She looked at him as if he’d run mad. ‘I don’t give a shit about the other stall-holders, pardon my French. It’s me own profits I’m thinking of, and they’re going downhill fast, chuck. Not a good direction to be moving in, and I blame useless old Joe Southworth for that, bless his cotton socks.’
Carl sighed. ‘I should’ve known. You haven’t considered the possibility that the drop in profits at the café might have some other cause, I don’t suppose?’
‘No, I haven’t!’
‘Like pretty little Dena has left, service is slow and Joan isn’t pulling her weight like she used to? That steak pie she made the other day was tough as old boots. Where did you buy the meat?’
‘It was a bargain offer.’ Belle drew heavily on the cigarette then impatiently docked it out. ‘Like I told you, profits are down. I have to make savings where I can. Look, if you’re only going to criticise, you can shut your face!’
‘It’s you I’m thinking of, Mam. I worry about you.’
Her gaze softened, and she smiled lovingly at him. ‘I know, love. You’re a good lad, but don’t you see, it’s you and our Kenny I’m thinking of. Working the market is a fool’s game, one I seem to be stuck with so must make the most of, choose how. Then happen I can afford to get something better for my boys, for you both. A business you can be proud of.’
‘I can look after myself, thanks.’
‘Happen you can. I’m not so sure about our Kenny though.’ She frowned, looking troubled for a moment, then pushed back her rumpled brunette curls in a characteristically erotic gesture. ‘Think yourself lucky you have a nice safe job and only need to worry about collecting your wages at the end of the week. That’ll do you nicely for now, chuck, till you go into business on your own account. Once we’ve got a bit of capital put by, you could maybe own your transport company one day, eh?’
Carl sighed, having heard this all before. ‘I’ve no plans in that direction, Mam.’
‘Course you haven’t, you’re young yet, but I have great hopes for you, love. Great hopes! So don’t you let me down.’ She wagged a scarlet tipped fingernail at him. ‘In the meantime, I mean to get on that flaming committee and start to make some improvements round here. You can take my word for it. So, unless you’ve any better suggestions, I’ll carry on softening Joe up. Now I’m going to take a nice, leisurely bath. Ta ra, chuck.’
As she reached the door, he got up and went after her to rest one long brown hand on her shoulder. ‘Mam, I love you, right? We don’t have to make a fortune to be happy, so stop making yourself look cheap in this way. I don’t like it.’
She patted his cheek with genuine affection, tears shining like jewels in her violet eyes. ‘I know you don’t, lovey, but needs must when the devil drives, eh? Like Mae West used to say, I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.’
Barry Holmes, having lost Pete’s willing assistance, found himself a new Saturday lad. Like all his predecessors, the boy attended the club for a spot of coaching every Friday evening, regular as clockwork. He was tall and skinny, all legs and arms with a top-knot of wild red hair, frayed grey trousers down to his knees, National Health specs and a snotty nose, and went by the name of Spider.
On this particular night Barry had him doing circuit training, a workout on the weights, then the expander. After that it was on the mat for some ground exercises and a spot of wrestling to tone up the muscles, a bit of leg-work then on to his favourite exercise - the skipping rope. Nothing quite like it for toning up those heart muscles.
It was while he was putting the boy through his paces that Carl walked in, took one look and said, ‘Poor lad. You’re a hard task-master Barry. At least give him time to wipe his nose.’
Barry grinned good-naturedly, not taking offence. ‘Hey up, where’s your Kenny then? Haven’t seen him since that little contest of yours.’
‘He’s busy chasing a bit of skirt. Generally a different one each week.’
‘I thought he were sweet on our lovely Dena, that she was his one and only?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’
Barry frowned. ‘Growing up fast then, is he? Go on lad, ten more push ups. Course you can do it. One, two, three . . .’
