A Time to Love

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘N’yer!’ she sneered. ‘True colours now we’re seein’, Ice White!’

  ‘I’m warnin’ yer,’ Ellen said. ‘Put a sock in it.’

  ‘Can’t take the truth!’

  ‘I’m warnin’ yer! We don’t like smutty talk, none of us.’ Another chorus of approval.

  The golden air was quivering with bad temper and Ellen’s face was a blaze of anger, her blue eyes steel hard, her jaw set. She was a good head shorter than Fenny Jago and considerably slimmer but she looked as though she would wield that brush and knock her enemy to the ground. The girls waited breathlessly as she and Fenny glowered at one another.

  ‘N’yer!’

  ‘Pack it in!’

  ‘N’yer!’

  Then there was a flutter of nightgowns near the door and feet pattering and a whispered warning. ‘Miss Elphinstone!’ The hostilities came to an abrupt and immediate halt. By the time that redoubtable lady made her entrance, all her girls were safely and properly beneath the covers, and the room seemed calm, if a little too hot.

  The gas was turned down, polite goodnights were murmured, and Ellen was left alone with her thoughts.

  And very uncomfortable they were. For there’d been an element of truth in Fenny’s venom, and now it expanded in her mind and poisoned her joy. To be loved so tenderly and so unexpectedly was a happiness past any she’d ever been able to imagine, something apart and something different from anything she’d seen or suspected in the rough world of her childhood. Most of the grasping males she’d met at work or out in the Lane had been brutally and unashamedly after one thing and one thing only. They were coarse and selfish and she disliked them instantly. But David was different. David was gentle and sensitive. He offered her love as she’d always dreamed it could be, not a squalid grabbing with no concern, but a protective enriching tenderness. And yet the horrid phrases stuck in her mind, ‘On yer back. Like the rest of us.’ Oh it mustn’t be like that! she thought. It mustn’t! That was dirty, smutty, horrible. Love was beautiful. And she remembered how very beautiful it had been. With David, she promised herself, things would be quite different. But ugly thoughts troubled her dreams.

  Fortunately David was the very first person in the shop that morning and the sight of his handsome face, lifting and rounding into the most loving smile, restored her balance and her hope.

  He had a letter in his hand, which he passed quietly across the counter so that their fingers touched, briefly but pleasurably. A faint familiar smell of leather and glue rose from the cloth of his working suit, and as he bowed his head towards her a swathe of dark hair fell from under his cap to lie softly across his forehead. His eyes were very dark and tender, but he remembered to be circumspect. ‘Good morning, Miss White.’

  Outside the shop window the street was bright with sunlight. ‘Good morning,’ she said, ‘Mr Cheifitz.’ Dear Mr Cheifitz.

  This time it really was a love letter although quite a short one. ‘Dear Ellen,’ he wrote, ‘I meant every word I said yesterday and I hope you did too. I am so happy I can’t believe it. You are the dearest girl in all the world. Will you come to the Tate Gallery with me tonight? There is a picture there I would very much like you to see. Only if you want to of course. With love from David, x x x.’

  How could she refuse?

  So after supper they took one of the new Underground trains to Westminster, and sat side by side beneath the new hard electric lights while their odd caterpillar of a train rocked them along. It was the first time Ellen had ever travelled by tube and that was an excitement in itself. When they emerged from the sulphurous darkness into the bustle of Parliament Square, the sun was beginning to set and the sky above St James’s Park was streaked with rich colour, lilac and orange and salmon pink.

  ‘I shall put a sky like that in my paintin’ of you,’ he said. ‘Behind yer head, so as ter show up yer hair.’

  ‘There was a tree behind me ’ead,’ she said. ‘Bet yer couldn’t even see the sky.’

  ‘You will in my paintin’,’ he promised.

  ‘That’s cheatin’.’

  ‘That’s artistic licence.’

  ‘Oh ’ark at you!’ she laughed, teasing him because she was very impressed and wasn’t sure yet that she wanted him to know it. ‘You an’ your artists!’

  ‘Wait till you see what I’m goin’ ter show yer.’

  They walked along Millbank towards the gallery, arm in arm, beside a choppy sky-blue Thames, and as they walked, the spreading colour in the sky dappled the water with leaf-shaped patches of lilac and pink and gold. It was a magical evening.

  Ellen was unprepared for the impact of the paintings she was about to see. They overwhelmed her.

