by Martina Cole
Still, she’d had her way, and she brightened herself up now by thinking of the hot bath, the lice-free hair and nice soft nightie that was to come. She closed her mind to the other. As Mrs Prosser Evans always said at Sunday school: ‘Sufficient to the time thereof.’ She’d worry about that bit when she came to it.
Paddy stood in the hallway of the house in Ripple Road feeling depressed. The smell of cleanliness and the absolute quiet of the place gave him the heebie jeebies, as he expressed it. He always felt clumsy and dirty when he came to the house, and it shamed him. It shamed him that he had sold off his Eileen to Henry Dumas; it galled him now that his Briony, the only one of his daughters with a spark of real life, wanted to come here. Couldn’t wait to get here. It was all she had talked about on the way. And yet, as much as he’d hated listening, deep inside himself he didn’t blame the child. Not really.
Briony had always had a bit more going for her than the other girls. She was quick-witted and quick-tempered and always seemed to be a bit ahead of her years, even as a tiny child. He could understand to an extent the need in her to better her way of life. Could sympathise with her absolute single-mindedness in wanting to come to this house.
Molly had never had a lot of time for Briony, except as a helper with Rosalee. Only Briony could get her to go to bed, and stop the crying fits which at one time had been frequent. Molly was all for Eileen and Kerry - Kerry being her golden child, her gifted girl, her reason for wanting the house in Oxlow Lane. Kerry must have a good home to grow up in, never mind the rest of them. Bernadette was the odd one out of the five girls. Quiet, placid, but with a devil of a temper when roused, Bernie always looked as if she was sickening for something. As if she was just a guest who would soon leave the household. His own mother had said that the child would not make old bones, and even though she was not actually ill, there was an apathy about her that frightened Paddy at times.
He put his hands in his pockets and stared down at his old boots. This was taking the devil of a long time and he was parched. His throat was on fire with the want of a whisky. A few whiskies would be better.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and Briony rushed down to him, her face flushed and rosy.
‘Oh, Dad, I’m to have Eileen’s room! She’s nearly packed. Mr Dumas said she can keep all the clothes and things, wasn’t that nice of him?’
Paddy licked his lips. ‘Aye, very kind. Tell our Eileen to hurry up, I haven’t got all night.’
The morning-room door opened and Henry Dumas walked out to Paddy and gave him three pounds.
‘Eileen shouldn’t be long. Would you like a drink while you’re waiting?’
Paddy brightened. ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’
Dumas noted the civility in his voice and smiled to himself.
For the first time, Paddy went into the morning room, and was impressed way beyond his imagining. There was a good fire in the polished grate. The walls were papered in a dark blue flock, and tall green plants grew upright in painted bowls. A leather chesterfield and two winged armchairs gleamed in the firelight, and small tables held all sorts of knick-knacks and frippery, the like of which Paddy had never seen before. On the floor was a Belgian carpet that even in his hob-nailed boots felt like grass beneath his feet. He sat on the edge of one of the chairs and took the glass of whisky offered him.
No, he didn’t blame his Briony at all. She had seen all this. She had been allowed a small peep into the world of the monied classes and she wanted to be a part of it. Who in their right mind could blame her? Certainly not him. Even at ten years old Briony knew what she wanted. As Paddy sipped his drink he had a glimpse of the future.
With the brains she had been given, Briony would use this place as a stepping stone. He had a feeling on him that once she tasted the delights of this house she would only want better, she would only want more, and he, Paddy Cavanagh, downed his drink in a large gulp and gave her a silent toast. May you get everything you want, my Briony, but never what you deserve.
‘Oh, Eileen, fold the clothes up properly, they’ll be like rags by the time you get them home!’ Briony’s voice was annoyed. Eileen, in her haste to get out of the house, was just throwing clothes into the leather trunk that Mr Dumas had kindly given her.
‘Well, Briony, they’ll be like rags soon anyway, so it doesn’t really make any difference, does it? Now just help me pack and let me get out of here.’
