The Bermondsey Bookshop Page 11

  ‘So should I!’ her aunt said, her shock genuine.

  Kate sat in Aunt Sarah’s kitchen and watched as she relit the gas lamp. Her hand shook as she fiddled with the mantle till the warm glow filled the little room.

  ‘Who’s told you Archie’s home?’

  ‘Stan! He says Dad’s even been to their house!’

  ‘No, love! He’s having you on. Just getting his own back for that hiding Rasher Bacon give him.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. He looked so smug.’

  ‘I know. When his piggy eyes close up. Mean little git. But I would’ve known. Archie would’ve let me know.’

  ‘Would he?’ Kate said. ‘Or would he have told Aunt Sylvie and expected her to let you know?’

  Aunt Sarah, always looking for something to blame on her sister, didn’t take much convincing. ‘That’s her doing. It’s just like her to keep it from me. Jealous! I bet she’s told him a pack of lies about me… and you, probably.’

  ‘Why lie about me? And why wouldn’t he have come to see me, when I’m only living next door?’

  Aunt Sarah shook her head. ‘He’s a mystery. He never does things the way normal people do. You could offend him and not know it. Not till he turned his back on you in the street. But then he could just as easily come up and give you a kiss and a fiver, you never knew where you was with our Archie. But she’s interfered. I’m sure of it, Kate.’

  ‘How can I find out? Aunt Sylvie wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘No, she won’t tell you. But I’ll make bloody sure she tells me – don’t you worry about that!’

  Kate waited while Aunt Sarah changed out of her nightdress, putting on her stays and thick stockings. She pinned up her plait and shoved a shapeless hat on her head.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and sort her out.’

  For once Aunt Sarah seemed to be moving swiftly, and Kate followed as she marched to Aunt Sylvie’s. Her knocking was loud enough to wake the whole street, but there was no answer.

  ‘Get yourself out here, you spiteful, jealous cow!’ Aunt Sarah yelled and knocked again.

  Aunt Sylvie flung open the door. ‘What are you shouting your mouth off for now?’

  ‘I want to know why you’ve not told me Archie’s home.’

  Aunt Sylvie looked at Kate. ‘Why’ve you brought her?’

  ‘She’s his daughter when all’s said and done and you’ve got no right to keep him from her – nor me!’

  Aunt Sylvie gave a smirk. ‘Archie goes his own way. If he wants to see either of you he can. I’m not stopping him. Anyway, whoever told you he’s back is a bleedin’ liar. I ain’t seen me brother in years.’

  And she slammed the door in their faces.

  Kate despaired. ‘Perhaps Stan did make it up after all, just to upset me.’

  ‘Maybe he did, love. But you shouldn’t be upset by your father, not after all these years. Don’t pin your hopes on him and you won’t be disappointed, will you? Still – I wouldn’t put anything past her. And I tell you what, there won’t be no one coming and going at Sylvie’s house from now on that I don’t know about!’

  *

  Kate and Johnny sat drinking in the bar of the Hand and Marigold during her break.

  ‘Have you seen the bookshop’s new French teacher?’ Kate asked.

  Johnny nodded. ‘I think she’s a friend of Mrs Cliffe. Why? Are you thinking of learning French? I’d come with you!’

  He looked so eager she didn’t like to laugh, but she did. ‘Me? French? I can’t even speak English properly, can I?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Being around people at the bookshop – I know me accent’s terrible.’ She twisted the glass around in her hand.

  ‘I like the way you speak – but if you’re not happy with it, go to the Tuesday elocution classes.’

  She made a face at him. ‘Classes, classes! You’re always so…’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I don’t know… you think anything’s possible, but it isn’t.’

  ‘Ha! Isn’t! You said “isn’t” instead of “ain’t” – so anything is possible!’

  She joined in his laughter. At least Johnny could always cheer her up. She’d never been ashamed of her cockney accent, but her doubts about her father’s opinion of her were disconcerting.

  ‘Stan told me my dad’s home, that he’s even been to Aunt Sylvie’s and he’s not interested in seeing me.’

