right?’
Elsie nodded. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He prepared to move on.
‘I know who you are,’ she said in a rush. ‘Norman Thorne. I’m Elsie Cameron. We live quite close. My mum says you were in the war. That makes you a hero.’
Norman gave a shy smile. ‘Not really.’
‘ I think so.’
The boy was flattered. And why not? He was young and no girl had ever looked at him this way before. Raised by a strict father, Norman neither drank nor smoked. He helped with the local Scouts, taught in the Sunday School and was involved in all kinds of chapel work.
His smile widened to one of welcome. ‘Nice to meet you, Elsie.’
Norman’s father wasn’t pleased when his son told him he had a girl.
‘You’re too young for such nonsense,’ Mr Thorne said. ‘You should put your energies into working.’
‘I’m not planning to marry her, Dad.’
‘Then watch how you treat her, lad. We don’t want any shotgun weddings in this family.’
Nor was Elsie’s mother pleased. ‘He’s still a boy, dear. You’d be better off with someone older.’
‘He doesn’t look eighteen.’
‘Maybe not, Elsie . . . but he’ll make you unhappy in the long run. He’ll grow bored and leave you for someone else. Boys of that age always do.’
Mrs Cameron was bent over the kitchen sink, washing clothes. Her arms were deep in suds and Elsie stared at her stooped back with loathing. ‘Why do you always have to ruin everything for me?’ she asked.
‘I don’t mean to,’ her mother said with a sigh, ‘but Dad and I both feel—’ She broke off abruptly. She was too tired for arguments that day, and Elsie never took her advice anyway.
She had lost heart over the girl. There were no grey areas in Elsie’s life. Love must be total. Support tireless. Fault-finding zero. Mild criticism, designed to help her, led to tantrums . . . or worse, threats of suicide. Elsie could go for weeks without speaking to either of her parents. Other times she fawned on them.
Conflict played a part in all her relationships. At home and at work. She could like a person one day and hate them the next. But she never understood why that turned people away. ‘It’s not fair,’ she would say, bursting into tears. ‘Why is everyone so beastly to me?’
Neither of her parents could see a happy ending for her. Mrs Cameron prayed she’d meet an older man who would put up with her moods. Mr Cameron said no such man existed now. If he ever had, he’d died in the war.
The war had killed so many men. It meant a generation of young women would not find husbands. For every Norman Thorne, there were five young girls begging to be noticed. And Mrs Cameron knew Elsie well enough to know that she was too needy to hold Norman’s interest for long.
But, like her daughter’s co-workers, she’d had enough of the petulant mood swings. ‘Do as you please,’ she said, drawing a pillowcase from the water and thumping it against the wooden washboard. ‘Just don’t come running to me when Norman Thorne lets you down.’
North London – summer 1921
N ORMAN SCUFFED HIS FEET along the pavement. He’d been given his cards by Fiat and was living on ten shillings (50p) a week dole money. ‘Everyone’s been laid off,’ he told Elsie. ‘It’s happening all over. Dad says there’s three million out of work and it’s going to get worse.’
Elsie had to walk fast to keep up with his longer legs. ‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’ll have to do something, pet. You can’t live on the dole for ever.’
(She meant: ‘If you don’t find another job soon it’ll be ages before we can marry.’ But as usual Norman dodged the issue.)
‘We were lied to,’ he complained instead. ‘Us lads who went away to war were told we’d come home to “a land fit for heroes”. Remember that? They promised us jobs and money –’ he took a swipe at a bush as he passed – ‘and we haven’t got bloody
Elsie nodded. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He prepared to move on.
‘I know who you are,’ she said in a rush. ‘Norman Thorne. I’m Elsie Cameron. We live quite close. My mum says you were in the war. That makes you a hero.’
Norman gave a shy smile. ‘Not really.’
‘ I think so.’
The boy was flattered. And why not? He was young and no girl had ever looked at him this way before. Raised by a strict father, Norman neither drank nor smoked. He helped with the local Scouts, taught in the Sunday School and was involved in all kinds of chapel work.
His smile widened to one of welcome. ‘Nice to meet you, Elsie.’
Norman’s father wasn’t pleased when his son told him he had a girl.
‘You’re too young for such nonsense,’ Mr Thorne said. ‘You should put your energies into working.’
‘I’m not planning to marry her, Dad.’
‘Then watch how you treat her, lad. We don’t want any shotgun weddings in this family.’
Nor was Elsie’s mother pleased. ‘He’s still a boy, dear. You’d be better off with someone older.’
‘He doesn’t look eighteen.’
‘Maybe not, Elsie . . . but he’ll make you unhappy in the long run. He’ll grow bored and leave you for someone else. Boys of that age always do.’
Mrs Cameron was bent over the kitchen sink, washing clothes. Her arms were deep in suds and Elsie stared at her stooped back with loathing. ‘Why do you always have to ruin everything for me?’ she asked.
‘I don’t mean to,’ her mother said with a sigh, ‘but Dad and I both feel—’ She broke off abruptly. She was too tired for arguments that day, and Elsie never took her advice anyway.
She had lost heart over the girl. There were no grey areas in Elsie’s life. Love must be total. Support tireless. Fault-finding zero. Mild criticism, designed to help her, led to tantrums . . . or worse, threats of suicide. Elsie could go for weeks without speaking to either of her parents. Other times she fawned on them.
Conflict played a part in all her relationships. At home and at work. She could like a person one day and hate them the next. But she never understood why that turned people away. ‘It’s not fair,’ she would say, bursting into tears. ‘Why is everyone so beastly to me?’
Neither of her parents could see a happy ending for her. Mrs Cameron prayed she’d meet an older man who would put up with her moods. Mr Cameron said no such man existed now. If he ever had, he’d died in the war.
The war had killed so many men. It meant a generation of young women would not find husbands. For every Norman Thorne, there were five young girls begging to be noticed. And Mrs Cameron knew Elsie well enough to know that she was too needy to hold Norman’s interest for long.
But, like her daughter’s co-workers, she’d had enough of the petulant mood swings. ‘Do as you please,’ she said, drawing a pillowcase from the water and thumping it against the wooden washboard. ‘Just don’t come running to me when Norman Thorne lets you down.’
North London – summer 1921
N ORMAN SCUFFED HIS FEET along the pavement. He’d been given his cards by Fiat and was living on ten shillings (50p) a week dole money. ‘Everyone’s been laid off,’ he told Elsie. ‘It’s happening all over. Dad says there’s three million out of work and it’s going to get worse.’
Elsie had to walk fast to keep up with his longer legs. ‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’ll have to do something, pet. You can’t live on the dole for ever.’
(She meant: ‘If you don’t find another job soon it’ll be ages before we can marry.’ But as usual Norman dodged the issue.)
‘We were lied to,’ he complained instead. ‘Us lads who went away to war were told we’d come home to “a land fit for heroes”. Remember that? They promised us jobs and money –’ he took a swipe at a bush as he passed – ‘and we haven’t got bloody
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