She hated Eileen for what she had done to her: making her doubt everything she had ever believed in. But had she honestly never thought, she asked herself, even for a moment, that her parents might have been right, that there was something about Davy – a bloke with a little flower stall having so much money in his pocket – that didn’t quite ring true?
No, she hadn’t, not until now. She had never doubted her Davy. Not once. And she refused to let an old brass ruin the reputation of the man she loved, and would love for ever.
She knew what it was, she decided, Turner had been a customer of Davy’s. That was it. With all those women he knocked about with he was bound to have bought flowers – if only to keep his wife quiet, when he’d been out until all hours with his latest tart on his arm. And Eileen had, no doubt, been with Turner on more than one occasion when he was buying the poor, deluded woman a bunch of roses as a way of easing his conscience. If he had one.
And, knowing Davy, he’d probably flashed Eileen one of his smiles and spoken to her as though she was a decent woman. He had such a way with him, he could make anyone think he was their friend.
That was it. That was the answer.
Cissie smiled through her tears, as she pictured him, standing by the stall, a bunch of roses in his hand, smiling back at her. If only she could talk to him, he’d make it all better, just like he always did. She missed him so much and, hard as it was to admit it, she was really missing her parents as well.
Bloody Eileen. When she’d talked about how she’d suffered at home, Cissie couldn’t help thinking how lucky she’d been to have a mum and dad who had cared about her. All right, they’d never had much, but Cissie had always known the security of their love.
She’d thought once, when she’d first married Davy, that Lil might take her parents’ place in her heart, that she would come to love and respect her as she had loved and respected them, but instead, Cissie had soon come to see Lil for what she was: a grasping, hard-headed woman who cared for no one but herself.
Eileen had a lot to answer for. She had made Cissie think about too many uncomfortable truths concerning her parents. And also about friendship…
Cissie felt her cheeks flare with shame as she thought about the way she had treated Gladys. How could she have been so selfish, ignoring her struggles and problems, taking her for granted just because she’d always managed so good- naturedly, and not whined and moaned about every little thing as Cissie had done lately?
Eileen had made Cissie take a long hard look at herself, and she didn’t much like what she saw: a thoughtless, misguided young woman who’d kidded herself for far too long that the world would always be on her side. She had reason to be thankful to Eileen. Even though what she said was a load of self-pitying, drunken rubbish, she had made Cissie realise that no one owed her anything.
She would still need advice, and help, but she was going to have to learn to roll up her sleeves and stop expecting favours just because she was pretty little Cissie Flowers.
Chapter 8
By the time Cissie eventually turned into Linman Street, footsore and tired out after her long walk in the exceptionally hot June weather, it was almost six o’clock. Even though it was much later than she’d told Lil to expect her back, she still didn’t go straight home, instead she stopped first at the corner shop.
Sammy was just turning over the ‘open’ sign on the door to read ‘closed’.
‘Hello, Sam,’ she said looking over her shoulder for signs of nosy neighbours. ‘You’re locking up early.’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, stepping to one side to let Cissie inside the shop. ‘Nice day like this, everyone goes down Chris Street to the market. I’ve hardly seen a soul all day.’
‘It looks different in here with the blinds down. And with all the gear from outside piled up everywhere.’
Sammy folded his arms and smiled. ‘You ain’t come over to see what I do with me potatoes and greens when I lock up of a night, now have you, Cis? Cos I know it don’t even interest me very much, so I’m sure you couldn’t give a bugger about it.’
‘No, yer right.’ Cissie tugged nervously at her fringe. ‘See, Sam, it’s, well, look…’ She flapped her hands in exasperation, trying to find the right words and failing.
She began again. ‘Look, yer know how you said yer’d help me? Putting stuff on the slate for me and everything. Until I, you know, get meself sorted out.’
Sammy’s smile disappeared. ‘Didn’t Lil give you that box of groceries I fetched over this morning?’
‘Yeah, course she did.’ Cissie dropped her chin. ‘Sorry, Sam, I should’ve remembered to thank yer. It’s just that I’ve had so much on me mind.’
