Cissie shook her head in wonder and sighed. ‘Yeah, I do, and I dunno how she does it to be honest. She works all them hours scrubbing and cleaning, and she still has time to think about the kids getting out for a bit o’ fresh air. Now me, if I was to be truthful with yer, Ern, I catch meself forgetting I’ve even got my pair at times. ’Specially when I’m dragging that bleed’n stall in and out o’ the lock-up.’
‘Well who can blame yer for that, girl? I mean, it’s flipping hard work running a stall. ’Specially for a woman.’
Cissie nodded in heartfelt agreement. ‘Yer can say that again. But yer’ve gotta earn a living, ain’t yer?’
‘Yeah,’ he said flatly. ‘If yer lucky enough to have the chance.’
Cissie felt her cheeks flare. ‘Aw, sorry, Ern, me and my big gob. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean nothing.’
Ernie shrugged resignedly. ‘S’all right. I’m getting used to it after all this time. Yer wind up giving up hope after a while, don’t yer?’
‘Still no sign of no jobs then?’
‘Nah, there’s nothing going nowhere, Cis.’ He pulled out the paper and waved it at her. ‘This is a waste o’ time, and I’ve been from one end of the East End to the other knocking on doors, and all I get is insults about me age. They know they can pay women and kids a quarter of a man’s earnings, see. But, to be honest, girl, I’d take any sort o’ wage if they’d have me. Anything to make Glad’s life a bit easier.’
Cissie stood there in embarrassed silence, watching Ernie as he stared down unseeingly at the ragged but spotlessly clean lino.
‘Something’ll turn up,’ she said, not managing to sound very convincing. ‘It always does, don’t it?’
Slowly, Ernie raised his head and looked at her. ‘For some people maybe, Cis. But not for the likes of me I don’t reckon.’
Cissie backed away towards the door, a thin smile just managing to bend her lips. ‘I’ll be getting off now,’ she said, knowing she would have nothing else to say to him if she stayed any longer. ‘Gladys’ll be doing her nut what with your young ’uns and my two nippers hanging round her skirts.’
She was doing her best to sound and look cheerful, but the effort was beginning to make her jaw ache. ‘And I’ll bet my Joyce’ll be moaning for a carry. She hates walking too far, that one.’
With a little wave, Cissie turned on her heel and fled along the passage.
* * *
As she stepped out into the warm, October afternoon, Cissie gave an involuntary shudder all over her body. Ernie Mills had the very smell of despair and hopelessness about him. And it was making him look like an old man.
It made her think that maybe she should be counting her blessings instead of moaning. There she was, being offered a nice little shop under a block of smart offices in a prime site; and she had two blokes, Turner and Clayborne, who both seemed only too keen to ‘look after her’ if the shop idea didn’t appeal. And that was apart from Sammy Clarke, who was ready to do the slightest little thing for her the second she even mentioned it.
And then there was Ernie, and millions of others just like him, who had lost all hope of getting even a rubbishy sort of job, never mind the sorts of offers she had waiting for her on a plate. She could just imagine what plenty of other women in her position would be saying. She should stop thinking so much of herself and start thinking seriously about her children. All right, she was working her guts out, but she had their future to consider. Maybe that fleeting idea she’d had about it not being so bad being someone’s bit on the side for a while was the right one after all.
The trouble was, even the thought of Clayborne or Turner touching her made Cissie feel sick. No. She was sure, that would never ever be her choice.
But then again, maybe she no longer had a choice.
Cissie stood there on Ernie’s step, undecided as to whether she should nip across the street to number seven first, to let Lil know she was home, or whether she should go and meet Gladys and the kids straightaway.
It didn’t take much consideration. After the day she’d had, the thought of having Lil whining on about Gawd knows what wasn’t exactly an attractive proposition, whereas seeing her children most definitely was. So Cissie turned right and walked past the shop, with the intention of going a few yards along Upper North Street and then doubling back along Brabazon Street towards the market. That way she wouldn’t have to go past the house and risk getting collared by Lil.
