Charity had learned a great deal about the rich tapestry of women’s lives just by listening to conversations in here. She learned about unfaithful husbands, domestic violence, miscarriages, childbirth and sex. Though the conflicting items she heard about the latter often puzzled her.
Were women supposed to like it, or hate it? It was hard to tell. One moment they spoke tenderly, at other times it was with spite and anger. Stories ranged from funny to crude, but now and again were poignantly romantic.
But of all the things that caused her fright and alarm, that expression ‘up the spout’ was the one which played on her mind. She learned that the first symptom of pregnancy was ‘being late’. As Charity hadn’t even started her periods perhaps she didn’t need to be anxious about this. But it niggled at her like a sore tooth.
Her lack of breasts worried her too. Jenny Bayliss was only a year older and she’d had big ones since she was thirteen. Was she a freak? Was her thin, flat, boyish shape somehow connected to what her father did? Suppose even now she had a baby growing inside her, some hideously deformed creature that would one day pop out and prove to the world how badly she had sinned?
Once the machines were filled, the soap powder added, Charity took off James’s snow-suit and sat down with him on her lap. Muriel Jenkins was in today and she watched as the slender blonde ironed miles of net can-can petticoats.
Like most of the women Muriel had her hair in curlers, a chiffon scarf over them, but she didn’t subscribe to the common uniform of crossover pinny and down-at-heel shoes. She took part in ballroom dancing competitions and even when she came in here to wash, she was always dressed to kill. Today she wore a red wool sheath dress and matching stilettos, and her eyebrows were a thin pencilled line of astonishment. She did her ironing with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, yet could carry on a conversation at the same time.
Muriel fascinated Charity more than any of the other women. She was glamorous, outspoken and very funny. Although she was married to a man called Brian, she went dancing with other men. Today she was telling a tale about a partner whose zip broke as they were doing the quickstep.
‘“Hold me tighter,” he says to me,’ she mimicked the man, moving back from her ironing board to show the stance with an invisible partner. ‘He says, “Me zip’s gone Mew. Press closer or someone will see.” I says “If I press closer there’ll be more things going up than the score”.’
Charity never knew quite how to react to these adult conversations. Should she laugh knowingly as the other women did? Or pretend not to understand?
She had been coming here with the washing since she was nine. It was the only place she felt comfortable in, because she was accepted. The women admired her blonde hair and told her that one day she’d be a beauty. They teased her because she spoke ‘proper’; but they showed admiration for the way she cared for her little brothers and sister.
‘Get yourself a job in an office,’ Muriel had said once. ‘Work hard and save your money and you’ll soon be able to move into a flat of your own. Stop worrying about them kids, that’s yer ma’s job. Before you can say Jack Robinson some chap will be asking you to marry him.’
Muriel’s words were kindly meant, but Charity knew she had no skills to get an office job. Neither would she be able to save her pay, as Mother would take it all. As for the hope that a man might ask to marry her, the very thought made her feel quite sick.
It was just before one when Charity loaded up the pram to go home. James made no protest now about riding between the bags of warm, dry washing and the afternoon ahead was something to look forward to. On wet Saturdays Charity often took the children into the Maritime Museum. Prudence liked to see Nelson’s uniform, Tobias, the model boats. But as it was dry and sunny, today she might be able to take them up to Greenwich Park.
As Charity bumped the pram backwards up the steps into the hall, almost immediately she sensed something was wrong.
Tobias and Prudence were sitting glumly at the already laid table, Mother stirring the stew at the stove.
‘Mrs Bayliss shared a machine with me.’ Charity put the two shillings down on the table, looking enquiringly at the two younger children.
Her mother merely turned and scooped up the change. No look of appreciation, not even a glimmer of a smile.
‘Call Father, dinner’s ready,’ she said tartly. ‘And I hope you left his shirts damp?’
Tobias rolled his eyes fearfully at Charity as Father strode into the kitchen.
