‘Well, I will if I can, but it depends on what friends yer mean exactly.’ Mac rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘From round this way, are they?’
‘I don’t think so, cos I don’t even know their names. That’s the trouble. But I reckon they’re definitely the fellers Davy used to knock around with down the flower market.’
‘That could be a lot of people. Nothing more?’
‘Well, I know they seemed ever so kind. Cos all of ’em promised to help me, even though I’d never met none of ’em before.’
Mac shrugged helplessly. ‘It ain’t a lot to go on, girl.’
She thought for a moment. ‘You do know who I mean, Mac, they was the ones what came to the funeral.’
He immediately straightened up from his relaxed position against the bar. ‘I don’t know ’em. And I don’t know their names neither,’ he said stiffly. ‘Sorry, love.’ He snatched up a glass cloth from one of the pumps. ‘Look, I can’t stand chatting, I’ve got a queue of customers waiting to be served.’
Cissie looked around her. There was nobody waiting; she was being dismissed, but she didn’t understand why. She swallowed the last of the sweet, tangy drink and shoved the glass back across the counter. ‘Thanks, Mac,’ she said flatly, then she turned on her heel and left the pub without another word to him.
It was bad enough having to ask for help, without being treated like that. And it was so unlike the usually easy-going landlord of the Sabberton Arms. But if he couldn’t, or, she suspected, wouldn’t for some reason, tell her who Davy’s friends were, then she’d just have to find someone who could. But who?
She slumped dejectedly against the pub wall. Why was everything so rotten complicated?
‘I heard what you was saying in there.’
Cissie looked round; a seedy-looking man had appeared beside her. He reeked of booze and it wasn’t even dinnertime yet.
‘Did yer?’ she asked warily.
‘Yeah. Waste of time asking him for help. He wouldn’t do a good turn for man nor beast, that one. Tight as a bleed’n tick. A man could be dying of thirst and he wouldn’t give him the drippings off his nose let alone a bit o’ credit.’
Cissie didn’t agree; Mac was usually a kind, generous man, and if he hadn’t helped her, he must have had his reasons, although, for the life of her, she couldn’t think what they might be. Maybe he owed one of the men money or something. As anyone who knew him would have vouched, that wouldn’t have been anything unusual; Mac was known for his big spending and his big borrowing, as he was a gambler of the hardened kind, a man prepared to lay a bet on anyone or anything. But Cissie wasn’t about to argue the odds with a drunk, so she said none of what she was thinking.
‘I could give yer a few names, if yer like,’ the man slurred, grabbing at the pub window ledge to steady himself.
‘I won’t be able to pay yer nothing,’ she said backing away.
The man grinned wonkily. ‘I don’t want no money off yer. I just like the idea of having one over on that old bastard, that’s all. I’ll teach him to refuse me a drink.’
Cissie wasn’t really listening, she just wanted to get away from him, but it was too late, he had hold of her arm.
‘You know the Still and Star? Up Aldgate Pump way?’ He leaned closer to her. ‘I could take yer there if yer don’t.’
Cissie nodded hurriedly, and gestured with her hand to show that she knew exactly where he meant. She didn’t actually know where the pub was at all, even though it was quite close to Davy’s pitch by the sound of it, but she wasn’t about to ask the man for directions; she just knew that, standing this close to him, if she opened her mouth to speak she would be able to taste the sour stench of his breath. Even the idea of it made her feel sick. She would soon find someone who did know the place.
‘Right, so you know the Still and Star.’ He paused as though he were trying to remember something, then, letting go of Cissie’s arm, he slapped his hands together in triumph. ‘I know what I was gonna tell yer. You go in there. That’s it. That’s what yer do. Go in the Still and that’s where you’ll find ’em. The Still and Star. You ask for Bernie Denham, or any of his mates. That’ll do it.’ His message for Cissie apparently at an end, the man staggered away, mumbling and laughing to himself about how that’d serve that bastard Mac right for daring to refuse him a bit of tick.
