The Flower Girl

by The Flower Girl (retail) (epub)

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had to pull herself together. She would just have to know what to do – she couldn’t afford the luxury of feeling sorry for herself, she had the children to think of.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes and, with fists clenched by her sides, she strode purposefully along the aisle towards the woman with the freesias.

  * * *

  As she leant against the cast-iron column and toasted her achievements with a thick china cup of dark stewed tea, bought from one of the stalls dotted around the edges of the still-lively business areas, Cissie yawned loudly and lifted her chin to look up at the flower-market clock.

  Not quite half past seven. It didn’t seem possible; from how tired she felt, she’d been sure it must have been at least midday. But, exhausted or not, she couldn’t stop herself from grinning. She’d done it! She, Cissie Flowers, had bought enough flowers to cover her stall in luscious summer colour. She’d spent nearly all her money and she’d probably paid over the odds – especially to the porter who had seemed a bit too delighted to transport her stuff to the truck – but that was all right, she’d soon be as sharp as all the others and would be able to wheel and deal, duck and dive, with the best of them.

  Davy would have been so proud of her. And it was knowing this that gave Cissie the energy she needed to get herself moving again and to set about getting the flowers sold.

  She climbed back into the truck and drove slowly between the big wire cages being stacked full of empty wooden crates, safe from dishonest hands who, given the chance, would pilfer them and trade them in for the deposits which, she now knew, were represented by the tally tokens.

  She grinned yet again. She was learning, learning all the time. And she felt happier than she had for months. She felt in such high spirits that, as the market officer waved her forward, she pitched a handful of coppers out of the truck window to a bent-over old woman scavenging around the cobbles for discarded vegetables.

  ‘Here y’are, Gran,’ Cissie called. ‘Treat yerself.’

  ‘Good luck to yer, girl,’ the old woman called back, pressing the coins to her dry old lips. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks all the same, love,’ Cissie replied with a wave, ‘but you keep yer luck for yerself, cos I don’t reckon I’m gonna be needing any!’

  Half an hour later, Cissie was dragging the stall from the lock-up. This time she had a smile on her face. And this time she was not going to make any mistakes. She had remembered exactly where the lock-up was, she knew how to set up the stall, and she had flowers to sell. She’d even had the sense to bring a pair of old gloves to save her hands.

  She was a bit late for the early trade, she thought to herself as she paused for breath before manipulating the stall round the final corner, but she’d get better at it, quicker. The way she was feeling now, exhilarated by her achievement and knowing it would take just a few more shoves and pushes to get to the pitch, Cissie felt she could do anything.

  Just the few more steps past St Botolph’s and she’d done it.

  But what was going on? There was another stall, another flower stall, on Davy’s pitch.

  Dropping the handles and leaving the stall where it was, blocking the corner of the street, Cissie ripped off her gloves and sped over to the two tough-looking men who were standing by a sparsely stocked stall.

  ‘Here! What d’you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, her anger at these men who had dared to dash her dreams yet again making her brave. ‘That’s my bloody pitch.’

  The shorter and broader of the two men looked at his companion and sniggered. ‘I’m scared, Ron. Don’t let her shout at me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dennis,’ Ron answered him with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘Uncle Ron’ll look after you.’ With that, Ron slowly lowered his massive head until his face was just inches from Cissie’s, and said quietly, ‘I dunno if you’ve got any sense in that beautiful little loaf of your’n, darling, but if you have, yer’d better use it and bugger off. Now, if yer don’t mind, we’ve got a business to run.’ Ron straightened up and adjusted his well-cut jacket around his huge frame.

  Cissie didn’t move, but she was all too aware of how small she must seem to this great clod of a man. ‘I ain’t got no idea what yer on about. This is my pitch, and I ain’t gonna bugger off for you or no one. Yer can ask that bloke on the newspaper stall,’ she added by way of proof, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder.

  ‘What bloke would that be then, darling?’

