‘What do yer think, Rosie? Is our Ted old enough to be the storyteller?’ asked Bill, obviously amused by it all.
‘If ’e knows a good un, then I reckon ’e is,’ said Rose. ‘An’ I wouldn’t mind ’earing a story meself.’
‘Dunno about no stories, but ’e’s old enough to get keye-eyed down the pub with Sam all right,’ said Jess moodily.
‘Don’t start, Jess. Yer father don’t want to ’ear no squabblin’ on ’is first night ’ome with us, now does ’e? Go on, Ted, tell us yer story. But take yer time; yer ain’t exactly easy to understand tonight after being out with Sammy. An’ nothin’ rude.’
Ted began his tale. ‘Well, it was like this. I was down by the Thames—’
‘What was yer doing down there?’ interrupted Rose immediately. ‘Yer know yer not allowed down there.’
‘Let ’im get on with it, Rose. It’s only a story,’ said Bill.
‘It ain’t a story, Dad, it’s true,’ insisted Ted. ‘Honest.’
‘If I thought…’
‘Leave it, Rose,’ said Bill. ‘Like yer said, ’e ain’t exactly sober.’
‘As I was sayin’,’ Ted continued, ‘I was down by the river with me mates. Met ’em after work I did, Dad,’ he added proudly. ‘An’ guess what? What do yer think I saw? A body. A real one. Floatin’ down the Thames it was. All bloated an’ ‘orrible and purple. An’ it stunk. Cor! Rotten as a pear it was. Well, me an’ Jimmy found a big stick an’ dragged it in to the bank.’ He hesitated, his face blood-red reflecting the flames of the fire. ‘Then we saw it. All the throat was cut open.’ He made a dramatic slashing movement across his own neck. ‘Like that!’
Rose was horrified. ‘Body? What body? ’Oo was it?
Ted? Ted? You answer me, boy.’
‘Dunno, Mum. But it was all ’orrible an’ the face was all kind of, yuck, I dunno. Jimmy ran off an’ got the rozzers, while I watched it so no dogs got at it. The rozzers reckoned it was the crabs ’ad ’ad it. They’d ’ad a good feed off ’is face. Et it all away they ’ad. Tore it all with their claws. An’ there was eels inside ’is belly an’ all. Been eating all ’is guts out.’
If yer telling me lies, Ted…’
‘No, Mum, I ain’t. Honest,’ he said, a wide-eyed picture of truth and innocence. Then he started laughing. ‘An’ there was somethin’ else.’ He looked slyly at Jess to see her reaction. ‘No one could guess ’oo ’e was, cos even all ’is clothes was missin’. Naked like a newborn baby ’e was.’
‘That’s it.’ Rose stood up. ‘Bed all of yers. Jess, Ted. Get that Sammy in the ’ut. I’ve made up a bed on the floor for the boys. An’ you, Jess, yer going in with Mabel. An’ don’t wake ’er kids up neither.’
‘Do as yer mother says,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll speak to yer later, Ted.’
Jess dragged the protesting Ted away by his ear.
* * *
‘Come to the Mission, will you come? Will you come? Free tea and buns.’
‘What’s that soddin’ noise,’ groaned Sammy, holding his throbbing head in his shaking hands.
‘It’s them Mission ladies singin’, an’ the vicar,’ said Ted, apparently none the worse for the five pints of beer he had drunk the night before. ‘If yer go an’ join in the ’ymn singing they gives yer a free cuppa tea an’ cakes. Right good it is. Yer comin’?’
Ted was the only member of the Fairleigh family who received the spiritual and prandial benefits of the missionary workers that Sunday. Sammy turned over on his makeshift bed and slept away the rest of the bright autumn morning. Jess helped Mabel with the children and her chores. And Rose prepared the Sunday meal, using a lot of imagination and her single pot suspended over the faggot fire. It was left to Bill to organise a group of the visiting men for a walk down to the village, where those who needed it could have a recuperative hair of the dog.
By midday some of the women had joined their menfolk in the pub, but not all of them by any means. The women who considered themselves respectable wives and mothers knew that Sunday lunchtime visits to the pub were an exclusively male affair, unless a woman was ‘no better than she ought to be’, of course.
After eating their varyingly appetising meals of pot roast, braised liver, sheep’s head or sausage stew, the older visitors and their wives settled down in the straw-filled beds for a ‘Sunday afternoon nap’. Many such naps would result in a new mouth to feed come May or June – in other words, the birth of yet another hopping baby.
