‘If I was named for her, who was Albert named for? And Alice and George and Daisy?’
‘Albert was named after Queen Victoria’s husband and Alice after the little girl in Mr Carroll’s story of Wonderland. And your dad and I both liked the name o’ Daisy.’
‘And Georgie?’
‘He was named for my own dear father, George Chalcott. A better man never lived. Mabel, have you put those peas in to soak?’
‘Yes, an’ the ham bone’s simmerin’, doesn’t it smell good? Mum, what was yer mother like? Yer never talk about her or any o’ yer family.’ Annie Court’s face seemed to close up, though her tired blue eyes softened at some far-off recollection, which encouraged Mabel to persist. ‘And did yer live in Hampshire with her an’ yer father?’
‘Yes, but I lost them both before I married your father and came to live in London.’ Annie spoke abruptly, with an edge to her voice, and again Mabel sensed a mystery of some kind.
‘Did yer have a big house to live in, Mum?’
‘Oh, yes, it was a beautiful house.’
‘Bigger ’n this?’
‘Much bigger, yes.’
‘Did it have a garden?’
‘What a lot of questions, Mabel – yes, we had quite a large garden.’
‘And did yer have brothers an’ sisters, Mum?’
Annie hesitated. ‘Two sisters, quite a lot older than I was.’
‘What were their names?’ asked Mabel eagerly, for this was what she really wanted to know about, these sisters of her mother who were her aunts.
But Annie made an impatient gesture, pushing past Mabel to get to the range oven. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mabel, I don’t have anything to do with them now. Just put this saucepan to the back, will you?’
‘But Mum, yer must think about them sometimes,’ said Mabel, unable to imagine forgetting Albert, Alice, George and Daisy – and poor little Walter.
‘Why should I? They didn’t want anything more to do with me after I married your dad.’
‘P’raps they were jealous ’cause ye’d got married and they hadn’t.’
Annie shrugged and did not answer.
Mabel took a big breath and asked the question that had been on her mind ever since that unpleasant exchange with Mimi when she had talked scathingly about the Chalcotts’ money. ‘Mum, was yer daddy rich?’
Annie glanced at her sharply. ‘Why do you ask that? Have you been talking to – oh!’ She seemed to remember something and her eyes hardened. ‘Listen, Mabel, if you’ve heard your grandmother Court saying anything about my family, don’t take any notice; she doesn’t know anything, she never met them. And I don’t wish to speak of it any more, Mabel, it’s all in the past.’
But Mabel longed to know about those sisters and their big house in the country. ‘Mum, your sisters – they’re my aunts, aren’t they?’
Suddenly Annie covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, Mabel, don’t bother me any more, it breaks my heart to remember – it’s all in the past, and – and—’
Mabel was all penitence and went straight to her mother’s side. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I really am – I promise I won’t talk o’ the Chalcotts again. Don’t be upset, Mummy, please, I’m sorry.’
George became old enough to start school and trotted along after Alice who resented being put in charge of him, although he was no trouble, as Mabel pointed out, not half as much bother as Albert had been at that age.
After Daisy’s birth Annie never completely recovered her strength and was constantly tired. She seldom ventured far from the house alone, and it was left to Mabel to take Alice and the younger children down to Tooting on one Sunday afternoon each month to visit their grandmother. They travelled on the new electrified tram that now went from Westminster Bridge straight through via Clapham to Tooting, where Mimi received them regally at Macaulay Road and gave them a lavish tea. She and Mabel maintained a polite relationship in which there was no love, more a wary mutual respect, avoiding confrontations.
There was little time for Mabel to read or practise the piano, but because of her promise to Dr Knowles and her determination to become a nurse one day she tried not to miss school, and did her best to keep up with her studies by going over the lessons in the evening after Daisy and George were in bed. Sometimes she could hardly keep her eyes open, but she knew that she must learn to write fluently and legibly in order to take lecture notes and sit for her nursing examinations in time to come.
It was at last becoming recognised that the persistent poor school attendance of older children, especially girls, was due to their being kept at home to look after the under-fives when the mother was ill or having another baby – or having to go out to work as the breadwinner. One London borough after another began to respond by setting up nurseries or ‘babies’ rooms’, usually attached to a school where for a minimal charge babies and toddlers could be cared for while their older brothers and sisters were taught their lessons next door.
