Secrets of the Singer Girls (40 page)

‘And what about you, Poppy?’ Sal said eventually. ‘When are you and Freddie off to the country, then?’

Poppy shot a glance over at her handsome husband, who stood by the bar chatting with Archie, and her eyes flashed with love. Poppy and Freddie had married one year after Vera and Archie, with no
more pomp or ceremony. In fact, it had been the smallest, quickest wedding Sal could ever remember. They had tied the knot in a registry office with her and Vera as witnesses. Poppy wore a
second-hand skirt and jacket, and not a scrap of make-up adorned her pretty features, but she was still the most radiant bride Sal had ever seen.

‘Well, Freddie’s just waiting to get his demob orders and then we’ll be off. I should think sometime in the next six months.’

‘Well, it won’t be the same around these parts without you, love,’ replied Vera. ‘But I know where your heart truly lies – you never made any bones about that
– and if you and your Freddie can make a go of that farm, well, good on you, I say.’

And so say all of us,’ smiled Sal, winking at Poppy and privately thinking what a long way she had come from the nervous slip of a girl who’d arrived all those years ago. They had
never again talked of what happened to Poppy that night in the scullery, but meeting Freddie had been an enormous boost to Poppy’s confidence and somehow Sal sensed she would always be safe
in his hands. After all, he had saved her life from the very first moment they met, and since then the trust between them was implicit.

‘Oh, but you will come down to visit, won’t you?’ she gushed.

‘Of course,’ smiled Vera.

‘Crikey, I should say,’ added Sal. ‘My Billy and Joey are already planning it. They miss their days in the countryside, so it will be marvellous to have somewhere to take
them.’ She knew she was taking a chance on her next question, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘And your mother? Will she be down to visit?’

Poppy shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. I wrote to tell her I was married, but all she said was Lord Framshalton and his family lost everything in the war. They’ve had to let all
their domestic staff go. They’re ruined, apparently, down to their last farthing. Mother’s staying on to help them out of a misguided sense of duty, I think, as even the cook and butler
have gone.’

‘Oh, what a terrible shame. They’ve had the silver spoons wrenched from their mouths; my heart bleeds for them,’ snorted Sal. ‘I’ll say this for the war –
it’s been a great leveller, and I’m not just talking about the slums. The classes have never been so equal. The hoity-toity lot will have to get off their backsides and get real jobs
now. Let’s see how they cope in this new world of ours.’

‘Who knows?’ said Poppy. ‘I shan’t spend much time thinking about it, though, I can assure you. Skivvying’s in the past for me now. Thanks to you girls and the
factory, I feel ready to turn the page and take on a new chapter.’

Sal found herself smiling in awe at her brave friend. Poppy hadn’t just survived her secrets; she had actually emerged a stronger woman, not in spite of them but because of them.

‘And what about you, Sal?’ Poppy asked. ‘Now that so many women will be quitting Trout’s and returning to life at home, there’ll be a fair few empty seats on the
factory floor. I worry you’ll have your work cut out for you.’

‘Well, there might just be one more empty seat and all,’ she replied with a determined twinkle in her eye.

‘What do you mean?’ Poppy asked, puzzled.

‘Well, this war, and all that I witnessed that night of the Tube disaster, made me realize that maybe I have something more to offer,’ she said. ‘No disrespect to factory work,
but I thought I might try and retrain as a nurse. Vera’s said she’ll help me, and I’m going down to the children’s hospital to talk to Matron tomorrow about what I need to
do.’

‘What a wonderful idea, Sal. You will make a really excellent nurse,’ Poppy gushed. ‘You were a natural with the children on the ward when we visited, and you were a true hero
that night at the Tube. You dealt with the casualties so calmly.’

‘I don’t know about that, Poppy.’ Sal shrugged modestly. ‘I don’t think that terrible night was anyone’s finest hour, but I will say this: now Reggie’s
no longer around, I have a freedom I’ve never had, and I don’t want to be dependent on a man again, or live in fear of one. The slavery years are over for me, in a funny way thanks to
the war, and now I’m free to make my own way in life.’

Vera nodded sagely.

Just then a commotion at the far end of the street caught their attention and Sal found her gaze suddenly drawn to the figure of a tall man in uniform marching towards them.

