Christmas is for Children

by Rosie Clarke

  ‘It’s cold out tonight,’ Robbie said and eyed Mick’s thin jumper. It had holes at the elbow and didn’t look as if it would keep him warm. ‘I’ve got an old jacket – it will be a bit large for yer, lad – but yer welcome to it…’

  Robbie took the jacket down from behind the door and offered it. Mick hesitated and then took it. He put it on and rolled the cuffs back. The jacket hung on him, but he wrapped it round him and Robbie gave him a bit of string to tie it in the middle.

  ‘That will keep yer a bit warmer, lad…’

  Mick thanked him, bade farewell to Ben and went out.

  Ruthie wrinkled her nose when the door had closed behind him.

  ‘He smells…’ she objected. ‘He’s all right – but he smells…’

  ‘I dare say he could do with a wash,’ her father told her and frowned, ‘but he’s not a bad lad, Ruthie. We might not have much, but we share what we can – right?’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ Ruthie said and then pulled a face. ‘My dress split again today…’

  ‘I’ll mend it when you’re in bed,’ Robbie promised. ‘As soon as I get a proper job I’ll buy you a new one, love…’

  Ruthie went to kiss his cheek, her mouth sticky with the last of the strawberry jam. ‘I love you… but I wish Mummy was still here.’

  ‘Yes, love, we all do,’ Robbie said. Madge would have made her daughter a new dress for school, even if she’d had to cut down one of her own. ‘Go to bed now – and Ben will be up soon…’

  He looked at his son after she’d gone up to bed. ‘I’m goin’ to try for work somewhere else in the mornin’, Ben. Maybe I’ll have more luck than I’ve had lately on the docks…’

  ‘I had threepence for doin’ a job,’ Ben told him, ‘but we spent it on chips – I’ll find some more jobs ter help yer, Dad…’

  ‘You keep yer pennies, son,’ Robbie said, feeling guilty over the few pennies he’d spent on beer for himself and Mick, but he’d wanted to cheer his friend. ‘I’ll sell somethin’ to tide us over if I don’t get a job tomorrow…’

  Ben nodded and headed for the stairs.

  Robbie sat on by the fire for a few moments. His eyes moved round the room. Truly, there wasn’t much left that was worth more than a bob or two down at Uncle’s, as everyone called the pawnbroker. Uncle would take anythin’, even your Sunday suit if you had one, but Robbie didn’t want to part with the few bits he had left. That nice blue and white teapot was his first gift to Madge when they moved here. The marble mantle clock might fetch a pound, but he’d never know the time without it… He could only think about his wife’s clothes, smart handbags and personal items. He hadn’t touched anything from her wardrobe yet, but unless he could find work that paid more than a couple of bob he might have to open it and pawn Madge’s best coat.

  2

  ‘Yer don’t know what it’s like stuck up here in this bed,’ Ernest Hawkins said to his daughter Flo. ‘I get fed up on me own – and if I could get to the commode by meself I wouldn’t ring for yer…’

  ‘I know it’s hard for you, Dad,’ Flo said and brushed a lock of soft fair hair from her forehead. For work, she wore her hair pulled into a neat pleat at the back of her head because it was tidy that way and she could tuck it under the little white cap she wore when cooking her cakes and home-made sweets to sell in her shop. Her blue eyes were saddened as she looked at her father. ‘I’m sorry you had to ring three times, but we were busy in the shop.’

  ‘I know that bloody shop is more important than me…’ he grumbled and glared at her. ‘It’s yer own fault if I’ve wet meself. I couldn’t hold it no longer…’

  Flo sighed but she didn’t answer her father back. He’d been very ill and for some weeks the doctors had thought he might die after his last stroke, but of late he’d seemed more aware – and his temper hadn’t improved.

  ‘I’ll change the sheets while you’re on the commode…’

  ‘Fat lot of good sitting me on that now,’ he mumbled but accepted her help in rising.

  Once he was up, he seemed quite steady and she was able to settle him in a suitable position while she changed the sheet.

