by Mary Gibson
‘But, Bertie, you silly man, we can still get married! I don’t care about the life you offered me, I care about you! Besides, if you don’t marry me, you’ll be giving your uncle just what he wants anyway!’
He got up, pacing agitatedly in front of her. Suddenly he was kneeling on the sleety path in front of the bench where she sat. He took both her hands in his. ‘Milly, never doubt that I do love you, but you’ve got Jimmy to think of and you mustn’t be saddled with someone who can’t even support you, let alone give you a decent life.’
‘Well, I’ve still got a job, and you won’t be out of work for long. There’s other things you can do.’
It seemed so obvious to her that it wasn’t the insurmountable problem he thought it was. Perhaps because she’d grown up in poverty, it didn’t hold the same terror that it did for him. She pulled him up off his knees and made him sit next to her, snuggling beneath his arm. She felt more hopeful, now that she realized it was a practical problem and not one of the heart.
Bertie sighed. ‘You don’t understand, Milly. I was my uncle’s partner. I’ve been getting a share in the profits from all the shops. Being a grocer is all I know. But the way things are going, with shops closing down for lack of trade, I’d be lucky to get a job as a delivery boy!’
‘What’s wrong with that? It’s better than nothing.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘That’s my bold, brave girl. I know you think you can take on the world, love, but it’ll likely mean I can’t keep on Storks Road, and I couldn’t give you and the boy a decent life. In fact I’d just be a drain on you.’ Then, looking into her eyes, he went on. ‘I planned to take you both on holiday to Ramsgate after the wedding...’ he said wistfully.
‘Holiday? Who needs a holiday, when we can go hopping?’ She smiled up at him, but he gave her no answering smile.
‘Well, if I thought you didn’t have a choice, I might ask you to risk it with me,’ he said, and she felt his body go still as he went on. ‘But I hear Pat Donovan’s getting out at Christmas and I don’t want to stand in the way of your chances there. He can always earn a bob or two.’ He gave an uncharacteristically bitter little laugh and she disentangled herself from him.
‘If you wanted to insult me, you’ve succeeded. What do you think I am? Some sort of whore who’ll go for the highest bidder? You know very well I’ve finished with Pat, and you know why.’
She stood up. ‘I’d better get back to Elsie,’ she said flatly, but as she turned to leave, he called to her.
‘Milly! Don’t go like that!’ But she didn’t look back. She tucked her chin into the shawl collar of her coat and stuffed her hands into her pockets. Tiny balls of stinging sleet crusted the grass all around with a pale sheet and soon her coat was covered too. She broke into a run, feeling betrayed by her own ridiculous hopefulness, hot tears running freely, now that he couldn’t see. She launched herself forward into the swirling ice and wind, sprinting now. Bertie Hughes might have been infatuated with her, but he could never have respected her. He was suggesting exactly what her mother had, that she was more interested in his money than in him. Perhaps Uncle had been right after all, and their two worlds should never try to mix. It simply wasn’t worth the heartache.
23
Run Outs
December 1924
Bertie still went to the grocery on the following Monday. He’d told Milly he wouldn’t leave the Dockhead customers without a local shop. Many of them bought tea and other staples in very small quantities, and those who were bad managers often came to him on Monday morning with an empty purse and an equally empty food cupboard after the weekend blowout. They would be counting on the slate, till they could get to the pawnshop. But his uncle had been ruthlessly efficient and by the end of the day a new shopkeeper was installed in Hughes’ Dockhead grocery, an older, married cousin of Bertie’s, a true-blue Tory, with three children and a respectable wife. Bertie had wished him luck, come home and started looking for another job the next day.
His plan was to find a shop manager job, or, he’d told Milly, even a sales assistant position – he couldn’t afford to be choosy. After trying every shop in Tower Bridge Road, he went on to the Blue, and when he had no luck there started along the Old Kent Road. But as he’d predicted, wherever he went, shops were closing at an alarming rate. He’d even tried Peggy Dillon’s butcher, who’d confided that the free flow of meat to the Dillon family might well be drying up, if takings didn’t pick up soon.
