman at Jacob’s. Bertie thought it would be plain sailing to walk back into his old job, but the world had changed while he had been sleeping.

It was the middle of June before Bertie was strong enough to return to work, though it had been a constant battle for Milly to keep him at home. Her Southwell’s wages and what she could make at the Old Clo’ were not enough to support them, as well as her mother and sister, and eventually she had to give in.

She put out his work clothes, and it broke her heart when he had to call on her for help shaving. His hands were trembling so much with the effort that the cut-throat razor shook dangerously in his hand. She carefully finished the job, holding his head still, while she drew the razor through the thick soap he’d applied to his face.

‘Bertie, love, if you can’t even shave yourself, how could you possibly drive a van?’ she asked him as she wiped away the last spots of soap.

He stood up and slipped on his waistcoat. ‘I’ve got to show my face otherwise they’ll think I’m not coming back! Once I’ve started moving about, I’ll get stronger.’

He took the razor from her and began washing it carefully. ‘Anyway,’ he said softly, ‘you know as well as I do that we’re going under. Doesn’t look like your father’s coming back, and you can’t keep them all on your own. We’ll have to take in your mum and Amy.’

He’d obviously observed more from his sickbed than she’d realized. ‘Who told you about the old man?’

‘Amy’s been keeping me company in the afternoons.’

‘Typical, she’s such a contrary mare. Tell her to keep quiet about something and of course she does the opposite. She knew I didn’t want you worried!’

‘Oh, don’t blame her, Milly. She just wanted to talk to someone about it. You do know she’s terrified of him coming back?’

She helped him on with his jacket. ‘Of course I know, but why didn’t she talk to me?’

She stood behind him as he checked himself in the wardrobe mirror and their eyes met in the glass. There was the old quizzical look, the one that always made her ask herself what she was missing.

‘Because she didn’t want to worry
you
.’

Milly guffawed. ‘Oh, do me a favour, Bertie, Amy only does what she wants to do. I don’t think she even realizes I exist half the time.’

‘That’s not true. She’s been a good ’un looking after the kids, and who do you think she’s doing that for?’

She didn’t want to argue with him, not now. So she swallowed her retort.

‘Well, thanks for suggesting we take them in, love, but I’m not sure if my mum could survive anywhere but Arnold’s Place.’

‘We’ll talk about it tonight. Now, how do I look?’

Older than his twenty-seven years, was the answer, and his jacket swamped his weakened frame, but she tightened his tie and said, ‘Very smart! Don’t forget your hat!’ She handed him the trilby and saw him out, with a silent prayer that Jacob’s would be more forgiving than Southwell’s when it came to ex-strikers.

So that evening when she came home with the children she was relieved to find that Bertie wasn’t there – he must have been taken back on. They would have to celebrate somehow, though looking round the bleak little larder she had trouble imagining how. She sliced the remains of some boiled bacon and made a pease pudding. Then with the last of her flour, she made Bertie’s favourite treat, Welsh cakes. Though he was London born, Bertie’s grandmother was Welsh and she’d made them for him when he was a child. Milly put the children to bed and waited. She wished she had a bottle of beer for him, but there was some ginger wine which she’d kept for Christmas, and that would have to do.

An hour after his normal time for arriving home, she began to worry. She would have to heat up the dinners again and the pease pudding would undoubtedly spoil. Perhaps they were keeping him late as punishment for striking? She sat sewing in the light of the gas lamp, her mind circling the possibilities. What if he really had been too weak to drive the van and had crashed?
Come on, Bertie, where are you?
she chafed, putting her sewing away. It was no good, she’d attached the sleeves the wrong way round and would have to re-do them. This was torture. After another hour, she heard his key in the latch and ran to greet him.

‘Oh, love, I’m sorry you’ve had such a long day! I’ve made you a lovely dinner to celebrate and the buggers have kept you late!’

She was pushing him towards the kitchen, plying him with questions.

‘Strike me dumb, let’s get me coat off first!’

She took his jacket. ‘Sit down at the table. You’ve got Welsh cakes for afters!’

She put the dinners on the table and sat opposite him. ‘There’s only ginger wine, but we should celebrate. I really didn’t think they’d take you back!’ She lifted her glass to him.

‘Well, this looks lovely!’ he said, beginning to eat in his normal slow fashion.

‘Have a drink with me then. You don’t look too happy about getting your job back.’

He picked up the glass and sipped at the fiery wine, then put it down carefully.

‘I didn’t get the job back, Milly. They’ve locked me out. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be celebrating. I’m alive at least.’ He gave a little laugh.

She slammed down her glass so that the wine spilled on the tablecloth. ‘Why can’t you be like a normal person and tell me straight away when there’s bad news!’ It was so typical of him, to not give her the most crucial piece of information as soon as he walked through the door.

He smiled at her again.

‘But where’ve you been all day?’

