by Rosie Clarke
‘The crafty old devil,’ Honour cried but laughed, because she wasn’t spiteful. ‘I don’t mind helpin’ him if he lets me – but he makes so much work for you.’
‘Well, I send his sheets out to be washed now and I told him so,’ Flo said with a tight smile. ‘He knows that it costs money to make a mess so perhaps he’ll be a bit more considerate in future.’
‘Dad has never considered any of us, not even Mum.’ Honour frowned. ‘You don’t mind if I go out with Sergeant Sharp, do you?’
Flo hesitated before speaking. Honour didn’t remember their father before the bitterness turned him into a bad-tempered old man, but she could just remember a different person who had smiled more and given his daughter a treat on a Saturday morning.
‘No, of course I don’t,’ Flo told her and gave her a hug. ‘You’re young and you should have some fun. I want you to be happy – and one day I hope you will fall in love and get married.’
‘You should get married too,’ Honour teased. ‘I know someone who likes you a lot…’
‘And who would that be?’ Flo asked, even though she knew Honour meant John Hansen.
‘Are you going to the mission tonight?’ Honour asked. ‘I’ll see to Father. I don’t mind…’
Flo liked it when Honour was in a happy mood and didn’t mind her teasing. Neither of them had much fun in their lives and Flo had given up expecting more than she had. She’d once made a mistake and this was her punishment. She had to stay here to make a life for herself and her darling Honour and nothing would make her give up the bequest her mother had left to her and Honour, even though her father had hidden the deeds to the property and refused to give them up even to the lawyer. He claimed he did not know where they were, but Flo knew that he’d hidden them the night his wife died. Yet she could do nothing to prove it and he threatened to turn them out with nothing unless she behaved and gave him his share of the profits.
Flo put up with his unkind words, his pinching and the way he made a mess just so that she had to clear it up – but as yet he hadn’t tried to stop her going to the mission once a week. That was because if she hadn’t gone, John Hansen would have come round and lectured her father about the evils of selfishness.
John was a Church of England vicar and spent his Sundays preaching to his congregation and the rest of his week caring for the poor of the area at his Christian mission. Here those who were destitute could always find a hot meal of soup, bread and tea. Sometimes, there were hot baked potatoes filled with cheese or a knob of butter as well as the soup, and on very rare occasions, like Christmas Day, there would be a meal of some kind.
Friday nights was tombola night at the mission and everyone who could afford to spend a shilling or two went along to play. Small prizes were given and the money earned over and above the cost of the prizes was saved towards the meal for the elderly and destitute on Christmas Day. Flo helped on Friday nights by serving tea and making sandwiches for the players and those who came in just to watch and warm themselves by the fire – and she always managed to take a few spare cakes with her, which were a special treat for those lucky enough to get a share.
‘Yes, I am going this evening,’ Flo told her sister. ‘I’m taking the rest of the rock cakes and the sponge we cut today. I’ll make fresh in the morning…’
‘I’m goin’ to make some more sugar mice this evening while you’re out,’ Honour said. ‘I think I might make some iced biscuits as well. If I wrap them in cellophane they keep fresh for several days and people like to give them as gifts.’
‘It’s a bit too soon for Christmas gifts yet,’ Flo suggested, but she knew Honour enjoyed making fancy things and she made them look beautiful, tied up with pretty ribbon. In the last days before Christmas people queued to buy her treats – although not quite as many as they had before so many folk were out of work. Yet most families saved a few pennies every week for Christmas and some people paid two pennies a week into a club at Flo’s shop to buy festive cakes and sweets for their children.
Flo locked the shop and both girls went into the kitchen. They washed the used dishes from the shop, made a supper of pilchards on toast for themselves and then Flo took freshly made toast and melted cheese up to her father. She always cut the crusts off for him and arranged the little fingers of toast so that they were easy for him to eat.
