Jim waved his fork in triumph. ‘Never forget a face. I recognised you straightaway, from the funeral like.’
Immediately realising how clumsy his remark had been – fancy mentioning the funeral! – Jim began flapping about, throwing down his cutlery, pulling out a chair for Cissie, beckoning to the cafe owner, anything to try to cover up his stupidity. The comments and loud laughter continued as Jim managed to toss both his knife and fork and the mustard pot crashing to the floor, and his chair careering into the narrow alleyway between the tables.
Cissie felt sorry for him; he was only trying to make her feel welcome. She helped him pick everything up, flinching with coyness as their hands touched.
‘Hark at them,’ Jim said, rolling his eyes, as he finally settled back into his chair. ‘Anyone’d think they’d never seen a young lady before.’
‘They’re all right, I’m not taking any notice,’ Cissie said shyly, sitting down opposite him. She pulled her dress firmly down over her legs and set her handbag primly on her knees. ‘And thanks for the compliment. The way I’ve been feeling lately, I never expected no one to call me a young lady ever again.’ She giggled in an unconvincing show of happy-go-lucky casualness. ‘Well, not in such a nice way I didn’t.’
‘No fear of no one not complimenting you, darling,’ said the aproned cafe owner, leaning over the counter and treating her to a broad wink as he shoved a brimming mug full of tea towards her. ‘Come round here and I’ll call you a young lady any time you like.’
Cissie looked at Jim, trying to get a clue as to how she should respond. He shook his head, warning her not to rise to the bait, then leant back in his chair, rocking it on to its back legs, and reached behind him for the tea.
As Jim handed it to Cissie, he gave the owner a matey ticking off. ‘You just behave yerself, Bob. Honestly,’ he tutted loudly, ‘you’re just like the rest of this lot in here. Let you outta the sight of yer old woman for five minutes and yer go stark raving mad.’
‘Yer can’t blame a chap now, can yer, Jim,’ Bob said, levering himself away from the counter and getting on with the business of running his cafe. ‘She’s a right little smasher yer’ve got there.’
Cissie picked up her tea and sipped the scalding, stewed brown liquid. ‘Yer married then, Jim?’ Cissie peered at him across the rim of her mug. ‘Iris, did they say?’
‘Er, yeah,’ he answered, the muscles in his face tensing. ‘That’s right, I’m married to Iris.’
‘Kids? You got any, have yer?’
‘Yeah, I have.’ He pushed his half-finished breakfast to one side, took his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and offered them to Cissie.
‘Please, don’t let me stop yer eating.’ Cissie took one of the cigarettes and narrowed her eyes against the flare of the match as he lit it for her. ‘I like to see a man enjoying his food.’
She could have kicked herself as she saw his hand shaking as he tried to close the packet of Players. Here was this kind man, a friend of Davy’s, taking the time to help her out, giving her that twenty pounds, and spending his time with her when he could be relaxing with his mates before work, and what had she done in return? She’d opened her big mouth and put her foot right in it. Because from the way he was acting, he was obviously having some kind of trouble with his wife. Maybe they were separated or something. Why had she opened her big mouth? She could have slapped herself, she really could.
‘I was finished anyway,’ Jim said, flicking the spent match on to his discarded plate. ‘And we might as well get right down to it anyway.’
He flashed a look at Bob who was still hovering in the background, warning him not even to think about making any crude remarks. ‘Cos if yer gonna run that stall, there’s plenty yer gonna have to learn, Mrs Flowers.’
‘Cissie. Please.’
‘Cissie.’
‘And yer right, Jim, there is plenty I’ve gotta learn. I’ve never seen nothing like this market in all of my life. It’s a right old turn-out, innit? All the noise and confusion, I didn’t know what way to turn when I came here yesterday.’ Cissie lowered her voice and bent her head towards him. ‘But, to be honest, that’s not all. I was wondering if I could ask yer to help me, or just advise me like, with this other little problem I’ve got. See, there’s these two blokes who reckon they’ve taken over the pitch. I’m really worried about ’em. Can they just do that? Take it over? Cos—’
Jim held up his hand to silence her. ‘One thing at a time, eh? Let’s talk about the market first. Then we’ll start worrying ourselves about blokes and pitches.’
