Flo
1941
“Oh, Flo, you’ll never guess!” Sally threw herself on to the sofa. “Our Martha’s captured Albert Colquitt at long last.
They’re getting married on St Patrick’s Day.”
“Only two weeks off!” Flo sank beside her sister and they collapsed into giggles. “How on earth did she manage that?”
Sally dropped her voice, though the entire house, all five floors of it, was empty and no one could have overheard.
“I think she seduced him,” she whispered dramatically.
“She what!” screamed Flo, giggling even more. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not, Flo, honest,” Sally assured her, round-eyed.
“One night after we’d gone to bed our Martha got up again. I didn’t say anything, and she must have thought I was asleep. I thought she was going to the lavvy, but she sat at the dressing-table and started combing her hair. The moon was shining through the winder, so I could see her as clearly as I can see you now.” Sally frowned thoughtfully.
“I wondered why she hadn’t put her curlers in or smothered herself with cold cream. Not only that, she was wearing that pink nightdress—you know, the one Elsa Cameron bought her for her twenty-first. Are you with me so far, Flo?”
“Yes, yes, I’m with you.” Flo wanted to throttle her sister for stretching the tale out so long. “What happened then?”
“She just disappeared.”
“What d’you mean she just disappeared? You mean she vanished before your very eyes?”
“Of course not, soft girl. She left the room and was gone for ages. I was asleep by the time she got back.”
“Is that all?” Flo said, disappointed. “I don’t know how you worked out she seduced Albert. She might have dozed off on the lavvy. I’ve nearly done it meself in the middle of the night.”
“Why didn’t she put her curlers in, then? Why didn’t she use her cream? And she was keeping that nightdress for her bottom drawer. Not only that,” Sally finished triumphantly, “she wasn’t wearing her glasses.”
That seemed to provide final proof of Sally’s claim. It was no longer a laughing matter. “If that’s how she caught him, then she’s been dead devious,” Flo said soberly. “Not many men could resist if a girl got into bed with them.
She’s shamed him into getting married.”
Sally nodded knowingly, with the air of a woman of the world, well aware of men’s lack of willpower when it came to sex. “They’re very weak,” she agreed.
“Anyroad, Martha and Albert are going to live at home till the war’s over. Mam said she’s expecting you at the wedding.”
“In that case, Mam’s got another think coming.” Even if she wasn’t dead set against her sister, she’d feel peculiar, knowing that Albert had asked her first and that Martha was his second choice—that’s if he’d had a choice. She would, though, write him a little note. In the time she had remained in Burnett Street after his kind proposal, she’d always made sure they’d never been alone. He didn’t know the truth of what had happened to her baby but it would have been a sore reminder that she shouldn’t have turned him down. Last week, her son had had his first birthday. She’d sent a card, writing simply, “To Hugh, from Flo”. But the card had come back by return of post.
Sally sighed. “She must have been desperate. Poor Martha.”
“Poor Albert,” Flo said cynically.
The young sailor stood before her, agonisingly shy, his face red with embarrassment. She had noticed him watching her all night. “Would you like to dance, miss?”
“Of course.” Flo lifted her arms and he clasped her awkwardly. It was the first time he’d ventured on to the floor.
“I’m not very good at this,” he stammered, when he stood on her toe.
“Then you must learn,” she chided him. “All servicemen should learn to dance. This is a waltz, the easiest dance of all. You’ll find yourself in all sorts of different towns and cities and it’s the best way to meet girls.”
He swallowed, and said daringly, “I won’t meet many girls like you. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re the prettiest one here.”
“Why on earth should I mind you saying a lovely thing like that? What’s your name, luv?”
“Gerard Davies. I come from Swansea.”
“Pleased to meet you, Gerard. I’m Flo Clancy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Flo.”
It always started more or less the same. She only picked the shy ones, who were usually, though not always, very young. Gerard looked eighteen or nineteen, which meant he’d not long left home and would be missing his family.
When the waltz was over, she fanned herself with her hand and said, “Phew! It’s hot in here,” knowing that almost certainly he would offer to buy her a drink. He took the opportunity eagerly, and she chose the cheapest, a lemonade. They sat in a corner of the ballroom, and she asked him about his mum and dad, and what he’d done for a living before he was called up.
