Outside, the cold air blasted them. Further up the alley, she saw the tall figure of Chalky White already pressing against Daisy, one arm over her shoulder, the other roaming over her body. He kissed her long and hard. Hettie stared at Syd. ‘Don’t you try nothing!’ she warned, and marched firmly ahead of him up the alley, past the spooning pair.
At least Daisy had the sense to keep up. Two minutes later, Hettie heard rapid footsteps. Chalky passed by, linked up with Daisy. He sang a cocky little song about taxi-cabs:
‘To newly wedded couples, it’s the best thing that is out,
It fairly beats the hansom cab, without the slightest
doubt.’
Daisy laughed and ran ahead, like a little flirt. Her laugh showed her even, white teeth and she poked out her pink tongue at Chalky. Hettie looked on as he swung Daisy in the air and landed her again with both hands round her waist.
‘When driving to the station to go on honeymoon,
The driver can’t look through the top to watch you
kiss and spoon.’
He sang in a raw voice but Daisy laughed on delightedly. They had to walk all the way home in the drizzling rain through the still crowded streets. ‘One last drink,’ Chalky said, as the Duke came into view. ‘Come on, girls, one last drink never hurt no one.’
Daisy looked doubtful. She glanced down Paradise Court to her black tenement at the bottom. Inside the Duke, the pianola thumped out a tune. Lights glittered through the fancy scrolls and lettering of the etched glass doors.
‘I never ask twice,’ Chalky said, one hand on the giant brass handle.
‘Right you are,’ Daisy agreed. She swept in ahead of the rest. ‘One last drink!’
She enjoyed all the eyes on her as she flounced up to the bar with Chalky White.
Chapter Five
The pub was crowded out with dockers, carters and market traders all having a fling after a hard week. If you had a few coppers to enjoy yourself you came out. Back home, your old woman would moan on about the cost of this and that, with a long face and a surefire tendency to make it look like your fault if bread had gone up by a farthing a loaf that week. Here at the Duke there was music, a decent place to sit, or the chance to have a knees-up if you felt in the mood. Besides, coming out with your mates was a sign you were getting work, holding your own. It was a bad week if you didn’t make it down the Duke on a Saturday night.
The men crowded round the bar. They’d come through another bad year, with more strikes on the docks and down the markets. Nothing had moved through the East End for months as the fruit and veg lay rotting in great piles in the warehouses. You had to live hand to mouth then and your family nearly starved. During August they’d even cut off the water and gas, and then there were hundreds of rats running through the uncollected rubbish.
Now, at the onset of winter, things were better, though union pressure rumbled on and the bosses still didn’t give an inch if they could help it. You still queued on the waterfront for your day’s work, slipping someone a backhander for a better chance. But at least the food moved out of the docks now and on to the markets. The dockers, the carters, the stall-holders had backed off from the threatened riots. The system creaked on.
Duke poured pints steadily all night long, with Robert on hand. He relied on this extra help on busy nights; Robert was good for keeping an eye on the barrels and clearing off the empties. He was popular with the customers, many of whom he knew from his dock work. Duke watched him now, mingling with his mates. He shared a joke, throwing his head back to lead the laughter. He was a strong, handsome lad, his foot just on the first rung of life’s ladder.
Robert brought two fistfuls of empty glasses to the bar. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, one eye dosed against the drifting smoke. ‘Watch out, Pa,’ he warned. ‘Here comes trouble.’
Annie Wiggin had just put in another appearance with some of her fellow stall-holders on the market. They’d gone down the court specially to bang on her door and persuade her out for a natter; four or five skinny women with big voices and loud laughs. Their kids were in bed, minded by the eldest. Their old men were already here, drowning life’s sorrows. So they’d donned their bits of finery; their hats decked with ostrich feathers, their long fringed shawls, and they paraded themselves down to the Duke for a bit of a laugh and a singsong. ‘Come on, Annie, for gawd’s sake. Can’t have you moping about all on your own!’ They were family women and they took Annie’s case to heart. If their man walked out on them, like Annie’s husband had done, they wouldn’t half give him what for. If they could lay hands on him, of course; which Annie couldn’t with hers.