‘He thinks so, at least he’s doing his best to flex some different muscles, shall we say? Whether he’s managed it or not, I wouldn’t care to hazard a guess.’ Carl shook his head on a snort of laughter, then quickly changed into his warm-up gear and headed off to the punch-bag. Barry followed him.
‘Tell Kenny I’d still like him to pop in here from time to time. It’s important he keeps up with his training and maintains his level of fitness. We don’t want him running to flab. Anyway, there’s that Under Eighteen’s competition he was interesting in entering coming up soon.’
‘I’ll mention it,’ Carl agreed.
‘Can I go home now?’ Spider asked, butting in. ‘Mam says I’ve to be in by eight.’
‘I thought you’d want to go a couple of rounds?’
The boys eyes lit up. ‘What now? Right y’are mister.’
Barry loved coaching but was never soft with his boys. As a lad himself he was worked hard by his own father in a strong-man act touring the Music Halls, and would be tossed around like a shuttle-cock, or made to do hand-to-hand balancing. This would always start off the act before his father moved on to lifting the heavy weights.
His father would then bend inch-thick steel bars, hammer six inch nails through a plank with his bare fists and, for a finale, would call on a few men from out of the audience. He’d have a couple hanging around his neck down his back and one tucked under each arm, then Barry would climb up to stand on his shoulders, and he’d lift the whole lot of them.
Barry himself had grown into a replica of his father, being equally short and stocky, but did not possess anywhere near his physical strength. He hadn’t been a particularly gentle or soft parent but Barry had survived, had certainly learned to look after himself, and had similar characteristics: a strange mix of tender heart and physical toughness. The only way, in his opinion, to win through.
And Barry certainly liked to win.
He tried to deal with his boys at the club fairly. But if sometimes they complained that they were tired, or saw him as something of a martinet because of the tough routines he put them through, he took absolutely no notice. Surely it was better that he keep these local tearaways fully occupied in his Lad’s club, guiding them along the right lines to become prize fighters, rather than have them hanging around street corners?
The new lad, gangly and a bit uncontrolled though his long limbs might be, proved to be quick and light on his feet, showing considerable potential. ‘Keep your eyes on your opponent’s gloves, not on the floor,’ Barry instructed. Then he wiped his grimy face and sent him in for the second round. He was up against one of Barry’s star pupils and not disgracing himself.
Barry stopped the fight early on before the pair could do too much damage to each other. ‘Right, lads, that’ll do. You can get off to your mam now, Spider. Only don’t forget to shower first. We can’t have you going home stinking of sweat and sawdust, so see you get clean. I’ll be in later to check you’ve washed behind your ears.’
The boy grinned. ‘I’ll wash ‘em right good, Mr Holmes. I promise.’
‘Course you will, son.’ So keen and eager, Barry thought, just like young Pete, and Kenny too in his day. How he missed them both.
This particular lad though was showing willing. Barry thought he would do very well indeed, might even make a champion one day, as Pete would have, if only things hadn’t gone terribly wrong for the poor little tyke.
On his way home Barry ran into Winnie Watkins. ‘Have you heard that Belle is after getting herself elected on to the committee?’ Winnie asked him.
‘May the Lord preserve us. She’d be queening it over all of us if she ever succeeded.’
‘Exactly. There’s a few of us getting together in my front room, my Donald having gone to bed e
arly with a bad head, so I wondered if you’d care to join us.’
They were all there, Marco Bertalone and his pretty wife Carlotta, the Higginson sisters all neat and proper, each wearing this season’s hat; big Molly Poulson, and Alec Hall in his familiar pink bow tie together with a rather smart velvet jacket. He was evidently on his way to an orchestral concert, which he was so fond of doing once he’d closed his music stall for the day. Sam Beckett was there, of course, and Jimmy Ramsay, as ruddy cheeked and cheery as you would expect a butcher to be, along with several others.
It was Jimmy who got the proceedings under way, pointing out to all present why they’d decided to meet; that he’d nothing against Belle Garside personally, so long as she didn’t try telling him how to run his business.