His dad ran a smallholding, he told her, and his mum worked in the shop where their vegetables were sold. He had two sisters, both older than him, and everyone had been very proud when he’d passed the scholarship and gone to grammar school. Less than three months ago, he’d gone straight from school into the Navy, and he had no idea what he wanted to do when the war was over.
Flo noticed that he had the merest trace of a moustache on his upper lip, and his hands were soft and white. It was easy to believe that until recently he’d been just a schoolboy.
His brown eyes were wide and guileless. He knew nothing about anything much, yet he was about to fight for his country in the worst war the world had ever known. Flo felt her heart contract at the thought.
The drink finished, they returned to the dance floor.
Flo could tell that he was gaining confidence because he had a girl on his arm, and it grew as the night progressed.
At half past eleven, she said she had to be getting home.
“I have to be up for work at the crack of dawn.”
“In the laundry?”
“That’s right, luv.” She’d told him quite a lot about herself. She gave a little shudder. “I don’t live far away, but I’m terrified of walking home in the blackout.”
“I’ll take you home,” he said, with alacrity, which Flo had known he would. She wasn’t a bit scared of the blackout.
Outside, she linked his arm in case they lost each other in the dark. “Have you got long in Liverpool?”
“No, we’re sailing tomorrow, I don’t know where to.
It’s a secret.” She felt his thin, boyish arm tighten on her own, and reckoned he was frightened. Who wouldn’t be, knowing about all the ships that had been sunk and the lives that had been lost, mainly of young men like him?
When they got to her flat she made him a cup of tea and something to eat—he appeared to be starving the way he downed the two thick cheese sarnies.
“I’d better be getting back to the ship.” He looked at her shyly. “It’s been a lovely evening, Flo. I’ve really enjoyed myself “So’ve I, luv.”
By the door, he flushed scarlet and stammered, “Can I kiss you, Flo?”
She didn’t answer, just closed her eyes and willingly offered her lips. His mouth touched hers, softly, and his arms encircled her waist. She slid her own arms around his neck, and murmured, “Oh, Gerard!” and he kissed her again, more firmly this time. She didn’t demur when his hands fumbled awkwardly and hesitantly with her breasts. She had thought this might happen. It nearly always did.
It was another half-hour before Gerard Davies left Flo in her bed. “Can I write to you?” he pleaded, as he got back into his uniform. “It’d be nice to have a girl back home.”
“I’d like that very much, Gerard.”
“And can I see you if I’m in Liverpool again?”
“Of course, luv. But don’t turn up unannounced, whatever you do.” She worried that more than one of her young lovers might turn up at the same time. The landlady upstairs wouldn’t like it a bit. I’ll give you the phone number of the laundry so you can let me know beforehand, like.”
“Thanks, Flo.” Then he said, in an awestruck voice, “This has been the most wonderful night of my life.”
Gerard Davies was the seventh young man she’d slept with. Flo told herself earnestly that it was her contribution towards the war. Tommy O’Mara had taught her that making love was the most glorious experience on earth, and she wanted to share this experience with a few bashful young men who were about to fight for their country. It made her heart swell to think that they would go into battle, perhaps even die, carrying with them the memory of the wonderful time they’d had with Flo, the pretty young woman from Liverpool, who’d made them feel so special.
It was important that she didn’t get pregnant. She’d asked Sally, casual, like, what she and Jock used.
“It’s something called a French letter, Flo. They’re issued by the Navy. I think you can get them in the chemist’s, but I’m not sure.” Sally grinned. “Why on earth d’you want to know?”
“No reason, I just wondered.”
There was no way Flo would even consider entering a chemist’s to ask for French letters, so she inserted a sponge soaked in vinegar which she’d once heard the women in the laundry say was the safest way. But Flo had the strongest feeling she would never have another baby.
It was as if the productive part of her had withered away to nothing when her little boy was taken away.
Just after Martha’s wedding, Bel wrote to say she was expecting. “I’ll be leaving the ATS, naturally. Bob’s being posted to North Africa, so I’ll be back in Liverpool soon, looking for somewhere to live. Perhaps I can help out in the laundry if there’s a sitting-down job I could do.”
