The Flower Girl

by The Flower Girl (retail) (epub)

Wobbling, with the effort of looking over his shoulder at his mum, Matty had to grab hold of the cupboard door to steady himself, but he wasn’t quite quick enough. The chair toppled over and Matty went crashing on to the hard, lino-covered floor, his head missing the stone butler sink by inches.

  ‘Matty!’ Cissie yelled.

  As she rushed over to him, with her legs catching in the flapping hem of her dressing-gown, she almost finished up on the ground beside him.

  Struggling to sit up, Matty clutched his leg. ‘I’m all right,’ he insisted, warily examining his grazed knee. ‘I didn’t wanna wake you up until I’d made the breakfast for us all.’ He bowed his little fair head in shame at his failure. ‘I was gonna help you cos you’ve been sad.’

  ‘Aw, darling!’ Cissie clasped him to her.

  ‘Joyce’s still asleep,’ he said into her shoulder, ‘but I think she’s wet the bed again.’

  Cissie let go of her son and straightened up. ‘We’ll leave her for the minute, eh? I’ll see to her later on, make her nice and dry. But first,’ she said hauling Matty to his feet, ‘I’m gonna make us both something nice to eat.’ She bent forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Just for us two, eh? Cos if that chair falling over didn’t wake her up, it looks like Nanna’s out for the count and all.’

  She picked up the chair and set it by the table for Matty to sit on.

  ‘No, I don’t think Nanna’s asleep,’ he said matter-of- factly, as he clambered up to the table. ‘She came in just now. She was looking for her medicine, but she said the bottle was empty. So she went back to bed.’

  Cissie smiled encouragingly at Matty then went over to the cupboard, thinking as she did so that she’d like to break Lil’s empty ‘medicine’ bottle right over her head for her. ‘She’s probably not feeling very well, Matt. So we’ll leave her in bed a bit longer and all.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  Matty picked distractedly at the shiny oilcloth that covered the kitchen table. ‘Is Nanna Lil gonna die like Daddy?’

  Cissie felt the lump rise in her throat. She grasped the cupboard handle as though it could rescue her from her pain. It was bad enough having to go through all this herself, but seeing the way it was affecting Matty was almost more than she could bear.

  She turned and looked at her son, doing her best to smile. ‘Remember what I told yer, Matt? About how sometimes people—’

  ‘Die,’ he interrupted her, his voice small and scared.

  ‘Matty…’ Cissie went over to him. She knelt down on the hard floor and hugged him to her. She had to find a way to make it all right for him and Joyce again. She had to.

  ‘Someone’s knocking.’

  ‘Is there?’ Cissie leant back on her heels and listened. ‘Aw yeah, they’re knocking all right. Just listen to ’em bashing on that knocker.’ She stood up and wagged her finger at him with a smile. ‘Now, no more trying to do no breakfasts while I’m seeing who it is. All right?’

  He nodded.

  Cissie dragged her dressing-gown tighter round her and went to see who was so impatient for an answer.

  As she opened the door, she immediately wished she hadn’t. ‘Aw, Mr Brownlow,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Morning, Mrs Flowers.’ Mr Brownlow raised his bowler hat and treated her to the horrible spectacle of his famously leering grin. ‘You seem surprised to see me.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting yer,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late, did I?’

  ‘It’s late all right,’ Cissie heard Ethel call from next door – she was out on her step nosing, as usual. ‘Too bleed’n late to still be in yer night things, if you ask me.’

  Mr Brownlow waggled his bushy eyebrows at Cissie and flashed her a suggestive smirk. ‘I thought that meself.’

  ‘Disgraceful,’ pronounced Ethel. ‘In my day, we’d have been up and dressed hours ago. Our washing would’ve been in soak, our pots scoured, and our steps would have been scrubbed clean and all.’

  Cissie would have loved to have given Ethel Bennett a piece of her mind, but she knew how the old cow could twist and turn anything anybody said and make them look bad for having even opened their mouth, and she definitely didn’t need that at the moment. And especially not in front of Brownlow, because she was about to put a proposition to him – one that she badly needed him to agree to.

  ‘Look, Mr Brownlow,’ Cissie said quietly, ‘I’ve got something private like to say to yer. Could yer step inside for a minute, d’yer think?’