‘Looking for something else. I’ve been all over for driving jobs; Peek’s, Pearce Duff’s, Crosse & Blackwell’s, everywhere, but I’m on some sort of blacklist.’ He finished wearily. ‘I’ll try again tomorrow. But that was lovely,’ he said as he finished his dinner. ‘Now where are those Welsh cakes?’

‘You must be worn out. Did you get trams?’ she asked anxiously, putting the plate of cakes in front of him.

‘Trams, what do I want with trams? I’ve got to build up my strength, otherwise I’ll be useless whatever job I get!’

She’d expected him to lose his job, and she’d been right, but she’d also expected him to be crushed. She wasn’t quite sure if his optimism was real, or simply put on for her benefit. Whatever the case, she suspected he would have to keep it up for a good long time if he’d been blacklisted by every firm in Bermondsey.

The heady sweetness of strawberry jam eventually faded from the riverside streets, giving way to the sharper notes of blackcurrants and gooseberries. When the delicate scent of raspberries seeded the air, Bertie began to look outside Bermondsey for a job. He walked all over south London, going back to his birthplace in Dulwich, calling in on the shopkeepers he knew from his grocer days. He refused to take trams and as his shoes slowly wore out, so did his poor feet. By damson season, when Milly was busy stoning fruit, Bertie had begun making cardboard soles for his shoes. Seemingly still optimistic, never complaining, he walked even further afield in his search for work. Milly worried that he’d never truly regained his strength after the accident and now he seemed to be surviving on sheer will power.

Late one August evening, after a day of torrential rain, he came hobbling through the front door and collapsed into his chair in the kitchen. As Milly eased off his shoes, what was left of the paper soles came away in a soaking, red-stained pulp. His feet were bleeding.

‘Oh, my poor Bertie, why didn’t you pay the tuppence for a bloody tram!’

She preferred anger to the alternative, which was to wet his feet with her tears. She turned up the legs of his trousers. ‘Sit there and don’t move!’ she ordered and ran for a basin of water from the scullery. When she came back, she was surprised he’d obeyed her. He hadn’t moved, but he had his head in his hands, and when she lifted his chin she was shocked to see his face wet with tears. She gathered him into her arms. She knew it wasn’t for the pain in his feet that he wept, but for the anguish of not being able to provide for his family.

‘Don’t worry, Bertie, darlin’. We’ll manage, love, don’t get yourself so upset.’ But he seemed inconsolable, trying to hide his tears yet unable to stop them flowing, as though all the months of pretending had caught up with him in this one day.

Eventually his shaking shoulders were still and he pulled out a handkerchief. ‘Sorry, Mill, didn’t mean to cry in front of you.’

‘Don’t be a soppy ’apporth, Bertie. I’m your wife.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t – not normally. But it’s upset me today, and not just because of coming home with no job. It’s that so-called family of mine!’

She’d never told him of his cousin’s insulting behaviour towards her, at least not while he was awake, but for a moment she thought he might have found out.

‘Why, what’ve they done now?’ she asked fearfully.

‘I thought I’d have another go in Dulwich, the rain come on and I got soaked through, and the damn boot soles melted. I must have walked around in it for another couple of hours, but my feet were killing me. So when I found myself back in Dulwich High Street I thought I’d have to get a tram home, but I didn’t have a penny in my pocket. I shouldn’t have done it, but I was so tired and I didn’t think I could walk another step. I was passing Uncle’s shop, so I went in and he gave me the cold shoulder, didn’t expect much else. But then I said I didn’t have the money to get home and could he lend me tuppence for the tram. He could see the state of my feet, and you know what? He wouldn’t even give me tuppence out of the till! I’ve never felt so worthless in all my life. I just turned round and walked out. I wish now I had more of your fight in me, Milly. I would have liked to knock his block off. You would have done!’

Her heart bled for Bertie then, but she knew now was not the time to shower him with sympathy. His strength was in his principles, not his muscles, and to her way of thinking, that was a far superior strength than her own.

‘Now listen to me, Bertie Hughes, you’re not worthless. You’re a better man than I’ll ever be!’

He looked at her for a long minute, then lifted his eyebrow, a smile played around his mouth, and realizing what she’d said, she threw her head back and laughed. They both roared till they were breathless and their tears of sadness had been replaced by tears of laughter.

September 1926

Milly suspected that Bertie’s chances of finding another job were diminishing daily, and she decided there was nothing for it but to seek out another source of income herself. A full day at Southwell’s and weekends taken up with sewing or selling her clothes meant that her options were limited, but she would think of something. She was preoccupied as she manoeuvred her way through the crowd of women arriving in the picking room and was almost at her station before she saw Kitty, already dressed in overall and mob cap, sharpening her stoning knife.

‘You’re back!’ Milly wrapped her arms round her bird-boned friend.

‘Thanks to you! Whatever you said to Tom finally worked. He came and got me himself!’

Milly picked up her own knife and began sharpening it on the long strop they kept by the conveyer belt. ‘I just told him that we was losing orders to Hartley’s! He did the rest. He’s a good bloke, Tom.’