‘Or the market,’ put in Winnie, who was less of a fan.
‘Quite. I think we are all agreed that it would not be a good idea for Belle to be put on the committee as she’d be sure to try and take over, and we’re really quite happy with Joe.’
There were gentle murmurs of agreement.
‘How to stop it happening, that is the point,’ said Winnie. ‘Make no mistake she has her sights set on power and glory.’
Annie Higginson cleared her throat before politely asking, ‘Wouldn’t Mr Southworth object? I mean, no one is due to stand down from the committee, are they?’
Alec Hall gave a little snort of derision. ‘True, the next AGM is some months off but Belle is sorely miffed she didn’t get on this time round, so she’s going to use some strong persuasion tactics. And we can’t rely too much on Joe Southworth. Who knows which side he thinks his bread is buttered. Depends on events.’
Eyes shifted and there were a few embarrassed little coughs as his meaning sank in, then Barry Holmes said, ‘To be fair, Belle has some good ideas, and she might be able to do something about security. I’ve had money stolen from my lock-up recently. Has anyone else had problems?’
No one said they had and so Sam Beckett chimed in with, ‘I don’t think there’s any real cause for concern. Like Miss Higginson says, nothing’s going to happen in a hurry, and Barry’s right, Belle isn’t all bad, just a bit too full of herself.’
Winnie was anxious to press her case. ‘But we should all be aware of what she has in her sight, complete control of the market. Change, and not necessarily for our benefit, although almost certainly for hers. Therefore, we need to be diligent, that’s all I’m saying.’
A small silence as heads nodded and frowns puckered on thoughtful brows. Finally, Molly Poulson slapped her hands down on her big fat knees, calling them all to attention. ‘The important thing to come out of this meeting must be that we agree we don’t want Belle elected, and if we stick together on this she’s wasting her time, no matter hard she campaigns. What can she do, anyway? She can’t force us to vote for her?’
‘She has two sons,’ said Winnie quietly. ‘Carl might be all right and a hard worker, but Kenny would shoot his own grandmother if Belle asked him to. He’s a wild card that lad, always was, ready to do anything for a bit of attention.’
The silence this time was more troubled, broken by Barry Holmes. ‘I agree the lad is a bit disturbed, churned up with jealousy over his more popular brother, and happen feeling a bit neglected by his mam, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely without morals.’
Jimmy Ramsay made a few tutting noises. ‘Quite so. Quite so. Let’s not overreact. At least we are now all aware of the situation and in agreement that we will remain vigilant.’ And the meeting was brought to a close.
Chapter Fourteen
Following the fight, Norah was consigned to kitchen duties and Dena was put in the laundry where she worked for five hours each day, thereby missing many of her favourite lessons. She’d been working there for months now and it was heartbreaking!
For this she was paid two shillings and sixpence a week, a paltry sum which in no way compensated for the loss of her education, but did at least give her a little money to spend on writing paper, toothpaste and soap, which the girls were expected to provide for themselves.
But the job was not only boring, but exhausting.
First she had to collect the dirty laundry from each dormitory, bundling it up in a sheet and lugging it down to the big, steamy laundry room. Here were set three great coppers of boiling water which were kept going all day long.
After the dirty washing had been sorted into their appropriate piles: sheets and towels and mountains of handkerchiefs in one, underwear in another, and the girls’ socks, blouses and other garments sorted according to colour and fabric, and woe betide Dena if she got it wrong, then the process began.
There was the scrubbing and the bleaching, the pounding and the boiling. Next came the part which Dena hated most, pushing the sopping wet sheets through the wringers. These were huge wooden rollers and turning them with the big wheel took every ounce of her strength. Even then she would have to push the thick fabric through till it caught on the rollers, very nearly trapping her fingers as she did so.