She had just reached the corner of Linman Street and was about to turn left into Upper North Street, when the shop door was flung back on its hinges and Sammy Clarke stepped out, calling after her with loud urgency.
‘Cis! Cissie! Hold on. Wait for me.’
She turned round and saw him struggling to untie his apron strings.
‘Hello, Sam,’ she answered with a lift of her chin. ‘Where you off to in such a rush then?’
Sammy, winning his battle with his apron, pitched it over his shoulder into the shop, slammed the door behind him and locked it, leaving the display of goods on the pavement to the mercy of passing children.
‘I was just, er, nipping out,’ he said, trotting up to her, ‘and when I saw yer going by, I thought I could walk along with yer. Bit o’ company for yer, like.’
‘How about the shop? And how about the, you know, the Godwins?’ Cissie jerked her head sideways, indicating number one Linman Street, the end terrace house that stood on the opposite corner to the shop.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said with an easy-going smile. ‘Anyway, how much would a crew even as bad as the Godwins try and nick in broad daylight, eh?’
Cissie’s eyes opened wide at Sammy’s saintly trust in the innate common sense of the Godwin tribe. ‘I don’t think the time of day’s gonna bother that little lot very much.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ he insisted.
Cissie cocked her head on one side and looked at him. ‘You always look on the bright side o’ things, don’t yer, Sam?’
‘I try to,’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway, why shouldn’t I? It’s better than always walking about with the blimmin hump, innit? Now, which way are we going?’
Cissie pulled in her chin and studied his face. ‘Hang on, Sam, what’s going on here? You wasn’t going nowhere, was yer?’
Sammy smiled sheepishly. ‘I thought yer might wanna have a bit of a talk, that’s all. When I saw yer coming out of Gladys and Ernie’s just now, yer looked a bit, yer know, worried about something. And when I noticed yer never had the kids with yer, I wondered if yer was upset cos yer’d had a knock back from that Clayborne bloke.’
‘Yer notice a lot, don’t yer?’
Sammy looked mortified. ‘Aw, look, Cis. I don’t want yer getting the wrong idea or nothing. I wasn’t being nosy. Honest. I was just wondering whether yer managed to set up a meeting with that property bloke.’
Cissie ran her fingers through her hair, pulling her fringe back off her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I know I’m being a bit touchy. I’ve got a lot on me mind, ain’t I?’
She smiled gently and nudged him matily on the arm. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘So, can I walk along with yer then?’
‘Course yer can. But I ain’t going nowhere exciting. I’m just gonna go and meet Gladys and the kids. But come on, it’ll give me the chance to tell you all about what happened this afternoon.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘I went to see him, didn’t I?’
Sammy and Cissie waited on the corner of Upper North Street for a raucous rag-and-bone-man to pass by on his way towards Bow Common Lane; the clattering and rattling and ringing from his horse, his cart and his handbell all competing with the racket he was making with his strangulated cries for custom.
‘So he saw yer right away then, this Clayborne feller?’ Sammy called over the din. ‘That’s gotta be a good sign.’
Cissie said nothing.
‘Did he see sense?’ he asked.
They stepped down from the pavement into the road, Sammy reachin
g for Cissie’s arm to guide her round a steaming pile of droppings left by the ragman’s shaggy-legged pony.
‘Not exactly, Sam,’ she replied, daintily avoiding both the dung and Sammy’s touch. ‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘I think I’m in right schtuck, if yer really wanna know.’
Not wishing to risk offending her further, Sammy hastily shoved his hands into his trouser pockets – it was all too tempting to reach out to touch her.
‘It can’t be that bad,’ he said, as they turned into Brabazon Street to cut through to the market.
‘Sam,’ she sighed, ‘I reckon it’s just about as bad as it can get, mate. See, I reckon I’ve just about messed it up as far as it can be messed up. I’m in real trouble now. Going to see Clayborne was me last hope, I know that.’
‘What, wouldn’t he even listen to yer?’
‘He listened all right, but then he did some talking of his own.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ Cissie hesitated a moment, working out how much to tell him. ‘He offered me the lease,’ she eventually went on, ‘on one of the new shops they’re gonna build when they pull down the factory.’
