Jubilee (Book 1 of The Poppy Chronicles)

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Of course.’

  Jessie shook her head wonderingly. ‘I always say, you might as well be abroad, we’re all so different. In all my life, I ain’t never sat down to a breakfast. A piece o’bread, a bissel butter on it or cream cheese, and you eat it on your way to school or to work –’ She sighed. ‘But to sit down to breakfast? That must be nice.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Mildred said. ‘Not in our house. My father sits there behind the paper and Mama looks green and the boys squabble at each other and –’

  It was absurd. Not ten minutes earlier she had been hating this woman with her glinting dark eyes and cheerful smile, had thought her vulgar and horrid, but here she sat in the waiting room of the London Hospital’s casualty department, pouring out all sorts of silly details about life in Leinster Terrace. She talked of the way the little boys ran riot, no matter how much Nanny Chewson tried to bring them up properly, because of their mother’s silly partiality for them and refusal ever to admit they did anything they should not, and of the way Mama spent such long hours on her sofa asleep, and of the way her own life dragged on drearily in ever deepening ruts and indeed of the general awfulness of everything, and all the time Jessie sat and listened and nodded and watched her with those dark and lively eyes and said nothing. Until at last Mildred stopped talking and sat looking down at her hands on her lap again.

  ‘Well,’ Jessie said at length. ‘I can see why you like to come down here. That all sounds real miserable. Why don’t you just get out altogether?’

  ‘What?’ Mildred lifted her head and stared at her. ‘How do you mean?’

  Jessie shrugged. ‘You’re a grown woman. You don’t have to stay there with ’em if you don’t want to. Come down here, down East. You can have a room in my house. I got a proper house all to myself, you know. Not one of these two-room affairs, my place. I got two bedrooms upstairs as well as the two rooms downstairs. And gas and water laid on. None of your taps in the yard, by me. It’s water right in to the scullery! As good a place as my mother’s and father’s. You saw that, didn’t you? Nothing wrong with that, is there? No – nothing. Lizah fixed it for them when he started to make good money, with his first few fights, and for him it had to be the best. So it is. But there’s three of them living there and only me in my place. So come and move in. I could do with the rent and the company. You need a place to live, and what could suit better. You could go further and do a lot worse.’

  ‘I’ve no money of my own,’ Mildred said dully. For one glorious moment it had seemed that the thick dark curtain that hung over her life, making it so gloomy and dull, had twitched and shown her a glimpse of a whole new life beyond where she could do as she wanted when she wanted, and would never again have to sew nightshirts for her brothers or sit dumbly being looked over by a man her father was trying to persuade to marry her. But at the mention of the word ‘rent’ the curtain twitched back into place, as dark and impenetrable as ever. ‘My mother left me a small amount, but my father has the full control of it until I marry. So I might as well have nothing.’

  Jessie lifted her brows, amused. ‘Have I got money? You think because I’m a widow I got money? Believe me, my old man, rest his wicked soul, left me gornisht mit gornisht – nothing with nothing. A spieler like him – he was a gambler, see – lost all he had and a bit more besides before he goes and falls under a brewer’s dray one night two years ago, and us only married a year. I tell you, he left me more debts than anything else. But I work, see? I work for Joe Vinosky, as married my sister Rae, and I pay my way. I got my house. I got my furniture and bits of pieces when I got married, and that’s all. So, you can do the same. You can sew, can’t you?’

  ‘Sew? Of course,’ Mildred said. ‘It’s all I ever seem to do, sometimes.’

  ‘Then sew for a living. Come and live at my place – I won’t charge you no big rent – get a job on the finisher’s bench at Joe’s, and punkt! You’re an independent woman. And maybe then my brother –’ She stopped and looked at Mildred sideways, and for the first time there was more to her expression than simple warmth and openness. She had a calculating look about her.