Last of all, the clean wet laundry had to be folded and carried outside to be pegged out on clothes lines. On hot days she’d be dripping with sweat after the exertion. In less clement weather, cold water would run down her arms and her fingers would be numb by the time she was finished.
And when the ironing was done, it was time to begin the entire process all over again. What she wouldn’t give to be back in the café.
Sundays at Ivy Bank should have been a pleasure since it was the only day of the week when there were no domestic duties, no chores of any kind beyond being required to neatly make their beds, as usual. Matron, being a strict Methodist was adamant on this score. Sunday must be a day of complete rest and recuperation, and also one of peaceful contemplation.
There were times though, when even the laundry would have been an improvement.
Following chapel, enlivened by a few jolly hymns that did little to offset the boredom of the interminable sermon, would come endless classes. In these the girls were expected to recite texts they had been given to learn from the previous Sunday, and discuss their meaning, also display evidence of good works they had carried out during the previous week before settling to some worthy activity such as plain sewing or reading the bible.
They were constantly reminded how they would still be out on the streets if it weren’t for the charity shown to them by the Methodist Church, and duly instructed to be grateful for the care they received at Ivy Bank. No one else had wanted them so they must be good girls and fear God, or even He might reject them.
Dena couldn’t help thinking that this was a sad indictment on the Almighty. Would he really be so cruel as to punish her because she didn’t have sufficient time to learn all these bible verses, now that her evenings were spent largely copying up notes she’d missed from lessons? Somehow she didn’t think so.
Sunday Lunch was always special with some sort of roast and a hearty fruit crumble with custard. The girls would look forward to it all week.
And Sunday afternoons were more special still for those with visits from family to look forward to. Very few of the girls were orphans, most having families who were simply unable to care for them either through illness or death of a parent, poverty, or in some cases perhaps because the girl was illegitimate or the mother had married again and her second husband refused to accept the children of her first marriage. Some, like herself, had been largely abandoned but there were a surprising number who did have family members who came to visit, and would often bring treats and presents from home.
No one ever came to see Dena, which added to her sense of isolation. But then since she was this dreadful person who had failed to protect her own brother while he was beaten up and drowned, was it any wonder if nobody cared about her?
While the other girls sat and chatted with their families, Dena would hide away in her room reading, preferring to be alone, and trying not to think of Pete’s cheerful face or her mother’s anger.
So it was that when Housemother came charging in to the dormitory in her blundering way, Dena could hardly believe her ears to find herself ordered to run along to the common room as she too had a visitor today. Who could it possibly be? Kenny? Surely he wouldn’t dare? Even so, Dena ran all the way along the landing and down the stairs, quite against the rules.
She found Miss Rogers waiting for her in the common room and was surprisingly pleased to see the familiar, tall, angular figure of the social worker. The woman suddenly seemed like a friend in this world of strangers. Even her be-whiskered chin and tightly pursed mouth didn’t seem half so threatening as they once had. Dena rushed to her on a burst of enthusiasm.
‘Miss Rogers, how lovely to see you.’ She was wearing a severe grey coat and matching felt hat, black gloves and handbag, as if it were November instead of August.
Looking slightly taken aback by the welcome the woman managed a thin smile. ‘I trust you are well, Dena. I deliberately left it a few months before I came, so as not to unsettle you.’
Dena agreed that she was very well, thank you, as this seemed to be the required response. Miss Rogers then informed her that she was looking much better, and appeared to have put on weight. ‘You have round pink cheeks at last. Clearly the good food, fresh air and excellent care you are receiving here is proving to be entirely beneficial. Splendid!’
‘I eat everything they put before me,’ Dena agreed, and sometimes what they don’t, she thought, wisely making no reference to the jam butty she’d stolen in those first few frightening days.
They sat in a corner of the common room and Dena gave a carefully edited version of life at Ivy Bank, judiciously making no mention either of being punished for spilling milk when she was chased by the geese, nor the fight with Norah Talbot.
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