| Bobby Shafto.
When he comes home... Bobby Shafto was the name I gave to the factory opposite our house in Queen Street. They made shoe buckles. Light blue velvet knickerbockers, fastened below the knee with a pretty silver buckle weren't worn anymore, particularly during the war. But that was an unimportant detail to me. The factory I knew and saw every day was my Bobby Shafto factory. The brass plate on the office door called it "The Seal Manufacturing Company, Ltd." and the owner, Mr Seal arrived in his posh car every day. It wasn't a common Ford or Hillman, but a dark green Rover. It was kept spotlessly clean by one of the few men who worked there, being washed and dusted every single day. Mr Seal knew me but never said a word, just acknowledged that he'd seen me by giving a very small nod in my direction. It was so small that anyone else, who wasn't aware of this daily ritual wouldn't have noticed. Then there was Mr. Jackson, the manager and foreman all rolled into one. "Hi, Jem, how're yer doing?" he would ask. "Alright thank you, Mr . Jackson," was the usual reply. And now and again: "How's yer mum?" "So- so, as usual, thank you." And he was quickly inside the factory.
But my jewels in this factory were the working girls. There seemed to me to be quite a lot of them. They all wore the "uniform"wartime head gear: a head-scarf wound round the head in the form of a turban, and each had on an apron. Not glamorous but practical, I suppose. "Eh up, Jem. 'ow are yer?" " ok. thanks. You'll have to hurry up, you're late today." " Aye, I know, but can you see the sparkle in me eye, after last night? If they want to stop me a quarter 'ours wages, it's a small price." And she hopped off her bike nimbly, leant it against the factory wall and quickly ran inside. She was my favourite really, 'cos she was always bright and cheerful; not moody at all. Her name was Jean. And round the corner, like a bat out of hell, came Elsie. On foot, out of breath, and a picture of agitation. "Hi, Jem, can't stop. Late again. Forgot to set the bloody alarm. Wi' all these quarter 'our stoppages it's 'ardly worth coming." And she's gone.
I went into the house. It was school holidays and very unusual that I was up and about by 8 o'-clock. Mum and little sister Claire were there. " Where've you been,?" asked mum. And then immediately answered herself, not giving me a chance. "Watching those gels again, comin' to work. You shouldn't do that. Most of 'em are common." "What's common?" "Loose women; licenshus." "What does licenshus mean?" "Oh I can't explain every word. You'll have to look it up. You'll understand it better that way as well." Conversation ended. One small boy confused. Out of earshot of mum. " I was only watching the girls. I think they're interesting. They're all different, and full of colour, and witty. And I really do like Jean." In my bedroom. Out comes the dictionary. "Licenshus. Can't find it. No such word. P'raps she doesn't pro-nounce it properly. Have to search." And then I've got it. Licentious. The dictionary says: immoral, especially relating to sexual relations. Damn it. Now I'll have to look up "immoral" and "sexual relations". Which I did, and then understood, roughly, what mum meant. "But how does mum know they're like that? She doesn't. Just 'cos they go out with the Yanks" Silent thoughts. "It doesn't surprise me. They're all clean and tidy, in smart, well-ironed uniforms. And they're very polite too. There's lots of them in the town. You can't miss them." " At school they giggle 'cos the kids find lots of "French Letters" under the hedges in Fairfields. Wonder why they call them "French Letters"? Funny. But I don't think they should throw them all over the place. All the kids say it's the Americans, the Yanks. But it needn't be only them. Although I must admit, I'd never seen a single one before they came."
On Saturday I had to go into town to do a few errands for mum. And coming out of the "Empire" I suddenly saw Jean, clutching the arm of an American sergeant. I knew he was a sergeant , 'cos he had three upside down stripes on each arm. Jean saw me, went red in the face, and gave me a shy little wave. And she did look pretty. No turban, no apron, but clean, smart clothes and high-heeled shoes. Don't know how she could walk in them. They've just been in the Palm Court in the Empire. Drinking coffee I suppose. I'd like to do that sometime. "Oh, I'm home. My feet must know the way, 'cos I can't remember how I came home from outside the Empire. Mum would say I'd been daydreaming. Suppose she's right." "I'll just give mum this stuff I've fetched, and then I'll see if Tony will come with me down the canal bank. The day before yesterday I saw lots of sticklebacks, and a few robins. Must see if they're still there".