Dr Knowles added his voice to the long campaign to provide this service at Hallam Road and when the idea eventually got taken up by a public-spirited woman with some money, he immediately thought of Mabel. For the scheme would be set up by the time she left school and of course he would warmly recommend her as an assistant nursery maid.
And Annie Court had her own secret life.
Whenever the opportunity occurred she would creep upstairs, loosen her stays and lie down on her bed. Within minutes she drifted into a blissful haze in which she forgot all about the upsetting things in her life: the loss of her dear little Walter, Mimi’s scorn and Jack’s frequent absences from the overcrowded house with its scratched paintwork and discoloured walls – the constant struggle to keep up appearances of respectability. Just for an hour or two Annie would drift away to the Hampshire countryside in which she had grown up and once again she would be Anna-Maria Chalcott, a little girl walking with her sweet mamma through the garden at Pinehurst and down the lane that led to the edge of the fields.
And sometimes she would let herself drift into another dream – another summer garden where she was Anna-Maria Drummond, playing on the lawn with her little daughter Mabel.
I’d have married you, Anna-Maria, and called the child mine.
Mabel Drummond, the eldest of a family of healthy, nicely dressed, well-behaved children.
Just for an hour or two . . . Annie Court’s world was bathed in a rosy glow.
And nobody, she thought, knew about the screw-topped jar hidden behind the curtain.
Chapter Three
MABEL LOOKED GUILTILY towards the wall clock. Gone half past four. Time she were home. The floor had been swept, the crockery washed and put away; the stove was raked out and the battered enamelled potties hung in a row beside the sink and towel rails. Matron was ready to lock up, but a little brother and sister still remained uncollected from the Hallam Road Babies Mission. Their mother who worked at Price’s candleworks had not turned up and Miss Carter, the Matron, frowned and shook her head. ‘This is the second time it’s happened in two weeks, Mabel,’ she said. ‘If she’s not here by five I shall have to take them home myself – and give her a warning. If she can’t come herself, she should ask somebody else to fetch them.’
Mabel shone a reassuring smile at the forlorn little pair, both under four years old. If only she could take them home with her and look after them! ‘D’ye want me to wait, Matron?’ she asked, feeling obliged to make the offer, while hoping it would not be accepted.
‘No, Mabel, not this time. It’s been a busy day for you without Miss Clay. You’d better be going now.’
‘Thank yer very much, Matron.’ With a last smile and a wave to the two small children Mabel hurried off. Miss Carter watched her from the window, almost running along Hallam Road towards Lavender Hill. She found Mabel Court a willing worker and so good with the young children who poured into the Mission each day from just before eight o’clock until half past four. Thirty-eight of them had been in today and as she’d had to send Miss Clay home w
ith a sore throat, she and Mabel had worked non-stop, with scarcely time for a cup of tea and the sandwich they brought with them. As the day’s work ended, Mabel’s face began to show signs of tension and she always seemed in a hurry to get home. Almost as if she was afraid of what she might find when she got there, Miss Carter thought, although there was no doubt at all that Mabel loved her work.
The Mission had been started by a lady who had given up her suffragist activities in order to devote her energies to what she saw as a more pressing need; her generous subsidy kept the fee down to threepence per day per child, and that included milk and bread and butter at midday. Miss Carter, a trained nurse from the East London Hospital for Children, had been appointed as Matron with a local grocer’s daughter, Ada Clay, as her assistant. School leaver Mabel Court had at first been considered too young at fourteen to be taken on as extra help with such responsible work, but thanks to her teachers’ report and Dr Knowles’s enthusiastic letter of recommendation she had been given the job at five shillings a week. Oh, the thrill of that moment when the letter came with the wonderful news! Mabel had literally danced for joy at this first step towards achieving her dream and had quickly become indispensable to Miss Carter. Although two years on she earned only seven shillings weekly, her true reward was the love and trust she saw in the faces of the little children who crowded round her at the Mission.
On reaching Sorrel Street she found that there had been no need to worry. Her mother was in the kitchen brewing a pot of tea and Mabel breathed a secret sigh of relief. Alice was sitting on the piano stool reading a twopenny romance she had got from a classmate and George was bringing in coal from the back, ready for the range oven tomorrow.
