The Girl from Kingsland Market

by June Tate

  The Girl from Kingsland Market

  JUNE TATE

  To Stefan and Mark Field

  with love

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By June Tate

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Southampton 1920

  Phoebe Collins stood beside her fruit and vegetable stall in Kingsland Market, rubbing her cold hands together. Her mittens were not enough to totally keep out the sharp chill in the late November air, but she needed to have her fingers free to pick up her wares and serve her customers. She straightened the cabbages, polished the apples until the skins shone, moved the carrots around, picked out the few that were shrivelled and threw them into the basket beneath the stall. These, and other wasted bits, she would slip to the children who came scavenging at the end of the day to help feed their dirt-poor families.

  This had been her father’s stall for many years, and she’d helped to run it with him, but he’d lost his life in the Great War at the Battle of the Somme and she’d run it alone ever since. The war had been over for two years now, and times were hard. At nineteen, she’d had no other choice. She was good at selling and had managed to make a living – albeit a small one – ever since. Her mother took in washing to add to their income at the same time looking after her brother, Timothy, or Tim as they called him. He was ten and still at school, but on a Saturday, he’d come along and help her.

  Kingsland Market was set up in a square, well lit from the surrounding streetlights, with many different stalls. Some were selling second-hand clothes, there was the Jones family with their pots and pans and kitchen equipment and Milly Coates with her home-made cakes and jams. On one stall Len Black, a cobbler, was at work with a boot over a last, hammering on a new set of soles, and there was Tony Jackson with his ironmongery. There were others with various goods and some selling fruit and vegetables too, but there was a camaraderie between them all. The banter could be quite saucy sometimes, but everybody was there to make a living.

  Next to Phoebe’s stall was Marjory Simmons, or Marj as she was known, a middle-aged woman of ample proportions and a heart as big as her body. She sold second-hand clothes, but they had to be in good condition and she was very adamant about that.

  ‘Bloody cold today, girl, ain’t it? Proper brass monkey weather. Thank the Lord it ain’t raining. ’Ere, I’ve got a ’alf decent jumper that would fit you. You can ’ave it for a tanner.’ She held it up for Phoebe to see. It was cream, made of heavy wool, with a polo neck. Phoebe looked at it and thought it was ideal for keeping out the winter weather. She handed over a sixpence and took it.

  ‘Thanks, Marj, it’s just what I need.’ She put it to one side to wash and wear when it was dry.

  At night Phoebe would take down the canvas top that covered her stall, then wheel it to a lock-up she’d rented on the edge of the market, where it would be secure until the following morning. Once a week, she’d go along to the wholesalers to buy her stock and barter ferociously about the prices.

  She and her family lived in a two-up two-down council house in a tough area of the town. Not that it seemed that way to her, after all she’d lived there all her life so to her it was simply home. It wasn’t that she was unaware of her surroundings. She knew that in the next street there was a brothel in a house rented by two girls, and she also knew to keep clear of the Stanley brothers who lived in the area and worked in the market. Their stall was full of second-hand goods bought from house sales. Lamps, furniture, china, bric-a-brac and a few antiques. Anything that would bring in a shilling or two. They were small-time villains, into anything illegal that would bring in money, but they were cunning, clever and ruthless. Always one step ahead of the law. Percy was the eldest at thirty. A dour-looking man who seldom smiled. He would look at you with a steely glare that was enough to chill your blood. His brother, Arthur, was twenty-three, reasonably good-looking with an eye for the ladies, but who had to do as he was told by his dictatorial brother.

  Phoebe, aware that she was alone at night, carrying money after she closed, was prepared for all eventualities and always carried a long hatpin in the lapel of her coat, and hidden on her stall was a small cudgel, just in case of trouble.

  It was Friday, pay day for those who were employed, and tomorrow was their busiest day, with families stocking up for the week ahead. Early every Saturday morning a butcher’s horse-driven van would arrive and set up. Chickens and rabbits would hang from hooks at the open back of the van; on a long table in front would be displayed cuts of meat laid out ready for sale. Those who could afford it bought decent cuts, others would buy up scrag ends of mutton and bones to make a broth.

  The upper classes would shop in the town centre, but Kingsland Market was where those who had little money or those looking for a bargain would do their buying.

  ‘Mind your backs!’ came a cry in a gruff male voice as Percy Stanley pushed a barrow through the middle of the market towards his stall. Sometimes the brothers would use a horse-driven vehicle when they had furniture to sell after going to a house clearance or sale. They would give the horse a nosebag to keep it quiet and would often have to clear up its mess with a shovel at the end of the day.

  Every now and then the police would walk through the market, chatting to the stallholders and always stopping longer at the brothers’ stall, which they searched for stolen goods. Percy would take delight in baiting them, knowing that there was nothing untoward for sale. Any stolen goods were well hidden elsewhere and trading for those was done very carefully at night, in different locations.

