On Mother Brown's Doorstep (25 page)

‘Shouldn’t ’ave done that, Madge,’ he said.

‘Oh, it don’t really count, Henry,’ she said. ‘I’m not in a superstitious mood tonight, I’m ’appy bein’ out with yer.’

‘All the same, I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘Just take care tomorrer in case bad luck comes runnin’ after yer.’

‘I’ll do that, Henry, I’ll take care,’ she said, sorry that she’d upset him.

‘Good,’ he said, and took her into the pub. It gave them a warm if fuggy welcome, the clay pipes of elderly cockneys issuing smoke. The place was fairly full, lively customers enjoying old ale at fourpence a pint from the barrel. A table, unoccupied, offered itself. ‘You sit there, Madge, and I’ll order up yer port an’ lemon.’

He was a real gent, she thought, in the way he treated her, especially as a lot of people would just see her as an old pro. Still, she was off the game now. She sat down while he took himself to the crowded bar. Her handsomely mature looks drew the eyes of some men. She knew this pub, of course, she knew all the pubs and their noisy
cockney
atmosphere and their sawdust floors. Walworth men and women liked their pubs.

A man, catching sight of her, gave her a second look, then elbowed his way out of a group of men and women. He shifted his cap a little until its soft peak was at a perky angle and walked across to Madge.

‘Watcher, Daisy gel, ain’t seen yer around lately,’ he said, and winked at her.

Oh, blow it, thought Madge, he’s been a customer of mine, I suppose. Daisy was the name she’d always used. She could rarely remember any of their faces, not generally she couldn’t, and she’d hoped none of them would remember hers now that she wasn’t tarted up.

‘Beg yer pardon?’ she said.

‘Are yer booked, love?’ The man wasn’t at all bad-looking. He was about thirty, with a fine pair of shoulders and a scarf around his brawny neck. A faint sexual surge disturbed her healthy body. That was often the trouble. She
was
healthy. She liked men, except the pathetic kind who’d never been able to look her in the eye. Henry looked her in the eye like a real man should. She frankly fancied Henry. He was middle-aged but as strong as a horse, she could tell that.

‘You after something, mister?’ she said distantly.

‘You offerin’, Daisy? ’Ow about a bit of what I’ve ’ad before, eh? Bleedin’ fine woman, you are, and ’ere’s me ’ard-earned silver in advance.’ His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with two half-crowns, which he placed on the table in front of her. Madge felt sick, then angry. ‘Meet yer outside in twenty minutes, say?’ The man gave her another wink.

A glass of port and lemon appeared. A hand set it down beside the heavy silver coins. That was followed by a pint glass of old ale, and Henry Brannigan, having rid himself
of
both glasses, addressed himself to the intruding third party.

‘The lady’s with me,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t be greedy, tosh,’ said the third party, ‘I’m paid-up an’ booked.’

Henry Brannigan drew a long breath. It seemed to expand him and to lengthen him. He picked up the half-crowns and dropped them into the third party’s jacket pocket.

‘Do yerself a favour, mate, an’ bugger off,’ he said.

‘Watch yer north-and-south, cully, I ain’t yer private doormat.’

‘Would you be invitin’ me outside?’ asked Henry Brannigan.

‘You want it, you’ll get it.’

‘Right.’ Henry Brannigan glanced at Madge. ‘Won’t be a tick,’ he said.

‘Henry—’

‘Look after me pint,’ he said, and went outside with the man. No-one took any notice. Amid all the boisterous noise, the brief dialogue had gone unheard except by Madge. She sat stiffly, biting her lip. But she didn’t have long to wait. Henry was back within a couple of minutes. He didn’t look ruffled, and he didn’t look heated. He sat down and picked up his glass of ale.

‘Oh, me gawd, what’ve yer done to ’im?’ breathed Madge.

‘Hit ’im,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘’E won’t be comin’ back. I ’ope that’ll show yer, Madge, that it don’t do to challenge them fates.’

‘What d’yer mean?’ she asked.

‘Trod on a line outside, didn’t yer?’ he said. ‘An’ bad luck didn’t take any time to catch up with yer, did it? You’re off the game now, so I’d say you count it as bad
luck
to get an offer from a bloke when you’re livin’ respectable, don’t yer?’

‘So ’elp me, I don’t want to go back on the game,’ breathed Madge, ‘nor ’ave anyone makin’ an offer.’

‘There y’ar, then, lady, don’t risk it. Don’t ask for bad luck to come runnin’ after yer. It chased after yer when you trod on that line, and caught up quick with yer. I ain’t partial to ’aving you accosted, not now you’re keepin’ yer bed to yerself. Well, the fates ’ave taught you yer lesson. Now ’ere’s good ’ealth an’ good luck to yer, Madge.’

Madge, a shaky little smile on her face, said, ‘Bless yer, Henry, and ’ere’s good luck to you too.’

