by Carol Rivers
‘It may be something else that makes you uncomfortable.’
Eve glanced sharply at him. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your actions in defence of Samuel and Albert are commendable. However, this young man is also taking you on a journey into the past with his investigations. Here you will be faced again with the problems that confronted you and your beloved Raj. None of us wish pain on ourselves, but perhaps in returning to old issues through your boys, the future will not be so frightening.’
‘Joseph, it ain’t the past I’m worried about, it’s now.’
‘I have learned that the same fears that beset us once,’ he told her gently, ‘will haunt us again tomorrow if we do not face them. I know this to be true, my dear as I fled Russia and owe my freedom to this country. But I do not practise who I really am, or wear my kippa or attend the synagogue. Instead I prefer to wait for the occasions when my chevra – my old friends – visit and we bathe in nostalgia of the homeland where, despite the persecution, our souls were free if not our bodies and I was once the true Joseph Petrovsky.’
‘You mean you are not really being you?’ Eve asked, trying to understand.
‘I am not the man I would choose to be. I was a coward to leave, to leave my . . .’ He stopped, his breath halting as he whispered, ‘They died for what they believed in.’
‘But you would have died too.’
‘Sometimes I think it would have been better.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It is only to you that I confide in the hope that Eve Kumar will always be the brave girl who I used to see walking hand in hand with her husband, unafraid of what people might think.’
Eve smiled. ‘I had Raj then.’
Joseph nodded. ‘If only love was a permanent state of affairs. There would be no wars or persecution. We would see the world through different eyes.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For telling me about the real Joseph.’
He smiled and patted her hand. ‘Now drink your tea. I can hear the boys coming downstairs.’
The days passed and Charlie didn’t show up again, and Eve knew that what she had said had driven him away. She hoped that Peg would get the council to come and finish the job. Meanwhile, all she could do was to clean the cottage each Sunday in preparation for their return. At the close of March Eve decided it was time to fill her baskets with flowers once more. Now she had saved enough money to buy from the cascades of flowers filling Covent Garden. Crocuses, violets, daisies, daffodils, roses and carnations to name but a few. The weather was kinder and lifted people’s spirits as the warmer months approached.
Eve asked the Irish family if they would like to take Archie’s fruit and veg and the answer, as she had suspected, was a yes.
‘I’ll miss you, gel,’ Archie told Eve on the last Friday of March as she prepared to leave. ‘But you’ll be back next winter. You won’t get a better deal anywhere than from Archie Fuller.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Eve tossed back her long brown plait and lifted her new basket on her hip. She had invested in ones with strong handles, appropriate for flower-selling. ‘Till then you’ll have the Irish to look after you. I’ve given them me pitch just up the road and they’re eager to make a few bob.’
‘As long as they don’t pinch me good stuff and are as honest as you, I’ll see them all right. Where’s your new pitch then?’
‘Down Poplar. It’s a long ride here of a morning and I want my boys to come out with me.’
‘Who you gonna buy from?’
‘I’ve struck a deal with Queenie Watts.’ Eve gestured to the big flower stand in between two of the giant pillars. A large woman wearing an apron over her thick coat worked busily serving her customers. ‘She’s sending down flowers every morning on a costermonger’s cart. They are the previous day’s stock so Queenie won’t have to dolly them up as fresh.’
‘You’re a bright lass, Eve Kumar. And you’ve chosen well in Queenie. No doubt you’ll flog her stuff at a good profit just like you did with me fruit and veg.’
Eve was grateful to Archie for the start he had given her back into business after the flood. But her heart didn’t lie with fruit and veg. Flowers were her passion. Their colours and scents and the variety of people to whom she sold. If it was outside a hospital or theatre, a factory or place of business, or to a gent for his lady love, or a wake passing through to the cemetery where discretion was the essence of the purchase, each customer had different requirements. People’s tastes were varied and she liked to see the pleasure in their eyes as they gazed into the whirlpools of colour. She wanted her boys to know the same satisfaction that she had. When they were older, they would have learned the business thoroughly, what to buy and what not. Perhaps they would hold a stand at market or rent a shop. It was her dream for them, a big dream and one she was determined to make come true.
‘Take care of yourself, lass.’
‘You too, Archie.’
‘Call by when you’re up here again.’
Eve caught a cart going towards Poplar feeling both excited and nervous. Had she made the right choice in selling close to home? Her mother and Peg had sold at Seven Dials, Drury Lane and Soho and these were still the most fashionable locations. But it was a long way up to the city. Albert already hated the walk to Aldgate and after what had happened on the night of the flood, Eve wanted to make the business more appealing to her sons.
