‘Out. Go on out. All of you. Out of my sight, before I dock someone else’s pay.’
Jess, always more subtle than Lil, held up her hand to silence Winnie’s protests. Then she took Winnie by the elbow and guided her to the table. When the others had filed out she spoke softly to her crimson-faced boss.
‘We never got our money, Mr Warner. Me and Winnie ’ere. Sorry to be a nuisance, like.’
Outside in the street, their wages safely in their pockets, Jess, Lil and Win linked arms and made their way to the tram.
‘So, what did ’e say when yer told ’im you two was goin’ ’opping an’ all?’ asked Lil, eager for an account of the row that must surely have broken out.
‘Didn’t say nothin’,’ said Win casually.
That wasn’t good enough for Lil. ‘Nothin’? Why not? I thought ’e’d go flamin’ barmy once ’e knew all three of us was goin’ down Kent.’
‘I suppose ’e would ’ave done if we’d ’ave told ’im,’ said Jess, straight-faced. ‘Only when ’e started goin’ on about never takin’ on no more girls next October if they ‘ad ’op stains on their ’ands, well, I thought we’d best keep it our little secret. Just between us, like.’
Jess then described to her two friends how old Warner would be sitting at his table on Monday morning, looking at his pocket watch, waiting for her and Winnie to arrive. Then he’d sneer and take great pleasure in entering the sixpenny latecomer’s penalty next to their names in his ledger, not realising that all three of them had cleared off to Kent. The thought of it was almost too much for Lil. This Saturday afternoon was turning out to be a real lark. The fact that work finished at one o’clock made most Saturdays good, but this was one of the best she could remember.
‘Come on girls,’ Lil said, ‘I think we’ll ’ave ourselves a little song to celebrate.’
Winnie and Jess wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing usually, but somehow, when they were with Lil, lots of things they wouldn’t usually do just seemed to happen. The three friends, still arm-in-arm, changed their step to match their tune as they danced and sang along the cobbled street.
They say that ’opping’s lousy,
I don’t believe it’s true,
We only go down ’opping To earn a bob or two.
With a tee-eye-oh A tee-eye-oh A tee-eye-ee-eye-oh.
When they arrived at Jess’s house, the front door of Number 8 Burton Street was wide open. Inside, women were crowded into the little kitchen, drinking tea, packing things into boxes and all talking at once at the tops of their voices.
Lil walked straight in, settled herself at the scrubbed wooden table, and started folding clothes and shoving them messily into a half-full cardboard box.
‘Old Warner’s boxes ’ave got some use then,’ she said. ‘I should ’ave nicked a few more.’
Rose took the blouse that Lil was clumsily attempting to fold and handed it to Jess. ‘You get off ’ome, Lil, and ’elp yer own mum.’
Florrie Baxter, Winnie’s mum, looked round the room at the others and mumbled, ‘If she’s back from the pub, that is.’
‘What was that, Florrie?’ said Lil, leaning menacingly across the table. ‘Did yer say somethin’ about me mum?’
‘No,’ said Florrie hurriedly, ‘I was talkin’ to my Win.’ Winnie looked surprised, unaware that she had been spoken to. ‘I said she can get off ’ome an’ tell ’er dad I’ll be ’ome in a minute.’
‘That’s all right then,’ said Lil, straightening up her not inconsiderable bulk. ‘So long as yer never said nothin’ about me mum. Cos yer know what’d ’appen to yer if yer did, don’t yer?’
‘Go on, you two, off yer go,’ said Rose, calming the situation. ‘My Jessie takes up enough room without you pair ’anging round me.’
‘Not my fault I’m tall, Mum.’ Jess stood behind Rose’s chair and bent forward to cuddle her. She was so excited. They’d be going hopping in the morning.
‘Get off, Jess.’ Rose tried to sound annoyed but she was just as exhilarated as the girls. ‘An’ go on you two. Do as yer told. I told yer to move yerselves.’
Rose stood up and shooed Lil and Winnie to the door, then turned back to her daughter. “Ow’d ’e take it then?’
The other women looked up, stopping what they were doing to hear what old Warner had had to say for himself.
‘Yer should ’ave seen Lil, Mum. What a laugh.’