  ‘They’re so big!’ she whispered, tiptoeing after David through the huge galleries.

  ‘Ain’t they jest!’ he said happily. ‘This is real art, you see, Ellen, real art. We’ll stop an’ see some a’ the others next time. Onny they close in half an hour, so we’ll ’ave ter look pretty sharp ternight.’ They had arrived at the entrance to the Pre-Raphaelite gallery. ‘Close yer eyes. Don’t open ’em till I tell yer.’

  She smiled at him and closed her eyes, and he led her by the hand until they were both standing in front of the Lady of Shalott. There!’ he said. ‘Whatcher think a’ that?’

  There was something about the quality of his voice that alerted her, a sense of strong emotions kept under control, and an anxiety she hadn’t expected. She looked at his face before she looked at the picture, and she didn’t really understand either of them, he so dark-eyed and strange, hopeful and bashful at the same time, the picture telling a story she didn’t know. She gazed at it for a long time, thinking carefully before she said anything, because there was no doubt that it was important to him.

  ‘It’s a lovely paintin’,’ she said at last, and then added practically, ‘Why’s she lookin’ so upset?’

  So he told her the story of the poor bewitched lady, and how she’d been forced to view the world through a mirror, and how she was drifting to her death because she’d dared to disobey.

  ‘That accounts,’ Ellen said, looking at the anguished face again. ‘Why couldn’t someone’ve smashed the mirror for ’er when she was a kid? I know I would’ve.’

  ‘Oh Ellen,’ he said laughing with admiration and affection. ‘You’re priceless! Smash the mirror. I’ll bet you would’ve an’ all.’

  ‘’Course,’ she said, recognizing his admiration and basking in it.

  He glanced from the beautiful face in the portrait to the even more beautiful face before him, and knew that the only emotion the portrait was stirring in him now was dulled and distant, a remembered pang of longing, no more. And he was suffused with happiness because he’d found his Ellen, his lovely, lively, practical, passionate Ellen. ‘Before I met you,’ he told her, holding both her hands and looking straight into her welcoming blue eyes, ‘I used ter think she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Now I know it’s you, my darling, darling Ellen.’ He wanted to kiss her, but was aware that the attendants were on the prowl because it was so near dosing time.

  ‘I ain’t a lady,’ she said feeling she ought to warn him a little. ‘I was born in the Nichol, ’fore they pulled it down. An’ yer know the sort a’ place that was.’

  It didn’t seem to worry him. ‘I was born in Wilson Place,’ he said. ‘They pulled that down an’ all, ter make way fer the Buildin’s. I don’t reckon it matters where you was born. It’s what you do counts. You’ll always be a lady ter me, always, no matter where you was born.’

  When she began her confession she’d had a vague hope that she had found the moment to tell him who she really was. Now she knew it couldn’t be done. Not then anyway. ‘I ain’t a lady though,’ she repeated sadly, and looked at the lady on the canvas.

  ‘Nor was she neither,’ he comforted. ‘She was only a model posing as a lady. So I tell you, if I was ter draw you an’ do a great paintin’ like that, you’d look like a lady. Every inch a lady. Just
like her.’

  ‘Is that what you’d like ter do, a big paintin’?’ The eagerness in his voice was so touching she forgot her need for confession.

  ‘I used ter think so. Ain’t so sure now. Cost a precious lot a’ money a canvas that size. Ter say nothing of the paint. Oils, you see. Cost the earth. No, I reckon I’m better as I am. A draughtsman. I’m a good draughtsman, though I sez it as shouldn’t.’

  ‘If I was a lady I’d buy you all the paint and canvas you wanted,’ she said, and smiled so lovingly into his eyes that he simply had to put his arms round her.

  ‘None a’ that!’ the attendant said, sneaking up behind them. ‘Closin’ in ten minutes. Time you was on yer way out.’

  That night, when the dormitory was still and all her friends were fast asleep, Ellen returned wakefully to the moment when she’d so nearly confessed. It was very flattering to be compared to a lady, especially that lady, who really was very gorgeous, but the comparison was a difficulty too. How could she tell him she was really Smelly Ellie Murphy, who’d nicked his cake and been the class joke, when he thought of her as a lady and told her it didn’t matter where you were born, only what you did? And then another even more alarming thought entered her busy brain. What if they were to meet Ruby Miller one evening and she were to let the cat out of the bag without knowing? Ruby was working as a lady’s maid for a family called Winstanley over in Bethnal Green. Ellen saw her nearly every Wednesday, or at least whenever they both had the afternoon off. And Ruby didn’t know anything about him. Well, nobody did yet. Except the people in the cycling club. And Maudie, of course. Perhaps she ought to warn Ruby. Just in case. Next Wednesday, she thought, as sleep finally sucked her away, I’ll tell her Wednesday.