As a stiff breeze blew down the street Eve took her place under the middle arch of the famous theatre and music hall. The Queens didn’t look imposing on the outside, it didn’t have a grand set of steps to walk up like the West End theatres, but it was always busy, providing the general public with affordable entertainment. The best time for her to come would be Friday and Saturday nights when the theatre was always full, but she would experiment today and discover what business was to be done in the daylight hours. Arranging her bunches carefully Eve missed the little green heads of watercress that always enticed the punters. But it was a sunny day and the shoppers were out in force, so she hoped she could gain their attention without it. She had dressed with care for her first day of flower-selling and her calf-length black skirt and waist-hugging jacket with brightly coloured embroidery on the sleeves caused many heads to turn. After a good wash in Joseph’s sink and a wring out through the mangle, the clothes had lost the smell of drains and the fumigation. Eve was proud of her mother’s shawl tied lightly round her shoulders and the black hat with its ostrich feather that she now slipped on her head. Her appearance was important; along with the skill to present her flowers, she also had to sell herself. People liked to think they were buying from a genuine flower-seller. Not a hawker whose flowers and buttonholes went limp or died after only a few hours.
To her surprise, Eve was busy straight away and the morning flew by. One basket soon emptied and she stood the full one inside it. By four o’clock Eve had sold the last bunch of violets to a girl dressed in a white coat, turban and clogs who smelt of pickles.
She sighed in pleasure as she took the violets. ‘These are for me mum, it’s her birthday today.’
Eve knew the girls at the pickle factory worked hard for their meagre pay. In the course of the pickling process, the vinegar often coloured their skins a strange yellow. She felt lucky being out in the fresh air with roses in her cheeks. ‘You can have them for tuppence,’ she told the girl. ‘As they’re for your mum.’
Her customer was delighted. ‘We’re gonna have a knees-up tonight.’
Eve smiled, recalling another mother’s birthday in March. Would Charlie Merritt’s mother be celebrating too? Would she have a knees-up in the front room or would her family take her up West to wine and dine her?
As Eve gathered her empty baskets for the half mile walk home along the dock road, she remembered the hurt expression on Charlie’s face when they had last spoken. She didn’t know what she’d say to him if she ever saw him again, but then that seemed
unlikely. His beat was in Stepney, though she had kept a lookout for his dad’s van on her way to Covent Garden. The wheelbarrow and ladder had gone from the cottage. She knew Charlie must have collected them. Had he given the Kumar family any thought as he looked up at the tarpaulin on the roof? He hadn’t taken it. The cover was the only thing that kept the rain out.
Eve came to Isle Street, relieved to see the welcoming sight of the cottage down in the dip. Flushed with success, she put the thought of Charlie from her mind, replacing it with the eager desire to return home. The mice, rats and bugs were still absent. Eve wanted to inhabit the cottage again before they did.
If the stuffed shirt from the council came round, he would see the work they had started and perhaps would be persuaded to complete the repairs.
Eve’s steps quickened. The boys would be home from school and she couldn’t wait to share her plans. If all went well, they would move after Easter, a lovely time of the year.
Chapter Eleven
Albert and Samuel sneezed and coughed their way into April. Eve administered her homemade remedy and a dose of Galloway’s lung syrup, though it didn’t make much difference. When Eve went to wake them on Easter Sunday morning, they didn’t want to get out of bed.
‘You can stay in bed,’ Eve said and rubbed a dab of camphorated oil on their chests.
‘Sister Mary said we’ve got to go to Mass today. It’s a sin not to,’ said Albert.
‘We was going to be altar boys.’ Samuel blinked watery eyes as the strong smell of the embrocation filled the room.
‘You can’t go with colds like that.’
‘You’ll have to write a note for us.’
‘I’ll tell her myself.’
‘You don’t need to.’ Albert looked at his brother. ‘She only wants a note.’
‘I’ll write one after the holiday then.’
After seeing to the boys, Eve went downstairs. ‘Don’t look like we’ll be moving to the cottage today,’ she told Peg and Joseph as they sat down to breakfast in the kitchen. ‘They’ve both got colds.’
‘Poor little chics.’
‘Sister Mary wanted them to be altar boys.’
‘There’s plenty of other kids to choose from,’ shrugged Peg as she spooned out the porridge. ‘And it don’t really matter about moving, a couple of days won’t make any difference.’
Joseph nodded. ‘I’ll make a strong borsch with plenty of onion to bring out their colds.’
Eve laughed. ‘Don’t spoil them or they’ll never want to go back to school.’
‘Can’t blame ’em with that hard-faced cow as their teacher,’ put in Peg as she lit the gas. ‘I might be talking out of turn but nuns give me the willies. I pity them poor kids I really do.’
‘Yes, but it’s a good education at St Saviour’s. One I would have liked if I’d had the chance.’
But Peg waved her hand dismissively. ‘You had the best education, ducks, in the school of life. You may have only been twelve when you left school to help your mum sell flowers, but it ain’t made no difference to the way you turned out.’
‘I couldn’t read or write properly,’ Eve pointed out, recalling how hard it had been for her to fit learning in with helping her mother. There were always plenty of flowers, buttonholes and posies to be made but never enough time or books for her studies. ‘At their age I was hardly at school because Mum needed me. She was always dodging the school inspector when he came round.’
Peg threw back her frizzy head and laughed. ‘She had the luck of the Irish in more ways than one. How she managed to avoid him I’ll never know. But maybe he didn’t try hard enough to find her. She had a paddy on her that matched the fire in her eyes, just like you, ducks. She never suffered fools gladly.’