The younger visitors were left to their own devices, so, having to sort out their own entertainment, they arranged a football match between Worlington’s and Fanshawe’s hop farms.
The pitch was an unconventional, crudely fashioned affair on the Common, with apple boxes marking the goalmouths. The teams were no more traditional in their make-up than the ground. The sides were neither limited to specific numbers in each team, nor to just kicking the ball with their feet. The game was governed by a far more relaxed set of rules which ensured an exciting event for the spectators – mainly sisters and sweethearts of the players – and a release for the youthful energies of the teams themselves. The match had been going for almost twenty incident-packed minutes when a disputed foul threatened to cause a fight between the opposing camps.
‘Sam, don’t ’it ’im. ’E never meant to kick yer,’ pleaded Jess as her brother gestured menacingly at a stocky dock worker who was visiting his mother at Fanshawe’s. ‘Anyway, look at the size of ’im. ’E’ll pulverise yer.’
‘I ain’t scared of the fat bastard,’ sneered the usually cowardly Sam, uncharacteristically. If only his opponent hadn’t hurt Sam’s head, the trouble would never have started, but what with his hangover, Sam’s temper had just snapped. ‘I’ll give ’im a right larrupin’.’
‘Dad’ll do ’is crust if yer do, Sam. Why don’t yer forget it?’
‘A very good idea, Miss Fairleigh.’ Jess blushed at the sound of her name being spoken in the cultured voice of Robert Worlington. ‘Get on with the game, there’s good fellows. Tell you what, I’ll be referee. Keep some order here.’
It was as though the dispute had never happened. Sam and the docker were immediately united against this intruder from the big house. They shook hands spontaneously and the docker addressed Robert Worlington in tones of undisguised hatred.
‘We don’t need no toffee-nosed ref round ’ere, thanks all the same. We look after our own affairs where we come from.’ With that he slapped Sammy matily on the back and ran off to the centre spot of the field. ‘Go on, Sammy, yer take the kick-off, moosh.’
Sammy bowed low. ‘Why, thank yer very much, ol’ chap,’ he said in a mocking imitation of Robert’s voice. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’
And with that, the game was again under way.
‘They don’t mean nothin’, yer know,’ said Jess to Robert, all the while keeping her eyes firmly on the football match. ‘It’s only their way.’
‘They don’t interest me, Jess,’ Robert replied, outwardly concentrating on the sport, but brushing his arm deliberately against hers. ‘I came over here as an excuse to be with you.’
‘Don’t talk daft,’ she said. They stood in silence for a while, Jess increasingly aware of the closeness of Robert’s body.
‘Which one of those chaps is your suitor then?’ he asked eventually, not even bothering to hide his obvious contempt for the assorted male specimens before him.
‘What?’
‘Your suitor? You must have one. Beau? Paramour?’ Robert looked at Jess meaningfully. ‘Lover?’
‘’E couldn’t come,’ she said abruptly.
‘I see,’ Robert said.
Jess turned to look at him. He was grinning broadly.
* * *
‘See yer next weekend, gel.’ Bill held Rose in his arms and gently kissed her on the forehead. ‘If I don’t get meself a bit of casual down the docks, that is. An’ if I don’t get down next week, I promise yer, it’ll be the week after. All right? I’ll be down then, no
matter what.’
‘Whatever else ’appens, Bill, promise me yer’ll keep an eye on them boys. Don’t let Ted go down that river again or nothin’.’ She made sure that no one else could hear. ‘An’ let me know if there’s any word of Jack.’
‘All right, Rosie, don’t go on at me. Yer know I’ll stop ’em from gettin’ in any trouble. An’ I dunno ’ow many times I’ve said I’ll see if I can find out about Jack. I don’t know what’s up with yer, yer ain’t stopped worrying about them bloody boys all weekend. I’m ’ome now. Right? The old man’s back.’ He moved his hands up her back and rubbed the still soft skin at the nape of her neck with the pads of his rough working-man’s thumbs.
‘I don’t mean to go on at yer, Bill. But they worry me so much. Yer know what they’re like. Always up to somethin’. No matter ’ow ’ard I try to keep ’em in order. An’ it don’t seem to get no easier as they get older. We’ll ’ave to ’ave a talk about ’em soon.’
‘Yeh, I know, Rose. An’ I know yer’ve ’ad an ’ard time bringin’ ’em up with me being away so much.’
