Constance Street

by Charlie Connelly

  The song sang the praises of the military man as someone women could value and rely upon. It was fairly low-level propaganda, designed to encourage young men to enlist on the grounds that all the girls love a man in uniform, but Vesta took this unpromising material and made it her own, inhabiting the song as much as performing it.

  ‘Jolly good luck to the girl who loves a soldier,’ ran the end of the chorus. ‘Real good boys are we.’

  She drew breath for the pay-off line.

  ‘Girls, if you’d like to love a soldier you can all love me.’

  A booming voice rang out from the dress circle, ‘We do!’ and Nell could tell that it struck Tilley like an arrow in the heart. Her eyes glistened in the lights and the next line, ‘Don’t you think I’m a hero from the wars, I’m not,’ sounded a little choked, but the old pro was soon back on track until the final rendition of the chorus, the last line of the song, which she could barely get out, so overwhelmed by emotion had she become.

  It didn’t matter, the audience barely heard the last line anyway as a thunderous wave of applause washed towards the stage from every corner of the auditorium, from the standing places at the very back of the upper circle to the front row of the stalls.

  Nell was on her feet, applauding, her chest heaving, her breath catching in the back of her throat. A flower landed at Vesta Tilley’s feet, then another, then an entire bouquet flopped onto the stage and slid towards her. Suddenly a floral deluge was triggered, so many flowers and posies flying through the air it was as if a gale had blown through a botanic garden. In the middle of it all stood this slight figure, in khaki, her hand to her mouth and tears rolling down her cheeks, glistening in the footlights. The curtain fell and rose, fell and rose, and the ovation showed no sign of abating. Eventually Ellen Terry herself walked onto the stage, applauding expansively, and when she reached Tilley embraced her warmly, the little figure almost disappearing into her bosom.

  When the applause finally died away, the nation’s leading Shakespearean actress paid an emotional tribute and presented the artiste with a pile of bound journals containing the signatures of fans and notables – ‘the people’s tribute to Vesta Tilley’, she called it – and announced that more books would be in the foyer of the Coliseum for the next week for people to sign.

  Her husband, Walter de Frece, stood up in the royal box and apologised for his inadvertent part in removing his wife from the stage but promised to take good care of her. And then the applause started again, the curtain fell and rose, fell and rose until Nell had lost count of the number of times.

  Eventually the curtain stayed down, the applause gave way to the squeaking of seats springing upright and an excited hubbub, and the throng made its way back out into the West End night. As they stood waiting to cross the road outside, hand in hand, Nell asked Kit what she’d thought.

  She was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘Everything feels older now.’

  Nell felt it too. The end of something. Not just the end of Vesta Tilley’s career, but the end of something more. The music halls were struggling, many had closed, some had been converted into cinemas. At the Old Time Music Hall in Albert Road they were now showing films for kids on Saturday mornings, and Win had taken the younger Greenwoods that morning to see a Fatty Arbuckle short, a newsreel and a couple of Felix the Cat cartoons. There was rarely a full programme or a full house there for the shows any more, even at weekends.

  For Nell too, as she’d watched Vesta Tilley walking off the stage over a carpet of flowers, blowing kisses at the audience, it definitely felt like the end of something. Youth? That was long gone. Innocence? That too. Maybe it was just the sense of what might have been.

  On the train journey home Kit fell asleep on her shoulder, so Nell quietly watched the lights of the factories, the ghostly pennants of smoke rising into the night sky and the silhouettes of the dock cranes, until she felt the hum and the thrum of Silvertown in her bones again. The ten-year-old was still light enough for Nell to pick her up and carry her off the train and back home. She stirred when the breeze touched her face as they descended from the carriage, looked up, blinking, said, ‘The lights are beautiful,’ and dropped back to sleep again.