‘Never mind Lil’s business, ’ow about you? What’d ’e say to yer? Can yer ’ave yer job back after ’opping?’
Jess was nervous, not knowing how Rose would react to the news. ‘I never told ’im, Mum. I was worried ’e’d ’old back me money after Lil ’ad upset ’im. But I’m sure ’e’ll take me on again in October. I’m a good, clean worker. An’ ’e knows it.’
Jess needn’t have worried. ‘Gawd love yer. Yer a sensible girl, Jess,’ said her mother proudly. ‘No point in provokin’ ’im into sayin’ things ’e don’t really mean. Now come on, let’s get this finished before them boys get in from work and want their teas.’
Disappointed they weren’t going to hear about a row, Rose’s neighbours got back to their sorting and packing.
Ted was the first of the Fairleigh boys to get home. He was the youngest, only just fifteen, but compared to his two brothers he was also the most reliable. He hardly ever hung around street comers, getting up to goodness knows what, like his older brother Charlie did, and he wasn’t always chasing girls, like Sammy, the eldest of the Fairleigh boys.
‘Oi, oi, Mum, where’s me tea then?’ Ted stood in the kitchen doorway, surveying the busy scene, then made his way quickly towards the smell of food.
‘Yer’ll ’ave to wait, Ted, I’m still sortin’ out all this gear for tomorrow. An’ get away from that saucepan with yer dirty ’ands.’
‘Ain’t yer finished yet?’ he moaned. ‘Yer’ve been gettin’ that lot ready for months.’
‘Yer know me, Ted. I like everythin’ done proper, like. I don’t want everything chucked in any old ’ow.’
‘What ’ave we got anyway?’
‘Nice bit of neck o’ lamb stew. A treat cos I’m off tomorrow. Gawd alone knows what you lot’ll be eatin’ for the next couple of weeks.’
‘Cor ’andsome, Mum.’ Ted lifted the lid off the big stew pan.
Florrie Baxter laughed. ‘I remember the first time our Arthur was old enough to stay ’ome from ’opping. Thought ’e was such a big man. Well, when I come ’ome! Yer should ’ave seen the state of that boy. Honest. ’E looked fit for the work’ouse.’
They all joined in with the laughter, except Rose and Mabel Lawrence.
Mabel was a widow. She’d been in the workhouse only a couple of weeks previously, and would still have been in there if Rose hadn’t got the neighbours to club together to get her and the children out of its punishing shame. Mabel wasn’t the first from Burton Street to go in there, and she probably wouldn’t be the last either. But the women weren’t laughing maliciously; they were laughing about the workhouse for the same reasons that kids whistle in the dark, to stop them from being afraid of the bogeyman. Mabel knew that, but it was too fresh in her mind for her to join in.
The women of Burton Street knew all about poverty all right – only too well – but they also knew that there was much worse deprivation in other parts of the East End. They could see it all around them. Not that many streets away were the tenements, where whole families lived crowded into one rat-infested, some even splitting sleeping time in the lousy beds into shifts. Round there, the people had no water except what they fetched from the standpipe in the central stairwell, and food – if there was any – was cooked over makeshift fires. More usually, though, they lined up for hand-outs. The outside lavatories of Burton Street would have been a luxury to the poor souls who lived in ‘The Buildings’.
And then there were those who didn’t even have a roof over their heads, the ones who roamed the streets waiting until twilight when they’d be allowed into the flopho
uses to shelter for the night – if they could afford the couple of pennies entrance money.
And then there were the streets, the life that was known by none except those who had sunk into those hellish depths, those who had entered the downward spiral from which there was no return.
Mabel understood the importance of hanging on to her life in Burton Street all right. Once she let go of that there would be nothing to stop her sliding to the very bottom, into the gutter itself.
Rose’s voice lifted over the women’s chattering. ‘I said to get away from that stove, Ted. Jess’ll dish yer up a bit of stew if yer can’t wait, but the pearl barley’ll still be ’ard as old ’Arry.’
‘I don’t care, Mum.’ Ted grasped his belly dramatically. ‘I’m starvin’. Me belly thinks me throat’s been cut.’
Jess stopped what she was doing and got a bowl down from the dresser. She scooped two ladlefuls of stew from the big pot on the range into the white china dish.