She patted her dress pocket, all too aware that the Craven A packet inside it contained her one and only remaining cigarette, the one she was saving to have with a cup of tea before she went to bed. ‘And it was right good of you to think of putting in the fags and all. Ta, Sam. Really.’
‘I don’t need no thanks, Cis. I just wanna see you and the kids doing all right. I know I can’t really understand what yer going through, but I know it can’t be easy with them little ’uns to worry about.’
Cissie touched him gently on the arm. ‘You’re a really good bloke, Sam, d’you know that?’
Sammy shrugged, embarrassed but pleased.
‘And that’s why,’ Cissie went on, ‘I thought yer might not mind if I asked you something else.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘Sorry, but it’s not another favour. Well, not exactly, it ain’t. I mean, there’d be something in it for both of us.’
‘Why don’t yer just spit it out, whatever it is?’
She nodded, digging deep into her pocket. ‘All right. Someone said this might be worth something.’
She held out her hand to him. On the flat of her palm was her cigarette lighter.
Sammy took the lighter from her, respectfully avoiding brushing her hand with his.
‘So, what d’you think?’ she asked eagerly.
He went over to the door and, propping it open with his shoulder, he looked closely at the lighter, turning it over and over in the still bright, early evening sunshine.
The examination over, Sammy let the door swing shut again. ‘I ain’t no expert, Cis, but I think it looks like it could be gold. Probably worth a couple o’ quid.’
‘Only a couple o’ quid?’ Cissie shrank with disappointment.
‘Well,’ Sammy added quickly, ‘yer know what Uncle’s like. Never gives no one a fair price, does he?’
‘I wasn’t thinking about pawning it.’ Cissie lifted her chin and looked Sammy directly in the eye, willing him to understand what she was hoping for. ‘See, the thing is, I couldn’t. Just the thought of Ethel or Myrtle, or worse still, that big-mouthed Lena Dunn, seeing me going in there, and having them knowing all me business. I’d really hate that, Sam. Yer know what they’re like.’
‘I wouldn’t mind buying it off yer,’ Sammy said, with a nonchalant twitch of his shoulders.
‘How much?’ she asked, immediately ashamed by her enthusiasm.
‘Let’s see…’ Sammy began slowly, not having the first idea what he should offer her. Buying second-hand goods wasn’t something Sammy was in the habit of doing, in fact, it was something he had always carefully avoided. With so many people going through hard times it would have been a dangerous precedent to set. He’d have been inundated with shiny-arsed Sunday suits and grannies’ patchwork eiderdowns stinking of mildew and no cash left to run the shop. But this was Cissie asking, and that was an entirely different matter.
‘Enough to buy stock for the stall, d’you reckon?’
‘Course, yeah,’ Sammy agreed readily, relieved that Cissie knew how much she needed and so he wouldn’t have to risk upsetting her – and making a fool of himself – by suggesting the wrong amount.
Before she had a chance to think better of it, Cissie threw her arms around Sammy and kissed him smack on the lips.
‘Aw, Sam, I’m sorry,�
�� she gasped, springing away from him. She stood there a moment, wide-eyed with shock, then turned on her heel and fled.
Sammy chased her to the door. ‘Ain’t yer gonna wait for yer money, Cis?’ he called after her as she ran across the street.
Cissie skidded to a halt on the cobbles and turned round to face him – just in time to see Lena walking slowly towards her, grinning all over her face.
‘Putting it about already are yer, Cissie Flowers?’ Lena smirked. ‘Nice behaviour for a widow, I don’t think. Still, I hope yer give him his money’s worth.’
* * *
It had just gone half past four in the morning; Cissie shook herself like a wet dog and stepped on the brake, bringing the truck to a shuddering halt. She was finding it hard to concentrate on what she was meant to be doing. Her head was so stuffed full of angry thoughts that ideas about what stock she should have on the stall, or even how she should go about buying it, were just about the last things on her mind.
