‘Any takers for the laundry yet?’
‘No, sir, nothing definite. There’s been interest all right, but no one who wants to take it on so far.’
‘Here, boy – Charlie, is it?’ said Harry.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This laundry, it’s for sale, is it?’
‘For sale, for rent, it’s for whoever will take it, to be quite honest.’
‘How’s that?’
‘My mother’s father died, sir, in Bexhill-on-Sea and he’s left us his business. A laundry downstairs and a photographic studio out the back. A sea view from the top windows too, if you don’t mind.’
‘Where is this laundry?’
‘Bexhill-on-Sea, sir, it’s just along the coast from …’
‘Not that one,’ interrupted Harry, ‘the one here, the one you’re trying to get rid of.’
‘Oh, sorry, close by, sir. No. 11 in the High Street.’
‘Can I come and see it?’
‘I think so, sir, yes. My father is there at the moment.’
Harry drained his beer, placed the glass on the table, winked at the landlord and said, ‘Lead the way, young Charlie. I’m right behind you.’
Nellie needed little persuasion once she’d accompanied Harry to see it for herself the next evening. It was small and it was tatty, both downstairs and in the rooms above, but it would be, to all intents and purposes, theirs, rented at first with an option to buy the business. The only caveat was that if someone came in with an offer to buy, the Greenwoods would have to match it or leave. The door to the Buckingham Road house, whose eaves still echoed with the strangled cries of two dying babies, was closed for the last time and Harry, Nellie and Cissie headed east for a new beginning.
An offer to buy the laundry never came, and as the months passed the Greenwoods felt more and more secure. More children followed too, and by 1910 there were five more daughters, all of whom grew into healthy young children. Winifred had been the first, a year after Christopher’s brief life had been snuffed out. She was a healthy child, but for the first year Harry and Nellie’s blood ran cold at every cough, every sneeze, every sudden cessation of crying. But Win continued growing into a bonny, gurgling, healthy baby. Norah arrived eighteen months after Win in 1905, then Annie and Ivy a year apart in 1906 and 1907. There were a couple of miscarriages after Ivy until in 1910 Kathleen, who would be known as Kit, arrived, small and physically frail but with the heart of a lion.
With six daughters to accommodate it was clear that the family had outgrown the Forest Gate premises. Business was booming – Harry spent more time assisting in the laundry than he did wielding a paintbrush – but with such small premises they were turning customers away. And with six daughters ranging in age from new-born to 15 to accommodate, the two rooms over the laundry were never going to be enough.
Again, a pub came to the rescue. Harry had a painting job in North Woolwich and when he’d finished and collected his money he called in at the Three Crowns on the High Street for a relaxing drink or two before heading home. He got talking to a man at the bar, and when talk turned to what they did, Harry indicated the white splodges visible on his wrists and said he was a house painter.
‘Really?’ said the man. ‘I’ll need a bit of painting done myself, actually.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Harry who, truth be told, didn’t like laundry work much and jumped at any bit of painting work he could find in order to get away for a few days. ‘What’s that?’
‘Some shop premises a few doors up on the High Street,’ said the man. ‘It’s a laundry at the moment but it’s up for rent and I’m interested in turning it into a grocery.’
‘A grocery, you say?’ replied Harry, the cogs of his mind already turning.
‘Yes, I have a chain of premises over the river at Woolwich and Charlton – Richardson’s – but there’s good money to be made here, I think. The ferry, the pleasure gardens, the factories. If you ask me it would be almost impossible to get a business to fail here.’ The man sniffed and picked up his drink. ‘Wouldn’t live here though. Everyone knows North Woolwich is a shithouse.’
‘So you have access to this laundry, do you?’ asked Harry.
‘The landlord gave me a key to have a look around. I’m meeting him in here, and expecting him any moment now,’ said the man.
‘Well, if you like, I could run up there quickly and take a look around, give you a price for the painting.’