  ‘The thing is,’ she leaned forwards confidentially, ‘thing is, Lizah needs to be taken in hand. My Momma’d go mad, she heard me talkin’ this way, but what she don’t know won’t hurt her. Lizah’s had any number of the Yiddisher girls round here. Any number. They all fancy him, good-looking boy like him. Struts a bit, got a name for himself, so naturally they give him the eye. But there ain’t none of them he’s ever been interested in the way he’s interested in you. And for my part, shicksah or not, I think you’d be good for him. I’ve seen him lookin’ at you –’

  ‘What? But I’ve never seen you before tonight!’ Mildred’s head was spinning, she was so startled at what Jessie was saying, and she seized on the only thing she could hold on to. ‘You’re talking nonsense about – about me and Mr Harris –’

  ‘Listen, dolly, I been around! I seen you at the theatre with him. I seen you at Curly’s place and one or two others. Always kept well out of sight, of course – Lizah gets upset if he thinks the family’s too busy with his affairs – and I tell you, I watch. And you could make that boy be sensible for once in his life. Give up this boxing game. It’ll kill him if he goes on like this –’ And she looked over Mildred’s shoulder towards the still curtained cubicles and her face was bleak for a moment. ‘A boy can box, can get his head broken and his nose battered and come to no harm, please God. But a grown man? Lizah’s twenty-five already. How much longer can he go on like this? Three years? Five years? And then he’ll be just another meshiggeneh – a mad thing, sits around the cafés talking of the old days, no memory, no common sense left in his poor fuddled head, a schnorrer for the rest of his days. I don’t want this for him. With you, I think I got a friend who also won’t want this for him. So come and live with me down here, and we’ll fix it. Momma’ll come round to the idea. Poppa, he’ll do what Momma says – so what do you say?’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Mildred said. ‘Quite mad –’ and suddenly remembered Mrs Harris’s hand, biting into her arm in the kitchen in Myrdle Street as she made her swear on her father’s life that she would not marry her son. But she pushed that memory away as ridiculous, and clumsily got to her feet and moved away, towards the curtained cubicle where Basil was incarcerated, not looking back. This was dreadful, quite dreadful, she told herself as she tried to keep herself from shaking. She had never heard anything so stupid in all her life –

  As though in response to a signal the curtain rings rattled and the fabric was pushed aside with a flourish and the nurse came out, shepherding Basil, who still looked white but much more in command of himself.

  ‘This one can leave,’ the nurse said. ‘The doctor says he is fit and there is no need for any concern. The bruises can be treated with arnica from time to time if it is felt to be necessary. The other one will be ready to leave shortly, I believe –’ And she looked over her shoulder to the other cubicle. ‘Though I gather he has needed some stitches to a cut –’

  ‘Stitches? Good. I said I’d show him –’ Basil muttered thickly as Mildred, moving quickly, came to his side and took his arm ready to lead him towards the main doors. ‘And I did. That man –’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Mildred said quickly. ‘And come along. We have to get a cab and get home as fast as possible.’ And without so much as a glance in Jessie Mendel’s direction she began to lead Basil away, and he came willingly enough, wincing a little as he put one foot in front of the other, clearly feeling a pain inside his head at every jarring movement he made.

  Again there was a rattle of curtain rings as the other cubicle was opened, and she heard Kid’s voice as he came out, protesting at something the nurse was saying about returning to have his stitches removed.

  ‘I can’t,’ he was saying. ‘I got a big match to fight the day after that, so I’m coming back to have these stitches out in three days. I don’t need no five days – I heal quick, I do. Got g
ood healing flesh, I have – Millie!’

  Clearly he had seen her going towards the door and was coming after her and she pushed on Basil’s arm, urging him forwards, wanting only to get out and away, not wanting to speak to Kid at all. But Basil could not, or would not, be hurried. And there Kid was, his hand grasping her upper arm in that familiar grip.

  ‘Millie – where are you going? I have to talk to you. Don’t go rushing off like this – I have to talk to you. We have to sort this out and –’

  ‘There is nothing to sort out,’ she said, keeping her voice as flat and calm as she could. ‘I have to get Basil home. Excuse me –’ They had reached the door and the man in serge and brass buttons was holding it down. ‘I need a four-wheeler,’ she said to him as she reached his side. ‘Is there one available?’