  The landlord looked delighted at the prospect.

  As she pulled the door to, Cissie caught a glimpse of Ethel Bennett clasping her pudgy cheek between the sausagey fingers of one hand, and scratching her head between her ever-present curlers with the other. Cissie didn’t have to be a genius to know that her nosy old trout of a next-door neighbour was in a real quandary: should she heave her fat carcass along to the end of the turning, so she could report events to Myrtle Payne at number nine? Or, should she stagger across the street to number eight and tell her daughter, Lena Dunn, that she had just seen a man – Mr Brownlow the landlord of all people! – being invited, bold as brass, into the young widow Flowers’ house?

  Whichever of them Ethel decided to tell, Cissie knew that both were equally capable of exaggerating the truth, spreading lies, and causing mischief. So, in the end, it was all the same to her.

  ‘Now, Mrs Flowers,’ said Brownlow, leaning towards her, his clipped grey moustache bristling like a shaving brush. ‘What’s all this about then, you inviting me in like this?’ The passageway of number seven was dark and narrow, as in all the other houses in the street, and Cissie had to press herself flat against the wall to create even a little bit of space between herself and her ogling landlord.

  ‘It’s like this, Mr Brownlow,’ she began, increasingly and unpleasantly aware that all she was wearing were her night things and that his hot breath was burning her cheek. ‘I’m gonna have to ask yer for a little bit of a favour.’ She tried a smile; she could feel it, tight on her lips.

  ‘And what sort of favour would that be then?’

  ‘I’d appreciate yer keeping your voice down, Mr Brownlow.’ She inclined her head towards the closed front parlour door. ‘Me mother-in-law’s having a lie in. She’s feeling a bit poorly.’

  ‘What, the ale gone off down the Sabberton, has it? Give her gippy guts?’

  Cissie’s smile set even more rigidly; her jaws ached with the effort of keeping it there. ‘She’s been very down since… since Davy… you know.’

  ‘She must miss him.’ Brownlow’s voice had become a menacing, rasping whisper. ‘And so must you,’ he added, making the words sound disgusting.

  Clasping her dressing-gown to her throat, Cissie nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Course I do. And it’s not been easy to manage without him these past weeks. That’s why I need a favour.’

  She turned her head away from him, took a deep gulp of air and then blurted out: ‘I’m gonna need a bit more time to get the rent, Mr Brownlow.’

  Brownlow’s piggy eyes blinked waterily behind the thick lenses of his round tortoiseshell specs. He coughed, spluttering all over her, before running his sharp pink tongue around his lips. ‘Why worry yourself about the rent, Mrs Flowers? I mean, we could come to some sort of an…’ He paused, and then, laying revolting emphasis on each syllable, he continued, ‘…an arrangement.’

  As the full significance of what the landlord was suggesting dawned on Cissie, she immediately sprang into incensed action. ‘Yes, Lil,’ she shouted at the closed front-room door, replying to her mother-in-law’s non-existent question, ‘it is Mr Brownlow. Ain’t it nice of him? He just popped in to pass on his wife’s condolences to us.’ Cissie jabbed her finger at his chest. ‘You will remember to thank Mrs Brownlow for me, won’t you?’ she asked between clenched teeth. ‘Cos we all know how funny she can turn when she gets upset, don’t we?’

  The landlord’s eyes goggled with suppressed rage, his
mouth opening and closing like a dying cod’s on a fishmonger’s slab.

  ‘Now,’ Cissie reached across him to open the street door again, trying not to flinch as her bare wrist brushed against the shiny brown material of his well-worn suit, ‘if you don’t mind, Mr Brownlow, I’ll be getting me kids their breakfasts. And I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do, and all.’

  Cissie flung the door back on its hinges to find Ethel, Myrtle and Lena – Ethel having obviously gone for the full set – all waiting eagerly by her street doorstep for developments.

  ‘Thanks for calling by with your wife’s kind thoughts, Mr Brownlow,’ Cissie emphasised loudly.

  With her chin stuck defiantly in the air, Cissie treated her three trouble-raking neighbours to a stare that challenged them to say a single word out of place. ‘And we right appreciate yer being so understanding about waiting until next week for the rent and all.’