‘Aw,’ Sammy said flatly, ‘a shop. And what did you say to that?’
‘I said I probably wouldn’t be able to afford the sort of rent he had in mind.’
‘A lot was it?’ Sammy hated it in himself, but he felt immediately relieved; Cissie leasing a shop was the last thing he wanted, it would have ruined his plans, the plans that he had been secretly hatching for months.
Cissie turned her head slightly to one side so that Sammy couldn’t see her face. ‘Yeah, it was,’ she said, picturing Clayborne’s watery hazel eyes as he made his offer about coming to ‘an arrangement’.
‘A lot more than you could afford by the sound of it.’
‘Yer right there, Sam,’ she said, and added, almost inaudibly, ‘Well, let’s just say it was a lot more than I’d be prepared to pay.’
She turned her head to face him again. ‘So, like I say, I reckon I’m in schtuck.’
They reached the end of Brabazon Street, and were just about to turn into Chrisp Street when Sammy pulled his hands from his pockets and took hold of her arm. ‘It don’t have to be like that, Cis,’ he said.
Cissie frowned as she stared down at his hand grasping her sleeve.
‘Like what?’ she said, raising her eyes to look at him.
Sammy let go of her and tapped the back of one hand rhythmically into the palm of the other. ‘It don’t have to be a problem. I mean, maybe it’s all for the best in the long run.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Look,’ he said standing there facing her on the corner, blocking her way into Chrisp Street. ‘I want yer to hear what I’ve gotta say.’
Cissie frowned, not understanding what he was going on about, but she didn’t try to get past him.
‘Yer’ve got me sympathy, Cis, you know that,’ he began. ‘There’s a lot o’ things that have happened to you in these past six months, things that’d make anyone feel desperate. But you’ve managed, you’ve coped. And yer should be proud o’ yerself for that. But maybe losing the stall like this is for the best after all.’
Cissie stuck her fists into her waist. ‘I think yer’ve taken leave o’ your senses Sammy Clarke, ain’t yer.’
‘No, I’ve not. Please, just listen. I’ve thought about it, thought about it a lot and it all makes sense.’
‘It might make sense to you, mate—’
‘Please, Cis, just hear me out.’ Sammy exhaled loudly and tapped his pockets, looking for something. ‘You ain’t got a fag on yer, have yer, Cis? I’m gasping for one.’
Without a word, Cissie opened her bag and took out her packet of Craven A. They both took one and lit them from Cissie’s match.
‘See, the way I see it is yer don’t have to worry about all that any more.’
‘All what?’
‘Earning a living. Getting up at all hours. Worrying about leaving the kids.’
‘What, live off me fortune, shall I?’ she snapped sarcastically. ‘Grow up, Sam, this is the world where kids need grub and new boots, not the world where pretty princesses get saved by marrying blokes on big white horses.’
‘I’d save yer. If yer married me.’
Cissie’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth fell open. ‘Do what?’
‘I know it’s come as a bit of a surprise to yer—’
‘Surprise? Yer can say that again. I’m bloody stunned.’ Cissie looked frantically about her.
She reached out and grabbed Sammy by the braces, yanking him towards her, pulling him back into Brabazon Street. The street was full of kids tearing up and down playing some sort of racing game, but at least they weren’t in full view of the market there. Mind you, it was bad enough, all Cissie needed was a few of the children’s mothers to come out and start rounding them up for their teas, and stories about her and Sammy Clarke would be all round the neighbourhood before bedtime.
‘But it makes so much sense,’ Sammy went on, growing more confident as he spoke of the familiar ideas, which, he would have been ashamed to have admitted, had been in his head since the moment he had heard of Davy Flowers’ death. ‘I know yer’ve only been widowed a while.’
‘Yeah, six months,’ said Cissie, agitatedly, blowing a stream of smoke over her shoulder.
‘But Lil’s never seemed too bothered about the idea of you getting yourself another chap, has she? I mean, the way she went on about you and Big Bill Turner. And she’s Davy’s own mother.’
‘Lil don’t seem bothered?’ Cissie said, transfixed by the madness of what she was hearing. ‘How about what bothers me?’