Cissie slumped back into her seat. ‘It won’t be any use me knowing the market inside out and back to front and getting the flowers for free,’ she said dejectedly, ‘not if I ain’t got nowhere to sell the bloody things.’
She leant forward again, urging him to understand. ‘I need that pitch, Jim. It’s close to the lock-up. It’s got good passing trade from the station and the factories, and there’s all them offices just up the road. And there’s no other competition. I’ve really thought about it. That’s how Davy earnt so much, see. I need it.’
Jim dragged agitatedly on his cigarette, ‘Look, let me say something. And I want yer to listen. Yer’ve gotta get the market side sorted first. Right? Just trust me.’
‘All right,’ she said, but she didn’t look convinced. This wasn’t going the way she’d planned at all.
‘I’ll show you all the little tricks and wrinkles. Then what I’ll do is ask around about these blokes. Find out who they are. Where they’re from. That sort o’ thing. You can bet they’ll just be a pair o’ chancers trying to muscle in.’
‘I reckon it’ll take a bit more than asking round.’
‘Just listen to me, will yer?’ Jim began, stubbing out his cigarette with unnecessary force as he spoke. ‘There’s plenty of handy sorts round the market what owe me favours – plenty of favours, if you understand what I mean. So, like I said, trust me. I’ll sort them blokes out for yer. Don’t you worry yerself about that.’
Cissie thought of Jim’s kind-hearted letter and the money on the mat, and nodded. ‘Thanks, but will yer tell me something first?’
‘What?’
‘It was you what gave me that twenty quid, weren’t it?’
Seeing from the look on his face that he had no idea what she was talking about, Cissie planted her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.
‘I’m not making a very good job of all this, Jim,’ she murmured.
She raised her head until her eyes met his. It was a while since she’d willingly met a man’s gaze in that way. ‘Since my Davy died, I’ve been in a right state. Like a bad dream, it’s been. I’ve got two kids and Davy’s mum to keep, and even though I’m nearly twenty-six years old, I ain’t done a single day’s work for no one in the whole of me life. Never earnt a penny. But I’ve got this chance, Davy’s stall. I thought it was gonna be easy, so I just went stumbling into it. But it wasn’t. It was awful. Sodding, rotten, bloody awful.’
‘It’s hard work all right, even for a feller.’
‘But it ain’t just that, there’s something else. People have been saying things to me. Bad things.’
‘I don’t know nothing about—’
‘No, Jim, I ain’t saying yer do. What I’m saying is that I’m gonna work really hard. I’m gonna make that stall work. I’m gonna show ’em all that yer can earn plenty from that sort o’ work. And I just wanna say how really grateful I am to yer for offering to help me. But them fellers on Davy’s pitch. I dunno, but I reckon they’re real hard men. I’d hate to get yer involved in something like that.’ She swallowed the last of her now cold tea. ‘Specially as yer’ve got yer kids to think about.’
Jim stood up and flashed Cissie a warm, easy smile. ‘You’ve been watching too many of them gangster films, ain’t yer? Who d’yer think’s after yer, Little Caesar?’
‘I know yer probably think I’m just being a silly cow,’ Cissie shrugged, embarrassed,
‘and I’m sorry for going on, but since I lost my Davy everything feels like it’s just getting on top of me. It’s all been really getting me down.’
‘I understand, love,’ Jim reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get stuck in, eh?’
He ushered her out of the cafe and into the bright sunshine of the early morning. It promised to be yet another baking-hot day with not a sprinkle of rain to relieve the heat and humidity.
‘You, Cissie,’ he said with an encouraging smile, ‘are about to learn the mysteries of the flower market.’
This time, as Cissie walked across the cobbles to the great cast-iron-and-glass hall, her reception was very different. She still got a few whistles and smart remarks, but at least she was shown respect by the sellers, taken seriously as a buyer rather than as a fool to be duped by the sharp-witted wholesalers. She could have kissed Jim with the relief of it all.