  ‘There, that’s nice and dry for you, Dad,’ she said. ‘If you’re ready, I’ll get you back to bed – and then I’ll go back to work.’

  ‘I’d rather sit in a chair for a while,’ her father replied and she took him to the comfortable armchair her neighbour had carried upstairs for her only recently. ‘And you can tell the girl to bring me a cup of tea and a bit of cake as soon as she’s ready…’

  ‘Her name is Honour, as you well know,’ Flo replied, thinking of the beautiful girl with dark-honey hair that fell in soft waves to her shoulders and eyes more green than blue. Good-humoured, hard-working and loving she deserved far more than she got from him. ‘She’s your kin not your slave…’ In fact, she looked very much like Flo and people often remarked on how alike they were, for Flo was still slim and attractive, always smiling and good-natured despite all the work.

  ‘Yes, I know what she is,’ he retorted and his eyes snapped at her. ‘I might have had a stroke but I didn’t lose me wits – just the use of me damned legs…’

  ‘They are a bit better, though,’ Flo said encouragingly. ‘Kick your feet as much as you can, Dad – like the doctor showed you. He said if you exercise them you’ll get the use of your legs back sooner.’

  ‘All right for him to talk,’ her father muttered. ‘Stop fussing, girl – and next time answer the bell when I ring…’

  He was spoiling for a fight and Flo wasn’t in the mood to oblige him. It was a Friday and the weekend trade was brisk. Some days Flo wondered if it was worthwhile opening her little cake shop. Often, she’d sell just a few rock buns, perhaps a sponge cake and a couple of penny lollipops from the jars on the shelf at the back of the counter. Their main trade at the start of the week was the little soft bread rolls Honour baked and filled with cheese, tomatoes or corned beef.

  Flo’s mother had never sold filled rolls, which were mostly bought by single men or girls on their way to work. Mrs Hawkins always made enough from her cakes and buns to clothe herself and her family and save for the future, but the recession that had plagued the country for the last few years had turned into what people now called the Depression. Everyone’s trade was affected and there were desperate men begging on the streets. Some had a cap by their side with notices written on cardboard begging for help to feed a wife and family.

  Children were going to school hungry and it was only the free meal they received there that saved them from starving. All over London – and probably the rest of the country from what Flo read in the papers – enterprising bodies had set up soup kitchens and in the middle of each day a line of men would form for the cup of soup, hunk of bread and mug of tea they were given by well-meaning volunteers. Bread and potatoes were the staple food in most households, because they filled up the spaces left by inadequate meals.

  The streets of London’s East End looked almost as dismal as they had during the Great War. Small shops and businesses had closed; their windows were either smashed or boarded up and posters had been stuck on them. Unions urged men to strike to help their unemployed brothers, and Government posters begged the people to behave like responsible citizens. Some popular shops like Flo’s just off the market and a short distance from Poplar High Street just about kept going, but she managed it only because she and Honour worked all hours. Flo paid Honour a few shillings a week for her work and she was forced to give her father the share he’d always demanded of their takings, but she took very little for herself, saving every penny in case it was needed.

  Honour was in the kitchen when Flo walked in, setting the kettle on the range. ‘I’ve left the hall door open so I’ll hear if the bell goes,’ she said. ‘What was wrong this time, Flo?’

  ‘He needed the commode and I wasn’t in time so there’s another sheet to wash.’

  ‘You should send them to the laundry,’ Honour suggested. ‘Sometimes I thin
k he does it on purpose.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He gets angry when he makes a mess.’ Flo smiled at the girl she loved. To the world she was Flo’s younger sister, born seventeen years apart, but the love she felt was of a mother for her daughter. It was her secret. One Honour did not share – though Flo was almost certain her father did, even though he’d been working up north in the shipyards for months before the birth. Flo had been forced to bottle-feed her child and believed that her mother had successfully kept their secret from her father, but sometimes now he hinted and she wondered – could he know that Honour was Flo’s bastard, born in shame and hidden from the world?

  All these years she’d been forced to keep her silence, because her mother had threatened what her father would do to them both if he knew.

