The Cockney Girl

by The Cockney Girl (retail) (epub)

  ‘An’ yer’ll be quite welcome to tell ’im an’ all, madam,’ mocked Charlie.

  From the upstairs window of the house opposite Number 8 a furious elderly man stuck his head out into the street. ‘I’ll give yer callin’ me madam, yer cheeky bugger. Yer can stop yer ol’ saucin’ as soon as yer like, Charlie Fairleigh, or I’ll…’

  Before he could finish his threats, the man caught sight of Charlie posing in the glow of the gaslight. Despite himself, the man couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘I’ve gotta ’and it to yer, Charlie Fairleigh. I might ’ave known yer’d be the first one in this street to ’ave a bloody bowler ’at.’ The angry neighbour spoke to an unseen person in the bedroom behind him. ‘Yer should see the ol’ bounce on that Charlie Fairleigh, Maud. Bloody bowler ’at,’ he chuckled. But once he had got over the surprise of seeing Charlie in all his sartorial splendour he continued with his warning. ‘But I’m tellin’ yer. Yer might think yer Jack the lad but if yer don’t get in that ’ouse and shut up – now, the lot of yer – I’ll be down there to yer with this poker. Now shut up!’

  The noise the man made slamming his bedroom window down was greeted with a further chorus of enraged shouts from the houses around him.

  ‘An’ yer can be quiet an’ all, yer old bleeder,’ was one of the politest suggestions as to what he should do.

  ‘I think it’s time we went in, lads.’ They followed Charlie into the kitchen, eager to learn about this new turn of events.

  ‘So I was introduced to this Mr Chen, see?’ Charlie told them, settling himself down at the table.

  ‘One of them ol’ geezers in the long frocks?’ asked Ted, stuffing the last of the cold chips into his mouth.

  ‘That’s right, yeh. Long red robes ’e’s got. With all kinds of beautiful patterns and that. An’ a pigtail an’ everythin’. Mind yer ’e’s a right powerful feller, if yer gets me meanin’. They all respect Mr Chen down there, everyone do. Everyone knows about Mr Chen.’ Charlie fiddled with the unaccustomed tightness of the stiff collar. ‘So anyway, I’m introduced to ’im. I’m the new champion, that sort of thing, yer know. And ’e spoke to me in English, right posh soundin’ ‘e is an’ all. Said as ’ow I ’andled meself well and that ’e might ’ave a job for me.’

  ‘What sort of job?’ Jack was concentrating hard now, sobering up rapidly.

  ‘I’d be like an ’elper really. I’ve just got to be there when ’e wants me to ’elp ’im, see? Make sure there’s no trouble.’ Charlie took a swig from one of the remaining bottles of pale ale. ‘Say when someone’t think they should ’ave lost at Puck-A-Poo. I’ll be there to straighten things out. An’ I’ll see things don’t get out of order, say if a customer gets a bit rough with Mr Chen’s young ladies. See that the blokes pay for their pipes of stuff in the front room. That sort of thing.’ Charlie was speaking very casually, but he kept glancing towards Jack, gauging his reactions to the news.

  ‘Yer gonna work for a crook, yer mean,’ Jack said.

  Charlie paused, just a moment, but long enough to make Jack feel uncomfortable. ‘If yer say so, Jack.’

  ‘Don’t yer care, Charlie?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Cos of Rose, that’s why.’ Jack leant across the table towards Charlie, his voice rising with anger. Sammy and Ted looked at each other. Sammy shrugged. He didn’t know what to do. Jack continued, ‘She don’t even like yer goin’ down Chinatown, let alone gettin’ involved with filth like Chen or whatever ’e calls ’imself.’

  ‘An’ ’oo says ’e’s filth?’

  ‘Yer sayin’ ’e’s straight then, Charlie?’

  Ted and Sammy had both turned towards their brother. For a brief moment the room was very quiet and still. Then the shouting started.

  ‘An’ what else is there round this dump, eh, Jack? Tell me that,’ Charlie demanded. ‘Graftin’ down that poxy woodyard? Is that what yer think I should do?’ He slammed the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Slave down there all me life? Work all them hours for ’ardly nothin’? Wind up with no money and with all that dust on me chest, killin’ me before I’m thirty? Or go down the brewery like Joey Fuller’s ol’ man? Yeh!