* * *
‘Honestly, Jim, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all yer’ve done for me.’ Cissie leant out of the truck window, reached down and touched him gently on the arm. ‘Yer one of the good ’uns, d’you know that?’
‘Don’t worry about it, love.’ Jim stepped away from her, back on to the pavement. ‘Now go on. You get off home and I’ll see yer in the morning bright and early to see how yer buy yer first lot of proper stock at the right prices. You remember what I told yer, yer don’t have to take no old nonsense from none of this lot round here.’
‘I won’t have no trouble now I’ve got you looking out for me.’ Cissie released the handbrake and pulled away.
Jim watched until the truck was out of sight, then he sprinted back into the market hall.
‘Oi, Ginge!’ he bellowed at a red-haired lad resting against a pile of crates. ‘Get off yer lazy bleed’n arse and see to them customers. I’m gonna be gone for a couple of hours on a bit of business, and when I get back I don’t wanna hear you’ve been slacking, right?’
* * *
As she made her way home in the truck, Cissie had the wonderful feeling that Jim really would be her saviour; he’d help her sort out all her problems, just as he had promised. He was going to take some of his friends round to the pitch right away, and explain to the two men that they should go elsewhere. The pitch would be cleared and she would be able to go there tomorrow morning, straight after she’d been to the market; she’d set up her stall, and everything would be fine. She just knew it.
After all, Jim was a decent feller. Just like her Davy.
* * *
Pausing only to get his breath, Jim pushed open the creaking cast-iron gate set in the chipped black railings and walked along the tiled path which led to the shabby street door of the tall three-storey house on the Mile End Road.
The net curtain at the ground-floor window twitched. Jim nodded almost imperceptibly. He stood there just a moment before the street door was opened.
A skinny, elderly man with a trilby hat jammed down firmly to his ears let him in. They didn’t exchange a single word. Jim walked straight past him, along the passage and up a narrow flight of uncarpeted stairs. He knocked on the freshly painted door at the top, paused briefly, then went inside.
The room couldn’t have presented a more unlikely contrast to the austere hall and stairway. With its sumptuous wood-panelled walls decorated with dark-hued sporting prints in heavy gilt frames, its thick carpets and heavy brocade curtains, it gave the impression more of the smoking room of a gentlemen’s club in St James’s than of the upstairs back room of a house in the East End.
A man was sitting behind a huge glass-topped walnut partners’ desk, studying a newspaper. He took his time finishing what he was reading, slowly folded the paper, then looked up.
‘Jim. So, how’d it go then?’
‘Good, Mr Turner,’ Jim said nervously. ‘Good. She’ll be all right with me sorting her out down the market. There won’t be no problems there.’
‘She’d better be all right.’ Big Bill Turner took a leisurely puff from the cigar that had been balancing on the edge of a heavy crystal ash-tray. ‘But it ain’t only the market what interests me. Yer gonna make sure she’s all right at the pitch and all. See, I’m interested in that little lady.’
‘She mentioned something about some strange blokes getting down there. I said I’d go round today with some of me mates and see ’em off.’
‘Strange? Is that what she called ’em?’ Turner leant forward, folding his massive arms on the desk in front of him. ‘I’ll give ’em strange if they turn up again. They’re working for that slag Plains.’
Jim gulped. Plains. Bloody hell. He had as bad a reputation as Turner. This was even worse than he’d thought. Why, out of all the blokes in the market, had Turner had to pick on him? It was just his luck he’d been having a beer with that arsehole Bernie Denham when this had all blown up. He didn’t even like bloody Bernie. He was just a neighbour whose old woman, Queenie – a right dirty old sort, a moneylender who most people hated – sometimes talked to his wife, Iris. Typical bloody Iris. She’d talk to anyone.
Turner laughed, a low, throaty rumble. ‘Yer look like yer gonna shit yer pants, Jim,’ he cackled, ‘but there’s no need. I’ve already sent some of the chaps round to speak to ’em this morning. See, your job is to keep an eye on Mrs Flowers for me. Make sure that little stall of her’n runs like clockwork. I’m intrigued by that pretty little widow, see. She’s got guts. And I like that.’
