Lizzie of Langley Street

by Carol Rivers

  Lizzie instantly thought of Bert. He had a big head and long arms. ‘When was it?’ she asked, telling herself not to be silly.

  ‘Thursday,’ Dickie read, ‘in the wee small hours.’

  Bert and Vinnie had been out on Thursday night. She recalled her mother’s words as she had run up the stairs. The second night running . . .

  Dickie folded away his paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He lifted his floppy sack bag over his shoulder. ‘Come on then, gel. Lead the way.’

  Lizzie walked through the market in a daze as Dickie’s voice went in one ear and out the other.

  Chapter Two

  ‘’Ello Dickie.’ Lizzie saw that her father was looking pleased with himself when they arrived back. The tray in front of him had large gaps in it and his money bag was open as he counted the pennies.

  ‘You done some business then.’ Dickie dumped his sack by the Bath chair.

  ‘Yeah, business is brisk. And it’s only the middle of the morning.’

  ‘What d’you put that down to?’ Dickie asked.

  ‘Everyone’s talkin’ about next week,’ Tom replied. ‘They seem to be doing a fair bit of spending at the same time.’

  ‘You mean Armistice Day,’ Dickie said with a nod. ‘Well, we ought to ’ave a bleeding big funeral every week if it ’elps business. One of them there politicians would do for starters. I can think of a few of’em I’d be pleased to see six feet under.’

  ‘I’ll go along with you there all right.’

  Dickie made himself comfortable on an orange box and began to read the newspaper aloud.

  Lizzie’s thoughts, though, were still on the robbery. She didn’t know why she was so worried. There must be lots of big men involved in robberies all over London, so why suspect Bert? He was not the right sort of material for a thief. He was slow moving and clumsy, but what worried her was that Vinnie might use his influence to involve Bert.

  She could still hear Vi Catcher telling her about Vinnie the other day. Vi lived opposite at number seventy-nine. She was the street’s gossip and made it her business to know everyone else’s. She was always dressed in her apron and turban, but never seemed to do much work. She stood at her front door, watching the world go by, her plump arms folded over her pinny. Kate said Vi was harmless enough, but Lizzie tried to avoid her if she could.

  ‘Off out then, gel?’ Vi had asked as she walked down Langley Street one morning.

  ‘Just doing some errands for Ma, Vi.’ Lizzie knew it was a mistake to pause, but she didn’t want to appear rude.

  ‘Heard the Old Bill collared your Vinnie in the pub last night,’ Vi said with a gleam in her eye. ‘That Mik Ferreter slipped the copper a few quid, apparently, to get him off the hook.’

  ‘You know more than I do, then, Vi,’ Lizzie retorted sharply. Vinnie hadn’t mentioned any of this at home and Vi knew it.

  ‘I hope I ain’t put me foot in it, gel. But I know how much your mum worries about you kids and I thought, well, someone ought to know. Just in case, like.’

  Lizzie had got away quickly, then. She didn’t want to hear any more. A lot of it was gossip, but what Vi had said worried her. Mik Ferreter’s reputation preceded him in the East End. Not only was he a bookie who tolerated no debt, but he was said to have some of the police in his pay. His criminal exploits in the underworld were legendary, and if Vi’s information was correct there was no doubt of the hold he had over Vinnie.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder and Lizzie jumped.

  ‘Blimey, gel, your nerves are in a bad way.’ Danny Flowers grinned down at her. His blue eyes twinkled under his mop of blond hair.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Danny.’

  ‘Who did you think it was,’ he answered with a straight face. ‘The Old Bill?’

  Lizzie went white. ‘Course not!’

  ‘Crikey, I only came up to say hello. I might as well not have bothered.’ Danny stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat and rocked on his heels.

  Lizzie smiled faintly. ‘Sorry, Danny. I got a lot on me mind.’

  ‘Like what for instance?’

  ‘Nothing important, not really.’

  ‘In which case, you’re doing a lot of frowning and jumping for something that ain’t important,’ Danny remarked astutely. ‘Why don’t you walk down to the barra with me and ’ave some chestnuts. Yer dad’ll let you come if you ask ’im nicely.’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing about what’s on me mind, Danny Flowers,’ she warned him, knowing that it would be a surprise to both of them if she kept her mouth shut. ‘It’s me own business and I don’t want no one poking their nose in.’

