by Mary Gibson
*
Sam respected her request; he never came to explain or justify himself – perhaps he thought he didn’t need to. But if he was waiting for her to go to him, he would wait a long time. For she didn’t know which brother she was angrier with, the one who had told her the truth or the one who had lied. It was easier to forget both.
Sam may not have come himself but he did send someone else. It was on a Saturday afternoon and Matty had not long been home from work. She was in the middle of shortening one of her simpler show gowns in an attempt to turn it into a day frock. Most of her wardrobe had been bought in America and was unsuitable as everyday wear for a Bermondsey factory girl. But she simply didn’t have ten bob to spare for a day dress, for with no pub spots or variety earnings, her two pounds a week from Peek’s was having to be stretched very thin. No one except Esme knew that all Eliza’s money had gone to keep Frank at bay. Matty had thought it money well spent, even though it meant now she couldn’t afford to clothe herself decently. Still, she refused to look shabby and, with no variety work, she doubted she’d need the long, pink crêpe gown again.
She was no seamstress and the result, which she’d spread out on the parlour floor, was not encouraging. So when the knock came, she was grateful for a reason to leave her sewing.
‘What damn use is a telephone if you never answer it!’ Esme Golding stood on the doorstep, immaculately tailored in her expensive belted check suit and beret. With her matching shoes and handbag, she was an immediate reminder of another world, which Matty would have liked to close the door on. But Esme did not wait to be asked in. She slid past her into the narrow passage, brushing Matty’s cheek with a red-lipsticked kiss, trailing a perfume that smelled of money in her wake.
‘You’d better come in then!’ Matty addressed Esme’s back.
‘In here?’ Esme walked into the parlour, circling the small room in seconds and finding the most comfortable chair to sit on. Matty followed, hastily shoving the pink crêpe dress into the sideboard cupboard.
‘Spot of sewing? Is that your new hobby now you aren’t interested in working?’ Esme was lighting up and looked round for an ashtray.
‘I am working,’ Matty said, standing awkwardly in front of Esme, feeling as if she was up before the headmistress.
‘I mean proper work, not making bloody Bourbon creams, darling.’
Matty gave a dismissive laugh, ‘You ought to try ten hours a day at it, Esme, you might change your mind about what’s proper work.’ Matty wasn’t going to be cowed. ‘Besides, I’ve been begging you for so-called “proper work” in whatever fleapits will have me for over a year! I’m sorry but I can’t keep living on hope alone.’
‘Rubbish, darling. The Cockney Canary I know would never give up singing – she would sing in a sewer! So what I want to know, dear Matty, is where has she gone? What’s happened to the Cockney Canary and why doesn’t she ever pick up the fucking phone when I’ve got a booking for her?’
‘You’d get your cards using language like that at Peek Frean’s’.
‘Aren’t you at all interested in why I’ve come to this unlovely corner of London you insist on calling home?’
Matty knew the woman was trying to rouse a reaction, but she simply didn’t have it in her to hit back. ‘Tell me then, but don’t pretend Sam didn’t ask you to come.’
Esme widened her eyes in mock innocence. ‘Would I lie to you, Matty? He did telephone, but only because he’s terribly worried about you. But before I tell you the real reason I’ve come I’ll need some refreshment. It’s never too early for me, darling.’ She mimed a drinking action and Matty sighed, going to the sideboard to pour drinks.
‘I’ve only got gin and nothing to mix with it, is that all right?’
‘As it comes, Matty. I’m not fussy, so long as I’m not depleting your supply.’
Matty saw her raise an eyebrow at the nearly empty bottle of gin.
‘Don’t worry, this pub’s in no danger of running dry,’ Matty said, pulling out a full bottle from the back of the cupboard. She had been finding that sometimes a glass or two before bed was all that could halt the endless round of ‘what ifs’ and recriminations that had begun to invade her night-time thoughts.