Monday morning. Jean arrives in her working togs, bright eyed and laughing. "What d'yer think of my Eddie then. I'nt he gorgeous?" " He looks very nice. Good looking. You'll have to watch the competition:" "Comes from Arizona. 'as a big ranch and thousands of cows." "Is he a cowboy then?" "Naw. 'E and 'is dad own the place. They've got lots of cowboys who work for them." And she cocks her head ever so slightly to one side, in a "there ya see", proud gesture. "After the war I'll go out there with 'im." Then the bike is propped against the wall, and into the factory she goes once more.
The days come and go. The girls come and go, and among them, Jean comes and goes. One day she gets off her bike and it's obvious, she wants to speak to me. She isn't as bright as usual. "Eddie says that the base here is only temporary. Sooner or later 'e'll be moved somewhere else." "You'll have to give him a keepsake then. I've read somewhere, it's called a talisman to keep him safe. If you believe in that sort of stuff." "Oh I do, I do. Not a bad idea, but what?" "How about a buckle? You could buckle him down at the same time, so to speak." "You're a cheeky little buggar, but it is a good idea." And in a thoughtful mood she rode off towards home.
About ten days later, in the evening, I saw Jean going to her bike, after the shift. She wasn't her usual cheery self, and when she saw me she started to cry softly. "'E's leavin' in two days time. I've sewed a buckle on two of 'is shirts, and on two of 'is underpants, but it don't make me any 'appier." "Have you sewed them onto his shirt tails?" "No, you daft sod. 'E couldn't sit down then." "And where on his underpants? Got to be very careful there." "Never you mind where. I'm not stupid. They're in a safe place." "And will they rust when the clothes are washed?" "Certainly not! All our buckles are made of nickel!" I'd managed to make her laugh, although she was very sad, and she rode off in cheery mood. I wonder. Is this the sort of thing mum calls licentious? Can't see why. I just think it's funny."
Two days later Jean didn't come to work. On the third day she did appear - forlorn and dejected. "'E's gone," she whispered. "Never mind," I said. And then, without knowing quite why, I began to sing, very quietly: Bobby Shafto's gone to sea, "I 'ope so , Jem. I do 'ope so. But I don't know which bloody sea 'e's on. It's a war secret, and they won't tell 'im." She pulled me towards her, held me for a minute, stroked my hair, and then walked slowly away. She wept, softly, to herself: "When he comes home he'll marry me
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The Jetty. Just out of school. Up Cobden Street, left into Moor Lane, right into Trinity Street, past Trinity Church, left into Wellington Street, just for a bit, then right into Factory Street, past the greengrocer’s – Mrs. Limbert’s, and just before Pleasant Place, left into the jetty leading to Queen Street. We all run like greyhounds through the jetty and burst out into Queen Street. Derek runs left, Neville straight across, and I turn right and run past the Bobby Shafto buckle factory home. "Jetty" – The Oxford Dictionary defines the word as 1) a pier or breakwater, and 2) a landing pier. From Old French jeter, to throw.
It’s just before 5 o’-clock in the evening. Beginning of winter and the light is fading, but the lamplighter hasn’t yet pulled on the gas to light the mantles in the lamps. I’ve done the errands for mum, and I have to be home again , at the latest, by 6. Otherwise I’m for it! Hope Derek brings the cotton. Then Derek appears, running, as always. "Hi Derek, have you got the cotton?" This delicate operation is completed in silence and with a skill honed to perfection by practice. Then I hold the knocker gently on the door while Derek carefully unwinds the cotton from the bobbin until he’s in the safety of the jetty. Just inside, so he can pull on the cotton and let the knocker rise and fall as if someone is really knocking on Mr. C’s door. But he mustn’t do this until I too am hidden in the mouth of the jetty. So I’m there. "OK, now you can knock," I giggle. It’s a mean trick, but Cressie never seems to learn. Only consolation is that his regular running after us keeps him fit. But I hope he doesn’t recognise me and complain to mum. Can’t imagine what she’d do, but it certainly wouldn’t be pleasant. Oh, reckon it’s nearly six. Gotta go home. "See you Derek, in the morning, this side, at a quarter to nine."
