mirror.
‘Look at this, it looks like that straw mattress we slept on!’ And ignoring Amy’s complaints, Milly began teasing out her sister’s tangles. As she squirmed, Milly tapped her head with the brush. ‘Stand still and be made respectable, you little scarecrow!’
She’d forgotten this side of hopping, the fractiousness of Amy and the dreaminess of Elsie, who was still mooning about outside, gathering wildflowers into a posy to brighten the hut. Their annoying traits intensified once they were freed from their everyday lives. They all seemed to become more vivid versions of themselves, and that was not always comfortable, especially when living together in a tiny hut.
Once she was satisfied that her sisters looked respectable, she got ready herself, putting on her second-best dress, a pale green shift with long sleeves. In the tiny mirror tacked to the hut door, she made the best of her dark wavy hair and put on a straw cloche hat. She slipped on her shoes and they strolled over to the gate. There had been little rain this season and the grass, though wet with dew, wasn’t muddy. From every hut, families emerged, until the whole field of hoppers formed a straggling procession down the lane between the high hedgerows. Amy and Elsie ran ahead with the other children, while Milly ambled with her mother and neighbours, past oast houses and farm buildings. The mist had burned off to a bright morning, washing the wide village green in a golden warmth. Stalls decked with bunting made the green look like a fairground as groups of hop-pickers wandered from stall to stall, beginning to haggle with familiar tradesmen just as if they were back in Bermondsey.
Milly linked arms with her mother. The night before, after the usual walk home from the pub in pitch dark, followed by a sing-song round the camp fire, her mother had taken her aside and made her explain exactly how she’d managed to persuade the old man to let her come. Mrs Colman hadn’t commented much, merely nodded and sometimes sighed. But today she resumed the conversation.
‘Milly, love, are you sure you should stay for the week? He only said yes ’cause you pushed him. But you know how he stews, there’ll be hell to pay when you get back. Why don’t you go home with Pat on the lorry today, eh?’
‘No, Mum! I’m not creeping back. I’m not scared of him.’
Her mother’s face creased into lines of worry and she drew Milly in closer.
‘No, darlin’, but I am.’
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you, Mum.’
Her mother gave her a sad smile and shook her head. ‘Brave words, love, brave words.’ There was a melancholy resignation in her tone that seemed to surface when she was down here. At home, Mrs Colman held herself taut, ready for a blow, ready to stand between the old man and one of her children. But once away from him, she seemed to allow herself the luxury of regret and Milly’s instinct was to resist it. But she hated to be at odds with her mother; instead she preferred to brighten her mood with a distraction, and she pointed across the field.
‘Look, there’s Hughes’ stall, let’s see if he’s got any paraffin oil for the lamp, that hut’s black as Newgate’s knocker at night.’
‘Mrs Colman, Milly!’ It was Hughes’ nephew Bertie, manning the stall. He gave them a friendly smile as they walked over to look at the oil cans. ‘Nice to see some familiar faces. You and half of Dockhead seem to be down here.’
‘Nice to have a friendly face serving us too,’ her mother said warmly. ‘Some of the shops down here only let us in one at a time, in case we ’alf-inch the stuff! Snooty buggers, as if our money’s not good enough.’
Milly thought that Bertie looked a little uncomfortable at that; perhaps he was thinking about his uncle’s not dissimilar treatment of Dockhead customers.
‘Your uncle not down?’ she asked Bertie.
‘No, he’s handed over the Dockhead shop to me. You won’t be seeing so much of
‘Look at this, it looks like that straw mattress we slept on!’ And ignoring Amy’s complaints, Milly began teasing out her sister’s tangles. As she squirmed, Milly tapped her head with the brush. ‘Stand still and be made respectable, you little scarecrow!’
She’d forgotten this side of hopping, the fractiousness of Amy and the dreaminess of Elsie, who was still mooning about outside, gathering wildflowers into a posy to brighten the hut. Their annoying traits intensified once they were freed from their everyday lives. They all seemed to become more vivid versions of themselves, and that was not always comfortable, especially when living together in a tiny hut.
Once she was satisfied that her sisters looked respectable, she got ready herself, putting on her second-best dress, a pale green shift with long sleeves. In the tiny mirror tacked to the hut door, she made the best of her dark wavy hair and put on a straw cloche hat. She slipped on her shoes and they strolled over to the gate. There had been little rain this season and the grass, though wet with dew, wasn’t muddy. From every hut, families emerged, until the whole field of hoppers formed a straggling procession down the lane between the high hedgerows. Amy and Elsie ran ahead with the other children, while Milly ambled with her mother and neighbours, past oast houses and farm buildings. The mist had burned off to a bright morning, washing the wide village green in a golden warmth. Stalls decked with bunting made the green look like a fairground as groups of hop-pickers wandered from stall to stall, beginning to haggle with familiar tradesmen just as if they were back in Bermondsey.
Milly linked arms with her mother. The night before, after the usual walk home from the pub in pitch dark, followed by a sing-song round the camp fire, her mother had taken her aside and made her explain exactly how she’d managed to persuade the old man to let her come. Mrs Colman hadn’t commented much, merely nodded and sometimes sighed. But today she resumed the conversation.
‘Milly, love, are you sure you should stay for the week? He only said yes ’cause you pushed him. But you know how he stews, there’ll be hell to pay when you get back. Why don’t you go home with Pat on the lorry today, eh?’
‘No, Mum! I’m not creeping back. I’m not scared of him.’
Her mother’s face creased into lines of worry and she drew Milly in closer.
‘No, darlin’, but I am.’
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you, Mum.’
Her mother gave her a sad smile and shook her head. ‘Brave words, love, brave words.’ There was a melancholy resignation in her tone that seemed to surface when she was down here. At home, Mrs Colman held herself taut, ready for a blow, ready to stand between the old man and one of her children. But once away from him, she seemed to allow herself the luxury of regret and Milly’s instinct was to resist it. But she hated to be at odds with her mother; instead she preferred to brighten her mood with a distraction, and she pointed across the field.
‘Look, there’s Hughes’ stall, let’s see if he’s got any paraffin oil for the lamp, that hut’s black as Newgate’s knocker at night.’
‘Mrs Colman, Milly!’ It was Hughes’ nephew Bertie, manning the stall. He gave them a friendly smile as they walked over to look at the oil cans. ‘Nice to see some familiar faces. You and half of Dockhead seem to be down here.’
‘Nice to have a friendly face serving us too,’ her mother said warmly. ‘Some of the shops down here only let us in one at a time, in case we ’alf-inch the stuff! Snooty buggers, as if our money’s not good enough.’
Milly thought that Bertie looked a little uncomfortable at that; perhaps he was thinking about his uncle’s not dissimilar treatment of Dockhead customers.
‘Your uncle not down?’ she asked Bertie.
‘No, he’s handed over the Dockhead shop to me. You won’t be seeing so much of
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