Not only had she had to stand there the night before and watch Lena bowl along the street, knowing she was about to spread her spiteful insinuations to anyone and everyone who would listen – and there were always plenty of those around – but then she’d had to put up with Lil’s latest barmy accusations.
According to her mother-in-law, the only reason Cissie was planning to leave the house at the crack of dawn to go to Covent Garden market was not because she was trying to earn them a living, but because she wanted to get out of looking after Matty and Joyce.
Lil wasn’t only spiteful, she was stupid. Cissie honestly felt she could murder her at times. As if she wouldn’t give the world to be able to stay at home with her children the way she used to, only having the shopping and cleaning and washing to worry about. She could visualise Matty and Joyce as she had left them, tucked up in their beds, not knowing that they were going to wake up to their nanna’s miserable face.
Cissie sighed out loud and slapped her hand angrily on the steering wheel. If she was going to do this stall lark properly, she was going to have to sort out something better for them. Not only did they deserve it but Cissie knew she wouldn’t be able to settle unless they were happy.
If only she hadn’t said all those things to Gladys…
The loud honking of a motor horn brought her back to the present with a jolt.
‘Oi! What you up to, yer silly bleeder? You gonna shift that truck or what?’
Cissie stuck her head out of the window to answer him, but he didn’t give her the chance.
‘It’s a bloody tart!’ he shouted at no one in particular. ‘Your old man should be ashamed of himself letting you out in that thing. This is a bloody wholesale market, darling, not a street full of little dress shops. Now, get that motor out o’ the way. Go on, people’re trying to do business.’
‘So am I,’ Cissie said as calmly as she could manage. ‘And, if it ain’t too much trouble, d’yer think yer could tell me where I can park me truck, please?’
* * *
Cissie clambered down from the cab and walked towards the bustling complex of elegant buildings, makeshift sheds and surging hordes of people, barrows, baskets and carts. Her first impression of Covent Garden was that she was entering a cross between the biggest street market she had ever seen in her life, and a madhouse.
First of all there was the noise: clanking metal wheels, squeaking trolleys, jarring gears and the crashing of tailboards being lowered, and the constant banter of men being incongruously jolly at such an early hour, all backed up with a just discernible hum – the unmistakable buzz of people making money.
Then there were the smells. She had first noticed the air getting sweeter, heavier somehow, more cloying, as far away as the Strand, but here, in the thick of it, the smell was almost overwhelming: a heady mix of mellow ripeness and sickly overmaturity.
She felt nervous but excited. So many people, so much going on, and here was she, Cissie Flowers, about to plunge into the middle of it. She could hardly take it in.
‘Oi! Mind yer back, love!’ a man’s voice yelled from behind her.
Cissie, still entranced at all this activity that she had, of course, known about but had never expected to witness for herself, stepped silently aside, pressing herself flat against the wall to allow the man, a market porter, to pass.
She watched, fascinated, as he swept past with his barrow, guiding it skilfully over the flagstoned pavement without losing a single strawberry from his piles of brimming baskets. But that trick was nothing compared to the man who dodged round Cissie and then past the man with the barrow: he too was a porter but he was carrying the round wicker baskets of fruit on his head, piled high in a stack like children’s bricks about to tumble to the kitchen floor. But somehow they didn’t tumble, they stayed there, even when he did a half-turn to get a better look at her.
He flashed her a wink of appreciation. ‘Yer like a sailor’s dream of home, girl!’ He grinned and was gone, sucked into the crowds of men all ferrying their own burdens of boxes, baskets and crates.
‘Excuse me,’ Cissie called, running to catch up with the man with the barrow. ‘Is this the market?’
The man stopped dead. He turned round and looked her up and down. ‘No, sweetheart,’ he sneered sarcastically, ‘it’s the Henley sodding regatta, and I’m delivering these here to that bloke over there in his rowing boat. So, if yer don’t mind.’
With that, he shook his head, rolled his eyes in exasperation at such stupidity, and shoved his barrow forward with a loud, ‘Mind yer backs, there!’