* * *
When she eventually found the pub, Cissie was surprised by how nice a place the Still and Star seemed to be. It was bustling with lunch-time drinkers but wasn’t claustrophobic in the way that the Sabberton Arms had felt. And whereas the Sabberton’s trade was a fairly rough mixture – stall holders from the market who nipped in for a few quick glasses of something; dockers who’d been unsuccessful on the stones that morning; and an ever-increasing number of victims of the slump who had nothing better to do with their time than nurse the single pint they’d scraped around to buy themselves – most of the customers in the Still and Star appeared to be workers from the nearby offices in the City. They were all wearing posh-looking suits and were sipping at half-pints rather than knocking back the pint after pint that most of the men in the Sabberton would have swallowed if given half the chance.
The Still and Star was also different from the Sabberton in that there were women in there, not that many, but a surprising number. Cissie still felt awkward walking into a pub by herself, but she definitely found it an easier atmosphere in which to find herself alone. The barmaid didn’t even blink when she gave the name the drunk had passed on to her, she just carried on pouring drinks and, with a lift of her chin, pointed out a group of five men sitting in the corner.
‘Over there, ducks,’ she said to Cissie without even looking at her.
Cissie went over to the table and coughed politely. The men, who were playing cards, ignored her.
‘Excuse me,’ she said softly.
‘Look,’ one of them began, angry at being disturbed, ‘yer don’t disturb someone’s game, right?’ He slapped down his hand and looked up, ready to give her a mouthful, but, when he saw Cissie, the scowl on his face disappeared. ‘Hello, doll, what can I do for you then?’
Hearing the appreciative tone in his voice, the other four looked up to check out the talent.
Cissie noticed, with a second nature which came from having been the object of men’s approval since she was barely thirteen years old, that three of them obviously shared the first man’s opinion of her, but the other one looked more suspicious than impressed.
‘Yer do know who this is, chaps, don’t yer?’ the suspicious one stated rather than asked. ‘You’re Davy Flowers’ missus, ain’t yer?’
All their smiles vanished.
‘That’s right.’ Cissie was confused. If these were the men at the funeral, and she couldn’t be sure that they were – she’d been in too much of a state that day to take notice of people’s faces – but if they were, they were meant to be Davy’s friends. So what was wrong with them?
‘Look, I don’t wanna be a nuisance or nothing. I mean, I don’t wanna spoil yer game. I just want a bit of advice about running the stall, that’s all. See—’
‘If you really want advice, darling, then I’ll give it to yer.’ The man who had started off by being so friendly was speaking. ‘You get yerself back home to yer washing and yer cooking and leave running stalls to the fellers.’
Cissie bristled. ‘I wish I could. Believe me. I wish everything was the way it was, and that I could sit at home with everything back to how it was. But that ain’t gonna happen, now is it? So, please, help me. All I wanna know is who should I go to, to get me flowers at the right price. I just wanna earn a living to keep me and the kids. That’s all.’
‘You finished?’ he asked.
Cissie nodded.
‘Good, cos we wanna get on with our game, all right?’
‘Thanks for nothing.’ Tears of anger and frustration filled Cissie’s eyes. ‘Good mates you lot turned out to be.’ The man seemed to soften. He stood up an
d spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Look, sweetheart, I’d love to help yer if I could. But it ain’t as simple as that.’
One of the other men grabbed his arm. ‘George,’ he said, the warning clear in his voice.
George shook him off. ‘I ain’t stupid,’ he said to him over his shoulder, then turned back to Cissie. ‘See, it’s like this. Your old man, your Davy, he used to earn his living—’
‘That’s enough, mouthy.’ The other man was now also on his feet. He forced George back on to his chair and then spoke to Cissie in a low, menacing voice. ‘It’s nothing personal, darling, but yer’ve gotta understand yer can’t go around asking questions, right. So just clear off and forget all about ever coming here.’
‘But—’
‘Look, I’d hate to see something happen to that pretty little face of your’n.’ With that, the man sat down and picked up his cards. ‘Right,’ he said as though Cissie no longer existed. ‘Whose go?’
