The Bermondsey Bookshop Page 7
5
A Fairy Godmother
Mr Smith’s five pounds had only lasted two months. Kate had expected them to stretch for longer, and had hoped another couple of cleaning jobs would come along in the meantime. But so many women were laid off during autumn that most part-time jobs had already been snapped up.
It was cold in the garret. A sharp wind crept under the eaves and pierced holes left by broken roof tiles. The roof leaked and rain drummed an irritating tattoo into a zinc bucket. She would have to go back to Mr Smith for another loan. But she’d already fallen behind on the repayments on the first. She doubted he’d give her another. If she could only hold out till Boutle’s called her back, she might be all right. She couldn’t afford paraffin for the oil lamp and stove – in fact, she’d stopped buying everything except a weekly ounce of tea and loaf of bread. The jam came free from Aunt Sarah.
She jumped as someone rapped on the garret door. The boxed-in staircase could only be accessed from the first landing, so whoever it was must have been let in by the family downstairs.
‘Who is it?’
‘Stan.’
She opened the door a crack. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve got a message from Mr Smith.’
‘What have you got to do with him?’
‘I work for him,’ he said, with a self-important smirk.
‘Mr Smith can tell me himself.’ She slammed the door and put her back to it, feeling it rattle as he tried the handle.
‘Ain’t you curious, Noss?’
‘Piss off, Stan. I’m getting ready for work.’
‘That’s a porky. I know you’ve only got shitty cleaning jobs now… that’s why you can’t pay him. But Kate, you don’t want to upset Mr Smith… I might be able to help. Open up.’
‘All right. But keep your hands to yourself. I’ve got me soldering iron in here!’
He swaggered in, hands held high, like an innocent. ‘You ain’t got nothing to worry about. I got a girlfriend, and I ain’t done bad for meself neither, for a ginger. She’s a looker.’
He wore a cheap new suit that creased around his body.
‘Don’t offer me a cup of tea, I know you ain’t got it.’
‘I wouldn’t give you the dirt off me shoes. What’s the message?’
‘Clever bitch. You’d better be careful, gel, you might want my help sometime. The message is “pay up”. What did you think it was, an invitation to Sunday tea? Mr Smith ain’t happy. Says he’s been reasonable, but his patience is wearing thin… very thin.’
Stan sat himself on the edge of her bed and patted the blanket. ‘Come and sit with your old cousin. See if we can’t work out a repayment plan, eh?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Stan. You’re not fourteen any more. You’ve delivered the message. Now you can go.’
As she went to open the door, he made a grab for her, pulling her down on the bed. She’d lied about the soldering iron. This was her haven, her refuge. There had seemed no need.
‘I can afford sixpence a week, Kate. I’ll make the repayments for you… if you’re friendly.’
She battered his solid chest, but he grabbed both wrists, squeezing so hard she thought the blood might stop pumping along her veins. She twisted and turned like the eels on the fish stall down the Blue, evading his grasp, till he was red in the face with frustration. As she felt him relax she brought up her knee and heard a high-pitched squeal.
‘Ah, that’s the dear old cousin I remember!’ she said, leaping off the bed and grabbing the enamel teapot.
‘Here, don’t go without your cuppa, Stan,’ she said, swinging the pot so that it cracked against his skull. He rolled off the bed and stumbled for the door, covering his head as she aimed again. ‘Leave off, you mad bleedin’ gyppo! You’ve had your chance. I’ve delivered the message, but I tell you, gel, you ain’t got it, you just ain’t got it.’
She pushed him out and as he stumbled down the stairs, he called, ‘I won’t be so friendly next time!’
*
She ran all the way to Boutle’s. It was lunchtime, but Miss Dane was sitting at her table in the deserted soldering room, eating her usual corned beef and mustard pickle sandwich, which Conny had collected from the corner shop.
‘Have you got a minute, Miss Dane?’
‘Kate!’ She smiled and wiped yellow pickle from the corners of her mouth. ‘How you been, love? Sit down, you look a bit pale.’
‘I’m all right, Miss Dane. Just come to see if they’ll take me back yet.’