  ‘Stan? I told him to stay away…’ He clenched a fist and was almost out of his seat.

  ‘Settle down, Johnny.’ She took hold of his hand. ‘There’s no harm been done…’ But she didn’t dare tell him Stan had grabbed her.

  ‘But there has been harm,’ he said, suddenly calm, intertwining his fingers with hers. ‘He might not have touched you but he’s hurt you. Your dad wouldn’t come home and not see you. Forget it, Stan’s lying.’

  ‘Perhaps… Aunt Sylvie did deny it. But Aunt Sarah thinks Sylvie’s been putting in the poison about me, telling me dad I don’t want to see him.’

  ‘That’s possible.’ He considered it for a while and then shook his head. ‘Sylvie never does anything unless she’ll get something out of it, and I can’t see where the profit is. Can you?’

  She couldn’t and her unease began to subside as they chatted about other things, until he came back to her original question.

  ‘So, have you met the French teacher?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  She remembered the slender neck, the white fur collar, the purple-and-green bruise, and was unsure why she was so interested. But then she remembered Conny – how she’d put up with that stepbrother – and she thought of her own trials with Stan. She decided not to say anything to Johnny. After all, she could be totally wrong. But if she was right, she was prepared, one day, to offer the perfect lady a soldering iron.

  *

  It wasn’t until the following Monday that she saw the French teacher again. Kate was in the reading-room kitchen, cutting slices of fruit cake for the tea break. Ethel liked to run the place as if it were her own home and she insisted on offering refreshments at every event. Which was fortunate for Kate, as when her own food ran out she was quite happy to survive on leftover buns or cake. She always left the door half open while she was cutting the cake. Kate hadn’t earned her nickname for nothing, and she had the ability to home in on any conversation across a room. Now she heard the musical voice. Nora, the French teacher, was talking to one of the students, a young boy of about sixteen, who was mumbling his appreciation of the lesson so far.

  ‘You really bring the language alive, especially with all those examples of life in France. Are you French?’

  Kate was grateful that the boy was as curious as she was. She laid down the knife.

  ‘I was born in this country – my mother was English. But Father was French and they moved back to France when I was a baby. I was brought up in France – until the war…’

  Her voice took on a sad note at the mention of the war. Perhaps she’d lost her parents then?

  ‘Well, you’ve got a better accent than our last teacher,’ the young boy said in a confidential tone. ‘He came from Birmingham. I’m glad we’ve got you.’

  Kate peered through the open door. The young boy was gazing at the woman adoringly, which, Kate thought, she must get a lot of. The new teacher turned away and began walking towards the kitchen. Kate snatched up a cake plate and went into the reading room – she didn’t want to be cornered by the woman. She was feeling far too embarrassed by her outburst to this stranger.

  Without looking up she swerved around Nora and dumped cakes and teapot onto the table. For the next half hour she was busy pouring teas and cutting more cake. But when the class began to disperse, Nora’s sleek head appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Thank you, the cake was delicious!’

  ‘I didn’t make it.’ Kate tried not to stare at the white scarf.

  ‘Well – the tea was very good too.’

 
Kate thought it wasn’t hard to make a decent cup of tea, but she smiled at the compliment.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know, my husband was most grateful to you for finding my earring. He wanted me to give you this.’ She handed Kate half a crown.

  ‘Oh, no! I can’t take that!’ Kate said, thinking: I don’t want nothing from your grateful husband who’s probably given you more bruises than you’d find on the ‘specks’ chucked under a fruit stall.

  ‘He insists,’ Nora said, putting the half-crown on the kitchen cabinet and giving her a worried look. Perhaps the husband would check that she’d done as she was told. For the woman’s sake, Kate picked up the coin.

  ‘All right then. Please tell him thank you.’

  The teacher smiled, appearing relieved.

  ‘Did you get the choker back?’ Kate asked as Nora turned to go.

  ‘The choker?’

  ‘The one that was too tight.’