Honour said that he was sour and bad-tempered, but she’d seen only the loving side of their mother. Flo still remembered when she’d been young and her father had been much kinder to both her and her mother. She was not certain why he had changed. Her mother had a cutting edge to her tongue and Flo had heard the echoes of bitter rows but never knew the reason for them; they had begun long before she fell for a child and it was after one terrible one that had come to blows that her father had gone north to the shipyards and not returned for over a year. Flo had suffered at the hands of both parents and yet she had nursed her dying mother and would do the same for her father, no matter how cruel he was. Only if he hurt Honour would she strike back at him.
He put down his newspaper and Flo saw he’d been reading an article about scientists in Cambridge smashing the atom. She wondered what possible benefit that could be to anyone. If they had money to waste, they should use it to discover something useful – something that would help people.
Flo plumped up her father’s pillows. ‘Right, you’ll be all fine for a while now, Dad. I’ll see you when I get back…’
‘Where do you think you’re goin’?’ he demanded as she turned to leave.
‘It’s Friday. I go to the mission on Friday.’
‘You should stay here in case I need your help.’
‘Honour will help you, Father.’
‘I’ll not have that little trollop touchin’ me…’
‘Father, please do not speak of Honour in that manner. She isn’t a trollop… and I won’t have you say it.’ She looked at him warily, holding her anger.
‘She’ll turn out just like her mother…’ His bony fingers dug into Flo’s arm. ‘I’m not stupid, girl, even if you and your mother thought I was – that little bitch is none of mine…’
‘Let go of me, Father.’ Flo looked him in the eyes. ‘If you persist in saying these things we might decide not to answer your bell…’
‘Selfish little bitch!’ her father shouted and flung his arm out. ‘Go to the wretched mission then and leave me ’ere alone in me bed unable to move…’
‘I think you could manage very well if you chose,’ Flo said and gave him a hard look. ‘This property belongs to me, Father, as you well know, because Mum left it to me in her will; her father’s will said it should be passed on to her first child – and you’ve always had your share of the profits. If you’re not satisfied you’re welcome to leave, find yourself some lodgings…’
‘You wicked girl! You’ll go to hell for this,’ her father threatened. ‘If John Hansen knew how you talk to me, he wouldn’t think the sun shines out of yer arse! If he knew what I knew, he’d want none of you, girl.’
‘That sort of language is beneath you, Father, and I shall not listen to it,’ Flo said, walking from the room without looking back. He yelled obscenities after her but she did not turn or give any sign that she had noticed. This language had started after his second stroke and was not like him, not like the man he’d once been. Her eyes stung with tears because her father had driven all chance of real happiness from her life long ago. She knew that she would never marry and sometimes that made her heart ache, though she accepted it was too late to recover lost dreams. Yet if he truly knew their secret – the secret Flo and her mother had kept from the whole world – he could make life very hard for her and for Honour.
Flo suspected that he had guessed Honour was hers, but he could not know the name of her child’s father. Flo had told no one, even though her mother had threatened her with the whip. She’d kept that to herself and it would remain her secret until the time came to tell Honour.
No, her father could
not know her secret. Flo had hidden it from the world, and even the man she’d loved so much that she’d foolishly given both her heart and her virginity to him had no idea that Honour was her daughter. Flo had not even told Honour and would not while her own father lived…
5
John Hansen looked up as the woman entered the mission hall: set up by the parish church, it was for the benefit of the local community and intended to give the residents somewhere to go for an evening of company that was not a public house, and once a week they had a social evening for the men, women and children of the area. However, of late, its main purpose had been to feed those near to starving, giving everyone who asked a meal of bread, soup and a mug of hot tea. It was a mission to the poor of London, but John did not think of himself as a missionary; he was just a simple man helping the people he cared for, just as he did when he spoke to them from the pulpit on a Sunday – though it had to be said that he saw fewer men on a Sunday than he did in his mission.
