Born to Trouble

by Rita Bradshaw

  After making a list of everything she would need right down to the last teaspoon, she marched off to Casey’s Emporium on the fourth Monday morning. This store had a reputation of being the best second-hand shop in the district. It was slightly more expensive than some of the other second-hand shops and pawnshops, but Mr Casey guaranteed that none of the furniture he sold had wood-worm, and all upholstery and cushions were devoid of bugs. Pearl had had enough of bugs to last her a lifetime.

  When she showed Mr Casey the list he nearly fell over himself with delight. Escorting her to a chair as carefully as though she was made of Dresden china, he had his assistant fetch a cup of tea. ‘If I buy most of what I need here, I trust I’ll receive a good discount?’ Pearl enquired sweetly once she was sipping her tea.

  Mr Casey shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Well, lass, I keep my prices at rock bottom as it is so I don’t think—’

  ‘Mr Casey, I was born in the East End,’ Pearl interrupted. ‘I know full well I can go to several other shops and get what I need, but I like your reputation. However, I have to say I don’t like it enough to pay through the nose, and I’m putting a considerable amount of business your way today.’

  Mr Casey smiled. He knew when he’d met his match, besides which this young lass with the sad eyes interested him. He’d always been a man who admired folk with a bit of get up and go. ‘I tell you what, let’s see what’s what and then we’ll talk about coming to some arrangement. How about that?’

  By the time she left the Emporium later that day, Pearl had bought everything she needed. Some of the items had not been on display in the shop, but Mr Casey had escorted her to a row of premises by the docks where he rented a small warehouse. They’d agreed a 15 per cent discount and he had thrown in a stack of good quality bedding for the three single beds Pearl had purchased. The whole endeavour had taken half of her precious sixty pounds, but Pearl knew she had got a good deal. She had been determined to give the boys a bright, comfortable home after what they’d been through, and she didn’t regret one penny.

  Mr Casey had agreed to deliver the furniture for their living quarters the next day, and the shop and kitchen furniture and pots and pans and crockery and so on, the following day. This meant they could get straight upstairs before organising the shop premises and the kitchen, which would be an enormous task.

  The following morning the boys were delighted when Pearl told them they could have two days off school. Mr Casey was true to his word, and his horse and massive covered cart trundled to a stop outside the shop at eight o’clock. There followed a wonderful time.

  By the end of the day the sitting room boasted a large gold square of carpet which exactly fitted the floor space. Upon this, a pair of mahogany-framed armchairs upholstered in gold and a matching sofa sat, along with a mahogany secretaire bookcase complete with books. A small occasional table with a large aspidistra on it stood between the full, green velvet curtains which framed the window, and on the wall above the fireplace a carved and gilded mirror with a pattern of leaves and berries hung in splendid isolation. Patrick was drawn to the mirror again and again, fascinated by his reflection as he practised pulling faces.

  Besides the beds, the two bedrooms held a wardrobe and chest of drawers each and small bedside cabinets. In the boys’ room a thick bright rug stood between their beds, and Pearl had one at the side of her bed. She had also bought a small writing desk for her room. The top had a red-leather inset above three frieze drawers and three short drawers on each pedestal. This was where she intended to keep any documents and work on her business accounts in peace. Mr Casey had assured her the desk was French walnut. Certainly it was very attractive and the small chair which came with it was comfortable.

  In the evening Pearl took the boys to the Old Market and did what she’d wanted to do ever since the day she had collected them from the workhouse. ‘Choose some warm clothes,’ she told them, indicating the stalls full of second-hand clothes. ‘And drawers and socks too. Seth and Fred and Walter wouldn’t want you to carry on walking about in those threadbare things the workhouse gave you.’

  The boys, overcome by the events of the day and the wonder of their new home, just stared at her for a moment. Then, their faces beaming, they hugged her round the waist before darting off.

  The next morning, the second stage of the enterprise began. Along with the pots, pans, crockery, cutlery and other utensils for the kitchen, Pearl had purchased a somewhat battered but strong kitchen table and four hardbacked chairs for mealtimes. Two smaller but equally stout tables – one for stacking dirty pans and dishes on and one for food preparation – now stood either side of the stone sink. A large dresser occupied one wall, and a pine and fruit-wood high-back settle with flock cushions another. Several pine wallracks had been fixed in appropriate spaces to leave what remained of the floor area free.

  Now the closed range was free of the dirt and grime of decades Pearl considered it a thing of beauty. It was more than big enough for her purposes, with two ovens for roasting and baking. The flues for the two ovens were arranged so that the one around the baking oven passed underneath first, providing bottom heat which was more suitable for baking, whilst the flue of the roasting oven passed over the top first, providing top heat. The space above the hot plate was lined with cast-iron covings which would be useful for the warming of plates and keeping food hot, and the boiler providing hot water was a huge bonus. The range was going to be the means of their livelihood and Pearl felt quite emotional as she stared at it, newly blackleaded and gleaming, with an enormous black kettle and various other pots and pans stacked on it.