As Matty slumped down in the chair opposite, Esme went on. ‘Well, I’m only here to let you know that if you can bear to drag yourself away from your pat-a-cakes, then the Astoria, Old Kent Road, want you to appear twice nightly for a fortnight. And by the looks of that abomination of a dress you just butchered, you’re in need of a bit more cash at the moment than Peek Frean’s can supply!’
‘I’m grateful you’ve come slumming to let me know about the Astoria, but you can tell them I’m not interested. You may as well know, Esme, I’ve decided to give up the business.’
Esme could not hide her shock or her disappointment. But her perennially mocking expression turned fierce.
‘All right then, Sam did tell me what happened and of course it’s a terrible shock for you. Clearly you can’t forgive any of them, least of all your sister, Eliza. But tell me this, Matty, have you never done something you were ashamed of? Have you never had a secret that you’d do anything to keep from those you loved?’
Matty, fidgeting nervously with her glass, spilled spots of gin on to her skirt and rubbed at them ineffectually as Esme pressed on. ‘And did you tell Eliza the real reason you came home? Have you told Sam? Really, Matty, I’m not such a fool as to believe you’ve told even me the whole story. So while you’re in your biscuit factory next week counting shortcakes and all the sins of your sister, just remember what secrets you’re hiding yourself!’
Silence hung heavy between them as Matty felt her words sink in. Esme had come perilously near the truth and as the woman waited for a response Matty felt the temptation to reveal she’d fled America to save not just herself, but also her unborn child, from a life with Frank. It would be a release, the uncoiling of a spring that had been wound tight inside her. She fingered the strawberry burn mark on the inside of her wrist and instead blurted out another truth.
‘I can’t sing any more! It’s not that I don’t want to... I’ve lost my voice.’
Esme let out a short bark of a laugh. ‘Balls! Do you really expect me to believe that? You could have come up with a better excuse, Matty. Lost your voice? Impossible!’
‘It’s true! Ever since Will told me about Eliza. And I’ve tried... really tried.’
‘Well, try bloody harder!’ Esme’s tone was fierce but Matty could see doubt beginning to unsettle her.
And as she went on to describe to her all the times she’d tried – in the kitchen, in the garden, at night lying on her bed – Esme’s disbelieving expression melted away and Matty saw pity replace it.
‘There’ll be a tune running through my head, I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. Nothing at all. I don’t know what to do, Esme.’ Matty’s face crumpled and she buried her face in her hands. How could Matty explain to her that it was as if she was being unmade. Day by day the strands of her past were unravelling, along with her inborn talent, the one she’d always believed she’d inherited from her father, who it seemed wasn’t her father. She had no idea and no interest in whether Ernest James could sing.
‘Oh my God, it’s true,’ Esme said finally, her voice dull with shock. ‘My poor, dear girl.’ For a minute Matty thought she might burst into tears, but instead she pulled a silk handkerchief from her bag and handed it to Matty. ‘Here, dry your eyes and don’t expect me to cry with you, because I know you’ll sing again, my little canary. I know you will.’
9
Peek’s
April–May 1931
Working at Peek’s was almost a relief. There was little there to remind her of her old existence. It felt as if her life had fragmented, her past shattered into a thousand pieces. All her memories of a time before Will’s revelation felt suspect and untrustworthy. She felt like an amnesiac who might piece together their past from other people’s recollections but
who never truly felt connected to the life they’d lived before. She almost wished she’d lost all her memories rather than have every remembrance tainted. She never thought she could be grateful for factory work, but she welcomed the mind-numbing monotony. She became a model Peek’s worker. In the past Matty had invariably turned the weekly cleanliness inspection into a lark for the girls by adding the odd flounce and frill to the hideous mob cap and shapeless apron. Edna would doggedly pull them off, but it gave the girls a laugh and added a more festive air to the regimented inspections. But these days Matty appeared with unadorned cap and overall, which she laundered and meticulously starched herself. Now there were no quips about soldiers on parade as she thrust out her scrubbed hands and clipped, unvarnished nails for Edna to inspect. The girls had grown fond of the weekly show and the change in Matty had not gone unnoticed.
