Authors: Eileen Haworth
Joe knew better than to argue, he would be married to Florrie the first Saturday in July. Florrie’s father would foot the bill for the wedding and for an overnight honeymoon at Blackpool, and that was that.
A week later Florrie gazed wistfully at the white wedding gowns in the shop window. It wasn’t just that they were expensive, they weren’t for the likes of
her
.
‘Well Lady Jane,’ her mother broke into her thoughts, ‘are
you
fit
to be wed in white, or not?’
Florrie chewed on her bottom lip, head bowed, cheeks burning.
‘I thought as bloody much, I never did trust
that
bugger from the minute I first clapped eyes on him’.
All of a sudden Florrie remembered the day her mother had mentioned her own
lemon
wedding gown without explaining why
she
hadn’t been fit to wear white. But Florrie had worked it out for herself - on
her
wedding day her smug, self-righteous mother must have been six months gone with Florrie herself.
She tossed her head defiantly. In a few weeks she would make her home with Joe and his parents and was too happy to care what her mother thought of her. And anyway, these were
modern
times, 1929 not 1909, she wasn’t the first and she wouldn’t be the last bride to go to the altar “in shame”.
Florrie and Hettie, as close as sisters for what seemed like forever, had promised since school-days to be each other bridesmaids but Mabel put her foot down, firmly.
‘This wedding’s costing your pa enough without having
two
bridesmaids
standing
for you
.
You’ll be content with one,
and it’ll have to be
his
sister or we’ll never hear the last of it from
his
side.’
She couldn’t bring herself to utter Joe’s name or that of his family and the only Pomfret invited would be his sister, Annie. And as for having Fred as his best man, Joe had no say in the matter - it had to be Florrie’s brother, Harold.
St Michael’s Church was four stops away on the tram route so it made sense for Florrie, her father and Annie to catch the tram. Mabel didn’t think she’d be missing much by not attending the ceremony and stayed at home to prepare the wedding breakfast.
There was no sense of occasion, no church packed with friends and relatives, no empty extravagance. Instead it was a quiet affair with only eight taking part - the bride and groom, the father of the bride, the bridesmaid, the best man, the vicar, and in the back pew, Hettie and Fred.
Florrie’s dress, dusty-pink and knee-length with a neat buttoned up collar, was sensible, nothing more. Her matching dusty-pink cloche was pulled down tightly covering her hair and brow, her white stockings and tan shoes with a t-bar strap completed the demure picture. Were it not for the bouquet of pink roses with green fern and wide ribbon trailing almost to the ground, you might have thought she was on her way to Sunday School.
She joined Joe at the altar and peeped at him from underneath her hat. He looked handsome in his smart single-breasted brown suit with his father’s watch and chain resting elegantly across his smooth-fitting waistcoat. He wore polished shoes with just a glimpse of smart new spats at the ankles and in his buttonhole was a sweet-smelling white carnation.
His attempt to brush his dark hair into a tidy straightness had almost succeeded but one or two shiny curls had broken ranks to give him a boyish, unsophisticated look.
He threw Florrie an apprehensive smile lasting barely long enough to flash the gold tooth glinting at the corner of his upper lip but long enough to make her go weak at the knees. What had she done to deserve a boy like Joe? Most of her friends envied her, some had even flirted with him but today he would become her husband and her marriage would be all she’d ever dreamed of. Releasing her father’s arm and with it the repression she had lived with for nineteen years, she took her place by Joe’s side.
The Reverend Timothy Cowell began…
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…
By teatime it was all over and the newly-weds were on the train to Blackpool. The lodgings were basic but comfortable, though the landlady was a stickler for rules and regulations. That was all right by Joe, Mrs Noon was a saint compared to his domineering new mother-in-law.
For reasons his bride could only guess at, Joe suggested an early night. Mabel had used an off-cut from the mill to make Florrie’s plain but serviceable white cotton nightdress. As an afterthought, and feeling a grudging need to make it a bit special, she’d added narrow blue lace to the high collar and cuffs and fancy blue buttons to the bodice instead of the usual cotton fastening- tapes.
The eager young groom was hoping Florrie had left the nightie behind but there it was in the battered old attaché case - his mother-in-law had made sure of that.
This time he was gentle. He’d make a better job of it tonight; he couldn’t have his new wife crying like before, he didn’t want complaints from the lodgers in the next room and besides, he’d felt rotten enough for upsetting her the last time. His patience was rewarded by her tender yet passionate response. Florrie no longer felt afraid and ashamed, but safe and cherished. In the early hours she nudged him awake.
‘Joe, I’m thirsty, get me a drink of water?’
He edged his way through the darkness until he reached the washstand. Lifting the large jug of water from its matching china bowl he staggered back to his wife, ‘Here y’are, sweetheart,’ he whispered.
She was expecting a cup or tumbler, not something holding half a gallon. Propping herself up against the pillow she felt the cool refreshing water on her lips as he gently tipped the jug. Suddenly it gathered momentum and bride and bed were drenched in the ensuing cascade.
The sheet had to come off and so did the plain but serviceable white cotton nightie with the fancy blue buttons. The newly-weds spent the rest of the night happily rolled together in the eiderdown on the floor with Joe trying to come up with a believable explanation for the soaking bed.
In the end they packed their bags as soon as breakfast was over and left Mrs Noon to come to her own conclusions. After their first joyous 24 hours as man and wife they had every reason to believe that the rest of their lives would be just as blissful.
*
Joe and Florrie started married life as lodgers in his parents' parlour. It was no picnic but it would have to do till they could afford a few pieces of second-hand furniture and rent their own home. Joe left his job at Taylor’s bakery to become a second-man on their grocery delivery van. The sooner he learned to drive the sooner he would earn enough to pay the rent on their own place.