  ‘If he ever learned of your shame he would disown you, Flo. He would not have a wicked girl like you under his roof…’

  Flo’s tears had been shed in private. Was Honour’s birth the reason her father seemed determined to humiliate and punish her?

  The shop bell rang as Honour was pouring hot water into a pot and Flo went to answer it. Her customer was a well-dressed man. He smiled and tipped his hat to her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rolf.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Flo – I was wondering, is that sponge filled with buttercream and your special strawberry jam?’

  ‘Yes, it is, sir,’ Flo answered. He was a businessman for he carried a little briefcase. ‘It was made fresh this mornin’.’

  ‘Then I shall buy it. My daughter likes strawberry jam in her sponge cake. I seem to recall that last year you made some extra treats for Christmas…?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that is right. We make sugar mice for the children, coconut ice, fudge, chocolate truffles and some marzipan fancies. I don’t start makin’ them until the end of the first week of December – though I am takin’ orders for my rich fruit cakes now. I make them in November, store them in tins, and ice them last thing, so they are lovely and soft…’

  ‘Yes, I bought one last year. Please order a large iced cake for me – and I will purchase some of your other delights when I come in to fetch the fruit cake.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Rolf…’ Flo smiled and made a note on her pad, because he was a good customer. She made most of her profit at Christmas, because her trade did not rely on local customers. People came from all over to buy her chocolate truffles, fruit cakes and sugar mice. Some of them had been coming for years, when Flo’s mother ran the shop, but many more had begun to visit at Christmas since she and Honour started to make their home-made sweets.

  After he had gone, Flo knew she may as well shut the shop. There were only a few rock cakes left and they could eat those for their supper. She smiled because that was the fourth order for an iced cake she’d taken that day. It seemed that despite the terrible depression, everyone who could meant to make the most of Christmas.

  *

  Robbie jangled the few coins in his pocket. He’d been in the right place at the right time and earned enough to buy sufficient basic foodstuffs to feed the children for a few days. A traffic accident had happened just as he arrived outside a factory making nuts and bolts. A truck turning into the factory had been run into by a brewer’s cart and the truck had turned on its side as the heavy horses reared and stampeded, causing chaos and fear; the shrill screams of the injured horses mingled with the cries of the truck driver as it went over and spilled its load of scrap metal in the road.

  Robbie’s first reaction had been to catch the horses’ reins and help the driver calm them. After that he’d found himself clearing up the spill of metal and shovelling it into wheelbarrows and taking it into the factory. He’d helped the injured truck driver to tell his tale and, with some other men from the factory, he’d righted the truck and got it into the factory yard.

  The manager came out and thanked him, giving him five bob for helping out. The work had taken up most of his afternoon so he couldn’t continue his search for more permanent work that day, but at least he had some money in his pocket. He decided to go home and call in at the grocer’s on his way, to pick up some butter, jam, cheese, a quarter of loose tea, which was expensive since the government put a tax of four pence on it in April, and a tin of cocoa. He might manage a slice of ham as well if he was lucky…

  The small corner shop was next door to the fish and chip shop. Fred Giles was just starting to get ready for the evening service and the smell of the hot fat was tantalising, but Robbie stuck to his plans. The five shillings he’d earned had to buy basic food for a week and couldn’t be squandered on fish and chips, however tempting the smell. He needed a bob for the gas meter or it would probably run out before they had finished their meal and they’d have to light the candles.

  Walking into the grocer’s, he saw a young woman standing there with her basket on the counter. She was dressed in a blue coat with a velvet collar and a matching cloche hat over her fair hair. Her shoes were patent leather with a sensible heel and he noticed she had shapely ankles.

  ‘I’m going to need twelve pounds of sugar, the same of ground almonds, two large tins of cocoa and twelve pounds of mixed dried fruit, spices, three pounds of butter and the same of marge, ten large bags of plain flour and the same of…’ she paused to give the grocer time to make notes and turned her head, glancing at Robbie for the first time and seemed to start and then carried on reading from her list. ‘And we need a tin of plums and a packet of Bird’s custard powder please, that’s for Dad’s tea not the shop…’ She gave a nervous laugh.

