* * *
Florrie stepped out on to the landing, holding the banister for support. She couldn’t let the children see her like this; she would have to wait a few moments to compose herself. Blowing out her cheeks, she straightened her shoulders and was about to move forward when the door to the adjoining bedroom opened. Startled, she tried to hurry past, but her stepson blocked her path so that she had to step back.
Alex Browning looked down at his stepmother, his brown eyes hard as he thought about the argument he had overheard. At twenty-six he was a good-looking man, yet there was a coldness about him that frightened off many women – and a good many men. With his almost jet-black hair and lean build he bore no resemblance to his portly, homely father, taking his looks instead from his long-dead mother. He worked as a stevedore at the London docks, the constant physical work helping to keep his muscular build in condition. He was wearing a smart grey suit and black waistcoat, a sharp contrast to the everyday clothes he normally wore. He looked every inch a gentleman, but Florrie knew her stepson was anything but. There was a cruel streak in Alex, yet only she seemed to be aware of it.
The sight of his hard-set face and his threatening stance strengthened her resolve. He would have to go, if only for her own peace of mind.
‘Well, well, so you’re thinking of throwing me out, are you, Florrie? How fortunate for me that I had to return for my wallet, else I would never have known I was to become homeless until I was out in the street.’ His deep mocking voice sent a quiver of apprehension racing up her spine. She’d had no idea he was in the house. ‘And you plan to support my father and his children all by yourself. My, my, what a clever woman you are!’
He stepped nearer, his manner intimidating, but Florrie, who had recovered her aplomb, held her ground. His presence made her feel uneasy, but not for the world would she let this man see the slightest sign of fear. Her gaze unwavering, she returned his stare until Alex, much to his chagrin, was forced to avert his eyes.
‘Do you make a habit of eavesdropping, Alex?’ she said lightly, pleased to hear the steadiness of her voice. ‘If so, you should remember the old saying of listeners never hearing any good of themselves. Now, if you’ll kindly move out of my way, I wish to pass.’
When he moved aside she felt a surge of relief, then her stomach tightened as he leant forward, his breath fanning her cheek. ‘There is another saying: something along the lines of “How are the mighty fallen.” You should remember those words, Florrie.’
She didn’t deign to answer. Drawing up the hem of her coat she swept by, her attitude dismissive. No one witnessing her almost regal composure would have guessed how fast her heart was racing.
Alex watched her descend the stairs, the muscles of his face working furiously. For years he had been planning and dreaming up ways to get rid of his stepmother. Now, it seemed, she might beat him at his own game. Uttering an obscene oath in the direction of her proud, slim body he returned to his room, slamming the door viciously.
* * *
The children were waiting for Florrie in the parlour, their faces anxious, painfully aware that their mum and dad had been fighting again. Seeing the look, her heart turned over in pity and shame, all thoughts regarding her stepson vanishing as she tried to think of something to say to allay her children’s fear.
There was Alice, twelve-years-old and already thinking herself to be a young lady, and ten-year-old Sally, both of them with their father’s colouring of brown hair and eyes, and wearing identical grey herringbone coats that flared from the waist, stopping at mid-calf to reveal slim legs encased in thick black stockings. Billy, her only son, stared up at her with large, sorrowful blue eyes, a lock of curly brown hair falling over his forehead. He had celebrated his fifth birthday a few weeks ago, and was now in a state of nervous excitement and dread at the prospect of starting school the following week. Like his sisters, Billy was wearing his Sunday best, a fawn double-breasted coat that fitted snugly over his growing form, knee-length black socks and a pair of new, shiny black boots.
Then there was Kate, her first-born, standing behind her brother and sisters, her arms protectively around their shoulders. As always, Florrie experienced a start when looking at her; it was almost as though she were seeing herself at the same age. Yet not quite. For Kate Browning had a quiet determination and spirit that her mother had not developed until later in life. If Florrie had had her daughter’s spirit when in her late teens, she would never have married the man now sulking upstairs.
