The Flower Girl

by The Flower Girl (retail) (epub)

  ‘You ain’t even wearing black,’ whined Lil pitifully.

  Cissie spun round and walked slowly back to the table, jabbing her finger at herself as she spoke. ‘This navy frock,’ she said, her chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping her anger under control and her voice down so that the children weren’t disturbed, ‘is the darkest thing I’ve got apart from me black costume. What d’yer want me to do? Go up West and buy meself a load o’ new gear?’

  Lil looked up at her, her eyes swivelling drunkenly in and out of focus. ‘When my Davy was here, you always looked a picture.’

  ‘And I still do me best to look nice.’ Cissie dragged the chair roughly from under the table and sat down opposite Lil. ‘And I still want Davy to be proud of me and all, even though he’s not here no more. Proud of me, just like he always was.’ Cissie’s head fell forward and she began to cry softly. ‘He never liked me in dark things. That’s why I’ve only got this and me costume.’

  Lil sneered disgustedly. ‘Davy’d love all this carrying on.’

  ‘But he ain’t here now, is he?’ Cissie buried her face in her hands. ‘He was killed down that bastard market.’ Her shoulders shook with her sobs. ‘Why did it have to be my Davy them crates fell on? Why?’

  ‘What a flaming way to carry on.’ Lil, who never showed any emotion except rage, shuddered at such a distasteful display. ‘I’ve had enough of all this, I’m gonna nip back down the Sabberton. See if someone’ll buy a tot or two of something for a grieving mother.’

  With that, Lil staggered to her feet, wove her way out of the kitchen, went crashing along the passage and out of the street door.

  Cissie was glad to see the back of her. With a bit of luck she’d be sound asleep in bed by the time Lil eventually got thrown out of the pub. But now she had to get stuck in and sort out the bloody bills.

  Cissie blew her nose, went over to the sink and threw water over her face, then sat back down at the table to try to figure out a way to somehow make ends meet.

  * * *

  Cissie scratched her head with the end of her pencil and then, listlessly, she let it fall on to the table.

  It just hadn’t occurred to her that the roll of money Davy had left in the dresser drawer – the only money apart from the few pounds Lil had got, and spent almost immediately, from Davy’s single insurance policy – would run out quite so soon. She would never have believed how much a family needed just to survive, let alone to lead the kind of life they had been used to when Davy was alive: having smart, decent clothes to wear; always plenty of food on the table; being able to buy things for Joyce and Matty whenever they needed, or wanted, them; and not having to worry about the cost of having the doctor round if Lil felt a bit under the weather.

  Cissie rubbed her hands over her face, kneading her knuckles into her tired and bloodshot eyes. She felt worn out with the effort of it all. It was no good, no matter how many lists she wrote, juggling one bill against the other, nor how she tried to cut back on things, there just wasn’t enough to go round. There was nothing else for it – she would have to sell something.

  She picked up the pencil and launched it angrily across the room. Selling things; things that Davy had bought. The thought sickened her. Unlike so many of her neighbours, Cissie wasn’t used to hard times; she wouldn’t even go with Gladys when she paid one of her regular visits to the pawn shop. For Cissie had always felt, although, of course, she would never have said so to her friend, that poverty was like some sort of contagious disease – risk making contact with it and you were contaminated for ever.

  Yet what other choice did she have but to sell something? She certainly had no intention of doing what Lil wanted her to do. Go running to Big Bill Turner. The thought of him and his offer of ‘help’ sickened her even more than the prospect of going to the pawnbroker’s.

  She held her left hand up and looked at the deep-blue stones of her engagement ring, the ring that Davy had bought her because he said it matched her eyes.

  Cissie dismissed the idea immediately. No, she couldn’t. Not her engagement ring. Tears began to fill her eyes yet again.

  ‘Davy,’ she moaned, ‘why did you have to leave me? I need you.’

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Cissie felt ashamed. Her children needed her, and what was she doing? Sitting there crying. She had to pull herself together, and if it wasn’t going to be the ring that she sold, she would just have to think of something else. Something that would see them through for a good while. Something that would give her enough time to think what to do next.