  The shop itself now had several narrow old tavern tables behind the counter. A number of covered entree dishes were standing on these, some on small metal stands with candles below which would keep the food warm, and some without. The other two thirds of the shop had numerous small tables and chairs scattered about. None of them matched, but Pearl didn’t think her customers would care about that. She had decided they could either sit and eat at the tables or take the food away, although in the case of the latter – if they ordered soup – the customer would have to provide their own receptacle for carrying it home. The same would apply in the case of mushy peas or tripe and onions. She would provide cans for those who didn’t bring their own dishes, but she would make a charge for these.

  It took Pearl a further two days to sort out the kitchen, scullery and shop, and find a place for everything, but by the weekend she was straight at last and they moved into Zion Street. The day had been a bitterly cold one, with intermittent snow showers and a raw wind, but that night, as she tucked James and Patrick into their beds and then walked through to the sitting room where a good fire was blazing, she was thinking of Seth. It was he who had given them everything they had, this beautiful warm home and the chance to earn her own livelihood doing something she loved. She knew Fred and Walter had done their part, but they would have been led by Seth. It had always been that way. She wished, she so wished he could be sitting here tonight, slippered feet up in front of the fire; Fred and Walter too. But he wouldn’t try to see them; his goodbye had been final.

  She had been fighting all day – and not just this day – from allowing her thoughts to focus on Christopher, but tonight she was very tired and her resistance was low. It seemed a natural succession for her thoughts to flow on to him and when they did, the tears came. And she found she was crying for Byron too. He had saved her life and he had loved her, and he wasn’t a bad man. At times like this, Halimena’s words always came back to haunt her and tonight was no exception. Born to trouble. But she didn’t want trouble, she was the last person in the world to court danger and tribulation, so why did they always find her? What was it about her which made things happen?

  She indulged in an orgy of self-pity for a little while before drying her eyes and blowing her nose. Enough, she told herself forcefully. She had a lot to be grateful for. Bad things might happen but nice things came along too. Look at her now
. Just over a month ago, the three of them had been stuck in one small room and she had been turning inside out wondering how she was going to feed and clothe them and make ends meet.

  She stood up and walked over to the beautiful mirror which had so captivated Patrick. For a long time she stared into the pain-filled eyes of the girl who looked back at her.

  She would never marry now, never have a family, bairns. She knew that. Folk might call her foolish but she knew it. Christopher had been . . . irreplaceable. But perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. Her life was going down a different path but it didn’t have to be doom and gloom, just different. She would have the time to give herself wholeheartedly to the shop and take care of James and Patrick now, build them all a future. And she wouldn’t fail.

  The girl in the mirror’s chin lifted, her eyes narrowing and her lips compressing.

  No, she wouldn’t fail. Whatever it took, however hard she had to work and whatever she had to sacrifice, she would climb the ladder of success – and take James and Patrick with her.

  The next week saw sacks of flour, rice, green split peas and potatoes delivered to the shop in Zion Street, along with a myriad of other supplies which had the occupants of the houses thereabouts gossiping for hours. In the middle of the week when the signwriter came and the words Croft & Bros. Pie Shop were painted above the sparkling clean window on pristine white board, the neighbourhood fairly buzzed with the news. Was it true, the old wives murmured over their backyard walls, that a mere bit of a lass had taken over old Ma Potts’s place? Not just that, but the lass had two bairns in tow, her brothers by all accounts. She didn’t really think she could run a shop, did she? And her just out of nappies? She’d come a cropper, sure as eggs were eggs, but there were always them who had to learn the hard way. A bonny little piece like her would be better occupied getting herself a husband and having a bairn every year like other lasses her age.

  Pearl didn’t know exactly what was being said, but she had lived her childhood in the East End and she had a good idea. It didn’t bother her, but it confirmed what she’d known already; the food she produced needed to be that bit better than any from other shops roundabout, but for the same price, or cheaper. And it would be, thanks to her time with the Romanies.

  She planned to open the shop the following week, and for an incentive to encourage folk through the door she intended to give each customer a little bag of pickled onions with their order. A sprat to catch a mackerel, as James put it when she explained her plans to the lads. She laughed and nodded. In an area where more than a few of her customers wouldn’t be able to read or write, word of mouth was vital, and nothing spread faster in the East End than news of something for nothing.

  The weekend was a time of frantic activity and a hundred and one small panics, but at six o’clock on Monday morning Pearl opened the door of the shop wide despite the freezing morning. She had put a notice in the window the week before, declaring when business would start, but there was nothing like the smell of hot food to tempt a man on his way home in the morning from the nightshift. She intended to stay open all morning, but shut for a time in the afternoon so she could prepare food for the next day, opening once again for the evening trade at six o’clock. If she could have afforded to pay an assistant to take orders and serve in the front of the shop, so she was released to work in the kitchen, she could have stayed open all day, but for the time being that was out of the question. James and Patrick had promised to get to work peeling and chopping vegetables and other mundane tasks before and after school, but they could only be expected to do so much.