  She looked round. ‘Bugger it,’ she fumed. ‘He must have gone to the lav or to get himself some tea or something.’ Dennis started laughing, but Ron’s face was like stone. He opened his mouth to speak, but when he noticed another man heading towards them, he took Cissie roughly by the arm and marched her to the corner where she’d abandoned her stall.

  Cissie was now too scared to complain, she wasn’t used to men pushing her around.

  ‘You obviously ain’t all the ticket, darling,’ he hissed menacingly, ‘cos if yer was, yer wouldn’t be messing with nothing to do with Mr Plains, now would yer.’

  ‘Who?’

  Ron narrowed his eyes. ‘Yer really don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’ Cissie now felt more confused than scared, and the thought of going home yet again, further in debt and without a single penny earned, was more than she could bear. ‘What’re yer talking about?’

  Ron made an elaborate show of checking that no one else could hear him. ‘Listen to me, sweetheart. I’m gonna do yer a favour, I ain’t gonna tell Mr Plains I’ve seen yer. So you be a good girl and run along home before I change me mind.’ He shook his finger at her as though she were a foolish child. ‘When the pitch was left empty we reckoned Turner had seen sense.’

  ‘But this was me husband’s stall,’ Cissie interrupted. ‘What’s this got to do with Turner?’ She turned her head and looked away from him. ‘And now my husband’s dead, the stall’s mine.’

  ‘Your husband run this pitch? What, Turner got widows working for him now, has he? He must be losing his touch.’

  ‘I don’t know why yer keep going on about Turner,’ Cissie snapped angrily, ‘but if yer reckon I’m gonna stand here and let someone take over my Davy’s stall then yer must be an idiot.’ Without a thought for how he might react, Cissie poked Ron in the chest. ‘And yes, I’m a widow, and I’ve got two kids and a miserable old cow of a mother-in-law to keep. So if yer think I’m gonna let anyone take this away from me then yer’ve got another thought coming. This pitch is mine, right? Mine.’

  Ron scratched his head distractedly. ‘Turner really must be losing his touch if he’s got young girls like you doing his dirty work for him.’

  Cissie jabbed her finger at him. ‘Turner! This is driving me barmy. Why bloody Turner all the time? I told yer, this pitch was Davy’s.’ She pointed at the stall. ‘He even owned his own barrow and everything. Look, go on, look. There’s his name carved and painted on the side. Not like yours,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ll bet that’s rented.’

  The other man, Dennis, appeared by Ron’s side. ‘Blimey, Ron, ain’t yer got rid of her yet? What, yer swapping knitting patterns with her or something?’

  ‘No, I ain’t, Den. And, to tell yer the truth, I’m getting the right hump with her.’

  Dennis folded his arms and stared menacingly at Cissie. ‘Don’t let Ron get the hump with yer, girl, cos yer won’t like it. Now, if yer know what’s good for yer, just clear off and we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘No, I won’t clear off, but I think you should. Cos if yer threaten me again, I’m gonna call the police.’

  ‘The rozzers!’ sneered Dennis. ‘Now that definitely would be a mistake.’

  He leant over her, backing her towards the church railings.

  ‘Let me tell yer a little secret, more a warning really. Mr Plains is moving into the area. Got it?’

  Cissie swallowed hard. ‘What’s so special about this pitch? Surely yer can sell flowers anywhere?�
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  Dennis laughed, a sneering snorting sound like an animal. ‘Davy Flowers was no florist, darling. It was all just a front.’ He grinned. ‘A great big whopping fib. Now wasn’t that naughty of him?’

  ‘But if he wasn’t a florist—’

  Dennis folded his arms again and leant on the struts of Cissie’s stall. ‘Your old man, Mrs Flowers, was a bookie. He was running this pitch for Turner.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Ron warned him.

  ‘No,’ Dennis said with a shake of his head. ‘Let the mouthy cow know. Let her know what a little, tiny, nomark cog her old man really was. And if she wants to call the coppers then good luck to her, but she’d better be prepared for the consequences.’

  Cissie was stunned. Davy was a bookie?