  She picked up the stack of bills and stared fixedly at them as though they would tell her what to do, how to pay them. A faint smile twitched around her lips. The bill for the truck window… That was it! She would sell Davy’s truck. That would be bound to bring in a fair few pounds, more than enough to give her breathing space.

  Excited by the idea of at last having a solution, albeit a temporary one, to their problems, Cissie wiped her eyes roughly on her sleeve, sorted out the sheet of paper with the least lists of bills written on it, snatched up the pencil from the floor, grabbed the truck keys off the dresser, and rushed outside.

  As Cissie opened the street door, she felt the still warm air on her face; it was a lovely late May evening, a perfect match for her newly optimistic mood.

  She pulled the door to behind her, trying not to make too much noise. The children would be all right, she told herself, she’d only be a minute; the truck was parked just along the street, on the bit of waste ground next to number nine, where Myrtle and Arthur Payne lived. She could stick a ‘For Sale’ notice on the windscreen and be back indoors without them even knowing she’d been out.

  But before she had taken a single step along the street, the sound of someone pushing open the front bedroom window made her look up.

  It was Matty. He was looking down at her, his fair hair tousled from tossing and turning on his pillow.

  ‘Where you going, Mum?’ His little face was taut with anxiety.

  ‘I’m just going to have a look at Daddy’s truck, darling. I’ll be two ticks.’

  ‘You sure you ain’t going out for a drive without me and Joyce, Mum?’

  ‘Course I ain’t. I wouldn’t go for a drive without you, daft. Now get back in your own room and into bed and I’ll tuck you up all nice and cosy as soon as I get back.’

  Matty didn’t look completely convinced, but he did as he was told.

  ‘Good boy,’ Cissie called up to him as he disappeared inside. She waited until she was satisfied that the window was safely closed again, then she returned to her task.

  To get to the waste ground she had to pass Ethel Bennett and Myrtle Payne, who were sitting outside number nine, Myrtle’s place, on kitchen chairs, making the most of the pleasant evening air as they gossiped and rumour-mongered and got on with causing their usual mischief.

  As Cissie walked by with a nod and a brisk ‘Good evening’, the women, as one, turned their heads to stare at her. Ethel said something to Myrtle in a harsh, cackling whisper. But she hadn’t lowered her voice quite enough to prevent Cissie hearing her.

  Cissie stopped in her tracks, spun round and confronted them.

  ‘Would you like to say that again, Ethel Bennett?’

  Ethel smiled, or rather, she pulled her lips across her brown and crumbling teeth, making a shape that, for her, had to pass as a smile. ‘Say what again?’ she asked with an innocent shrug.

  ‘That what you just said. That bit about me being – what was it – “getting me comeuppance”, wasn’t that what yer said?’

  Myrtle stuck her hands inside her crossover apron and looked Cissie up and down. ‘You don’t have to answer to the likes of her, Ett.’

  ‘I don’t bleed’n intend to, Myrt.’

  ‘Come on, tell me to me face if yer’ve got something to say. Or are yer too scared?’

  ‘Scared o’ you?’ Ethel raised her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I don’t think so, darling.’
>
  Cissie went to say something but thought better of it. It was as pointless trying to get those two to behave decently as it was rowing with Lil, and anyway, she had better things to do with her time. So, with a final, disgusted shake of her head, Cissie stuck her chin in the air and walked along to the waste ground, leaving them to it.

  As she stood there, by the truck, she could hear them still talking about her. The pair of them were going on about how she was being paid back for all her fancy ways, and how it served her right, and maybe she’d know now what it was like for other women trying to get by. But Cissie ignored them, she was far more interested in how she should word the ‘For Sale’ notice, than what those two vicious, tittle-tattling old busybodies had to say about her.

  She tipped her head to one side and ran her finger through the thick dust on the truck’s red bonnet. When Davy had been alive, it had gleamed with polish, now in the fading rays of the last of the evening sunshine, it looked dull and uncared for. Davy would have hated to see it being neglected, he had been so proud of it.

