‘Here’s the money for some bread, Archie,’ Sandra Miller said. ‘There are eggs and bacon in the pantry so you can get yourselves a meal when you come home.’
The old-fashioned wireless behind her was playing one of the biggest hits of the music charts the previous year – ‘Oh Mein Papa’ sung by Edie Calvert and one of Sandra’s favourites, but she snapped it off impatiently as her son fiddled with his football boots and pushed the ten-shilling note at him.
‘Yeah, all right.’ Archie shoved the money into his pocket and looked bored. He knew the routine: let yourselves in with the key that hung on a string through the letterbox, make a meal for himself and his younger sister June, and leave the washing-up in the sink for when she got back. It wasn’t ideal and Sandra hated the fact that her kids were one of a growing number of latchkey kids whose mothers worked and didn’t get home until later in the evening.
Sandra hadn’t planned this kind of life when she’d married Tim Miller. He’d been a soldier then and the war that had devastated Europe and much of the world had been raging fiercely. They’d anticipated their wedding night because Tim had been going back to the Front and Sandra had feared she might not see him again. However, they’d been some of the lucky ones. Tim had come through the war unscathed. He’d landed a good job as the manager of a grocery store and until one foggy night in January 1950, Sandra’s life had been perfect … until the ring at the door and a young constable’s stuttering announcement that her husband had been killed cycling home from work in thick fog.
She’d been carrying Archie when Tim got leave from the Army in November 1941 and came home to marry her, but Sandra’s parents had stood by her and she’d appreciated their loving kindness. Her throat caught with grief as she recalled the night when their house had been blown apart with them still inside. They’d had no warning, because it was one of those terrifying rockets they called the V2; it came out of the night and suddenly a home and the people in it were gone just like that, leaving a gaping hole in Sandra’s life and that of her kids.
If her parents had lived she would have had someone to look after her children when she was working late, but unfortunately Tim had been an orphan and the kids had only her to feed, clothe and teach them about life, and sometimes Sandra felt it was a heavy burden, even though Archie did all he could to help her.
‘What time will you be home then?’ Archie asked, a little resentful now. Sandra knew he didn’t mind doing little jobs down the Docks or even washing windows for elderly neighbours to bring in a few shillings, but he hated it that she was hardly ever home before it was time for cocoa and bed.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll come straight home from the office, I promise. I’m not working at the pub tonight.’
Twice a week she did a few hours in the evening at the Dog & Gun in Bethnal Green, to earn extra money, because growing kids needed so much, and Sandra hated the idea that hers might have to go short.
‘I’m sorry, Archie,’ Sandra apologised, the reproach in his eyes pricking her. ‘I know I expect a lot of you, but I can’t help it …’
‘Yeah, I know, Mum,’ he said and grinned at her. When Archie smiled it was as if the sun had come out. With his dark-red hair and his green eyes, he was the image of his father and her heart turned over with love. ‘We’ll be all right.’
‘I know I can rely on you to take care of June …’
‘Yeah, I’ll look out for the brat.’ From the lofty position of his thirteen years, Archie saw his nine-year-old sister as a troublesome kid, but despite their constant bickering, Sandra knew that he would care for her as best he could. Yet he shouldn’t have so much responsibility and it hurt Sandra because she couldn’t provide the loving, stable home her children were entitled to.
Leaving the house, Sandra ran to the end of the dingy lane to catch her bus because she didn’t want to be late for the office; she was so used to the boarded-up houses on either side that she no longer noticed. This slum area was all she could afford since Tim died, although she was always looking for something better. She worked in a biscuit factory in the accounts department, keeping track of invoices and making up the wages. It was hard work but she didn’t mind that – in fact the only thing she disliked about her job was Reg Prentice. Reg was the office manager and a menace to anything in a skirt. None of the girls liked him, but most of them had the courage to stand up to him and tell him to get lost when he touched their bottoms and squeezed up against them in the corridor.
Sandra had asked him to leave her alone several times. In fact, he’d been such a nuisance that the previous evening, when he’d pushed her up against the wall, she’d slapped his face and told him that if he didn’t stop harassing her she was going to Mr Jenkins, the overall manager of the factory.
‘Do that and you’re out of a job,’ Reg hissed against her ear. ‘Besides, I’m your manager. He’s hardly going to believe a little scrubber like you. We all know what you widows are like; you can’t do without a man. I know you don’t say no to some others.’
‘I’m not interested in men, just in doing my job …’ Sandra protested.
‘I’ve seen you givin’ Mr Jenkins the eye,’ Reg sneered. ‘Well, he’s the sort that doesn’t stray and he doesn’t like loose women … By the time I finish tellin’ what I know you’ll be lookin’ for work without a reference.’
‘I don’t give in to bullies,’ Sandra retorted. ‘He wouldn’t believe you. I know Martha Jenkins and she will vouch for me.’
‘Not by the time I’ve done,’ he muttered beneath his breath.
Sandra had walked out on him, but a lingering doubt nagged at her mind. If Reg really had it in for her, she might be in serious trouble. He was a vindictive man and she wouldn’t be the first woman to lose her job because of wicked lies …
Her bus was stopping. She got off and walked quickly towards the factory, noticing the headlines on the newspaper stand. Anthony Eden had taken over from Mr Churchill when he resigned and now he was talking about calling a general election – as if that would make any difference to women like her! Reaching her workplace at the corner of Brick Lane, Sandra hung her jacket in the small dark cloakroom and entered the office. Here it was lighter, because of the large window at the back, and there were several desks, some equipped with typewriters, others like her own, piled high with folders and an overflowing in-tray. Reg smirked at her as she passed him and she saw two of the other girls whispering and giving her odd glances.
‘Don’t sit down, Mrs Miller,’ Mrs Landsbury said from the doorway into her office. ‘Mr Jenkins would like to see you immediately.’
Sandra looked at the manager’s secretary and saw frosty disapproval in her eyes. She glanced at Reg and knew at once that he was gloating. Obviously she was in trouble and she had no idea why …
‘I want to play with Mimi,’ June said that evening, pulling at Archie’s hand as he dragged her into the baker’s at the end of Whitechapel Road. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t go round her house. Her dad got her some skates and she says I can borrow them …’
‘You can go round there on Saturday,’ Archie said as he paid for the crusty cottage loaf from the baker. ‘It’s no use you sulking, June. Mum told me to look after you. I’ve got to get some tea for us both and then I’ve got schoolwork to catch up on. I have to do twenty sums tonight and they’re