Briskly she checked that they were all wrapped up warmly against the cold October wind, studiously avoiding the accusing stares in their young eyes. She knew they thought her hard and unfeeling towards their beloved father, and she neither blamed them nor tried to explain her behaviour. Whatever else he was, William had always been a kind and affectionate father to all of his children, and they, without exception, adored him and couldn’t understand why their mother didn’t share their opinion of the kindly man who had never taken his belt to any of them, nor ever even spoken harshly in their presence. That unpleasant part of parenting had always been left to their mother.
Fighting down a sudden wave of self-pity at the unfairness of the role she had been cast in, Florrie marshalled them all out into the street, and when she felt a small hand creep into her own she smiled down at her son, gripping his fingers with a fierce overwhelming love. She was well aware that her daughters, without exception, were deeply angry with her for upsetting William, yet with a mother’s insight, she also knew that they loved her dearly.
Stopping only to exchange a word of greeting with an elderly neighbour tending his small patch of front garden, she led her children down the long winding street of modern two- and three-storey terraced houses. Fairview Street was in a much-sought-after area of Bow. The neat houses were occupied solely by those in the enviable position of having steady jobs. The area extending between Mile End and this part of Bow contained the maximum concentration of shop assistants, clerks, sub-officials and independent traders. It was a most salubrious area, where open squares, such as Tredegar, Coborn and Beaumont, enclosed by solidly built Georgian houses, contrasted with the poverty and squalor to be found only a few miles away in Whitechapel, Bethnal Green and other parts of Bow.
On the tram, Florrie set to cheering up her four unhappy children, and such was her vibrant personality that by the time they entered Victoria Park they were all laughing and talking happily, the argument forgotten.
When Billy, accompanied by Alice and Sally, had been despatched to buy bags of hot chestnuts from the shabbily-dressed vendor who had his stall by the edge of the boating lake, Florrie and Kate lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Then Florrie suggested, ‘Look, there’s a nice piece of flat ground’ – she indicated a towering oak near the drinking fountain – ‘Let’s spread the blankets there.’
Kate nodded, her face once again sombre now that the smaller children were out of sight. When the thin blankets had been spread, Florrie sat down, her back against the wide expanse of the trunk, the stark bareness of the overhead branches casting a sense of gloom over her. She would rather have been left with her thoughts, but Kate was no longer a child who could be dismissed with orders to ‘go and play’. Neither could she be fobbed off with soothing assurances that mummy and daddy were only pretending. That old line had often been used over the past years, but even Alice and Sally were too old now to be taken in by the obvious lie. Only Billy, still too young to understand fully the difficulties that existed between his parents, was blissfully happy to accept such explanations. The silence rested heavily on the woman and young girl, neither knowing what to say in the face of the morning’s upheaval. Whatever could have been said had been said so often that the words no longer had any meaning.
As they sat, neither of them was conscious of the admiring glances that were directed at them, both modestly unaware of the striking picture they presented to other people in the park. Craning her head, Florrie looked over to the boating lake
where the vendor had his stall. For once she wished that the children would hurry back and fill the uncomfortable silence that was becoming oppressive, but she couldn’t see any of them in the milling, haphazard queue waiting impatiently to be served.
‘Are you going to leave us, Mum?’
Florrie’s head snapped back, her mouth dropping open in surprise. ‘Good lord, Kate!’ she cried in distress. ‘Whatever put that into your head? I mean… Well, I won’t deny your father and me haven’t been getting on, but… Oh, Kate, love…’ She reached out to take hold of Kate’s mittened hand. Her eyes filled with love, she said huskily, ‘Don’t you know how much I love you – all of you? No matter how bad things get at home, I would never leave you… At least, not until you were all old enough to look after yourselves.’ She smiled wanly. ‘And seeing as Billy has only just turned five, that day is a long way off.’