* * *
Cissie stood outside on the pavement by the pub doorway in the hot midday sun, her chest rising and falling as her breath came in short, frightened bursts. All she’d wanted was a bit of help but, instead of the kindness she’d expected, Mac had turned his back on her, and now this man had really scared her. She wasn’t used to being threatened. And this time there wasn’t even a smelly drunk around to come to her aid.
But maybe there was somebody else who could.
With a dry mouth and shaking hands, Cissie took a piece of paper from her coat pocket. It was the last thing she had wanted to do, but she’d come this far and, if she was going to get the stall going, she had to carry on, and, as far as she could see, she had no other choice. She was going to have to visit Eileen, the brassy redhead who had given Cissie her address at the funeral.
Eileen wasn’t the sort of woman Cissie would even look at normally, let alone associate with, but there wasn’t much that was normal about all this. Something strange was going on and Cissie wasn’t sure how or why but she was sure she had to find out more if she was going to run the stall, and Eileen had seemed to know plenty. And, unlike everyone else she had gone to, Eileen also seemed more than keen to talk.
Cissie found the place on the paper at last; it was the upstairs of a pokey little terraced house in a narrow turning off the Whitechapel Road. The downstairs street door had been propped open, presumably to let in some fresh air in an attempt to blow away the stink of stale boiled cabbage and of something else that Cissie didn’t even want to think about.
She climbed the stairs, careful not to touch the banister which she knew just by looking at it would be sticky with accumulated layers of ancient dirt and grease, and found herself on a little upstairs landing. The small space was almost entirely taken up by a filthy gas stove and a rickety pot cupboard with a cracked jug and basin balanced precariously on its top. In front of her stood a single, splintered door with the sign ‘15a’ chalked on it in a childish scrawl.
Cissie peered in the gloomy light at the address on the paper, hoping she’d made a mistake, but, unfortunately, this really was the place. She dug around in her handbag and pulled out her handkerchief. Wrapping it around her hand, she knocked on the door – the thought of actually touching its grimy surface revolted her.
Looking around her, Cissie couldn’t believe the way some people lived. It was as bad as the Godwins in Linman Street. Violet and Norman and their brood of filthy kids seemed happy enough, but they lived just like pigs. Her Davy would never have put up with that sort of thing. Never.
Cissie’s thoughts were interrupted by the door being opened. A woman, bleary-eyed and with make-up smudged all over her face, was standing there. When her grubby wrapper fell open, showing her tatty but surprisingly expensive-looking underwear, she made no move to pull it around her. Her hair hung about her shoulders in matted waves. It was the unnaturally vibrant red of the hair that made Cissie recognise her as being the right woman.
‘Yeah?’ Eileen asked. From the disappointment in her voice, it was obvious that she had been hoping it was someone else calling to see her.
‘I’m Cissie Flowers. Davy’s wife.’
Eileen frowned, slowly appraising Cissie from head to toe. ‘So you are,’ she said pulling her wrapper around her in a parody of modesty. ‘What d’yer want then?’
‘You said you’d help me.’
‘Did I?’ Eileen sounded distant, as though trying to recall some long past event rather than something that had happened a matter of weeks ago. It was as though she was a machine operating at half-speed.
She went to speak, changed her mind, then sighed resignedly. ‘Yer’d better come in.’ She stepped aside, flapping her hand in careless invitation, then closed the door and followed Cissie into the room.
She started on a futile attempt to clear a space amongst the discarded clothing piled high on the single overstuffed armchair, so that Cissie could sit down, but soon gave up and pointed at the unmade double bed that took up more than half of the crowded little room. Cissie did her best to produce a grateful smile as she sat herself gingerly on the very edge of the sagging mattress.
Eileen noted Cissie’s obvious distaste at being in such surroundings, and gave a little, involuntary shudder. It was as though she was seeing her room for the first time, seeing her room as Cissie saw it: an unkempt slum with pathetic bits of lace and frills dotted around, which only added to the air of desolation and failure.
‘This is only temporary, yer know,’ she said perching on the edge of a narrow drop-leaf table that was stacked with toppling drifts of used cups, plates and glasses. ‘While I look around for something more suitable like.’