Bertram Stratton was a big man, but in the small and crowded room he looked huge, his dominant personality overshadowing them all.
A broad nose, fleshy lips and square, strong chin made him miss being handsome by a hair’s breadth, but the effect was spoilt by an overlarge forehead and small blue eyes under thick eyebrows. Darker blond hair than his children, weatherbeaten skin from hours spent out in the streets and the width of his shoulders sat uneasily with his dog collar.
Father beckoned for the children to stand for grace. He stretched out his arms, bringing his hands together slowly, fingertips just touching.
‘We thank you God for these gifts you have set at our table. Amen.’
Chairs scraped on the lino as they were pulled out again to sit. Charity noted the way Prudence and Tobias were squirming nervously and wondered what they’d done.
Mother ladled out the stew into bowls, Charity hurriedly tied a bib round James’s neck, sitting him on a cushion on the chair next to her.
Father lifted his spoon to his mouth, sipped and smiled. ‘This is excellent, Mother,’ he pronounced sanctimoniously.
Mother lifted her eyes from her own plate.
‘I suspect Prudence and Tobias have stolen from me this morning,’ she said, her tone almost malicious. ‘There has been an alteration on the shopping list.’
Charity’s heart sank. She began eating fast, guessing she would be drawn into this before long and she wanted to finish her dinner before that happened.
‘Explain!’ Father looked hard at Tobias and Prudence sitting side by side, then back to his wife.
‘Eightpence has been added to the final sum,’ she said, her mouth pursing as if sucking lemons.
Charity kept her eyes down. Sweets were forbidden in the Stratton household. It was an odd coincidence that eightpence would buy each child a quarter!
‘Prudence! Your explanation please.’ Father rapped her over the knuckles with his knife.
‘Mrs Moore must’ve made a mistake.’ Prudence’s voice shook and Charity knew immediately she was lying.
Charity glanced at Tobias through her lashes. Her brother had a very sneaky streak and she was certain this was his idea. But however wrong it was, she felt a great deal of sympathy. None of them ever had pocket money like other children.
‘Charity will go down to Mrs Moore to find out the truth.’ Father glared first at her, as if daring her to cover up for them, then at Prudence and Tobias. ‘If I find you have been dishonest, you know what will happen, don’t you?’
Charity dawdled at the chemist’s window. The display of home permanent waves attracted her attention. Some of the girls at school used Toni and she wished she could too.
Greenwhich High Street was packed with shoppers – girls of Charity’s age flocking into Woolworth’s to look at lipsticks and to listen to the top twenty pop records; boys hanging around on street corners watching the giggling girls. Women with bulging string bags gossiped in groups. The Clipper and the Nelson were both packed to capacity with men swilling down beer.
Father had gone out while the children washed up. He was probably down by the Cutty Sark, his usual spot on Saturday afternoon for giving one of his open-air sermons. Charity had no wish to see him being heckled by crowds of drunks as they turned out the pubs; she got ribbed enough at school for having such a strange father.
Reluctantly she moved on towards the greengrocer’s, dreading the further embarrassment of being forced to explain to Mrs Moore what her
mother suspected.
The shop was as busy as always on Saturday afternoons so Charity lingered outside by a display of fruit arranged on fake grass, waiting for a lull when she could speak to Mrs Moore.
Something slimy on the ground made Charity look down, and as she moved her foot from the old cabbage leaf, she saw a shilling lying there. For a moment she was transfixed, blinking disbelievingly at the silver coin. To anyone else it might have seemed like luck; to Charity it was surely a gift from heaven!
Under cover of tying her shoelace, she bent down and retrieved it, offering up a quick prayer of thanks, then ran straight to the sweet shop to get it changed.
There was just a tiny stab of guilt as she bought a quarter of dolly mixtures for fourpence, but the jingling of the eightpence in her pocket, and knowing she’d saved Tobias and Prudence a caning, more than made up for it.