  Robbie’s heart stood still as the years rolled back and he saw his first love – a reminder of the stupid idiot he’d been at seventeen… ‘Hello, Miss Hawkins,’ he said. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Flo since he’d returned to the East End, but it was the first time they’d come face to face.

  ‘Robbie… Mr Graham…’ she murmured and her face had gone very pale for she recognised him. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well,’ Robbie lied. His chest was in the grip of a huge vice and all his breath had been squeezed from him. ‘You sound as if you expect to be busy?’

  ‘It will be Christmas next month,’ Flo said and she was smiling easily now, as if she had taken their meeting in her stride. I have to order my supplies in time or Mr Johnson might run out… and I always trade here.’

  ‘Local trade for local people,’ Robbie agreed. ‘You run that cake shop just off the High Street, don’t you?’ He’d passed but never allowed himself to enter.

  ‘Yes, we do – Honour and me…’ Flo looked away from his bright gaze as she lied, ‘she – she’s my younger sister.’

  ‘We live a few streets from you, where the old seamen’s cottages are.’ Robbie swallowed hard. ‘My wife used to make cakes for the kids, but they don’t get much like that these days…’

  Robbie was floundering and knew it. Flo just took his breath away. It was years since he’d caught more than a glimpse of her in her shop and she looked older – but she was still just as lovely as she had been at sixteen when they’d first met…but surely, she would have forgotten their friendship for it had been too brief.

  ‘I’ll leave the order with you and come back tomorrow,’ Flo told the grocer. ‘Goodbye, Mr Graham. It was nice to see you…’

  Robbie heard the doorbell ring as she left but didn’t allow himself to watch her.

  ‘She’s my best customer,’ Mr Johnson asserted. ‘She could buy a lot of this wholesale if she liked – her mother did, but Miss Flo buys from us. She says by the time she adds the delivery charge on it costs just as much, but I think she just likes to help out her local traders.’

  ‘Know her well, do you?’ Robbie asked. ‘Never married then?’

  ‘If you ask me she never had a chance – that mother of hers was a tartar, proper despot; harsh words is all Flo ever got. Mrs Hawkins never bought from me unless she ran out and then she never stopped moanin’ about me prices…’ He put Robbie’s goods on the counter. ‘H
er father used ter buy his fags ’ere – he were all right once, but he turned a bit sour as he got older. I reckon it were his missus as turned him that way – a naggin’ woman would send any man to the bad…’

  Robbie smiled, agreed and paid the three shillings and eleven pence three farthings he owed. He picked up his shopping and left. It had been a shock meeting Flo like that after all these years, though he’d known she ran the shop that had been her mother’s.

  If he hadn’t been such a fool… Regret and memories swirled in his head but he pulled himself up sharp. No good brooding over something that couldn’t be changed. He had to think about where he was going to try his luck the next day. He’d been turned down at every shop, factory and pub he’d tried. No one was hiring. He’d even tried a builder’s yard, asked for work as a skilled carpenter. Robbie had been lucky he’d been on the scene when the accident happened, but that wouldn’t happen again, and if he couldn’t find work he would have to go and stand in line on the docks again…

  *

  Mick stood shivering outside the derelict buildings. No light flickered between the cracks in the boards that covered the windows and he knew his father hadn’t got back yet. He didn’t want to go in alone, because there were rats and he hated the way they ran over his feet when he lay under his blanket at night – but it wasn’t the rats he was most terrified of. It was him… the man who stood by the entrance they all used to get into the old tenements. He was big and had long hair, a bushy beard, wild blue eyes, a row of rotten teeth and foul breath – and he was always grabbing hold of Mick and hitting him.

  He didn’t want to go past him and so he stood out in the icy evening, waiting for his father to turn down the small dark lane that led off from Dock Road. Hardly any street lights worked in this area and no one bothered to contact the council to get them repaired; it suited the folk who came and went here – tramps, thieves, hard men who wanted a place to stay for a few days.