  Mechanically she picked up the handles of the stall and started hauling it around the comer and back towards the lock-up.

  Could it be true? Had her whole life with Davy been a lie?

  No, it couldn’t be true. There had to be some other reason why those men said those things. She would have to find Turner somehow. She would go and see him, make him stop people spreading these lies about him and Davy. Tell him about the men and this Plains whoever he was.

  Cissie stopped in her tracks, not noticing the cars and bicycles swerving and skidding to avoid her and the stall.

  Could this have something to do with what Eileen had been hinting at? Maybe there was some truth in her drunken ramblings.

  Eileen. She would know where to find Turner.

  Cissie started walking again, oblivious of everything around her. All she could think of was that Turner’s name was always there, always lurking somewhere in the background, and she was being drawn closer and closer to his world.

  And it scared the life out of her.

  Chapter 9

  It took some doing, but, by continually pounding on the door, Cissie eventually woke Eileen from her drunken sleep – she knew she was in there, she could hear her bed-rattling snores through the paper-thin walls.

  ‘Whatever’s the time?’ Eileen groaned, pulling her wrapper round her shoulders and stepping aside to let Cissie in.

  ‘About twelve.’

  Eileen tutted miserably. ‘I’ve only been asleep a couple of hours,’ she yawned. ‘What d’yer want?’

  ‘I want Turner’s address.’

  Eileen shook her head. ‘He don’t let no one know where he lives. No one. He keeps his home life very private, does Bill.’

  ‘How about where he works? He must have an office or something.’

  Eileen shrugged nonchalantly. ‘He might have.’

  ‘And you know where it is, don’t you, Eileen?’ Cissie cooed. ‘Tell me, please.’

  ‘No. I can’t. Bill wouldn’t like it. He’s funny about people knowing things like that.’

  Cissie coaxed, pleaded and lied for a solid half-hour. In the end it was her relentlessness that broke Eileen. Her head was throbbing from the drink and she just couldn’t take it any more. She got down on her knees and took out a dusty old shoe box from under the bed.

  ‘There, now will yer shut up?’ she asked, handing Cissie what she wanted, a battered business card giving Turner’s address in the Mile End Road.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks, Eileen. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Er, hang on, what time d’yer say it was?’ Eileen asked, the stupidity of what she had just done had sunk in. She had given a pretty woman, a woman a good ten years younger than her, Turner’s address. She’d have no chance of getting him back if he took up with someone like Cissie Flowers.

  ‘It must be about half twelve by now,’ Cissie replied. She said it pleasantly enough but she was growing increasingly anxious to get out of there, not only did she have what she wanted, but she had to get away from the stale stench of long-unwashed clothes and of sweaty bodies that permeated the very fabric of the room.

  ‘Half twelve,’ repeated Eileen, ‘well yer won’t find him there then.’ She reached out to try to snatch back the card.

  ‘I’ll take me chances,’ Cissie said coolly, hanging determinedly on to it.

  But as she neared her destination, Cissie’s determination began to flag. She walked slower and slower, increasingly unsure as to what she thought she was doing going to see someone as infamous as Turner.

  She even stopped for a while, when she reached the corner of White Horse Lane, to watch a child of about Matty’s age stealing potatoes from a sack outside a fruit and vegetable shop. He was being urged on by a gang of slightly older boys. All the children were dressed in rags, and were wary-eyed and gaunt from hunger, not unlike a lot of other street urchins in the East End.

  In the past, Cissie would have ignored such a scene, it having nothing to do with her, and she would certainly have made no connection between their pathetic existence and the life of her own little ones. But now, with her world turned upside down, their predicament held a terrible fascination for her. What would she be prepared to do so that her children wouldn’t have to steal to eat?

  As she watched the child’s practised cunning, she asked herself why she had never questioned why her family should always have done so well while there was so much hardship all around her – there for anyone to see if they cared to look. How had she just carried on as though the easy life was hers by right and would go on for ever? She had been such a selfish fool to presume that everything would always be wonderful. It wasn’t easy to admit it, but Gladys had been telling her a very nasty truth when she’d had that go at her.

