Rough Justice

by Gilda O'Neill

  Having finished sorting out the drinks for the young medics – the who was going to pay for what, and the dealing politely and blushingly with their cheeky suggestions – Nell found herself urgently needing to wipe down the table where Stephen was now sitting with Bernie.

  ‘You were saying earlier?’ Nell said, without making eye contact with either of the men, her heart racing and her cheeks burning red.

  Stephen brushed the drips from his beery, salt and pepper moustache and stood up. ‘’Scuse me a minute, Bern.’

  He gestured for Nell to follow him to the other end of the bar, well away from where Sylvia was serving.

  ‘What I was saying was,’ he said, ‘was I wondered if you’d thought about what I asked you. You know, if you’d like to come and have a walk with me over Petticoat Lane next Sunday morning. I never mentioned it before, but there’s a bloke who’s got a greengrocer’s pitch for sale and I thought I might go and see how the stall’s doing. See, since I stopped going to Mass – you know, after my Violet upped and left – I never really saw the point about not working on a Sunday. So I might as well be earning as sitting indoors by myself all miserable, eh? Especially now there’s nothing doing down the docks for anyone again. And if it takes off, I might try my luck down the Mile End Waste with a weekday pitch and all. People always have to eat, so there should be a good couple of bob to be earned.’

  He glanced away from her, as if he didn’t want her to see his pain. ‘It’ll be good for me, take my mind off all the misery in my life.’

  Nell could feel her eyes prickling again. The poor man, how he must have suffered – must still be suffering.

  ‘What about your children?’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you spend a bit more time with them during the week?’ She knew that was what she’d have wanted if she’d had a mum or dad of her own.

  He looked into her eyes. ‘The twins don’t need me no more, not in that way they don’t. They’re nineteen now.’

  ‘Nineteen?’ Nell was completely taken aback. She had imagined the twins to be little ones, like Sam, her favourite young boy back at the home. It hadn’t occurred to her that they might be even older than she was.

  Stephen caught the change in her tone. ‘I never see my other kids; they’d got lives of their own, or so they told me when they took off. The twins are my last two at home, but they’ll be leaving and all before I know it. So they won’t be putting their money on the table for much longer.’

  His expression clouded. ‘So I’ve got to find myself some work. And not just to occupy me.’ He drained his glass and slammed it on the bar. ‘Someone’s got to pay the bills and buy the food, and this stall might be the answer. But most important, it’ll give me something to do, help me forget my worries. So what d’you think? Will you come and have a look with me? I’d appreciate your opinion.’

  Stephen kept looking at her steadily, directly. She was a beauty all right, a real little Christmas fairy, fit to put right on top of the tree. But had he persuaded her? Would she go with him?

  Nell gulped, feeling herself welling up again. What on earth was wrong with her? She could count on one hand the number of times she’d cried when she was in the home, and now she’d turned into a proper waterworks.

  ‘Of course I’ll come with you, Stephen. It would be my pleasure.’

  ‘Good. Now I need to get back to Bernie.’

  He put his hand on her shoulder, making her sort of shiver inside. She didn’t know how she’d be able to wait until Sunday.

  ‘Nell, darling.’ Sylvia did her best to sound casual as she flicked a feather duster over the already clean bar. ‘Before you go up to bed can we have a word?’

  Nell looked dismayed. ‘What have I done? I’m ever so sorry.’

  Sylvia put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘Nell, I keep telling you: you are not in that bloody place any more. No one’s going to punish you or hurt you. I just wanted to say that I’m worried – and you know what I’m going to say – about the attention Stephen Flanagan was paying you again tonight.’

  Nell didn’t like Sylvia hugging her when she spoke like that. It made her feel guilty, as if she didn’t deserve it. ‘It’s nothing. You mustn’t worry about me.’

  ‘How can I help it? I heard him asking you out on Sunday morning. Again.’

  Nell blushed. ‘He’s thinking about buying a stall.’

  ‘You’ve said yes, haven’t you? You’re going with him.’

  Nell nodded.