‘They’ll send you a letter. Should be end of November. Didn’t you get yourself another job?’
Kate pushed her curls back, aware that she was breathing heavily, but not because of the run. ‘I’ve got a couple of cleaning jobs, but… I’m in a bit of bother. I got a loan out…’
‘Oh, you never did! Kate, you silly mare.’
‘What else could I do? I really need to get back to work, though. I’ve gone and upset Mr Smith.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The moneylender.’ Her lips were dry and she swallowed hard. Miss Dane was her last hope. ‘He’s just sent Stan, me cousin, to get the repayments. But I haven’t got the money. It’ll be the heavy mob next. I know it.’
‘How much did you borrow?’
‘Five quid.’
‘How far are you behind?’
‘Two weeks – it’s a tanner a week.’
Miss Dane put up a finger. ‘Wait a minute.’ Her head disappeared under the bench and Kate heard her rooting about in her bag.
She came up with a half crown in her hand. ‘Take this and get your payments up to date. He might lay off then.’ Miss Dane gave her an uncertain smile. ‘I’ll have a word upstairs, Kate. See what I can do.’
But although she didn’t look convinced, Kate felt near to tears at the woman’s kindness. ‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said.
Miss Dane shook her head. ‘Sounds like you’ve got enough to pay back as it is.’
*
She went straight to Mr Smith’s. Jean, the platinum-haired woman, whose relationship to Mr Smith wasn’t quite clear, let her in, greeting her like a long-lost friend.
‘Where’ve you been, darlin? We ain’t seen you in a while.’ The red lipstick was so thick it cracked when she smiled.
‘It’s only been two weeks!’
Jean raised her eyes in sympathy and adopted a confidential tone. ‘I know how it is, the time runs away and before you know it…’ She paused, her eyes hardening, ‘you’re in arrears!’ She dropped her voice. ‘Mr Smith gets unhappy when it comes to arrears. You don’t want to make him unhappy, darlin’. You done the right thing listening to Stan. Go in.’ She put a hand into the small of Kate’s back and shoved. ‘He’s in the office.’
Mr Smith was going over a ledger, dressed in his bank manager’s suit; it was hard to connect him to Stan’s clumsy attempt to frighten her. He glanced up and gave her a curt nod. Picking up his pen, he immediately began writing in red in the ledger. ‘Kate Goss. Two weeks’ arrears.’
‘Here’s one and six, this week’s as well.’
‘You pay double for arrears. Two and six.’
‘Double!’ That was the half a crown gone already. She’d hoped to get a sixpenny supper tonight.
He looked up, unperturbed, as he opened a large cash box and shook it at her. ‘I see you’ve got the exact money.’
She nodded and put the half crown into the box. Without warning, the lid of the box slammed onto her hand, trapping her fingers, and she cried out, ‘What are you doing?’
He leaned his whole weight onto the lid of the cash box, and the more she tugged, the harder he pressed. ‘Stop it! I’m paying you back!’
Mr Smith clenched the pipe tight in his mouth, keeping up the pressure. ‘Miss Goss, be under no illusion. I am not a charity. And the next time I send you a friendly message I expect you to treat my employee with respect and pay what you owe there and then. Next time I won’t send a relative…’
‘You can’t do this to people. It’s assault!’
‘And you’re free to report this little accident. But I wouldn’t be happy… I wouldn’t be happy at all.’
He leaned back, puffing impassively on the pipe till the acrid smoke made her cough. ‘Good day to you, Miss Goss.’ He turned away and Kate left, holding her hand to her chest, determined not to cry.
Jean let her out and with a pat on her shoulder said, ‘If you need some quick money, I can get you work… easy work, know what I mean?’
Kate was about to thank her, then saw beneath the smiling exterior. Under the face powder, rouge and lipstick was the old hag in the fairy story Mum had once read her. And she remembered how, even as she listened to the terrible fate that awaited little Hansel and Gretel, her mouth had watered at the idea of a gingerbread house.