Kate dropped her head sorrowfully. It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She had wanted to hear her mother say that she still loved her dad, in spite of the frequent arguments. She had wanted to hear her say that she would never leave… ever. A deep sadness rose in her. Poor Dad. What would become of him if ever her mother left him? He wouldn’t be able to manage on his own; he wasn’t made that way. Then her chin lifted in youthful determination. If, in years to come, her mother did decide to leave, then she, Kate, would stay at home and take care of her father. She already had a job as a counter assistant in a confectionery shop in the Mile End Road, and although the money wasn’t very good now, she was confident that in a few years she would have moved on to something with better prospects and more money.
Almost as if she could read her daughter’s mind, Florrie smiled gently. ‘It’s not your problem, love. Whatever happens between your dad and me is our concern, and we’ll work it out in our own way.’
‘Mum… Mum… quick! They’re boiling hot… Here!’ A paper cone of steaming chestnuts was deposited in Florrie’s lap, making her yelp with surprise. Thoroughly satisfied by his action, her small plump son plopped down at her side, his upturned face filled with glee. ‘That made you jump, didn’t it, Mum?’
‘It most certainly did, young man. Come here, you little devil!’ With a quick turn, she grabbed the squirming youngster, tickling him unmercifully while he screamed with joy.
Passers-by stopped and smiled at the happy family scene before moving on.
When Billy, finally calmed down, had settled contentedly, Florrie was rewarded by a smile from Kate. Heartened by the response, she picked up the cone and began to eat, resolving that, for the afternoon at least, she would forget her troubles and enjoy the company of her children.
Chapter Two
The sound of raised voices from below carried clearly through the bare floorboards to the bedroom above the parlour. The cramped room was in darkness, save for a weak beam of light shining from a lamp-post across the road. Outside the bay window covered by thick curtaining could be heard other voices, loud, happy sounds from those either on their way to, or returning from, an evening in the local pub. But the occupants of the oppressively dark room had ears only for the sounds coming from below.
As the argument raged, the young boy, his eyes wide with fright, sat up in the bed he shared with his sister and began to cry. ‘Mummy, Mummy! I’m frightened, Mummy!’
Immediately strong arms came around his shaking body, hugging him protectively, and a soft voice whispered his name, while at the same time gentle fingers stroked his tear-stained face until, exhausted, he fell back into a restless sleep. Kate, cradling his head, waited until she was satisfied her brother was asleep before carefully wriggling down under the blankets, pulling his small form down with her. Huddled against him for both comfort and warmth, she peered across the room to where her two sisters lay top to tail in their narrow bed.
‘Alice, Sally,’ she whispered, afraid of disturbing her sleeping brother. ‘Are you awake… either of you?’
‘Course we’re awake,’ a muffled voice came back at her. ‘How can we sleep with that racket going on downstairs. Can’t you do something, Kate? You know, go down and ask them to stop.’
Kate sighed. What could she do that she hadn’t done countless times before, and all to no avail. If she went downstairs, her parents would simply tell her everything was all right, and as soon as she got back into bed, the arguing would start up again. She was sick of it. Sick of hearing her parents fight and sick of trying to keep her sisters’ and brother’s spirits up. It was beginning to wear her down, and she didn’t know how much longer she could cope.
Keeping a tight rein on her temper, she said softly, ‘What the hell do you expect me to do? Even if I do go down, you know they’ll only start again as soon as I leave the room… Hush, just try and get some sleep. Alice…’ Her breath caught in her throat as a thunderous crash reverberated through the house. A loud scream pierced the air, followed by the dull thud of a body falling. Hardly daring to breathe, she clutched her brother’s warm body closer, straining to hear the now one-sided conversation from the parlour. The anger in the voice had changed to blustering fear, every word clearly audible in the now deathly quiet house.
‘Don’t look at me like that! I warned you what would happen, now, didn’t I? Didn’t I warn you that I wouldn’t put up with it any longer? But you wouldn’t listen, would you. Oh no, you had to keep on and on goading me, trying to belittle me in front of the children. You just couldn’t keep quiet, could you…’ As the voice trailed off, Kate strained to hear. She was dimly aware of Alice, who was also sitting upright in her bed, her hands pressed hard over her ears, and was about to go to her sister when the loud voice rose again.
