Madame Barbara

In 1934, the Williamses had been desperate to get out of the city, as crime increased in their overcrowded, dockside district. Unemployment was rife and, even at that time, there was such an air of hopelessness that Phyllis was anxious to try to get her only daughter away from the area. Barbara’s father was lucky to have a job which was likely to last for a while: ‘But you could never be sure,’ Phyllis would say darkly to Barbara. ‘So many ships is laid up.’

One pleasant summer Sunday, as a treat, they took the train to Hoylake on the Wirral peninsula and went for a long walk along the seashore. At West Kirby, they turned inland to catch a return train from its station back to Liverpool.

One side of the road they took marked the end of West Kirby. On the other was a stone wall which ran down as far as the shore and then turned to continue along the sea frontage. They paused for a moment to lean on it and look out over the field which it shielded.

The field looked so neglected that Phyllis guessed that it had not been cultivated for several years.

‘There’s a house further up, Mam,’ remarked Barbara idly.

Her mother turned to look. ‘So there is,’ she said, and peered at it. ‘It’s empty by the looks of it. What a big garden it must have had.’

They moved on and came to the garden gate. Unlike a farm gate, it was a slightly rusty, elegant ironwork gate. Grass had grown up round it, and suggested that it had not been used much for a long time.

‘Let’s have a look,’ suggested Barbara. She lifted the latch and, with an effort, pushed the gate open.

‘The place is empty,’ said Phyllis, surveying the dusty, curtainless windows. ‘I think it’s an old farmhouse.’

Driven at first by curiosity, they walked round it. There must, originally, have been a huge garden, though no cultivated plan was now evident. The house itself, however, looked quite sound. Even the black enamel on the front door was unblistered by weather.

Phyllis looked slowly round. Gulls screamed overhead; the sea was close enough for the women to hear the incoming tide dashing against a breakwater. Distantly, there was the sound of a steam train approaching West Kirby station.

Spurred by sudden, almost absurd ambition, Phyllis said excitedly, ‘You know, Barbie, this’d make a great place for a holiday. Looks as if it’s got lots of bedrooms – and all this for kids to play in.’ She made a sweeping gesture with one hand towards the enormous neglected garden. ‘And there’s sea and sand right here – and it’s quiet, except for the train – and, as I remember, they stop round eleven at night.’

Barbara had laughed a little derisively. ‘You mean a boarding house?’

‘Yes, like your gran had in Blackpool. I had a good time in it, I did, when I were a kid.’

‘It’s so big! We couldn’t even furnish it,’ replied the practical fifteen-year-old, with a hint of scorn in her voice. ‘And what’s more, it’d be a lot of work – and wouldn’t the rent be something awful? And who could manage a garden that big – it goes on for ever.’ She kicked a stone along the asphalt path at the side of the house. Then she added, ‘And what on earth would Dad say? He were born in our street. He’s used to it.’

‘He could get unused to it – and he likes fishin’,’ Phyllis replied quite savagely. Her husband was currently serving in a ship on the Australian run. She grinned, and then added, ‘We’d need a farmer to do the garden, ’cos it’s certain your dad wouldn’t! He likes his rest when he’s ashore.’

They plodded over to the back of a line of houses which abutted the garden at the far end, to look over a dilapidated wooden fence to enquire of a woman pegging out washing on her clothesline whether she knew if the house were to let.

‘I don’t know,’ the woman replied. She shook out a nappy, took a peg out of her mouth and pinned the garment on the line. ‘It’s a real sad story, you know. It were bought by a Mr Travis, and made all ready for him and his new bride to move into a couple of years back. You’d nevaire believe it – it’s got a washbasin with hot and cold in every bedroom!’ She turned from the line of baby clothes, and folded her red arms across her chest while she contemplated the enquirers.

‘Nice man, he were – businessman from Liverpool, quite old, he was. He’s never lived in it, though. She were killed in a motor smash when they was on their honeymoon in Italy. They always say them Eyeties are mad drivers, don’t they?’

The woman was highly interested. Why would such an ordinary woman want such a big house? She said she was not sure whether Mr Travis would rent.