‘Mrs Moore added it up wrong,’ she lied breathlessly as she entered the kitchen. Mother was ironing Father’s surplice on a blanket on the table, Tobias and Prudence sitting close to her, faces drawn with anxiety. ‘She said she was sorry, but she was rushed off her feet when the children came in. Can I take them to the park now?’
Mother looked at the offered eightpence, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Charity seemed far too pleased with herself and her face was flushed with more than just running home.
‘You may,’ she replied. ‘But make sure you’re back before it gets dark.’
After the children had gone, Gwen sat down at the table, resting her head on folded arms. She was tired, so tired, and deep down she knew she needed help. She had long since stopped questioning why she felt no happiness at anything. She went through the days, the weeks and months like a robot programmed not to think. Craving solitude, but when it came, like now, she felt desperately lonely.
‘You made your bed,’ she murmured, too weary even to voice the rest of the expression. Charity flitted into her mind, but she blanked out the dark suspicion by mentally recalling the ingredients she needed for a cake.
‘I’ll go to the doctor on Monday,’ she murmured as she got up to finish the ironing. ‘Perhaps he can give me something.’
‘How did you do it?’ Tobias asked once they’d crossed the main road by the Maritime Museum. James was in the pushchair, tucked in with a blanket. Tobias and Prudence either side of Charity were holding the handles.
Charity looked down at him. Admiration shone out of his big blue eyes, but she saw no real guilt, which worried her. Prudence had the grace to look ashamed, biting her lip as if she was on the point of confession.
The bag of dolly mixtures in her pocket was a reminder of her own guilt. She couldn’t share them out without seeming to condone their wrongdoing, and neither would she enjoy them alone.
‘Never you mind how I managed it,’ she said sternly. ‘The point is you did steal that money and it was very wrong. Mother has little enough spare cash as it is. The only reason I covered up for you was because I didn’t want you to be caned.’
‘It was Tobias’s idea,’ Prudence whined. ‘I said it was wrong.’
Charity looked from one to the other, seeing faults in both children. Prudence could be an insufferable little prig, sucking up to adults and showing no real loyalty. Tobias was deceitful and wilful despite endless punishments, but then he was just a child.
‘You are both equally to blame,’ she said firmly. ‘Stealing is a sin. You must promise me you’ll never do such a thing again.’
‘I hate Father.’ Tobias stuck out his lip belligerently. ‘He’s mean to us. I’m going to run away to sea as soon as I’m old enough.’
Charity felt duty bound to admonish him, but her words were softened by deep sympathy. Tobias was a real boy: he loved football, climbing trees and wide open spaces. She and Prudence could accept the constraints of their life more easily because they’d already discovered this was how it was for females, but Tobias had only other boys at school as examples and they had all the freedom they wanted.
‘I’ll be leaving school soon,’ Charity said gently as they walked in through the big park gates. ‘I’ll find myself a flat somewhere, then maybe you can come and visit me.’
‘Couldn’t we come to live with you too?’ Tobias looked up at her imploringly. ‘It’ll be awful once you’ve gone!’
Charity sighed deeply. ‘You and Prudence have to work hard at school,’ she said, taking one hand from the pushchair to ruffle his hair affectionately. ‘That’s the way out, so you can get a good job.’
She let James out of the pushchair then, smiling as he ran forward over the grass shrieking with delight as Prudence and Tobias chased him.
Here in the park Charity felt a sense of peace that she found nowhere else. She’d learned at school how the meridian line passed through here, giving time to the rest of the world, so if Greenwich was important, perhaps she was too? All these huge old trees planted centuries ago, all the vast expanse of grass and the view over the river and London when they climbed up to the observatory gave her a sense of belonging to a greater scheme of things.
Charity seldom went out of Greenwich. Her knowledge of the world and the rest of London was only from books and hearsay, but here in the park she felt God’s hand as she never did in Father’s church. If he could look out for each squirrel and deer, work all those miracles of changing seasons, then surely he saw too that she needed just a minor one to make her and her family happy?
