Chapter 7

7

POOLE – FEbrUARY 1941

Charlie Edwards checked the clock at Waterloo Station and saw he had time for a bite of lunch before his train was due to leave. He stepped across the road from the train station and pushed open the door to the tea shop where delicious aromas hit his senses like a melody from the past – a past filled with warmth, and home-cooked meals.

‘What can I get you, love?' asked the waitress, with a tenderness in her voice that he'd not heard in so long now that it prickled the back of his throat. He wasn't from these parts, and had never been accepted as a local, yet now, just as he was giving up and leaving, this woman reached out to him with the kindness of family. Even though half of London was missing some or all of their family after the Blitz, he sensed there was a stigma to being the only one left. For months now, he'd had nothing but hard stares and cold shoulders. So, he had decided to move on, and reinvent himself as someone who might fit in better where he was going next.

His practised accent now was southern, but not quite London. West Country, but not deep Somerset. Local, but not too local to anywhere in particular. He could have come from Oxford, or Basingstoke. Reading or Andover. Rochester or Hastings. Bath or Bournemouth. He'd already decided the answer to the question about where he was from: ‘All over, really – you name it, I've lived there.'

‘I'll have a nice cup of tea and your soup and toast, please, love.' He smiled, winningly.

‘The soup is leek and potato, today. Is that all right for you?'

‘Sounds just the job to warm me up,' he said, rubbing his hands together with glee, much more thrilled that she'd not even flinched at his accent than he was about the bland-sounding soup.

‘Right away then, sir – I'll bring it back in just a moment.'

Charlie enjoyed the soup surprisingly more than he had expected to. A meal without meat or cheese or fish didn't sound like a meal at all, but the texture was thick and soothing on his tongue, and the hot toast was dripping with margarine and was delicious dipped into the soup bowl. The meal warmed him and filled his belly. He made his way to the counter to pay his bill, handling the coins in his pocket carefully, picking out the pennies from the shillings between his fingers to help him speed up the process once he pulled them out into his palm.

‘That'll be threepence please, sir.' She beamed, and he handed over the three big, round, bronze coins.

‘How do you manage to charge so little? You can't get a meal like that for less than a shilling anywhere else,' he answered as she rang up the till.

‘We're subsidised now, as a part of the Ministry of Food scheme. Simple meals like the soup are only tuppence, so as everyone can afford a feed. A nasty German did that to you, did he?' she asked, nodding in the direction of his leg. She'd noticed the limp he tried to hide. The sudden change of subject took him back to the battleground and made him flinch, and he saw by her response that she knew she'd troubled him by bringing up thoughts of war.

‘No, I've had this since I was a kid,' he replied, more curtly than he had meant to.

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. Glad you're home safe now though,' she said. ‘My John is in the navy, you know. He's out there doing his bit to protect our merchant ships so we've a hope of getting some more food in.'

‘He's a good man, then,' said Charlie. ‘And you make a lovely soup, too, miss.'

‘We're all doing our bit. My grandad grew the veg himself, you know,' she added with pride.

Charlie nodded his thanks, then left the tea shop, closing the door carefully behind him and bracing himself against the sharp winter winds that howled down the street. He slung his bag over his shoulder, pulled his coat collar up and gripped it with one hand, then headed back into the train station. Once on the platform again, he found a quiet corner and settled in to await his southbound train.

When the whistle blew to sound that the train was ready to board, he made his way towards the central carriage. He wanted to be not the first, not the last, just one of the crowd going about his business in a way that nobody would notice. A fresh start in a new town meant blending in as soon as he could. He shut the door behind him and walked down the carriage looking for just the right spot. He was relieved to see there were some passengers, but not too many. Plenty of people to get lost amongst, but not so many that the crowd would be pushing up close to him.

Women seemed the safest bet. So far, he'd had the most generous treatment from ladies. He chose a compartment with a mother and her two little children and another lone man in uniform. Charlie sat beside the window so he could watch the scene go by, field by field, town by town, until the fields became more than the towns and he could almost smell the sea air of the south.