His gaze returned to the woman who had just entered. She would not be considered young now but her face had a sweetness and soft beauty that tore at his heart whenever he saw her. His feelings threatened to make themselves felt as she walked towards him, a smile on her lips and a look of happiness in her eyes. He knew it truly gave her pleasure to help him with these evenings, which served two purposes: to take people’s minds from their troubles for a few hours and raise a little money to support the mission’s work. John believed that if Flo were able she would help him more often at the mission and he was angry at the selfishness of the father who had treated her so badly all these years.
He knew of course that she put up with it all for Honour’s sake. Her devotion to her sister was remarkable and people liked her because she ran her shop and made no complaint. All the locals liked to buy from Flo Hawkins and her sister. Their cakes were fresh and delicious and the special treats they made at Christmas and to order for birthdays melted in the mouth.
Even if Flo had not been as loving and giving, John would still have worshipped her from afar. He was ten years her senior and knew that his face was plain, his form slight and unremarkable, and she could never have loved him as he loved her. So he had never, nor would he ever, expect more than smiles from the woman he loved.
‘She was alus a looker that Flo Hawkins,’ an elderly woman cackled behind him. He turned to look at Cath Brunnings and realised that her eyes saw too much. ‘Pity that old devil of a father made her life a misery all these years.’
‘Yes, Mrs Brunnings, it is,’ John agreed and hastily changed the subject lest Flo should overhear. ‘Have you had something to eat? We’ve got some nice ham sandwiches this evening and a light fruit cake that Miss Hawkins baked for us.’
‘Ain’t we the lucky ones,’ Cath muttered and chuckled to herself. ‘Why don’t yer tell her, Reverend John?’ She shuffled off and John prayed that Flo had not her heard her idle chatter.
‘I’m sorry I’m a little late,’ Flo apologised. She’d taken off her coat in the office and was wearing a light green tweed skirt and a pale cream twinset. It was not hand-knitted but fully fashioned with set in sleeves and tiny pearl buttons. Honour had bought it for her sister’s birthday in September. Flo wore it with a thin string of cultured pearls which had belonged to her mother and there was a look of quality about her, from the neat pageboy bob she wore her hair in that evening to her shining sensible leather court shoes and silk stockings. Most women’s stockings tended to sag a bit round the ankles, but Flo’s always looked neat and perfect.
Honour was a beautiful girl too. Perhaps even more striking than her sister, John thought, with her dark honey hair and green eyes, but her smile was not the one that set his heart racing. Only Flo’s could do that…
‘We’re glad to have what time you can spare,’ John assured her and let his gaze dwell lovingly on Flo’s face for a moment. There was a gentleness about Flo that set her apart and made people look at her, though he knew that beneath the sweetness and thoughtfulness, there was strength. The strength that made her able to stand up to her father’s cruelty. ‘Has Mr Hawkins been playing up again?’
‘I think lying helpless in bed makes him worse,’ Flo admitted. ‘It can’t be pleasant, hardly ever seeing anyone, never going out and needing someone to help him all the time.’
‘Perhaps if he’d been kinder to his neighbours he might have more visitors,’ John said, because he knew that he was the only person outside the family to visit Ernest Hawkins. ‘It is a sad thing to drive everyone away.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Flo agreed with him. ‘I had best get to the kitchen. I brought some small cakes and some corned beef and my own pickle to make sandwiches.’
‘We’ve used up all the ham donated,’ John admitted. ‘They will be glad of whatever you’ve brought.’
Flo nodded and he watched as she walked off to the kitchens to start filling plates with sandwiches and cakes. The fruit cake she’d sent earlier had almost gone and there were still more folk squeezing into the hall in the hope of food and a cup of tea or cocoa.
John’s eyes moved over the men, women and a sprinkling of children in the hall. Some of them came to play the games he set up on a Friday night, hoping to win five or ten shillings as the top prize, but a packet of biscuits or sweets was another welcome gift, because no one in this hall had more than a few pence in his or her pocket. Everyone who had a job thought themselves lucky and knew that it could be snatched away from them at any time. Firms who were old and respected were going to the wall every week.
