‘’Ere, ’ang on, Jess,’ she called, stopping her daughter. ‘Did yer remember to tell Miss Feldman we’re goin’? Better make sure she’s got someone to turn on ’er gas an’ light her fire of a Friday night. Don’t want the poor old gel sittin’ in the cold and dark with the nights drawin’ in.’
‘I’ve already sorted Ted out for that, Mum,’ Jess called back. ‘’E’s a good kid. ’E’ll make sure she’ll ’ave a fire for ’er Sabbath. ’E promised me.’
‘All right, love,’ said Rose, settling back and making herself comfortable.
Not for the first time that day Rose counted herself a lucky woman. Jess was such a good girl, thoughtful and caring. All that Rose could hope for in a daughter, in fact. All she hoped for now, she thought to herself, was that her Jess would find herself a decent bloke. She hadn’t seemed to have any interest in blokes at all until that day when Jack brought the hopping letter. Rose nodded to herself. He was steady, Jack, sensible and reliable. Over the last few weeks, Rose had watched the pair of them, seen how they’d looked at one another, how they’d started acting all shy with each other. She smiled. It was a bit different from when they were kids playing rough and tumble in the street together. Yes, Jack Barnes would do fine. With Jess settled with a nice chap like him, Rose would have no worries about her daughter at all.
As she shifted, the familiar creaking of the old wooden chair soothed her; the sounds of the happy, busy street fading away, she closed her eyes. She thought of the day when she’d told her old mum that Bill Fairleigh had asked her to marry him. ‘So long as he gives yer enough to pay the rent and to put a dinner on the table every day,’ her mum had said. He’d always done that all right, Rose smiled to herself, the very best, in fact, that he could do – by her and the kids, even if it wasn’t always easy. Bill Fairleigh was a good man. And that’s what she wanted for her Jess. A good man.
* * *
From the activity in Burton Street anyone would have thought it was the middle of the day rather than three o’clock in the morning. Joey Fuller had tethered his wall-eyed black and white pony, Daddler, to the lamp-post and was loading the women’s baggage on to his cart.
‘That’s it then,’ said Joey. He stood upright, straightening his aching back. ‘I don’t know, though, it don’t look enough to me somehow.’ He scratched his head making his cheesecutter cap wobble from side to side.
‘That’s cos Elsie Dorkin ain’t ’ere yet,’ said Florrie Baxter, full of her usual spiteful sarcasm. ‘Win, go and give ’em a knock. I bet the lazy so-and-sos are still in bed. Typical of them. All bone idle, the ’ole bloomin’ lot of ’em.’
‘All right, Mum. Yer comin’, Jess?’
Winnie and Jess hitched up their skirts and ran along the road to find out what had happened to Lil and the rest of the Dorkins.
‘Never known a mob like that Elsie and ’er girls,’ continued Florrie through pursed lips, her arms folded and her head tilted to one side. ‘Lazy? I should say so. Stay abed all day if they could. An’ fat? When they ain’t kippin’ they’re stuffin’ ’emselves with grub.’
‘Wouldn’t do if we was all the same, now would it, Florrie?’ Rose didn’t like gossip, and, even if everyone agreed with Winnie’s mum, she wouldn’t hear her talking ill of anyone. ‘An’ yer’d better watch ’oo ’ears yer chatterin’ an’ all, cos ’ere comes Elsie an’ the gels now.’
‘At last. ’Oo-bloody-ray!’ Joey Fuller gave a jokey cheer. ‘Come on, you lot. Me old pony’ll change ’er mind an’ stay ’ere if yer don’t get a move on.’
‘Sorry, Joe. Yer know what it’s like gettin’ these girls sorted out of a mornin’.’
‘Good Gawd, Elsie,’ Florrie criticised her. ‘Yer’ve only got four. Anyone’d think yer ’ad a big family the way yer go on all the time. An’ we’ve all been standin’ ’ere for ages waitin’ for yer.’
‘All right, Florrie, Mrs Bleed’n’ Perfect. Leave off. I’m ’ere now, ain’t I?’
Joey Fuller, Rose’s three boys and Jack Barnes the postman worked together, stowing the last of the parcels on the back of the brightly painted coster’s trolley.
‘There yer are, Mum. All done.’
