The Cockney Girl

by The Cockney Girl (retail) (epub)

  As the vicar intoned the final blessing, Leonore leant across and tapped her husband’s arm, being careful to avoid the stale stench of his port-laden snores.

  ‘George. George, the service has finished. Wake up.’

  ‘Eh? What d’you want, woman? Damn you.’ The master of Worlington Hall shifted his great bulk, trying unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position in the ornately carved Worlington family pew.

  ‘George, come along,’ said Leonore, more loudly this time. ‘It is time to leave.’

  He opened his eyes reluctantly, shook his wife’s hand from his sleeve and staggered to his feet, issuing a loud, alcohol-induced belch as he did so.

  Not even the slightest smirk passed across the faces of the St Mary’s departing faithful. In one way or another, Sir George Worlington owned them all, and the inhabitants of Tilnhurst certainly knew their place.

  In the church porch, the Reverend Batsford was going through his weekly ritual of shaking hands with the more influential members of his flock and nodding briefly at those he considered to be lesser individuals. This morning the congregation weren’t in their usual hurry to be off, either to the Hop Bine for a pint or to get back to work in their cottage gardens. This, the ‘homedwellers’, as they termed themselves during the time of the hop harvest, were reluctant to leave at all. They all wanted to discuss the impending arrival of the Londoners, the ‘foreigners’ as they called the hop pickers from the fog-bound streets of the capital. Not even the vicar’s admonishments could get them to return to their homes and their labours. The gossiping continued as lively as ever.

  ‘I do hope you have looked out your keys, my dear,’ said one ruddy-faced woman, whose expression suggested she’d been sucking lemons. ‘I do know as I’ll be locking up at night from now on.’

  ‘I have indeed, beaut,’ said her equally grim-faced companion. ‘They trains their young ones, you know. Soon as they can walk, they has them begging and stealing from the likes of decent folk such as us.’

  ‘Dear oh dear!’ The first woman shook her head with distaste and folded her arms more tightly across her ample bosom. ‘Don’t know the meaning of an honest day’s work, none of them. Filth they are. All of them.’

  ‘Only the Lord himself knows what their menfolk gets up to while their women are down here.’

  ‘I can guess,’ her companion replied. She looked round to make sure she wasn’t being overheard. ‘I do hear as there’s “girls”, if you takes my meaning, on every street corner in London.’ She leant forward, lowering her tone conspiratorially. ‘My Edwin’s brother Cedric went up there once. To London. He could not believe his eyes. Disgusting he said it was. Real disgusting.’

  ‘You don’t say so, beaut?’ This was better than she’d hoped for, real, juicy scandal. ‘What do these “girls” get up to then?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you all about it. Then you’ll know exactly what to look out for when they gets here, won’t you?’

  And so it went on. Even after Sir George and his lady had bid the vicar a brusque good morning the villagers had still not departed. Vegetable rows went unweeded, pints remained undrunk as the villagers stood in the sun-drenched rural churchyard exchanging their dark tales.

  By the time the grounds of St Mary’s were finally emptied of the faithful it was almost time for evensong. And it was soon after that particular act of worship had been completed that the first ‘foreigners’ arrived in Tilnhurst to begin work on the hop harvest.

  Worlington Hall was not the first farm in the area to extend its welcome to the seasonal labourers: that honour went to the neighbouring estate belonging to the Fanshawes. As Joey’s cart moved slowly along the narrow, tree-lined lanes of Tilnhurst, the women and girls from Burton Street saw the welcoming yellow glow of candles and spirit lamps which the Fanshawe hop pickers had already hung outside their huts.

  ‘Just think,’ Jess whispered to Rose, ‘we nearly went there, Mum.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Rose smiling at her daughter. ‘I could never have fancied going to Fanshawe’s, not with that lot from south London. I wouldn’t know no one, would I?’

  The evening light had almost faded before the field behind the hop gardens of Worlington Hall, known to everyone as the Common, finally began to come to life. Joey pulled on his right rein and the tired little pony turned on to the rutted track which led down past the orchards and on to the Common. The women who were riding on the cart climbed down to make the final part of their journey on foot and Joey joined them, leading the pony by her noseband.

  The peaceful scene of tired but happy people making their weary way to their huts was shattered by Elsie Dorkin as she suddenly planted her feet, stood stock-still, and pulled her clay pipe out of her mouth to bellow angrily into the calm country air.