  Ruby was washing her hair in the sink when Ellen arrived that Wednesday afternoon. ‘Goin’ up West this evening,’ she explained, peeping at her friend from behind a swathe of wet hair. ‘They’re all off out ter some do, so we got the evening off. Bit of all right, eh? Why dontcher come wiv us?’

  ‘Well …’ Ellen said, trying to think of a tactful way of refusing. ‘It’s like this … I’ve promised.’

  ‘You’re walkin’ out wiv David Cheifitz, aintcher?’ Ruby said affably, returning to her tussle with the soap.

  ‘She seen yer, last Thursday, up the Standard,’ Mrs Miller explained, lifting a jug full of clean water from the draining board. ‘You ready fer this then, Rube?’

  ‘Not yet! Not yet!’ her daughter said, waving a wet hand wildly above her head.

  ‘Well, buck yer ideas up, do,’ Mrs Miller said cheerfully. ‘There’s all the washing up ter do. You ain’t got all day.’ She was warm and bustling and friendly, and there wasn’t a trace of unkindness in her voice at all. Not for the first time, Ellen envied her friend Ruby and wished she could have had a mother even half as loving.

  ‘We’re walkin’ out, me an’ David,’ she said. ‘I should a’ told yer before.’

  ‘Said so, didn’t I, Ma?’ Ruby said from under the soapsuds.

  ‘’E’s a good-lookin’ lad,’ Mrs Miller said. ‘What’s yer Ma think?’

  ‘Ain’t told ’em yet.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Miller said and the word was an agreement. ‘You wouldn’t, would yer. Not really. Can’t say I blame yer, duckie.’

  ‘I go ’ome once a month,’ Ellen said, because she felt she ought to justify herself. ‘When the ol’ man ain’t there. Take ’em some food. Bits an’ bobs. No point givin’ ’em money. ’E’d only drink it.’

  ‘Quite right, duck,’ Mrs Miller said. ‘I’d do the same mesself.’ She was clearing the dirty dishes from the table onto a tray.

  Ellen joined her beside the table and began to help her. ‘I think I love ’im,’ she said.

  Mrs Miller held the teapot against her chest and expressed her approval by patting it, but Ruby rose from the sink like a naiad, streaming water and soapsuds, and threw her arms round Ellen’s neck and kissed her over and over again, rapturously and very wetly. ‘I think that’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Lovely! Oh Ellie, that’s lovely!’ until Ellen’s blouse was soaking wet and she had to beg her to stop.

  ‘Daft ha’p’orth,’ Mrs Miller said. ‘Put yer ’ead back in the sink, do, an’ let’s get the soap out of it, or we shall never ’ear the last. There’s a towel on the airer, Ellie love. Give yerself a rub-down. You’re soppin’ wet.’

  ‘Thing is,’ Ellen said, pulling the towel down from the drier and mopping the front of her blouse. ‘’E don’t know who I am really. ’E thinks I was born Ellen White. I ain’t told ’im I changed me name or nothink …’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Miller said mildly, pouring the clean water over her daughter’s soapy head. ‘You wouldn’t a’ done. ‘Course not. I can see that. Can’t you, Rube?’

  ‘I’ll tell ’im in the end,’ Ellen promised, glad that they were too busy to be looking at her face. ‘When it’s the right moment like. It’s not … I’m not bein’ deceitful. Not really. It’s just I’ve never ’ad the opportunity.’ And she realized that her excuses were making her blush, and knew that she was ashamed of them. She ought to have told him.

  ‘Don’t worry, duck,’ Ruby said from under the smother of falling water. ‘Your secret’s safe wiv me. I won’t say nothink, never fear.’

  ‘Ta,’ Ellen said, and busied herself with the towel again.

  ‘Sounds serious,’ Mrs Miller said, reaching for a second towel from the drier. ‘You wasn’t thinkin’ a’ gettin’ wed, was yer?’

  ‘Not jest yet-a-while,’ Ellen said, blushing again. ‘’Spect we will in the end though.’