‘As I live and breathe, is that who I think it is?’ marvelled Sal, squinting her eyes into the sunshine.

Robert looked so handsome and tall striding down the street, his chest proudly puffed out in front of him. The buttons on his uniform sparkled in the sunshine. He may have left for the D-Day
landings in Normandy eleven months previously little older than a lad, but he had come back a hero.

As he walked, many of the men patted him on the back to show their respect. Sal smiled to herself as she looked pointedly at Pat, who had the good grace to look embarrassed after all she’d
put Daisy through.

Robert returned their smiles, but he didn’t stop walking until he reached the group. Carefully, he removed his hat and nodded with deference to Vera.

‘Please excuse me interrupting your party, ma’am,’ he said politely.

‘Nonsense.’ She smiled back. ‘I doubt very much we’d even be having this party if it weren’t for you GIs. It’s good to see you, Robert. Hope, sweetheart, come
and say hello to this nice gentleman.’

Sal watched in silent fascination. She knew that Vera and Robert had kept in touch by letter when he was abroad fighting, and the GI had lived for the photos Vera sent him of his little girl. No
one had really dared to bring up the subject of the future, for throughout the war, every day had to be lived as if it were the last. But the war was over now and Sal realized with a jolt that
Robert might wish to contend custody and take his little girl home to America with him. Sal could hardly bear to look at Vera’s face and she felt a stab of panic. Hope was her goddaughter and
she had grown to love her like her own sons. Losing her again was unimaginable.

Hope tottered over and hid behind Vera, peeking out curiously from behind her skirts to gaze at the tall stranger in the street.

Robert crouched down to her eye level and his brown eyes were at once filled with love.

‘Well, hello there, little lady.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Would you like one of these?’ He pulled a lollypop from his pocket and Hope’s mesmerizing brown eyes went out
on stalks as a sticky little hand shot out.

‘You sure got your momma’s good looks,’ he said wistfully.

‘Say “thank you”, darling, and you can go and play now,’ coaxed Vera.

When Hope had scampered back under the trestle table, Vera took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment, Robert,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘I know we’ve
never discussed it in our letters, but now the war’s over, I assume this is why you’ve returned. She’s yours and Daisy’s daughter, and I won’t stand in your
way.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not that straightforward, Mrs Gladstone,’ he replied. His voice, as rich and deep as molasses, was one of the things that Daisy had always said she loved
most about Robert – that and his perfect manners – and listening to him now, Sal could quite see why.

‘You see, my unit’s being posted off to the Far East next week. The war may be over in Europe, but it’s still being fought over there and we are still needed. But in any case,
even if I weren’t, I think . . . No, I
believe
her rightful place is here with you, Vera. She belongs in the East End, not in America with me. It just isn’t practical, as much
as I love her.’

Sal saw Vera sag with relief.

‘Very well, Robert, if that’s how you feel,’ she replied. ‘We’ll take great care of her, I promise.’

‘I know you will. It’s what Daisy would have wanted,’ he added sadly. ‘All I ask is for photos as she grows up.’

Sal had barely noticed Archie come up behind them and thread his hand protectively through his wife’s.

‘I will always remember England, you know,’ Robert said sadly. And I will always remember Daisy. Our time together on this earth was brief, but she taught me so much. On our very
first date, she told me you only survived in the East End thanks to camaraderie and loyalty. I remembered that. Carried it with me, in fact, when we landed at Omaha. I truly loved her.’

Vera placed a shaky hand on his. ‘War has left us all a lot poorer than it found us,’ she replied.

Archie stepped forward and shook his hand. And England will always remember you, Robert.’

At that moment, their voices were drowned out. Someone had struck up a verse of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and everyone was joining in with great gusto.

‘Come on, lad, you look like you could use a drink,’ smiled Archie, clamping his arm around Robert’s shoulder and leading him towards the bar.

‘Well,’ shrugged Sal, ‘that’s that, then, girls. Best foot forward. There’s a few more songs to be sung before nightfall.’

With that, the Singer Girls linked arms and burst into song, their triumphant voices lifting high up over the rooftops of the East End. Life continued. Not as before, but finally unburdened.

