by Mary Gibson
Her mother crossed herself. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, don’t say such a wicked thing, you’ll go straight to hell.’
‘Not much different from here then,’ Milly muttered. A burning smell reached her as the saucepan began to spit and crackle. ‘The pan’s boiling dry,’ she said, and went to top it up with more boiling water.
As the steam rose, Milly imagined herself sitting in the old tin tub, hot water scalding her body, with a bottle of gin in hand. She’d often heard the other jam girls talking about such ‘home remedies’, and perhaps in her desperation she might have tried something like that, but the cold butchery Pat had in mind was something that filled her with dread. Perhaps she should just tell the old man and get it over with; she’d let him knock her to kingdom come and do the job for her. She groaned; she didn’t know what she wanted.
‘Do I have to tell him tonight? I’m meant to be going to the Settlement.’
Her mother looked at her sharply. ‘Your Settlement days are over, love, a baby’s a full-time job. You’ll have no time for clubs. You’ve made your bed, you’ll have to lie in it.’
She couldn’t bear her mother’s muted disappointment. Her father’s rage, when it came, might well be easier to counter. She was about to throw on her coat and make her escape, when the door opened and he walked in.
‘What’s she doing here?’ he addressed her mother.
The old man persisted in the fiction that she lived elsewhere. They rarely saw each other in the house, and, in her imagination, he had grown much larger and more forbidding. But now, his actual, beery presence steeled Milly. It was time to gather in the Kentish hop harvest; like it or not, a hopping baby was on the way and she would have to face the consequences of her own stupidity. She let the coat slip from her shoulders.
‘I live here!’ she said defiantly. ‘And what’s more I pay rent and board for the pleasure of sneaking about in me own home.’
‘I said,’ he spun round, swaying, ‘what’s she doing in my house?’ Suddenly his foot slipped from under him, his bloodshot eyes widened and, grasping for a handhold, he crashed back into the range, toppling the panful of scalding water down his trousers. He screamed.
Milly leaped to shield her mother, who had been spattered with boiling water too, and now sat frozen in shock. The old man rolled on the floor, grabbing his burned leg, howling loud enough to bring the two younger girls running down from the bedroom.
Milly sped past them into the scullery, ‘Out me way, you two!’ She filled a jug with cold water, dipped a cloth in it and rushed back. Swiftly wrapping her mother’s arm in the wet cloth, she doused the old man’s leg with water. It pooled around her feet and as her mother still hadn’t moved, Milly bent to help the old man up.
‘Get off me!’ He flailed his arms at her, as though she were the devil who’d sent him to a burning hell, instead of his own flesh and blood. She flung the enamel jug at him. ‘Suit yourself, you ungrateful bastard. I’m only trying to help!’
Grabbing her coat, she fled out into the street, knowing that whatever happened now, she would never bring a baby into this house. She ran to the end of Arnold’s Place, weaving her way through back alleys and courts towards the river – her haven. She passed Southwell’s jetty where she used to meet Pat, but that was the last place she wanted to go. She ran along Bermondsey Wall, between high warehouses, beneath gantries, glimpsing the river between the dark wings of cranes, eventually coming to the Fountain river stairs. She clattered down them two at a time, slipping on their coating of slimy green algae. Teetering to a halt on the very last step, she took a gulping breath of musty riverine air.
The tide was out. Olive-green sludge, studded with stones, spread out before her, but she dare not step on to the river mud here, where its sluggish-looking water masked a treacherous current that could turn in an instant and sweep her away. She scanned the river. To her left, the fortress-like turrets of Tower Bridge were visible, and all the way from the bridge to where she stood, strings of unmanned tethered barges bobbed and banged each other. The occasional tug chugged against the tide, but at this time in the evening the river traffic was beginning to diminish. Only when she knew she was completely alone did she let out a long, despairing howl.
‘Oh, Milly, what have you done! It’s all ruined!’