‘It were up for sale for ages. But who’d want seven bedrooms nowadays? You’d have to have a maid. And it’s too close to the railway track to please them what could afford a servant. They say his wife were an artist, though, and loved painting round here.’

Phyllis and Barbara did not show any signs of walking on, so she said, ‘You could have a look at it, no doubt. Mrs Jones what has the sweetshop in the village, she’s got a key – looks over the place from time to time for him.’

The idea began to blossom between mother and daughter. A bed-and-breakfast by the sea, with a huge garden – and a beach for kids just down the road. And waking up every morning to clean air.

‘Could I go bathing?’ asked Barbara.

Phyllis laughed. ‘Every day if you wanted to, when the tide’s in.’

Barbara began to have visions of splashing amid the waves in a scarlet swimsuit and dazzling all the local lads with her glamour.

At first, Mrs Jones looked doubtfully at the working-class woman and her daughter who were interested in a house meant for gentry. She did, however, finally agree to show them round it, and afterwards gave them Mr Travis’s address.

He proved to be a well-to-do businessman living with a manservant in a big flat near Sefton Park.

Phyllis plucked up courage and, accompanied by a silent, rather scared Barbara, went to see him.

It was clear to them that he did not care much what happened to the property; in truth, the very thought of it evoked memories he would rather forget.

At a time when the country was suffering a great depression, a large house with over four acres of unproductive semi-wilderness round it seemed to have little appeal to anyone. Even the council had refused to buy it for public housing, because the land lease was not long enough to suit them.

Like Mrs Jones, Mr Travis was surprised to be faced with such an eager woman and her daughter, whose accent betrayed that they came from the backstreets of Liverpool. What interest could she have in such a big house, far beyond her means?

When he understood what they wanted the house for, however, he lost his distant manner. It seemed to him a laudable ambition that they should want to improve their lives; they did, indeed, look very clean and respectable. He relaxed a little, and explained carefully to them that he did not own the land and would not renew the lease of it when it ran out.

‘If you buy the house and the lease – which has about forty years to run – you’d be on your own when the lease ends, and your business would be at stake,’ he warned. ‘You’d have to persuade the landlord to renew the lease. Then you might have to pay a lot for the renewal.’

Their faces fell. ‘We hoped you’d let it,’ they chorused.

Anyway, forty years before they faced trouble seemed more like a century to two women who lived in a city where lives were often short and nasty.

‘I could never buy it,’ Phyllis owned up. ‘But maybe you’d consider renting it?’

He smiled suddenly at their persistence. He liked this sturdy woman and her pretty daughter. Why not?

They cheerfully beat down the rent he then suggested, on promise of great care of the property. He was amused, and asked Phyllis if her husband was in agreement with their plans.

‘Any debts you run up would be his responsibility,’ he warned. ‘What does he do for a living?’

Though young Barbara was a bit shocked that her father might be drawn into this wildcat scheme, Phyllis hushed her.

She said placidly, ‘He’s First Mate on a P&O boat. Takes immigrants to Australia. Nice new ship, it is.’ She sighed. ‘He’s away most of the time. It’ll be months before he docks. Can’t complain, though. He’s never been out of work.’

When asked, she unhesitantly named the ship. ‘Been on it ever since it were launched,’ she added.

‘In the absence of your husband, who did you have in mind to be responsible, then?’

‘Well, I’d be responsible. If it’s the rent you’re worried about, I reckon I can manage to pay it.’

‘What with?’

‘Well, me hubby and me – we got a bit saved, and I can cash it, if I have to. And me allotment from him is paid regular. And Barbara here is in service. Add to that, I wouldn’t have to pay ten shillin’ a week rent in Liverpool, like I do now.’

In those days, women on their own couldn’t get bank loans or credit; even if they worked, it was always presumed that the employment was transitory or so badly paid that they could not afford to repay.

As Phyllis looked tensely at the elderly man in front of her, she thought: I’m mad. Why do I want this so badly? And putting up with being made to look so small, just to get it?

She answered herself: For clean countryside and sea air for Barbie. Maybe, just maybe, I could make enough money to send her back to school for a year longer – give her a better chance than I had – though her dad would think I were crazy if I did.