‘You’re not wearing them old boots again, Annie!’ Liz Sargent protested when she answered their knock. ‘Them’s your working boots!’ She glared down at the offending articles; misshapen, boiled, resoled and stitched until they resembled old kippers.
‘Them’s my only boots,’ Annie muttered. ‘They was his boots, and I wear ‘em in his memory.’ She put on a dark jacket which she grabbed from a peg in the gloomy passage. She turned her key in the lock and thrust it down her bodice. ‘Well, what we waiting for?’ she demanded.
The women made their way back up the court towards the gaslight at the corner. ‘What you want to remember him for? That’s what I’d like to know.’ Liz thought badly of Annie for not putting her best foot forward, so to speak. ‘He was a rotten old bugger, so they tell me.’
Annie sighed. ‘He was. But he’s the cross I have to bear, and these old boots remind me.’ She would say no more, but she marched ahead of her spruced-up friends, straight into the public bar.
‘Now then, Mrs S.’ Duke addressed Liz, deliberately ignoring the bothersome Annie. ‘What’ll it be?’
The orders went out; a sharp cry for a pint of porter or a drop of gin from each of the market women. If their menfolk were present, they kept well hidden, leaving the women to their own devices. Liz Sargent adjusted a small length of fox fur around her shoulders and grabbed her drink. ‘Any rate, I see you put your best hat on to come out with us.’ She nodded her approval at the bunches of fake cherries bedecking Annie’s black straw boater. ‘I suppose that’s something.’
‘And it ain’t even bleeding Sunday!’ Annie scowled sarcastically.
‘So who died?’ Nora Brady winked at Liz.
‘No one died. What you mean? This ain’t my funeral hat!’ Annie glanced at herself in the fancy long mirror behind Duke’s broad shoulders. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.
‘Who got spliced then?’ The women gave wicked, knowing looks.
‘Leave off, why don’t you? Can’t a woman have a bleeding drink?’ Poor Annie grew fed up with their teasing and sank her face into a pint of porter.
The women made a great show of leaving her alone. They told Duke to be sure and take good care of her, before they drifted off in pairs to different corners of the room. ‘She’s all on her ownsome,’ they cheeked, thrusting bold faces across the bar at him and pouting their lips. ‘Poor lonesome Annie!’
‘Silly cows,’ Annie grumbled. But she stayed put. If he did but know it, Duke was the reason she came in night after night with her earthenware jug, and she didn’t care who noticed it.
Underneath the profusion of cherries and regardless of old man Wiggin’s boots, Annie wasn’t a bad-looking woman. Past her best, it had to be admitted, but sprightly. Well into her forties, her hair had lost none of its auburn tinge, though she hid this good feature by scraping it back from her forehead and twisting it into a tight bun as severe as any workhouse warden’s. Her face had a fine, birdlike quality, with rapidly changing expressions. In repose, her eyes were big and dark, the skin tight over her high cheekbones. But seeing herself as the scourge of all errant men had served to fix frown lines on Annie’s forehead, and the corners of her mouth were set down. No man alive would have called Annie Wiggin attractive, but a woman might stop to look at her and declare she was wearing well, considering.
Duke
caught Annie giving him the eye as usual and shuffled off down the bar. He never knew why she bothered, since he gave her not one word of encouragement.
‘What’ll it be, Annie?’ was the longest sentence he’d addressed to her in all the years she’d been patronizing the establishment; through his being married to Pattie and the mourning period after, through her own marriage to Wiggin, who scarpered without paying his bills, and through all the years since he ran off. ‘What’ll it be, Annie?’ he said as he reached for her empty jug in the early evening. ‘What’ll it be, Annie?’ when she called in by herself late at night.
Yet whenever he glanced her way, Annie had her eye on him. He alone of all men must have been excluded from Annie’s list of hopeless cases. She sat there rolling her eyes and smiling; an unusual expression for Annie on the whole. If Arthur Ogden attempted so much as a remark on the weather as he passed round the back of Annie’s stool, she’d spit at him like a cat. A broad-shouldered navvy lodging in the Ogdens’ spare room would feel the lash of her tongue, and she reserved special venom for anyone bearing the look of the sea. They were the happy-go-lucky, often handsome and feckless men who drifted in and out of the tenement rooms, sometimes American, sometimes Polish, with dark walrus moustaches and heavy brows.