Cissy shook her head as Briony opened her mouth to answer. ‘Go down to the kitchen, Eileen. Mrs Horlock has something for you.’
Eileen flounced from the room.
‘She bloody well annoys me, Cissy, ungrateful little bitch she is - all this lovely stuff!’
Cissy began packing the case properly and spoke to Briony in a low voice.
‘Listen, Bri, don’t be too hard on her. She hated it here. Some girls aren’t made like us. We get the most out of whatever situation we’re in, but other people are weak like. They don’t have any bottle, see? Now help me pack and we’ll get shot of her then we can get you bathed. Mrs Horlock has the water all ready.’
Briony kept her own counsel, but no matter what anyone said, she thought Eileen was a miserable wet patch. She looked around the bedroom with a feeling of glee inside her chest. It was lovely. The whole house was lovely. Soon she’d have a good scrub in the tin bath in the scullery and from tomorrow she would use the big bathroom on the landing. Oh, she thought she was going to faint with happiness. She stroked the richly embroidered bedspread gently and bit her lip. This was all hers, and unlike that scut of a sister, she was going to reign here for a long time.
No matter what she had to do.
‘All done, child.’
Briony stood up in the water and held up her arms as Mrs Horlock wrapped her in a towel. The little ribcage was visible through her blue-white skin and the tiny nipples, no bigger than farthings, were hard with the cold of the scullery. For the first time ever Mrs Horlock hugged a little child and, after wrapping her in the towel, put her on her lap and cuddled her close.
Briony automatically returned the hug and made herself a friend for life. The smallness of Briony, the very vulnerability that inflamed Henry Dumas, made Mrs Horlock, for the first time, aware of what the child was to do. Maybe it was her complete acceptance of the situation that upset her, she didn’t know, all she knew was that Briony Cavanagh was the smallest child yet, and no matter how much she dressed it up, it began to bother her.
But she dressed her in a white nightie and took her up to the morning room and Henry Dumas.
Henry was astounded at the change in the child. As she sat chatting with him in front of the fire, her hair began to dry. First one tight spiral of red hair sprang up on top of her head, and then another. It amazed him, and he smiled to himself. She was exquisite. Her little feet were long and thin, and what shapely ankles...
Briony was shocked a bit at first when he dropped on to his knees and pushed up her nightdress. Now the time had come, it seemed her big talk and lioness courage were going to fail her. But they didn’t. Instead, she forced herself to relax, because Cissy told her it hurt more if you tensed up. Looking down at Mr Dumas’ head, she saw her nightie all scrunched up and cried out. Henry Dumas looked at her in concern. He hadn’t even touched her yet!
Jumping from the chair, Briony took off the nightdress and, folding it carefully, placed it on the chairback. Then, naked, she went and sat on his knee, slipping her slender arms around his neck. Looking into his face she smiled tremulously.
‘Am I doing right, Mr Dumas, sir?’ The little eager voice made him want to tear into her there and then, but he stopped himself.
Instead he laid her on the carpet in front of the fire and traced every line of her body with the tips of his fingers.
‘You’re doing very well, Briony, very well indeed.’
When he began kissing her body, she studied the room around her, and shut her mind off from what was happening by thinking of all the things she was going to get the
next day when she went shopping with Mrs Horlock. Everything from long pantaloons to a good velvet coat. As he entered her, she bit down on her lip and closed her eyes. A rogue tear made its way down her face and she licked its saltiness with her tongue. It hurt, Eileen was right, it hurt like mad.
She opened one eye and looked up at Henry Dumas. His face was shiny with sweat in the firelight, and his tongue was poking out of the corner of his mouth. He was completely taken over by her body, and she knew it. Instinctively, she knew it. It was the mystery of men and women, and inside Briony a little bell went off. To do this to her, men would give anything. It was a revelation. She felt better now, because she suddenly realised that there had been a subtle shifting of power here tonight.
She realised that Mr Dumas wanted her very much. He wanted to do this to her much more than she wanted the nice things he could give her.
Well then, so be it. But she would make sure she got her money’s worth.