  As Brownlow stepped past her to make his escape into the street, Cissie caught hold of his sleeve and hissed into his ear, ‘You’ll get your money, Brownlow, don’t you worry yourself about that. But that’s all yer’ll be getting, you dirty old bugger.’

  With that, Cissie gave him a discreet yet determined shove, ejecting him out of the house with such force that, if he hadn’t swerved so neatly, he would have landed right in Ethel Bennett’s arms. And there were some women, although not that many, at which even Mr Brownlow drew the line.

  ‘I’ll say good-morning to yer then, Mr Brownlow.’ Cissie smiled, wide-eyed, at her audience. ‘And keep yer hand on your money satchel, won’t yer. There’s some funny people round here. Bloody funny.’ With that she slammed the door firmly behind him.

  Leaning against the passage wall, Cissie caught up her hair between her hands and pulled it back off her face. She could feel her usually pale skin flaming scarlet with anger and shame. What had she been thinking of, inviting that pig into her home? She must have been off her head. She had to pull herself together, get on and make Matty’s breakfast, act as though everything was normal. Something had to stay normal in the poor little devil’s life.

  But she should have known from the way her luck was running lately, that it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.

  Back in the kitchen Matty was sitting at the table, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘I know yer told me not to do nothing, Mum,’ he gasped between sobs, ‘but you was such a long time, and I was hungry. So I…’ He bowed his head. ‘So I went and looked in the cupboard.’

  Slowly, he lifted his chin, his face was puffy from weeping. ‘There ain’t nothing in there, Mum. We’re gonna starve, ain’t we? And then we’ll all be dead like Dad, won’t we?’

  Cissie took Matty’s face gently in her hands and kissed the top of his head. ‘It’s all right, darling. I’ll sort it out. Just a couple more minutes, I promise, and yer’ll have a lovely big breakfast, with all yer favourite things. All piled up on yer plate.’ She kissed him again and then walked over to the kitchen door. ‘I’m just gonna have a word with Nanna.’

  ‘Lil!’ Cissie shouted, striding along the passage. ‘I wanna word with you!’

  Cissie ran upstairs to get dressed, feeling murderous. How could Lil do that? Even if she had had too much to drink last night, fancy not thinking to leave something, anything, in the cupboard for the kids. She was so bloody selfish.

  As she stepped into the front bedroom, the first thing she saw – the first thing she always saw – was the wooden-framed photograph of her, Davy and Matty. They’d had it taken at Southend when they’d gone there for a day trip on a paddle steamer along the Thames. Matty hadn’t even been Joyce’s age then, not much more than a baby really, but he already had the look of Davy about him with his fair hair and his cheeky grin.

  She looked at the happy image of herself smiling out from the picture, and compared it with what she saw looking back at her from the dressing-table mirrors.

  Davy had always been so proud of her, the way she looked and the way she dressed. He’d loved being seen with her on his arm as they walked along the street together with the kids, all done up in their Sunday best. He’d brought home the swagger coat she had on in the photo as a surprise – he’d got it off some feller he knew in the market. Typical Davy. She was so pleased with it, she’d worn it all that day, even though it was really hot and sunny. She hadn’t even taken it off when, after they’d gorged themselves on skate and chips and cups of steaming, dark brown tea, they had gone down to the beach for a paddle.

  She pressed the picture to her lips. She had been so lucky, so happy; but had she taken it all for granted? The thought that maybe she hadn’t shown Davy how much she loved and appreciated him, while he was still with her, tormented her. She could only pray that she had.

  She dipped her head and looked in the dressing-table mirrors. Dark smudges spread like faint mauve bruises across the pale skin under her tear-reddened eyes, and her hair hung lank and unwashed around her face. What would Davy think of her now? She couldn’t let herself go around in this state for much longer.

  She snatched up her hairbrush and ran it harshly through her hair. After she’d got herself over to the corner shop and made something for the children’s breakfast, she would wash her hair and make herself look decent.

  She pulled her nightie over her head and dropped it on the ground at her feet, then dragged on some underwear and the navy cotton dress she’d left on the dressing-table stool the night before. Looking around for a pair of stockings, she could find only one, and that was snagged from where it had been draped over an open drawer of the tallboy.