For his part, Geoffrey Travis wondered idly whether he cared a damn what happened to this house. He had other properties, and nobody to leave them to when he died. He had, legally, to pay the ground rent of this one until the lease ran out – but the amount was small. Other than that, he had kept the house watertight, and it would be sensible to continue to do so, whoever was in it.

If it were to be a bed-and-breakfast, it would be in the interests of these women that they keep the house decent.

He asked for references. After a little consideraton, Phyllis gave the name of the priest at her church, and her father. Mentally enlarging her father’s corner store, she said, ‘Me dad’s a grocer. And he knows about bed-and-breakfasts, he does. He owned one in Blackpool till he saved enough to buy his grocery.’ She paused, to consider what more she could add. Then, inspired, she said with great pride, ‘He’s got a telephone.’

About the best that can be hoped for, I suppose, Travis decided. He hoped that the priest also had a telephone, so that he could talk to him directly.

He took Phyllis’s name and address, and promised to give her a decision in a few days’ time.

Faced with the possible reality of her mad idea, Phyllis asked, ‘Could you ask Mrs Jones to show us round it again, sir?’

This was the first indication Travis had had that Mrs Jones had already shown the house. He was a little annoyed. He would have been furious if he had known that most of the village had, at different times, been shown it, just to see the washbasins and the pretty wallpaper.

Considering the two women, the reclusive owner was left wondering at the extent of human optimism.

The greatest advantage of the house to Phyllis and Barbara was that, in addition to the washbasins in three of the bedrooms, it also had a complete, modern bathroom, and a washroom on the ground floor.

‘Perfect for a B-and-B,’ Phyllis breathed quietly to Barbara.

A servants’ lavatory outside the back door made a total of three lavatories, which, both women agreed excitedly, was remarkable. ‘Have to watch they don’t all freeze up in the winter,’ Barbara warned.

It took them two years to get every bedroom reasonably furnished, though it was surprising how well the modest pieces from their existing home looked when spread out. They went to bailiffs’ sales, where one could pick up chairs and tables for sixpence or a shilling each; and an estate sale yielded a massive amount of bedding and bedlinen for a few pence apiece, simply because the heirs wanted to get rid of it. The women completed the bedrooms one at a time, and immediately advertised them in the windows of local newspaper shops, at twopence a week, as superior bed-and-breakfast accommodation.

They risked near bankruptcy by buying new single beds from the Times Furnishing Company in Liverpool on monthly payments.

Because of their excellent new beds, they found an unexpected market amongst travelling sales representatives, a much less destructive clientele than families were. Burdened by suitcases full of samples as they travelled from city to city, usually by train, these men were always looking for places with good beds and a well-cooked breakfast; they ached with years of sleeping on ancient, hammock-like mattresses. The word went round about the comfort of Phyllis’s beds.

Phyllis also placed a modest advertisement in a holiday magazine. This attracted elderly couples from the London area, in search of easily accessible, inexpensive holidays, less noisy than those offered in Margate or Brighton, at a weekly rate which included midday dinner and tea. This meant a lot of extra work, but it paid quite well.

The nearby railway station, so useful to the representatives on their way to do business on Merseyside, also allowed holiday guests easy access to the entertainment of Liverpool and Birkenhead; it proved to be a great asset instead of a liability.

A few months after they obtained the house, Barbara had thankfully left her job as maid-of-all-work to a big family in Neston; keeping a bed-and-breakfast was much more interesting than going back to school, especially as some of the representatives were single young men.

Much to Barbara’s chagrin, her mother kept a very close eye on her. ‘This is a respectable house,’ she would say, ‘and you mind your Ps and Qs, me girl. And you’re going to night school, milady, to get a bit more learnin’.’

And to night school she went, at first protesting, and then quite happily, because she realised that the commercial subjects she studied would be of use in the bed-and-breakfast; or, better still, might get her a post as a private secretary, preferably to somebody rich and famous who would marry her.

Not long after they moved to West Kirby, her mother had given Barbara the job of tidying up the front of the house, which had once been a little flower garden.