There was a sound of quick, eager footsteps as little Daisy rushed to greet her eldest sister. ‘Mabel, Mabel, where have yer been?’
‘Up to the palace, to visit the Queen!’ cried Mabel gaily, picking up the dark-eyed girl who gleefully continued with the adapted rhyme.
‘Mabel, oh, Mabel, what did yer there?’
‘The King an’ Queen told me to sit on a chair!’ replied Mabel and George looked up with a grin.
‘I told ’em I’d only come up for a dare!’ he added and Daisy squealed with laughter.
‘The Queen’s got lots o’ nits in her hair!’ She giggled.
But Mabel pursed her lips on hearing this version. ‘Now then, that’s quite enough o’ that, little Miss Cheeky,’ she said, putting the six-year-old down with a warning shake of her head. Turning to her mother, she asked, ‘What sort of a day have yer had, Mum?’
‘Oh, not too bad, dear, I was all right once I got going.’ Annie gave her a tired smile and they exchanged a kiss.
‘Alice, come and put this ironing away,’ called Mabel. ‘Don’t leave it all to yer mother. Any news o’ Dad?’ she asked Annie.
‘Still at Newmarket and might stay there over the weekend. You know he lodges with that chap who married the publican’s daughter there, they’re as thick as thieves. He’ll probably be back on Monday, who knows with your father?’ She shrugged and sighed.
They were all glad when Mabel came home. She had become the central pivot of the family as her mother’s health had gradually declined into a vague semi-invalidism. Now in her middle thirties, Annie was thin and careworn, her face as lined as a woman of fifty. Half her neighbours envied her for having such a dutiful, home-loving daughter as Mabel, while the other half thought her far too dependent on the good-natured girl who at sixteen seemed to have no life of her own.
‘Shouldn’t Albert be in by now?’ Mabel asked. ‘He’s bringin’ supper, isn’t he?’ It was Friday, and her mouth watered at the thought of fried fish and chips, her favourite dish.
‘They might have put him on lates again, you know how they take advantage of the young boys,’ said Annie with a worried look. There had been a fatal accident in a railway siding the previous month and Annie was constantly anxious for her son’s safety.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Mum, Albert’s got his head well screwed on,’ said Mabel quickly. ‘He’ll be a driver before he’s twenty, you’ll see.’ She had long decided that her brother Albert was a law unto himself; he had gone to work at the railway depot on leaving school and came home as black as any coal miner from his shifts. At fifteen he contributed more to the household than Mabel and affected a workmanlike air of toughness that annoyed Alice who looked down her dainty nose at his rough manners; he teased everybody except his mother and Mabel, the sister to whom he remained as close as ever.
‘Well, I hope he hurries up, or we’ll all be starving,’ said Alice, turning down the corners of her mouth. She had one more year at school and then had her sights on the city and the opportunities it offered to bright, ambitious girls. Alice saw herself as one of the new young businesswomen with a career in the Post Office, perhaps in the big new telephone exchange at St Paul’s Churchyard, earning thirty shillings a week. No more dirty-faced, sticky-pawed children, no more coarse ragging from Albert or bossing from Mabel: the very thought of it seemed like heaven to the pretty, discontented girl.
‘It’ll be all the better for waitin’ for, I reckon,’ said George, referring to their supper and Mabel shot him a grateful look. Though not yet eleven, George was a serious-minded boy, old for his years and so nice, always sensitive to the feelings of others. He was far more willing than Alice to help in the house, even to pushing the wet washing through the mangle and hanging it out on the line or spreading it over the wooden maidens that took up so much room on wet washdays. He could be relied on to take Daisy to and from school, turning his back on diversions like football and tip-cat, and he usually managed to steer clear of fights. He could defend himself when he had to and would go to the rescue of smaller boys who were being bullied, but he preferred a quiet life. With his wavy fair hair and blue eyes, he was the complete opposite of Albert, who called him his little sister, a taunt that rolled off George like water from the proverbial duck’s back; for like Mabel, George knew that his brother’s good points far outweighed the deliberately sardonic impression he liked to give.
