Where the Sky Begins by Rhys Bowen
Genres: Fiction Other
Book Preface
London, November 1940
Josie Banks’s favourite part of the day was when she walked to work down the Mile End Road at eight thirty every morning. That was when the street sprang to life around her: men returning from the night shift at the nearby docks—grimy, bleary eyed and stumbling with exhaustion; shopkeepers rolling up blinds on good days or sweeping up glass from a night of bombing on the bad. The smell of watery decay blew in from the Thames, mingling with the fumes of bus engines and the various scents coming from the opening shops. On the good days the greengrocer would be arranging turnips, swedes and cabbages in an attempt to make them look attractive, the fishmonger laying out what bits and pieces he had been able to scrounge from Billingsgate fish market that morning. The fishy smell overwhelmed the others as Josie approached. The fishmonger always had something to say to her.
“Fancy a nice bit of whale meat, Josie, love?”
“I ain’t that desperate yet,” she called back.
“Better than starving, some say.”
“What’s it taste like, anyway?” she asked, frowning at the slab of pink flesh that lay on the marble slab.
“Don’t ask me; you won’t see me eating it,” he replied, and she walked on, both of them chuckling. She had pegged him as a bit of a flirt, but she didn’t mind. A few words exchanged in the high street were harmless enough, and the fact that the local shopkeepers now knew her made her feel alive—as if she belonged.
Her destination was an improbable sight amid the pubs and fish and chip shops, the working-class commerce of the busy East End street. Just past the Mile End tube station, she came to an unassuming shop window, draped with faded lace curtains. Josie paused outside the front door where a discreet sign read “The Copper Kettle Tearoom,” took out a key and let herself in. Every morning, as Josie closed the door behind her, she looked around and gave a little sigh of contentment.
The tearoom had been started by Madame Olga back in the early days of the century after she had fled from Russia. She had attempted to create a tiny glimmer of civilization amid the bustle of the East End. Lace-edged tablecloths and pretty pink-and-white-flowered china, teacakes and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. These days the lace-edged cloths had been replaced with glass tabletops, the china tended to be chipped and mismatched, and there were no teacakes to be had, but Josie did manage scones when she could get the flour and the margarine. Otherwise it was toast and jam, baked beans on toast, Marmite on toast and occasionally Welsh rarebit if there was the miracle of a cheese ration.
However much it had come down in the world, the Copper Kettle still attracted housewives who wanted a cup of tea and a minute’s escape from the chores and the children or to have their nerves calmed after a night of bombing. And to Josie it represented heaven.
Josie remembered clearly the first time she had discovered it—like a little mirage between the ironmonger’s and the pawnshop. After five years of being a housewife, she was on her way to get a job. Stan had been called up into the army, and she had pointed out that every able-bodied person was supposed to help the war effort. Stan could hardly refuse. Josie set out with excitement mingled with a little apprehension. She hadn’t worked for five years, and before that only in a garment factory. But it was a beautiful, clear January day, one of those rare winter days when a brisk wind coming up the Thames from the sea had cleared out the usual layer of choking smog that hung over the city. The sky above the warehouses and church steeples glowed like a blue arc. Josie found she had a spring in her step. Life seemed full of possibilities. She was heading for the civilian recruitment centre at Liverpool Street Station when she happened to glance at a row of shops and saw the lace curtains in the window. And what’s more, a sign pasted on the rather dirty glass: “Help Wanted.” She peeked in through the window. It was a tea shop. The sort of tea shop she had seen in the West End and where she had very occasionally treated herself to a cup of tea.
Josie had opened the door gingerly. A bell tinkled above her head, and she stood taking in the improbable scene: little round glass-topped tables with proper china teacups and saucers on them. Small vases of tired artificial flowers on each table. A large older woman appeared from behind a curtain. She was rather an alarming sight—dressed all in black, her hair swept up and held with tortoiseshell combs. She was wearing too much make-up for her age—bright red lipstick and red circles of rouge on her cheeks, her eyebrows plucked to thin lines.
“We are not open yet,” she said to Josie in a voice heavy with a foreign accent. “Come back at eleven.”
“I came about the job,” Josie said. “‘Help Wanted’? In the window?”
“You have experience?” the woman asked, eyeing Josie suspiciously. “This is an establishment with class. People who come here want to be treated properly. Where have you worked?”
“I haven’t worked recently, and nowhere like this,” Josie said. “I’ve been a housewife, taking care of my husband. But now he’s in the army and everyone is supposed to be getting a job.”
The old woman shook her head so that the large earrings that hung from both ears rattled and jangled. “Sorry. No experience. Try somewhere else.”
