At Home by the Sea

by Pam Weaver

  She stayed in the pie factory until she had saved enough to buy ingredients and a pie tray. Apparently there was a shop near the market where they sold ready-made trays at a reasonable price. For a few pennies more she could get her name written on the side of the tray. ‘Polly’s Pies.’ It had a nice ring to it and when she collected it, she saw that the sign writer had even drawn a couple of steaming pies next to the words. Now she was ready to take her chance.

  Getting up in the wee small hours, Polly baked as many pies as she could before it was light. To keep them warm she covered them with a fleece. Then, from early morning, she was outside the railway station with her tray.

  It wasn’t long before her pies were the most popular in London.

  ‘I dunno what it is about your pies,’ her customers would say, ‘but they’re second to none. What d’you put in them?’

  Polly would smile and say, ‘Ah, that’ll be my secret ingredient.’ But even though they pressed her, and some – probably spies from Jacob Shulman’s pie shop – even tempted her with money, she wouldn’t divulge what that secret was. Her costermonger skills came in useful because she knew where to get the best bargains for the ingredients she needed. She began by making her pies for a penny and selling them for tuppence, but as her fame grew, so did her prices. Eventually she was doing so well, Alice was able to stop taking in washing and do what she enjoyed doing most, baking more pies.

  ‘If we carry on like this,’ Polly told her mother, ‘it won’t be long before we should be able to employ Walter as well.’

  Polly soon progressed from a tray to a hand cart when her customers came to buy a pie. The pies were kept inside a hay box on the cart. That was a tip she’d gleaned from the night of the dance in Kent. The hay box kept hot food warm. She had bought the cart from the same place as she’d bought the pie tray and once again the sign writer had done a grand job. Polly wished she could tell him how much she appreciated him but he was never there.

  Competition was tougher now. The pie men were offering smaller pies themselves, and Jacob Shulman was doing his best to lure her customers away, but there was something very special about Polly’s pies.

  It was soon after that when Polly met Jack again.

  ‘Well if it isn’t the blackberry girl,’ cried Jack. ‘Remember me?’

  Polly pulled a face as if she was having a hard job but she remembered him only too well. It was lovely to see him and they struck up a friendship once again.

  Jack was different from all the other costermongers. He wasn’t interested in the penny gaff where the singing and dancing girls entertained. When he took her out, she noticed that he shunned the beer shops and gambling houses as well. He wasn’t mean but, like her, he was careful with his money. He was friendly and he was popular. When she asked around, people told her Jack was a man with ambition. He had a reputation for hard work and he was keen to be his own boss.

  ‘I’m goin’ to get on, Poll,’ he told her. ‘I know they laughed and called me Pineapple Jack when I started on me own but the pineapples helped me get started, see?’

  He had once brought a pineapple with him and he had asked her if he could use the corner of her cart to cut it up. Polly had been amazed to see just how many slices he could get from one pineapple. His slices were very thin but he was always honest and the customer knew what he was getting.

  ‘But you can’t sell pineapples all year round,’ she said, ‘so what do you sell now?’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t yer know?’

  Polly shook her head.

  He pointed to her hand cart.

  ‘You?’ She gasped.

  He nodded. ‘It turns out that I’m quite good working with wood,’ he said, ‘and my old neighbour taught me sign writing, so I looked around the market and saw just how many people wanted something decent to display their wares.’

  ‘And from trays you progressed to hand carts,’ she said.

  ‘That’s about the size of it, Poll,’ he said.

  *

  Their friendship had stretched for several months when he came to her with an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  ‘Remember that old shepherd’s hut, Poll?’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve bought one.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Tea,’ he said with a grin. He pointed towards a shepherd’s wooden hut on wheels that was parked further along the street. A man was serving a mug of tea through a specially prepared hatch on the side. ‘Cold day like today, the traveller welcomes a warm drink.’

  Polly shook her head in respect. She smiled. ‘Good idea,’ she said.

