B. Johnson: House Mother Normal

players she needed for a place like that. And at

the same time those boys were the souls of discretion

itself about who they might see there and what they

might see going on. And they needed to be.

To people like us she was a good payer, too. I had

no gripes. The only bandsman I really had trouble

with was Ronnie Palmer. Later he made a name for

himself, of a sort, on the wireless as a kind of

poor man’s Harry Lauder. But then he was violin

doubling saxes for me at Mrs M’s All-Up. Ronnie

was ill-bred anyway, and a bit too fond of the

ladies with it. So fond that he was arranging for

them to be available during band breaks and other

odd times. Mrs M. wasn’t keen on this on her own

premises, especially when it involved several of

the girls she had as cashiers and so on. But

when she spoke sharply to him about it, he answered

back. But he only just began to say something

that I think meant he could blackmail her in some

way and she was on him. First of all she thumped

him, and how he knew he’d been thumped, too,

then before he could think what he was doing she’d got

an arm-hold on him and had bounced him all the way

to the back, where one of the kitchen porters took

over and bounced him out to the dustbins. We

had to get through that night without Ronnie. It

was too late to find anyone to dep. for him.

Perhaps it did him a good turn in the end. Next

I heard of him he was in the BBC’s own dance

orchestra. Perhaps I should have tried to get

into the wireless end of the business then. If I

had had foresight. Then I’d have had all the trouble

and all the jealousies and a hundred to one I

wouldn’t have lived to be the age I am now. I should

count my blessings. Where’s Ronnie Palmer now?

Dead, I should think. And he was younger than me.

It would have pleased Betty though if I’d managed to

be on the wireless. She was a great one for

that kind of thing. Finished them

just in time. All full. What about corks?

Here she comes, down.

What shall I do for corks for these, Miss?

Yes, I put those back afterwards .

Right, Miss. I don’t know about the lifting, Miss ….

She’s not listening. After that so-and-so dog again,

hairs everywhere.

Cork up. Dozens here in this box. Where does she

get them? Anyway, they fit, won’t

take me long to finish this lot.

Fingers can do this easily enough. I still hear

pieces in my head, but I couldn’t play them

even if she had a piano here.

Now she’s having another go at

that poor old soul. Though she asks for it in some

ways, I’ll admit. There, that’s

the lot. I won’t lift them. I don’t want to strain

my gut.

Praising that Sarah. I’ve done

just as well. What about me?

I should think so, too.

Now what is it she’s going to get us up to?

Pass the Parcel. Pass the

Parcel. This is stupid. Who wants to play silly

games? But we all do. We all do as she says.

Always. Stupid.

A lovely surprise. I can imagine.

For me?

Pass it on to Ivy.

Mrs Ridge She’s about

half opened it.

Coming to me Now to me, it’ll come to

me! Not quite.

Sarah’s got it. Not fair. Injustice again.

What’s in it? There, she didn’t have time to win.

Hold on in case it stops now. Have

to pass it now. Not fair.

Pass it on!

Ron. It’s that Ron.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

ha ha! Ha ha I shall

choke! That serves him right! Ha ha ha ha ha ha

ha ha ha ha ha! Oh dearie me, dearie me, ha ha!

Ha ha! ha ha ha ha ha!

It’s like in Verdun. That fellow who couldn’t

speak Flemish, or French was it. He was having

dinner in some café. Lamb he thought it was. He

enjoyed it so much that he tried to say how pleased

he was to the proprietor by pointing at his plate

and going “baa-baa” with a pleasant, questioning

look. But the proprietor grinned, shook his head and

said “bow-wow!” It’s just a story. It must be just

a story. Though anything could happen out there.

You could believe anything. And though they said

that cities were bad places to live, they certainly

produced the best fighters. That’s what I found.

Paris, too. They had more guts. They had had to

fight all their lives. It was natural. We were

attached to the French there. Rum once a week if

you were lucky. Once it didn’t get through. Next

day we found the rum rationer dead on the road, not

dead drunk as we thought at first — Travel? I’ve

done enough of that in my time, if you don’t mind.

Her name for the exercise session. Stretch my

legs Could do with a stretch.

Ah. Mrs Bowen ,

shall I give you a turn round?

Yes, I feel fine, Just for a few minutes ,

eh? I’m sure she won’t want to keep us at it too

long tonight, eh, Mrs Bowen?

It was the guns all night. Then over the top at

dawn. Why wasn’t I killed like most of my mates?

It’s a mystery. No one can know. I had the new

shrapnel helmet on for the first time anything

came near my head. Left me a little concussed,

that’s all. Another time a Jerry got me across

it with the butt end of his rifle. But it didn’t

affect me and I got him with my bayonet while he

was recovering from the swing. I’d got used to the

noises people made, by then. It was him or me, I

knew that.

I saw a Jerry using

his spiked helmet as a weapon. Hand-to-hand it

was by then, in some attacks. When there were

gas shells about you tried to get a Jerry’s gas–

mask off.

Some of those old songs still turn me over.

March, march, left, right, left right, left right,

left! Don’t feel nervous on the corners, do you

Mrs B? Good .

I also saw gunners chained to their pieces to

stop them running for it. I saw officers urge

their men on from the rear with revolvers in their

hands. A man shot dead for answering back one of

the officers. Two weeks before the Armistice my

own cousin told me his officer had it in for him

and would certainly see to it that he got sent up

to the Front right to the last. He was blown

up with his gun. Serving his gun bravely to the

end, that so and so wrote to my poor Auntie.

Sent her the bits and pieces left, his brass

numbers all buckled, a tiny wineglass not broken, a

present for his daughter, she decided. And there

amongst the — Tourney? Right.

Right, Mrs Bowen ,

sport now. You won the tourney last time, didn’t

you? You can do it again!

Thanks, Ivy .

Take the soggy mop .

Oh, this is a right

lark!

Off! Thunder

off! Better start than Sarah,

faster top speed, better knight, harder IMPACT!

Very good, Mrs Bowen, right in the face!

Round we go. And back again,

we’ll have another go.

BOMPF!

Right in the shoulder, Mrs Bowen!

And again. We’ll be the winners,

two-nil up.

Tiring. THUMP! Well done us, Mrs

Bowen, we deserve a rest, eh?

Well done!

I don’t want to listen to

all that rubbish again. Who does she think I am?

Bill and Glory asked