When the journey was over and the train pulled into Poole, Charlie was pleased to see almost all the passengers spill out onto the platform – a perfect crowd to get lost amongst. He picked up his bag, put his head down, and went with the flow of the crowd out from the station and into the High Street.

He knew that anyone who had a spare room would have a little notice in their front window. All he needed was to find the best spot. He walked down the High Street towards the quay, as far as Castle Street, and turned in to the left. Here were the lanes and alleys that ran back and forth behind the quay, and here would be the ideal place to settle – close to the water and the action of work that went on there.

The houses were all terraced together with doors that opened directly onto the pavement at the front. Each one had a small, bricked courtyard at the back. Every few houses, the terrace was broken by a ground-level alley that ran through to the lane at the back. These lanes separated the back courtyards and each had a wooden gate in the high brick wall, giving access into the courtyard. He could see that, in this part of the town, there was only one shared toilet between four houses, and through a gate that was left hanging open, he saw a communal water pump. The many chimneys atop each house all piped thick smoke into the air from the fireplaces and wood-fired kitchen ranges inside.

The dank air smelled faintly of fish and smoke, and of the coming winter night. It was only three in the afternoon, but dusk was hanging around the chimney tops, ready to settle the town under its dark blanket for night-time. Charlie wondered if he'd find a place to stay today, or if he'd be better off paying for a room in a pub for the night.

As he turned a corner, he came across a pair of young boys, playing with marbles and sticks on the edge of an alleyway. They looked up to him, then gave him a second look, obviously realising he wasn't someone they knew.

‘Evening, lads,' Charlie started. ‘Know of any rooms to let around here? I'm looking for lodgings.'

‘My mum's got no rooms, what wiv me and me brothers and the vacees . But Mother Rogers has got a notice up in her window.' He pointed to the end of the lane. ‘Down Strand Street, then down Blue Boar Lane. Just a few places back in from the quay,' he added.

‘Sounds perfect to me.' Charlie smiled and fished a farthing out of his pocket, flipping it up in the air for the lad to catch.

‘Cor, thanks! C'mon, Frank, let's get some sweets at Setchfields,' he cried as they ran off towards the High Street. Charlie smiled as he watched them run, remembering the rows of glass jars full of all kinds of different-coloured sweets that he'd seen that the little shop sold as he'd passed.

The boy's directions were good, and he easily found Mrs Rogers' home in Blue Boar Lane. He could hear the industry of the quayside going on at the far end of the narrow, dark lane and he followed the sound. At the end of the lane, where it opened onto the quay that he recognised, he saw that on one side was the Lord Nelson, and on the other the Jolly Sailor. Across the water, between the quays, a ship was being unloaded of its cargo and he could hear the noise of the gasworks coming up from the east. There was plenty of work here, and Blue Boar Lane would be a very handy spot to base himself.

Just as he turned to go back into the lane, he heard the hubbub from inside the Jolly Sailor as someone opened the door. Perhaps there was time for a quick half pint before knocking on Mrs Rogers' door.

The pub was warm and welcoming, and he found himself in easy conversation with the barman while he drank his beer, and might have been tempted to stay for longer. But it would never do to have too much beer inside him as he met a new landlady. He said a cheery farewell to the men at the bar, and stepped back outside. The night was dark now.

Turning back into the lane, the reek of old fish and the filthy state of the drains hit his senses. Overhead hung a line of laundry, strung across from one side of the lane to the other. These must be the poorest of the poor, he thought, looking at the tiny houses in the dank, darkening light, though he had seen there were alms houses just a stone's throw away too. At least this woman could afford her own home. There was the notice in the window, as promised:

Room to let: 8s per week

Full board (coupons required)

1s extra for weekly laundry

That she was charging less than she could get for an evacuee spoke volumes to Charlie. This woman's home must not be considered suitable for the children sent down from London, and she must have found it difficult to get boarders. He was pleased to solve one of her financial worries today, and smiled as he knocked on the door and readied himself to impress Mrs Rogers with his best manners.