“Hey, just a minute,” Josie said. “You could at least give me a chance. What do you need—a waitress or a cook?”
“Some of both, I suppose. My old legs are not as young as they were. I get tired easily.”
“My husband ain’t never complained about my cooking, especially my cakes and pies. And scones. Stan says I do a good scone, you know.”
The woman sighed so that her many chins wobbled. “Not that there is much cooking these days. No flour, no sugar and certainly no butter or eggs. We have to make do. But you just condemned yourself with your words, my dear. You said ‘ain’t.’ Too common. My customers seek refinement.”
“In the Mile End Road?” Josie laughed. “Go on! I bet there ain’t—isn’t a refined person within five miles of here. And I can try. I’m a quick learner. And if you don’t want them to see me, just shove me in the kitchen and I’ll do your washing-up for you.”
The woman was eyeing her with interest now. “Why do you want this job?” she asked. “Now there is a war on, there are jobs again. You could work for the government. Join the WAACs. Plenty of work.”
Josie looked around the room. “I like nice things,” she said. “I see you’ve got Royal Albert china. Nice pattern, that.”
“How does a woman like you know about Royal Albert china?” she demanded.
“I may not be able to afford good stuff, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know about it. A cat can look at a king, they say, don’t they?” She gave the woman a defiant stare, then continued, “I go up west and I look in Liberty’s and Selfridges. And what I see here is that this place has got run down. You say you expect refined clientele—well, they wouldn’t appreciate the dirty windows and the curtains what needs washing, would they?” When the woman didn’t answer, she went on. “I could make this place look really nice again. I’m not afraid of hard work.” The woman was still eyeing her, so she pressed on. “And anyway, you’re a foreigner. Someone must have given you a start when you came here. Had you worked in a tearoom before this?”
The woman gave a sad sort of smile then. “Me, I had not worked at all before I came here. I fled from Russia at the turn of the century. Before that, I was married to a high-ranking government official in Moscow. We had a fine house and a dacha in the country. Lots of servants. I never lifted a finger. I went to balls and parties and lived a ridiculous life. But then the sentiment against Jews became strong. I am a Jew, you see. My husband was murdered before my eyes. I escaped through luck and came here with nothing. I sold my last good jewellery and bought this little shop.”
“Why here? Why not the snooty part of London?”
“Because Jews are welcome around here. I think there is still prejudice in what you call the snooty part of London. And it was cheap enough for me.” She gave a little chuckle. “And I thought the place needed some refinement, yes?”
“So?” Josie said. “Are you going to give me the job or not? Because if not, I’ll be on my way. But if you do, you won’t regret it. I’ll make this place very nice for you.”
The woman smoothed down the front of her dress as if she was wiping off her hands. “I’ll give you a week’s trial, and then we shall see. I am Madame Olga.” She held out her hand.
“Josie Banks. Pleased to meet you,” she said.
The week’s trial at the Copper Kettle turned into a month, and it became quite clear that Josie was an asset. After years of looking after her six younger siblings, following their mother’s death, the work didn’t seem hard, and Josie loved chatting with customers, making sure all the china sparkled and trying to stretch the flour and margarine to bake the occasional cake or biscuit.
“You are a good little worker, I’ll say that for you” was Madame Olga’s grudging first compliment. “You have children at home?”
Josie shook her head, looking away, out of the newly cleaned window. “No. We haven’t been blessed that way yet.” She turned back to Madame Olga. “How about you? Did you have children?”
“I had a son. Sasha,” the old woman said slowly, as if it was a pain to draw out each word. “The light of my life. Such a charming little boy. He made us all laugh. But he was very delicate. He caught a chill, out playing in the snow. It turned to pneumonia, and he died. It broke his father’s heart. And mine, too. He was only four.”
“I’m so sorry.” Josie instinctively reached out and covered the old woman’s hand with her own. Madame Olga recoiled at the unfamiliar contact, then her eyes met Josie’s.
“I see you have much love to give,” she said. “Your husband, he is a lucky man, I think.”
“Go and tell him that.” Josie gave a bitter laugh. “He ain’t—isn’t—too hot on compliments. Usually it’s telling me what I’ve done wrong. And one of the things is not having any babies.”
Madame Olga drew herself up, her eyes flashing. “You send him to me. I set him straight.”
Josie had to laugh. “He’s off in the army somewhere. And he wouldn’t listen to no woman.” She examined Madame Olga, sitting there erect and formidable. “They should use you against the Germans. Our secret weapon. I bet you’d know how to set that Hitler straight.”
