more.’
Her rage simmered endlessly. She’d lost control of Rosina. It had been coming for years – Rosina’s lippiness, her lack of fear of her mother, unlike the others.
No one had ever crossed Bessie like this before. Before her own mother had died at her own hand, she’d begged Bessie to take special care of Clarence, her precious boy. Apart from two years in France, Clarence had been with her ever since, content to be under the thumb, it seemed, rather than making a life for himself.
‘He was never the same any road – not after the trenches,’ Bessie always said. He did little jobs for a bit, then just as suddenly stopped and sat at home.
And she had her other three children well in her control still, circling round her like planets round the sun. But Rosina had had the temerity to bre heidnak off and go spinning away on a path of her own choice and without a hint of warning. Nothing had prepared Bessie for Rosina’s spirit, and the older she grew the more rebellious she became.
Violet knew Rosy had become a handful but she was too caught up in her own problems during those years to see how it was going. Rosina stayed away from home more and more, haunting the streets round the theatres – the Hippodrome and Alex in town – hungry to catch a glimpse of theatre people and life.
In the Lozells Road was a photographer’s business by the name of Juggins. Rosina had heard that Alfred Juggins and his son were the official photographers for the Theatre Royal in Aston, and that actors and celebrities often frequented the place to have their portraits taken. Rosina took to hanging around the shop with some of her friends and occasionally came home radiant, full of the fact that she’d seen one of the names, great or small of the acting profession, going into the shop.
‘Charlie Chaplin’s been in there, when he was young!’
After she disappeared, they managed to prise out of one of the other girls the fact that Rosina had begun a passionate romance with a young actor called Michael Albie, whom she had met near Juggins photographer’s. Albie was entranced by Rosina’s pretty looks and vivacious personality, as well as her passionate ambition to be part of the life of theatre herself. Now, for all any of them knew, she had gone to London to be with Albie.
‘She’ll end up on the streets with a brat in her belly and nowhere to sleep but the gutter,’ Bessie decreed, with vengeful satisfaction.
It wasn’t until four months later that Rosina sent a postcard from London, light-hearted in tone, to say that she was well and happy and not to worry. There was no address on it and she did not say what she was doing.
Bessie peered at the card, turning it over and over. It was a photograph of Buckingham Palace.
‘I s’pose she thinks she’s going to be living in there next.’
Violet was just relieved to hear that Rosina was all right. Running off like that felt such a daring, impossible thing to do! She could no more imagine doing that herself – even as far as London – than she could going to Australia. But Rosy had always had a spark in her. Violet felt hurt that she had not confided in her, and she missed Rosy and longed to be able to see her. But Rosina obviously didn’t want to be reached.
Chapter Twenty-One
The war changed their lives.
Gas masks sat in their boxes by the door, houses were blacked out and the windows taped against blast. Air-raid shelters went up and all sorts of regulations came into force. The evenings seemed long and dark, shut in the houses, and Bessie and Clarence bought a wireless.
Groups of young men disappeared into the forces, but Vicars had gone over to making ammunition and Harry’s and the others’ jobs were reserved occupations. They sat out what came to be known as the ‘phoney war’. It was when the raids started in the aut
From August 1940 Birmingham was under frequent attack and you never knew, when dawn broke after a raid, what familiar landmark would
Her rage simmered endlessly. She’d lost control of Rosina. It had been coming for years – Rosina’s lippiness, her lack of fear of her mother, unlike the others.
No one had ever crossed Bessie like this before. Before her own mother had died at her own hand, she’d begged Bessie to take special care of Clarence, her precious boy. Apart from two years in France, Clarence had been with her ever since, content to be under the thumb, it seemed, rather than making a life for himself.
‘He was never the same any road – not after the trenches,’ Bessie always said. He did little jobs for a bit, then just as suddenly stopped and sat at home.
And she had her other three children well in her control still, circling round her like planets round the sun. But Rosina had had the temerity to bre heidnak off and go spinning away on a path of her own choice and without a hint of warning. Nothing had prepared Bessie for Rosina’s spirit, and the older she grew the more rebellious she became.
Violet knew Rosy had become a handful but she was too caught up in her own problems during those years to see how it was going. Rosina stayed away from home more and more, haunting the streets round the theatres – the Hippodrome and Alex in town – hungry to catch a glimpse of theatre people and life.
In the Lozells Road was a photographer’s business by the name of Juggins. Rosina had heard that Alfred Juggins and his son were the official photographers for the Theatre Royal in Aston, and that actors and celebrities often frequented the place to have their portraits taken. Rosina took to hanging around the shop with some of her friends and occasionally came home radiant, full of the fact that she’d seen one of the names, great or small of the acting profession, going into the shop.
‘Charlie Chaplin’s been in there, when he was young!’
After she disappeared, they managed to prise out of one of the other girls the fact that Rosina had begun a passionate romance with a young actor called Michael Albie, whom she had met near Juggins photographer’s. Albie was entranced by Rosina’s pretty looks and vivacious personality, as well as her passionate ambition to be part of the life of theatre herself. Now, for all any of them knew, she had gone to London to be with Albie.
‘She’ll end up on the streets with a brat in her belly and nowhere to sleep but the gutter,’ Bessie decreed, with vengeful satisfaction.
It wasn’t until four months later that Rosina sent a postcard from London, light-hearted in tone, to say that she was well and happy and not to worry. There was no address on it and she did not say what she was doing.
Bessie peered at the card, turning it over and over. It was a photograph of Buckingham Palace.
‘I s’pose she thinks she’s going to be living in there next.’
Violet was just relieved to hear that Rosina was all right. Running off like that felt such a daring, impossible thing to do! She could no more imagine doing that herself – even as far as London – than she could going to Australia. But Rosy had always had a spark in her. Violet felt hurt that she had not confided in her, and she missed Rosy and longed to be able to see her. But Rosina obviously didn’t want to be reached.
Chapter Twenty-One
The war changed their lives.
Gas masks sat in their boxes by the door, houses were blacked out and the windows taped against blast. Air-raid shelters went up and all sorts of regulations came into force. The evenings seemed long and dark, shut in the houses, and Bessie and Clarence bought a wireless.
Groups of young men disappeared into the forces, but Vicars had gone over to making ammunition and Harry’s and the others’ jobs were reserved occupations. They sat out what came to be known as the ‘phoney war’. It was when the raids started in the aut
From August 1940 Birmingham was under frequent attack and you never knew, when dawn broke after a raid, what familiar landmark would
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