One dinner time in the canteen Winnie broached the subject.
‘You don’t seem yourself these days, Matty,’ she said. ‘You’ve lost your sparkle, love. Why don’t you come on the beano with us? We’re all going, all the Tiller Girls.’
Matty smiled at the name for the regulars who’d come to listen to her at the Concorde, which seemed to have stuck.
‘Ramsgate ain’t Hollywood, but we have a bloody good time! It’s a laugh, we wear our work caps, stick feathers in ’em, pom poms – all sorts – and Edna can’t complain! It’s right up your street, you can lead the sing-song on the chara! Go on, Matt, say you will.’
Matty had never turned down an invitation to entertain anyone, yet she feared there was no point in agreeing. After all her failed attempts to sing, Matty didn’t think she’d do any better leading the girls in ‘I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside’
‘No, I won’t come, thanks, Win. It’s kind of you to offer, but you’re right, I’m not feeling myself at the moment – I wouldn’t be very good company.’
‘Perhaps you need a tonic,’ Winnie suggested.
But somehow Matty didn’t think the cure for what ailed her was to be found in a bottle of Wincarnis.
*
Though Esme’s prophecy that Matty would sing again hadn’t come true, her words about forgiving Eliza had stirred the beginnings of an uncomfortable understanding in Matty. For there were indeed secrets that she had lied about to keep hidden, so who was she to judge?
One day as she was approaching the factory gates, sniffing to see what the day’s bake would be, she recognized the scent of shortcakes, and Esme’s words returned to her. Would she spend the day counting shortcakes and her sister’s sins or reflecting on her own? Neither would help Matty to get on with her life, which she reminded herself was not over yet, however much it might have changed. So when Winnie repeated her invitation to go on the works beano she finally agreed.
She met Winnie outside the Concorde along with the Tiller Girls and thirty other Peek’s women. They were milling around, comparing decorated work caps, pinning carnations on to coats, waiting to board the long cream and brown charabanc. Word about the beano had got round to the local children and a crowd of them jostled for a place closest to the charabanc. The driver loaded crates of beer on to the back, then, just as they were boarding, a horde descended on them. Children of all ages, some raggedy-arsed and barefoot, others smart in shirts and grey shorts, but all shouting with one voice: ‘Chuck out yer mouldies!’
The chorus got louder and louder and didn’t stop until the women dug into their purses and flung coppers high into the air. Pennies, halfpennies and farthings cascaded on to the cobbles, signalling a ferocious scrum, with the biggest boys scooping the lion’s share. In amongst them Matty spotted two dark heads that made her heart stop. She pushed her way off the charabanc. “It’s Billy and Sammy!’ she explained to Winnie and ran to them. They looked round as she called their names, and then she realized her mistake. They were about the same age, but Nellie wouldn’t send her boys out with frayed shirts and dirty faces. Matty smiled at them and gave them a penny each. Realizing with a pang how much she had missed Sam’s boys, she found herself wondering if they had missed her too.
On the way to Ramsgate the girls pleaded with her to sing, but she didn’t dare risk trying and failing in front of them all. Winnie, seeing how uncomfortable she was, came to her rescue. ‘Let’s have our fashion parade first, girls! I’ve brought me bag of tricks!’ She flounced along the central aisle of the chara, distributing fancy hats and feather boas from a large bag, and adorning herself with the most outrageous garments. She kept up a running commentary, as she pretended to model the latest Paris fashions to roars of laughter from the girls. Matty sat back, and let the show go on around her, laughing when Winnie got risqué. But her thoughts kept returning to Billy, Sammy and Albie, and how her anger at Sam had only served to increase her feeling of loss.