‘Good boy, Ted.’ Rose looked fondly at her youngest child, then turned to her eldest. ‘Now, Sammy, I want you and Charlie to look after ’im. Do you ’ear me? I don’t want yer even goin’ near Chinatown, or Bow Common, or…’
“Ere we go,’ said Charlie, rolling his eyes.
‘Shut up, Charlie.’ Jess jumped to her mum’s defence. ‘Yer know Mum’s worried about leavin’ Ted ’ere with you two ’ooligans. Sammy with ’is gels, and you with yer dodgy mates.’
Jess’s efforts misfired.
‘Aw, she’s right,’ said Rose, panicking. ‘I can’t leave me baby ’ere.’
‘Mum!’ Ted was mortified at the show being made of him.
‘Say ’e goes down by them docks? Yer all know what could ’appen to ’im. All them gels ’anging round, waitin’ for the seamen off the ships…’
Ted’s mouth opened, ready to ask his usual awkward questions. Rose was too quick for him.
‘Yer dad’s different,’ she snapped.
Jack saw his chance. He’d already stayed up all night to help load the luggage, even though Clara, his own mum, had never been hop picking in her life. And here was another opportunity to impress Jessie with his maturity. ‘Don’t worry, Rose. I’ll keep an eye on the boys for yer if yer like.’
Rose was relieved. Jack might only have been eighteen, just a year older than Jess, but he was more sensible than her two eldest boys put together.
‘Would yer, Jack? I wouldn’t ’alf appreciate it.’
‘Course I would,’ said Jack, pleased to see Jess smiling happily at him.
‘My Bill’ll be ’ome from sea soon, so yer can tell ’im if there’s been any nonsense,’ Rose said. She turned to her now grimacing sons. ‘Do you boys ’ear me? Any trouble and Jack’ll tell yer dad. An’ ’e’ll have somethin’ to say about it all right.’
The Fairleigh boys mumbled an indignant reply to their mother. The Dorkin girls and Winnie Baxter giggled, enjoying the boys’ embarrassment.
‘Anythin’ for you, Rose,’ said Jack.
‘What yer after then, Jacko?’ Sammy asked the postman, getting his own back by using Jack’s schoolboy name – he knew he hated it. ‘Tryin’ to butter up me mum to impress me little sister, are yer?’
Before Jack could think of an answer for Sammy, Joey had untied Daddler’s reins and was making ready to leave. A row was all he needed; they’d never get away once a slanging match started.
‘Come on, ladies, it’s time we was off.’
A relieved cheer went up.
‘’Ang on a minute there, Joe,’ said Jack.
Joey dropped the pony’s reins again. ‘What now?’ he said wearily.
‘’Ere, Jess. I brought yer something.’
The young postman picked up his sack and took out a cane birdcage. Inside, on a little swing, was perched a bright-yellow canary.
‘Jack.’ Jess couldn’t believe the present was really for her.
‘Go on, take it.’ Jack nodded encouragingly. ‘It’s yours. To keep.’
Some of the bystanders whistled and laughed, others kept quiet, anxious to hear Jess’s reply.
‘It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever ’ad.’ Jess took the cage by its red ribbon handle, leant forward and kissed Jack on the cheek. ‘Ta, Jack. It’s lovely.’
Jack and Jessie stood looking at each other, unaware of, or not caring about, the interest they were arousing. Jack touched Jess gently on the arm.
‘I’ll come down to Kent and see yer in a few weeks, when the rest of ’em go down, shall I?’ He paused, not sure if he’d overstepped the mark. ‘If yer like, that is.’
‘I’d like that a lot, Jack, really I would.’
‘Can we go now?’ Joey tried to sound impatient, although he was as intrigued as the rest of them at witnessing the long-awaited
romantic scene. ‘Them ’oo’s ridin’ for the first hour get on the cart. An’ watch them parcels. Yer’ll ’ave ’em all on the floor again. An’ them what’s walkin’ keep away from them wheels. We don’t want no accidents before we even get there.’
Jess had been picked to ride for the first part of the long journey, but before she could climb aboard, Jack had put his hands around her waist and had lifted her up on to the back of the trolley.
‘’Elpin’ up a great thing like ’er,’ exclaimed Rose.
‘She could’ve stepped up easy with them great long legs of ’ers. Don’t yer go fussin’ over ’er, Jack.’