  ‘If you fancy just cooking your pies,’ he went on, ‘I’ll take all you got on offer and sell them through my hatch.’

  Polly held her breath. No more standing for hours in the cold? It was very tempting and if anyone would succeed in selling the same number of pies she did, Jack could do it.

  ‘I reckon your pie, a refreshing slice of my pineapple for afters and a cup of the old Rosie Lee would go down a treat together, watcher think, Poll?’

  ‘I think you’re a very clever man, Jack.’

  A deal was struck with a trial period of three months and to seal it, they each spat on their own palms and shook hands.

  Polly sold more pies than ever and employed Walter as runner to keep the hut in stock. Pineapple Jack added coffee and chocolate to his tea wagon and did so well he began a new location with another wagon outside King’s Cross station. There were even plans afoot to have a third outside Paddington.

  ‘The best thing would be to rent a shop on the concourse,’ he told Polly. ‘WHSmith’s have got an agreement to put their newsagent inside. We should do the same.’

  Polly was impressed by his understanding of the needs of the British public but she wondered how the ‘powers that be’ would react to a humble tea wagon owner setting up on the platform of their station. One thing was for sure, Pineapple Jack was certainly not put off by the challenge.

  Before long, Polly had fallen in love with him. She knew she was an attractive girl and she was also aware that she turned many a head on the street. But she made it clear from the start that she wasn’t available to just anybody, not even the toffs who offered her a ‘good time’ for as much as two guineas. The same rule applied to Jack, even though she knew he would never dream of offering her money for her favours.

  Her friend Edith chided her for resisting his advances. ‘You must be mad,’ Edith used to tell her. ‘You love him, don’t you?’

  ‘To the moon and back,’ she’d say with a smile, ‘but I know what I really want.’

  Polly knew Jack didn’t love her. He simply knew a good deal when he saw one. He was always kind and gentle and if she played her cards right, he could give her what she wanted more than anything else – respectability and a home of her own. That was why she played the waiting game. And whenever she longed for just one word of tenderness from Jack’s lips, she would pull herself together and tell herself that she was a fool. There was more at stake than silly romantic nonsense. If Pineapple Jack asked her to wed, it would be because she was doing well with the pies and they could make a good living together.

  ‘He’ll grow tired of waiting,’ Edith warned her. ‘He’ll find someone else to love.’

  ‘What’s love got to do with it?’ Polly said stoutly. ‘Love comes only to the chosen few. What Jack wants is a good worker.’

  *

  But it wasn’t her ability to work wonders with a bit of scrag-end, that impressed Jack. It was her ambition. That’s why a week ago, when they were both down the market looking for good fruit and vegetables, he finally took the plunge.

  ‘Whatcher fink, Poll,’ he said. ‘We both wants to get on. We could get a good living together. You ain’t afraid of ’ard work and I’ll look after you.’

  Polly guessed that was about as romantic as Jack could be. She looked up into his earnest eyes. ‘I’ll go with you Jack,’ she said, ‘but I ain’t just going to live with you. I wants to be a wife.’


  His jaw dropped. ‘A wife!’

  Without blinking, Polly went on. ‘And I wants a proper wedding, one with a parson and prayers and all.’

  At first, he was completely struck dumb. In all of his nineteen years, Pineapple Jack had never once set foot inside a church. But one look at her determined face told him she’d have it no other way. Every part of him wanted her and with her help, he knew they could both make it out of the slums and move up in the world. If they got more shepherd’s huts and did well, they could even move into a decent area. With Polly Patterson and her pies, the world and its oyster was just around the corner.

  Jack took a deep breath. ‘Right you are then, Poll. If you’ll still have me, you shall have your weddin’.’

  He’d set off with high hopes but it wasn’t so easy to find a vicar in a church who would do it. It was the same old story. The rich were always suspicious of the poor.