  Nora nodded. ‘Oh, that choker – yes. It’s much better now.’

  For a moment their eyes locked and Kate knew what lay behind the wary look clouding those lustrous eyes. She knew what it was like to fear that even your most secret action or word might earn a blow. And she knew she hadn’t been mistaken after all.

  ‘Goodnight, madam,’ Kate said.

  ‘Nora. Call me Nora.’

  8

  Martin

  1924

  The man was always staring. Martin North was getting on her nerves. Whenever he came to the bookshop he seemed to be in the way. If he brought his aunt Violet, he’d leave Mrs Cliffe with Ethel and wander over to wherever Kate was cleaning. He’d watch her as she worked, barely saying a word, not even offering to put out chairs if she was setting up the reading room. If he came to a lecture she’d catch his eyes on her when she was serving tea. If she stared back he never looked away. She was used to being ignored. Even in such an unconventional place as the Bermondsey Bookshop, she was still only the cleaner, and whatever she’d learned about the owner, the volunteers or the members was what she’d picked up because, as Janey had always said, she was a ‘born nosser’.

  And he always seemed to catch her at the most unflattering of times. Like now, cleaning the outside lavatory, which was little more than a shed in the shop’s yard. She was backing out, swirling the mop over the brick floor, when a noise from behind made her start.

  Martin North lounged against the scullery wall, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and, as usual, he was staring at her.

  She tutted, obviously louder than she’d meant to, because he stood up. ‘You must think I’m very rude,’ he said in that even, pleasant voice of his.

  She shook her head and, tipping the pail of dirty water into the drain, spattered his cream-and-brown brogues with grey spots. This she was quite pleased about, but he didn’t seem perturbed. ‘It’s just that I think you’re a remarkably striking young woman.’

  She was disappointed to find that Lucy had been right. ‘I’ve seen you looking at me, but you might as well know I ain’t having none of it. So just sod off and leave me to get on with me job.’

  She picked up the zinc bucket, her cheeks burning with anger, tinged with fear. If he wanted to, he could complain to Ethel about her. The bookshop work gave her as much as half her weekly Boutle’s wage. It would be a lot to lose.

  He sauntered after her into the scullery. ‘I think you’ve mistaken me, Kate. You don’t mind if I call you Kate? Ethel likes—’

  ‘Yeah, I know – first-name terms, but just ’cause you’re a friend of the boss, that don’t mean you can take liberties with me!’

  He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I never meant to offend you. Please, let me explain.’ He pulled a small book from his jacket pocket and put it on the draining board. ‘Open it.’

  The scullery was tiny and she had almost to touch him to reach the book. He pushed it towards her and took a quick step back into the doorway, making her feel a bit like a dangerous animal. The book was bound in black leather and its pages were thick, smooth and creamy. They were full of pencil sketches. All of her.

  Some were just heads, her dark curls escaping from the bandana she wore while cleaning; some were of her swollen-knuckled, solder-burned hands that she hated so much; others were back views. There she was stretching to reach that damned top shelf with a feather duster. She went hot with shame at some of them, showing her squatting or kneeling, the folds of her overall stretched over her breasts or behind. Ugh! She hated them all – all except one. This one, where he’d caught her not cleaning, but reading.

  She remembered exactly when it had been. Martin had come up to the reading room with the excuse of delivering a message from Ethel. She’d barely noticed him. For once, he hadn’t seemed to linger. She’d been tidying books strewn about the reading room, and a copy of The Bermondsey Book had caught her eye. She hadn’t ever read Johnny’s first article. She suspected she was frightened to, in case she found out that he was far too clever for her, beyond her in everything but upbringing. But she’d quickly become engrossed, astonished to find passages that were very funny, others that were very sad, but that all were revealing. She felt a secret pleasure when she realized she could find out so much more about Johnny here than he could ever tell her. Martin had caught that very moment, when she’d realized and smiled. She liked the drawing, but she hoped Johnny never saw it. It revealed much too much about the depth of her feelings, certainly more than she’d ever confessed to him.

