by Carol Rivers
Lizzie of
Langley Street
Carol Rivers, whose family comes from the Isle of Dogs, East London, now lives in Dorset.
Visit www.carolrivers.com and follow her on Facebook and Twitter @carol_rivers
Also By Carol Rivers
Bella of Bow Street
Lily of Love Lane
Eve of the Isle
East End Angel
In the Bleak Midwinter
East End Jubilee (previously Rose of Ruby Street)
A Sister’s Shame
Cockney Orphan (previously Connie of Kettle Street)
A Wartime Christmas
Together for Christmas
The Fight for Lizzie Flowers
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2005
A CBS COMPANY
This paperback edition, 2015
Copyright © Carol Rivers, 2005
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Carol Rivers to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5042-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5043-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd are committed to sourcing paper that is made from wood grown in sustainable forests and supports the Forest Stewardship Council, the leading international forest certification organisation. Our books displaying the FSC logo are printed on FSC certified paper.
This book is dedicated to May and Bill Skeels
Contents
Book One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Book Two
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Book Three
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Book Four
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE FIGHT FOR LIZZIE FLOWERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Book One
Chapter One
November 1920
Isle of Dogs
East London
Lizzie sat up in bed, her heart pounding.
The crash had brought her awake with a start. Taking care not to disturb her sisters, she slipped from their large double bed, glancing back at the two small forms snuggled together under the worn blankets. Nothing ever woke Babs or Flo. They managed to sleep their way through every disruption in the house, of which there were many. Lizzie pushed her tangled hair from her face and shivered in her thin nightdress. The temptation to climb back in beside them was enormous. Resisting it, she opened the bedroom door. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark she saw the shapes of her two brothers on the half-landing. Bert’s huge bulk was unmistakable as he bent over Vinnie, who, on all fours, appeared to be trying to crawl up the stairs.
When light from the gas-mantle flickered on in the passage downstairs, Lizzie’s heart sank. She waited for the inevitable, a full-scale row in the middle of the night. As she had feared, Kate Allen came belting up the stairs just as Bert and Vinnie staggered on to the landing.
Vinnie was promptly sick.
‘You filthy sod!’ Kate gasped breathlessly as she arrived beside her younger son. The stench was overpowering. But Vinnie didn’t hear. He had fallen flat on his face in his own vomit.
‘What have you two buggers been up to?’ Kate demanded of Bert, who was still on his feet. ‘This is the second night running you’ve come in late!’
At only thirty-nine years of age, Kate Allen looked a haggard old woman. A darned woollen shawl was pulled around her nightdress, covering the straggly grey plait that hung down her back; her face was the colour of parchment and prematurely aged by deep lines of worry.
Lizzie watched Bert’s jaw fall open. His eyes were red and unfocused. She was well aware that Bert, at eighteen, was known throughout the Isle of Dogs as the gentle giant. His great shoulders, tree trunks of legs and barrel chest set him apart from other people. But despite his abnormal physique, he was not to be feared. Bert possessed a heart of gold, but unfortunately lacked any brains to go with it.
Lizzie had watched Vinnie capitalize on this. Though small and wiry in stature and a year younger than Bert, he was quick-witted with a sly, mean spirit. What she disliked most was the way he used Bert for his own ends, whilst Bert’s loyalty to Vinnie was unquestionable.
‘Well?’ demanded Kate, her face puffed and blotchy with anger. ‘What have you got to say for yerself, you dopey great lump?’
As usual when flummoxed, Bert fiddled with his cap, turning it round and round in his big, gnarled hands. ‘We just come from the pub, Ma,’ he mumbled, unable to meet Kate’s blazing eyes. ‘Got a bit ’eld up on the way ’cos Vinnie took ill, like. Something upset him, he said – them eels, he thinks it was.’
Lizzie knew Bert was carrying the can for Vinnie, who would have primed Bert earlier in the evening with the story of the eels, no doubt having a laugh at Bert’s expense.
‘I’ll give you eels. He ain’t poisoned, he’s pissed!’ Kate bellowed as she glared at the prostrate body on the landing. Vinnie’s mouth gaped open, a gurgle coming from the back of his throat. ‘Look at his face! It ain’t turned that colour from eating eels. He’s had another bashing by the looks of it.’
‘Yeah, he looks a bit peaky, don’t he?’ Bert agreed vaguely.
‘Peaky? Peaky!’ spluttered Kate. ‘He’s bleedin’ unconscious!’
‘You go back to bed,’ Lizzie told her mother gently, trying to avert disaster. ‘Me and Bert’ll clean up the landing and put Vin to bed.’ At fifteen and the eldest girl of the family, Lizzie was accused by Babs of being a bossy cow. Babs, at fourteen, was strong willed and already a beauty, with waist-length auburn hair and innocent brown eyes that attracted the boys. She refused to be dominated by anyone, whilst Lizzie took her role of Kate’s helper seriously, even if Babs hated her for it.
