his eyes and grunted as he stretched out in the armchair. Soon Derek would be home on end-of-training leave, and then maybe there would be a long separation. She would need him to love her, and not just during stolen moments alone with him. She would want to spend the nights with him, but she could not expect her mother to allow them that sort of freedom, however understanding she was. Being in love was so complicated, she sighed.
At eleven o’clock precisely the following morning, 24 August 1939, the funeral cortège left Page Street. Three horse-drawn coaches followed the hearse and almost everyone in the street saw it leave. Nellie and Maisie walked arm in arm to their carriage, closely followed by Sadie who was holding on to a very distressed Maudie. Old men stood silent at their doorsteps, their caps held reverently in their hands, and women wept into handkerchiefs. As the cortège turned into the Jamaica Road, Albert Lockwood emerged from his corner shop, cap in hand. Terry Gordon and his wife Patricia stood together at the entrance to the public bar, like the shopkeeper paying their respects to someone they had hardly known but nevertheless mindful of the respect and love Florrie Axford had gained during her long lifetime from the people of Page Street and many other parts of the riverside borough.
Billy Sullivan’s ring-scarred face was set hard as he watched Florrie’s body leave the street and tears welled up in his eyes as he stood alone at his doorstep. Sadness weighed heavily on him. He had returned from Paddington Station less than half an hour ago after seeing Annie and the children onto the Gloucester-bound train. Annie had shed a few tears as she clung to him, while the children stood subdued, not understanding the reasons for leaving their father. The station had been packed with women and children, many with labels pinned to their coats and all looking serious-faced as they boarded the trains for the West Country. Billy had stood sad-eyed as he waved Annie and the children off, and now his loneliness and sorrow threatened to overwhelm him.
Chapter Seven
On Saturday, 2 September, Joe and Carrie were married at the registry office in the Town Hall. They had decided to delay their honeymoon because of the exodus of evacuees and the transit of military personnel through the main stations, but they entertained their friends with food and drink at the house throughout the sunny Saturday. Nellie sat with her old friends in the parlour, while outside in the freshly washed cobbled yard a trestle table was set out with plentiful sandwiches and bottles of beer.
Sharkey Morris, Carrie’s yard man, had been in early that morning to hose the yard down, and he now sat in the parlour with a pint of ale in his gnarled hand. He was nearing eighty and still sprightly for his age, although his eyesight was failing. He sat talking to Rachel, who had become very attached to the old man since he first came to work for her mother.
‘I remember when yer mum was only a slip of a gel,’ he told her. ‘She used ter wear an apron that touched the ground when she worked in yer farvver’s cafe. Good ter me, she was. She knew I was watchin’ out fer ’er an’ she used ter give me free cups o’ tea. I wouldn’t let none o’ the customers take liberties wiv ’er, not while I was in the cafe. They all knew it too. They knew better than ter mess about wiv ole Sharkey.’
‘You an’ my gran’farvver were good friends, wasn’t yer, Sharkey?’ Rachel said.
Sharkey nodded his head vigorously. ‘Me an’ ole Will Tanner were the best o’ mates,’ he told her. ‘What I liked about yer gran’farvver was the way ’e stood up ter that ole goat Galloway. Will wasn’t frightened of ’im, not Will Tanner.’
Rachel sat listening for some time to Sharkey’s reminiscences and then, when the Page Street women drew Sharkey into their conversation, she made her exit. Outside in the
At eleven o’clock precisely the following morning, 24 August 1939, the funeral cortège left Page Street. Three horse-drawn coaches followed the hearse and almost everyone in the street saw it leave. Nellie and Maisie walked arm in arm to their carriage, closely followed by Sadie who was holding on to a very distressed Maudie. Old men stood silent at their doorsteps, their caps held reverently in their hands, and women wept into handkerchiefs. As the cortège turned into the Jamaica Road, Albert Lockwood emerged from his corner shop, cap in hand. Terry Gordon and his wife Patricia stood together at the entrance to the public bar, like the shopkeeper paying their respects to someone they had hardly known but nevertheless mindful of the respect and love Florrie Axford had gained during her long lifetime from the people of Page Street and many other parts of the riverside borough.
Billy Sullivan’s ring-scarred face was set hard as he watched Florrie’s body leave the street and tears welled up in his eyes as he stood alone at his doorstep. Sadness weighed heavily on him. He had returned from Paddington Station less than half an hour ago after seeing Annie and the children onto the Gloucester-bound train. Annie had shed a few tears as she clung to him, while the children stood subdued, not understanding the reasons for leaving their father. The station had been packed with women and children, many with labels pinned to their coats and all looking serious-faced as they boarded the trains for the West Country. Billy had stood sad-eyed as he waved Annie and the children off, and now his loneliness and sorrow threatened to overwhelm him.
Chapter Seven
On Saturday, 2 September, Joe and Carrie were married at the registry office in the Town Hall. They had decided to delay their honeymoon because of the exodus of evacuees and the transit of military personnel through the main stations, but they entertained their friends with food and drink at the house throughout the sunny Saturday. Nellie sat with her old friends in the parlour, while outside in the freshly washed cobbled yard a trestle table was set out with plentiful sandwiches and bottles of beer.
Sharkey Morris, Carrie’s yard man, had been in early that morning to hose the yard down, and he now sat in the parlour with a pint of ale in his gnarled hand. He was nearing eighty and still sprightly for his age, although his eyesight was failing. He sat talking to Rachel, who had become very attached to the old man since he first came to work for her mother.
‘I remember when yer mum was only a slip of a gel,’ he told her. ‘She used ter wear an apron that touched the ground when she worked in yer farvver’s cafe. Good ter me, she was. She knew I was watchin’ out fer ’er an’ she used ter give me free cups o’ tea. I wouldn’t let none o’ the customers take liberties wiv ’er, not while I was in the cafe. They all knew it too. They knew better than ter mess about wiv ole Sharkey.’
‘You an’ my gran’farvver were good friends, wasn’t yer, Sharkey?’ Rachel said.
Sharkey nodded his head vigorously. ‘Me an’ ole Will Tanner were the best o’ mates,’ he told her. ‘What I liked about yer gran’farvver was the way ’e stood up ter that ole goat Galloway. Will wasn’t frightened of ’im, not Will Tanner.’
Rachel sat listening for some time to Sharkey’s reminiscences and then, when the Page Street women drew Sharkey into their conversation, she made her exit. Outside in the
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