Why then in God’s name did Annie Wiggin roll her eyes at him? He was Duke Parsons, a decent widower of sixty, weighed down by family care and struggling to keep business afloat during the strikes and troubles. Duke shook his head and backed off in search of Robert, Frances, even Ernie. Anyone would do. He ducked out the back way into the corridor and yelled upstairs. It was Ernie who appeared on the landing, a smile on his face.
‘Come on down, son, and give us a hand with the empties,’ Duke said. ‘It’s last orders, so look sharp.’
Ernie nodded and came eagerly down with his flat-footed, heavy gait. He hadn’t developed the controlled, springy stride of the average youth. Instead, his legs straddled an invisible ditch, and he thrust them forward like an awkward toddler as he rushed along the corridor into the bar.
Duke grinned and stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. He was a good son, young Ernie, without a bad bone in his body. But his great, open features made your heart ache in this wicked world.
‘Clear the bar for me, Ern,’ Duke said, pointing carefully. ‘And mind how you go.’
Ernie took each glass between his two large hands as if it was the football cup. He gently deposited them in the sink. Annie sat and watched him. She drank her own glass to the dregs and held it up. ‘Here, Ern, take this one from me.’ She gave his hand a tiny pat as she handed it over.
But both Annie and Duke noticed the shine go from Ernie’s face when his chore took him along the bar towards the corner with the pianola. He’d just lifted another glass when he spotted Daisy with Chalky and his crowd. They were singing their heads off.
Hettie had managed to give Syd Swan the slip and head straight upstairs as they came into the pub. So Daisy stood alone surrounded by young men, head high, face flushed. She’d taken off her coat and wore a blouse as white and thin as any Ernie had ever seen. It was adorned with tucks and frills, and curved in at her tiny waist over a skirt of shiny purple. Ernie sighed as he stared. Somehow he knew he’d never get to sing with Daisy like that, and hold her round her slim waist, no matter how much she smiled and petted him.
Suddenly Chalky broke off singing. He’d noticed Ernie’s long, lingering stare. His laughing face narrowed and turned mean as he fixed the boy with a look. Syd’s gaze followed. Even Daisy, her throat flushed above the snowy white blouse, stopped singing and put a hand involuntarily to her cheek. Chalky moved a fraction of an inch in Ernie’s direction, head on one side, scowling.
‘Stop gawping, Ern, for gawd’s sake!’ Robert broke out of a nearby crowd and seized the glass from his grasp. ‘Don’t you know you look like a bleeding idiot standing there!’ He gave his brother a hefty shove back towards the sink.
Chalky checked his stride, shrugged and turned his attentions back to Daisy.
Robert took a long drag on his cigarette, immediately regretting what he’d just said. There was nothing Ernie could do about it; that was just the way he was, standing there with his mouth open, ogling the girl. He meant nothing by it. But Robert jutted his chin and bounced back Duke’s meaningful glare. What you looking at, you silly cow?’ he muttered at Annie Wiggin as he went past with a handful of empties.
He’d go round in a second and talk to Ern; he’d fix up that trip to the Palace with him. They’d sit together in the plush seats and Ernie would be able to gawp at Daisy to his heart’s content. It’d be Robert’s treat. After all, the poor kid never went out and it would do him good.
After a few minutes swilling glasses in the sink, Robert had restored himself to good humour. Ernie was plodding around the bar once more, lifting stools on to table tops as gradually customers packed up and went home. Robert stopped for a few words with Walter Davidson on his way out.
‘You been down the club lately?’ Walter asked. He and Robert sometimes met up at Milo’s for a spot of boxing.
Robert nodded. ‘I been to see a man about a taxi-cab.’ He grinned. ‘Wants to sell it. I told him we was interested.’