Each jobless day dawned, with Bertie still stubbornly refusing to change his mind about the wedding, and after a few days of pleading Milly retreated into a punishing silence. She pointedly ignored Bertie’s vigorous flicking through the job pages in the South London Press as she dashed about the kitchen, hastily gathering Jimmy’s things and making sure that Elsie had all she needed for another day in hiding. She and Bertie hadn’t spoken to each other for a week and Milly certainly wasn’t going to be the one who broke the ice. Bertie sighed and looked over at her with a hangdog expression that at any other time she would have found funny.
‘Don’t expect any sympathy from me!’ she said finally, in exasperation at his pigheadedness. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this at all. I’ve said I’ll marry you without a penny, and all you want to do is push me into the arms of Pat Donovan!’
He flung the paper away and stood up, jamming his pipe into his mouth. ‘Strike me dumb, how many more times? I never said I didn’t want to marry you, I just said I couldn’t! When I get back on my feet, it’ll be a different kettle of fish, but meanwhile, I’m not going to stand in your way if—’
‘Oh, if, if, if! Stick your “ifs” in your effin pipe and smoke ’em!’
She was glad to see that Bertie got his oft-repeated wish, and was indeed struck dumb. He sat down again with the paper and miserably began turning the pages.
Elsie had witnessed all this while patiently holding Jimmy, who was flushed and grizzly, with teeth coming through. Now, as Milly scooped the little boy from her arms, Elsie said, ‘Don’t shout at Bertie like that. He’s only thinking of you.’
Milly paused. ‘You keep your nose out of it. You’re not doing your precious Bertie any favours either. Fat chance he’ll have getting elected on the council if he’s caught harbouring a criminal!’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she saw Bertie’s face tighten with disapproval. She let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘You two have a lovely day. I know I won’t!’ As she banged the door, Jimmy began to cry. ‘Don’t you start, either,’ she said sternly and Jimmy hiccoughed and started to gurgle. ‘At least someone does as they’re told,’ she said softly, tucking him snugly into his pram. At six months, Jimmy still felt like the one thing in life that could never disappoint her. However much the compass of her own heart seem to waver, Jimmy was always true north.
Southwell’s was beginning to seem like a pleasant relief from the strained atmosphere at home. She had kept her troubles to herself, hoping they would be resolved before anyone need know that her wedding was off. But that morning when Kitty came into the picking room, she knew the Arnold’s Place bush telegraph had been at work.
‘Milly! What’s all this about the wedding being off?’ Kitty, out of breath, had obviously taken the three flights of stairs at a run.
‘That didn’t take long to get round. Who told you?’
‘Mrs Carney told Mum when she was collecting the pledges! And apparently Ma Donovan was full of it, telling whoever’d listen that her Pat wasn’t coming home to Bertie Hughes’ leftovers.’
Milly squeezed a pulpy Seville orange so that juice spurted up into her face. She flung it aside into the bin.
‘Vicious old cow. But I’d like to know how it got out. I only told me mum yesterday!’
Kitty pulled up the corner of her apron to wipe Milly’s face. ‘Our Percy said Amy told all the kids, last night, that she wasn’t going to be a bridesmaid any more. Oh, Mill, I bet you’re choked. I really thought he was a decent feller.’
A tumbling mass of early Seville oranges was thundering along the conveyer belt. Shattered dreams were no excuse to hold up the line. Whatever dramas or heartaches might be uppermost in their minds, they picked and peeled, saving the spiralled skin for thick-cut marmalade, placing the pulp into the bin, turning back again to the conveyer belt, while Milly explained in a hushed voice what had happened.
Kitty’s response surprised her. ‘Well, it’s his pride, Milly. What bloke wants to ponce off a woman? Unless, of course, he’s like your old man!’
‘You may be right, Kitty, but it feels like an insult to me, as if I only wanted him for his money! That’s what I can’t forgive.’