‘I meant, is this the flower market?’
With a theatrical sigh, the man stopped again, dropped the handles of the barrow and spun round to face her. ‘Do these look like sodding daisies?’ he demanded, pointing angrily at the baskets full of soft fruit. ‘No,’ he answered himself, ‘they don’t, cos they’re flaming strawberries, ain’t they, yer dozy mare.’
Cissie wouldn’t let him see how humiliated she felt. She drew herself up to her full height, lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. ‘Well, I’m sure an intelligent man such as yerself would be able to direct a lady to the flower market.’
‘Over there,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Now, if yer don’t mind, I’d like to get this fruit moved before it mushes down into jam.’
Nodding in gratitude, Cissie stepped backwards away from the man. She was just about to voice her thanks, when, with no explanation, he lunged forward and grabbed her by the arms.
‘What the bloody hell!’ Cissie demanded, shaking him off.
‘Suit yourself,’ the man shrugged, letting go of her. ‘But I’d rather be grabbed by the arms,’ he went on, gesturing with his chin to something behind her, ‘than have to face them old hens if I trod on ’em.’
Cissie turned round to see what he was talking about. Looking up at her was a semicircle of old women sitting by the kerbside on upturned crates. All of them were dressed in black shapeless dresses, coarse aprons and battered hats, and all of them were doing exactly the same thing: with swift, barely discernible hand movements they were shelling massive piles of peas into enamel basins wedged firmly into their broad laps.
‘Thanks,’ she said sheepishly, stepping carefully around the heaps of discarded husks.
The man tutted and treated her to another roll of his eyes. ‘Bloody sightseers. Not fit to be out, some people,’ he muttered to himself and went about his business.
As Cissie made her way over to the flower market, she heard the old women laughing raucously.
‘Love yer hat, dearie,’ one of them jeered after her.
‘Yeah,’ another one agreed, ‘where’d yer get it? From the bootmender’s?’
Cissie felt so useless, she could have cried. But the moment she stepped inside the huge glass-and-metal grandeur of the flower market, any thoughts of humiliation, tiredness, her children being at home in bed, even the fact that it was barely five o’clock in the morning, were all forgotten. The sight and scen
ts simply took her breath away. She had had no idea that it would be so beautiful, such a brilliantly coloured, wondrously sweet-smelling kaleidoscope of flowers, plants, shrubs and seeds.
She wandered slowly forward between the wide aisles where the wholesalers exhibited the glories they had on offer that morning, each vying with their displays to catch the eye of the retailers.
She paused by one of the stands.
‘I ain’t seen you before, dearie,’ said a weather-beaten woman sitting at a little wooden clerk’s desk. As she spoke she kept her eyes fixed on the roll of notes she was counting.
‘I’ve just started up,’ Cissie said proudly.
The woman was immediately on her feet, the cash tucked safely in her money apron. A newcomer. She could smell the scent of easy pickings. ‘Just look at these, my lovely,’ she said, thrusting a bunch of freesias under Cissie’s nose. ‘Lovely, ain’t they? Fresh in from Guernsey they are. You won’t get better than them anywhere in this market. And look at these.’ She snatched up a dull, bare-rooted clump of leaves. ‘Lovely ’mums, full of bud they’ll be.’
Cissie smiled weakly at the woman. ‘I’m just looking at the minute, ta.’
‘Well don’t look too long,’ she snapped, ‘or you’ll get left with all the shit. Good gear like mine always goes first.’
‘I’ll remember that. Thanks.’
For almost an hour, Cissie walked about the place trying to work out what to do. She watched as men exchanged brass tally tokens, sensing that they were some kind of deposit. But for what? Then she saw a man deliberately knocking over a pile of empty wooden boxes and surreptitiously kicking some behind him to another man who hurriedly bundled them away on a two-wheeled sack trolley. What was that about? And the prices. Were they for a box? A bunch? One of the narrow waxy cartons?
She began to feel the panic rising in her throat. How would she ever know what to do? How would she ever understand all this?
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