But Rose didn’t fool her neighbours; they all knew she was delighted with this sudden progress between her daughter and Jack Barnes. Jess had found herself a good bloke all right, and Jack would make just the sort of son-in-law she and Bill had always hoped for.
‘An’ yer make sure yer remember to keep an eye on them boys for me, Jack. ‘Specially that Charlie. An’ make sure they get up for work of a mornin’. An’ watch young Ted. Make sure yer mind ’im. An’ Sammy.’
Her sons groaned at the disgrace of it all.
‘I won’t let yer down, Rose,’ Jack said, standing tall. ‘Yer can trust me, yer know that.’
‘I think I can, son,’ said Rose, flushed with pleasure. ‘I think I can.’
‘’Ere yer are, Jack, take this as a little keepsake,’ said Jess. She untied the yellow paisley stock from around her neck and handed it to him. ‘Keep yer neck nice an’ warm of a mornin’ when yer doin’ yer rounds.’
Jack took the neckerchief from her and their fingers touched. Jess dangled her legs, swinging them back and forth from her place on the tailboard. They looked at each other, big soppy smiles on their faces.
‘Oi, oi. ’Oo looks like the cat what’s got the cream then?’ hooted Charlie.
Joey decided it was time to part the new lovebirds. He clicked his tongue and shook the reins in encouragement and the sturdy little pony pulled away, making the iron-rimmed wheels of the coster’s cart spark on the cobbles. The Fairleigh boys, Jack and aother sleepy males from Burton Street stood in the middle of the road, watching them go. Waving their hands and caps, they shouted their goodbyes through their yawns, bidding farewell to wives, children and sisters.
Jack called his goodbyes to Jess as he tied the yellow paisley scarf around his neck.
‘Yer great big girl,’ taunted young Ted. ‘Fancy givin’ our Jess a canary.’
Sammy ruffled his little brother’s hair. ‘Yer just wait, Ted. Won’t be long before it’s you buyin’ girls presents.’
‘An’ gettin’ a few little keepsakes of ’is own, eh, Jacky boy?’ laughed Charlie.
The idea of ever wasting money on girls made Ted laugh, but the sight of Jack shouting up the street after his sister made him laugh even louder.
‘’Ark at ’im, Charlie,’ he said. ‘What a bleed’n’ nit.’
‘Oi, mouthy, an’ ’ark at you, an’ all,’ replied his brother. ‘Mum ain’t ’ardly out of the street yet an’ yer bloody swearin’.’
The cart disappeared into the darkness but Jack still called out his promises to see Jess in a fortnight.
‘But yer right, little ’un,’ said Charlie, ‘’e is a bleed’n’ nit. Just look at ’im.’
‘Leave ’im alone,’ said Sam. ‘The geezer’s in love, ain’t ’e. No finer feelin’ in the world, mate.’
The motley group of cockney women and their street-raking offspring had gone. Their annual journey into the peaceful garden of England had begun.
Once the little band had crossed the familiar brown waters swirling beneath Tower Bridge and had departed the unfamiliar world of south London, the weather itself seemed to change. The sky grew lighter and the early chill disappeared. The roads were wider, just as dirty and covered with horse dung, but the houses were cleaner and taller and there was more grass and trees.
By the time they reached the Kent countryside the roads had become narrow again, but these were lanes, not the vermin-infested alleys that ran between the grimy terraces and tenements that were home to the East Enders. The smells were of grass, corn and earth. Even the animal smells from the farms were different from the cloying sickly sweetness of the stable yard behind Burton Street.
But it wasn’t until they saw the first oast houses, standing tall against the blue summer sky, that the travellers really believed they were almost there. Once they’d spotted those, they could relax a bit and the women were glad to accept Joey’s offer of a stop at the next pub.
They drew to a halt in Dowlhurst. The village was as good as a picture postcard. It had thatched cottages, each with its own front garden full of flowers and vegetables; a village green planted with wide, shady chestnut trees; a pond dotted with fat white ducks; and the most lovely church that Rose had ever seen.
Rose wasn’t a religious woman, but while the others sat on the grass eating their bread and cheese and swigging down the glasses of beer and lemonade which Joey had fetched them from the Maltster’s Arms, she strolled over to the arched doorway of the little Norman church. She pushed the heavy, studded wooden door until it swung back on its ancient. She blinked and squinted until her eyes got used to the light.