‘I don’t think I can be bothered, to be honest,’ replied the man, easing himself onto a bar stool. ‘I’ve seen enough of the place. It’s the money to be made there that I’m interested in. I’ll see Mr Johnson here, confirm things with him and …’
‘Tell you what,’ said Harry. ‘Just give me the keys. I’ll run up there now, have a quick look around and price it up for you.’
‘No offence, I’m sure you’re an honest fellow, but these keys have been entrusted to me and I can’t go around giving them to people in pubs, painters or no painters.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘the place is empty, isn’t it?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Well, if I were a thief or a burglar, an empty building isn’t going to have much in the way of rich pickings, is it?’
‘I suppose not, but …’
‘You can see from these splashes on my hands I’m a painter. In this knapsack here I’ve got my overalls, and in this wooden trug are my brushes. If I was looking to rob a place, this would be a pretty rum ruse to effect an entry to an empty building.’
He lifted his glass to his mouth.
‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘if I wanted to rob the place, I wouldn’t need the keys anyway, I’d just break in.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said the businessman, ‘but I still can’t let a stranger have the keys. They’re not mine to lend out.’
‘Look,’ said Harry, ‘in half an hour the place is going to be yours anyway, isn’t it? You said so yourself. I’ve got a train to catch so can’t hang around long. Just let me run up there, have a look around and come back with a price. The sooner the place is painted, the sooner you can open up your shop, right? I’ll leave my gear here so you know I’m coming back. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.’
The man thought for a moment.
‘All right, then. But leave your gear here.’
Harry took the keys, left the pub but, instead of making his way to the empty shop, stood to one side of the door, just out of sight, and waited.
Five minutes later he saw a man in a pinstripe suit with a world-weary air walking towards the pub. He stepped out and hailed him.
‘Mr Johnson?’ said Harry.
The man looked at him and blinked, like a man disturbed from a reverie that he wasn’t particularly enjoying.
‘Greenwood’s the name, Henry Greenwood. You’re here to see my associate Mr Richardson, I believe?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Unfortunately Mr Richardson has been called away, but he told me that having seen the property he’s no longer interested in leasing it. However, he thought I, as an experienced laundryman, might be interested in continuing the business in its present service as a laundry,’ said Harry, taking Johnson by the arm and leading him back towards the shop.
‘He handed me the keys before he left and told me to expect you. I didn’t want to just let myself in so I thought I’d wait here for you and we could view it together.’
‘Did he now?’ said Johnson, reaching into his inside pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his mouth. ‘Well, I’m not sorry, to be honest with you. Gave me the impression he thought he was above this area. Very scuffed shoes, though. You can’t look down on anyone when you’re wearing scuffed shoes.’
‘Well, he can be a little inclined towards pomposity, I grant you,’ said Harry, ‘but as a Stratford man lately living in Forest Gate I would not have a word said against this part of the world,’ said Harry.
Johnson nodded in what Harry perceived to
be approval and they arrived at the front door of the property. Harry handed Johnson the keys with a hint of a bow, and then followed him through the door.
Ten minutes later, Harry and Johnson walked through the door of the Royal Albert to inform Richardson that the deal was off.
‘Ah, Johnson, my man,’ said Richardson. ‘I was about to give up. Well, I’ll take the shop on the terms discussed. Hand me the papers and I’ll sign. Can’t hang around, the ferry’s coming in.’
Johnson stood in front of him and thrust out his chin.
‘You will not take the property, Mr Richardson,’ he said. ‘You can’t just change your mind willy-nilly like that around me. Anyway, you’re too late. Mr Greenwood here, whom I believe you know, told me of your previous decision not to pursue the lease – “too poky” I believe you called it – and we have just come to an agreement ourselves that he will take it on, something I’m more than happy for him to do.’
‘What?’ said Richardson, looking at Harry, who was looking pointedly at the floor and whistling softly to himself. ‘This fellow? The painter?’
‘Mr Greenwood is a man I can do business with,’ said Johnson. ‘Indeed, I have just done business with him and the matter is now closed. Good day to you, Mr Richardson.’
And with a curt nod, Johnson turned and left the pub. Harry held up the keys.