Madame Olga chuckled, too. “I’d certainly like to give him a piece of my mind. If only we women ran the world, there would be no war, don’t you think?”
As the weeks went by, an unlikely friendship formed. During lulls, they sat together at one of the tables with cups of tea—Russian style, brewed in a samovar—and Madame Olga told Josie tales about her youth in Russia, about the grand balls and sleigh rides with handsome Cossacks. All of it sounded too good to be true. But Josie loved to hear the stories nevertheless. Couldn’t get enough of them.
“Tell me again about that grand duke who was courting you.”
Madame Olga smiled sadly. “It’s all so long ago now. Like a beautiful dream for me, too.” She patted Josie’s cheek. “You are like a daughter to me. The daughter I never had.”
Josie got the implication: Madame Olga had said she had no one in the world, except for her dear cat, Mishka. She was hinting that she was going to leave Josie the tea shop when she died.
When she was a child, Josie was convinced that the stork must have left her on the wrong doorstep. The other members of her family were big-boned peasant stock with round faces and light hair. Josie was thin and dark with high cheekbones and interesting green eyes. Her mother once told her that her great-grandfather had run away with a gypsy and that she clearly had gypsy blood. She had meant this to be shaming, but Josie found it romantic. She was also blessed with an imagination—something none of her siblings possessed—as well as an appreciation for beautiful things, of which there were none in the cramped little house behind the gasworks. Her dad worked as a porter on the railway and sometimes would bring home magazines that passengers had discarded. Josie would pore over these magazines as if they were portals to a magic world—one she could transport herself to by wishing. She would cut out pictures of fashionable women and posh houses and try to imagine herself in those scenes of garden parties and horse race meetings at Ascot.
Josie’s mother told her more than once that no good comes of daydreaming, and the sooner Josie faced the harsh reality of life, the better. She should know what she was talking about: nine children and a tenth on the way, plus a husband whose pay packet didn’t stretch to enough food even when he didn’t drink half of it. Josie’s one ray of hope lay in her teachers at school. They were impressed with her quick brain, her desire to learn, her mathematical ability and her love of reading. They told her they would recommend her for teacher training when she left school at fourteen. This sounded wonderful to Josie, but the dream was crushed when her mother died in childbirth with her tenth child, leaving six children younger than Josie. Her older brothers were already out of the house, her older sister in service. So it fell to Josie to leave school and become the mother. This continued until her father married a widow who made it clear that Josie should be out and earning money—preferably living under someone else’s roof. The chance for teacher training was now long gone. The neighbour’s daughter, Alice, made good money at a garment factory and suggested Josie join her. “You have to work fast, but it’s a lot of laughs,” she said. So Josie found herself at a sewing machine in a room with fifty other women, all singing and laughing loudly as they worked. The clatter of machines and constant chatter of the girls took a lot of getting used to.
“Cheer up, love. Your face could curdle milk,” her seatmate said. “You’re never going to find yourself a husband if you don’t make something of yourself.”
There had been no opportunity in her life to meet a potential husband until Alice took her to a dance at the local workingmen’s club. There Josie met Stanley Banks. He was tall and fashionably, almost flashily, dressed, with a Ronald Coleman moustache and a cheeky smile. To her amazement, he seemed interested in her. He was a good dancer, and after a slow waltz he steered her outside and kissed her. Josie was bowled over. Apparently he was the catch of the whole room, and he had chosen her. What’s more, she realized she finally had an escape route. They were married three months later and moved to a small terraced house in nearby Bethnal Green. Stanley had a good job as a porter at a Smithfield meat market and made it clear that he didn’t expect his wife to work.
“I’m the provider around here,” he said. “You keep a nice clean house for me and look after the children when they come.”
At first Josie thought it was bliss—the little house was easy to clean, giving her time to look in shop windows and occasionally money to treat herself to a ride up west to the shops in Oxford Street. She had time to visit the library, and to do the crossword in the newspaper, both of which Stan mocked as getting above herself. He only read the racing section and the funnies. But the children didn’t come, and the cocky assertiveness that had seemed attractive in Stan now showed itself to be a cruel streak of bullying. The least little thing would set him off—an egg yolk that was too hard or too soft, unnoticed crumbs on the carpet, a crease in his shirt.
“What’s bloody well wrong with you?” he demanded when his dinner wasn’t on the table the moment he stepped in the door one evening. “What do you bloody well do with yourself all day, that’s what I’d like to know. I didn’t realize I married a barren cow. You better watch yourself, or I’ll throw you out and get a proper woman—one who can give me lots of kids and get my meals on the table on time.”