Quarter to nine. We’re all there, on time, at the jetty, this side. Derek, Neville and me. We didn’t arrange this with Neville last night ‘cos he wasn’t there. But it wasn’t necessary anyway. It’s a routine we all know. It’s not really light, but the lamps are not burning. The jetty is grey and uninviting, but not unfriendly. We can hear the chatter of the girls who are already in the Doll’s Factory. They giggle, and now and again one of them sings. I like to listen, without their knowing, but we haven’t enough time now. Gotta go to school. But if I came 5 minutes before the others I could listen. But someone would be sure to find out why I’m early and then they’d call me sissy.
8 p.m. Winter. Dark. It’s wartime and all outside lamps are shaded to avoid helping German pilots. It’s Tuesday and evidently Dad is short of money. I go to the bar. Madge, the landlady sees me straightaway, smiles and says: "And what can I do for our Jem then?" And back home as fast as I can go. Down the jetty, up Queen Street, by the Bobby Shafto factory, up the entry and, panting, into the house. I plonk the bottle down on the table, put the torch on the sideboard, and sit down in one of the two easy chairs. After this hair-raising adventure it takes 5 minutes before I’m relaxed again. I don’t like the jetty too much when I’m alone and it’s dark. I’m not keen on going to the pub where there are only adults and no kids. Everybody stares at you. And I’m always terrified I might drop the bottle. And that would be a catastrophe with a capital C.
Summer. School holidays and warm, sunny afternoons. We’re gathered at the end of the jetty – the other side. After a while this mean pastime becomes boring. We descend to the floor of the jetty to discover a horse and cart standing before the big green gates of the Doll Factory. The gates are open, and men are loading the cart with nude dolls - models for shop windows.
We haven’t seen Derek for over a week. We’ve been to call for him lots of times, but nobody comes to the door. Nobody’s ever in. Can’t understand it, so I ask mum if she knows anything.
About three days later. Sitting at the dinner table, waiting for mum to bring it in. Faggots and mashed potatoes. I like that. We eat the dinner, but mum is very quiet, as if she’s deep in thought, waiting for something to happen. Then we’ve finished and she comes and sits next to me. She speaks very softly: She was finished. "I’ll clear the table," she said, and began going to and fro, carrying dishes and plates to the kitchen. I’d heard the words, but they wouldn’t sink in. I walked slowly to the jetty.
Funeral day. We walk as if we’re going to school, but we go no further than Trinity Church. I know the church very well, ‘cos I’m in the choir and come every Sunday – twice. The organ is playing, and when it stops, the vicar, Mr. Strudwick comes in wearing his surplice. We sing two or three hymns and then the vicar talks about Derek and says that he’s now in the hands of God. But I don’t listen; I can only think about Derek, in a very muddled way. Then we all walk, very slowly and sadly, to the grave. Well, to a rectangular hole in the ground. Derek’s coffin is lowered in. And then the people walk slowly to it, shake his mum’s hand and then throw a handful of soil, and a flower, onto the coffin. Each one says something, to himself, I think. I can see their lips moving but can’t hear what they say. Mum gives me a gentle push, on the shoulder, and moves me in the direction of the grave. Suddenly I’m standing there, on my own. I throw the soil onto the coffin, and hear it rattle on the wood. The flower makes no sound at all. I’m supposed to say something. And I don’t know what. And then I hear the words, as if I’m not speaking them. But I am: "Cheerio Derek. See you sometime, at the jetty. At the other side."
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Hits since 22/8/2001