‘I suppose I’ll be hanging on to these then,’ he said, before bending down, picking up his overalls and brushes and walking out.
Old Johnson was right, thought Harry. Very scuffed shoes.
Chapter Fifteen
The Greenwoods would spend three years at North Woolwich, Harry all but giving up his painting and decorating work to assist in the running of the business. Nell ran things very efficiently: the premises were always spotless from the farthest corners of the laundry room to the mahogany front counter, and business was good. It took a while for things to really get going due to the poor reputation of the previous occupants, but soon people were coming from Silvertown, making the one-stop rail journey to North Woolwich in order to bring their laundry to Greenwood’s. Cissie, despite her physical condition, proved to be a great help, her natural charm and easy-going manner making her popular with the customers. Above all, they were highly skilled launderers.
Tragedy, however, seemed to follow the Greenwoods around. In the winter of 1913 Cissie developed a persistent cough. Her condition didn’t make lung complaints any easier, bent forward as she was by the pronounced curve in her spine. In the early weeks of 1914 blood began to appear on her handkerchief as she coughed, and what her parents had feared was confirmed: Cissie had tuberculosis.
The doctor also confirmed that, given the pressure on her lungs as a result of the scoliosis, they were unable to clear. As Harry’s eyes began to fill with tears, the doctor put a hand on his shoulder and confirmed that it was unlikely Cissie would live much longer.
Harry sat at her bedside for the next few nights, gradually watching the light dying in her eyes. The raspy coughs racked her poor, bent body until, early in the morning of 29 March, her breathing became shallower and shallower and finally the rasping stopped altogether.
‘Look at her, Nell,’ he said through his tears. ‘Look how peaceful she looks, as if all the cares have been lifted off her.’
They buried Cissie on the other side of town, in Peckham, where Nell’s elder brother Christopher was a carriage man at a firm of undertakers and could obtain a hefty discount on the funeral.
‘She was a special girl,’ said Harry. ‘I’d rather give her a damn good send-off in Peckham than a miserable funeral like we had before at West Ham.’
It was another chance pub encounter that led to the Greenwoods’ next move a short distance west into Silvertown. Harry was on his way back from visiting family in Stratford – he’d been spending as little time as possible in the North Woolwich house since Cissie’s death, and both he and Nell were keen to move on and escape yet more sad memories – and, on a whim, he decided to duck out one stop early. It was a rainy evening and Harry quickly calculated that the distance between Silvertown Station and Cundy’s was much less than that between North Woolwich and home. ‘I’ll just pop out here and have a drink until the rain stops,’ he thought. Cundy’s was already a favourite haunt of his when he was in the area.
As the train stopped at Silvertown with the hiss and whump of the engine underpinning the rumbling and clanking of the nearby works, Harry dashed through the rain, skipping as best he could between the muddy puddles, and pushed open the door of the pub.
‘Filthy night,’ he said to the barmaid.
‘Rotten,’ she replied ‘What can I get you, love?’
Harry ordered a pint and a brandy chaser – ‘Help dry me out from the inside, you know’ – and sat at a table near the door, pulling the evening paper he’d bought from his coat pocket and dropping it onto the table, then producing his tobacco tin and cigarette papers to roll himself a ‘gasper’. Two men walked in together and ordered drinks at the bar. Harry had seen them in the pub before and knew one was Frank, a butcher with a shop next door. The other man he recognised but didn’t know his name. They sat at the adjoining table and the other man pointed at Harry’s paper.
‘Mind if I have a quick look at that, old mate?’ he asked.
Harry was in the process of licking his cigarette paper but raised his eyebrows and nodded his assent.
‘Thanks.’
The man leafed through the pages, looking for something in particular.
‘There it is,’ he announced and opened the pages out so his friend could see, pointing at a particular spot on the page.
‘It went in, then?’ said Frank Levitt, the butcher, taking the paper at arm’s length and widening his eyes in an attempt to improve his vision. ‘Bit small, isn’t it?’
‘Bit bleedin’ tucked away, an’ all,’ said the first man. ‘All I could get.’
