The Fight for Lizzie Flowers (11 page)

‘Frank don’t mean no harm, I swear it,’ Gertie said. ‘But then you’ve only got our word, ducks, and it ain’t going to be easy proving he’s no threat. He
was a sod once and is tarred by that brush.’

Lizzie stared pityingly at the old costermonger and his faithful partner. Her soft heart twisted as she listened to their words and saw the hope in their eyes. They were genuine in their
attempts to reunite this broken family. It was a last attempt, she knew. The years were no longer plentiful for Bill and Gertie. They were desperate for a result.

But was she?

Seated at the dressing table in Cal’s lodgings, a large, shabby room above a Cubitt Town café, Ethel lifted her fair hair from her bare shoulders and twirled it
into a knot at the back of her head. She had no need to pinch her pale cheeks or add mascara to the lashes of her blue eyes. Here in this funny little room, she was happy. Content to be with a man
who was Richard’s exact opposite.

She smiled at Cal as he stood behind her, meeting his gaze in the mirror. A lean, supple figure, he watched her with an animal’s wary eyes as she pinned her hair. The more she had of Cal,
the more she wanted him. His black hair fell to his shoulders, his beard had been shaved off but had grown again quickly. She loved its rough texture. Sometimes at nights when she lay by Richard,
she would think of Cal’s body and pretend it was him sleeping only a few inches away.

But why was she so excited by this quiet man? she wondered. She knew so little about him. But that didn’t seem to matter to either of them.

She leaned forward, placing her chin on her elbows, her eyes trailing up to a browned illustration on the wall. ‘What’s that?’ she asked curiously. ‘A dragon?’

Cal laughed as he strolled casually across the room. Wearing only his white pants, he stretched his brown body. ‘He’s the bunyip, a devil who lives in the rivers and billabongs. The
poor old fella’s blessed with a croc’s head and dog’s face. He’s got flippers and tusks and he’ll leap out of the swamp and eat you up.’ Cal caught hold of her
shoulders and she jumped.

‘Cal, don’t do that.’

‘He ain’t real.’ Cal kissed her gently on the neck.

‘Is that to kill the bunyip with?’ Ethel pointed to the long wooden shaft hung prominently on the wall above the mirror. She shivered at the sight of the vicious-looking blade driven
into the top.

‘It was my grandfather’s tribal club,’ Cal replied. ‘My ancestors used it in battle.’

‘Did he give it to you?’ Ethel asked, curious now.

‘Grandfather raised me and my sister.’

‘Where were your parents?’

Cal shrugged. ‘Dad went off in the bush one day and never came back. My mum and sister . . . they died of the grog.’

‘Cal, that must have been awful.’

‘My grandfather was a good man. He looked after us and taught us the old traditions. Tried to keep us from going to the drink.’ His black eyes flickered as he stared into the
mirror.

Ethel shivered as she looked at this man. There was so much she didn’t know about him. ‘This is the first time you’ve told me about your family.’

‘It’s the first time you’ve asked.’

Ethel looked down. ‘It didn’t seem to matter before.’

‘Does it now?’

She nodded silently.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer.’

‘You’re a good-looking Sheila,’ Cal said quietly. ‘You could have anyone. Why me?’

Ethel blushed. ‘How many Sheilas do you know?’

‘None like you.’ Slowly he began to slide down the straps of her slip. In a rush of embarrassment, Ethel stopped him.

‘Cal, don’t. I’ve got to go.’

‘Why? You said you had all day.’

‘Yes, and the day’s almost over.’

‘What’s all the rush? Your kids are with their gran.’

Ethel rolled her eyes as she slipped her straps back over her shoulders. ‘Yes, but Timothy’s too old to stay the night now. And if he won’t stay, neither will Rosie. My
mother-in-law don’t let them listen to the radio or go into Lewisham. She thinks they’ll get up to something.’

‘Like their mother.’ Cal grinned.

Ethel frowned. ‘Don’t rub it in, Cal. I feel guilty enough as it is.’

‘You shouldn’t, you’re entitled. I’ll run you home in the car. What’s an hour as the crow flies?’

‘I don’t want you anywhere near me house,’ Ethel threatened as she leaned her head to one side. ‘Not in that hearse you’re driving.’