Chapter Three
Molly stopped for a few seconds and rubbed her hands together. The cold had crept into her bones and pushing the handcart had skinned her fingers. She took a deep breath and resumed her task. Eileen carried a large box, while Bernadette and Kerry carried a case between them. Rosalee sat on the handcart with her thumb stuck firmly in her mouth staring ahead of her over the tables and chairs and the other items of furniture stacked up around her. Bernadette lost her hold on the case and it swung sideways and hit Kerry’s shins heavily. Dropping her side of the case, Kerry, in pain and temper, pulled Bernadette’s hair with all her strength, and within seconds both girls were wailing. Settling the cart once more, Molly tried to quieten them. They had just rounded the corner to Oxlow Lane and she wanted desperately to make a good impression on her new neighbours.
‘Come on now, girls. Whist now, be quiet.’
Bernadette sniffed loudly and then smacked Kerry across the face with the flat of her hand.
Eileen, putting down her box, separated the two girls who were kicking and screaming. She shook them until they quietened. Pushing her face close to theirs, she whispered, ‘I’m warning the pair of you, Mum’s on a short leash today and you’re safe while outsiders can see you, but once in the new place she’ll skin you alive if you annoy her.’ She stared into one face and then the other. ‘Do you two understand me?’
Both girls nodded, and picking up the case once more they trudged ahead of the handcart. Eileen picked up her box wearily and the handcart’s squeaking wheel was the only sound as they walked to the cottage that was to be their new home.
Molly stood in front of the black front door and sighed in delight. They really were here, they really had this place. They finally had a proper home. Her eyes drank in the leaded light windows that only needed a good wash, the red-tiled roof and cream-painted walls. It was all her dreams come true.
The cottages had stood there since the sixteenth century and had once boasted thatched roofs and large gardens. They had been farm workers’ cottages until the mid-1800s when they had been bought up and rented out to any Barking residents who could pay.
Oxlow Lane was still countrified, wide and sweeping and bordered by fields. Most of the people who could afford decent houses wanted to live near Stratford and Bow, if not in Barkingside, where the docks were. But Molly was astute enough to know that Oxlow Lane would be quiet for herself and the girls, while still close enough to East London which was only a couple of hours’ walk. Rainham-on-Thames was only another hour’s walk along the London Road and Molly was determined to take the girls there for the day in the summer. She had been there only once herself, when she had first married Paddy, and carried the memory with her in a kind of reverence. They’d sat on the sands as the Thames rolled by, watching the passenger ferries from Gravesend in Kent disgorge day trippers, dressed in their Sunday best. They had eaten whelks and cockles outside The Phoenix public house, and Paddy had kissed her on the beach to the scandalisation of some older women near them. Oh, she was taking the girls in the summer if it was the last thing she did!
She felt in her coat pocket for the large brass key and once more marvelled to herself. A key. For the first time they had a dwelling with a key. With a real front door. She took it out of her pocket and inserted it in the lock - then all hell broke loose. Rosalee, for some unexplained reason, decided to get herself down from the cart. She stood up amongst the furniture and somehow managed to upset the whole thing.
Eileen watched in dismay as the child was flung on to the ground with a hard thud, closely followed by the table and chairs. The door of the adjoining cottage opened and a large man rushed out. Molly saw white-blond hair and huge musclebound arms pick up Rosalee and pass her to Eileen, then the table and chairs were also picked up and stacked neatly in what seemed seconds.
Rosalee, winded from the force of the fall, gasped for breath in Eileen’s arms. But she wouldn’t cry, Molly knew she wouldn’t cry. The last time she’d cried was when Briony left her.
‘Hello, Mrs. Me and me mum’s been looking out for you like,’ their neighbour told them.
A little woman of indeterminate age came through the door. ‘I thought you could do with a cuppa, love. I’ve had the kettle on all morning, waiting for you.’ She looked at the four girls. Molly noticed the frown as she glanced twice at Resalee.
‘These all yourn?’
Molly smiled. ‘Yes, but they’re good quiet girls.’ She looked at Kerry and Bernadette who had the grace to drop their eyes to the ground. Molly so wanted to make a good impression.