  ‘Bloody hell, Nelly. I can’t believe what you see in an old feller like him,’ said Sylvia, thinking, but not daring to add out loud: Don’t you think there’s something stupid about Stephen bloody Flanagan – that he doesn’t even try to hide whatever it is he’s up to?

  Instead she said, ‘I don’t suppose you ever had a chance to have a boyfriend in that place, did you, let alone go with a man?’

  Nell didn’t answer.

  ‘Here, you haven’t, have you? You haven’t ever been with a bloke?’

  Please God, she hadn’t been with Stephen Flanagan. If she went and got herself knocked up by him, that’d be it. No, it was too horrible to even think about.

  ‘How do you mean, have I ever been with a bloke?’

  Sylvia stepped away from her, rested her elbows on the bar and covered her face with her hands. Did they teach them nothing about the world in that place?

  She dropped her hands, puffed out her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. ‘This is flaming worse than I thought.’

  Half an hour later, a shocked, yet still rather sceptical Nell swallowed the last of the medicinal port and lemon that Sylvia had insisted she drink, while she continued to listen to the description of what the landlady called, as delicately as she could, ‘having ladies and gentlemen’.

  At least it explained the monthly bleeding in terms other than the matron’s ‘curse of womankind’ that had so frightened her – and the feelings she had had when Stephen Flanagan had stroked her arm.

  Chapter 10

  Stephen Flanagan looked so different in his Sunday-best clothes. He had shaved his chin, oiled his hair to a flat, shiny grey cap and, from the glimpse of white peeping out from the neck of his heavy overcoat, Nell could see he had even put a collar on his shirt.

  He handed her a brown paper bag.

  ‘It’s an orange,’ he said. ‘All the way from Spain. I’m partial to oranges. Bought a few last week, and that one was left over. Thought you might like it.’

  Nell took the bag and looked inside. ‘I’ve never had an orange before,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them though. Matron used to have them. In the home. Sylvia, she prefers apples, so we have them sometimes. They’re nice. Do you like apples?’

  ‘They’re all right.’

  He didn’t sound that interested, and Nell wished so hard that she could have said something funny or clever instead of making herself sound like an idiot.

  ‘Shall we go then?’ he said, looking around. ‘Time’s getting on and I’ve got things to do, and this bloke to meet.’

  ‘I’ll just run this up to my room.’

  When she came back downstairs, Nell felt her stomach churn – there was no sign of Stephen Flanagan. But Sylvia was there, standing behind the bar fussing about with a crate of quart bottles of pale ale.

  ‘He’s waiting outside,’ said Sylvia coolly. ‘I don’t think he fancied the thought of a little chat with me.’ She let the crate drop with a loud crash. ‘Cos he knows I don’t approve.’

  Nell nodded, not knowing what to say, and started towards the door, but before she reached it Sylvia had skipped around from behind the bar and dodged in front of her, blocking her way.

  ‘You will keep your wits about you, won’t you, darling?’

  ‘Course I will, I promise I’ll be back before opening time.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Sylvia said, flashing a look over her shoulder at Stephen, who was standing outside on the frosty pavement with his hands in his pockets and his chin in the air. He lo
oked, to Sylvia’s eyes, as if he thought he owned the place.

  ‘How exactly do you think he’s going to pay for this pitch he’s going after in the market?’

  ‘I don’t believe it’s my place to think about it, Sylvia. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go, Stephen’s waiting.’

  Feeling helpless, Sylvia could only watch as Nell walked off along the street with Stephen Flanagan. OK, the man seemed really taken with Nell, but as Bernie said, what man wouldn’t be? But why didn’t the girl wonder where someone like him, a washed-up casual from the docks, could find the money for the pitch? Since he’d started making a play for Nell, Sylvia had wondered constantly about where the cash could possibly have come from, and now she had more than a good idea. And she didn’t much like it.