By the time the chara rolled into the little seaside town the beer crates were half empty, and it was a rowdy, cheerful crew that descended to the sands, still wearing their decorated Peek’s caps and carnation buttonholes. Edna handed each of them their dinner money, for on this one day of the year, the firm was paying them to enjoy themselves.
‘Where shall we go for dinner?’ Winnie asked, already knowing the answer. ‘Fish and chips?’
The coach had dropped them some way from the sea front and they made their way along a row of respectable two-tone brick villas. Their ornate wooden porches and balconies, freshly painted in green and cream, hinted at a sea view that none of them possessed. Most of them were B&Bs, and above window boxes packed with bright petunias were invariably No Vacancy signs. Ramsgate at the height of the season was overflowing with those fortunate ones who could find the money for a week’s holiday by the seaside, the train disgorging crowds of pasty-faced Londoners and their excited children during the season.
‘Smell that air?’ Winnie asked and Matty inhaled obediently, confirming that the air was indeed much better than London’s. Matty’s parents had never been able to afford a holiday for them, but she’d since sampled Coney Island and had seen Blackpool often enough when she’d performed at the Grand. The crowds in Blackpool looked very like the Ramsgate holidaymakers walking alongside them in excited little flocks. Families passed them, trekking to the sea, like so many Bedouin tribesmen to an oasis, carrying brightly coloured windbreaks, red tin buckets and spades and rolled towels. Beyond the neat villas Matty caught the glint of sunlight bouncing off the sea and soon they reached the prom.
There was not an inch to spare. The pace of the milling crowd had slowed and now they were surrounded by couples and families, walking at that peculiarly slow stroll reserved for the prom. So intent was she on avoiding tripping over a pram that she collided with a family in front of her who’d stopped to have their photo taken at the Sunbeam Studio. The children were perched on a giant dog, desperately trying to keep their balance long enough for the photo to be taken.
‘Shall we get ours taken later, Matty?’ Winnie asked. ‘Let’s all get the showgirl costumes and we can pretend we’re on the stage with you!’ The other Tiller Girls agreed, but Matty hoped that by the time they’d had fish and chips and gone in search of an afternoon drink they would have forgotten.
She stopped to take a breath.
‘Hang on, Win, let’s at least have a look at the sea now we’re here!’ She hauled Winnie back and they leaned on the railing, looking down to the long stretch of golden sands below. Barely an inch of sand could be seen between the encampments of sunbathers and sandcastle-makers. Deckchairs demarcated each family’s territory, and as she scanned the laughing groups of children her eye was caught by a game of beach cricket. Three young boys, one batting, one bowling, and the smallest, whose job it seemed to Matty was the hardest of all, chasing after the stray balls and retrieving them. The match was going on some way from where she stood, but something about the jaunty tilt of the batter’s cap caught her attention.
This time she was not mistaken. If she’d been in touch with Sam she would have known this was the week he plan
ned to take the family to Ramsgate. Sam had sent her photos of this place with his letters: he always tried to give the boys a holiday, paying into the holiday club all year and never dipping into it, no matter how tight money was. Suddenly Matty felt like a bird in a trap – she could not let herself be seen. Grabbing Winnie’s arm, she urged her on.
‘I thought you wanted to look at the sea!’ she protested.
‘Well, now I’ve seen it. Come on, let’s get to the fish and chip shop.’
She turned and half ran, her arm through Winnie’s, catching up with the other girls, who linked arms with them so they formed a phalanx bowling along against the tide of promenaders. Four young men coming in the opposite direction wouldn’t break ranks and, as the Tiller Girls’ little chain broke apart, Matty collided with a man concentrating on not dropping a handful of ice-cream cornets.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she apologized.
‘Oh, not to wor—’ He froze as ice cream trickled down his fingers.
‘Your ice cream’s melting, Sam,’ she said, giving up any notion of flight, but dimly wishing she were Amy Johnson, so that, like the heroine of the day, she could have the means to stay aloft, flying high, never having to come down to earth again.