‘It’s your own fault… Whatever’s happened, you’ve brought it on yourself, so don’t go blaming me, not this time, because I had every right to… to… Oh, damn you to hell! I’m off to the pub. And don’t look at me like that! It’s you that’s driven me to it. I never touched a drop before I met you, but thank God for it, I say, because without it I’d have been driven mad long ago.’
When the front door slammed, Kate waited a few minutes before easing herself gingerly from the warmth of the bed.
‘Kate… What’s happened, Kate?’ Alice’s voice was high with fear. ‘You don’t think…’
The unspoken words of terror weren’t lost on Kate, who had had the same dread thoughts herself. Keeping her voice steady, she said. ‘Don’t get yourself into a lather. They’ve lasted this long without killing each other, so I don’t see why tonight should be any different.’
‘B—But they’ve never hit each other before. What if…’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Kate tried to laugh, and failed miserably. Clearing her constricted throat, she tried to allay her sister’s fear. ‘No one’s been hit. One of them probably fell down and knocked the table over, that’s all.’
Alice stared at the dim outline of her sister, her round cheeks quivering with adolescent indignation. ‘I’m not daft, and I’m not deaf, either! I heard what was going on. It’s all her fault; she never stops picking on him. Oh, Kate, what’s going to happen to us?’
Picking up her dressing-gown from the foot of the bed, Kate wrapped it round her shivering body and made for the door. She wasn’t too concerned about Alice, who, although genuinely frightened, was also secretly enjoying the drama. ‘Is Sally all right?’ she asked, wanting to put off going downstairs for a moment longer.
‘She’s crying again,’ Alice replied somewhat scornfully, already losing interest now that the house was quiet.
Kate paused at the door. Shrugging her arms into the sleeves of the soft gown, she peered into the gloom and said roughly. ‘Don’t be rotten! She’s only ten, and you were just as frightened yourself a few minutes ago.’ When no reply came, Kate nipped nervously at her bottom lip. Then, unable to put off the inevitable any longer, she said curtly, ‘If Billy wakes up, take him into bed with you until I get back. I won’t be long.’
Out on the narrow landing, she leaned against the door for a
moment, afraid to go downstairs, afraid of what she might find. If only Alex was home instead of going out gallivanting. He was the eldest; he should be here, she thought resentfully. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what was going on. The row between her parents had broken out barely an hour after their return from the park. Forcing herself away from the support of the door, she took a deep, shuddering breath and inched forward, shivering as her bare feet padded down the icy cold stairway. Quickly, before her courage could desert her, she made for the parlour, then stopped, her mouth dropping open at the sight of the devastation there. The table and chairs had been upended and sent in different directions across the room. Broken mugs lay smashed alongside strewn cutlery, making the stone floor hazardous for her unprotected feet. Gingerly stepping over the shards of china and upturned forks, she made her way to the figure huddled by the dying embers of the open hearth.
Dropping to her knees, Kate looked into the pain-ravaged eyes staring aimlessly into her own. Blinking back tears, she saw his bruised and bleeding face and closed her eyes helplessly. She had been dreading this day, the day when the hurtful words would turn into physical blows.
Why? Why did they have to live like this? It hadn’t always been so. She could remember a time when the small terraced house had been filled with love and laughter. A time when fear had had no meaning in the hearts and minds of the children living beneath this roof. Hunching herself further into the wide folds of her dressing-gown, she tried to remember when the change had come about. It had started gradually after Billy was born. Just small things at first: a row starting, then finishing as soon as it had begun. Then the bickerings had turned to vicious anger as her parents strove to hurt each other with cruel taunts and constant arguments. But, up to now, they had at least made some kind of effort to spare their children any distress. Now it was obvious that the hate that had grown between them was too strong for any more pretence, but this was the first time her parents had come to blows. Oh, they had often resorted to pushing and shoving each other in the heat of the moment, but never anything like this. The figure stirred, uttering a small moan at the effort, instantly Kate held out her hand.
Bow Belles Page 2