  Her eyes misted over, and she smiled sadly to herself as she remembered the day that Davy had brought it home and parked it outside number seven, honking the bulbous horn, bringing everyone out to see the first vehicle owned by someone in Linman Street. Davy had taken her out, that very night, to begin teaching her to drive it. How he’d shouted at her! – something he never did – when she had got the pedals muddled up and almost crashed it into a wall.

  The mist in her eyes turned to water, and the first, fat tear fell on to her cheek.

  ‘Penny for ’em, Cis?’

  Cissie lifted her gaze away from the grimy paintwork. ‘Hello, Glad,’ she sniffed. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘I know that, girl.’ Gladys rolled her eyes. ‘D’you know I was hollering at you at the top of me voice when your Matty was hanging out of the window just now? Shouting from just up the road as I come out of Clarke’s, I was. And yer didn’t even see me. Yer in a right bloody dream.’ She paused. ‘So, how’s things?’

  ‘Fine. Fine,’ she said hurriedly.

  ‘That why you’ve been crying then?’ Gladys asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. ‘Cos everything’s fine?’ Cissie flapped her hand in the direction of Ethel and Myrtle. ‘It’s them old bags next door,’ she sighed, ‘they’ve been having a go at me again.’

  ‘Come on, Cis, this is me, Gladys Mills, yer talking to. I know they drive yer barmy, they drive us all sodding barmy, but they ain’t got what it takes to make yer cry. Not even when they’re playing their flaming double act.’

  Gladys lifted her chin at the paper and pencil Cissie was carrying and gently touched her friend on the arm. ‘Anything to do with that?’

  ‘What d’yer mean?’

  ‘I dunno, to tell yer the truth, Cis. It just ain’t what yer expect to see though, is it? Seeing yer mate on the waste ground writing letters.’

  ‘I ain’t writing a letter, Glad. I’m doing a “For Sale” sign. For Davy’s truck.’

  Gladys looked confused. ‘Why on earth would you do that? That truck was your Davy’s pride and joy.’

  ‘Don’t yer think I know.’ Cissie said it so quietly that Gladys could barely hear the words.

  With a sudden look of realisation, Gladys leant closer to Cissie so that Ethel and Myrtle couldn’t eavesdrop. ‘Look, Cis, tell me to mind me own business, but you ain’t short o’ money or nothing, are you, girl?’

  Cissie smiled weakly through her tears. ‘Daft! Course I ain’t.’

  ‘Well, if you ever are – any other time, like – you know I’ll always help, however I can. Like I promised before, I’ll always be here for yer, Cis. I know I ain’t got no money, but I can always put a word in for yer up the City. They need new cleaners all the time up there.’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Cos they keep wearing out all the old ones, don’t they.’

  ‘I told yer, Glad,’ Cissie snapped. ‘I’m fine. I ain’t broke and I don’t need no help from no one. Right?’

  ‘Yeah, right. But there’s no need to bite me head off is there.’

  Cissie shoved the paper and pencil into her dress pocket and examined her tear-stained face in the truck’s smeary wing mirror. ‘Time I was off home.’

  Gladys stepped aside as Cissie brushed briskly past her and strode off in the direction of number seven.

  ‘But how about the “For Sale” sign?’ Gladys asked as loudly as she dared with Ethel and Myrtle sitting just a few yards away.

  ‘I’ve changed me mind,’ Cissie answered boldly, stopping in front of the two gawping old hens. ‘Got that, did yer, you two? Davy’s truck ain’t for sale.’

  * * *

  The shiny black car pulled up outside Aldgate station. In the back, sat Big Bill Turner with Bernie, one of his burly henchmen.

  ‘So, how’s this Richie bloke doing on Flowers’ old pitch then, Bernie?’

  Bernie stuck out his bottom lip and waggled his head up and down. ‘A very fair job, guv. Very fair. The takings are almost up to what they were before, you know—’’ He paused and considered his words. ‘Before Flowers had his accident.’

  ‘Good, but this Richie bloke had better not make himself too comfortable.’ Turner dropped his chin and stared out of the car window at the pavement where Davy Flowers had once run his stall. ‘I’ve got other plans for that pitch.’