‘’Ere yer are, ’ungry guts,’ she said fondly to herbrother. ‘Get that down yer.’
‘Yer’ve spoilt ’im,’ said Florrie Baxter primly.
Everyone was used to Florrie, so they did what they did most of the time when she moaned or complained – they ignored her and got on with what they were doing.
Ted took the bowl of stew and went to sit on the front step to enjoy his tea in peace, away from the chattering women.
‘Give us a lump of bread, sis,’ he called along the passage.
‘Yer chancin’ yer luck a bit, ain’t yer, Ted?’ she called back.
‘Go on,’ he whinged.
Jess stood up again. She’d never admit it, but Florrie was right; as the youngest in the family, Ted usually got his own way without too much trouble.
“Old on,’ she shouted, ‘I’ll get yer a bit.’
As Jess sawed a chunk of bread off the two-day-old loaf, Charlie and Sammy walked into the room.
‘’Ello girls,’ said Sammy, the oldest of the Fairleigh boys, chucking his mum affectionately under the chin. ‘’Oo’s got a kiss for me then?’
‘’Ark at ’im. ’E fancies ’is chances, don’t ’e?’ said Florrie Baxter. ‘Yer might think yer a big ’andsome brute, but yer ain’t too big for a clip round the ear’ole, yer know, Sammy.’
‘Go on,’ said Sam, ‘yer know yer love me, darlin’. All the gels do.’
Florrie reached out across the table and caught him a sharp wallop round the side of his head.
‘Oi! That ’urt.’ He rubbed his temple sulkily.
‘It was meant to. Now clear off and let’s finish in ’ere. Or yer can ’elp get yer mother’s gear ready, if yer like. An’ I’ll get off ’ome to me old man.’
‘No thanks. Come on, Charlie, let’s ’ave some of this stew then get down The Star for a couple of jars.’
‘Don’t yer go takin’ that Ted down the pub,’ said Rose. She didn’t trust her two elder boys to look after young Ted. He might have been fifteen, but he was still her baby.
‘Leave off, Mum.’ It was Charlie’s turn to aggravate Rose. ‘If ’e’s old enough to stay ’ome when all you old trouts go down ’opping, he’s old enough to ’ave a few pints of mild, ain’t ’e?’
Charlie was much quicker on his feet than Sammy, and Florrie’s hand hit thin air instead of the back of his head. And he’d dished out two portions from the pot before Rose had even noticed.
‘Cop this, Sammy boy.’ Charlie handed his brother a bowl and spoon. ‘Let’s go out the front with Ted and leave these old gels to their natterin’.’
‘Kids. They’ll be the end of us,’ said Florrie shaking her head.
Rose carried on folding and packing, letting the others get on with their chatting as she thought about her boys. They drove her mad some days, especially when Bill was away, and they could certainly do with acting a bit more sensibly at times, she’d be the first to admit it. But they could have been worse, a lot worse. She thanked her lucky stars when she thought about some of the things they could have been involved in. Like the trouble that was always ready to break out down by the docks. The boys could so easily have wound up down there. It was well known that the more dubious delights of Chinatown attracted a lot of the young fellers from the East End. It might only have been a few streets in Limehouse, wedged between Poplar and the docks, but that small area teemed with life and industry. The problem was that some of the businesses in Chinatown weren’t too fussy about which services they provided: like the illicit gambling, fighting and whoring – all there to cater for the men fresh off the boats with their pockets full of money.
Rose looked round at the women in the room. She counted herself a lot more fortunate than some of the other mothers. Her Sammy was fixed up in a decent job down the woodyard – it was him putting in a good word that had got Charlie and young Ted their chances down there. She knew that Charlie could be a bit of a lad, but he was only eighteen, he’d learn. He might not like the woodyard much, but he’d do all right for himself when he settled down. Rose might not have been too happy about some of the blokes he knocked around with, but he’d never brought any trouble home to Burton Street, and that was the important thing.
Then there was Jess. She looked across the table at her daughter. She’d grown into a beauty all right, and with a nature to match, kind, considerate and a real grafter. Rose sighed contentedly to herself. She didn’t have too much to complain about, and that was the truth.
She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘More tea, gels?’
As Rose poured the boiling water into the big earthenware pot, Ted slipped back into the kitchen.