  ‘Me? Poke me nose in? The name’s Danny Flowers not Pinocchio.’ Danny looked affronted.

  Danny always made her laugh. ‘Just for a few minutes then. I’ll just tell Pa.’

  Lizzie walked over to the Bath chair and asked her father if she could go with Danny. ‘As long as he don’t come the old nonsense,’ Tom said suspiciously. ‘I don’t trust any of them costermongers further than I could throw them.’

  Costermongers were regarded by shopkeepers and stall-holders as disreputable moving from street to street, often selling goods at dirt-cheap prices. The Flowers family, however, had reformed years ago and now ran a greengrocery business on Ebondale Street.

  ‘Danny ain’t a costermonger, Pa,’ Lizzie reminded him once more, hoping Danny couldn’t hear. ‘He just brings the barra up to the market on Saturday for his dad.’

  ‘A leopard don’t change his spots. Just you remember that, my girl.’

  Lizzie escaped whilst she could, though her inclination to argue the point was strong. Bill Flowers’ shop was a bit scruffy and you had to watch some of the stuff he sold but he had gained a reputation for fairness. She couldn’t see the difference, anyway, between selling from a Bath chair and a barrow. Danny had been in the war, too. He was just sixteen when he had enlisted the year before armistice. He had done his bit for king and country.

  Danny was liked on the island, but Danny’s older bother, Frank, was not well regarded. Frank helped in the shop, but had once worked on the docks as a guard. He had been exempt from conscription because of this. Tom Allen had once remarked that Frank Flowers must have a trunk full of white feathers by now.

  ‘How’s yer dad and Gertie?’ Lizzie asked as they walked together down Cox Street.

  Bill Flowers had been a widower since Danny was born nineteen years ago. His wife, Daisy, had died in childbirth. Danny and Frank were the reason Bill had given up his roving way of life. With a new born baby and a little boy of three to look after, a shop was the only way he could earn a living.

  The barrow was all that remained of the old way of life. Gertie Spooner was Bill’s right-hand man. Bill had hired her to help look after the baby after Daisy’s death and Gertie had been at his side ever since. As well as looking after the two boys, she knew the business back to front.

  ‘Dad don’t change,’ Danny grinned. ‘All work and no play, that’s me dad. Gertie still manages to get him down the Quarry on Saturdays though. Between you and me, I reckon she wears the trousers. They should have got spliced those two. Might as well have, for all the time they spend together.’

  Lizzie liked Gertie, who always had time to stop and say a few words in the shop, even when she was busy. Kate had been a regular customer in the old days but not so much lately. Market prices were all she could afford.

  When they reached the barrow the chestnuts were sizzling on the brazier. Their succulent aroma filled the air and Lizzie held her hands over the heat. The warmth penetrated her old green coat and seeped into her cold bones.

  ‘Sit down, gel. I’ll do you some.’ Danny rubbed a tin plate clean on his elbow before tipping out some chestnuts.

  Lizzie hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She sat down on an upturned box. Her mouth was watering as Danny passed her the plate. She stripped them hurriedly, tossing the hot brown nuts quickly between each hand.

  ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, L
izzie Allen,’ he chuckled. ‘Blimey, if all my customers had your appetite – and a full purse – I’d be a millionaire.’

  She licked her lips. ‘I could eat these all day long. They’re lovely.’

  ‘Like someone else I could name.’ Danny folded his arms and leaned against the barrow, tilting his cap over his forehead. ‘So when are you gonna say yes and marry me, then, Lizzie Allen?’ Danny was always teasing her like this. She wondered what he would say if she answered, ‘Whenever you like.’ But she never quite had the nerve to spring that one on him.

  ‘When you’ve made enough money to keep me like a lady,’ she said instead. ‘I’ve expensive tastes, you know.’

  ‘Blimey, hark at it. All right then. If you won’t marry me, when are you gonna let me take you out on the town?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard that one before, Danny Flowers.’