‘N-no thanks!’ she said. ‘I won’t be late again…’
Back in her garret, she plunged her hand into the bucket of rainwater and let the tears fall until the throbbing eased. Her arm had only just healed, and now her soldering hand was damaged. She had never felt more alone. She lay on her narrow bed and stared out of the dormer window at a steel-grey sky, letting herself drift into the old tale of her father’s return. But this time it didn’t work. Like ‘Hansel and Gretel’, it was just another fairy tale.
She heard the wind whispering her name, but it sounded as if it were coming from outside her door. ‘Kate, Kate?’ a faint voice called.
She opened the door to see little Emmy Wilson from downstairs. She was cradling a saucepan. ‘Mum says I’ve got to say sorry.’
‘Why? What have you done?’
‘I let that Stan in. He told me he’d come in the night and kill baby Stevie if I didn’t… Sorry.’
Kate crouched down to Emmy’s level. ‘Tell your mum it’s all right. Stan’s a big bully and it’s not your fault.’
‘I’ll tell her. Here, she sent you up this.’ She handed Kate the saucepan. ‘What’s left of our rabbit stew, and she says we’ll make sure he don’t get in again.’
Kate took the pot and placed it carefully on the table before giving Emmy a hug. ‘Sorry I haven’t got a penny for you,’ she said.
‘Don’t matter, Mum says we have to share and we don’t want no payment.’ The little girl drew herself up and Kate said, ‘Your mum’s a very kind lady. Tell her I said thank you and I’ll give her back the pot tomorrow!’
Kate devoured the rabbit stew, trying to ignore her suspicions that she was eating Mrs Wilson’s tea. When she’d scraped the bottom of the pot, she felt less hungry but, more importantly, less alone than she had an hour before.
*
Wednesday was an easy day at the bookshop. She couldn’t see the point of the Tuesday elocution lessons. Who were they for? Certainly not the middle-class volunteers or the students who came from all over London to attend the Sunday lectures. So they must be for the locals. But she couldn’t believe many Bermondsey people felt the desire or need to acquire a cultured accent. And the proof was that the elocution class was usually a small one. But whoever attended, they were a considerate lot and always stacked the chairs away before leaving. She was especially grateful today, as she’d have had trouble lifting chairs with her swollen hand. She gave the reading room a quick mop and polish and went down to the shop. Ethel Gutman had been joined by a woman Kate hadn’t seen before. They were seated at the large table. Deep in conversation, they hadn’t noticed her arrival. The woman wore an expensive-looking cream wool coat and a wide silk hat with a feather that fluttered as she spoke. In her late forties, she was older than the usual volunteer. Kate moved along the bookshelves and, careful to use her left hand, flicked the feather duster in time with the woman’s hat. She was smiling to herself when the woman shot a look in her direction. Kate felt caught, and yet how could the woman have known that the feather on her head was being imitated? Kate made her movements a little less jaunty and turned away to clean the window display.
She pulled aside the lace curtain, which hung on a brass pole at the window, and reached over to flick the displayed books with her duster. She looked through the glass pane at sleeting rain and noticed a young man staring at her. He was wearing a tweed jacket and a pale peaked cap and held leather driving gloves in one hand. She expected him to look away but he stood back a little and continued to stare. Perhaps he wanted to see the books on display and she was blocking his view. ‘Sorry!’ she mouthed before giving one final flick of the duster and drawing the curtain again.
The shop bell clanged loudly and the young man walked in. ‘Aunt Violet!’
He had a pleasant voice and he brought in the fresh smell of rain on tweed along with a sharp cologne. He took off his peaked cap and she darted out of his way as he went to greet Miss Gutman and the lady.
‘Ah! My chauffeur’s here! Miss Gutman, this is my nephew, Martin North.’
Kate slipped into the scullery. She filled the zinc bucket slowly so as not to drown out their voices.
‘We’ve been talking about Miss Gutman’s magnificent work here, making books available to working men and women – as well as her famous lectures. I’m going to be her latest patron!’ The imposing woman had an almost girlish excitement about her. ‘What do you think, Martin?’
‘Marvellous idea! I’ve heard such good things about the Sunday lectures. I’m particularly interested in art history – do you have a programme, Miss Gutman?’