She screamed at the swooping gulls till she was hoarse, and raved at the deep, indifferent Thames. Mourning her life, which had only just begun, yet which already felt wasted. So often the wide, calm river had been enough to absorb her youthful rages, but this time there was no comfort in its slow-moving waters. On Tower Bridge, she could see the early evening traffic trundling across its outstretched arms and the tiny, unheeding pedestrians hurrying back home for their untroubled teas. She wished herself to be any one of that anonymous crowd. Dusk was draping a gentle, violet gauze between the solid towers of the bridge, and the top walkway stood out, a black filigree. A good place for a suicide, so they said, and for a moment, Milly’s pain at the loss of her future seemed to call out for some equally drastic remedy. She sat down on the damp step, breathing in the musk of the ooze below her. Leaning her head on her arms, she wept.
When all her tears had been spent, and the cold damp had reached her bones, she stood up, brushed off the back of her coat and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She wiped her face with her sleeve. Nobody was coming to save her, least of all Pat Donovan. The only person who could help her was herself. Perhaps the river had done its work after all, for as she started to walk slowly back towards the Bermondsey Settlement in Farncombe Street, she felt a grim calm enfold her, and she knew what she must do.
It was too early for the sewing circle, but people were already going into the Settlement building. It was a soot-stained Victorian Gothic mansion with two wings and a central tower, at the base of which was the pointed-arched entrance. Oriel windows protruded from its grimy facade and clusters of elongated, brick chimneys twisted into the smoky air. The interior had the polished, studious calm of a Cambridge College, with wood-panelled lecture rooms and a carpeted music room. There was a gym and a courtyard where, when she was younger, Milly had joined in the hearty drills, designed to strengthen rickety bones.
The place was as much a missionary endeavour as any of those in darkest Africa, and the Colmans, though Catholic, were, like many other poor Bermondsey families, not too proud to benefit from the free doctors, free meals or country outings provided by the Wesleyans. But for Milly, the main attraction had always been an indefinable sense of possibilities, not glimpsed anywhere else along Bermondsey Wall. At the Settlement, she was allowed to make a garment, simply because it was beautiful. Elsie could sing harmless country airs of harvests and hedgerows, just for the sheer fun of it, and each May Day, Amy could whirl round a maypole as if Bermondsey still had a village green. Yet on this particular cold January evening, as she approached the Settlement, that sense of possibilities had deserted Milly entirely.
She mounted the steps with head down, lost in her own thoughts, and therefore didn’t see the man just in front of her. He pulled open the door, stepped back, and collided with her. Apologizing, he turned, raising his brown trilby hat to her. She saw recognition spark in his blue eyes and he raised an eyebrow.
‘Milly? From Arnold’s Place?’
Seeing him out of context had confused her, but now she realized it was Hughes the grocer’s nephew. Usually she saw only the top half of him, wrapped in his white grocer’s apron. Tonight he was dressed smartly in a brown tweed suit and polished brogues.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry, I was in a world of my own. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.’
He opened the door to let her through. ‘Haven’t you? I’ve been coming to lectures here ever since Uncle Alf put me in charge of the Dockhead shop. Actually, I’ve seen you here a few times, girls’ club, isn’t it?’
Milly gave him a non-committal nod. ‘Sewing.’
She really didn’t remember seeing him here,
perhaps because their paths had only crossed when she’d turned up blind drunk and insensible. Suddenly she felt hot with embarrassment at the thought of him witnessing her in that state. She stood in the doorway, aware of his quizzical eyes upon her, unable to tell if he was judging her or laughing at her. She blushed.
‘Well, don’t let me keep you from your sewing. Give my regards to your mother.’
He strode off towards the lecture hall, brown brogues clicking on the parquet flooring. She stood for a moment, with a feeling that she had been let off, and walked thoughtfully towards the sewing room.
She was the first to arrive. Kitty wasn’t coming as she was helping her mother to nurse Percy. ‘Spoiling him rotten, she is,’ Kitty had said, though Milly knew that she was the worst offender when it came to indulging her little brother.
Milly went to the cupboard, where their sewing materials were kept, and pulled out her latest project. It was a rather grown-up-looking shift dress for Elsie, who, at thirteen, had finally been persuaded by Milly to abandon the childish frilled pinafores and ribbons she favoured.