Kate shook her head miserably. ‘God in heaven, help me. What have I brought into this world?’
‘Aw, don’t take it to ’eart, Ma,’ Bert said, adding fuel to the fire. ‘You know what our Vin’s like. A bit ’igh spirited when he’s had a few, that’s all.’
‘High spirits? Is that what you call it—’ Kate stopped, slapping her hand on her heart. What colour there was in her cheeks drained away. She reached out to grip the banister.
‘What’s the matter, Ma?’ Lizzie stepped over Vinnie and took her mother’s arm.
‘It was running up those stairs like that,’ Kate croaked. ‘I’ll be all right when I get back to bed.’
Bert helped to take his mother’s weight, and slowly the three of them descended the stairs, turning into the gloomy passage below.
‘What’s going on out there?’ roared a voice from the front room. Lizzie’s heart sank to her boots. Their father was awake.
Bert pushed open the door of the parlour, which had been converted to a bedroom. Tom Allen lay on a large iron bedstead, his bristly grey hair standing on end, his small eyes narrowed under gauzy cataracts, the result of mustard gas poisoning during the war. Lizzie had never quite got used to the sight of her father as a cripple. She remembered him as tall and handsome, with two strong legs. Now he had only stumps where his legs had been. Blown up in the trenches of Flanders, Tom Allen was one of the few men to return alive.
‘It’s only us, Pa,’ Lizzie answered, fully aware she would now receive the force of his temper. The real culprit was lying unconscious upstairs on the landing, and, what was worse, Lizzie wouldn’t put it past Vinnie to remember nothing of the trouble he caused in the morning.
‘I know it ain’t Father sodding Christmas,’ Tom Allen yelled, clad in a pair of long johns, the loose ends drawn up and pinned to his waist. He supported the weight of his torso by his muscular forearms, lifting the two small stumps in front of him in an agitated jerk. ‘Well? I asked yer a question, gel!’
‘Ma had one of her faintin’ spells,’ Lizzie answered swiftly, giving Bert the eye to keep quiet. ‘We’re just helping her back to bed.’
‘And in the morning I’ll ’elp you lot to me belt,’ Tom Allen growled, an empty threat, as everyone knew, in his condition. Despite his anger, Lizzie felt a pang of compassion for him. She knew he had become more aggressive to compensate for his legs. But he was still her father and she loved him.
‘Leave the kids be for now, Tom. They mean no harm,’ Kate pleaded wearily, sinking down on the bed. She looked deathly white, and Lizzie anxiously pulled the bedclothes round her.
Tom Allen shuffled himself clumsily across the bed in order to make room for his wife. Lizzie averted her eyes from the covered stumps that never failed to fill her with a deep, pitying sadness. She was terrified it would show. Her father hated sympathy and was swift to discern it.
‘I know where I’d like to leave the bloody lot of’em. Now if I hear another sound I’m taking me belt to all five of you, legs or no legs. And don’t forget, Lizzie gel, we’re up first thing for the market.’
Lizzie wanted to ask her mother if there was anything more she could do, but catching Bert’s arm she led him away. Given half the chance he would open his big mouth, and cause another row.
The rift in the family had started in earnest when her father had returned from the war, unable to exert discipline over his household. In his youth, Tom Allen had worked as a stevedore on the big cargo boats that docked in the Port of London. His wage hadn’t made them rich, but it was regular work and they were no poorer than anyone else in Langley Street. Many of the dockers and their families lived in the smoke-blackened two-up, two-down terraced houses that led down to the wharves. Dirty and overcrowded, their backyards brimmed with junk and washing lines. No one grew flowers or vegetables and weeds thrived.
On Friday and Saturday nights the men spent their wage in the pub. The women waited to duck the drunken punches on their return and pray a few pennies remained. Lizzie knew that unlike many households, where the men would beat their wives, her father never raised a hand to their mother. Despite all their troubles, he worshipped the ground she walked on.
Before the war, he’d ruled the family with an iron fist. Being strong and healthy, his rules were obeyed. That was the way things were; not a wonderful life by any means but they felt secure and knew their boundaries. After the war it was a different story. Many men didn’t return; in the Allens’ case, it wasn’t death, but disability that ended the family’s happiness.
As half a man, Tom Allen lost respect in himself, and without legs he would never regain it. A cold lack of regard had grown between Vinnie and his father. Lizzie knew there was nothing Tom could do about it, especially since they only survived with the money Vinnie brought in. Where it came from was a bone of contention. Vinnie worked for a villain, a hard man of the East End, and it had broken his parents’ hearts.
As for Babs, she was almost sick at the sight of the stumps. She only tolerated the gruesome spectacle by ignoring her father. Flo, however, at ten, was too young to remember him clearly before he enlisted. She accepted him as he was and did her best, but Tom would have none of it. Lizzie knew he was frightened of seeing the same look of revulsion in Flo’s eyes as he had seen in Babs’.