‘Don’t say that, Bill. I weren’t ’aving a go or nothin’. I can’t ’elp meself worryin’. That’s all.’
‘Well, yer to stop worryin’. D’you ’ear me? Start lookin’ after yerself for once. Leave the boys to me. Yer make sure yer keep takin’ that jollup the nurse give yer, an’ get that chest of your’n better.’
Rose rested her head against her husband’s chest, trying to think how to tell him about her fears about Jack and Charlie. But she couldn’t begin to put her thoughts into words. Speaking about them would make them real. ‘This old waistcoat could do with a bit of a darn,’ she said instead. ‘Want to leave it ’ere an’ I’ll see to it for yer?’
‘Always gotta find yerself a job, ain’t yer, Rosie? No, I won’t leave it. All right? Sailors ain’t useless, yer know. ’Oo d’yer think dams me gear when I’m at sea? The butler?’
‘Go on, yer great daft lump.’ Rose pushed Bill gently away from her. ‘’Urry up or yer’ll miss yer lift with Joey. Then yer’ll ’ave no chance of gettin’ down the docks for the mornin’ call. An’ I don’t want no idle layabout for an ’usband.’
He chucked Rose affectionately under the chin. ‘Yer a gel,’ he said.
‘Bill,’ she said, ‘would yer do somethin’ for me?’
‘D’yer need to ask?’
‘See if yer can find out what ’appened with Jack.’
Bill was about to answer when Jessie came up to them.
‘Thanks for me monkey, Dad,’ she said. She had waited until her parents had finished embracing before stepping out of the hut to join them. ‘I really love it. Ta, Dad. I’ll look after it proper.’
‘Make sure yer do, darlin’. An’ cheer up, eh, love? I don’t want no geezer breakin’ me baby’s ’eart.’ He spoke in a loud pretend whisper, ‘An’ try and cheer yer mother up a bit while yer at it. She’s got the right ’ump on ’er about Charlie goin’.’
‘We’ll be all right, Dad,’ said Jess, trying to sound brave for her father.
‘Course yer will, Jessie. An’ sod the postman, eh, love? A beauty like you. Wouldn’t surprise me if yer found yerself a prince.’
* * *
Scenes of goodbye were being enacted on hop farms throughout the county as menfolk prepared to return to London. Some farewells were as loving as the Fairleighs’, but some, like the one in Florrie Baxter’s hut, were considerably less so. Wally’s departure from his wife included him being lectured on a list of duties which was delivered to him as though he was a particularly unfortunate and downtrodden servant. And some women had nothing at all to say to their departing husbands; they were simply glad to see the back of the drunken nuisances, whose presence threatened them with yet another unwanted pregnancy, yet another mouth to feed come next spring.
Whatever the feelings accompanying those partings, by ten o’clock on Sunday night the hoppers’ huts had once again become the domain of the women and their children, exhausted, ready for bed, and for another week’s work in the hop gardens.
Chapter 10
Fair Rates for a Fair Bushel
As picking got under way on Monday morning, all the conversation and the gossip in the fields was about the weekend.
‘That Wally Baxter,’ laughed Elsie to Mabel. ‘My Perce’d knock me from ’ere to Christmas mornin’ if I give ’im orders like that Florrie do. Wouldn’t mind but she’s no bigger than ’apporth of coppers. An’ the size of ’im. ‘E’s like the side of an ’ouse.’
‘An’ ’e’s a good man an’ all,’ said Mabel. ‘Give me a couple of shillin’s to buy the kids some grub before ’e went.’
‘Blimey, don’t let Florrie know, she’d muller ’im. An’ you’d never ’ear the end of it. She’d give yer a right ear’ole bashin’. Cor, imagine ’er ’avin’ that to go on about.’
‘I ain’t barmy,’ laughed Mabel.
Further down the row of bins, Florrie was talking to, or rather, at, Rose. ‘Did yer see ’ow that one down there, the one from Awerley Street, was performin’ in the pub on Saturday night? All round the blokes, she was. Common little tart. Thought she was gonna show ’em ’er drawers, way she was carryin’ on. Mind yer, I doubt if she wears any, that one.’
‘No, Florrie, I can’t say as I did see ’er,’ said Rose carrying on picking into her bin. ‘I was too busy spendin’ me time mindin’ me own business with me ’usband.’
‘Pity yer don’t spend more time keepin’ an eye on your Jessie an’ that Worlington boy,’ mumbled Florrie.