  The driver, Jack, looked in the rear-view mirror and caught Bernie’s eye. Bernie shook his head, a signal that he should keep his trap shut, but Jack couldn’t resist asking, ‘You mean you’re still gonna—’

  ‘Are you questioning me?’

  ‘No, Course not, boss,’ the driver assured him.

  ‘Good. Now, turn the engine off, I wanna go and have a word with Fat Stan over on the paper stall.’

  Jack did as he was told without a murmur.

  Turner sat there and waited for Bernie to get out and open the door for him. Then he indicated with a stab of his thumb that Bernie should wait in the car.

  ‘Private business,’ he said, putting on his hat.

  Bernie immediately climbed back in the car. He and Jack watched as Turner strolled, with a slow, confident gait, over to the newspaper vendor, a massive cigar in one hand and an envelope in the other.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s still banking on Flowers’ missus being interested in him,’ Jack said in a voice so quiet that Bernie had to lean over the seat to hear him.

  ‘Always has thought through his trousers, that one,’ Bernie replied, with a partly cynical, partly admiring laugh. ‘Do anything to pull a bit of skirt he’s set his sights on.’

  ‘Mind you, who can blame him where she’s concerned, eh, Bern? What a looker that girl is. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of that on the side meself.’ Jack sniggered coarsely. ‘Specially if I had to get into bed with Moe Turner every night.’

  ‘That Moe’s a big old bird, all right,’ agreed Bernie with a nod. ‘I’ll bet she’s got a right hand on her when she gets her wild up.’

  Jack looked out of the window to make sure that Turner was still out of earshot, then he twisted round, sticking his hand across the seat to Bernie in the back.

  ‘Tenner says Flowers’ missus is in Turner’s bed before the end of the summer.’

  Bernie blew noisily through his pursed lips. ‘Leave off, Jack! What d’you think I am, straight off the bleed’n boat?’ He leant back in the soft leather seat and grinned. ‘The way Davy’s old mum’s been boozing all their dough away down the Sabberton Arms, that young girl’s gonna be buzzing round Big Bill Turner before this sodding month’s out, ne’mind no summer.’

  Chapter 4

  As she opened her eyes, Cissie smiled contentedly: it was wonderfully warm and cosy in the big feather bed, and the sun coming through the yellow curtains was flooding the room with bright, joyful colour.

  She stretched slowly and, turning lazily on to her side, she reached out for Davy.

  Davy…

  She rolled back on to the pillow.
/>   When would it finally sink in that her Davy was dead? When would she ever really believe that he was no longer with her; that he wouldn’t ever again appear in the bedroom doorway with a cup of tea and a saucy wink, just as he used to? How could she have wiped it from her mind, yet again, that he was gone?

  It was only last night that she was lying there, staring up at the ceiling, promising herself – and Davy, because she prayed that he could hear her wherever he was, and that he was watching over her – that she would do everything she could to look after Matty and Joyce and, God help her, Lil. No matter what, she swore she would do it. Now, just a few short hours later, her mind was playing its cruel tricks on her all over again.

  Cissie raked her fingers roughly through her hair, threw off the bedcovers and willed herself to get up and get going. She glanced at the clock on the bedside cabinet – a pretty little walnut pot cupboard that Davy had brought home for her as one of his surprises.

  She couldn’t believe it. It was half past nine. She felt just like a slut. She really would have to get herself back into some sort of routine. The trouble was, she was having so much trouble getting to sleep at night, and then, when she finally dropped off, she would wake up every hour or so, either to see to the kids or just to lie there thinking, that she was exhausted by the morning and it was really hard for her to get up. But, hard or not, it wouldn’t do when Matty started school in September. She had just over three months until then, so she’d have to do something to sort herself out. She really would. Everything was down to her now. Everything.

  Sighing loudly to herself, Cissie pulled her dressing-gown around her shoulders and went downstairs to the kitchen, without so much as a glimpse at herself in the dressing-table mirrors.

  ‘Matty?’ Cissie was shocked to find her son, dressed in his little striped winceyette pyjamas, balancing on one of the bentwood kitchen chairs, just about to open the corner cupboard.