Peace In My Heart

‘We’ve still not received any letter from our mother,’ Megan whispered, as she came to help with the washing-up. ‘So can we stay here?’

‘I’ve been struggling to decide that too. We need to think what we should do with our lives now this war is over. Once we’ve finished our morning jobs we’ll take a cycle ride to Stanley Park then enjoy a walk around, since it’s a Saturday and you’re not at school today.’

‘That would be lovely, sis. It ain’t gonna be an easy decision to make.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll talk things through, love.’

Breakfast being over, Joanne spent the next hour clearing and collecting cups and dirty plates, bustling back and forth, the two landladies upstairs busily dealing with bedrooms and bathrooms. The small dining room now empty, she gave that a clean too and set the tables in preparation for dinner. Once that was done, she went upstairs to tell Megan she was ready to go and they put on their cardigans and strong shoes then went to fetch their bicycles from the shed in the backyard.

‘We’ll cycle along Chapel Street then Hornby Road to the gateway to the park. I’ll just check the tyres.’

While pumping them up, she saw Bernie, the landladies’ nephew, hovering by the kitchen door. Having only just turned eighteen, he’d thankfully been too young to be called up during the war, but had worked with the local Home Guard. They’d become reasonably good friends over the years but he was a bit boring in Joanne’s opinion, very much a gawky boy with a spotty complexion. Admittedly, his square face was now much smoother, with thick brown hair flopping over his brow, if still a little scrawny in build. There was a neat smartness about the clothes he wore now. They could be quite appealing and at times his grey eyes would hold a hint of shrewdness in their depth. But he was not exactly fun, exciting or good at jokes. Just quiet and conventional with strong ties to his aunts and the work he did for them, often helping with the cooking and various other tasks. Joanne had felt obliged to dance with him after Teddy had disappeared that day. Not something she had any wish to do again, never having viewed him as a possible love of her life. With a start, she realized he had caught her staring at him. Filled with embarrassment, she quickly turned away but not before she had noted how his expression looked most doting, which struck her as extremely odd.

‘If you’re off on a cycle ride, can I come with you?’ he asked politely.

After giving Bernie an indifferent smile, Joanne pointed out they were going off to have a private conversation.

‘You aren’t planning to leave us like these refugees and other guests, are you?’ he said, looking dismayed at such a prospect.

‘It’s difficult to decide what we should do so we need to talk it through. Speak to you later, Bernie.’

He watched them ride away with a gloomy expression on his face.

Stanley Park was filled with a fine mist, swirling about like a bolt of gossamer silk. Not that this blocked the sound of aircraft landing in the aerodrome just beyond what had once been the bowling pitch. After locking up their bikes close to the café, the two girls set off to walk round the lake in order to escape the noise. The cool wind gathered momentum and turned into a dampening shower, the sting of rain on Joanne’s face making her feel this dreadful weather was adding to her sense of agony. Would she ever recover?

The time she’d spent with Teddy had once seemed so sweet and filled with hope. Now all that had vanished since he still hadn’t written to her. Being young and having behaved most foolishly in trusting him, Joanne thought she might never trust any man ever again, let alone find the happiness she longed for. She felt miserable and sluggish, constantly rushing to the bathroom fearing she could be sick. Fortunately, that hadn’t happened so far, but she had very little appetite and was rapidly losing weight. Each night in bed she would quietly weep from the sadness of her lost love and her parents, which made her feel completely torn apart. Sensing that her heart could break, tears again spurted in her eyes and ran between her fingers as she attempted to wipe them away. Looking shocked, Megan quickly led her to sit on a bench.

‘What’s wrong, why are you crying again, sis? What is it that’s worrying you?’

When her tears were spent Joanne sat for a moment in silence, feeling rather like a small mouse caught up in the rumble of sound from the aerodrome as they sat beneath this ash tree. It was then that she saw a squirrel emerge from a branch above her, its small sleek body glinting as it nibbled insects when the rain stopped and there came a bright glimmer of sun, no nuts anywhere around. It scampered down and dashed off to nearby fields, scavenging for fruit and vegetables, rather like a greedy thief stealing what didn’t rightly belong to him. They both burst into laughter. Thankfully she wasn’t a mouse or a squirrel, although possibly a foolish young girl. Taking a deep breath, Joanne finally confided in her sister the misery she felt in losing her American boyfriend, carefully making no mention of what he did to her.