Albert swaggered in to cheers at half past six, accompanied by two other young railwaymen, each carrying deliciously greasy packets wrapped in newspaper.
‘Ooh, don’t that smell a bit of all right!’ said George, sniffing appreciatively.
‘Put them on the table, the plates are all ready an’ warm from the oven,’ ordered Mabel, bustling around and putting out extra knives and forks for the visitors whom Albert now introduced with a flourish.
‘Sam Mackintosh an’ ‘Arry Drover, founder members wiv yours truly o’ the union against exploitation o’ young workers!’ he announced, waving his arm towards the pair. ‘Sam an’ ‘Arry, meet me mum an’ me lovely sister Mabel – the rest of ’em ain’t worf a mention, except for me little darlin’ – come ’ere, Daisy, an’ give yer poor old ’ard-workin’ bruvver a kiss!’
The little girl’s dark eyes sparkled as he lifted her up and twirled her round above his head.
‘Daisy, Daisy, gimme yer answer, do! I’m half crazy, all for the love o’ you!’ he sang, while Alice rolled up her eyes at such caperings and Mabel smiled fondly, until she remembered her manners and turned to greet their guests. Sam Mackintosh was eyeing her up and down in a boldly admiring manner, while the other young man stood back as if rather unsure of himself. He was of middle height, slightly built, a few years older than the other two and, while not obviously good-looking, Mabel immediately thought what a kind face he had. Like Sam, he too was looking at her, but far more respectfully. She wanted to put him at his ease, but was not sure what to say and felt herself blushing.
‘Cor, I’m that parched!’ groaned Albert. ‘Put the kettle on, Mabel, for ’Oly ’Arry, ’cause ’e’s signed the pledge. Sam, pick up a couple o’ jugs an’ go down to the public for beer for us ordin’ry men, will yer?’
At fifteen, Albert was a well-grown lad, as handsome as his father with the same dark eyes and hair, the s
ame strong white teeth with the two prominent incisors that added to his attraction. The difference was that Albert cared nothing about his appearance; his cap was stuck on the back of his head, his jacket sleeves were frayed and the bottoms of his ragged trousers were tied with string. He despised Jack Court’s insistence on well-pressed suits and polished boots, and seemed to take a perverse pride in looking as if he had just come from the railway depot. Which, of course, he had.
As they gathered round the table for their fried fish banquet, Harry Drover glanced apologetically at Mabel who seemed to be more in charge than Albert’s mother. ‘I hope it’s all right, comin’ in on yer like this, Miss Court. Yer brother’s such a card, the rest of us never know when he’s serious or pullin’ our legs.’
His natural politeness had an immediate appeal for Mabel. ‘Albert’s a comic right enough, but he’s a good sort at heart and any friend o’ his is very welcome here – ‘specially as ye’ve brought yer own supper,’ she answered with a smile. ‘D’ye want a cup o’ tea? The kettle’s just boiled.’
‘That’d be very nice, er, Miss Court.’
‘And you’re – Mr Drover?’
‘Call ’im ‘Arry – ovverwise known as ‘Oly ‘Arry, ’cause ’e don’t drink, don’t swear and don’t go wiv wimmin!’ chortled Albert.
Harry looked embarrassed and Mabel quickly cut in. ‘Take no notice o’ my brother, ye’ll only make him worse if yer do. Er, would yer like to sit down, Mr Drover? Over there with my brother George – Alice, put out the salt an’ vinegar, and fetch some glasses down for the other, er, boys.’
‘Can I have beer an’ all?’ begged George.
‘No, yer can’t. Tea for you, Mother?’
Annie nodded and Harry, who was still standing, handed round the cups as Mabel poured them out.
‘Is there any bread an’ butter?’ demanded Alice.
‘Margarine, an’ cut it yerself if yer want it. Now, has everybody got what they want? Good, so let’s all sit down.’ Mabel passed a hand across her forehead to push back a stray lock of hair and was again aware of Harry Drover’s brown eyes upon her. He immediately looked away, and she noticed that as he sat at the table he briefly bowed his head and lowered his eyes. She remembered how her mother had said grace before meals when they had all been children, though the custom had lapsed in recent years. On an impulse she decided to revive it now. ‘Would yer mind sayin’ grace for us, Mr Drover?’ she asked.
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