Eve smiled. ‘And like you, she had to make a living and I was proud of her. When Dad was fighting in France, she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. She told me that one day he’d come home, meanwhile we’d look after ourselves the best way we could.’
Peg nodded firmly. ‘She was fair, your mum. Flower-selling was looked down on by some, as there are the girls who give us a bad name, trading at night and offering more than a posy or two to the gentlemen. But times were hard and Sarah never judged others. She just let ’em get on with their own business, whilst she minded hers. Which is more than I can say for them nuns.’ She stood up and taking her tobacco tin from the windowsill, opened the back door. ‘Anyway I’m going in the yard for a smoke.’
When Eve and Joseph were alone, he said quietly, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon be going home.’
‘Does it show on me face?’
‘No, but I understand.’
‘You’ve been very good to us.’
‘Stay for as long as you like. My door is always open.’
Eve replied, ‘I was going to say that ours will always be open for you too. The trouble is we ain’t got a front door.’
They both laughed but Eve knew that Joseph meant what he said. Despite her plans having to be put aside yet again, it felt wonderful to have such a good friend.
A week later Eve lay in bed. A sweat was breaking over her body. Although the twins were well again, she had caught their cold. Once more her hopes for moving were dashed as Sunday came and went. Flushed with fever, she could find no energy to get up. It wasn’t until two days later that she was able to struggle from bed and dress. The morning was cold and grey as she waited on Westferry Road for her delivery of flowers. It seemed beyond her to walk as far as the Queens or the Hippodrome cinema, so instead she stood outside the rope factory gates. Her legs felt weary and it was an effort to smile at her customers. But once more all her flowers sold, leaving just a few squashed heads at the bottom of her baskets.
When she got home, Peg was in the kitchen, making tea for the boys. ‘We had a visit from the council today.’
‘What, here?’
‘No, I was at the cottage cleaning out a few things. This fella with a bowler hat walked in as bold as brass. He threatened to chuck us out.’
Eve closed her eyes and sat down quickly. ‘I was afraid this would happen.’
‘Said the rent wasn’t paid.’
‘You gave it to him, of course?’
‘Well, five bob to keep him happy.’
‘Five bob! But we had more than that.’
‘Look, love, you may not have noticed but last week I bought the lads a few bits from market as their clothes was falling off them. Then I saw Joseph all right, gave him a few bob extra for all that borsch he cooked whilst you and the boys was ill. And then there’s me baccy. I’ll admit to the fact I’ve treated myself to a few Woodbines lately. I was going to put it all back when I started selling again.’
Eve knew that Peg’s flower-selling days were long over. With her aches and pains she couldn’t stand on street corners any more. Eve had seen the second-hand clothes that Peg had bought for the boys, some jumpers, shirts and trousers for school but hadn’t expected them to cost a fortune. Was money, or the lack of it, the reason Peg wasn’t eager to return to the cottage?
‘Joseph will put us up a bit longer, gel, don’t worry about the rent. We’ll scrape it together somehow.’
‘I just hope they don’t put someone else in the cottage.’
Peg laughed. ‘In my cottage? Just let ’em try! Now, I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’
Eve sighed. ‘Are the boys home?’
‘Not yet. They’ve gone up the park.’
‘They should be doing their homework.’
‘Oh, give them a break, gel. The nights are lighter now. And a bit of fresh air will do them good after being in school all day.’
Eve didn’t want the twins going off after their lessons. She wanted them to do their homework first. They could play in the street after.
‘Why don’t you go in and sit by the fire? I’ll bring in your tea.’
The effects of the cold were still with Eve because she gave in easily. Slowly she stood up and went to the front room. The
warmth surrounded her as she sat down in the armchair. She looked into the tiny orange flames that lapped at the sides of the coke. As her eyes fluttered closed, she made up her mind to visit the town hall. She would give them the money she had saved, bringing them up to date with the rent. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Peg, of course. But she trusted herself more. It was the last thing on her mind as she fell asleep.
It was the end of April before Eve could save up enough to pay the rent. The clerk at the town hall accepted the money without question but would not discuss the repairs to the cottage.
‘Not this department,’ was all he would say as he disappeared into his cubby-hole.
On the way home Eve decided to stop at St Saviour’s and wait at the school gates. But the bell had already gone and most of the children had left.
A figure dressed in black robes swept across the playground. ‘Mrs Kumar, I would like to speak to you.’ Sister Mary crooked a finger. ‘Please come inside.’ Under the black frame of her habit and the white band that stretched across her forehead, she looked severe as she led Eve into her classroom. ‘I’ve been waiting to see you about your sons’ work.’ She displayed their books on the desk. Eve could see splodges of ink and not a lot of writing.
‘Albert in particular. He is a bright child, but won’t make the effort.’
Eve frowned. Sister Mary was right, Albert tended to be lazy and his books showed that.
‘As for Samuel, he tries harder and is good at arithmetic. But his English is not up to standard.’
Eve nodded. ‘Is that all?’
‘There are other things, but I won’t go into them now. However, I must bring to your notice that Albert and Samuel are unable to receive communion. They say they have not attended confession for some while.’
‘That’s because on Saturday mornings, they help me with the flowers.’