Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts (26 page)

Nellie sighed. ‘Lily, I’ve told you, we’re just friends. If he ever had any interest in me, that bloody promise his mother wheedled out of me put paid to it. It’s like a brick wall between us. We’re always skirting around it, and even after he let me off it!’

‘You’ve talked about it?’

Nellie nodded and explained Sam’s response, though not what had prompted their conversation.

‘See what I mean!’ exclaimed her friend. ‘He’s a bloody diamond, and if there’s a brick wall between you two, my advice is to get out yer sledgehammer, gel!’

Both girls were laughing so loudly as they arrived at the carriage yard that the sound brought the proprietor to the double gates.

‘Ah, now you two ladies both look so happy,’ he said, smiling as he swung open one of the gates, ‘I really couldn’t pick out the one in love!’ He was rewarded with another burst of laughter from the two friends.

The open, shiny black carriage, decorated with gold-painted curlicues, looked splendid, and Nellie thought Lily looked every inch the princess, in her antique lace and short veil, as she arrived at St Mary’s, Rotherhithe, on a September day of late summer warmth. Nellie rushed forward to help arrange her friend’s dress, as she stepped down out of the carriage. Nellie was wearing the dress of pale blue satin, which she loved, not least because it would do very nicely for Sunday best after the wedding. As she walked down the aisle behind Lily and her father, Nellie saw Jock look round, rather red in the face, nervously pulling at his collar and smoothing down his new suit. When they reached the altar, Nellie privately thought that of the two men standing there Sam Gilbie looked by far the more handsome, but, then, she wasn’t the one getting married, as she told herself when Lily handed over her bouquet. Her heart was bursting with happiness for her friend, but Nellie knew things would never be the same again. Growing up together had forged a bond that she was certain would never break, but from the moment Lily walked out a married woman, the balance would shift and Jock would be the first in her life. In the last two painful years it had always been Lily she could rely upon to raise her spirits when she despaired, or to give her no-nonsense advice when she ran out of her own resources. Of course they’d still see each other at work, but Nellie knew there was a part of her friend that would disappear and she would miss her. As Nellie took Lily’s bouquet, she whispered, ‘Good luck, love, no turning back now!’

Lily squeezed her hand and, as if divining Nellie’s thoughts, whispered, ‘Friends forever, Nell.’

20

A Storm Breaks

Nellie pulled aside the kitchen curtain and looked up at the dark bank of gathering clouds. The rooftops either side of Vauban Street already shone black with rain and though only a narrow strip of sky was visible between them, its solid gunmetal grey foretold a coming storm.

‘Bloody weather!’ Nellie complained to Alice. ‘I’ll get soaked again.’

It was Saturday afternoon and Nellie was due to set off on her Co-op round. By now she was used to coping with most weather on the penny-farthing. Riding through the previous winter months had been hard, but now she decided she preferred the perils of snow-packed streets and icy cobbles to this incessant drenching rain. The heavens had opened at the beginning of March and had poured out their watery bounty all month long. The rain was insistent and inescapable. Even being indoors afforded no relief – the earth was so sodden, that damp wafted up through the floorboards and sometimes Nellie felt she was dwelling in a dank cave. Trudging through downpours on her way to the factory, she spent days with sopping shoes and was kept awake at nights by drumming rain on roof and windows. Gutters overflowed, shooting like waterfalls down algae-covered brick walls, and the Bermondsey streets ran like streams towards a bursting Thames.

The sky this afternoon was like a grey winding sheet, swaddling the street with gloom. It was only just after one o’clock but dark as dusk. She sighed, pulling on the old mackintosh of her father’s that she had taken to wearing on all her bicycle trips. Alice handed her a rain bonnet.

‘Very fetching, I’m sure!’ Nellie said ironically as she tied it over her wide flat cap.

Her brothers were morosely pasting matchbox labels at the kitchen table. They were fractious from being kept indoors and would gladly have gone splashing about in the rain, but Nellie feared pneumonia more than their moaning.

‘You two behave yourselves while I’m out, and don’t give Alice no cheek!’ she warned. ‘And you’re not going out, so don’t even ask,’ she got in quickly. Now they were growing older, the boys had started to try their strength against her authority. Twelve-year-old Freddie, convinced he was the man of the house, had begun to defy her few rules, which were lenient enough. She didn’t want to replicate her father’s heavy-handed regime and preferred to use Freddie’s budding manliness to her own advantage by giving him all the heaviest jobs for, like her father, he was built like a bull.