‘It’s a damn fine Studebaker, imported from the US of A,’ Cal replied with amusement. ‘You appreciated it enough the other day when—’

‘All right, all right!’ Ethel blushed as she thought of the last afternoon they’d spent together. Cal had driven her out Bromley way and they’d parked in a secluded spot.
She couldn’t believe that she’d let him make love to her in broad daylight on the big leather seats. Anyone could have caught them. Yet it had been their recklessness she’d found
exciting.

‘Good memories,’ he whispered in her ear and Ethel shivered.

Ethel smiled sweetly as she reached for her blouse. But Cal dragged her back into his arms. ‘I don’t give up easy. You’re a little cracker, Ethel.’

‘Now you’ve messed up my hair.’

‘I’m gonna mess it up some more.’

Ethel knew this was wrong, but she couldn’t stop herself.

‘Kiss me again, girl,’ Cal whispered as he ran his hands over her, ‘or I’ll set the bunyip on you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she murmured, grateful for the fact that she had never been wanted like this before.

Soon Ethel had forgotten she had a home to go back to and only heard the sounds coming from outside; the gulls flying over the smoke-blackened boarding house above the café. The smell of
the rope works and the pickle factory drifting in through the window. The shouts of the noisy kids in the street. She forgot about getting home for Richard’s tea. Another few minutes
wouldn’t matter.

But Ethel regretted her decision as, several hours later, she flew off the bus and rounded the corner only to see Richard standing at the door of the house. He was dressed in the same suit he
wore to the office every day of his working life, his angular face set in a scowl and the late afternoon sunshine reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded as Ethel hurried up.

‘I thought you were at your mother’s tonight.’

‘She has a church meeting. I asked you, where have you been?’

Ethel shrugged, trying to push past. ‘Shopping, that’s all.’

‘What have you been buying this time?’ Richard’s pale hazel eyes narrowed spitefully. ‘Obviously something too big to bring home with you.’ He followed her in.
‘I told you, we have a perfectly comfortable suite.’

In panic, Ethel turned to face him. ‘That doesn’t stop me looking,’ she improvised, trying to look offended. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve seen a nice one at
Harper’s in the High Street.’

‘Harper’s?’ Richard exploded, his sallow complexion turning red. ‘They charge a fortune for their furniture. I hope you don’t expect me to ask Mother for the
money.’

‘Your mother again!’ Ethel exclaimed fiercely. ‘I might have known you’d bring her into this.’

‘And why not?’ Richard argued. ‘She bought our present sofa and chairs, which are still in perfectly good working order.’

‘They were our wedding gift, Richard,’ Ethel said helplessly, ‘well over fifteen years ago.’

‘And they’ll do for another fifteen in my opinion.’ Richard nodded and folded his arms across his chest.

‘Oh – oh, damn you and your mother, you’re both impossible!’ Ethel wailed, tears spilling over as she turned and ran up the stairs. Banging the bedroom door behind her,
she threw herself on the bed.

The tears that fell on the bedcover were tears of guilt, frustration, disappointment and self-pity. Her self-centred, penny-pinching husband hadn’t given a single thought to the idea she
might be having an affair. But rather, he chose to believe that she would happily waste time trawling around the shops with the intention of buying a three-piece suite that they couldn’t
possibly afford.

She didn’t know who she despised more.

Herself, or bloody Mrs Ryde.

Easter had come and gone with record profits. Now they were at the end of April, and trade was still brisk. Lizzie was thinking about the new shop as she opened the books. It
was time to invest her profits. What would Bert think of her plans, she wondered, as she watched him drag the sacks of vegetables across the shop floor.

‘Lil and Doug should be here soon,’ she said as she placed the price paddle in the sack of potatoes. ‘We could do with three times as many cakes from Lil.’

Bert straightened and rubbed his stomach. ‘Not half.’

‘Bert, what do you think of opening a new shop?’

‘What, like this one?’

Lizzie nodded. ‘Have you seen that shop near the school in Ripon Street? The empty one Mr James ran as a hardware store?’

Sweating, Bert nodded, his boot pushing a sack into position beside its neighbour. ‘Bit run down. Been empty a long time.’

‘Could do with a coat of paint. But it would scrub up well.’

Bert drew his forearm over his wet forehead. He blinked his bulging eyes free of moisture and took hold of the broom. Leaning his elbow on the handle he frowned. ‘What you driving at,
gel?’

‘I wrote to the landlord and made an enquiry. I’m going there to have a look round.’

‘What for?’ Bert asked with an air of confusion.

‘If the rent is reasonable, I’d like to run it as a greengrocer’s, bakery and confectionery store.’

‘Blimey, are you serious?’