  *

  The clergyman at St Saviour’s was shocked when Jack turned up on his doorstep, and shooed him away with a wave of his podgy hand. ‘Out of the question!’ he cried when Jack told him what he wanted. ‘I’ll wager you’ve never been baptised, neither of you live in my parish and besides, the banns have to be called for three weeks before a wedding!’

  The priest from Our Lady and the Angels wasn’t much better. ‘Are you a Catholic?’ When Jack said no, he was convinced Jack was a thief. ‘Be off with you, you scoundrel, or I’ll call the constable. There’s nothing worth stealing here.’

  The London City Missioners listened sympathetically and would have helped but their mission hall didn’t look much like a church. Polly had made it quite clear she wanted a proper wedding in a proper church with candles and prayers.

  There was nothing for it but to cross the river. On the Surrey side of the Thames at New Cut, the press of the crowds on market days made the place more like a country fair. Hundreds of stalls, lit with dim tallow candles or the red smoky flame of grease lamps, littered the streets. The pavements were crowded with traders and buyers alike. Why hadn’t he been here before? The place was ideal for his huts. He could just see it now. Pineapple slices and Polly’s pies.

  The thought of all those sales made his errand all the more urgent. Jack hurried from street to street looking for a place of worship but without success. He was almost to the point of despair, when he happened to bump into One-eyed Tom and a drinking companion. Over a mug of ale, Jack told Tom about Polly.

  ‘You couldn’t do better than Polly,’ said Tom. ‘If I were twenty years younger, I’d take her for a helpmate meself.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Jack sighed. ‘My Poll wants a proper weddin’, with a vicar and all.’

  Tom put his mug of beer down. ‘Parson here used to be a cleric,’ he said, pointing to his companion.

  ‘Used to be?’ said Jack, puzzled.

  ‘De-frocked, dear boy,’ said the parson, looking up at him through rheumy red-rimmed eyes.

  Jack blinked in surprise. ‘Why?’

  The parson lifted his almost empty mug of ale. ‘This was my downfall, dear boy.’ He sighed. ‘Beware of the devil’s brew.’

  Jack thought for a minute. ‘Do you remember all the words?’

  ‘Of the marriage ceremony?’ said the parson. ‘Of course. I’ve done hundreds of them in my time.’

  Jack placed two shillings onto the table in front of him, one was Polly’s and the other his own. The parson reached for them, but Jack covered the coins with his hand. ‘Here’s the bargain,’ he said, ‘if I finds a church, will you wed Polly and me this evening?’

  The parson stared at the back of Jack’s hand and licked his lips thirstily but he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, dear boy. I would if I could but no church will allow me within its doors.’

  The three men looked down dejectedly.

  ‘There’s old St Dunstans,’ One-eyed Tom piped up. ‘They’re going to pull it down soon.’

  ‘Pull it down?’

  ‘To make way for the new railway station.’

  ‘Ah, Charing Cross,’ the parson added.

  ‘Polly wants the real thing.’ Jack sighed. ‘I promised her.’

  ‘I’ll help you make it look good.’ Tom’s face shone with excitement. He poked the parson in the ribs. ‘Then all you have to do is wed them.’

  The parson was still staring at the back of Jack’s hand. ‘Ahh, but would it be legal?’

  Jack began drawing the coins back. ‘It’s got to be a proper weddin’,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Polly wants it done in the sight of God.’

  The parson grabbed Jack’s wrist. ‘I can certainly do that for you, dear boy,’ he said. ‘Everything we do is done in the sight of God!’

  They both looked at Jack eagerly.

  ‘Well?’ asked One-eyed Tom.

  ‘That’s good enough for me!’ cried Jack.

  *

  Polly was frozen to the marrow. She was still waiting on the street even though it must be a good half an hour after the time he’d told her to meet him. Tears of disappointment were biting the backs of her eyes when old Rosie the flower lady hurried by.

  ‘All the best, Polly,’ she said cheerfully.