He took another unhurried puff at his cigar. ‘Makes a change,’ he added, looking Jim up and down with unconcealed contempt, ‘someone standing up for ’emselves. Anyway, you’re gonna make sure she’s all right, on the business side, and you’re gonna make sure she don’t know yer doing this for me. Is that clear?’
Jim nodded in reply. It was no use him trying to speak, his mouth was so dry it would have been pointless.
‘I like it when people see things my way.’ Turner leant back in his chair and linked his hands across his stomach.
‘Your old woman ain’t had no more trouble with broken windows, has she, Jim?’
Jim shook his head.
‘Good. Cos I hate to see women getting upset, don’t you?’
Chapter 12
‘Jim. What can I say?’ Cissie stood there, feeling like a spare, if grateful, part, as she watched Jim expertly manoeuvre the stall into place and then set about organising the flowers for her.
‘All yer help at the market yesterday and today, and now yer helping me like this with the stall. Honest, I just dunno how to thank yer, showing me the ropes like this. Yer a really good bloke, d’you know that?’
‘Someone wants to tell my old woman,’ puffed Jim, as he started hauling the stacks of display vases from the storage compartment between the wheels.
Cissie flinched at the mention of Jim’s wife. She didn’t like to think of him as being a married man. Even though as far as Cissie could gather, based on the little he’d actually said about his wife, there didn’t seem much love lost between them. In fact, Cissie had noticed that he could hardly bare to mention her name. But, all that apart, the realisation that she even thought about whether Jim had a wife or not still came as a surprise to Cissie. More than a surprise really. It was hard to admit, a bit shocking actually, but she cared about it a lot.
That terrible day, when Cissie had heard that Davy had been killed, she had just felt numb. If anyone had told her that she would ever expect to feel attracted to another man, ever again – never mind a scarce three months after her husband’s death – she would have laughed in their face.
Perhaps it was because Jim was making it possible for her to begin her life again, she wondered. Perhaps. Or maybe it was nearer the truth to say that his fair-haired good looks and his gentle strength reminded her so much of Davy.
Jim straightened up, kneading his fists into his back. ‘That’s it then. Yer all set and ready to go.’
‘Sorry, Jim, what did yer say? I was miles away for the minute.�
� Cissie could feel her cheeks flushing, as though he had the power to read her thoughts as clearly as if they had been printed on her forehead like the headlines on the evening paper.
‘Well, yer’d better wake up, love, cos here comes yer first customer by the look of it.’
Jim began to walk away, as the young woman who had paused by the stall sniffed at a bunch of pale pink rosebuds.
‘Say them blokes come back?’ Cissie called after him, ignoring the potential sale in her sudden panic at being left alone.
‘They won’t,’ Jim called without turning round. Then, thinking better of it, he stopped. He had been told to keep Cissie Flowers happy. If she started getting all worked up and upsetting herself, Turner might find out. Bloody Turner.
Looking at Cissie over his shoulder, Jim smiled and winked. ‘I promise yer they won’t, all right. And see that big bloke along there by the station? The one with the newspaper stand—’
‘Yer mean Fat Stan?’
‘Yer know him, do yer?’ Jim asked, surprised. He hadn’t expected that. Turner had said she’d no idea what had been going on at the pitch. And Stan hadn’t said a thing when he’d had a word with him yesterday afternoon. This was all getting too much for Jim. Just who knew what and whom? It was all a bloody mix-up and he was in the sodding middle of it, and he didn’t like it one little bit.
‘I’ve met him before. Sort of,’ she said with a throwaway little shrug. She didn’t want Jim getting the wrong impression. Stan might have been fat and getting on for fifty, but she’d only been a widow for a few months after all.
‘You know,’ she went on with a self-deprecating smile, ‘when I tried to do the stall by meself and mucked it all up. He was kind to me.’
Jim could feel the relief loosening his muscles. Perhaps she was as innocent as she made out. He hoped so, otherwise he feared he would find himself being drawn further and further into this whole rotten mess. And then who knew what he might get involved in? But, whatever he felt, Jim knew that Turner had given him instructions and, if he had any sense at all, he had better carry them out.
The Flower Girl Page 16