The paper was handed back to Harry.
‘Thanks, friend.’
‘No problem,’ said Harry. ‘You in the paper, then?’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘Police court report?’ he asked with a wink.
‘Heh, no, nothing so exciting,’ replied the man. ‘I’ve a business in this street but I’ve got to move up north. Family reasons. Looking to let the business.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Harry. ‘What form of business?’
‘It’s a laundry,’ said the man, whose name was Joe Moore. ‘Nice little business, wouldn’t give it up but for it’s on account of family troubles.’
Harry could feel the hand of fate alighting on his shoulder and giving it a pat.
‘I’m a laundryman myself,’ he said, dragging on his cigarette. ‘Me and the wife, got a place over North Woolwich.’
‘Not interested in expanding, are you?’ asked Joe. ‘Or moving to Silvertown?’
‘Might be, as it happens,’ said Harry. ‘On this street, you say?’
‘Yes,’ said Joe.
‘What’s the street called, again?’
‘Constance Street.’
Harry dragged on his cigarette and looked around the pub. It was quite a grand place, all things considered. Nicer than the Three Crowns and a lot of the pubs in North Woolwich. He liked Cundy’s and the thought of living on the same street was something that definitely appealed to him.
‘Might be interested. Tell me more.’
The next two hours saw the three men hunkered down in conversation as Joe told Harry all about the Constance Street laundry. Drinks were bought, round by round. There was laughter, there were jokes. They liked Harry and he liked them. Harry liked Cundy’s too and he liked Silvertown, what he’d seen of it. North Woolwich was fine as far as it went, but you were a bit out on a limb there, even though they had just started building the new dock on the south side of the Albert. Here, in Constance Street, he thought, they’d be at the centre of things. It was noisy, sure, and Silvertown didn’t exactly have the best reputation, but it had to
be a step up from where they were. He liked Joe, he liked Frank and he liked Cundy’s. He’d at least run it past Nell.
After a couple of hours Harry stood up and shook the two men’s hands.
‘So I’ll come by on Monday with the wife,’ said Harry, a little unsteady on his feet.
‘I’ll see you then,’ said Joe. ‘Looking forward to it.’
The rain had eased a little by the time Harry left the pub, but by about the third pint his puddle-awareness capacity had deserted him and he now sloshed straight through a big one, soaking both his feet.
When he got home, tramping mud up the stairs and clearly quite refreshed, Nell was not happy.
‘My flower,’ he said, ‘my dove. All our problems are solved.’
‘In a pint pot?’ said Nell, sharply. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I have seen the future,’ said Harry, waving his hands around, ‘and it is in Silvertown.’
‘Is that right? Well, you’ve missed your dinner.’
‘Allow me to sit down by the fire and remove my wet boots and socks and I shall reveal all.’
‘Do what you bleedin’ like. I’m going to bed.’
‘Wait a while, my sweet,’ he said, holding up a forefinger, ‘for I have important things to tell you once I have sat down and removed my sodden footwear.’
Nell ignored him and left the room while Harry, with some difficulty, removed first his wet boots and then his soaking socks. He put them next to the fire and stretched out his legs towards the grate to warm and dry his feet. Within seconds he was asleep.
A few minutes later, Win came into the room to put the fireguard across and found her father, chin slumped and snoring, in the armchair. His boots and socks were steaming away and the bottom half of his trousers were just beginning to smoulder.
‘Not again,’ she said under her breath before going to find a pail of water.
Chapter Sixteen
When Nellie Greenwood boarded the train at North Woolwich for the short journey to Silvertown her mood was not exactly buoyant. Whenever she’d passed through on the train in the past she’d found it industrial, smoky, smelly and noisy and was never sorry to pass through rather than stay. She half scolded herself for allowing her husband’s drunken conversation in a pub with two strangers to take her away from the laundry in the afternoon. Granted Monday afternoons were never the busiest time, but even so, she was sure this was going to turn out to be one of his drunken whims, nothing would come of it, and the whole thing would prove to be a waste of time.
Constance Street Page 7