  Polly frowned. Why did she say that? She and Pineapple Jack had told no-one of their plans. ‘You’ve finished early today,’ she called after Rosie.

  ‘Sold every last flower in me basket, didn’t I,’ she called back, and as she turned the corner Polly heard her cackling laughter.

  Polly turned back and there he was, hurrying down the street towards her. Pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she shivered and took a deep breath.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Poll,’ he called. ‘I hope yer not froze to death.’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

  ‘It’s all arranged, Poll,’ he said, coming up to her.

  When she turned her face to him, his heart skipped a beat. She looked as pretty as a picture. Funny how he’d never noticed what a beautiful shade of violet her eyes were before. She was clutching a sprig of snowdrops in one hand and he admired the pretty print dress she was wearing. Her hair shone even more than usual and she’d caught it up to the top of her head in a little circle of curls. It looked very attractive.

  At his invitation, she slipped her arm through his and they walked back towards the river together. Jack couldn’t help but stick his chest out. He felt that proud. That’s how she made him feel, with her on his arm.

  When, at last, he and Polly stood outside St Dunstan’s, he could see she was shocked. It did look a mess from the outside. The windows were all boarded up and there were no lights. His heart sank. He shouldn’t have done it. She’d be angry with him. He should never have tried to fool Polly.

  ‘Ain’t nobody there, Jack,’ she wailed. ‘Parson’s gone home.’

  ‘No, no,’ he cried. ‘He said he’d be waiting inside.’

  He pushed open the heavy oak door, hoping and praying that the parson hadn’t found someone else to buy him a drink since he’d left him only slightly tiddly inside the church.

  The church was derelict but not yet denuded of furniture and fittings. Here and there a pew remained undamaged and the altar, though quite bare, was still intact. He had expected it to smell, but not the way it did. The scent of hundreds of flowers filled the air; Lily of the valley, primrose, hyacinth, and lilac. They were scattered all the way from the door up to the altar rail. Polly gasped. Jack opened his mouth to explain and apologise.

  ‘Oh, Jack, it’s so beautiful …’

  It was then that he noticed the candles. They lit the way towards the front of the church where, on the steps leading to the altar, a great wooden eagle, with wings outstretched, held an empty flower basket. Jack heaved a sigh of relief to see the parson and One-eyed Tom standing one on either side. They each held a candle and the parson, swaying ever so slightly, smiled as Pineapple Jack stepped forward, taking Polly’s hand.

  Polly took in a breath. ‘Oh Jack, l
isten,’ she said, her eyes bright with excitement.

  ‘What?’

  She paused. ‘Oh nothing … It’s silly, but I thought I heard the rustle of angel wings.’

  It was the daftest thing she’d ever said to him and had it been anyone else, he might have been tempted to laugh, but taking her lead, he cocked his ears and just for a moment he thought he could hear something too …

  He looked back at her. Even though this run down dump of a place was so awful, she looked so happy, so beautiful. All at once, he felt a sudden pang of guilt and shame. This wasn’t right. He’d have to tell her. He’d done his best; bought a whole basket of flowers from old Rosie and cleared away as much of the rubbish as he could in the time scale allowed but he couldn’t let her go on believing a lie. All she’d wanted was a proper wedding.

  ‘They’re going to pull this place down soon, Poll,’ he explained, the pain of her pending disappointment etched into his expression. ‘Parson’s a real parson but he don’t have no church. He’s a drunk, see? But I couldn’t find no other.’

  She looked into his eyes. ‘I don’t understand. Does that mean we can’t be wed?’

  Jack chewed his bottom lip. ‘Parson says when he says the words for your shilling and mine, it will done be in the sight of God … but it ain’t a proper weddin’.’

  She hesitated for a second. ‘I want to be your wife, Jack.’

  ‘And I wants you to be my wife too, Poll,’ he said, surprising even himself with his earnestness. He paused. ‘You can walk away if you wants, Poll, but I promise I won’t touch you until you are my wife.’