Florrie went back to weaving, the pay being better than Woolworth’s and the longer hours giving her some respite from Joe’s mother who seemed to have had it in for her from the very first day.
‘Don’t forget, I want the rent for the parlour every Friday, sharp,’ she told her. ‘I’ve cleared a shelf so put your groceries on that, and if you run out of anythin’ don’t touch any of my stuff. Think on…keep your hands to yourself.'
And then came the self-pitying phrase Florrie was to hear over and over again, ' You young 'uns don't know you're bloody born...I had to fetch me own kids up with no hand-outs...there were no “Lloyd George” money to fall back on when I were first wed.’
Florrie wouldn’t dare
touch even a grain of her sugar but now saw first-hand how her mother-in-law sided with Joe even when he was in the wrong, how she cajoled him out of his tempers as if he were still a 3 year old. Following in his father’s footsteps he spent every evening in the pub and yet his mother sprang to his defence if Florrie as much as sighed at his absence.
‘
Now w
hat’s up with ya? You miserable little bugger. You’ve a face like a bear’s arse again. You don’t begrudge our Joe a pint, d’ya? A fella needs a pint or two after he’s worked all day.’
Three months later Florrie was pregnant. Joe was elated and in no doubt that his first-born would be a son.
‘It’s to be hopes it’s not
another
Joe like you!’ Florrie laughed.
‘Nay, there’ll never be another Joe.’
Their fortunes improved when they found a tiny terraced house to rent on the other side of town where life could go on with less interference from both mothers-in-law.
During a difficult pregnancy Florrie barely managed to keep up with her job and Joe was beside himself with worry. She had no colour in her cheeks and looked thinner than before she’d started carrying the child, and the way she kept collapsing at her looms, he feared that sooner or later she’d fall into the machinery. She was his world and it was up to him to look after her.
‘You’ll not lift a finger at home from now on,’ he told her, ‘and there’s no need for your mam to come round helping either. I’ll look after ya, I’ll make sure nothing happens to you or the babby.’
He refused to let her do a hand’s-turn, tucking her under a blanket on the couch while he cooked and cleaned and generally fussed over her. All this was new to Florrie who had never been molly-coddled in her life. Her dad would never wait on her mother like that, not even if she was on her death-bed.
Florrie was just seven months gone when she slipped on a patch of oil on the factory floor and went into premature labour. Weavers gathered round her holding up long lengths of unbleached cotton sheeting to afford some privacy while Hettie ran for Meg, who knew everything there was to know about childbirth.
The pain was worse than Florrie could have imagined but her screams went unheard above the din of machinery and in less than an hour she gave birth right there on the flagged floor of the weaving shop. She caught a brief glimpse of her scrawny scrap of a son as Meg held him by his feet and slapped his backside. There was a faint squeal…and then…silence. Hettie wiped him down, rolled him in a pristine piece of cloth and laid him in a nearby basket.
‘Is it dead? Don’t let it die… what is it Hettie?’
‘It’s a little lad…just what your Joe wanted. Don’t worry, we’ll not let it die Florrie.'
John weighed less than four pounds, and was too weak to suckle. To make matters worse he was not passing urine like he should. With his wife confined to bed and his son fighting for life, Joe took care of both of them.
Throughout the following nights he swaddled John in thick woollen shawls and painstakingly dripped warm milk through a thin rubber tube into his tiny mouth. But a week later in spite of his best efforts, John was weakening. Joe sat at Florrie’s bedside, his tears falling on his fragile son’s translucent face.
‘Are we gonna lose him? Well, come on…don’t just lie there moping, Florrie …I’m doin’ me best for him…tell me what else I can do?’
‘God only knows…just keep him warm and try and feed him again…we’ll see what the doctor has to say in the morning.’
Out of sheer exhaustion Joe fell asleep and it was dawn before he wakened. He gazed down at the precious bundle in is arms, lovingly cocooned in the shawls and yet frighteningly still.
CHAPTER FOUR
Even before Joe ran his finger gently over the doll-like icy-cold face, he knew. Numb with shock he tucked the shawl back into place and rocked the baby to and fro.
He’d failed his little lad… falling asleep when he was supposed to be watching over him. He’d never be able to live with himself after this. It must have been an hour or more before Florrie awoke. The room was unnaturally still and Joe was staring right past her.
‘How is he?’ she asked weakly, ‘has he taken any more milk through the night?’
‘Florrie…he’s… gone, I don’t know what time…I must have bin asleep for a few minutes…but anyway he’s gone… that’s all there is to it.’ His face was expressionless, his voice empty.
As if in a trance, and with no regard for her pitiful howling, he put the baby in her arms, muttered that he might as well chuck himself in the canal and left.
He didn’t chuck himself in the canal but chucked himself into the pub for a few days, and in-between “Opening Times” chucked himself on to Oliver’s couch. Only minutes before the funeral he returned home just in time to carry the tiny white coffin.
In the face of their overwhelming grief with each unable to comfort the other, Joe and Florrie turned to drink. The tragedy that should have drawn them together had driven a wedge between them. Their arguments became more abusive and it seemed like their marriage would fall apart.
Joe couldn’t bear to hear any mention of the baby while Florrie felt the need to relate, always with the same raw accuracy, the tragic story of her first-born to anyone who would listen; the way everyone had admired John, like an angel with his delicate white skin and flaxen curls, the way he’d developed fits and died within days; her only explanation,
the doctor said he had too much albumin in his water…
her only consolation,
everybody
said he was too bonny to live.