I would like to dedicate this book to the 173 people – 62 of them children – who died in the Bethnal Green Tube disaster on 3 March 1943. These stoic folk had
already endured so much suffering since the war began. They had survived the Blitz, not to mention poverty, rationing and unrelenting hard work. For so many to die in such an unimaginable and
preventable disaster is nothing short of heartbreaking. It was the Hillsborough of its day, and yet few people know anything about one of the worst civilian disasters of the Second World War. The
powers that be hushed it up under the Official Secrets Act, for fear of it being picked up and publicized as part of Nazi propaganda.

My interest in this sad event was sparked after learning about it from two venerable Bethnal Green ladies, Kathy and Vera, who took me to the memorial and told me about the terrible events of
that fateful day. Both well into their eighties, these formidable women survived the Depression of the 1930s, post-Second World War slum clearance and the reign of the Krays, but the Tube disaster
is the event that has had the biggest impact on them.

‘My son says, “You want to forget it, Mum – it’s done,”’ explains Kathy. ‘But it’s not done as far as I’m concerned.

I’ll never forget standing there looking at all those dead bodies lined up on the pavement, with fat tears trickling down my cheeks.’ Kathy’s pain is palpable seventy-two years
on.

Discovering that I share a name with one of the victims, Kate Thompson, further fuelled my interest. Little is known about Bethnal Green Kate, other than that she lived in Russia Lane, and she
was fun, hardworking and a devoted mother of seven sons and two daughters. She doubtless lived a life of abject poverty and work, incomparable to my modern, pampered life. I only wish I could have
sat and shared a pot of tea with Kate. I’m sure I could have learned so much from her.

Kate’s youngest son, Bill, was in the army. He worked as part of a bomb disposal unit, helping to defuse high-explosive bombs. It was a deeply dangerous occupation, but he survived the
war. His mother, a civilian on the home front, did not – she was just sixty-three years old when she was crushed to death on the steps leading down to the Tube. We don’t know what Bill
made of this tragic twist of fate, for he never breathed a word about his mother’s demise to either his wife or his daughter.

Today, an impressive bunch of people are working tirelessly so that the memories of Kate Thompson and all the other men, women and children who lost their lives that day are never forgotten. For
years all that marked the disaster was a small faded plaque over the entrance to the Tube.

Now, thanks to the Stairway to Heaven Memorial Trust, a beautiful and fitting memorial is underway. However, there are insufficient funds to complete the final phase, which is to put a teak
stairway on top of it with all the victims’ names carved into the wood. The charity will not rest easy until it is completed, and it is testament to the unshakeable power of human love and
devotion that it is there at all.

As Sandra Scotting, who lost her grandmother and cousin in the disaster, explains, ‘It is so important we finish the memorial before the last remaining survivors die. We must never forget
their suffering that dark evening.’

Vera agrees: ‘Bethnal Green survived and triumphed through so much because we are a true East End community that has always looked out for one another. We lived, worked, fought and sadly
died side by side.’

It is that very essence of community, heartfelt loyalty, camaraderie and, above all, friendship that I wanted to pay tribute to in
Secrets of the Singer Girls.
I hope you have enjoyed
reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. For more information on the memorial trust, please visit:

www.stairwaytoheavenmemorial.org

Read on to find out more about author
Kate Thompson’s research in
The Story Behind the Story

Every man and woman who can recall life in Britain during the war has a story to tell, but the brave, vibrant and wickedly funny factory workers of the East End have a rich and
never-ending wealth of tales. The many kind and inspiring women who gave up their precious time to help me with research opened my eyes to a side of life that has long since vanished from this
country.

The majority of the ladies who used to work as seamstresses in garment factories are now in their late eighties, but as sharp as tacks and fiercely independent. Nearly every machinist I spoke
with began work at fourteen. It was commonplace for children to finish their schooling on a Friday, only for them to be marched to the nearest factory to start work at 8 a.m. sharp the following
Monday, without them bemoaning the abrupt end to their childhood. Indeed, they were proud to hand the precious brown-paper pay packets that they received at the end of each week straight into their
mothers’ hands, and thus be able to contribute financially towards their households. The East End mother was the lynchpin of her family, and her daughters were utterly devoted to her. Girls
were pleased to be going out to work, making their way in the world and ‘doing their bit’.