  Lizzie thought he probably said the same to all the girls. She wouldn’t mind betting all those girls had lovely clothes, too. He was so handsome, her Danny, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shirt open at the neck. There wasn’t anyone she’d ever met who made her feel this way, all sort of shivery inside. She’d rather die than let him know, of course. He probably thought she was still a kid. He’d known her ever since she was small, seen her trailing round the market with her sisters in tow. But the way she felt about him wasn’t the way a child felt.

  ‘How do you fancy a night up the Queens?’ he said, with a serious expression on his face.

  Lizzie stared at him. ‘The Queens? Up Poplar?’

  ‘Where else?’

  She almost died of shock. ‘You mean . . . just you and me?’

  Danny laughed. ‘Blimey, gel, I ain’t speaking French, am I?’ He looked at her with amusement, then, leaning towards her, raised one eyebrow. ‘Saturday is Amateur Night. We’d have a bit of fun sitting up there in the gods.’

  The gods! Had she heard him right? She couldn’t believe it.

  Suddenly Danny was staring at her, and his eyes were telling her that he didn’t think of her as a kid any longer. Oh no, she’d been wrong there.

  ‘Course if you didn’t fancy the Queens, we could go to the Lyric,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s over Hammersmith, but Dad would let us borrow the ’orse and cart.’

  ‘The Lyric,’ Lizzie breathed in wonder. ‘At Hammersmith.’

  ‘Beggar’s Opera, it’s called. The most popular show in town.’

  Lizzie knew exactly what the Beggar’s Opera was. Dickie had read aloud all about it from an article in the newspaper; the show was packed with popular music, songs, dancing and puns. Lizzie swallowed. Not only had Danny Flowers actually asked her to go out with him, but he’d asked her to go to the theatre.

  She’d never even been in one. The nearest she’d ever got was looking at the posters outside the Queens. Life-sized colour posters of actors and actresses, singers and dancers, comedians and acrobats.

  This was a dream come true. Her and Danny at the Beggar’s Opera.

  Then reality came back with a crash. Besides not having any clothes – or money – her father would refuse to let her go. She couldn’t tell Danny that Tom didn’t approve of him. Danny would be angry then, and he might never talk to her again, let alone ask her out.

  Thinking quickly, she made a joke of it. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she told him. ‘If I’ve got time, I might. I’ve got a schedule to keep you know.’

  She held her breath. Maybe she had got away with it.

  ‘Don’t keep me waiting too long,’ he warned her. ‘I’ve got a schedule to keep an’ all.’ His blue eyes were twinkling.

  Lizzie stood up, intending to leave whilst the going was good.

  ‘Yer not off already?’

  ‘I’d better. Pa said not to be away too long.’

  Danny came to stand beside her. He was so tall and handsome. She felt weak at the knees. ‘Incidentally,’ he said as he looked down at her, ‘how’s that brother of yours – Vinnie?’

  Her heart banged against her ribs. ‘Why?’ she blurted, immediately on the defensive.

  Danny shrugged. ‘Nothin’ really. It’s just that I was down the Quarry the other night. Someone said he was in a spot of bother.’

  ‘Not that I know of Lizzie turned and walked away, her heart still pounding.

  But Danny caught up with her and took her arm. His eyes were kind as he said gently, ‘You can trust me, Lizzie, you know that. A trouble shared is a trouble halved.’

  She really wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t. She still had her pride and didn’t want Danny to think less of her for something Vinnie had done. ‘Vinnie is old enough to look after himself,’ she said, tossing back her thick black curls. ‘He don’t tell me his business and I don’t ask.’

  Danny raised his eyebrows and let her go. ‘Pardon me for breathing.’

  Lizzie felt a moment’s regret as she looked into his eyes.

  ‘When am I gonna see you again?’

  She smiled a halting little smile. ‘Next Saturday. I’ll be here with Pa as usual.’

  He grinned. ‘Looks like I’m gonna have to wait another week for me answer, then.’

  She knew what the answer was already, but she wasn’t going to tell him. She’d have to think up a good excuse over the next seven days. She had as much chance of seeing the inside of the Lyric as going to Buckingham Palace for tea.

