The Bermondsey Bookshop Page 8

  *

  That evening, she went down to the end house in East Lane. Mad Longbonnet’s backyard was unusual for having thick greenery sprouting from every corner. Cobbles had been dug up and patches of earth filled with all sorts of weeds. Once, Kate had fallen in the street and bumped her head on the kerb. Longbonnet had come out with a green, smelly compress of comfrey leaves and put it on the swelling egg. Her playmates had frightened her with tales of poisonous witches’ brews. But, miraculously, the swelling hadn’t lasted more than a day.

  She slipped into the yard, making sure Longbonnet wasn’t about, and began tugging up handfuls of comfrey.

  ‘You remembered!’

  Kate jumped. It was Longbonnet. The woman walked on silent feet and was always appearing out of nowhere. Kate eyed the back gate.

  ‘Don’t run away, Kate Goss. I got a better remedy for that hand. Come inside.’

  Kate shook her head.

  ‘I ain’t gonna eat you.’ And then she gave a brown-toothed smile. ‘My gawd, it’s like looking at Bessie when she was your age.’

  The old woman shuffled off, and Kate followed her into the house. She allowed her hand to be slathered with a brown, foul-smelling ointment and bandaged.

  ‘Comfrey and paprika. Keep it like that and you’ll be good as new by the end of the week.’

  Kate had lost all interest in her hand. ‘Bessie? Did you know my mum?’

  ‘Course I did. And your grandmother. When we all used to live in Romany Row. Your poor mother should’ve stayed there. Worst thing she ever did, coming into that family. The Gosses was a cold-hearted lot. And that Stan… he’s always had his eye on you – now you’ve given him a way in. Silly mare.’

  Longbonnet sounded suddenly not mad at all. She leaned close, her long nose almost touching Kate’s. ‘You should get away from that family, oss they’ll be the death of you, just like your poor mother.’

  A chill enveloped her. ‘Whatever they are, it’s nobody’s fault she fell down the stairs. It broke me dad’s heart!’

  Longbonnet shook her oily hair, ringlets screening her face as she turned back to the ointment. ‘Do as you please. You’re as stubborn as she was. But one day you’ll remember what I said. Then you come to me.’

  Dismissed, Kate ran all the way to her own house. Longbonnet had never talked about her mother before. Why now? She wasn’t going to let an old woman with a faulty memory upset her but, mad or not, Longbonnet was right about the ointment, for the following morning Kate was astonished to find her bruises gone and her fingers looking much less like sausages.

  *

  On Friday when she went to the bookshop, Miss Gutman appeared to be waiting for her.

  ‘Before you begin, Kate, I’d like to put a proposal to you.’ Kate hoped she wasn’t going to renew her attempts to enrol her in the play readings. She was about to make an excuse when Miss Gutman took her damaged hand and examined it. ‘It’s looking much better, but a little bird told me what the cause was. And I would like to offer my help.’

  Kate pulled her hand away. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Gutman, but I’m getting along fine. And it’s kind, but I can’t accept charity. No!’ She was intensely embarrassed. The woman took her hand again and held it gently. She was trapped.

  ‘I understand. The little bird also explained that. But what if I were able to provide you with a few extra hours’ work each week? Would that help?’

  Kate would have fallen and kissed Miss Gutman’s feet if the woman hadn’t been holding on to her hand.

  ‘Yes, yes it would! But what is there to do?’

  Miss Gutman went on to explain that the numbers attending the lectures were now so high that they needed help setting out the room and serving refreshments afterwards. ‘Also, I know you weren’t attracted to the idea of joining the drama readings, but they are putting on some productions and would be very glad of some help backstage – though as yet we have no stage – costumes, props and so on…’

  Kate almost laughed, but she veiled her delight as she asked, ‘And the rate?’

  ‘One shilling and sixpence, as for the cleaning.’ Miss Gutman gave a businesslike nod as if to emphasize this was not charity.

  Kate was nodding her head before Ethel Gutman had even finished. ‘That would be acceptable, miss – Ethel. Thank you!’

  Being paid for making tea and playing theatre felt like one of her mother’s fairy tales, and she smiled when she asked herself who the fairy godmother might be. She had her suspicions, but Rasher Bacon just didn’t seem the type.