  The room was in a real mess. It didn’t take much working out to realise that it was going to take more than getting dressed and a hair wash to sort things out. She felt like weeping. It was all so difficult, there was so much to do, so much to remember.

  Davy, she was beginning to realise, had done a lot more than just bring home the housekeeping every Friday night. He had kept her world together, had given her a reason to laugh, a reason to make sure she looked nice, a reason to live.

  She dropped down on to the unmade bed. Was it really only six weeks since her life had been turned upside down?

  ‘Cissie! You still upstairs?’ Lil’s foghorn of a voice shattered its way into Cissie’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes, Lil,’ she answered, closing her eyes with exhaustion at just the idea of dealing with her mother-in-law.

  ‘Ain’t yer been over that sodding shop yet? I’m bleed’n starving down here.’

  Wearily, Cissie rose to her feet. She wanted to shout back that if Lil hadn’t stuffed her greedy self last night there would have been at least some eggs and toast for them all. But it was too much effort to even think about starting a row that, on previous form, Cissie knew Lil could continue for hours, or even days, on end if the fancy took her.

  Cissie trudged downstairs as though she were wading through a river of treacle. She stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at Lil sitting at the table with Matty. Lil was staring moodily at the teapot.

  ‘Not even a few lousy grouts to make meself a cuppa,’ she moaned without even raising her eyes to meet Cissie’s.

  Matty looked from his mum to his nanna, and back again. ‘I ain’t that hungry no more,’ he said quietly.

  Biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from breaking down into tears, Cissie smiled weakly at her sad-eyed child. Slipping a floral crossover apron over her dress, she went over to the hearth and took down the old silver-coloured tea caddy from the overmantel.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got in the rainy day pot, eh Matt?’ Cissie said as cheerfully as she could manage.

  She lifted the lid and looked inside. A single half-crown? Surely she wasn’t seeing straight? She was positive there’d been at least twenty-five shillings the last time she’d looked.

  Cissie thought for a moment. Yes, she was right, only yesterday she’d thought about getting it ready to give to Brownlow when he called this morning. But she’d thought better of it. Davy ha
d always said it was only to be used in a real emergency, an emergency such as not having any food to put on the table for the kids. She could see herself back then, laughing at Davy for even suggesting that such a ridiculous thing might ever happen.

  ‘Lil,’ Cissie began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ain’t borrowed no money or anything out of here, have yer?’

  ‘That money was my Davy’s,’ Lil snapped shirtily. ‘He wouldn’t have begrudged his old mum a few coppers.’

  ‘But there’s twenty-two and six missing.’ Seeing the frightened look clouding Matty’s face, Cissie lowered her voice. ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘I don’t have to answer to you.’ Lil shoved back her chair and stomped out of the back door into the yard. She snatched open the wooden lavatory door and shut herself in the little outdoor cubicle. ‘I’ll be in here for a while,’ she hollered. ‘I’ll be ready for me breakfast when I come out.’

  ‘What we gonna do if we ain’t got no money, Mum? Yer can’t get things without money, can yer?’

  Cissie ruffled his hair. ‘We’ve got money, daft,’ she said light-heartedly. ‘Now you wash them hands o’ your’n, then go upstairs and wake up yer little sister for me, while I nip over Clarke’s and get all the bits and pieces for a great big fry-up.’

  As Cissie opened her street door she saw Ethel, Myrtle and Lena still in a gossiping huddle by her step.

  ‘Nice not to have no jobs to do,’ Cissie said, avoiding their eyes as she pulled the street door shut behind her.

  ‘I see mourning don’t mean nothing nowadays,’ Myrtle sneered as she eyed Cissie’s floral apron.

  Cissie didn’t bother to answer, she just strode purposefully across the street.

  She was intending to go straight to Sammy Clarke’s corner shop to see how far the half-crown would stretch, but as she passed number four, Gladys’s house that stood next door to Clarke’s, Cissie stopped. She took her purse from the pocket of her apron and opened it. Two and six. Some chance of feeding the four of them even a decent bit of breakfast, dinner and tea today, let alone affording anything for tomorrow.