Flo wrote back immediately to say she’d love to have Bel stay until she found a place of her own and that, if necessary, she’d invent a sitting-down job in the laundry.
She bought two ounces of white baby wool to knit a matinee jacket, but in April another letter arrived: Bel had had a miscarriage. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a baby, Flo. I’m staying in the ATS, though I was looking forward to living in William Square and working in this famous laundry.”
The knitting was put away, unfinished. She seemed to waste a lot of time making baby clothes that would never be worn, Flo thought sadly. She wrote to Bel. “I wouldn’t know, of course, but I can imagine how heartbreaking it must be to lose a baby.”
Flo was proud of the way she’d run the laundry since Stella Fritz had returned to Ireland four months ago. As well as the Holbrook twins, she now employed two young mothers, friends, who worked half a day each.
Lottie would turn up at midday with several lusty toddlers in a big black pram, and Moira would take them home. There was also Peggy Lewis, a widow, only four and a half feet tall, who worked like a navvy. Peggy had to leave early to prepare a massive meal for her three lads who worked on the docks and arrived home famished and ready to eat the furniture if there was no food ready.
When the delivery-boy, Jimmy Cromer, a cheeky little bugger but reliable, gave in his notice, having been offered a job with a builder at five bob a week more, Flo immediately increased his wages by ten. Jimmy was thrilled. “If I stay, can I paint ‘White’s Laundry’ on me sidecart?”
“Of course, luv. As long as you do it neat and spell it proper.”
Every Friday, Flo sat in the office working out the week’s finances, putting the wages to one side, and taking the surplus to the bank. There were usually several cheques in settlement of their big customers’ bills. She paid everything into the Fritzes’ account, then made out a statement showing exactly what money had come in and what had gone out, to send to Stella Fritz in County Kerry. At the bottom, she usually added a little message: the laundry was doing fine, there were no problems with the house, the window-cleaner still came once a month and she assumed this was all right. She kept all her own personal bills, stamped “paid” by the gas and electricity companies, just in case there was ever any argument.
Not once did Stella acknowledge the hard work Flo was putting in to keep the business going and looking after the house. I suppose she’s too busy breathing in the good clean air and looking out the winder, Flo thought.
In the absence of any authority to tell her otherwise, she promoted herself—she’d remembered a white overall in the office cupboard with Manageress embroidered in red on the breast pocket. It had been there for as long as she could remember, together with a few other odds and ends that customers had forgotten to collect.
“You look dead smart, luv,” Mam exclaimed. She often called in on her way to or from work. “Manageress at twenty! Who’d have thought it, eh?” Flo did her utmost not to preen. “Which reminds me,” Mam continued, “we were talking about you the other night. It’s only a fortnight off your twenty-first. May the eighth. Martha and Sal both had a party. We can’t let yours go without a little celebration, drink your health an” all. What do you say, Flo?”
“Where would the party be?”
“At home, luv, where else?”
Flo shook her head stubbornly. “I’m not coming home, Mam, not while our Martha’s there.”
“Oh, luv!” Mam’s face was a mixture of grief and vexation. “How long are you going to keep up this feud with Martha? After all, the girl’s expecting. I can’t wait to have me first grandchild,” she added tactlessly, as if Hugh O’Mara had never existed.
“Sal told me about the baby, Mam, and it’s not a feud with Martha. I’m not sure what it is.”
“You’ll have to speak to her sometime.”
“No, I won’t.” Flo thought about Hugh. Then she thought about Nancy O’Mara, and that no one would take Martha’s baby away and give it to a Welsh witch. “I don’t have to speak to our Martha again as long as I live,” she said abruptly.
Mam gave up. “What about your twenty-first then?”
“You and Sal can come to William Square. I’ll ask the women from the laundry, get a bottle of sherry and make sarnies. You can drink me health there.”
Sally reported that Albert seemed relatively content now that he was a member of the family he’d grown so fond of. “He’s started calling Mam ‘Mother’ and she’s a bit put out—she’s two years younger than him! He always asks about you, Flo. He can’t understand why you never come to visit.”
“Tell him I can’t stand his wife,” Flo suggested. “How’s her ladyship taken to married life, anyroad?”