  Nell had been to the Petticoat Lane market on Sunday mornings before, she’d gone with Sylvia on clothes-hunting expeditions, and she had loved every brightly coloured, overexcited minute of the whole experience. But never had the market seemed as wonderful as it did today. With only a few weeks left until Christmas, the streets were heaving, and alongside all the regular stallholders and the pavement traders selling their herrings, beigels and cucumbers from wooden barrels and baskets, there were stalls stacked high with festive decorations, brightly painted tin toys and glowing, foil-wrapped sweetmeats and fruits. They were perfect for filling Christmas stockings like the ones Nell had seen in books, and, making it all seem even more magical, the gloomy December morning light had been banished by the naphtha lamps that lit up the market with a soft warm glow. She was so looking forward to having what Sylvia called a ‘real Christmas’ for once – something she had never experienced before.

  And she was with Stephen Flanagan.

  It was so exciting, nearly all the stallholders seemed to know him, and they acknowledged him as he walked by with a nod of the head, a lift of the chin or a call of: ‘All right, Steve-o?’

  He replied in turn with a slight lift of his eyebrows or a flash of a thumbs up – no words, simply gestures.

  Then there were the winks and looks directed at Nell, and the saucy observations about the old so-and-so Stephen Flanagan finding such a looker for himself, and how it must all be down to the luck of the Irish.

  Nell felt as if she were walking along the street with a film star – a glamorous man just like the ones Sylvia had taken her to see on the newsreels. And, although she couldn’t understand why, that glamour was somehow rubbing off on her.

  Then, when they came to a greengrocer’s stall that was close to the corner of where Wentworth Street met Middlesex Street, Stephen suddenly stopped.

  ‘You wait here,’ he said to Nell, indicating that she should stand by the corner of the stall, then he went round the back where a stooped elderly man was serving alongside a young lad.

  ‘Solly, you look frozen, old mate,’ said Stephen, holding out his hand to the older man, whose gnarled arthritic fingers were sticking out from the fraying ends of knitted fingerless gloves.

  Stephen flexed his shoulders. ‘Got time to discuss that bit of business we talked about?’

  Solly nodded and indicated that Stephen should join him further back on the pavement. Nell, left to her own devices, could only stand there and stare at Solly’s miserable-looking young assistant as he selected, weighed and bagged customers’ orders from the mounds of fruit and vegetables.

  Solly beckoned for Stephen to come closer until they were standing almost nose to nose.

  ‘We discussed the price, but you do know you have to pay the premium to the – ’ He paused, looking about him. ‘Special fund when you take over the pitch, don’t you, Steve-o?’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘And you do know who the enforcer is, don’t you? The one who’ll be expecting the payment and who’ll turn very nasty if you ever forget?’

  ‘Would I be right in thinking that it might be a Mr Jack Spot?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, will you?’ Solly could only imagine that the man didn’t believe what everyone had heard about Jack Spot. ‘Listen Steve-o, that bloke’s used to dealing with us nice placid Jewish fellers and girls in the market. He won’t be very happy if some big-mouthed lump of an Irishman starts broadcasting his private arrangements out loud to any passing schmuck.’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Solly.’ Stephen winked and lifted his chin towards Nell. ‘I wouldn’t have that one in tow if I was, now would I?’

  ‘But you watch out all the same. Spot’s not the sort to give a person a second chance. And, you have to believe me, the stories you’ve heard about him are all true.’ He held up a finger to Stephen’s face. ‘And this is our debt cancelled.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘All of it? Every last penny?’

  ‘All of it.’

  Stephen spat on his palm and held out his hand to Solly, and that was it, it was over. Stephen was being patted on the back, and being shaken firmly by the hand by Solly. The assistant sniffed in bored response, apparently not realising or not caring that his job might soon be gone and he would be joining all the other unemployed cockneys who were pointlessly seeking work in what was supposed to be the greatest capital city in the whole world.

  Nell knew it was nothing to do with her, but Sylvia had put ideas into her head and she couldn’t help but wonder why this man would let Stephen buy his pitch. She knew from talk in the pub and from listening to the wireless how hard it was for people to get work.

  She watched as Stephen started talking again, but from where she was standing she wasn’t able to make out what he was saying. She would have been even more puzzled if she had heard his words.