Talking about it didn’t help; it only made the tightness in her throat worse. She’d choked back so many tears these past few days, she thought they must all be dammed up somewhere behind her chest. Her hands were growing red and sore, inflamed by the thousand little unavoidable cuts washed by the acidic juice, and Milly winced, though more from the memory of Bertie’s decision than the physical discomfort in her fingers. In fact the pain was somehow a welcome distraction from her heartache.
‘That’s a load of old codswallop, Milly Colman, and you know it. If you really want him, you should remember your own advice to me, that time you got blind drunk.’
When Milly looked puzzled, Kitty began to sing under her breath: ‘A good man nowadays is hard to find...’
She wished Kitty hadn’t reminded her.
And it was a long day. The marmalade season was already upon them so there would be no let up until well into February. Day and night, the bitter-sweet smell of marmalade being turned over in Southwell’s huge copper boiling pans filled Dockhead and beyond. This, combined with the cinnamon and nutmeg smells from the spice grinders in Shad Thames, was as much a herald of Christmas as the changing vestments of the priests at Dockhead Church. Milly only wished she could feel more in the festive spirit, but how could she, when each day only emphasized the absence of her Christmas wedding? The wedding dress and bridesmaid dress were in their covers, hanging from a hook on the back of her bedroom door. The wide-brimmed hat she’d chosen was in a box on top of the wardrobe. The miniature sailor suit she’d made for Jimmy was folded up in a drawer, along with her hopes and dreams.
Walking back to Storks Road with Jimmy that evening, she missed the feeling of warm anticipation she normally had when returning home. She braced herself for more tussles with Bertie, more worry over Elsie. After manoeuvring Jimmy’s pram into the passage, she left him sleeping there and went to the scullery, expecting to find Elsie. She had to admit that her sister had made herself useful this week, preparing the tea before she came home. But tonight the scullery was empty.
When she stepped out of the back door into the garden, she could see straight away that Elsie was not in her favourite place. She wouldn’t call out, for fear of waking Jimmy, so she went upstairs, looking first in the spare room where Elsie had been sleeping, then in her own. She couldn’t imagine why Elsie would be in Bertie’s room, but she went there nevertheless. The note had been carefully placed on his pillow. She picked it up and read it. Dear Bertie, I don’t want to get you into no trouble. Please tell my mum I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. Elsie.
Milly sat heavily on Bertie’s bed, holding the note in her trembling hand. A small but undeniable ripple of relief was followed by a chilling thought. What had her sister meant by sorry I couldn’t say goodbye? She knew from her own desperate times that Elsie wouldn’t be able to survive on the streets alone, and what if the river seemed the only way out, as it once had to her? She found herself stroking Bertie’s pillow as she remembered her own rescue that night at Fountain Stairs. She looked around the room, neat and tidy, like Bertie himself, but so full of his absence it hurt her. It had been her jibe about Bertie harbouring a criminal that had pushed her sister out, she was sure of it. ‘Oh, Bertie, why aren’t you here now?’ She spoke to the empty room, looking round it for some other evidence of her sister’s intentions. It was no good; she would have to look for Elsie herself. She couldn’t sit there, doing nothing. She hurried downstairs, threw on her coat, took hold of the pram and was about to dash out of the house with Jimmy, when she saw the front door opening.
‘Dear Jesus, let it be her,’ she prayed, in the dim light of the passage. She started forward, knocking the breath out of Bertie with the pram, just as he came through the door.
‘Blimey, Milly!’ he said, startled. ‘I know you’ve got the hump with me, but no need to attack me with a deadly weapon!’ He edged round the pram. ‘What’s happened?’ he said, seeing her stricken face.
‘Have you been out looking for her?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been to a job agency. Looking for who?’
Of course, Elsie would have waited for him to go out first. And the thought of her sister, making her sacrificial plan and carrying it out all on her own, suddenly moved her to tears. ‘Oh, Bertie, Elsie’s gone!’ She covered her face with her hands in despair and he gathered her up like a child. ‘I’ll never learn to keep my trap shut, and if she’s done anything stupid, it’ll be my fault!’
He hushed her and held her tightly, then asking to see the note, read it slowly, shaking his head.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t think she’d do anything as desperate as that. Come on, bring the pram, time to rally the troops.’