  ‘Outside the main gates, t’other side of the yard.’ The man pointed. ‘There’s always one or two there. Take it easy now –’ And she went through the door out into the bitter dark cold of the February night, Basil’s arm held firmly under her hand as Kid Harris came lumbering after them.

  ‘Listen, will you stop a minute? I can’t talk to a person’s back! Millie!’ he cried, but she did not halt, did not change the rate of her marching, pushing Basil ahead of her as fast as she could. He at least seemed not to care that his opponent was so close; he seemed to want to concentrate solely on keeping himself upright, and she was grateful for that. If they started arguing again it would be more than she could cope with, she told herself, more than she could tolerate. She would lose her temper, weep perhaps – it would be dreadful. Thank God for Basil’s pain and the silence it ensured in him.

  They had reached the gateway and were through it and out on the other side and into the Whitechapel Road where, to her intense relief, she could see two four-wheelers waiting, their drivers standing to one side round a burning brazier full of charcoal where a nightwatchman sat pondering over a hole in the pavement. ‘Cab!’ she called imperiously and felt Basil wince at the sound of her voice. ‘At once –’ And one of the drivers hurried over and began to help her get Basil into his vehicle.

  ‘Millie, this is dam’ well ridiculous!’ Kid Harris blazed and she felt his hand pull on her arm, whirling her round so that she had to look at him. ‘Stop trying to pretend I ain’t here, for God’s sake! I have to talk to you!’

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said very loudly, needing to hear her own voice, needing to be sure she said what had to be said. ‘I never want to speak to you again, do you hear me? Not now or ever. Keep away from me – I was crazy ever to agree to see you at all, but I’m not crazy now. You understand me? I never want to see you again ever. Go away – and to the devil with you!’

  11

  March blew itself in with gales and rain that drummed the entire household into a state of cold misery. The children couldn’t go out to walk in the Park and became more fractious than ever. Nanny Chewson’s elderly mother died in far away Norfolk and she went home ‘to put matters to rights’, as she explained darkly, leaving only the housemaid to cope with the little boys, and Maud caught a severe quinsy and had to keep to her bed for weeks on end. Edward in consequence developed a furious rage with every aspect of the way his house was being run, and took to his club, staying there for as many nights as he slept at home, which was a mixed blessing for on the nights he did choose to return to his hearth and household, his temper was even more unreliable than it usually was.

  All of which helped to distract attention from Mildred and her state of mind. To say she was unhappy was to understate the situation gravely. She went through her days in a frozen haze, her face drawn and looking more sallow than ever, and her eyes blank and dead. Now she was no longer eating good suppers, and had lost what little appetite she had ever had for the appalling cooking that was the staple fare at Leinster Terrace, she lost all her agreeable plumpness and became positively gaunt, and violet shadows appeared beneath her eyes and in her temples.

  And nobody at all noticed.

  She had managed to get Basil back into the house on that dreadful night and up to his room without anyone being disturbed, and next day he had managed to get out to his office without his father noticing what he looked like, for he had clearly had a disagreement with his own digestion the night before and was far from well; and from then onwards life had slipped back into its old painful rut as though nothing had ever happened to disturb it. No one seemed at all aware of the fact that her interest in Mission work seemed to have completely evaporated; no one paid any attention to her at all, any more than they ever had. It was as though whatever she did was invisible to her family.

  There were times, indeed, when she sat in the window seat in the drawing room staring out at the relentless rain, and wondered whether any of it had actually happened. Surely she had imagined it all? Had it not been just another of those stupid fantasies she had been used to weave all her life to hide herself from the dreariness of reality?

  But even she could not convince herself of that. There had been a Kid Harris. There had been those long months of evenings spent where lights were bright and voices were loud and laughter was raucous, where people ate and drank and shouted at each other with a gusto that had expanded her soul and made her realize that after all life was worth the trouble of living it.