The old woman opened a toothless mouth and screeched with laughter.
‘I’ll believe that when I hear it! I had six, four girls and two boys. He’s the last one at home.’ She indicated her large son with a nod of her head. ‘And I’ll tell you now, give me a houseful of boys any day to girlies. Fighting and arguing and moaning and crying and pinching ... Oh, I could carry on all day. Be nice to have a bit of life up the lane again, though, not enough children here any more.’
Molly felt her heart lift.
‘Now then, how about a cuppa, and what about some bread pudding for you girls, with a nice cup of weak tea, eh?’
She put out a hand, and to the astonishment of Molly, Rosalee wriggled from Eileen’s arms and, taking the old woman’s hand, she went into the cottage with her.
The man grinned.
‘I’m Abel Jones and that’s me mother. We all call her Mother Jones, me and everyone else that knows her. Now get yourselves in out of the cold and I’ll get the furniture in for you.’
Molly smiled at him and followed her eager daughters.
Abel looked at her as she went through the door and smiled to himself. Not a bad-looking piece that. He wondered if there was a husband in tow. Must be to afford the rent on the cottage, but you never knew, Abel told himself. She might be free for a bit of a laugh.
He picked up the heavy wood table as if it was made of paper and walked into the cottage with it.
Briony had been living her new life for three weeks and she loved it. Well, she liked most of it, she told herself. The things that she had to do for Mr Dumas got on her nerves a bit, but she was getting to like living at the house and that was all that really concerned her. She put on a brown dress with a tiny lace collar, her walking boots and her large brown cape. Lastly she put on a straw hat with dried flowers that was totally unsuited to the weather, but she was so enamoured of it she didn’t care. She walked down the stairs and went through the green baize door to Mrs Horlock and Cissy.
‘Get us a cab, Cis.’ Briony’s voice was clear and loud in the kitchen and Mrs Horlock smothered a smile. She was a case, was this one. Not five minutes in the house and already she acted like she was born to it. If she used the toilet once a day she used it fifty times, though the novelty of the bathroom was wearing off now and she was down to only two baths a day. But Mrs Horlock was clever enough to let the child have her head, let her get used to her surroundings. If she was happy, Mr Dumas was happy and at the
end of the day, that was what counted.
‘You’re going to your mum’s then, Miss?’
‘Yes, Mrs Horlock, I am. Don’t worry, I’ll tell the cab to come back for me at five. I’ll be home in plenty of time for Mr Dumas and me dinner.’
‘Shall I go with her, Mrs Horlock?’ Cissy’s face was expressionless but the hope behind it was evident.
‘No you won’t, Cissy. All the work I’ve got here today! Now go and get Miss Briony her cab. And hurry up!’
Cissy ran from the kitchen.
‘I’ve made you up a hamper for your mum. She’ll need it today.’
Briony grinned at the old woman. She looked stern at times, and she could be sharp, but underneath Briony liked her. She cuddled Briony sometimes of an evening when Mr Dumas went home to his real house. Briony would come out here, to the kitchen and Mrs Horlock would settle her on her lap, tell her stories and feed her hot milk and bread and butter while Cissy was ironing or baking. All under Mrs Horlock’s astute gaze, of course. The kitchen fire would be roaring. up the chimney and the smell of spices and baking was very welcoming to Briony. The warmth and the good smells made her feel secure.
Briony opened the lid of the hamper and saw two small malt loaves, that would be full of the raisins that Rosalee loved. A small ham and a large lump of cheese. There were also some home-made scones and a jar of strawberry jam.
‘Thanks, Mrs Horlock, she’ll be very grateful to you.’
The woman waved her hand at Briony. ‘’Tis nothing. There’s a screw of tea on the table to go in and some sugar and butter.’
Briony put these in the hamper and then went to the housekeeper and hugged her, pushing her face, straw hat and all, into the floury-smelling apron. Mrs Horlock looked down on the flame-coloured hair that spiralled out under the hat and felt a rush of affection for the child. She hugged her back.