They drank to each other, with Madge thinking he’s right, you can’t shut superstitions up in a cupboard whenever you feel like it, you’ve got to keep them out in the open all the time and pay respect to them.

Susie entered Sammy’s office on Saturday morning the moment she heard him come in.

‘Mister Sammy,’ she said, consulting her watch, ‘you’re late.’

‘Did I hear you say something, Miss Brown?’

‘You did. It’s nearly eleven, and I wasn’t aware you had any appointments this mornin’. Lilian Hyams phoned and said to tell you all the autumn and winter designs are now finished in respect of suggested alterations by Miss de Vere. And Tommy phoned to say the hire of another warehouse has been arranged. And there’s a letter from Shuttleworth Mills about their new cotton fabrics that wants answerin’. Eleven o’clock in the mornin’ won’t do, Mister Sammy, unless you’ve got a good excuse.’

‘I’ll come after you in a minute,’ said Sammy.

‘Yes, please – no, I mean no – not in office time. Just kindly explain why you’re late, and if it’s because you’ve
been
up to see Miss de Vere, I won’t invite you to my weddin’.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Sammy, ‘I get a painful feelin’ I’d be better off deaf, you saucebox. I’d give you the sack if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d miss your legs walkin’ in and out of me office. What’s kept me, you want to know? Well, I’m able to inform you, Miss Brown, that I’ve been to the Bermondsey Borough Council and offered them the scrap yard as a buildin’ site, at the price we paid for the business, so that they could put up a block of municipal flats.’

‘You want to sell that yard?’ asked Susie.

‘Well, I know your dad could get back to it in time, Susie, but there’s always goin’ to be some geezers nosin’ about to get a look at where that girl’s body was found. It’s what’s called morbid curiosity. You remember, don’t you, a woman called Mrs Chivers, who was murdered a few doors away from where you’re livin’ now?’

‘Yes, everyone in Walworth knew about that,’ said Susie. ‘Your fam’ly told me the full story. Boots was a witness at the trial of Elsie Chivers, the daughter, and so was your mum.’

‘Boots got her off,’ said Sammy. ‘Our respected Ma said he gave his evidence like the Lord of creation, and juries take notice of the Lord of creation.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Susie. ‘It must’ve been awful, a woman accused of murderin’ her own mother. Em’ly said she wouldn’t have hurt a fly. Yes, I can imagine Boots bein’ impressive. He’s got such an air, don’t you think so?’ Susie smiled teasingly. ‘We all adore him, of course. Doreen says he makes her bosom rise and fall.’

‘Might I remind you that I’ve told you before I won’t have any adorin’ on these premises, it interferes with business. Nor don’t I want to see any bosoms risin’ and
fallin
’. Tell Doreen a decent corset will solve her breathin’ problems. Let’s see, where was I? Yes, the point is, Susie, after the trial geezers from newspapers haunted the street for weeks. When they’d given up, along came the Nosey Parkers to look at the house and to ask questions. They kept comin’. Morbid curiosity, don’t yer see, a bit of wordage Boots acquainted me with. It’s goin’ to be like that at Bennondsey, partic’larly if the police find the murderer and hang him. I don’t want your dad to have to put up with staring eyeballs and queer questions. So I made the Council an offer of the yard, which they’re considerin’, and after that I made an offer for Rodgers and Company’s scrap yard off the Old Kent Road. Which old man Rodgers accepted on the spot. That’s the yard for your dad, Susie.’

‘Sammy, oh, you lovely feller,’ said Susie.

‘Sound as a bell, your dad is,’ said Sammy.

‘Sammy, I’m goin’ to be your best and only wife ever.’

‘I’ll try not to mind the expense,’ said Sammy.

‘I’ll try not to as well,’ said Susie. ‘Tommy said he thinks you’re usin’ Mr Greenberg to corner all the textiles held by London wholesalers. I told him I was grievously afraid you are.’

‘Well, we might get lucky,’ said Sammy.

‘It’s just not fair,’ said Susie.

‘So you said before, Susie, but it’s rattlin’ good business. Now, kindly inform Ronnie to mount his bike and ride off to our Brixton shop with this box. They’re expectin’ it.’

The cardboard box, white, was on Sammy’s desk.

‘What’s in it?’ asked Susie.

‘Silver-white bridal stockings,’ said Sammy.

‘Silver-white? Oh, let me see,’ said Susie.

‘You’ve already got your weddin’ stockings, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, white, but not silver-white.’ Susie picked up the box and sped into her office with it, closing the door behind her. Sammy grinned. Susie’s legs in silver-white. Even a high-class reputable businessman could hardly wait.

When Ronnie, the office boy for two months, rode off to Brixton with the box, one pair of stockings was missing, a note from Susie in its place.