‘Look, Cis, I know I’m no oil painting, and I know yer could have the pick of any feller yer fancied, what with your looks and how clever you are and everything.’ He dropped his half-smoked cigarette to the pavement and watched it as he ground it out beneath the heel of his boot. ‘But just think what a help we could be to one another,’ he said, lifting his head.
He looked at her with a smile of luminous yearning. ‘You could work in the shop and keep the house for me. And I’d make a good home for the little ones and for Lil. It would be a really practical solution for both of us. I’ve never had much opportunity to meet anyone else, what with looking after Mum and Dad and running the place all these years—’
‘But how about love?’ Cissie interrupted him in a voice so small it could barely get past her lips.
Sammy’s smile became less convincing. ‘I know yer don’t love me, Cis,’ he said, tapping his chest, ‘but, honest, I’ve got love enough in here for the two of us. I’ve always loved you, Cissie. Always.’ He scratched his head shyly. ‘And who knows how these things come to happen. Maybe one day yer might come to think something o’ me and all.’
‘But I already think a lot of yer, Sam. A real lot. But I don’t—’
‘I know, but please, will yer just think about it?’
‘I don’t know if I—’
‘Please?’
‘Mum!’
Hearing the familiar voice, Cissie looked past Sammy and saw Matty launching himself around the comer at her.
She held out her arms and ran along the street towards him. ‘Hello, darling.’
Matty clasped his arms round her legs and buried his head into her coat.
Sammy stepped back and leant against the wall, watching the two of them hugging, and knew that Cissie and her child were sharing more warmth, standing there on that street corner, than he had ever experienced in his whole life.
His head told him that he had probably just made the worst mistake possible and that he had put Cissie, beautiful, gentle Cissie, off him for good. But his heart was skipping like a sixteen-year-old’s as visions of him being included in such a family embrace filled his mind with hope.
‘Hello, Cis. This is a surprise. What you doing here?’
Cissie and Sammy both looked up to see Gladys appearing from around th
e comer with children bouncing around her like eager puppies.
Gladys looked puzzled. ‘And you, Sammy Clarke…’
‘I’ll see yer later, ladies,’ Sammy said, chucking Matty under the chin. ‘I’d better be off before the Godwins clear me out. Don’t forget what I said though, Cis, will yer?’
Cissie nodded. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, bending down to scoop Joyce into her arms.
‘Good,’ he replied simply, and with that Sammy treated them all to a brief smile and set off back along Brabazon Street.
Gladys stood next to Cissie and watched, bursting with questions but silent, until Sammy had disappeared into Upper North Street.
‘Well, what was all that about then?’ she asked. ‘We come back this way so’s we didn’t have to put up with seeing Myrtle and that mob. But we didn’t expect—’
‘Can yer keep a secret?’ Cissie interrupted her.
‘You know me, Cissie, course I can.’ Gladys thought for a moment. ‘Hang on.’ She clapped her hands loudly. ‘Right you lot!’ she hollered authoritatively, beckoning to the children who were involved in trying to construct a sort of human pyramid against the wall of the house on the comer, with Gladys’s youngest serving as its wobbly, crowning peak.
As they hurried to obey – there were never any tantrums, refusals or questions when Gladys clapped her hands and spoke in that particular voice – the children tumbled to the ground in a heap, picked themselves up without a murmur and scampered over to her.
‘Right, I want the lot of yers to listen to me. Right?’
A row of little heads nodded.
‘And I don’t want no arguments,’ she began, counting off her points on her fingers. ‘I want all of yer to stay on the pavement all the time. And I don’t want no roads being crossed on the way.’
‘Where we going then, Mum?’ asked Terry, at nine, Gladys’s and Ernie’s eldest child.
‘Yer gonna ran all the way home to the comer of Linman Street and yer gonna see who can run the fastest,’ she said with a surreptitious wink at him, acknowledging the fact that both she and Terry knew that he could outrun the lot of them but would let the little ones have a good time thinking they were in with a chance. ‘And you, Terry, I want you to hold Joyce’s hand every step o’ the way. Understand?’
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