  ‘Solly, you have my word on it, old son. And although you’re settling a debt here, I am still going to make sure you get a nice little drink out of this, cos you have no idea how much I appreciate it.’

  Nell saw Solly smiling, but he looked more cynical than amused.

  ‘Matter of fact, Steve-o, I think I have a very good idea. With nothing doing down the dock, I’ll bet you’ve been scratching your head wondering how to cover up where the money’s coming from.’

  Stephen’s grin looked far more convincing. ‘How did a clever man like you wind up in so much debt?’

  Solly shrugged. ‘Gambling, it’s a bok. You know what they say – better to be born lucky than to be born clever. But let’s be happy today.’ He took Stephen’s face in his hands, his ratty gloves rough on the younger man’s cheeks. ‘You won’t have no trouble now, Steve-o,’ he whispered into Stephen’s ear. ‘Everyone knows there’s no such thing as a poor market trader – except if you’re a fool like me, of course. Trouble is, my friend, you’re going to have to put in some very long hours. Or maybe you could get those twins of yours doing their bit for their father.’

  Now Stephen’s grin seemed forced. ‘Them two? Our George wouldn’t know a day’s work if it bit him on the arse, and as for Lily I’ve never seen the girl out of bed before dinnertime, let alone work.’

  ‘You’re going to be in for a shock then, Steve-o, I’m telling you.’

  ‘How hard can it be?’

  Solly looked at his dour assistant, and waved a hand at Stephen. ‘How long d’you give him before he learns how hard market trading really is?’

  That actually had the miserable lad cracking a snaggle-toothed smile.

  ‘Why don’t you give them a shake then?’

  ‘Never had any cause. Their mother left when they were kids, and they just got on with things in their own way.’

  ‘Believe me, I understand you don’t want your kids to suffer, but we’re talking about them helping you earn a living here.’

  ‘If I want advice on how to raise my family—’

  ‘I spoke out of turn, and I apologise, Steve-o, but give it a few weeks and I guarantee you’ll change your tune.’

  Nell didn’t know what was going on, but she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. How long was this going to take? She’d only just got used to all the noisy racket and banter in the pub, b
ut at least in there she had Sylvie to protect her and – how did Sylvie put it? – to ‘kid her along’. She wasn’t used to all this row going on around her while she was left standing alone.

  But then, before Nell knew what was happening, Stephen had let go of Solly’s hand, and had taken her by the elbow – nothing too intimate, but sort of protective she thought – and now he was steering her towards the Ten Bells pub on the corner of Commercial and Fournier Street.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she said, skipping out of the path of a gruff-looking man with a handcart piled high with root vegetables.

  ‘I think it’s time to celebrate,’ he said, pushing open the pub door.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stephen,’ Nell whispered, ‘but I have to get back to the Hope. I didn’t realise it was opening time. Sylv’ll be expecting me and I’d hate to let her down after all she’s done for me. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Surely even Sylvia wouldn’t begrudge you a drink to toast your engagement?’

  She stopped dead. ‘My what?’

  ‘Your engagement. You and me, Nell, we’re getting engaged. I’m going to be right busy, what with having to sort out the new stall, so I thought we might as well get on with it. And sooner rather than later. Never saw any point in mucking around.’

  He lifted his hand to the barmaid. ‘Pint of mild and bitter and a lemonade over here, girl. Quick as you like, I’m spitting feathers.’

  Stephen kept his eye on the barmaid as she poured the drinks, watching to make sure he got his full measure and not a quick top-up from the slops tray. He’d seen her cheating people on a Sunday morning before.

  ‘The twins are bound to be off before long, so I thought you might as well move into Turnbury Buildings with me. Don’t see any point in hanging about. Never have. It’s not my way. And I’m sure you feel the same about me as I do about you. You’re a pretty girl, Nell, a right pretty girl, and I’ve seen you working – you’re a grafter and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, I admire that. And I’m fed up with being lonely. You know what that’s like, Nell, don’t you, coming from the home and everything. So, how about it? Us getting engaged? Cos I know it’s what I want.’