  Whereas the police would exchange friendly banter with most of the traders, with the Stanley brothers their demeanour was quite different. They had no respect for these men, and it was a challenge among the men in the force to be the ones to eventually catch the brothers in their illegal deals and put them behind bars.

  Percy was being his usual belligerent self as the constables looked through the goods on sale. ‘Find anything dodgy, did you, then?’

  One of the men looked at him with distaste. ‘You’ll end up behind bars one day, Percy. It will be my pleasure to see you locked away. Inside you may learn some manners and respect.’

  Percy just laughed.

  ‘Every villain makes a mistake one day, and on that day, I’ll be just behind you!’ snapped one of the policemen as he walked away.

  Percy just muttered
a few expletives as he watched the men leave.

  Eventually it was time to close. Phoebe took down the canvas cover from its poles, laid it on top of her stall. She gave a bag of fruit and vegetables to a scruffy little lad who was looking longingly at the fruit and was hovering nearby, then she wheeled her cart away, locked up for the night and walked home.

  Her mother, Mary was folding laundry when she opened the door and stepped into the room. The air felt damp from the washing and Phoebe put some wooden logs into the small grate of the range to dry out the room and made herself and her mother a cup of tea, pouring the boiling water from the kettle on the hob over the fire of the blackleaded stove. Tim was sitting at the table eating a bowl of hearty chicken and vegetable soup with a thick slice of bread and dripping.

  Phoebe sat beside the fire, holding her frozen hands out to the warmth, rubbing them together to help the circulation. It was good to be inside after such a long cold day. She removed her high-buttoned boots and then her stockings, plus a pair of socks, pouring some of the hot water into a bowl, adding a little cold water, then putting her feet into the bowl. She sat back in the chair and sighed.

  ‘I can’t tell you just how good that feels. I’ve not been able to feel my feet all afternoon.’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ said her mother. ‘No good me trying to dry the clothes in the backyard, they just freeze solid. The spring can’t come soon enough for me. Get yourself some soup, that’ll help warm you.’

  Phoebe did so and sat at the table beside Tim. ‘You going to give me a hand in the morning?’

  He smiled at her. He loved being in the market. He was a good-looking boy and polite and the ladies loved him. Marj spoilt him whenever he was there, slipping him sweets. It gave the lad something to look forward to.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘make sure to wake me when you get up.’

  ‘I will − you wrap up warm. I don’t want you freezing to death!’ She rubbed his tousled hair as she spoke. He was a good lad and Phoebe hoped he’d be able to find a decent job when he eventually left school. He was bright and, in her mind, being a market trader wasn’t good enough for him. He was worth a better future.

  ‘Best get off to bed, Tim. We have an early start in the morning. I’ll not be long behind you.’

  She and her mother shared a bed and Tim had the other room. There was no bathroom, so on a Sunday, when the market was closed, they would haul in the tin bath, fill it with water and take it in turns to bathe. The toilet was outside and on such cold days, no one was in a rush to use it, hanging on until the last moment. In the market they used public toilets, which were a deal more comfortable, housed in a brick building instead of a shed, which let in the cold.

  Phoebe, once warm, sat down and ate; it had been a long day and she was hungry. She eventually rose from her chair. ‘I’m tired so I’m off to bed, Mum. I’ll buy some meat tomorrow for the weekend. If we make a stew, it’ll last us a couple of days. Do you need anything else?’

  ‘No, love, that’ll do. I’ll be up in a while after I’ve ironed these sheets.’ She covered the kitchen table with a heavy cloth and put out two flat irons, placing one on top of the stove to heat up. ‘I’ll try not to disturb you.’

  Phoebe chuckled. ‘You’d have a job! I’m so tired I could sleep on a clothes line.’ So saying, she went into the kitchen, swilled her face, cleaned her teeth, then made her way upstairs, undressed and climbed into bed, snuggled under the blankets, knowing that tomorrow would be a busy day.

  Chapter Two

  While Phoebe was sleeping, the Stanley brothers were inside a small garage on the outskirts of the town, checking the goods stacked against the walls. There were pieces of antique furniture, small statues, paintings and different artefacts of value that were a part of their stolen goods. Percy was ticking off various items on the list, looking pleased with himself as he did so.

  ‘This lot should bring a pretty price,’ he said to his brother.

  ‘When are they being collected?’ Arthur asked. ‘We don’t want them hanging around for much longer or the Old Bill will get wind of this place.’

  ‘Len Taylor is coming down from the Smoke tomorrow night, around eight, so don’t worry. This lot will be gone then. Will you stop your fretting! We don’t use this place often and we’re careful that we’re not followed. I’m not stupid!’

  Knowing his brother’s hot temper, Arthur backed off. ‘I know that. It’s just that until we get rid of the stuff it’s always a bit of a worry. That’s all.’

  Percy muttered to himself as he locked the doors. Outside were two bicycles the men used. They were less conspicuous than any other means of transport and easier to hide.