‘I’m not sitting in doing matchboxes any more. It’s girls’ work!’ he complained, just as she was dashing for the door.

‘I haven’t got time to argue about it now, Freddie. I’ve got to go out in this lot and earn some money to put food on the table! I said when Dad went that we’ve all got to pull together, and you promised you’d help me, didn’t you?’

Freddie’s defiant scowl crumpled a little at the mention of her father; she understood the nagging guilt the boy had. He’d hated their father’s tyranny and had never quite been won over by his later softening. She went over to him, the mackintosh crackling, the rain bonnet slipping, and gave him a hug in spite of her irritation.

‘I know it’s hard, Fred, but we’ve got to keep the money coming in, if we all want to stay together. If you’re fed up of the home work, perhaps there’s something else you could do to earn a few bob, eh?’

‘I already have. I asked Wicks for a part-time job at the yard!’ he declared proudly.

‘And what did he say about that?’

‘He said yes, so long as I didn’t mind shovelling shit, and I said I’d rather be doing that than pasting matchboxes.’

Nellie gazed at him, impressed. ‘Well, that’s a turn up. What’s he paying you?’

‘Two bob and all the horse shit I can carry away. I’ll make a packet selling it round the allotments, Nell, and it won’t interfere with school, I promise. Can I do it?’

‘Can you do it? ’Course you can bloody do it!’

She planted a kiss on her resourceful brother’s cheek. It was agreed the extra money would go straight into the housekeeping tin, but Nellie promised her brother he could have sixpence back for himself. Sam had predicted this boy wouldn’t stay poor all his life and now she didn’t doubt it.

By now she was terribly late. She jumped on the penny-farthing and cycled as quickly as she dared through the stinging rain. Tyres hissing on the wet roads, she felt herself skidding dangerously and made herself slow down. When she arrived at the Labour Institute, Frank Morgan was fretting in the yard. She dismounted as nimbly as she could in the voluminous mackintosh.

‘I was getting worried, Nellie! Thought you might have come a cropper. Sure you can manage your round in this weather?’

‘Don’t worry about me, Frank, I’ll go steady. Anyway, I think it’s easing off now.’

She eyed the heavens and held out her hand. Frank looked doubtful but Nellie was determined to do her round, and, in fact, it did feel as though the fat raindrops had given way to a stinging drizzle.

Frank loaded up the penny-farthing’s trailer with groceries; each parcel wrapped in oiled paper was labelled with an address. Scanning the delivery sheet, she noticed an order for Beatson Street.

‘Oh, is this one for Mrs Gilbie? Sam not collecting it today?’

Frank shook his head. ‘Wicks made him work this afternoon. He’s down at Surrey Docks, collecting a load of grain.’

Some Saturday afternoons on his way home Sam collected his mother’s Co-op groceries, but when he had to work, Nellie would make the Gilbies’ delivery. Beatson Street was the last in her round and she usually stopped for a cup of tea with Lizzie Gilbie whenever she delivered there. The first time she’d delivered to Lizzie, she’d expected to hand over the groceries at the door and be on her way, but she’d reckoned without Matty, who called out to her mother, ‘Look who’s come with the groceries!’

It had been one of Lizzie’s good days and she’d walked on painfully swollen legs to the front door. Her face showed both astonishment and, to Nellie’s surprise, delight. She’d spotted the penny-farthing.

‘That’s never Michael’s infernal machine!’ she’d exclaimed. ‘Sam told me you were using it for your matchbox deliveries, but look how spruce he’s made it, and what a clever little cart!’

Leaning heavily on the front door frame, she’d seemed suddenly overcome with weariness. It was a natural thing for Nellie to help her inside. She’d settled her gently back into her chair by the fire in the kitchen.

Lizzie had smiled gratefully. ‘My husband would have been so pleased to see his old Ariel getting such good use.’ She patted Nellie’s hand and wouldn’t hear of her leaving without a cup of tea. ‘Charlie, go and watch the penny-farthing!’ she called to her son.

‘Shall I get Dad’s old padlock and chain it to the lamp post, Mum?’ asked Charlie.