  The following Saturday morning Nell made a return visit to the Coliseum on the last day before the signed books were taken away to be presented to Vesta Tilley. There was a queue, but after ten minutes or so Nell reached the table where a large, leather-bound journal lay open at a page half filled with people’s messages. She picked up the pen, then realised that beyond signing her name she hadn’t thought about what message she wanted to leave. She held the pen poised over the ledger, thought for a moment and wrote, ‘Everything seems old now. Thank you, for everything. Nellie Greenwood.’

  She laid down the pen, walked outside and waited to cross the street. A man arrived next to her, smartly dressed in grey pinstripe trousers, a dark jacket, wing collars and bowler hat. A cane hung on the crook of his left arm, and he held two large leather-bound journals in his right. Nell caught his eye and he inclined his head to her. They walked across the street together, and when they reached the other side Walter de Frece touched the brim of his hat, said, ‘Good day to you, madam,’ and disappeared into the Saturday crowds.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Greenwood girls would be the best turned out in the park, insisted Nell. She lined them all up in front of the laundry counter, their dresses brilliant white, the red, white and blue ribbons on the elder girls’ hats as vibrant as any flag. Sometimes there were definitely advantages to having a laundry.

  ‘Look at you,’ said Nell with pride. ‘Pretty as pictures, all of you.’

  ‘Fit for a king, indeed,’ added Harry, rolling a cigarette. ‘Look after ’em, won’t you, Win?’

  ‘Course I will,’ said Win, 18 years old now and still as protective of her sisters, Lil included, as she ever was.

  ‘Right then, ladies,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a king to sing to and we don’t want to be late.’

  The gaggle of Greenwoods filed out of the door into the sunshine and made for Lyle Park.

  ‘About bleedin’ time that dock opened,’ said Harry. ‘It’ll bring liners in that would’ve stopped at Tilbury otherwise. Should be a good few quid in it for us, doll.’

  It was 8 July 1921, the day the King George V Dock was to be officially opened by the King. Such had been the burgeoning business done by the Royal Docks that barely twenty years after the Albert had opened in 1880 it was clear that there was scope and demand for much more capacity. Work had begun on an Albert Dock extension, south of the Albert, a little way north-east of Constance Street in 1912 but had been suspended on the outbreak of war. Finally it was finished, and today, a brilliant, sunny July day, it was to be officially named the King George V. It boasted the latest technology and its opening confirmed the Royal Docks as the largest inland docks in the world – 250 acres of water covering an area as big as the centre of London itself, from Tower Bridge to Hyde Park.

  The king himself was on his way from Buckingham Palace to officially open the new dock that would carry his name. It was a big day for Silvertown, for London and indeed for Britain as a global hub of maritime trade. It was a rare thing: a day when Silvertown looked beyond the end of its streets, looked beyond the factories and the warehouses, looked beyond the docks and the shores of the Thames to the world beyond – and today the world was looking back.

  Harry sat on the back step and drew on his cigarette. He looked up and sent a column of smoke curling into the deep blue sky. Silvertown people didn’t look up much, they were too busy, too concerned with what was going on at ground level and, in the case of the dockers, frequently below ground level. But today the sky was blue and Silvertown had paused to look up from what it was doing, from the chemicals it was producing, the soap it was boiling, the sugar it was refining, the wood it was sawing, the ships it was repairing, and see its place in the world. It was, Harry thought, as if Silvertown were a saucepan boiling aw
ay and someone had lifted off the lid and let the smoke and the steam disperse for a while.

  The factories had finished early today on account of the royal visit and the sirens and hooters sounded at two o’clock. The streets filled with people, the shops of Constance Street were briefly busy, notably the news-agent’s, where David Jones appeared to have cornered the market in red, white and blue flags and regalia, and Mrs Gray’s sweet shop, where children stocked up with gobstoppers and mint walking sticks, for today was a day of treats.

  As the sirens rent the fumy air of Silvertown, the King and the royal party were leaving Westminster Pier on the Wargrave. From there they would sail to London Bridge and transfer to the royal yacht Rover, on which they would sail down the Thames, passing Silvertown at around 3.30 and nosing into the entrance lock of the new dock a few minutes after four.