  ‘Come on, let’s go home. We’ll leave the bikes there and then I’ll buy you a beer before the pubs close.’

  They eventually strolled to the Horse and Groom in East Street on the corner of Canal Walk, known as The Ditches. Not a salubrious part of town. It was here that the brasses plied their trade, where the dregs of the male population gathered. Villains met and illegal deals were done undercover. Drink-fuelled fights broke out with great regularity.

  The brothers ordered two pints of bitter and sat in a corner away from other customers. No one bothered them. They kept very much to themselves. In their line of business, it didn’t pay to become friends with outsiders. That way, no one could be bribed or threatened to give away any information about them. Apart from which, once crossed they were dangerous. In the past one or two chancers had tried to cheat them and had ended up floating in the docks. Nothing against the boys had ever been proven and so they were free to carry on with their way of life – so far.

  At six o’clock the following morning, Phoebe was woken by the sound of the alarm. She reached out to shut it off before her mother was disturbed. Getting out of bed, she went into the other room and woke her brother.

  ‘Get dressed, Tim. I’ll get us some breakfast and put on a kettle for a wash, then we’ll be on our way.’

  When the boy came downstairs, Phoebe had raked the fire and thrown on some coal and wood to build the heat, made some porridge and was holding some bread up against the fire on a toasting fork.

  Tim sat and ate his breakfast while his sister washed and then he did the same. After clearing the dishes, they left the house and headed for the market. It was dark as they walked and Phoebe carried a torch to use until they reached her lock-up. Other traders were doing the same but at this time in the morning they were all too busy to make much conversation except to say hello and grumble about the cold.

  However, once they had settled on their patches, there was a buzz among the traders, especially the ladies, as there was a new trader on the square. A tall young man, well wrapped up against the weather with a scarf around his neck and a woollen hat pulled well down over his head, not revealing much of his face but enough to show his handsome features. His stall was selling men’s clothes. Jackets, heavy-duty shirts in check, normal white shirts, vests, long johns, leather belts, bracers and socks. He smiled and greeted everyone with a cheery, ‘Good morning’, but that was all.

  Marj sidled up to Phoebe. ‘Bloody ’ell! I wish I was a few years younger, love. I’d soon ’ave ’im in my bed!’ Her raucous laughter rang out over the square.

  ‘Marj! Behave yourself,’ chided Phoebe but she started laughing.

  ‘You could do worse, love. You should get in there while you can. A good-looking girl like you should ’ave no trouble.’

  ‘I don’t know who he is! Besides I’m happy as I am, thank you.’

  Marj peered at her. ‘Maybe so, but a good man beside you is a great comfort. A bit of love makes the world go round.’ She glanced across at the newcomer. ‘I didn’t know there was a vacancy for a new stall. I wonder who ’e is?’

  ‘No doubt we’ll soon find out. You know what stallholders are like, they want to know who is on their patch. We don’t need to worry, he’s not selling the same goods as us.’

  The Stanley brothers wer
e curious too. Any stranger was looked upon with suspicion.

  ‘Have you ever seen him before?’ Percy asked his brother.

  ‘No, never. Best keep an eye on him, I don’t like strangers, they make me nervous.’

  It was Tim who eventually spoke to the newcomer. During a lull, he amused himself by juggling with a couple of apples and dropped one which rolled towards the new stall. The stranger picked it up and handed it back to the boy.

  ‘You won’t be able to sell that now,’ he said, ‘it’s bruised.’ He nodded over to Phoebe. ‘Your mother won’t like that.’

  Tim grinned. ‘She’s not my mother, she’s my sister!’

  ‘Oh my goodness, what a dreadful mistake! Please don’t tell her, she would not be best pleased, I’m sure.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Ben, and you are?’

  ‘Timothy, but everybody calls me Tim.’

  The new trader held out his hand and shook Tim’s. ‘Happy to know you, Tim.’

  Seeing her brother talking to the newcomer, Phoebe called to him to come back.

  ‘Better go,’ he said hearing his sister.

  Ben leant forward. ‘You won’t drop me in it, will you? Your sister wouldn’t be flattered to think I thought she was your mother.’

  ‘No, I won’t tell. Bye,’ and he ran back to his stall.

  ‘You mustn’t bother the new man,’ chided Phoebe.

  ‘His name is Ben and he’s really nice. He didn’t mind at all, honestly.’

  Phoebe looked over to the new stall. Ben smiled at her and held up his hand in greeting. Phoebe felt her cheeks flush, but she smiled back at him.

  The day was busy as usual and Phoebe and Tim weighed the fruit and vegetables, putting them in brown paper bags before handing the goods to their customers, always with a cheery word. Tim was always polite, calling the ladies ‘madam’ and the men ‘sir’. Sometimes, charmed by his manner, they would slip him a tip of a few pence, which he thanked them for and put into his pocket. Phoebe paid him a couple of shillings for helping out and this was on the understanding he didn’t fritter it away. His tips were his to choose how they were spent.