‘Ah, I thought that might be why you weren’t looking good or eating well and keep weeping each night in bed,’ Megan responded fondly. ‘Do try to cheer up, lovey. Mebbe that GI will write to you one day.’

‘Oh, I do hope he does, once he’s settled in back home and found himself some employment. It could take a while for him to go through the necessary process he mentioned.’ A long delay was proving to be a strong element of concern, in fact something of a panic, not having had a period this month. If Teddy truly did love her and was doing his best to arrange for her to join him, he would surely write or maybe come looking for her one day, which would probably be here in Blackpool. Another good reason for them to stay on here. Her life then would be so much happier. Right now it could go completely wrong and Joanne had no wish to speak of this problem to her sister. ‘I must learn to be patient and cheer up,’ she said with a smile.

Giving her another warm hug, Megan went on to speak of her personal delight at being offered a place at a local high school, come September, and her wish to attend. ‘To be honest, I’ve no desire to leave our lovely aunts or lose the offer from that school. Would you be willing to give up this job and return home? I do hope not,’ she stoutly declared. ‘I desperately want to stay here, being the only place I’ve enjoyed throughout the war.’

A flicker of sadness and sympathy washed over Joanne. At the start of the war, Megan had been petite and shy, rather awkward and unsure of herself, feeling far too young to cope with the trauma of evacuation. Now she was a comely girl with a round, pretty face and a dimpled smile. Really quite bright so did deserve to attend that high school. And it was perfectly understandable that she was happy living with these landladies, feeling very much cared for. Things had been so different for them in the past.

When they’d first been evacuated out to a bleak part of Keswick back in 1939, they were made to stand and wait at the railway station whilst the local people decided whom they were prepared to offer accommodation to. Being working class and a bit scruffy looking after that long journey, they were the last to be chosen. Her brother Danny, aged only eight at the time, had been selected by a farmer while she and Megan were chosen by another farming couple. Joanne had protested, claiming that being siblings they should stay together, but the billeting officer had ordered her to keep quiet. Having no idea where her brother was sent, she’d written to her mother, hoping Evie could discover that, which she did.

Joanne and Megan had hated the farm they were originally taken to, being treated like slaves and required to work hard on the land. If they didn’t do as they were told they’d be deprived of the poor food they were granted only twice a day. They’d felt constantly hungry, often being given only bread and dripping for their evening meal. Nor were they ever allowed into the house. They had to sleep in a barn, sharing a small makeshift bed on the dirt floor with no heat or light save for a single candle. There was no toilet or bathroom available, just a potty, which they had to empty every morning. Each day they would rise early and have to walk miles to school, no lift by horse or cart ever offered them. When it was bitterly cold weather they’d frequently fall ill with colds, their hands chilblained. Joanne came to believe they’d been accepted as evacuees simply to provide those greedy people with money paid by the Government, as well as the work they required them to do.

‘Do you remember the problems and anguish we suffered at that first place we were billeted?’ Joanne asked.

‘Only vaguely,’ Megan admitted.

‘Well, each month Mam would send us comics and parcels of food, and a warm scarf or jumper she’d knitted for us. I was always excited to see a parcel arrive then felt utterly furious when that couple handed it over to their own children, never to us. I frequently wrote home to explain this horror to Mam, then realized my letters were withheld by that farmer’s wife, which was why I never received a reply. I did finally manage to send her a letter, thanks to our local teacher who gave me an envelope and stamp and posted it for me in town. I told Mam that if we weren’t moved somewhere better, we’d run away.’

Megan gave a frown. ‘I do remember your excitement when you saw Mother standing outside in the yard one day. I found that amazing.’

‘I was filled with joy,’ Joanne said with a loving smile. ‘I dashed straight over; realizing Mam had come to rescue us. I threw our clothes into a suitcase within minutes. She was, of course, engaged in a furious row with our so-called foster parents and then marched us off.’