‘We do!’
Kate peered round the door and saw Miss Gutman searching in completely the wrong place. ‘Oh dear, I’m sure they were here. I do know we’ll be having someone coming to speak on art – very soon. I can’t quite remember…’ She was getting herself in a state. Kate had picked up that Ethel was not the best of businesswomen. She left the financials to her husband, who was older than her and wealthy enough to subsidize the shop. ‘I’ll have to send you one.’
As they chatted Kate left her bucket and ran upstairs. When she came down with a programme the young man was already steering his aunt out of the shop. ‘Come along, Auntie Vi, I know you love it dahn ’ere amongst the costermongers but we ain’t got all day!’ he said in a bad cockney accent.
Hot with a sudden anger, she shoved a programme into his hands and, unable to resist, addressed him in his own plummy accent. ‘Mr E. Clephan Palmer of the Daily News will be giving a thrilling lecture on “The Failure of Art”!’ Then dropping into his bad cockney, ‘That’s if you fancy comin’ dahn ’ere again.’
His face paled. ‘I beg your pardon. Thank you for the programme. Most kind,’ he mumbled and hustled his aunt out.
She daren’t look at Miss Gutman – no doubt she’d lose her job for offending the newest patron – but with her face still burning, Kate could finally see the point of the Tuesday elocution class.
Miss Gutman put a hand on her shoulder and Kate turned to face her. Ethel was laughing. ‘You have a great gift for mimicry, Kate. I’m sure you’d be a welcome new voice in the Wednesday play readings. Come tonight!’
Play readings! Living on tea and air, she barely had the energy to do her cleaning, let alone prance about pretending to be a fine lady. This woman had no idea about real life in Bermondsey. She sighed. ‘No thanks, miss. I haven’t got the time.’ She pushed back her curls under her bandana and Miss Gutman gave a gasp.
‘What have you done to your hand?’
‘Caught it in a door,’ she said, making her escape to the scullery. ‘I’ll just finish polishing the floors then I’ll be out of your way!’
When she came back with her duster, she was relieved to find Miss Gutman had gone upstairs. She knelt and dipped the duster into the tin of polish.
‘Hello, Kate,’ a voice said quietly, and at the sound of Rasher’s voice, her heart beat a little faster. He stepped around her kneeling figure. Damn! He would have to come in right now, when she had her skirt hitched up and her hair stuffed into an old bandana.
‘I’ve come to see you.’
‘I told you before, Rasher. I can’t go for a drink with you,’ she replied wearily, but firmly. She guessed he was between girlfriends and at a loose end – there was no other reason for his persistence.
‘It’s not about that – though you will, one day,’ he said with that cocky grin of his. ‘Listen, I’ve heard the talk in the lane about you getting in trouble with that shark Smith. Let me help.’
‘Did you get called on today?’
‘No, I wasn’t lucky.’
‘Then how can you help me? You’ve got a mother to keep in Guinness,’ she said, immediately regretting it.
‘You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one day. I wasn’t offering you money…’
‘What were you offering then?’
‘You’ll find out.’ She could see he was exasperated with her. But she couldn’t help that. At the moment she had energy enough to keep herself alive, and that was all.
He was staring at her hand. ‘Did Stan do that?’
She stuffed her hand under the overall. ‘You can’t keep no secrets in the lane, can you? It wasn’t him, it was his boss.’
He squatted down beside her. ‘Let me go and sort him out. Me and my mate big Ginger Bosher’ll pay this Mr Smith a visit.’
‘No! I can’t have anyone else getting in trouble over my silly mistake.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand your family. They’ve just chucked you to the wolves. What did you ever do to them, Kate?’
‘I think I had the wrong mother.’
He nodded. ‘I know what that feels like!’ And they both laughed. ‘The times you helped her home, Kate! You were a good kid.’
And in spite of all her resolutions, she couldn’t help feeling pleasure that, back then, he had noticed her after all.
He pulled a rolled-up manuscript out of his jacket pocket. ‘Better get the deathless prose checked over by milady upstairs!’