They went straight to Arnold’s Place and after the initial shock, her mother agreed with Bertie, that Elsie couldn’t have gone far. The important thing was to find her before the police did.
Milly was amazed at the change in Bertie, the affable, easy-going grocer transformed into a sergeant major in the blink of an eye. She’d never seen this military side of him. The little she’d been able to prise out of him about his war experiences only revealed that, after volunteering in a noble impulse of duty, he’d quickly discovered that without a belligerent bone in his body, he’d had to call on pure survival instinct in order to level a gun at another human being. Now, for once, she stood silently and took his orders.
‘Milly, you go to the Settlement. Tell Florence what’s happened, and that we need the girls’ club to help us search. Ask her to drop the sewing, drop the dumbbells, drop everything and get the girls combing all the streets from Bermondsey Wall East to Jamaica Road. Mrs Colman, you take Jimmy and tell the neighbours to be on the lookout. I’ll go and recruit Barrel and his merry band!’
They all left the house together, her mother pushing the pram to the opposite end of Arnold’s Place, while Milly walked with Bertie to the gas lamp, where Amy was playing alley gobs with a gang of children.
Bertie called out, ‘Barrel! Job for you lot!’
Barrel looked up sharply. ‘How much?’
‘Nothing, you cheeky sod, you’re doing it for one of your own, not me!’
Once he’d explained who it was they were searching for, Amy was quick to make herself Barrel’s second in command and jumped to his side.
‘Oi, button it, you gobby lot!’ Barrel shouted above the children’s clamorous condemnation of Stonefield. ‘We’ll do it like Run Outs. All scatter, and if anyone finds her, bring her back to the tin!’ He banged the old rusty tin can, used as home base in their nightly game. ‘Come on. Run Out!’ he bellowed and set off at a surprisingly fast pace.
Every boy and girl leaped up, some shoeless or coatless, and scampered off into the chilly night, soon disappearing into the pearl mist beyond the comforting pool of gaslight.
Bertie declared he would walk towards Tower Bridge and recruit anyone he knew on the way, to help with the hunt. But before Milly darted off towards Bermondsey Wall, he caught her by the arm.
Drawing her close, he kissed her and whispered, ‘Don’t blame yourself and don’t give up hope!’ He paused, then looked at her solemnly. ‘But, Milly, you know that if we can’t find her tonight, we’ll have to go to the police?’
Milly nodded. Better she was alive in Stonefield, than dead on the str
eets from cold, or worse. She kissed him back, all their estrangement forgotten for now. Then pulling away, she hurtled into the fog-laden night. On the way she stopped at Hickman’s Folly, gathering together Kitty and as many Bunclerks as were home. They called in at the Folly, so that by the time they reached the Settlement, Florence Green was met by a dozen or more volunteers. She quickly mustered the girls’ club and the boy scouts who were meeting that night, giving them each a section of streets to search. They appeared to Milly like the ‘children’s crusade’ that Sister Clare had taught them about at school, a brave little army, clattering down the gaslit stone steps. Many of them were schoolfriends of Elsie’s and gave Milly sympathetic looks as they passed, trooping off in twos and threes.
The girls scattered towards the river, the boys into the less savoury, crumbling back-to-backs of the notorious Salisbury Street. Milly and Kitty joined the riverside search, and Milly insisted they first check Fountain Stairs. Whatever Bertie had said about Elsie’s intentions, Milly had to make sure she wasn’t there. Standing at the top of the mossy-green steps, she peered down to the river, invisible beneath the rolling fog. Descending two steps, she called out, ‘Elsie?’ The sound of her own voice echoed off the damp-encrusted river walls. Taking another step down, she heard the river slap and suck at the muddy foreshore. Low tide; for that she was grateful. It would be so much harder to throw yourself into the river when the tide was out. She listened intently; only the clashing river, tossing forward over patches of shingle, followed by its long withdrawing sigh.
‘She’s not here!’ Milly called up to Kitty.
‘’Course she’s not!’ Kitty replied. ‘No one in their right mind would come here on a night like this!’