Miss Florence Green glided noiselessly into the sewing room.
‘You’re the early bird!’ she announced and, startled, Milly dropped Elsie’s half-finished dress, along with assorted bits of material. Miss Green helped her gather them up, and they spread them out on the central work table. Milly thanked her, letting out an unconscious sigh.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Milly? You don’t seem your normal cheerful self.’
It was now or never, and Milly couldn’t afford to be proud. ‘Truth is, Miss Green, I came early so I could have a word with you, before the others got here. Only... I might not be able to come to the club for much longer.’
‘Oh, Milly, why not? I thought you loved sewing!’ She sounded genuinely disappointed.
‘I do, I do, there’s nothing I like better, but... well, I might be... getting married.’ Milly was ashamed of her own cowardice.
Florence Green smiled. ‘Well, that’s not a problem, Milly!’ She put her arm round Milly. ‘You’ll just have to join the mothers’ meeting!’
‘I never said anything about being a mother!’ Perhaps Milly’s protestation was too vehement, for comprehension suddenly dawned on Miss Green’s mild features.
‘Oh, my dear girl, this is not like you, not like you at all!’
Miserably, Milly picked up an oddment of material, wiping away a solitary tear. Not like her at all? No, she’d always been so proud of her ability to take care of herself, hadn’t she? Strong enough to fight off any man, yet weak enough to be swayed by one tender kiss. She was as much a fool as any other girl who got herself into trouble, and she hated the look in Miss Green’s eyes that confirmed it.
‘Is it Pat Donovan you’re going to marry?’ Miss Green asked gently. She sat down next to Milly and took her hand.
Milly shook her head. ‘It would be, if he weren’t in the nick.’
‘Yes, I heard about that from Mrs Donovan. Do you know for how long?’
‘It doesn’t matter, looks like I’ll be on my own,’ she said, wiping away another stray tear, ‘and I’ve got to do what I think’s best for me and... the baby.’
‘And what do your parents think is best?’ Miss Green asked.
‘The old man doesn’t know yet, not unless Mum’s told him by now. He’ll chuck me out once he knows, and I wouldn’t want to stay there anyway, not the way he is.’
Florence Green, like everyone else in Dockhead, knew of the old man’s violent temper. She said nothing about him, but uttered soothing sounds.
‘But your mother’s a good woman, surely she’d help you look after the baby?’
‘Yes, she is a good woman, Miss Green, but she’s a good Catholic too, and you know it’s such a... disgrace.’
Milly’s face betrayed all the despair she was desperately trying to hide. But just then, sounds from the corridor announced the arrival of other club members. Miss Green squeezed Milly’s hand. ‘Stay behind after and we’ll talk about it...’ She got up, turning sadly away from Milly’s defeated figure, hunched over the table, and began to greet the other girls as they arrived in cheerful, noisy groups for their night at the sewing circle.
The single women helpers of the Settlement lived in small rooms high in the gables of the Settlement building. As Florence Green drew the floral curtains across the tiny window of her room, Milly had the chance to look around. She was struck by how small it was, not much bigger than their kitchen. She had expected something grander. It was cosy enough, with a side table and lamp, a little desk and two armchairs either side of a fireplace, which housed a small gas fire. The iron-framed bed had been covered in a beautiful, bright patchwork quilt, no doubt made by Miss Green. But something about the room made Milly’s heart sink. She imagined the many evenings the young missionary might have spent alone here, quietly sewing, reading from the gold-edged, black Bible on the side table. Milly, with her longing to be free of their crowded home, had often imagined the luxury of having a room of her own, a room just like this one. But now, in the face of Miss Green’s seclusion, she realized, perhaps for the first time, the appeal of her own rowdy nights at the pub, and the crowded streets, which meant that she need never be alone if she didn’t want to be. Even to be squashed into a bed with her two warring sisters was a comfort, when cold nights encouraged a closeness never there by day. But what did she know of Miss Green’s life? Perhaps the woman had more friends than she did.