‘She walked us for miles to find a bus and a train. We then went home but didn’t stay long as we were soon evacuated again,’ Megan said, pulling her face in a glower of disapproval at how their mother had sent them back to Keswick and what happened as a result. Something her beloved sister had no wish to speak of or remember. ‘I agree we’ve been through an absolute nightmare and never seen her since. Thankfully these two kind landladies, Aunt Annie and Aunt Sadie, took us in when we were brought here to Blackpool, and are most kind and welcoming.’

‘They are indeed.’ On certain occasions, whenever she’d felt herself or Megan were badly treated, Joanne had gone to see the local billeting officer and insisted they should be moved. Eventually they’d been billeted here in Blackpool, which had proved to be a good thing. ‘I suspect they gladly took us in because they aren’t married and have no children of their own, just Bernie, their adopted nephew. However, you need to be aware that these landladies may no longer wish us to continue living with them, occasionally mentioning a wish to retire.’

‘Oh, surely that won’t happen.’

‘We should bear in mind that it might.’

They went on to talk at some length, worrying over where they could go and live if that occurred, having no conviction they would ever find their mother. Joanne still missed her badly and felt in need of her support. Making a decision about whether or not they should leave was not proving to be at all easy. And brooding about her own problem would do no good either.

Joanne gave a sad little sigh. ‘The question is, will the billeting officer send us back to Manchester now the war is over? Will he find where Mam is living, assuming she’s still alive, or put us in a state children’s home? Not a prospect I wish to consider. I’ll make some enquiries and see if I can find out where she is. If not, I could pay a visit to Manchester and search for her by calling on various friends who may have an idea where she’s now living or working.’

‘If you succeed, we still have to decide if we really do want to go back home, wherever that may be. As I say, I’m not certain I do,’ Megan stated firmly. ‘Your love for our mam is fairly obvious, but sadly I have very little memory of her. And convinced she may have deliberately neglected us, I very much prefer the affection I feel for these two landladies we think of as our aunts.’

‘Mam was always most caring so why would we not be pleased to see her again?’ Joanne stated gently. ‘Don’t worry, lovey, she could probably find you a good high school in Manchester. I’ll most definitely look into finding her but right now we’d best head back to Jubilee House and happily stick with living here.’ Stepping out with fresh vigour, they collected their bikes and cycled back. A warm breeze ruffling her hair, Joanne felt a comforting glimmer of determination and fresh hope.

Chapter Five

It was a Friday afternoon when Evie and several of her women colleagues were instructed to visit the boss in his office. She happily went arm in arm with two of her friends, Enid Wilson and Lizzie Parkin. ‘We may be granted a rise in pay now the war is over,’ she said.

Enid gave a grin. ‘Let’s hope so. We definitely deserve that after all the work we’ve done.’

‘And Mr Eccles is generally a pleasant man, though a bit depressed having lost his brother and son,’ Lizzie whispered.

Seated at his desk, Mr Eccles failed to meet their happy smiles by keeping his gaze fixed upon his clasped hands. ‘I do thank all you ladies for the excellent work you’ve done throughout the war. I must now release you from these labours in order to give preference to our returning soldiers. Your task is over so you are free to retire, being no longer required to do your bit.’

Panic reverberated through Evie. Blast and damn this mill owner, such a goddam-son-of-a-bitch. He probably cared more about men than women now the war was truly over. Her friends stood frozen in silence, no doubt aware they had no right to object to these soldiers being sorely in need of a job. But they too badly required an income, as did she. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Why would they sack her, considering the problems she was facing? Evie suspected that when Donald arrived home he would not be fit enough to work and she would still have three children to protect and care for, or so she hoped. How on earth would she manage that without an income coming in? ‘You surely can’t be serious,’ she sternly remarked.

Finally meeting her furious gaze with a sympathetic smile, he said, ‘This war is over, so you dear ladies must now concentrate upon your domestic duties. The textile industry is not doing particularly well at the moment but soldiers, sailors and airmen on their way home will obviously require their old jobs back. You can work to the end of this month then must collect your final wages and card when you depart. I can but apologize for reality.’ He then ordered them to return to their looms.