  That’s a good idea, I could get killed even quicker that way. Or ’ow about goin’ down the docks? Line up on the stones every mornin’ like cattle, waitin’ to get picked for work by some crooked bastard ’oo takes ’alf yer wages for the privilege. Or be like me dad and go off for months on end, stuck on a stinkin’ ship miles away from me wife an’ kids? Or maybe I should become a postman like you an’ never ’ave no chance of gettin’ out of this dump. No, Jack. None of that’s for me. There ain’t many routes out of this ’ole. But I’ve found one. An’ I’m gonna take it.’

  ‘Yer dunno what yer talkin’ about, Charlie.’ Jack was red-faced and angry, but he also felt ashamed at what Charlie had said.

  ‘Aw yes I do, Jack. Yes I do.’ Charlie’s lip was curled in contempt. ‘It’s like our bedroom, see. There’s only one way out of there an’ that’s by climbin’ over the others.’ He gestured wildly towards his brothers. ‘An’ that’s what I’m gonna do with me life. I’m gonna climb me way out of this dump, right over the others. If you wanna stay round ’ere and rot, yer welcome, but me, I’m goin’ places, goin’ to the top. No matter what anyone says. An’ yer’d all better get used to the idea.’

  Chapter 7

  Silk

  Fresh from his bath, Robert Worlington walked easily down the wide, curving staircase. He hesitated on the bottom stair. He could hear laughter and music coming from the room where the guests were due to gather before dinner. But it was still too early for that. He waited, straining to hear the conversation. He moved forward, then, with a single movement he threw open the double doors and walked in. The laughter stopped immediately. Julia and Paul stood in the middle of the floor, quite still. Their arms were wrapped around each other.

  ‘Good evening, Julia,’ said Robert.

  ‘Wonderful dancer, this fiancee of yours,’ said Paul. He sounded more relaxed than he looked. He moved his arms awkwardly from around Julia’s modishly tiny waist and scratched the side of his head. ‘Knows all the latest steps.’

  ‘Good evening, Robert,’ said Julia coolly. ‘I haven’t seen you at all today. I wondered about you.’ She turned back to Robert’s younger brother and smiled. ‘Then Paul found me. He said you have been very busy. Occupied with business on the estate.’

  Robert thought he noticed an edge to Julia’s voice and decided this was not the moment to question her attitude. ‘Yes,’ he replied neutrally, ‘the estate does take a great deal of my time.’

  ‘So Paul said. He also told me it was on your suggestion that he accompanied me on my ride around the grounds this afternoon. It was delightful.’ Julia smiled, keeping her eyes on Paul.

  ‘Right,’ said Robert. He was not really listening to Julia; he was far more interested in pouring himself a drink from one of the decanters on the side table. ‘Anyone else?’ he asked when his glass was full.

  ‘No thanks, Robert,’ answered his brother, returning Julia’s smile. ‘And I’ve looked after Julia already.’

  Paul was amused and delighted to see that his brother was not concerned enough to pick him up on his obviously flirtatious manner with Julia; he was even more delighted to see Julia herself blush delicately and shyly bow her head. He was undoubtedly making quite an impression on Miss Markington and yet his brother was totally unaware of it. Tilnhurst could be boring for a young man like Paul, but with Julia around it might become a deal more interesting. Paul went to tend to the gramophone which had wound down to a slow, drawling whine.

  ‘What do you say?’ said Paul, raising his brows in question. ‘Shall we have a little more music?’

  Before they could answer, Lady Worlington entered the room, followed by her dinner guests.

  ‘Boys. Julia,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Let me introduce everyone.’

  And so another evening at Worlington Hall began. T
he family and their guests enjoyed an excellent dinner. Then the ladies played bridge and gossiped, while Sir George drank far too much, and the other gentlemen played billiards and put the world to rights, arguing about the various solutions to the Balkan problem and the German threat to British naval supremacy.