Cissie again tried to smile convincingly. Why on earth had she ever thought that this woman could help her? She might as well have gone off with the drunk from outside the Sabberton. He probably would have made more sense, and he definitely wouldn’t have stunk so much.
‘What was it yer wanted again?’ Eileen asked.
With a resignation born of despair, Cissie told her. ‘I’m asking around to find out where Davy used to get his flowers.’
‘Flowers?’
‘Yeah. I ain’t stupid, see, I know the wholesalers’ll realise I ain’t got a clue about buying, and I ain’t got no money either, so I can’t afford to have no liberties taken with me.’
‘No, course yer can’t.’ Eileen looked as bewildered as she sounded.
Cissie took a packet of cigarettes from her bag, put one in her own mouth, gave one to Eileen, then lit them both with what Eileen, despite her hangover and her confusion, immediately recognised as a solid gold lighter.
‘So I want some proper advice see, from the blokes my Davy used to trade with. Trouble is, I ain’t sure who they are.’
Eileen said nothing, she just stared into the middle distance.
Cissie drew deeply on her cigarette, giving Sammy a silent thank you for thinking to slip the twenty Craven A into her box of groceries, and wondered if she should just get up and leave. But she was grasping at the idea of Eileen being able to help her, like a drowning woman clinging to a branch. Throwing caution to the wind, she decided to continue.
‘I asked these blokes in the Still and Star, you know, the boozer up Aldgate Pump way, and they just took the piss. Thought someone like me wouldn’t know how to do a day’s graft, I reckon. Said it was man’s work. But they’re wrong.’ She was speaking earnestly, meaning every word. ‘I’ve got two kids to think about. I’ll work every hour God sends if needs be.’
‘You’d have to work bloody twenty-five hours a day to earn a living selling flowers,’ said Eileen, squinting at Cissie through the plume of smoke she’d just exhaled. ‘I mean, who’s got money for that sort o’ thing these days?’
‘My Davy never had no trouble providing for us.’ Before Eileen could reply, there was a loud knocking at the door.
Eileen leapt to her feet. ‘Sorry, but yer’ll have to go. That’s me friend what I’m expecting.’
S
eeing the disappointment on Cissie’s face, Eileen relented a little. ‘Look, you go and find a cafe somewhere. Come back in a while and I’ll see if I can come up with some names for yer. How’d that be?’
‘Ta,’ Cissie said, stubbing out her cigarette in the already overspilling ash-tray. ‘I appreciate this, Eileen. I won’t forget it, yer know.’
‘Too nice for me own good. That’s always been my trouble.’
The knocking grew more impatient.
‘All right, all right,’ Eileen yelled as she opened the door. ‘Keep yer bleed’n trousers on.’
Over Eileen’s shoulder, Cissie saw a dishevelled-looking, middle-aged man leaning against the jamb. At the sight of Cissie, his face lit up.
‘Who’s this little lady then? New girl is she?’ He leered horribly. ‘Do a double act do yer?’
‘Out o’ your price range, darling,’ said Eileen, grabbing the gawping man by the arm and hauling him into the room in a single movement. Just as speedily, she ushered Cissie past him and out on to the landing.
‘When shall I, you know, come back?’ Cissie asked, both shocked and fascinated by what was going on.
Eileen looked the man up and down. ‘About five minutes’d do, if I was honest,’ she said with a world-weary sigh. ‘But yer’d better give us half an hour to be on the safe side.’
Chapter 7
Cissie didn’t go to a cafe as Eileen had suggested. For one thing, she couldn’t afford to – just as she had decided she couldn’t afford to use the truck unless she had to – and for another, she welcomed the chance to be out in the fresh air, or rather, what passed for fresh air on a hot June day in the East End. So instead she wandered around the streets, smoking one cigarette after another. She walked around for well over an hour; the thought of accidentally interrupting Eileen and her ‘friend’ so horrified Cissie, that she couldn’t even think of returning any earlier.
But when she eventually did return to the flat, Cissie was pleasantly surprised. Not only was the room a lot tidier, but Eileen herself was also looking a good deal more presentable than before.
The Flower Girl Page 10