Walter laughed. ‘Blimey, Rob. We’re interested all right. Did you tell the geezer we’d have to pay ‘im in washers?’ He was a regular at the Duke, spending too much of his meagre wage from Coopers’ on beer and cigarettes. Like all the young men round about, he was ambitious to be his own boss. He’d talked often to Robert about the dream of running their own taxi-cab together. Horses were finished in that line of work these days; too messy and slow by far. Both men wanted to be part of the future in the shape of a shiny black, purring automobile. But neither earned more than a pittance; Robert on the docks and Walter in one of Coopers’ sweatshops. They were past the boyhood stage of swaggering down the street calling after the birds, but they were still a million miles away from achieving their ambition. Walter thought ruefully of the shilling he’d just squandered pouring beer down his gullet. ‘I hope you didn’t promise him nothing stupid, Rob.’
‘Would I? I said we could pay him bit by bit, on the never-never,’ Robert reassured him.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said we could have the taxi bit by bit an’ all; one wheel at a time, with the engine bust up into little pieces.’ He winked at his friend.
Walter laughed and went out.
‘Silly beggars,’ Duke muttered. He’d overheard. ‘What you thinking of buying one of them newfangled things for, then? What’s wrong with the old hansoms?’ He turned on the last, lingering drinkers, including Annie Wiggin. ‘Ain’t you got no homes to go to?’
Annie fixed her cherry-laden hat further on to her head. ‘All right, all right, I’m on my way.’ She gave Duke a pert look and shuffled off.
‘C’mon, mate,’ he grumbled at Chalky White. But he went warily. Chalky had had one too many as usual, and his temper turned nasty when he was drunk.
‘’E-wants-ter-gerrid-of-us,’ the tall, dangerous-looking man slurred He leant forward in front of Daisy and grabbed Syd’s arm. ‘You ‘ear?’
Daisy extricated herself from his long reach. ‘Well, it’s time for me to say ta-ta, at any rate,’ she said brightly. As she stood up, Chalky overbalanced and fell. He crashed against Syd, then made a grab at Daisy. As he caught the sleeve of her blouse, it ripped slightly. She turned on him. ‘Here, watch what you’re about!’
Chalky wasn’t too drunk to feel put down by Daisy’s cry. ‘Very sorry, miss,’ he sneered. He launched himself towards her. ‘Very sorry, I’m sure.’
Daisy smoothed herself down. ‘That’s all right.’ She tried to meet his gaze, but then looked away and began to search for her coat. There was something about Chalky that made her feel trapped. She wore an uncertain smile as he advanced again, but she felt breathless. ‘Gotta go,’ she said.
‘Not so fast.’ He held her by the arm. His hand easily circled her slend
er forearm. ‘You’re going my way, any rate.’
‘I gotta get back home,’ Daisy explained. ‘My brother’s sick, remember.’
‘Aah, poor little mite.’ Chalky propelled her out of the pub on to the wet pavement. ‘What are you, all of a sudden, bleeding Florence Nightingale?’
‘I told you; he needs a doctor!’ Daisy felt lousy. The story about Jim was all too true. And she’d been larking around all night instead of getting home to her ma with the money for the doctor. She pictured Jimmy lying under the blanket coughing. She could kill herself for ignoring the poor little thing. Her pa had even been up before the Board; a thing he only did when a kid was at death’s door, listen, Chalky, it’s true. I gotta go!’
She wrenched herself free and ran off round the corner, down the straight stretch of unlit cobbles to the far end of the court.
Well, she thought, what difference does an hour or two make? Ma can’t fetch a doctor till morning. I’ll go up, give her the cash, and she can go straight up Duke Street in the morning.
She was almost sobbing by the time she arrived home. Her attempts to excuse herself had failed. She felt in poor shape as she climbed the dark stairs. She was a wicked, selfish girl with not an ounce of fellow feeling, she told herself. She delved into her pocket for the long-awaited shillings, gritted her teeth and opened the battered, half-rotten door.
Chapter Six
Frances waited for the lull of a Sunday morning in late December before she tackled her father once more about the problem of Jess. This time, he wouldn’t be able to claim the distraction of pub work, and he would have had more than enough time to absorb the news. She wanted to play her cards right. Jess needed to be out of that place in Hackney and home with the family before Christmas, when her disgrace would be growing obvious for all to see. That would still give them time to plan ahead.
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