  ‘I don’t blame you for not being impressed. They’re very rough.’ Martin tilted his head to look at the reading sketch. ‘But of course, the finished article will look much better – that’s if you agree to let me paint you.’

  She was bewildered. What she’d seen in most of those sketches was a drudge. ‘Why would you want to paint me?’

  ‘Why? For having to ask the question, I suppose. Just because you really don’t know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That you’re beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, now you’re taking the mickey.’ She pushed aside the sketchbook and he caught it as it tumbled to the floor.

  ‘You may not have Lucy’s fine clothes, nor Ethel’s perfect diction – but you… you’re like a light in a dark, dark room. You glow.’

  She certainly was glowing now. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t mistake me, I will pay you. To be an artist’s model is not for the faint-hearted, Kate. You need stamina. And after seeing how you scrub those floors… well, I know you’ve got plenty of that!’

  He smiled and she wondered if she could put up with him. But the rates he offered, though less than cleaning, were more than at Boutle’s and it would be worth it to get Mr Smith out of her life.

  ‘I won’t take me clothes off.’

  ‘No need. I’ve yet to see a woman who can make an overall look quite so… interesting.’

  *

  ‘Interesting?’ Marge said, pulling a face. When Kate got back to Boutle’s that day, she hadn’t been able to resist telling her about the surprising offer Martin had made. ‘If he’s interested in your arse, then I wouldn’t go to no studio with him, love.’

  They stood at one of the coke ovens and Kate was glad that the heat masked her blush.

  ‘He’s interested to paint it, Marge. And it’s good money,’ she protested.

  ‘These posh blokes are the worst, and he’s an artist as well!’ Marge said. Although she was only a few years older than Kate, she acted as if she were worldly-wise.

  ‘When did you ever meet a posh bloke – or an artist?’

  Marge didn’t answer. She drew a soldering iron from the oven and inspected its white-hot tip. She was wracked by a bout of coughing. ‘Bloody fumes. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night with this cough.’

  And now Conny took the opportunity to weigh in. ‘She’s only saying, watch where his hands go! And if he asks you to stay late one night – don’t!’

 
; It seemed that everyone had judged the ‘posh bloke’ before he’d even lifted a paintbrush. It made Kate want to defend him, however much he irritated her.

  *

  Not long after she’d taken Martin up on his offer, she was working a bar shift in the Hand and Marigold when Johnny walked in. She never got tired of seeing him come through the doors, knowing that he was there especially to see her. Since they’d begun courting, he made sure he saw her most days. Perhaps it was just his familiarity that made her feel so good, but tonight she was reminded that his familiarity was still tinged with an unpredictability that could surprise her.

  He’d bought her a drink and he pushed it towards her when she joined him at the table.

  ‘The Marigolds are in good voice tonight,’ he said, nodding towards the regular old ladies, who were singing ‘Galway Bay’: If you ever go across the sea to Ireland…

  ‘Hmm. They’ve got lovely voices, just a shame they don’t all start in the same key!’ He chuckled and handed her his latest article for The Bermondsey Book.

  ‘I know you’re not interested in reading my stuff, but you might like this one. Apparently, the subscribers want more “local colour”! I’ve treated them to a day in Dockhead – you’ll recognize some of the neighbours in East Lane, but I’ve changed the names.’

  She took the manuscript. ‘If I get time,’ she said, knowing that she’d read it as soon as she got home.

  ‘Funny how you can make time to “study” Martin North’s paintings, though! Don’t bother.’ He snatched the manuscript from her.

  There it was again – the surprise. That flash of anger. She didn’t like it, but she liked his jealousy. Even if it was ridiculous.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Johnny. It’s just a modelling job. I’m not interested in his paintings.’

  ‘But you are interested in him!’

  She grimaced and shook her head. ‘No! And he’s only latched on to me ’cause I’m different from the sort of woman he’s used to. I’m just a novelty.’ She took back the manuscript. ‘I know what, I can read it while I’m modelling! He wants to do two paintings now. One cleaning. One reading.’