  Paul’s concerns, however, were far closer to home. He very much wanted to talk to Robert about the tall, auburn-haired girl who had so clearly caught his brother’s eye, the cockney girl on whom he had evidently set his sights. But, disappointingly for Paul, Robert would not be drawn on the subject; he was momentarily more interested in defending the five guineas which he and the Reverend Henry Batsford had wagered on the outcome of their game of billiards.

  Like his younger son, Sir George had had his hopes for the evening dashed. Things were definitely not proceeding as he would have liked. Instead of being left undisturbed to his port and cigars, his simple pleasures had been interrupted by the butler.

  ‘So sorry to disturb you, Sir George,’ said Tyler deferentially, ‘but I thought you would want to know that Garnett is most anxious to see you.’ The butler spoke softly, choosing his words carefully, recognising the signs of drunkenness which so often led to his master losing his unpredictable and violent temper.

  ‘What does the bloody man want now?’ shouted Sir George, loudly enough to make his guests wince, some with embarrassment, others with anxiety. His wife ignored him completely and carried on studying her cards.

  ‘I am not sure, Sir George, but he really is most anxious to see you.’

  Sir George hesitated for a moment but then thought about his gardens, and the wonders which Garnett worked upon them. He made up his mind to spare him a few moments. He heaved himself up from the winged armchair.

  ‘Well, come on. Where is the bloody man?’ he asked resignedly, striding out of the room in front of the butler. ‘Haven’t got all night, you know.’

  Garnett was waiting outside the kitchen entrance to the Hall, nervously rubbing his freshly razored chin. At the approach of Sir George he took his battered felt hat from his head and bit anxiously on his bottom lip.

  ‘This had better be important, Garnett.’

  ‘Yes, Sir George, it is, sir. Very important, sir. I couldn’t sleep from worrying about it. That’s why I came up to the Hall to speak to you.’

  ‘Get to the point, man.’ Sir George intoned each word as though he had already run out of patience.

  ‘It’s about my daughter, sir. My Milly.’

  Garnett flinched momentarily and stepped back from the blast of port-laden breath. He thought he was about to become the target of Sir George’s flying fist, but the thick red knuckles landed harmlessly in the palm of his employer’s own hand.

  ‘That damned Robert,’ fumed Sir George. ‘If he’s been hanging around your girl again, so help me, I’ll string the little swine up from one of the oast houses. What’s he been up to now?’

  ‘It’s not so much what he’s doing,’ Garnett explained, ‘so much as what he’s already done. If you see what I mean, sir.’

  ‘What, you mean your girl’s in foal?’ blurted Sir George.

  Shocked to hear his daughter described so crudely, it was a moment before Garnett could answer. ‘No, Sir George, she’s not in the family way.’ The gardener paused. ‘Least, not as far as me and her mother knows. It ain’t that sort of trouble she’s having.’

  ‘Is this going to take much longer, Garnett? I have guests waiting for me in there, you know.’

  ‘I’ll get to the point then, sir. My Milly is not a happy girl. Ever since the night of the engagement, when she was “found” by all them young gentlemen what was searching for young Master Robert, well, she says she’s too ashamed to show her face around here. Won’t leave the cottage, she won’t. Just moons around all day. Won’t do a stroke of work neither. Says she’s never going to get wed now everyone knows all about the carryings-on that night. And as how Master Robert…’ Garnett looked expectantly at the man who could solve or increase his problems with a simple nod or shake of his head.

  ‘You don’t think Robert meant any of those things he said to the girl that night, do you, Garnett? You know what young men are like when they’re roused. Promise them all sorts of things.’ Sir George laughed lasciviously, forgetting he was addressing the girl’s father. ‘Did it myself. Still do.’ He seemed to be enjoying a private memory that had managed to find its way into his mind through the alcoholic fug.