  When she got back, her father and Dickie were still engrossed in the newspaper. ‘Me old mate’s right,’ Tom hailed her as if she’d been sitting there listening for the last half-hour. ‘Our strife will all be forgot. In time to come no one will remember we fought a war.’

  ‘The kids these days don’t know what life is about,’ agreed Dickie, folding the newspaper carefully and sliding it back in the sack. Politics, religion and the unions had been ripped apart and put to rights again. Now it was time to get on with what remained of the day.

  ‘Push me by Elfie Goldblum’s stall,’ Tom instructed her. ‘No doubt he’ll be catchin’ a few latecomers.’ Though the traders had to have licences for their pitches, disabled veterans were given the freedom of the streets, and Lizzie pushed the Bath chair beside Elfie Goldblum’s stall for their last stop of the day.

  ‘How you doing, my son?’ Elfie called, emerging from the back.

  ‘Had a good day, Elfie. And you?’

  ‘Could be better, could be better.’ Elfie Goldblum regularly denied making a fortune. He dealt in secondhand jewellery and curios. He was tiny and wizened with a small brown face like a gnome. He had kept a stall at the market for years and was a very astute businessman. Tom liked to be near him in the afternoons because interest waned in the food as the day wore on but people were always keen to look at Elfie’s fascinating stock. Rings, necklaces, bracelets, small pieces of china, teapots, brass and second-hand clocks. Elfie craftily replaced the gaps as he sold and his stall always looked inviting.

  Lizzie was still thinking about Danny, the Lyric and Hammersmith when a cultured voice broke in on her thoughts. ‘How much are the mints?’ A well-dressed man pointed to the small bundle of sweets remaining on Tom’s tray.

  ‘Four ounces for a ha’penny, all done up in nice packets,’ replied Tom, before Lizzie could speak. ‘Lizzie, pass the gent a packet.’

  Lizzie passed the mints, and after some examination their customer nodded. ‘I’ll take those three, one for each of my children.’

  Lizzie stared at the gentleman, dressed in quality clothing, a brown trilby, leather gloves and a silk tie. What was it like to have money to spend and nice clothes to wear and be able to lead a life that wasn’t always overshadowed by poverty, she wondered as the man nodded to her father and went on his way.

  ‘You all right, gel?’ Dickie asked, nudging her arm.

  Lizzie nodded. ‘Yes, Dickie, I’m fine.’

  ‘Just as long as that flash ’arry with the barra ain’t upset yer.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t, and he’s not flash, Dickie.’ Lizzie knew there wasn’t
much point in arguing. Dickie and her father were set in their ways and ideas. She could argue till she was blue in the face on Danny’s behalf. It would make no difference. To some people on the island the Flowers would always be known as costermongers.

  It was growing foggy again and the crowd was thinning out. Dickie rubbed his mittened hands together as another customer passed over a penny. ‘Blimey, it’s like Christmas arrived early,’ Dickie chuckled as he gazed down at Tom’s depleted tray. All that was left was a small pile of written commemorations for Armistice Day.

  Tom nodded in satisfaction. ‘I’ll be able to knock a bit off the rent. Kate’ll be pleased about that.’

  Dickie scratched his chin, his dirty nails raking against the grey stubble. ‘Talking of next week, are you going up to the city?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘That ain’t likely now.’

  Lizzie had been eagerly awaiting their trip to the Cenotaph even if she did have to push the chair all the way. ‘Why can’t we go, Pa? We could still sell them commemorations and buy some more stock besides.’

  ‘You know the score as well as I do,’ Tom answered her gruffly. ‘You heard yer mother this morning. The rent’s got to be paid. What money is left won’t buy us enough to make a trip to the city worthwhile. And don’t make those cow’s eyes at me, gel, ’cos I can’t bloody well work miracles, now, can I?’

  Lizzie turned away. She loved going up West. It would be the only chance she had to see the city before Christmas. But the tone of her father’s voice told her that his decision was final.

  She glanced down the street. Danny would be one of the last traders to leave, the contents of his barrow a welcome warmth for the remaining few empty stomachs.

  ‘I’m off now,’ Dickie said, hoisting his sack over his shoulder. ‘Me pins are killing me. And the fog’s comin’ down quick off the river.’