Josie wanted to suggest that he might be responsible for the lack of a baby, but she didn’t fancy the back of his hand across her face. She thought of leaving him. She would have left if she’d had anywhere to go. But then fate stepped in, in the form of Herr Hitler. War was declared. At first nothing happened. Life went on pretty much as normal, although they were issued identity cards and ration books. Foodstuffs became scarce. Stan started to sneak home the occasional cut of meat. Josie was horrified.
“But that’s stealing, Stan.”
“You want to eat, don’t you? Who’s going to notice the odd bit of stewing steak gone missing, eh? Besides, all the blokes are doing it.”
“It’s still not right.”
“Fine. You can cook it for me and watch me enjoy it, then.”
Josie worried he’d get caught and prayed he’d get his call-up papers. Stan didn’t seem at all concerned.
“I’ll be all right,” Stan said. “I’m in a protected occupation. The country has to have meat to survive, doesn’t it?”
One by one all the other men on their street were drafted, and the sight of new soldiers in uniform marching past to Liverpool Street Station became a regular occurrence. Then came the threat of bombing, the evacuation of children out of London—lines of small girls and boys with labels around their necks, each carrying a tiny suitcase with a change of clothes. The mothers wept. Some children looked scared, but most seemed to view it as a great adventure.
Then, in January 1940, came the envelope Stan had not expected.
“Bloody ’ell,” he muttered as he held it in his hands, staring down at it.
“What is it, Stan?” she asked.
“My call-up papers. I’m to report to the depot at Islington. I’ll go and have a word with them blokes. They’ve made a mistake. This isn’t right.” The cocky grin returned. “Don’t you worry. Clerical error. I’ll soon set them straight.”
He came back sobered and dejected. “They told me the army doesn’t make mistakes,” he said, “and it’s my duty to go where my country sends me.”
“I’m sorry, Stan.” Josie put a tentative hand on his arm. He shook it off.
“I don’t know how we’re going to afford the rent on this place with my army pay cheque,” he said. “We’d better give it up while we can and have you move in with my sister.”
Stan’s sister, Shirley, and her husband, Fred, were a loud-mouthed pair of cockneys who were either laughing, drinking or fighting. They lived close to the docks in a grim little backstreet where the spare bedroom looked out on to a warehouse. There was no way that Josie was going to move in with them.
“It’s all right, Stan,” she said. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll get a job.” She saw he was going to object and added, “You’ve seen the government posters, haven’t you? All able-bodied adults are supposed to report for work. And I’m able-bodied and willing. I could join the WAACs.”
“I don’t want you in no army,” he said aggressively. “All them men around. You could go back to that dress factory where you used to work, I suppose. I expect they are making uniforms by now.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll find something. You just go and take care of yourself.”
Josie felt a twinge of worry mixed with guilt when he left. Was it right to feel a sense of relief that he was going? He was her husband, after all. She must have loved him once.
“Bye, then. I’m off,” he said, trying to sound jaunty, but clearly looking scared. “Come and give your old man a kiss.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said after she had dutifully presented her mouth. “Tell them you know how to handle meat, and they’ll put you in catering.”
“Yeah. Good idea.” He stood, looking down at her, clearly wanting to say something but not finding the words. “And you—you mind yourself, right? No looking at other blokes.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, attempting a lively laugh. “Go on, then. Off you go. Don’t keep the army waiting.”
As she watched him disappear down the street and then around the corner, the guilt bubbled to the surface. She had not been able to cling to him, weeping, like other wives on the street. She didn’t like to admit, even to herself, that she was glad to see him go. All she could think was that she was free to do what she wanted for the first time in her life. And the first step became the tea shop and Madame Olga.
As winter turned into spring and then into summer, Josie received the odd note from Stan. The food was terrible. The army boots had given him blisters. She should hear how the other blokes snored. And then nothing for a while. News began to trickle in about the expeditionary force in France, about the Maginot Line that was impenetrable. But then the German army swept around it through Belgium, catching the defences by surprise. And then, on June the fourth, the country learned about a little French port called Dunkirk—British soldiers trapped on the beaches being machine-gunned by German planes. Josie was sure Stan was one of them and felt fear in the pit of her stomach.
Then came word of the miracle. Thousands of tiny boats, some only sailing dinghies, crossing the Channel to rescue those soldiers, bringing back a handful and turning right around to risk enemy fire and bombs again. England wept and prayed and gave thanks. And on Saturday she came home from work to find Stan sitting in the kitchen, having made himself a cup of tea and toast and dripping.
“Where the bloody hell have you been all day?” he demanded. “I come home on a weekend’s leave, and my wife isn’t bloody well there to greet me.”