  A woman appeared in the shop doorway and the boy, a picture of guilt, sprang away from the potato sack as though he’d been scalded. The woman cracked him hard – wallop! – right around the ear, and swore loudly, threatening him with all sorts if he didn’t clear off out of it and leave her stuff alone. The boy yelped and dodged off around the corner into Ernest Street, followed swiftly by his gang of pals.

  Cissie sighed. The poor little sod. What a way to live. She’d go on the game before she’d see her two have to exist like that.

  The woman went back inside the shop and, almost immediately, the boy reappeared. He really must have been desperate to risk another smack to that pinched little face of his.

  It was while she stood there watching the skinny child darting back and forth from the sack like a nervous bird pecking breadcrumbs from a window ledge that Cissie determined to make it up with Gladys. It wasn’t only because she wanted someone looking after her kids properly, someone who’d make sure that they had food in their bellies and that they weren’t out raking the streets getting up to all sorts, no, it was also because she missed talking to her friend, she missed laughing with her. There had been so little laughter recently.

  She waited until the child had his pockets and his cap stuffed full, and then she moved on.

  She found the place. It was a tall, three-storey house, like many others along that stretch of the Mile End Road. It had chipped black railings and a stone stairway leading down to the area.

  As she opened the metal gate, making it squeak loudly on its long-unoiled hinges, she noticed the comer of the lace curtain twitch away from the ground-floor window.

  She hesitated before knocking on the front door – she didn’t only dislike the sensation of being watched by hidden eyes, she was also dubious about what she would find inside. From the state of the outside of the place, rubbish-strewn steps and tall, dusty weeds poking through the black and white tiled path, it looked as though it could well be as bad as Eileen’s. And this was no single room, it was a whole big house. She could just imagine the stench inside there.

  The curtain twitched again. Then, before she could decide whether to knock or to run away, the door opened.

  A skinny, sharp-nosed little man stood there in his shirtsleeves and braces, with a brown trilby hat jammed down to his ears. He jerked his head sideways.

  ‘Come on in, if yer coming,’ he said impatiently, scuttling along the hallway. ‘I ain’t got time to stand here all day.’


  Cissie followed him as far as the doorway of the high-ceilinged front room. She was astonished by the scene of frantic activity which confronted her.

  Men, nine of them, were sitting at narrow desks set in three rows, for all the world like a room full of oversized schoolboys. Some were gabbling loudly into the telephones they each had in front of them, and others were scribbling on pads, calling to one another as though they were in another street rather than all lined up next to one another. One man, the one with the hat who’d answered the door, was chalking up names and numbers on a blackboard. A mad parody of a schoolmaster.

  The room might have been in tumult, but at least the place was clean, spotless, in fact, and the only smell was that of the cigarette smoke which thickened the air to a hazy blue.

  Cissie was suddenly swept into the room by a boy of about twelve pushing past her. He had a pile of evening newspapers under his arm.

  ‘Second edition! Latest results!’ he shouted over the din.

  The activity became even more frantic as the men leapt from their desks and scrambled around the boy to check the stop press.

  ‘Quiet!’ yelled the one man still sitting behind his desk. He had a telephone clamped between his ear and his shoulder. ‘I can’t hear a sodding thing with you mob all hollering and hooting. You know how Mr Turner likes to look after his special credit customers.’ He moved the receiver from his ear and held it to his chest to muffle it. ‘Especially the ones what owe him plenty of money,’ he added with a broad wink and then returned the phone to his ear. ‘Sorry about that, sir. Now, about your account—’

  Cissie waited until the man had finished on the telephone, then walked over to his desk and asked politely, ‘Are you in charge?’

  ‘I might be,’ he said looking up at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Turner.’

  ‘Would yer now?’ He craned his neck to get a better view of her legs. ‘He expecting you, is he?’

  ‘Yeah, he is, as a matter of fact,’ Cissie said haughtily.