Sammy, having heard from Susie that Polly Simms wouldn’t be at the wedding, after all, because she had to go abroad, felt a bit sorrowful about it. He liked Polly, the whole family did. She might be upper class, but could mix with all kinds. They’d miss her, the family, but it was just as well she was going abroad. She was a lot too fond of Boots, and Chinese Lady would raise the roof if Boots let it get out of hand.

Yes, just as well she was leaving.

A business acquaintance, a Covent Garden wholesale florist, popped in to see Sammy at twenty minutes past eleven. Susie had left at eleven – she had a hundred things to do, all in respect of the wedding. Josh Walker, who had gravitated from a flower stall in the East Street market to Covent Garden, owed Sammy a small favour. It was one of Sammy’s profitable principles, to contrive for business friends or acquaintances to owe him favours.

‘Well, ’ow’s yerself, Sammy? In the pink, I see. Bloomin’, as yer might say.’

‘I might, if I didn’t have headaches, Josh,’ said Sammy.

‘Oh, we all got those, Sammy. I’m just on me way to Peckham, so I thought I’d just look in on yer and ’and yer something for your fiancée, seein’ yer doin’ the honours with ’er next Saturday.’ Josh Walker placed a long cardboard box on Sammy’s desk. Sammy lifted the lid and
saw
at least a dozen bunches of magnificent King Alfred daffodils.

‘Josh, I’m overcome,’ he said.

‘Pleasure. Good luck, mate. I can tell yer, marriage don’t actu’lly kill yer.’

‘Is that a fact?’ said Sammy. ‘Well, it suits me, one of me main business ambitions is to stay alive.’

‘I admire an ambition like that,’ said Josh Walker, and shook hands and departed, a large grin on his face.

Sammy, left with a plethora of superb blooms, decided this was ladies’ day. He called Doreen in, gave her three dozen and told her to share them out among the girls.

‘Mister Sammy, oh, ain’t you an angel?’ said Doreen.

‘Glad you mentioned that,’ said Sammy, ‘in me modesty I sometimes forget it.’ He took another four dozen blooms through Susie’s office to Emily’s little sanctum. She was at her typewriter. She worked from ten to twelve on Saturdays, the rest of the staff from nine to twelve-thirty.

‘Sammy?’ she said, gazing huge-eyed at the King Alfreds. Sammy winced a little at her thinness. His affection for Emily, who’d been a godsend to the family when they lived in Walworth, was deep-rooted. ‘Sammy, what’re all those daffodils doin’ against your waistcoat?’

‘Nothing useful,’ said Sammy. ‘Josh Walker’s just handed me a box of them. Here’s some for you. There you are, Em. Look a lot better against your bodice than my waistcoat.’

‘Sammy, all these?’ Emily, always demonstrative, positively sparkled. ‘I’ll stand them in a vase in the hall, where everyone can enjoy them. And you can give us a kiss for bein’ a lovely bloke.’

‘Cost you tuppence,’ said Sammy.

‘Oh, still chargin’, are you?’ smiled Emily, cuddling the blooms. ‘All right, let’s go mad, give us fourpennyworth.’
Sammy
gave her two smackers, one on her cheek and one on her good-looking mouth. ‘Here, that’s not a brother-in-law’s kiss.’

‘Just a tuppenny one,’ said Sammy. ‘All right, Em, are you?’ He hadn’t the heart to refer directly to her thin look.

‘Me?’ said Emily, who hated what was happening to her, and only talked about it with Boots and Chinese Lady. Chinese Lady was doing her best to stuff her with lightly cooked liver and almost raw red meat. ‘Me?’

‘I like to ask after the health of me close relatives,’ said Sammy.

‘Well, this one’s fine, Sammy love.’

‘Tower of strength, you are, Em, as our shorthand-typist and a close relative.’

‘Well, bless yer cotton socks for sayin’ so, Sammy, and you’re not so bad yourself. We’re all lookin’ forward to the weddin’, and me and Boots are prayin’ marriage won’t ruin you.’

‘Kind of you, Em. You had a wartime weddin’, so did Lizzy. If mine’s as good as yours was, I’ll face up to the consequent ruination.’

‘Same old Sammy,’ said Emily.

‘Good on yer, love,’ said Sammy. On his way back to his office, he said, ‘By the way, you owe me fourpence. Pay me later.’ Emily laughed.

Sammy then called Ronnie in, the office boy having just got back from Brixton. Sammy had finally given in to demands from the general office staff for a runabout lad, and sixteen-year-old Ronnie Jarvis of Camberwell, looking for a job and eager for anything, had been taken on two months ago. Sammy already had his eye on the lad. He was willing, adaptable and good-natured. He stuck stamps on letters as readily as he helped Mitch, the firm’s van driver, to load and unload. And he assisted in the shop
below
whenever he was asked to. Sammy liked anyone who liked work.