‘Now, Milly, let me make us some cocoa.’ Miss Green turned brightly to a small sideboard, on which stood a gas ring and some crockery.
Milly watched her silently as she made the cocoa, carefully making a paste in the pretty cups, then adding boiling water from the tiny kettle and finally adding condensed milk from a jar. She presented the cocoa on a tray with an embroidered cloth, making Milly feel as though she were a visiting duchess, rather than a jam girl from Jacob’s Island. The cocoa was sweet and thick and Milly sipped it slowly, waiting for Miss Green to speak.
‘Milly, tell me, what would you like to do about the baby?’ she asked.
I’d like to wish it back to where it came from, Milly thought, but instead she said,
‘It’s not about my life any more.’ She repeated the words she’d rehearsed coming back from the river tonight. ‘Mine might be ruined, but I can still make sure my baby gets a good life. And that won’t be in Arnold’s Place, will it?’ Milly swallowed salty tears, along with a mouthful of sweet cocoa.
‘Oh, Milly, you’re too young to be writing off your own life!’ Miss Green was suddenly animated. ‘No matter how dark it seems, life has a way of persisting.’ She reached over to pat Milly’s hand. ‘I thought my life was over once, Milly...’ She paused, glancing up at a framed photograph on the mantelshelf, which Milly noticed for the first time. It was of a young army officer. ‘My fiancé, he was killed in the war,’ she said simply, reaching up for the photo and offering it to Milly. ‘I thought I’d never feel joy again, and it was a very long time before I did. But... as I say, life has a way of persisting with us, Milly, so don’t give up, not just yet.’
‘He was very handsome.’ Milly felt that her response was inadequate, yet it seemed to please the young woman sitting opposite.
Miss Green smiled, still proud of her dead soldier beau and Milly’s heart ached for her and for herself. For she knew that if Pat was put away for a lifetime, she wouldn’t grieve as this woman did. No, the loss of Pat wouldn’t rob her of her joy.
‘I’d like the baby to go to a good home, but I don’t think I want it to go to the Sisters.’
She knew her mother would want her to go to the Sisters of Mercy at Dockhead. They had homes for ‘fallen women’. But just as she didn’t want to bring a baby into the old man’s house, so her heart rebelled against handing over her child to Sister Mary Paul.
‘But the Sisters do wonderful work, and if it would make things easier for your mother, mightn’t it be best?’
&n
bsp; ‘No!’ Milly was adamant. If all the sisters could be as angelic as her beloved Sister Clare, it might be a different matter.
Miss Green nodded. ‘As you wish, Milly. There is a country home we have contacts with. It’s a very lovely old place, in Kent. Normally girls go there early on in their pregnancies, work at sewing or suchlike – which you’d be very good at!’ She smiled encouragingly, as though this were a new job they were talking about. Milly nodded for her to go on. ‘Then once the baby is born, the child is placed in a good home.’
‘Yes, that’s what I want to do.’ Milly forced out the words through dry lips and constricted throat. ‘It’s for the best.’
‘Sorry it’s not better news, Milly,’ said Freddie Clark. ‘I feel bad for Pat, seeing as I got away scot free, it don’t seem fair.’
‘Two years seems a lot!’ Milly looked from Freddie back to Kitty. They were sitting at a corner table in the Folly the day after Pat’s sentencing. ‘For a few tins?’
Freddie looked hesitant. ‘Well, it was a bit more than a few. That wasn’t my first delivery to Pat’s yard, but it wasn’t just that. Someone tipped ’em off he was involved in that Post Office job in Jamaica Road, the one where the bloke got shot... couldn’t prove nothing but...’ Freddie sipped his beer awkwardly. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but if I was you, I’d take your chance to get clear of him. He’s my mate, but he’s no good.’
Kitty, sitting next to him, nodded in agreement.
‘But, Mill, if there’s anything I can do for you while he’s away, you know, anything for you or the baby...’ Freddie let out a yelp as Kitty kicked him under the table. Then, blushing, he apologized. ‘Sorry, I’m not meant to know, am I?’