Lingering, John listened to the banter of the men and boys. Most of them were talking about their football team, West Ham, who were in division two, and wondering how many goals Vic Watson would score that weekend in the league. He was their top scorer and was helping the team to win their FA cup matches too; those who could read studied the football results in the evening paper of a Saturday night, for not everyone had a wireless at home and the pubs that had were crowded when the results came through. A good win for the home team lifted spirits even when things were bad.
John looked around for Robbie Graham. He’d met the man standing outside the pub earlier that day looking miserable and asked if he would bring his children to the mission that evening, but he’d shaken his head and his eyes had flashed with anger.
‘I don’t ask for charity, John Hansen,’ he’d grunted. ‘And don’t be thinking I’ve spent every penny in the pub, because I stood all bloody day and they didn’t give me more than an hour’s work washing down a trailer stinking with maggots and bones and I’ll not spend that money even though my throat is parched for a beer.’
John had nodded, not answering the accusation in Robbie’s eyes, because he understood his anger; he’d seen it in the eyes of many men standing on street corners recently. ‘You’re a carpenter by trade, aren’t you?’
‘Aye, and a damned good one,’ Robbie had grunted, still angry. ‘But they won’t give me my proper work. All I get is filthy, stinkin’ jobs that pay pennies. How am I supposed to clothe and feed my kids like that?’
‘I might be able to find you a few hours work at the mission,’ John had said. ‘We need some structural repairs and I could manage to pay you some shillings – but it would only be for a few days…’
‘Proper work?’ Robbie had demanded. ‘I don’t want you making a job for me out of charity…’
‘Oh, the work is needed all right,’ John had told him with a grin. ‘If I hired a firm, it would cost a fortune – but perhaps you could help me out and do some of the repairs. If you tell me what I need, I can buy the wood…’
Robbie had nodded. ‘I’ll take a look and if there’s a job to be done… I’d be glad to do it…’
‘Come to the tombola this evening and bring the children. We have a bit of tea for the elderly folk and everyone has a good time.’
‘Mebbe,’ Robbie had said and touched the tip of his tongue to his lips as the door of the public house swung open and they caught the o
dour of stale beer. ‘I’d rather come round during the day…’
John had nodded and walked on. He knew that you couldn’t push a man into doing something that went against the grain and it wasn’t worth trying. If Robbie made a good job of the work at the mission, there was a chance that the Church authorities would take him on. Goodness knows, there was enough restoration work in the churches of London to last a man his working lifetime. Getting the Church commissioners to spend their money was another matter, though John happened to know that several buildings in the district were approaching the stage where either work was done to stop them becoming dangerous or they would need to close. However, there was no point in raising a man’s hopes only to dash them. If Robbie did the jobs necessary at the mission, John would do his best to find him more, but he couldn’t promise anything. Besides, Robbie had to make the first move.
*
Robbie stood outside the mission. It was cold and the lights in the windows were inviting him, tempting him to go inside, but he’d seen someone go in and knew he couldn’t – not if she was there. He couldn’t let her see how low he’d sunk. He’d loved her once or thought he did…
Robbie had walked past her little shop often enough, pausing to look at the tempting treats in the window and wish he could take some of them home for his children. Ben had given him half a sticky bun when he got in from work that night and he’d eaten it, asking where it had come from as he chewed the delicious cake, even though he knew already.
‘Miss Flo gave us both one,’ Ben had told him. ‘I offered to clean her windows, Dad. She promised she would find me a job one day – so it’s not charity. ’Sides, Ruthie wanted hers, so I couldn’t say no.’
‘Make sure you go round there and sweep the path for her, if nothing else,’ Robbie had growled. He didn’t like his kids taking charity from anyone – but it was worse coming from her. Yet how could he forbid it when he was seldom able to give them anything more than a bit of bread and scrape or a few chips if he’d been paid for a couple of hours unloading?