  For the past couple of weeks the Drew Road schoolchildren had been rehearsing the national anthem, for they had been tasked to stand by the river at Lyle Park – given to his employees by syrup magnate Abraham Lyle but today thrown open to the public as the only piece of Silvertown at which they could access the riverside – and serenade the royal party with ‘God Save the King’ as the yacht passed them by. Hence the parade inspection of the Greenwood girls to ensure they looked immaculate for their royal visitors.

  Harry finished his cigarette, revelling in a rare peaceful day in Silvertown. The furnaces were silent, the machinery was still, nearly all the chimneys had stopped belching smoke and the giant saws in the mills had stopped rotating. The sky above was pure blue, free of smoke, and even the yellowy haze that usually covered the island seemed to have dispersed. Silvertown was, for once, looking and feeling quite spruce.

  In the distance he heard ships’ horns and whistles: the royal party was on its way. Thames pageants had been a rare thing in recent years; apart from a naval one to mark the end of the war a couple of years earlier, the river had gone about its mucky, smelly business largely with the backs of London and the world turned to it.

  It was a shame, thought Harry, that the river was no longer the focus of the city. It remained busier than ever, but other than those who worked on the river, the rest of the city seemed to take no notice. Granted it was filthy and, on hot, humid days it stank to high heaven, but considering this river was the city’s raison d’être in the first place, Harry never ceased to be amazed by the number of people who never looked at it, crossing bridges with their heads down, without looking from side to side at the majestic waterway in their midst.

  Well, today the river would be the focus of attention, he thought, and it couldn’t be a better day for it. Silvertown might, for once, actually be like a town of silver.

  The girls felt very grand climbing onto the motor bus that would take them along to Lyle Park. They were used to walking everywhere, locally at least, so to be sitting up high and looking down for once on streets of which they all knew every gatepost, cracked paving stone and advertising hoarding, left them all quiet with awe. Another advantage was arriving at Lyle Park without having got muck on their dresses.

  The teachers, looking harassed, marshalled the excited, gabbling crowd of children into some kind of order, while the Silvertown Boys’ Brigade brass band, sweating under their peaked caps in the heat, parped, squeaked and blatched their way through some horrendous-sounding musical preparation.

  The Greenwood girls, none of them being blessed with great height, were placed together at the front, near the railings, with a clear view of the river between the jetties that ran down into the water. They were given a run through of the national anthem, then another, and eventually the tumult of ships’ whistles and horns from the east grew loud enough to suggest that the arrival of the royal yacht was imminent.

  On board the Rover, the King was glad of the breeze on the river. Full naval dress was never particularly comfortable at the best of times, but on a hot summer day it was almost unbearable. Thank goodness, he thought, for the canopy that covered the royal party, even if did feel as if it was going to be blown overboard by a strong gust at any moment.

  He was glad of the space on the river. It made a pleasant change from being shuttled around in cars, and the wharves and jetties looked magnificent in the sun, nearly all of them displaying some kinds of patriotic favours or tumbling bouquets of flowers. Every bridge from Westminster to Tower had been packed with people, waving flags and cheering, and the riverbanks were the same, wherever there was space for people to stand. An hour and a half of the constant parping of ship’s horns and screeching of whistles was making his ears ring, but it wasn’t for too much longer. They passed the elegant river frontage at Greenwich, followed the river to port, rounded the peninsula and passed the entrance to the Royal Victoria Dock. The industrial riverfront beyond came into view, with the large chimney of the Tate sugar refinery dominating the skyline. He recalled visiting during the war to inspect the food distribution facilities at the Albert Dock. Walking along a line of swinging sides of meat had made a change from inspecting rows of soldiers – although not much, the Queen had joked – and he’d enjoyed becoming involved with the flour-making process, covering himself in the stuff as he did. But this wasn’t a part of London he ever particularly relished visiting.