Lizzie nodded and then sent Matty off into the back kitchen to make their tea. Lizzie, though ill, was obviously still the matriarch, and her will clearly kept the home running. Nellie thought it touching the way the younger children were so gentle around her.

So it had become a habit for Nellie to stop and chat to Mrs Gilbie at the end of her Saturday round, and when the woman was strong enough, Nellie enjoyed her bright mind and sharp wit. She entertained Nellie with tales of her old life in Hull, before her husband brought the family to London. Sometimes Nellie would still be there when Sam came home and then they would carry on chatting together, till Sam became embarrassed by the tales of his childhood.

‘Oh, he was a terror for swimming in that river! Do you know, I think he’s swallowed more Thames water than he’s had cups of tea! Used to swim all the way across to Wapping and back again, little mudlark. And the colour of his shirt when he come home, it was dandy grey russet!’

Nellie noticed how indulgently Sam let his mother rattle on. Sometimes he would cleverly deflect the conversation to one of the other children. ‘What about a tune, Matty?’ he would call to his little sister, and without any hesitation or shyness the child would take her place on the hearthrug to perform her latest song.

‘Now, take a deep breath, and sing from down here!’ Lizzie would instruct, patting her stomach.

Nellie never failed to be moved by the strength and sweetness of their little canary’s voice. She was glad of this new easiness with Sam’s mother. Never once did they refer to the night of Nellie’s promise, or to Lizzie’s misunderstanding about her friendship with Sam. The little kitchen in Beatson Street became simply a warm haven for Nellie at the end of a long gruelling Saturday, and she was grateful for the respite from her endless round of responsibilities.

So, on this rain-soaked March Saturday, she was looking forward to the end of her round and a quiet spell, drying off in the Gilbies’ warm kitchen. The little cart was empty but for the one parcel and was much less of a drag on her as she wove in and out of the carts that splashed and hissed along Rotherhithe Street. Saturday traffic was always busy and crowds of shoppers on their afternoon off added to the menace as they ambled along the street, stepping out in front of her as though she were invisible. At least today the rain had kept many people at home and Nellie made good progress. She passed Jock’s father’s chandlery, waving to Jock, who happened to be standing in the doorway. Gratefully, she turned into Beatson Street. Sam had given her his dad’s padlock and now she chained the bike to the lamp post outside his house.

When Matty opened the door, her face was clouded by anxiety and she frowned at Nellie, hesitating. ‘Nellie, I’m not sure if Mum can see you. She’s ever so bad today, and I don’t know what to do ’cause Sam and Charlie’s not here and I’m all on me own!’

The little girl’s lower lip trembled and her sobs broke. Nellie was too wet to take her in her arms.

‘Do you want me to come in and just sit with you for a bit? We won’t wake your mum up if she’s sleeping.’

Matty nodded, wiping her tears with her pinafore, and Nellie stepped into the passage. Hanging up her wet mackintosh and hat, she followed Matty into the kitchen, where Mrs Gilbie lay in her truckle bed beside the fire. Her hoarse, laboured breathing filled the little room. Nellie ushered Matty into the scullery.

‘Has she been like this all day, love?’ she asked gently.

Matty nodded, fingering a bowl of porridge on the scullery table. ‘I tried to get her to eat it, I did try!’

Nellie’s heart went out to Matty. ‘It’s not your fault if she doesn’t eat, love. It’s just she didn’t fancy it, that’s all. Did she have anything to drink?’

‘Tea and condensed milk, she likes it strong.’

‘And when did she go to sleep?’

‘All day.’

Twelve-year-old Matty had been forced to grow up early but, still, Nellie knew it must have been a terrible ordeal for the poor girl, alone in this house all day, watching anxiously over the insensible woman, longing for her to wake. She hoped she was wrong, but Nellie feared that Lizzie might not wake again, not in this life anyway.

‘Did Sam say when he’d be home, Matty?’

The young girl shook her head. She seemed frightened even to open her mouth in case the tears came again. Even though she had seen Lizzie in every state of illness, perhaps she too sensed that this time it was different. Lizzie’s harsh breathing penetrated the thin scullery wall, but apart from that, a strange stillness filled the house. Nellie felt she couldn’t leave Matty here alone and was wondering what best to do when she heard the front door open.

‘Sam!’ she said in relief. ‘Thank goodness he’s home!’ But then she heard Charlie’s voice calling.

‘Matty, where are you? What’s wrong with Mum?’