They played a brisk game of hide and seek, humouring James by pretending they couldn’t see him when all he did to hide himself was cover his face with his hands. Tobias climbed trees, flattening himself on bare branches then jumping down to frighten them.
Dusk crept up on them suddenly. Charity put the now tired James back into his pushchair and they hurried back down the hill chattering to each other, each small face rosy from the cold, fresh air, earlier events in the day forgotten.
But as Charity opened the door and hauled in the pushchair, she knew something more had happened in their absence. The fire was lit in the parlour, the cosy flickering through the open door offering a warm welcome, yet a pall of something unpleasant hung in the air.
‘Come in here!’ Father’s voice boomed out from the kitchen. ‘All of you!’
Mother sat at the table, arms folded in front of her. Father stood with his back to the paraffin stove, warming his backside, and his eyes were colder than a January morning.
‘What is it?’ Charity ventured, bending to take off James’s snow-suit.
‘Leave that,’ Father pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘Stand there the three of you and let me look at three liars and thieves.’
When Charity saw the shopping list on the table alongside the sixpence and two pennies she had brought home earlier, her insides churned and she had a strong desire to visit the lavatory.
Father prolonged the torture by merely staring hard at each of them in turn as they stood in a row quaking.
‘Explain to me how you came by this money,’ he said at last, fixing Charity with a look of intense hatred.
There was nothing for it but to admit what had happened. Clearly Father had checked up.
‘I found some money,’ she whispered.
‘Liars and thieves,’ he hissed, crossing the room and slapping Charity hard round the face. ‘But I blame you most of all, daughter, for you have covered up one crime with another.’
Charity reeled against the wall from the force of his blow. Prudence covered her head with her arms and Tobias backed towards the door.
‘Upstairs, all of you!’ Father roared. ‘I’ll be up the minute I’ve eaten my tea to deal with each of you.’
James let out a howl of fear, ran to Charity and clutched at her legs. Mother got up from the table snatched him back from her and dumped him on a chair.
‘I’m ashamed of you,’ she shot at the terrified children. ‘Get out of my sight.’
‘I feel sick,’ Prudence sobbed. ‘I’m so scared.’
For once Tobi
as had nothing to say. His face was ashen, shaking like a leaf.
‘Keep quiet or he’ll be worse,’ Charity implored them. ‘Get undressed and into bed. I daren’t stay here with you.’
Alone in her own room Charity forced herself to hate rather than allow fear to overcome her. She undressed, put her nightdress on and sat down on her bed.
It was an icy, bare room, the ceiling sloping down sharply to a small window overlooking backyards. An iron bed, a Windsor chair and a chest of drawers were the only furniture.
She heard the kitchen door open some ten minutes later, a bad sign, as it meant her father hadn’t mellowed by eating his tea. There was no creeping up the stairs this time, the way he did on Friday nights. His steps were heavy and measured, his breathing laboured.
As she expected, he went past the children’s room and came straight to her. She stood up, holding the end of the bed for support.
‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ he bellowed, even before he came into the small room, the cane twitching in his hand.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t cane Prudence and Tobias, they’re only little.’
She moved back towards the window. His head was almost touching the sloping ceiling; if he followed her here he would need to stoop. But even as that thought shot across her mind she remembered how practised he was at negotiating this room, even in the dark.
‘You dare now to try and tell me what to do?’ he roared in astonishment.
Everything about him was repulsive: his high shiny forehead, thick wet lips, the faint smell of stale sweat and even that brown cardigan knitted by one of his doting parishioners.
‘Lay one finger on them and I’ll tell everyone what you do to me,’ Charity blurted out without considering the consequences.
He lifted the cane threateningly, bushy brows knitting together.
‘Cane me if you must –’ she cringed further away from him, scared by her own daring but unable to back down now – ‘but if you touch them I swear I’ll tell the world what you do.’
He lunged forward, the cane raised, but the fact that he knocked his head on the ceiling proved he wasn’t as controlled as he’d been earlier.
Charity Page 2