As they all walked unsteadily out of the office, Evie heard some of the women start to grumble to each other, some weeping, others looking shocked and dismayed. They did very little in the way of weaving for the rest of that day, as they kept sharing the worry of where else they might find employment. According to the general conservation buzzing around throughout the day, it was clear that other factories had also laid off women workers, so new jobs would not be easy to find considering the high number of unemployed and the return of so many men from the war.

When their shift ended and Evie walked home with her two friends, Enid said, ‘How on earth can I continue to pay the rent without a wage coming in?’

Evie informed them that her niece too had lost her job at the tyre factory. ‘She’s sought jobs at various shops, warehouses and factories, explaining her skills and experience as a result of the war, but so far has received no offer anywhere. I can but hope that if we look hard enough we will succeed, bearing in mind we too have considerable experience after all these years of hard work we’ve done.’

‘I do hope so,’ Lizzie agreed. ‘I’ve lost my husband but not my childer, so need to keep earning a living.’

‘Me too,’ Evie said. ‘Although my husband will be home soon, he won’t be at all well.’

‘We should have seen this coming as many of those brave soldiers do deserve their jobs back,’ Enid muttered. ‘I’d never got around to thinking how that might affect us. Nor did I expect it to happen so quickly.’

Listening to her two friends, Evie felt a sickness soak within her, not convinced she would succeed in finding employment. She felt entirely numb and stormed back to her one-bedroomed flat in a fine old temper. She slammed the door closed, flung her coat on the floor in a veritable rage. Clenching her fists, she drummed them against the kitchen wall, feeling absolute despair. One minute she’d been celebrating the end of this war, now she felt apprehension ricocheting through her at the prospect of a woeful future.

Over the next few days, whenever Evie’s shift was over she went in search of employment, initially striving to find work in another factory, warehouse or mill, which she would prefer. No one was interested in taking her on, being a mere woman, even though Evie had worked hard all her life in various cotton mills. She’d always started at seven each morning, involved with Egyptian cotton and testing it with her thumb. Some of it was often a bit rough and invested with fleas. After being spun and woven they’d be washed out in the bleaching process. Now the textile industry was in a slump. Knitting, sewing and lacemaking were also hobbies she enjoyed doing, having been taught by her mother when she was a young girl. It crossed Evie’s mind that working for herself might prove to be less of a hassle. But would it earn her sufficient money? Probably not. With a sigh, she went on to search for alternative jobs in shops and department stores, including Kendal Milne, Lipton’s and Maypole grocers, as had Cathie and Brenda. She failed to receive an offer from any of them. Even young men returning from the war were struggling to find employment, the state of the country not being in a good condition. Post-war life seemed to be falling apart.

As well as searching for a job, she was also desperately in need of a home suitable for her family. Not that finding a property here in war-torn Manchester would be easy either. An absolute nightmare. As a consequence of the 1940 Christmas Blitz and enemy bombers coming night after night, Hardman Street, Lower Byrom Street, a part of Duke Street, Piccadilly and many others had been attacked and were now pretty derelict, houses burned out by incendiary bombs. There was little sign of much in the way of repairs being done yet, let alone any new builds.

It came to Evie one day that the solution could be to ask the tackler in charge of the looms in her part of the mill if he could help to get her old job back. Harold Mullins was not an easy man but would surely understand the difficulties she was facing. Tragically his wife Jane, once a friend of hers, had been killed early in the war, no doubt as a result of the bombing. His son Willie had been evacuated with Danny, since they’d both attended the same school when they were young. Surely Harold Mullins was a great believer in the cotton industry, as was she, despite the hard times they were facing? Calling to see him back at the mill, Evie asked if they could have a word. ‘I’m sorely in a quandary over how to resolve my problem of finding a new job, so wondered if you could help me get this one back or offer me some advice.’

Giving her a blink of interest, he agreed. ‘Aye, we could ’appen meet up at the Dog and Duck at seven this evening. I’m not against that.’

This was not at all what she’d expected, assuming they could just talk here at the mill, but it didn’t seem appropriate to refuse to meet him there.