‘Drop more stew in there, Mum?’ he asked sweetly.
Rose turned to look at him. His cherubic expression was marred only by the gravy on his hairless chin. She knew exactly how to deal with young Ted.
‘Do yer remember when yer got yer first ’opping ’aircut, Ted?’ she asked wistfully. ‘A right little sweet’eart yer looked.’
‘Bless ’im,’ said Florrie, all sarcastic.
‘Mum,’ said Ted under his breath, his face flaming.
‘I was so proud of yer as yer sat on the board across the arms of the barber’s chair. ‘Ardly grizzled at all. A right little darlin’.’
‘Mum…’
‘A little wooden monkey up a stick, the barber let yer ’old, to keep yer quiet.’ Rose batted her lashes at her now excruciatingly embarrassed son.
‘That’s it. I’m off.’ Ted fled along the passage to the street door, away from the women’s laughter.
‘Thought yer wanted some more stew,’ Jess called after him.
It was ten o’clock, and the other women had long gone back to their own houses and families by the time Rose and Jess had finished their packing.
Rose put the final cup back on to the dresser and spread the drying cloth over the wooden draining board. They’d got through plenty of tea that night. She yawned and went over to the hearth, picking up the envelope containing their hopping letter from its pride of place on the overmantel. She touched it to her lips then slipped it into the deep pocket of her apron, as though she were afraid it might disappear if she left it alone.
‘Come on, Jess,’ she said with a yawn, ‘let’s ’ave a bit of a sit-down, a little blow.’
Mother and daughter each took a wooden chair from the kitchen and went outside on to the narrow pavement. All along Burton Street groups of people sat talking. Some had done the same as the Fairleigh women and had brought out their chairs, others sat on street doorsteps or leant against the stone window-ledges still warm from the late summer sun. The night air carried the reassuring sounds of children’s laughter as they scrabbled in the gutters over games of marbles, or jostled each other in the side alleys, playing boisterous rounds of High-Jimmy-Knacker and British Bulldog. From the corner of the street louder voices could be heard shouting and singing along to the metallic twang of an untuned piano: the familiar sounds of The Star on a Saturday night.
‘Don’t yer wa
nna get a couple of hours kip before we go, Mum? I’ll wait up for the boys if yer like.’
‘Not worth it now, love. It’s gone ten already. Joey said ’e’ll be bringin’ the cart round at about ’alf two. ’E’ll be ’ere in a couple of hours. Wants to be off by three at the latest.’
‘Yer sure? Yer look tired.’
‘Yeh. I’m all right sittin’ ’ere for now.’ Rose could see that her daughter was too excited to sit with her. ‘Why don’t yer go along and see if that Lilly’s ready yet?’
A voice from the group sitting outside the house next door joined in their conversation. ‘The way they gas in that ’ouse I’ll bet ’er mother ain’t even got ’er beddin’ sorted out yet.’
Rose chose to ignore her nosy neighbour.
‘I don’t think Elsie’s ever been on time for anythin’, ’as she, Mum?’ Jess laughed fondly at the thought of her friend’s mum and her slapdash ways. ‘Lil’s exactly the same. Always larkin’ about. Nothin’ gets ’em down. Smashin’ family,’ she added, looking pointedly at the now tutting woman next door.
‘Well, like mother like daughter, they say,’ said Rose, rearranging her apron tidily over her skirt.
‘That why I’m so beautiful then, Mum?’
‘Go way with yer. Go on. Go and sort that Lilly out.’
Rose landed a playful slap on Jessie’s behind, sending a cloud of dust dancing up into the gas-lit night air, making them both cough.
‘Blimey, look at that,’ Rose spluttered. ‘I’ll be glad to get down ’opping. Get away from all this muck.’
‘An’ it’ll do yer chest the world of good an’ all, Mum.’
‘Let’s ’ope so, this cough’s drivin’ me bonkers.’ Rose’s eyes watered from the strain of choking on the dust.
‘Yer sure it’s all right if I pop down Lil’s?’ said Jess. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Course it’s all right, darlin’. See yer later.’ Rose leant back and closed her eyes, enjoying the chance of a rest. She suddenly sat bolt upright and opened her eyes.
The Cockney Girl Page 3