  A spatter of white on the port side caught his attention, a rare spot of brightness among the industrial grime and gloom. It was a group of children standing behind some patriotic bunting draped along the railings. The King indicated for the skipper to take the Rover closer to the shore.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘There he is!’ hissed Ivy into Rose’s ear. ‘There’s the King!’

  A ripple of similar exclamations ran through the rest of the children gathered at the riverside.

  ‘It’s turning towards us!’ said a girl’s voice from behind. ‘The boat’s turning towards us!’

  ‘It’s not a boat.’ A boy’s voice. ‘It’s a yacht.’

  The headmaster drew himself up and cleared his throat.

  ‘Now then, children,’ he boomed, ‘clear voices, nice and loud, and remember you’re representing your school and Silvertown.’

  He nodded at the band, the conductor lifted his baton, the boys’ brows furrowed in concentration, and they played a few bars of varying quality to bring in the singers.

  ‘God save our gracious king, long live our noble king …’

  The headmaster closed his eyes. All sense of unity and performance, honed in rehearsal, had gone out of the window. Some of them were just shouting the words, others were just shouting. A few of the younger girls were crying. All sense of musical discipline had been left on the bus. It was a shambles that couldn’t end quickly enough.

  ‘Goo-oood saaaave therrrr kiiiiiiiiing.’

  The final cadence died away of a performance that hadn’t so much finished as been abandoned to its fate. The band, red-faced and soaked in sweat now, put down their instruments.

  ‘He’s waving,’ said Ivy. ‘Look, the King’s waving!’

  On board the Rover, King George raised his hand and saw a flurry of hands waving frantically back at him like a field of cornflowers under a gust of wind.

  ‘Not the finest performance I’ve ever heard,’ he said to the Queen, ‘but certainly the lustiest.’

  As the Drew Road children were setting about their performance of the national anthem, Harry, Nell and a posse of Constance Street residents were walking along the south side of the new dock looking for a good vantage point. Harry saw plenty of familiar faces, and was nodding greetings as he passed. With them were the great and the good of their street, the Eids, the Bessants, the Levitts, Ted Jarrett, Charlie Smale the hairdresser and David and Mary Jones from the newsagent’s.

  They found a spot beneath a crane with a good view of the dock entrance, shaded by a transit building.

  ‘We’ll be all right here,’ said Harry. ‘They’ll be coming under the bridge at the end there so we won’t miss a thing.’

  He leaned in to Nell.<
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  ‘Look at the size of it, doll,’ he whispered. ‘Imagine the size of the ships coming in, ships with lots and lots of lovely linen.’

  Around four o’clock, when the docksides were packed with people, the Rover entered the lock at the entrance to the dock and waited to descend. On the pier heads either side stood rows of naval ratings at attention and the boys from the naval college over the river at Greenwich. From somewhere close to the pier head a choir of children began to sing the national anthem, in tune and impec-cably disciplined, followed by ‘Rule, Britannia!’ Applause rang out, and Harry said to Nell, ‘Bet our girls did it better than that.’

  The applause intensified as the bascule bridge gates began to rise with elegant stateliness, revealing the exquisite curves and brilliant white hull of the royal yacht. A band of white silk was stretched between the two pier heads, and silence fell as the Rover began to edge forward towards it. The prow pushed against it until the band tightened and broke apart, to hearty cheers from all sides of the dock. The yacht then set off around the dock to allow everyone a glimpse of the royal party.

  It approached the Constance Street group, the men in their best suits, the women in their Sunday dresses. The King had his hand raised in suitably regal fashion, while the Queen, in a Wedgwood blue dress, smiled from beneath a matching parasol.

  They steamed past within twenty feet of the group.

  ‘I think the King winked at you there, doll,’ joked Harry.

  Nell ignored him and turned instead to Laura Eid.

  ‘Didn’t the Queen look lovely, Laura?’ she said.

  ‘She did, Nell. And Princess Mary’s lovely muslin dress. So white it could have come from your laundry.’