‘What was that?’ spat Rose, flinging the half-stripped bine on to the ground. ‘Say that again, so’s I can ’ear yer proper this time.’
‘What’s up with yer?’ said Florrie innocently. ‘I only said…’
But Florrie did not have the chance to finish her outraged defence as her twins, Sidney and Albert, came running up full pelt into the side of her bin.
‘Oi, watch out, you boys.’
‘Mum, quick, come an’ see,’ said Albert, dragging Florrie by the sleeve.
‘All the pickers from Fanshawe’s,’ panted Sidney, ‘they’re on strike, an’ they’re all marchin’ over ’ere. Got a big sign they ’ave. They’re carryin’ it right up in the air, on two big ’op poles.’
‘Yeh,’ said Albert. ‘The banner says, “Fair rates for a fair bushel”. They’re all shoutin’ an’ everythin’. Come on. Come an’ see ’em.’
Florrie did not have to leave her bin to witness the spectacle. The Fanshawe strikers had marched into the Worlington hop gardens. Their cry of ‘Fair rates for a fair bushel’, accompanied by the beating of sticks on kettles and tin cans, brought picking at Worlington to an astonished standstill.
A stout, grey-haired woman at the front of the procession handed the pole she had been carrying to one of her companions and started speaking in a loud, confident voice.
‘We ’ave proclaimed an ’oppers’ strike,’ she bellowed. ‘It’s bad enough our men back ’ome ’avin’ ’ad their wages cut. But us workin’ women won’t stand for it no more. We ain’t askin’ for what ain’t ours by rights. We wants fairness, that’s all. Fair rates for a fair bushel. We won’t take the measurers, them farmers’ lackeys, cheatin’ us no more. An’ we won’t take bein’ treated like animals. We wanna be able to use the well, not walk the quarter of a mile to the river. We wants our rights. Come an’ join us.’
The Fanshawe strikers cheered their support for their spokeswoman, but Florrie would not have such disruption in ‘her’ hop garden.
‘You Fanshawe mob,’ she yelled back at them. ‘Yer all the bleed’n’ same. Strike every year at the drop of an ’at. An’ it’s always you, Bessie Shea, up the front leadin’ ’em. Yer an’ yer big gate shoutin’ the odds. Well let me tell you somethin’ for a change: Fanshawe might treat you lot badly over there. Well, perhaps yer deserve it. All I know is, we’re all right ’ere thank yer very much. An’ if it’s all the same to you,’ Florrie looked Bessi
e Shea up and down, “ladies”, there’s some of us wants to get on with our pickin’.’
This time it was Florrie who was cheered by the Worlington pickers. Encouraged by the support, Florrie stuck her hands on her hips and glared into Bessie Shea’s furious face. ‘What d’yer make of that then, Bessie bloody Shea?’
Rose stepped forward from her bin and took the neutral ground between the two bristling women. ‘I ain’t used to gettin’ involved in this sort of thing,’ she said, ‘but if Bessie ’ere an’ ’er mates ’ave got an argument with Fanshawe, that’s their business, an’ they’re entitled to do as they see fit. But I don’t reckon it’s nothin’ to do with us.’
‘Yer tell ’er, Rose,’ shouted Florrie, surprisingly briefly.
‘But,’ continued Rose, ‘I don’t reckon arguing amongst ourselves is right either. Even if we don’t agree with the strike, us Londoners should stick together as much as we can. Don’t let’s ’ave no bad feelin’s; we should ’elp each other out if we ’ave to.’
‘An’ yer ain’t bloody wrong there, Rose,’ said Elsie. ‘Look over at the oast ’ouses.’
As one, strikers and pickers all turned towards the great drying sheds, to see yet another procession heading towards the field.
‘’Oo the ’ell are they?’ asked one of the strikers from Fanshawe’s.
‘It’s our bastard measurer,’ answered Elsie, ‘Theo. An’ it looks like the little toerag’s brought the ’ole of the village with ’im. ‘Ere, ’e’s even got that bloody Batsford, the ‘Oly Joe, with ’im.’
‘What do they want, Mum?’ asked Jess.
‘Dunno, girl, but they don’t sound very friendly. Yer keep by me, an’ keep yer mouth shut.’
The marchers were drawing close enough for the Londoners to make out their cries and chants.
‘Like the troublemakers in the docks and in the mines. They’re all the same. Bringing trouble to our village. Get back where you came from, city filth,’ jeered Theo’s wife from the approaching crowd.
The Cockney Girl Page 16