‘Oh, Mam!’ she wailed in protest.

‘It won’t hurt you, luv. It’ll take you out in the fresh air,’ replied Phyllis firmly. The girl must help if they were to make a success of the place.

Not too sure where to start, Barbara weeded the cracked asphalt path between the gate and the front door. This attracted an elderly man pottering in the front garden of one of the houses across the road. He wandered across and admired her efforts to tidy up.

‘It’s a proper mess, miss, isn’t it?’

She agreed mournfully that it was, and that she had no idea how to make it look nice.

He suggested she use a sickle to cut down the very long grass, and offered to lend her one. He brought it to her and showed her how to use it.

Much to Phyllis’s amusement, he became her daughter’s friend and mentor. She worked under his instruction much more cheerfully than if her mother had told her what to do, and it was he who suggested that she attend the upcoming church fête, where people would offer for sale, quite cheaply, surplus plants from their gardens.

Armed with a shilling, she bought peonies from a middle-aged lady, who said she was Mrs Ada Bishop and that she lived over by the Ring o’ Bells, a pretty pub on the other side of the village. So she became acquainted with George’s mother long before she met her son. Mrs Bishop was a keen gardener, and suggested some pansies and lilies of the valley.

Barbara and Phyllis had had no garden when they lived in a terraced house in Liverpool, so this world of gardening enthusiasts was quite new to the young girl.

‘That place was beginning to be an eyesore,’ Ada confided to Barbara, as she filled an old seeding box with plants at a ridiculously low price. ‘I think it’s wonderful that you’re doing the garden for your mam. You’ll find you’ll love doing it after a bit. Just wait till them peonies come out. Now, all you have to do is make a little hole, put some water in it and cover the plants’ roots. Pat ’em down gently – and don’t forget to leave plenty of room for the peonies; they’ll grow really big.’

As Barbara told George, years later, ‘I never realised what would come out of it, I never did. She made me interested in flowers, and now I love the garden. I didn’t even know she had a son, ’cos you was away so early to get to work, and you was in Chester for ages. It was real funny when I met you at the Red Cross dance and found I knew your mam.’

Since the end of the war, Barbara had done her best to rebuild the garden. Again, it was Ada who brought her plants to set it up, Ada who had her own grief to contend with. She never said much, but she had tried to help Barbara, and, in return, Barbara hoped she was a bit of a comfort to her mother-in-law.

A week after they had moved out to the new house, Phyllis’s husband, Hugh Williams, had been informed of his change of address. In a letter posted from Sydney, he had approved Phyllis and Barbara’s idea of living by the sea. The front garden was looking quite decent by the time he returned from a six months’ voyage round the ports of Australia.

He nearly had a fit. He found he had a house far better than anything he could ever have hoped to live in, where strange men, whom he regarded with deep suspicion, came and went like some weird, briefcased merry-go-round. And his wife owed nearly thirty pounds to the Times Furnishing Company – just for single beds!

‘How did you get credit?’ he asked disbelievingly. ‘You’re only a woman.’

‘Charm,’ she replied, neglecting to tell him that her own father had chanced his savings and had co-signed with her for the purchase.

His little daughter, who suddenly seemed to have become a young woman, had produced a penny notebook, in which she had kept an account, something she said she had learned how to do in night school.

‘See, Dad. It’s not paying much yet, because we’re still buying stuff for it and paying the Times, but it’s broken even for the last three months.’ She grinned at him happily. ‘The word’s going round about it. And whoopee! You know, we can now charge ten shillings and sixpence a night for the high-class chaps from the big firms!’

Hugh expostulated, raged, to no avail, said his prayers and went back to sea. He did, however, give them one good idea: he suggested that, to increase their income, they rent part of the land round the house to a farmer, either for grazing or haymaking – which they did.

Either because of his prayers or the unremitted hard work and business acumen of the two women, the enterprise began to pay off.

None of them gave credit to Phyllis’s grocer father for the coaching he gave them. He made numerous helpful suggestions to limit theft, produce meals quickly, buy wholesale.