Once back out in the passage, Lizzie glared up at her brother. ‘You’re daft, you are, Bert Allen. Ain’t you got no sense at all in that whopping great ’ead of yours? I ask you, going on about eels, what good was that?’
Bert stared down at his muddy boots. ‘Vin told me to fink of a good story,’ he admitted sheepishly.
‘Well, he must’ve forgot that thinking ain’t exactly a natural state for you,’ Lizzie answered sharply, pushing her brother up the stairs. Then, immediately regretting her words, she added gently, ‘Still, I ain’t having a go at you, Bert. When all is said and done, you probably saved him a worse hiding.’
Bert brightened at the unexpected flattery. ‘I ’ope so, gel. ’Cos our Vin was on one ’ell of a bender ternight and nuffin’ I could say would stop ’im. One minute ’e was drinkin’ wiv ’is mates, the next ’e was in a fight out the back, all ’is mates vanished.’
‘Fine friends our Vin has if they all do a bunk,’ Lizzie sniffed.
‘It ain’t Vin’s fault,’ Bert replied loyally. ‘He’s got ’imself in deep with Mik Ferreter but ’e says he’s gonna sort ’imself out soon.’
‘What, as a bookie’s runner! Betting’s illegal and you know it, Bert Allen.’
Bert hung his head.
Again she regretted her tone, but she was worried for Bert, terrified he might get blamed on Vinnie’s account. She sighed as she stared down at Vinnie. The swelling was right up now, covering his close-set eyes and distorting his thin mouth. It was strange how he resembled no one else in the family, Lizzie thought, not for the first time. She herself had long curling black hair and deep green eyes, like their mother. Vinnie’s dark brown hair was dead straight and his eyes were jet black beads, always moving in their small sockets. Babs’ big brown eyes were flecked with gold and Flo’s were a lovely soft brown, like a doe’s. Where Vinnie got his hard look from she didn’t know.
Perhaps Vinnie was a throwback, she thought now, as she studied the unpleasant sight. Both maternal and paternal grandparents were born and bred on the Isle of Dogs but they had died long ago. Three of her uncles, Tom’s brothers, had been killed during the war. On her mother’s side there were two sisters, who had married and left the island, their own families scattered far and wide. So if Vinnie resembled any relative, they were destined never to know.
‘We’d better get ’im to bed,’ Lizzie said as Vinnie stirred, ‘then I’ll clean up.’
‘I’ll sort out ’is mess, gel,’ Bert said cheerfully. ‘Don’t you worry, leave it to me. You get yer ’ead down.’
Lizzie watched Bert haul Vinnie over his shoulder as though he was lifting a sack of feathers. Brute strength and ignorance, she thought, smiling to herself. Vinnie’s dangling arms disappeared along the landing and she heaved a sigh of relief. Selfish and greedy,
that was Vinnie. He gave money to Kate only to boast of his role as breadwinner. It gave him power to sneer at others, including Tom. Not that Kate had been able to refuse the money; with business at Cox Street market being so slack, it was all that had kept a roof over their heads and food on the table.
Lizzie tiptoed downstairs to the scullery, squeezing past the Bath chair and its detachable tray on which were displayed the ribbons and souvenirs that were her father’s livelihood; the Seaman’s Rest Home at Greenwich provided sources of goods for disabled veterans. Lizzie had left school at thirteen, when Tom came home from the war and her mother needed help, and for the past year she had pushed him in the Bath chair from Cubitt Town to Cox Street market, Poplar, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, then all the way home again.
Lizzie lifted the galvanized iron pail that stood behind the back door. She filled it with cold water from the tap over the china sink. Next to the sink was the boiler and beside this, during the day, a kettle boiled perpetually on the hob.
The bucket half full, Lizzie hauled it over the sink, careful not to spill any on the large oak table. Her mother scrubbed the table religiously and fed her family well on it. The few extra pennies she earned taking in sewing all went on food. Lizzie glanced fondly at the big rocking chair squeezed in one corner. Her mother sat there at night, head bent over a needle that flashed incessantly through every cloth known to mankind.
A shiny black roach fell on to the back of the chair. Lizzie watched it skid down a rung, keeping its balance with agility. The porous distempered walls were infested with bugs, skittish black insects that acrobatically stuck to any surface and were the devil to kill.
She ignored it, going quietly upstairs. The house was silent. It was music to her ears, no fights or rows taking place. Langley Street was where they had grown up, where her maternal grandparents had lived. All their history was in this house. A roof to call their own was more than a lot of families had. At school, one of her friends had been taken to an orphanage along with her six brothers and sisters, her parents unable to pay the rent and evicted from their home. Destitution hadn’t befallen the Allens; and whilst she had breath in her body, Lizzie vowed it never would.