Inside it was strangely dim, not gloomy like at home, but soft somehow, with blue, red and gold shadows from the glorious windows set high in the stone walls. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She couldn’t remember seeing anything more beautiful or peaceful. Rose wasn’t used to being in church and wasn’t sure what to do next, but she felt that it would be all right if she just sat down and said her thanks that life was being so good to her and her family. That her Jessie was going to be settled with a decent man.
Chapter 4
A Little Talk
‘And, on this final Sunday in August, let us pray. Let us pray that, this year, the arrival of the hop pickers from London will not prove to be too distressing for us and for our beautiful village.’
The Reverend Henry Batsford, vicar of Tilnhurst, leant forward and grasped the front of his carved wooden pulpit with his long, spindly hands. He raised his eyes heavenwards, his Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny throat, and his voice droned on.
‘We beseech thee, oh Lord, to keep us safe from the immoral ways and vile habits of those who will be invading thy beautiful countryside this day. Keep us, oh Lord, safe from harm; safe from contamination from the heathen city filth and from the corruption of their dark souls.’
As usual, the Reverend Henry Batsford whittered on and on, but, for once, most of the congregation of St Mary’s, Tilnhurst, were actually listening to the morning sermon. They were as alarmed as their pastor at the thought of the impending threat to their rural peace and morality, and if praying would help protect them, then pray they would. The exceptions, in the otherwise rapt congregation, were Sir George and Lady Worlington. Sir George hadn’t been paying attention because, for the early part of the service, he had been complaining to his wife about a domestic matter, and now, during the second half, he was slumped back in the pew, snoring loudly, oblivious to the sermon and to those around him.
Lady Worlington had not listened to the vicar for reasons of her own. She considered the opinions of the Reverend Batsford to represent the very worst of backward rural prejudice, and chose to ignore them the best she could. Leonore had been born and had spent her girlhood in London, and then, when she was eighteen, had met Sir George at a friend’s house party in Kent. Her initial infatuation with the young and handsome George Worlington had blinded her to his crass behaviour. But now she saw him for what he was, an old-fashioned boor who would have fitted in quite happily with the feudal brutality of his ancestors on their medieval estates. Leonore could not imagine her husband ever caring enough about her to discover her true feelings about living in the country, or her real feelings for him. Nor could she imagine what he would do if he ever found out what she actually did during her increasingly frequent visits to London.
She doubted whether he would even listen if she decided to confront him, to simply raise the subject over breakfast one morning. In her heart she knew that even then she would never be able to discuss her life, her feelings or her hopes with the man she had grown to despise. If she had half as much courage as some women, she thought, she would have left her husband years ago. But she had neither the courage nor anywhere to go, so she stayed in Kent and lived the lie of being a dutiful wife to Sir George Worlington and mother to her equally arrogant sons, Robert and Paul.
It was the subject of their elder son’s behaviour which had occupied the first half of the Worlingtons’ morning in church.
‘I won’t have it, Leonore. I mean it.’ Sir George didn’t bother to speak in a respectful whisper; he didn’t give a damn who was listening, and he was unstoppable once he had started.
‘Garnett’s been head gardener at the Hall since before that boy was born,’ he boomed. ‘I’m not having it. Do you hear? If Robert wants to play around with servant girls, why pick Garnett’s bloody daughter? You’d better tell that son of yours that I will not have Garnett upset. Let him get himself a cockney girl if he wants some fun.’
Not one of the congregation turned to stare at him.
‘I don’t know why you’re so upset about Garnett.’ Leonore managed to slip in a few words, to have her say while her husband was preoccupied with blowing his nose. Her tones were at least subdued. ‘How about Milly, his poor daughter? That’s what I want to know. What’s to become of her now everyone knows what they’ve been up to? And your shouting about it in church hardly helps, George. I cannot think it has been a very good start to an engagement. Whatever is Julia to make of all this?’
Sir George Worlington stuffed his handkerchief deep into his pocket, then twisted round slowly to look at his wife. His lip was curled in sneering disbelief. ‘What the hell has it got to do with her?’
Leonore had decided that the Sunday service was neither the time nor the place to discuss her son’s behaviour towards women, and, to her relief, her husband had turned away from her without waiting for an answer and soon drifted into a deep, if noisy, sleep – his rest equally undisturbed by organ, choir or sermon.
The Cockney Girl Page 4