  ‘Now I see it. That’s what the greedy old bastard wanted all them two bobs off us lot for. They wasn’t no deposits. They was to pay to get the electric put on. Just look at it.’

  She stabbed her pipe in the direction of the Hall. As one, they all followed her instructions. And there, across the Common behind the orchards, was the big house for all to see, shining out like they had never seen before. It was certainly a wonder to behold. The Hall was ablaze with strong, steady light pouring out from every room.

  ‘Yer wait ’hi I see ’im, the crafty ol’ sod.’ Elsie was now in full flow.

  ‘An’ what yer goin’ to do then, Elsie?’ Florrie asked contemptuously. ‘Borrow a cup of electric off ’im to light up yer ’ut?’

  ‘Yer can laugh, Florrie,’ said Elsie, leaning threateningly close to her neighbour. ‘It’s only cos the likes of us graftin’ for ‘im that ’e’s got the money for ’is fancy bloody electric in the first place. An’ ’is big ’ouse.’

  ‘An’ it’s cos of the likes of ’im that yer’ll ’ave enough ’opping money to buy a bit of pork and a goose at Christmas time,’ Florrie replied, equally belligerent.

  ‘Aw, so yer sidin’ with ’im now, are yer?’

  ‘What’s it to yer?’

  ‘I’ll show yer.’

  At the sight of Elsie shaping up to her like a prizefighter, Florrie paled visibly, but she kept up the bravado. ‘Get away with yer,’ she jeered, ‘yer couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudden.’

  Joey looked at Rose and pulled a face, and Rose nodded in reply. They could both see that Elsie and Florrie were working themselves up to one of their rows. And, if they were on their usual form, it could go on all night and would probably wind up developing into a real stand-up fight. Then there’d be no rest for anyone. Joey walked the pony forward on to the Common, leaving Rose to speak.

  ‘’Ere we are.’ The others looked round to see what Rose wanted. ‘We’re ’ere now.’ Rose spoke in a jolly, pleased voice. ‘Lilly, why don’t yer ’elp yer mum start unpackin’, love? Get yer belongings off the wagon,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Joey’ll want to ’ave a bit of a sleep before he gets off ’ome.’

  ‘Yeh, come on, Lil.’ Jess winked at her friend. ‘If we get all our gear sorted, Joey can settle Daddler down, can’t ’e?’

  Lil was sensible enough to listen to Jess and Rose. Like them, she’d seen her mum and Florrie rowing all too many times before. ‘Come on then, Win,’ she said pointedly to Florrie’s daughter.

  The friends set to lifting boxes, bags and parcels off the back of the cart, carefully ignoring the challenging glares of Elsie and Florrie.

  Although it had been a full twelve months since the women and children had last got the huts ready for their stay in Tilnhurst, the jobs had become so familiar over the years that it felt like they’d been there only yesterday. Outside on the Common, fires were lit, kettle props stuck into the ground, water boiled and tea brewed. Jam jars were half filled with a mixture of sugar and water and hung outside the hut doors to act as wasp traps. Inside the huts, beds were made up, pots and pans unpacked and tea chests, storing clothing and groceries, pushed into comers to double as
tables.

  The younger Dorkin girls were set by Lil to collect a supply of faggots – bundles of twigs, their main source of fuel, tied into manageable armfuls. The children knew, without being told by their big sister, to fetch enough for their neighbours. By the time they had finished they had collected enough faggots for all the four huts occupied by families from Burton Street.

  The hut on the end was Rose’s. It felt strange; this was the first year she’d be sharing it with just her daughter, the first year all the boys were old enough to stay at home in London and work. It would take some getting used to. But who could say, maybe Jess would have a young one of her own to bring down one day. Rose smiled to herself and carried on with her unpacking.

  Next to the Fairleighs’ hut was Elsie Dorkin and her four girls, although Lil was really a young woman now. Then there was Mabel Lawrence, the widow, her three children, all of them under five, the youngest still a babe in arms. The fourth in the row of ten hoppers’ huts housed the Baxters: Florrie, her only girl Winnie, and her twin ten-year-olds, Sidney and Albert.