‘Grandpa talks ’is head off,’ Barbara remarked to her mother; nevertheless, she was learning from him without realising it.

She found herself with more pocket money than many of her own age in the village; it wasn’t a wage, but it was generous spending money.

Grandpa counselled saving. ‘No matter what you earn, put ten per cent by, luv. When you want somethin’ big, you’ll have the money.’

Barbara wanted a bicycle, but Phyllis said it was an unnecessary expense; she must save up and buy it herself. Barbara wept in frustration. But she learned and eventually Grandpa gave her a whole ten shillings for her birthday to make up the sum required.

He had long been dead before Barbara realised how wise he had been – and how kind.

In the depression of the 1930s, young people were having real problems finding work, and when she saw the pittances which her girl friends in the village earned, and how they envied her, Barbara had enough sense to take a serious interest in a business which could, in time, be hers.

And, who knows, she thought as she dealt daily with very decent men, one day I might marry one of them.

As she lay, unable to sleep, on a decidedly old bed in a foreign country, Barbara remembered her parents, all her mother’s hard work, and the happy days before the war. And now, all that work – her whole life, indeed – seemed to her to have come to naught.

Their clientele had been, on the whole, so pleasant. But then the war had come. Though it had not been bombed directly, her home had been in the path of German bombers on their way to Liverpool; a pile of earth like an outsized mole hill, at the back of the house, still bore witness to the explosion of a bomb jettisoned by a frightened pilot. Their home had, however, been very nearly destroyed by misuse.

The sales representatives had vanished into the Forces. The evacuees and their mothers billeted on them had been a disastrous intrusion.

After the evacuees decided to return to Liverpool, as yet unbombed, Barbara and Phyllis had recovered from the worst of that invasion; but, even, subsequently, as a refuge for the elderly from the bombing of London and the South of England, they had been unable to keep the house up. Civilians had to make do with what they had for the duration: no paint, no new bed linen or china dishes, no plumbing repairs, no flower garden – just a vegetable patch. And never enough coal for heating.

When peace came, practically everything they owned was worn out. There was not an unpatched sheet in the house, not a curtain left other than blackout ones.

The problems of repair and renovation, even now in 1948, seemed almost insurmountable, though damage to their property had been almost nothing in comparison with the havoc wreaked on Liverpool and its environs, or the almost total destruction of parts of Normandy. It had, however, the same overwhelming look of shabbiness and neglect which most of England had. And the faces of the people in the village shared with their French counterparts the same look of intense fatigue and of bad health.

Barbara spared a compassionate thought for the French people round her. Betrayed by their Governments, despised for their surrender to the Germans, their young men still being killed in the war in French Indo-China, and in Algeria, living in a province which was a heap of ruins, how must they feel each time they were called cowardly? Ready to collapse?

As she finally got up to wash and dress in preparation for going with Michel to Caen, she wondered if, in similar circumstances, without the Channel to protect them, the British would have done any better than the French had.

Chapter Nine

Michel found Barbara sitting waiting for him in the foyer of the hotel. She wore a pink woollen dress with the same jacket that she had worn the day before. Despite makeup, carefully applied, her eyes were black-rimmed from lack of sleep; her tears and ruminations of the night had not been conducive to sleep.

She was not particularly looking forward to the promised expedition; she had been stupid to have even mentioned Caen to the driver. She told herself crossly that she was bound to feel even more depressed after looking at such a place. Still less, however, did she wish to spend the day by herself, wandering round Bayeux. And George’s mam had said, when kissing her goodbye, that she wanted all the information that Barbara could collect about what had happened to her son.

She felt numb, unable to think clearly. It was as if she were floating in space, afraid to put a foot down on the earth, lest she be roused and burst into tears again, in mourning not only for all that she personally had lost, but also for a sad, sad world.

As on the day before, she was hatless. Hats were another small thing that had vanished during the war – unless one was in the Services, where a hat was still part of a uniform. Her hair was elaborately swept up on either side of her face, to become curls on the top of her head. Similar curls were, as usual with her, confined at the nape of her neck by a precious tortoiseshell hair slide. This style tended to make her look taller than she was.