  She stood in the shop doorway after propping the door open, the glittering pavement and white rooftops indicative of the heavy frost which had fallen overnight. Inside the shop the new paraffin heaters were warming up the interior nicely, and for a moment she considered shutting the door again to keep the heat in. But what use was a warm shop if she had no customers? Once word had spread and she had her regulars, she could shut the door then.

  At ten past six a young lad about Patrick’s age sidled into the shop, his huge eyes in a thin white face and hair streaked with nits immediately proclaiming his family’s circumstances. Before Pearl could speak, he said, ‘Me mam says what’s the least you can buy an’ still get the pickled onions?’

  Pearl looked at the child. He wasn’t wearing a coat and his boots were several sizes too big and more holes than leather. She wanted to reach behind her and fill a bag with meat pies and chitterlings and sausages, but she knew that kind of weakness would be seized upon, and within a few short weeks she would be as destitute as his family obviously were. Swallowing hard, she said, ‘A bowl of soup is a penny, but you need a can for it. Have you got one?’ As he shook his head, she swallowed again. ‘A bag of battered pieces then.’

  ‘What’s them?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Corinda had used to grind up all the offal of any meat the menfolk brought back, mix it with a blend of herbs and wild garlic and coat it in a seasoned batter before frying it over an open fire. The end result had been delicious. Rather than go into a lengthy explanation, Pearl said, ‘Meat bits.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll do.’

  She gave him a generous bagful, along with the pickled onions, took his one and a half pence – all carefully counted out in farthings – and waved him out the door.

  Her first customer. She stood staring after him, not knowing if she wanted to laugh or cry. Was she doing the right thing? Would she be able to stand it? She was still debating whether to run after the boy and make some excuse for giving him back his money when a couple of miners, still black from the night shift, stopped by the open door.

  ‘Somethin’ smells good, lass.’ One of the men, his teeth white in his coal-smeared face, smiled at her. ‘Taste as good as it smells, does it?’

  ‘You won’t know if you don’t try it.’

  ‘Aye, true enough. What you got then?’

  Pearl went through the list along with the cost of each dish.

  ‘The soup sounds all right but I dare bet you don’t want us sittin’ down like this?’ He indicated his sooty clothes.

  Pearl smiled into the black faces. ‘The way I look at it, you’ve done an honest night’s work for an honest night’s pay, so why not?’

  ‘I don’t know about the pay bit, lass. Them owners’d wring the last farthing out of you given half a chance with their measures an’ all, but we’ll come an’ have somethin’ to warm us.’

  They drank the soup and then ordered a couple of pies and peas to go with their pickled onions, complimenting her on her cooking and declaring they’d spread the word among their pit mates. They left Pearl in a rosy glow of achievement which faded once James and Patrick had left for school and she had no other customers all morning. Several housewives stuck their heads in the door asking her this and that, but no one bought anything. By midday Pearl had changed her mind and decided to stay open all day in the hope of selling the food she’d cooked the night before and that morning. She had a huge cauldron-type pot of soup simmering on a very low heat on the hob in the kitchen, but was beginning to think it was all going to go to waste when mid-afternoon customers began to dribble in in their ones and twos. By the time James and Patrick got home from school she had a small queue and was glad of the lads’ assistance. Customers again tailed off about eight in the evening, but a sudden rush just before ten meant Pearl didn’t lock the shop door until after eleven o’clock.

  James and Patrick had peeled another pile of vegetables before Pearl had sent them to bed just before the late rush, but even so she didn’t fall into bed until gone three in the morning and by then she was dropping with fatigue.

  The next few days were similar, and by the Saturday evening when she took stock she found she’d barely broken even and hadn’t made a profit. She had decided beforehand to close most of the day on a Sunday and only open in the evening so she could spend some time with James and Patrick. In the event she slept most of the day away before stagge
ring out of bed at four in the afternoon to begin work.

  The next few weeks were hard. There were moments when Pearl even thought longingly of the pickle factory; at least she had been able to have eight hours’ sleep a night when she had worked there. Christmas came and went in a blur. She had tried to make Christmas Day special for James and Patrick, and on Christmas Eve had pinned two stockings to the hearth in the sitting room. She filled them with nuts and all manner of sweets, along with an orange and apple each and a shiny half-crown. On Christmas Day they had a big fat turkey with all the trimmings and plum pudding to follow, but once the boys were in bed and asleep Pearl sat in front of the fire thinking of Christopher and wondering if he was thinking of her. She cried herself to sleep that night and woke up the next morning glad to return to the punishing pace which kept her from brooding.

  On New Year’s Eve it snowed heavily. It being a Thursday, Pearl opened as normal but she let James and Patrick stay up late. That night in the kitchen, as the clock chimed midnight and all the ships’ hooters and whistles sounded and the streets round about were filled with shouts and laughter as neighbours first-footed each other and celebrated the start of a brand new year, the three of them toasted Seth, Walter and Fred with hot mulled wine.

  James and Patrick went off to bed a little tiddly and once she was sure they were asleep, Pearl went downstairs and into the back yard. It was still snowing, a million starry flakes falling from a laden sky. It was quieter now, just the odd shout or dog barking breaking the silence of the hushed new white world.