Evie arrived early and, sitting in this public house near Potato Wharf, ordered herself a glass of shandy, all too aware of the disapproving glances from the men standing at the bar. Women were not supposed to attend pubs on their own so would Mullins, the gaffer, actually arrive and be willing to help her? He hadn’t sounded too convincing but then he never did, always a man more obsessed with himself. Gazing out of the window, she saw a bustle of people hurrying along the street, rain splashing over their unwary legs, car horns hooting at them if they attempted to rush across the road. The weather seemed to suit the bad news she’d received in losing her job and the brickwork looked battered and black with smoke, as a result of the dreadful bombing that Manchester had suffered over these last six years.

She recalled how much lovelier the Dog and Duck had been when she was a young girl and used to come here with Donald. Being her boyfriend, they’d sit, cuddled together, to enjoy a drink or a little snack. In those days she’d had clear skin, honey-gold hair, brown eyes as rich and dark as velvet with long, curling lashes. Now she felt wrinkled and worn out, with a core of anxiety she was doing her utmost to hide. What state would Donald be in when he finally came home? Would he still be the gentle, quiet man she’d fallen in love with and happily married, or listless and with health difficulties as a consequence of the anguish of war and his years held as a prisoner? He certainly wouldn’t be well enough to work – a fact she must make clear to Mullins.

She was aware that in addition to the war issue of employing ex-soldiers, the mill owner was concerned that the textile industry could be going downhill because of foreign competition. Generally, yarn or cotton was sold through merchants who visited Manchester for that specific purpose. They’d as soon go to Liverpool or India for their product, with not a jot of commitment or loyalty in their bones, their task being to get the best deal they could for their clients. Having failed to find any other job, Evie had done quite a bit of thinking, attempting to pay attention to how well other mills operated, compared to this one. Did it need to update its looms, or increase and strengthen its markets by selling more products abroad than in England? And maybe change what they produced, now that the war was over.

Whether any of this would be the right thing for her to say to Harold Mullins was very difficult to decide. His temperament was indeed self-obsessed. He used to storm through the mill finding fault with everything women did and then return later all syrup and smiles, probably because he’d gone off to get himself a glass of whisky. He would then call them ‘dear gels’, his tone attempting to be complimentary. But not an easy man. Were it not for the difficulty she was in, she wouldn’t attempt to seek his assistance.

‘So you’ve getten problems. It don’t surprise me in the least.’ She heard him snort as he sat down beside her nursing a glass of beer, which made her jerk with shock, not having seen him enter the pub. ‘Ye can’t trust a woman as far as you can throw her.’

Evie stared at the fleshiness that sagged his jawline, the dark receding hair, his eyes slightly bloodshot, indicating a liking of far too much alcohol. She noticed a harshness and an arrogance in the twisted smile he gave her. Gathering her courage, she quickly explained her situation and failure to find the employment she was in desperate need of. She’d brought a list of all the factories, shops and offices, etc. that she’d called upon and explained how she’d failed to receive a single offer from any of them.

Giving a snort of laughter, he told her how he’d once changed jobs, not having seen eye to eye with his previous employer and had ended up with this lucrative post as a foreman. ‘I can quite see you’ll have problems with your husband and childer when they finally return home. My son Willie should be arriving soon. No doubt he’ll miss his mum, but can’t say I’m broken-hearted over losing my wife.’ He moved on to speak of how she’d been prone to hysterics and unnatural jealousy, calling her a slut of a wife who had found herself a fancy man. ‘The bloody pair of ’em med a fool of me.’

Poor Jane, once such a good friend of hers, had claimed her husband had never been faithful to her so she had indeed found herself a new man. How could he blame her for that? Evie began to feel slightly uncomfortable, this not at all being a subject she wished to discuss. ‘I’m so sorry she died in the war, despite whatever problems you had. My issue, however, is that I must be the breadwinner, at least until my husband fully recovers from having been a PoW. So I desperately feel I should be allowed to continue working at the mill. You must appreciate my concern to care for my son and daughters and make their lives good. I doubt it will be easy, considering how long it is since I last saw them. And, as you know, Danny and your son Willie have been friends since their early school days.’