‘Why not?’

‘No one’s done that before.’

‘I know. But there must be other women like Lil who can cook as well as she can. We’ll ask around for home bakers. For those who can’t bring their stuff in, we’ll use the
van to collect. We’ll order jam sponges, buns, toffee apples, fruit scones and individual apple pies like we do from Lil. And anything else that strikes a chord. Cheap enough for the factory
workers and labourers on their way to the docks.’

‘We’ll have to keep the cakes out of the dust.’

‘Mr James’s shop is big enough.’

‘So what’s this shop gonna be called?’

‘It would be a sort of women’s cooperative.’

‘Would it make money, though?’

‘This shop is. We’d run it on the same lines. There must be lots of women who want to work from home.’

‘Yeah, but it’s usually washing and sewing, ain’t it?’

‘Yes, but why not something different?’

‘Dunno. Never give it a thought.’

‘Well, I have.’

‘Blimey, gel, you don’t let the grass grow under your feet! But who’s gonna run the new shop if you and me are here?’

Lizzie grinned. ‘I’ve already asked Ethel if she’d like to join the firm.’

‘Don’t she work at Rickard’s?’

‘She’s not there any more. Well, what do you think?’

Bert frowned at the worn handle of the broom, as if making a serious decision. ‘Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.’

‘You’re in this business too.’

Bert looked pleased. ‘Whatever you say goes, Lizzie.’

Lizzie smiled with pleasure. She put on her leather apron and slid off the cover of the glass shelves. Their surfaces had to be kept clean for the stock that Lil and Doug were delivering.

When the door opened ten minutes later, she expected to see their first customers. Instead three strangers stood there.

‘Good morning, my dear,’ said the first, a short, well-built man wearing a fedora. He slid it off and ran a pudgy hand over his shiny, hairless skull. He was, Lizzie decided, in his
late thirties. He wore a shoulder-padded overcoat that at once reminded her of Frank. The two taller men, similarly dressed, stood with their backs to the closed shop door.

Lizzie said nothing as he held out his hand. ‘Mrs Flowers?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Leonard Savage.’

Lizzie didn’t like the look of him or his pals. They had walked in her shop as if they owned the place.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a word, that’s all.’

‘What kind of word? We’re not open till eight.’

Leonard Savage dropped his hand. ‘This won’t take a moment. You wouldn’t want us bothering you in working hours. I mean, this establishment is all nice and tidy. Shame to mess
it up.’

‘No one’s messing up this shop, mister,’ Bert growled, stepping forward.

‘Did Frank send you?’ Lizzie demanded.

‘No one sent me,’ the man replied calmly, his lips turning up in his fleshy, round face. His light brown eyes were watching her carefully under their hairless eyebrows.
‘Certainly not your husband.’

Lizzie started. ‘How do you know Frank’s my husband?’

‘I know everything, my dear.’ The bald stranger walked slowly to the cabinet. Glancing over his shoulder, he nodded to the big man on his right. ‘Nice bit of tat this,
Albert.’

The man grunted in reply.

‘Glass can break, unfortunately.’

Bert pushed Lizzie to one side. He raised the broom and pushed the handle into Leonard Savage’s chest. ‘Get your mitts off there, pal.’

Before Lizzie could speak the man called Albert put his hand under his overcoat. ‘Get back,’ he ordered, pointing a gun.

Lizzie froze. The gun was aimed straight at her. She knew Bert was staring at it too.

‘You call that a weapon?’ mocked Savage, snatching the broom from Bert. ‘You’ll need more than a stick if you’re to insure your premises against damage, Mrs
Flowers.’ He broke the broom in two across his knee and threw it at Bert’s feet.

Lizzie felt an ice-cold chill on her back. She was being threatened and there was nothing she or Bert could do about it.

‘That’s better.’ Leonard Savage tilted his head. ‘You can’t always be a winner in this life, my man. There are the leaders and the followers. Brooms are not for the
major players in business.’ He jerked his hand to the gun. ‘As you can see.’

Lizzie felt her heart beating so fast it hurt. How dare this thug walk into her shop and threaten her!

‘This is my card.’ Savage reached into his pocket. ‘I’m in security and credit brokering. My offices are in Aldgate as you will read. Leonard Savage is the answer to all
your problems, your guardian angel, Mrs Flowers. I help keep the streets clean and safe for hard-working shopkeepers like you. The East End being what it is, a lady like you is vulnerable. As you
found out last year when someone decided to blow out your windows.’