  ‘No, sir,’ Garnett replied coldly, ‘I don’t think that your son meant any of the things he said. But our Milly does. Or, at least, she half does. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what she thinks no more. And, well, me and the wife can’t have her hanging about the cottage not working, hoping for Master Robert to come and take her away. We can’t afford to feed a mouth just for the sake of it, daughter or not. We was hoping as how you could have a word with one of your friends and find her work away from here. She’s a good…’ He stopped and reconsidered his description of his daughter’s attributes. ‘She’s a willing, hardworking girl. Usually. She wouldn’t let no one down, would Milly.’ He looked pointedly at his master. ‘She’s been brought up different to that. But me and Mrs Garnett both think she’ll be better off away from here.’

  ‘That it then, Garnett?’

  ‘Yes, Sir George.’

  ‘Right.’ He turned on his heel and walked back into the house, leaving the gardener standing alone, unsure whether his problems had been solved or not.

  Sir George used the staff entrance, making the servant girls giggle with astonishment and the cook click her tongue in rage at the disruption as their master strode through the steam-filled room.

  ‘Carry on. Carry on,’ Sir George barked, gesturing nonspecifically around the kitchen, leaving as suddenly as he had appeared.

  Instead of returning to his guests in the games room, however, Sir George first went into the library and rang for Tyler.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Having been forewarned by the cook of Sir George’s detour, the butler arrived almost immediately.

  ‘Tell Lady Worlington I want to see her. Now.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  Accustomed to her husband’s unsociable behaviour, particularly after dinner and its accompanying wine, Leonore apologised to her bridge partner, assuring them that she would return as quickly as possible, and left the room for the library. The rustling of her long skirts could not quite hide the whispers which accompanied her exit.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me, George,’ she said as she closed the library door behind her.

  ‘Milly Garnett,’ he said, as though that was the only explanation required.

  ‘The gardener’s daughter. Yes?’

  ‘Find her a position away from that bloody son of yours. Garnett’s not happy. I don’t want my yew hedges to suffer.’

  With that, he stepped around his wife, opened the library door and returned to the billiard room and his port.

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ said Leonore to the empty, book-lined room. ‘But not because you’ve asked me. Oh, no, not because of that. I’ll do it to get that young woman away from you damned Worlington men.’

  * * *

  The next morning, Leonore, accompanied by Julia and their ladies’ maids, left for London to spend a week with her cousin Amelia.

  During the journey, Leonore was not surprised to discover that her pretty future daughter-in-law’s topics of conversation were limited to those they had already exhausted in the drawing room. From the moment they got into the brougham for the journey to the station, Julia chattered and giggled about the froth which filled her head. She spoke about the latest fashions, her new riding habit, her preference for a spring wedding, the bounce of her fair curls. It was to drive Leonore to distraction, but she managed to nod and smile in the appropriate places, whilst never actually engaging in the trivial chatter that Julia seemed able, and happy, to carry on endlessly.

  Inwardly Leonore sighed; she was making the journe
y to London to rescue Milly Garnett from Robert’s clutches, and here was this silly, privileged girl offering herself as yet another willing lamb ready for him to slaughter. She had no personal dislike for Julia; rather she was frustrated by the girl’s complete lack of interest in anything not to do with her own closed, silly little world. Soon after they had been introduced, Leonore had made tentative enquiries about Julia’s interests; she had even asked her thoughts on political affairs. Her questions had been met with either puzzled silences, or Julia’s charming but disappointing giggles.

  Before they had met, Leonore had hoped that her future daughter-in-law might share some of her own concerns, that it would be like having a daughter at last, an ally against the overwhelmingly male household at Worlington. But it was not to be. Maybe when Paul met someone it would be different. Maybe. She could always hope.

  Leonore was not entirely gloomy, however. During the week they would be spending in London, she would take the opportunity not just to ask her cousin Amelia for help with the ‘Milly problem’, but also to go with her cousin to the place they went whenever they could manage to steal some moments from their usual wifely duties. Leonore was relieved that this time she did not have to go through the tedious motions of inventing yet another feeble excuse for her journey into town. Not that George ever appeared to notice or care about her absences, but her work was too important for her to take even the slightest risk of George discovering the true reason for her increasingly frequent trips to London.

  As Julia and the train both went on and on in their monotonously relentless rhythm, Leonore studied the girl’s lovely yet vacant face. She remembered how she too had once been blissfully unaware of the realities of the world which surrounded her.