  The twins had been sent by Florrie to fetch bales of straw to stuff the striped calico palliasses which served as mattresses. It was important to stuff them well, or the hard wooden shelf which acted as the bed base would provide an uncomfortable and sleepless night – even after the long, tiring journey.

  Joey, the bed’s made in ’ere, mate,’ Rose called from the hut. ‘Come in an’ get yer ’ead down for a while an’ I’ll get yer a bit of supper cooked before yer get off ’ome.’

  ‘Ta, Rose,’ Joey called over his shoulder. He was squatting by the bright, crackling fire. ‘I’ll just finish me cuppa tea an’ give Daddler ’er nosebag, then I’ll take yer up on that.’

  With the pony settled, Joey stepped into the hut that would be Rose and Jessie Fairleigh’s home for the 1913 hop harvest.

  The wooden hut was about ten feet square, with a wide, waist-high shelf running the length of the far wall – the platform on which Rose and Jess would sleep. The right-hand wall, which separated them from the Dorkins, was almost concealed behind the painted pine dresser that Bill had made the first year he’d come down to her, after they’d got married. Rose was allowed to leave the dresser as a permanent fixture in the hut. Leaving such items was a privilege extended to only a few of the families, and depended not only on their reputation for reliability but also on the whim of the farm bailiff, Mr Audley. He had known Rose since she was a little girl and he respected her as a good and trusted worker. The rest of the space in the hut was taken up with the boxes and parcels that Rose and Jess had brought with them from Poplar. The only light came from two candles, stuck inside old jars for safety. There were no windows to give either illumination or ventilation, just cracks in the wooden roof and walls. But the huts were a big improvement on the bell tents that some farms still had for the pickers.

  Joey, however, couldn’t have cared less about the decor. He was just grateful for the chance to stretch out his stiff limbs and get a few hours sleep before the long journey back to London, and the start of another week’s work.

  ‘Joe. Joey.’ Jess gently shook the sleeping man’s arm. ‘Mum’s ’otted yer up a bit of neck o’ lamb stew, Joe.’

  Slowly he opened his eyes and levered himself up on to his elbow. ‘Cor, I wondered where I was for the minute, gel,’ he said, straightening his cap.

  He swung his legs round and sat up. Taking the bowl of stew from Jess he started to eat.

  ‘Your mum’s a marvel an’ that’s a fact. ’Ot grub. I dunno. ’Ow’s she got this lot sorted out already?’

  ‘Yer know Mum, Joe, always organised, ain’t she? She brought down a stone jar full of it. She knew yer’d want a bit of somethin’ down yer before yer went ’ome.’

  ‘I’ve always said it, an’ I always will,’ said Joey in between sucking the sweet meat off the lamb bones. ‘She’s a really good woman, your mother. A real good ’un. Bill Fairleigh’s a lucky bloke an’ no mistake.’

  ‘What yer saying about my ol’ man?’ Rose came into the hut, shielding her candle from the night breeze. She busied herself sticking it safely into one of the empty jars, then rearranging boxes that didn’t really need her attention.

  ‘’E’s saying all sorts of nice things about yer, Mum. Make yer right blush, it would.’

  ‘Well, Joe, yer can forget all that ol’ nonsense,’ Rose said, dusting down her apron. ‘I don’t agree with nothin’ like that. I’m a respectable married woman. An’ everyone knows it.’

  ‘Only speakin’ as I find, Rose.’ Joey wiped the last of his crust of bread round the bowl, soaking up the remaining precious drops of rich gravy.

  ‘’Andsome,’ he said, winking at Jess.

  Jess took the empty bowl from him and handed him his boots. ‘’Ere yer are, Joe.’

  Joey pulled on his boots and stood up, his head nearly reaching the ceiling of the hut. ‘Well, I’ll ’ave to love yers an’ leave yer, I’ve gotta get meself shifted. I’m down the market tomorrow.’ He yawned noisily, and scratched at his chest.

  ‘I made sure Daddler ’ad plenty to drink,’ said Jess, ‘so I reckon she’ll be ready to get ’ome an’ all.’

  Joey reached out and touched Jessie’s auburn hair. ‘Blimey, I dunno. Two good women in one family.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘I reckon yer both got the brains left over from them lot next door. An’ their share of the looks.’

  Jess couldn’t help laughing, but, compliment or not, Rose wouldn’t have any gossip in her home, even if it was only a wooden hut.