  But now as her horizons shrank and her very body shrivelled and lost its resilience she knew that those joyous months had been a cruel trick that Providence had played upon her. Bad as life had been before, it had been tolerable. After all, she had never known anything else, so she had rubbed along well enough. Not happy, of course, but not actively miserable.

  But now she was precisely that; a walking breathing mass of unhappiness that sometimes threatened to burst its confines. There were times, sitting as usual beside Mama at the mahogany dining-room table, hearing her bleating on and on about the children and the latest piece of impertinence from Cook or Jenny or Mary, when she wanted to shriek her hatred of all that made up her existence, when she actually had to bite her tongue and hold hard on to the sides of her chair, out of sight beneath the spread of the tablecloth, to prevent herself from doing so.

  The nights were the worst. When she went up to her room and crept between the cold sheets to lie beneath the weight of her blankets, staring up at the ceiling where the street lights from beyond her window created strange shifting patterns, she would pray with all the passion of her unbelieving soul for death to come in the night. Just to slide into sleep and never, never, never have to wake up and face living inside her own skin for another moment – that would have been the best she could have hoped for herself. But even that was denied her, for as one who had long ago lost her piety and turned her back on the beliefs which everyone else seemed to hold, she had not even the right to seek any help from Providence.

  And she would close her eyes and ache to weep, longing to cry and relieve her pain that way, but no tears ever came. Only, at last, an uneasy sleep which was so bedevilled with dreams, some of which were so horrendously full of Kid Harris that she could hardly bear to think of what she and he did together in them when she emerged from the darkness of the night into yet another day, that she never felt at all refreshed by her slumbers.

  Both Basil and Claude avoided her. They slid into a new pattern of life, telling their stepmama that they wished to spend longer at their places of work, and therefore would not take breakfast at home, preferring to wait till they got to their offices, and would probably dine at their clubs as often as not, and she had shrugged and made it very clear that she was uninterested in their living arrangements. They had their own incomes, drawn from their inheritances from their mother (being males they were allowed to have what was their own, and did not have to bow to their father’s control of their use of their money) and from their employment. So they were able to use their father’s house largely as an hotel, and this they did.

  In the past when they had been more visible about the house, Mildred had felt closer to them. T
hey had always been that little more important to her than anyone else, since they were her full kin, and she had thought they felt the same concern for her. Now she was not so sure. It was true that Basil had allowed himself to become embroiled in a fight with a man he considered unsuitable for his sister to know, but had that been, she asked herself bleakly, because of her, or because of his own amour propre? Did he feel it was below his dignity to have his sister regarding an East End boxer as her friend or below hers? She strongly suspected it was the former.

  As, slowly, the weather improved and she could escape occasionally during the day to walk in Hyde Park, she began to feel a little less ill. She was still eating poorly and sleeping uneasily, but when at last she could exercise again, stretching her long legs under her heavy serge skirts as she walked briskly along the asphalt paths between the dripping bushes and the wide expanses of sodden grass, she began to feel a little better. And that meant she could think more clearly.

  She was determined not to think about Kid Harris. That was a chapter in the past; but she did think about his sister. She had put ideas into Mildred’s head that wriggled around like worms, and however hard she tried to push them away, back they came.

  To leave her father’s home and rent a room somewhere, and pay her own way by working for money? It seemed a mad idea, an impossible notion, fit only for her fantasies. But slowly, it took hold. To be able to get away from her father’s home and her father’s influence, to be an independent woman; and away flew her imagination, settling her in a charming little flat with a pretty sitting room and bedroom which she would leave every day to go to her employment. It took her a while to decide on an employment that would fit into her fantasy, but then she remembered a girl she had once seen long ago when she was very young, in a flower shop in Oxford Street, looking charming as she tied her flowers into elegant bouquets, and she imagined herself doing that with great skill and success, and earning large sums from it.