  ‘’E’s a Jewboy, Ellie,’ Mrs Miller said, handing the towel to Ruby and turning to give her guest her full attention. ‘Jews marry Jews as a rule. You know that, dontcher?’

  Oh yes, she knew it. She knew it so well she’d been steadfastly avoiding the knowledge ever since that first day at the fair. ‘’E’s different,’ she said, and she raised her head, eyes flashing and chin in the air.

  ‘Well, I ’ope so, fer your sake,’ Mrs Miller said, mildly. ‘What do ’is folks say?’

  ‘’E ain’t told ’em yet. We ain’t told no one yet. They’ll be all right. They’re nice.’ But she wasn’t sure and the expression on her face showed it.

  ‘Pot a’ tea,’ Mrs Miller decided, turning their conversation to easier matters. ‘Aintcher gaspin’ fer a pot a’ tea? I know I am.’

  ‘So vhere’s your Davey?’ Rivke asked her sister-in-law when they met on the stairs, some days later. ‘Sunday an’ he ain’t home again. Ve never see him these days.’

  Rachel was flustered by her interest but she explained about the cycling club and hoped the explanation would satisfy. ‘So healthy, Rivke. Fresh air. Good healthy exercise. Just vhat he vant.’ They climbed the next flight together, panting a little in the heat of their exertions.

  ‘You vant ter vatch him,’ Rivke advised when they reached the second gallery. ‘Young man like that out all hours. That club could be just an excuse for chasing the girls. If I vas you I should think a’ gettin’ him married, maybe.’

  Rachel snorted. Trust Rivke to say the one thing she shouldn’t. ‘Married! Such an idea! Vhat next?’ she said. ‘He’s a boy yet, Rivke. How many more times I got ter tell you? He don’t think a’ such things.’

  ‘They all think a’ such things,’ Rivke said. ‘How many more times I got ter tell you? He’s a grown man. He needs a wife.’

  ‘He ain’t!’ Rachel said stubbornly. ‘He don’t!’

  ‘For vhy you don’t see the truth about that boy of yours is more than I can comprehend,’ Rivke said, hooking her door key out of her skirt pocket by its long string. ‘He needs a vife, I tell you, bubeleh.’

  ‘He don’t!’ Rachel shouted, losing her temper suddenly. ‘You hear me, Rivke, he don’t, he don’t!’

  ‘So ve hear you all over the Buildin’s,’ Rivke said, taking care not to raise her voice because their neighbours down in the courtyard were obviously listening. ‘So don’t shout.
You don’t change human nature shouting, bubeleh.’

  ‘My Davey’s a scholar,’ Rachel shouted. ‘He ain’t like any old meshuganer, crazy for women. An artist, I tell you. A good boy. A cut above …’

  ‘Yell all you like but don’t say I don’t varn you,’ Rivke said sternly, preparing to do battle with her key. Her black wig was over one eye, but she still looked fiercely disapproving. ‘Find him a vife, I should, dolly.’

  ‘You! Dumpling! Josh!’ Rachel yelled, too far beyond herself for caution. ‘All the same you are. Every one. Ain’t you got nothink better to do than criticize my Davey? He’s a good pure Jewish boy, I tell you.’ And then, seeing the faces avidly watching her in the courtyard, she yelled down, ‘So mind your own business, vhy don’t you!’

  ‘You yell, ve listen!’ Mrs Guldermann said, grinning malevolently up at her. And at that Rachel fell upon her door and after several tear-smudged attempts to get the key into the lock and turned she stumbled into the comparative sanctuary of her home. Oh what if they were right? Surely he couldn’t be chasing girls? Not her Davey. He wouldn’t do it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  And so the summer continued and a rapturous summer it was, even though Ellen never found the right moment, and David didn’t tell his parents. But he walked through the shop every morning to give her a smile and a letter, and they cycled every Sunday, and every evening except Friday they went out together, to the theatre or the Music Hall when they had the money, for a stroll around the City when she had only an hour off or they were broke. But either way they were together and that was all that really mattered, for by mid evening it was dark enough for kissing, and with autumn coming it was growing dark earlier and earlier. It wasn’t until September began that he realized he hadn’t seen Hymie for weeks. It made him feel quite guilty.

  He made amends at once, cycling round to the shop early one Sunday morning before he went to Shoreditch to meet Ellen and the club.