  ‘Now don’t start, Joey. That’s enough of that. The Dorkins never ’armed no one. Now go on, off with yer.’ Rose shooed him out of the hut like he was a bluebottle.

  The women and children from the other huts in the row joined the Burton Street families to call their farewells to Joey and Daddler. Years spent hopping together had made them all old friends even though the short distance that separated their East End homes meant they very rarely saw each other during the rest of the year.

  Soon the cart had disappeared into the black Kent night. Jess went and sat by the dying embers of the fire, and Winnie and Lil sat down beside her, pretending they were eager to share their excitement about the weeks to come. What they actually wanted to know was what was going on between Jessie and Jack, and, as Lil put it, ‘with that bleed’n’ canary’.

  Much to Jess’s relief, Rose interrupted their interrogation. ‘Come on, Jess, there’ll be plenty of time for talkin’ later. We’ve got work to do in the mornin’, gel.’

  ‘All right, Mum. Comin’. Goodnight, Lil, night, Win. Night, everyone.’

  ‘Night, night. But don’t think yer’ve got off that easy, Jessie gel,’ Lil called after her. ‘Me an’ Win wanna know all the business. Even if we ’ave gotta wait ’til the mornin’.’

  ‘We’ll ’ave to see about that now, won’t we, Lil?’ said Jess, grinning back at her over her shoulder. ‘An’ I’m not really sure as I know what yer talkin’ about, to tell yer the truth. Night night, you two.’

  All the other cockney voices wishing each other goodnight soon faded and were replaced by the sounds of the countryside: owls, deer, insects, foxes and other strange noises, all unidentifiably mysterious to the city dwellers.

  Rose blew out the candles and climbed into bed, her daughter cuddled up to her. They spoke softly, in whispers that wouldn’t carry through the thin wooden walls and disturb Elsie’s youngsters.

  ‘Seems funny without our Ted, Mum.’

  ‘Yeh, but more room without ’im sleepin’ along the bottom, eh, Jess?’

  ‘I wonder if Charlie and Sammy are lookin’ after ’im.’

  ‘They’d better be, or they’ll ’ave yer dad to deal with when ’e gets ’ome.’

  ‘D’yer suppose ’e’ll come down with the boys?’ Jess asked her mum.

  ‘’Oo? Ted or yer dad?’ Rose paused, then said: ‘Or do yer mean Jack?’

  ‘Leave off, Mum,’ said Jess shyly.

/>   ‘Yer another one ’oo wants to be a bit less backward in comin’ forward.’

  ‘Do what? What yer talkin’ about?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ Rose said fondly, tucking the blanket round Jess’s shoulder. ‘Only somethin’ I said to someone once. Anyway, yer could do a lot worse for yerself than Jack Barnes.’

  ‘I know that, Mum. An’ I really like ’im an’ all. An’ I love that little bird ’e give me…’

  ‘But?’ Rose was concerned to hear the doubt in her daughter’s voice.

  ‘It’s just that I feel a bit shy with boys, that’s all. I get, aw, I don’t know, all mixed up about ’ow I feel. About what to do an’ say an’ that. An’ Jack, well ’e’s always been more like a brother to me, but now I feel different about ’im.’

  ‘I know, love, I know.’ Rose stroked Jessie’s thick auburn hair, soothing her the way she’d done when Jess was a little girl. ‘Tell yer what, me and you’ll ’ave to ’ave a little talk about boys, I reckon. ’Ow’s that?’

  ‘I’d like that, Mum, I really would, but can it wait? I’m ever so tired.’

  Rose hugged her daughter closer to her. ‘Course it can, Jess. It’s waited seventeen years, so I don’t suppose a bit longer’ll ’urt.’ She coughed painfully, joining the chorus of choking sounds coming from the line of huts. Chests congested with factory soot and tar crackled and wheezed as they drew in the sharp, clean air of Kent.

  ‘Soon ’ave all that muck out of yer lungs when we get on them fields in the mornin’, eh, Mum?’

  ‘Yeh, I reckon a lot of things’ll be clearer in the mornin’. Night night, darlin’. God bless.’

  * * *

  The Londoners were not the only ones thinking about beginning work the next morning in the hop gardens. Many of the homedwellers were also involved in the harvest, and even those who would not actually be picking the hops had their own concerns about what would be going on during the coming weeks.