“Oh, Stan. You’re safe,” she cried and flung herself into his arms.
“Of course I’m bloody safe, you silly cow,” he said, pushing her away.
“But I thought—Dunkirk. All those soldiers trapped . . .”
“Nah, I wasn’t over in France. Bloody lucky, actually. We’ve been guarding the Essex coast in case of invasion. The closest we came was watching all them little boats coming up the Thames. Amazing.”
“Thank God,” she said. “You were close by, and I didn’t even know it.”
“It was bloody cold and boring if you want to know. Patrolling up and down beaches and watching for U-boats.”
“Better than being on a beach in France, getting machine-gunned by Germans.”
“Bloody right.”
“And you’re home now, and safe. That’s the main thing.”
“Only for the weekend. And what do I find? I come home, expecting a warm welcome, and my wife is gone all day. What am I to think, eh?”
“I’m sorry, Stan. I’d have stayed home if I’d known you were coming,” she said. “I’ve been at work.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes. We have to work shifts these days, you know.” She felt a tiny pang of guilt about lying.
“You’re not working at that factory, are you?” He wagged an accusing finger at her. “I went round there to find you.”
“No. I’m working in a cafeteria. Helping feed everyone. What’s more, it’s nearby, so I can walk to work and not have to spend on the bus fare.” She had phrased it carefully. “Cafeteria” sounded suitably vague and harmless.
She saw the anger fade from his eyes. “Well, that’s all right, then, I suppose. You’re not waiting on no service blokes, I hope?”
“No. It’s in the Mile End Road. What do you think? And besides, I’m mostly doing the cooking.”
“So, you’ve finally learned to cook, have you?”
“What do you mean? You’ve always said I’m a good cook,” she said. “And I’ve got a lot better, too. Madame—my supervisor has been teaching me. You wait. When you’re home, I’ll make you some great little rock cakes and scones.”
“If I ever bloody well get home,” he said. “They gave us weekend leave because we’re supposed to be shipping out.”
“Where are you going?”
He frowned. “They won’t bloody well tell us, but the blokes have been muttering that it might be North Africa. The Krauts are bringing in troops to help Italy, so it seems.”
“Oh dear. North Africa. That’s a long way away.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “So you didn’t manage to get into catering, then?”
“Didn’t have no choice. I enlisted. We walked down a line, picking up uniforms. They shoved a gun into our hands and said, ‘You are part of His Majesty’s infantry.’ And that was that. Drilling. Parades. Learning how to handle a rifle, although to tell you the truth, there aren’t enough rifles to go around, and some of us have to do drills with sticks of wood. A lot of bloody good they are for defending our island from Hitler. ‘You tanks stay back, do you hear, or I’ll hit you with my stick of wood.’” He gave a bitter laugh. “The whole thing’s a joke, Josie. Under-equipped and undertrained, and they’re sending us out against the German fighting machine. What chance do we have? And you better be ready, because you mark my words, the invasion will come soon, and blokes like me won’t be there to stop it because we’ll be in bloody North Africa.” He leaned forward, waving an aggressive finger. “So what will you do if a bloody Jerry shows up on your doorstep, and me not there to protect you, eh?”
“Make him a cup of tea and hope for the best, I suppose.” She tried to chuckle, but then she touched his shoulder tentatively. “I’m really sorry, Stan. But at least if you are sent far away to Africa, you’ll be safe for a while, won’t you?”
“And what difference would that make?” he snapped at her. “Only delaying meeting those bloody Huns and being mown down.”
“Maybe you’ll be better trained before you meet them,” she said. “And have real guns, too. I tell you what . . .” She put on a bright smile. “I don’t have much food in the house because I mainly eat at the cafeteria, but I’ll run down to the corner and pick us up some fish and chips, shall I? And a pint of brown ale for you at the off-licence, if they’ve still got any?”
He took her hands in his. “You’re a good girl, Josie. I’m sorry if I’m a bit sharp with you sometimes. I guess you’re as disappointed as I am that we ain’t had no kids yet.”
“You know I am,” she said. “We’ll keep on hoping, eh?”
“We’ll give it another good try tonight, shall we?” And he gave her shoulder a squeeze.
On Sunday evening, he was gone. Josie couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief. He was being shipped abroad. He wouldn’t be home for a while. Her job at the tea shop was safe for now. As the summer progressed, she received a letter from him. It was a photocopy of the original, shrunk to about six inches by four inches, half of it blacked out by the censor and the rest completely illegible. But she saw the signature Love, Stan. At least he was still safe. She wasn’t sure if she felt happy or sad about that.
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