  *

  Everyone was so smartly dressed. Kate was glad she was invisible. Most of the work had been done before the audience had arrived to fill the reading room to capacity. She’d moved the small tables, put out rows of chairs and put the kettles onto the range in the tiny kitchen. She’d laid out the tea things and plates of buns. She planned to stay on afterwards to clear it all up, saving herself a job the next day. From the half-open kitchen door, she surveyed the crowd, who were mostly young. She could spot the Bermondsey boys and girls immediately. They were smart, but the cut and quality of their clothes set them apart from their middle-class counterparts. Also, once the lecture had started, it was obvious to Kate they listened more intently, some leaning forward resting chins on hands, others taking notes. The students who’d found their way to this out-of-the-way part of south London seemed rude in comparison, interrupting the speaker, shouting out questions and witty comments, whilst others lounged in their chairs and some chatted to their neighbours. But the speaker seemed a jolly chap, taking it in good part and coming back with enough quips to make the audience laugh. She just longed for it to end. The question of whether ‘Art’ had failed seemed far less pressing than when she could eat next. Even with the extra work Miss Gutman had given her she was barely able to afford the staples and felt half-starved most of the time. She’d been unable to resist pocketing one of the buns she’d put out. She should save it for breakfast, but the temptation was too great. Sod it. She needed something to keep her going. And this bloke was enjoying himself far too much – he’d go on forever. She stuffed half the bun into her mouth just as someone poked his head around the kitchen door. It was Martin North.

  ‘Oh! You’re all a-tremble like a guilty thing surprised!’ he laughed. ‘Ethel says you’d better bring the tea out now, or else Mr Palmer might go on till midnight!’

  She nodded, unable to speak due to the bun filling her mouth, and turned away to the teapots, aware that he was still there, staring at her. She swallowed and turned to him with a glare. ‘I was hungry!’

  ‘I’m sure you’re allowed a bun…’ He came into the kitchen. ‘Anything I can do?’ he went on, stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring some more.

  Did he enjoy embarrassing her? ‘No, just get out me way… please.’ She reached past him for a tray. Why did men always think hanging around in the kitchen amounted to helping? ‘If you really want to do something you can take out these teapots.’

  She followed him with jugs of milk just as the question time was coming to an end.

  ‘I believe I have won my point, have I not?’ Mr E. Clephan Palmer cast a bright eye over his audience. ‘For if art were not a failure wouldn’t it have more to do with real life? Shouldn’t we rather be governed by artists than politicians?’

  ‘No!’ Rasher Bacon stood up. ‘The purpose of art is to take us beyond so-called real life!’ She was surprised to hear a chorus of ‘hear! hear!’s.

  Martin put down the pots and, unable to resist diving in, called out, ‘But imagine the fun we could have as a nation if we had Mr Osbert Sitwell as foreign secretary!’

  Rasher sat down and Kate noticed that the kohl-eyed blonde woman sitting next to him frowned at the interruption and put an encouraging hand on his arm, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. Perhaps Kate had been mistaken about Rasher being between girlfriends – the blonde looked totally smitten.

  ‘Good idea!’ Mr Palmer responded to Martin’s sugges
tion. ‘And what about Mr Bernard Shaw as prime minister!’

  ‘No! It should be good old Alf for PM!’ someone shouted, referring to Dr Alfred Salter, Bermondsey’s revered MP.

  ‘Give Conan Doyle the Home Office! He’d soon sort out the police!’ suggested the young blonde woman, and Rasher gave her an appreciative smile.

  ‘As a personal friend of Mr Conan Doyle, I am positive he’d turn it down – not important enough!’

  The audience’s laughter drowned out his next sentence and Ethel Gutman took the chance to bring questions to a close. Suddenly the audience realized how thirsty they were and began crowding around the tea table. Kate began pouring from a heavy teapot and was concentrating hard on not spilling a drop onto the white cloth when Rasher appeared. He picked up another pot and began filling cups.

  ‘Do you know the chap that muscled in on my question just now?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, Martin? He’s just someone’s nephew.’

  ‘It looked like he knew you.’

  ‘No! He’s a bit odd – I think he just likes to slum it. But your blonde friend didn’t look too happy with him interrupting you.’

  ‘Oh, Pamela? She can be overprotective.’ He smiled thoughtfully. ‘She might look like a dumb blonde, but she’s a student at the LSE, absolutely brilliant – helps me so much with the writing.’

  And Kate wished she hadn’t mentioned her. ‘Anyway, you’d better take her a cup of tea,’ she said, turning away to serve someone.

  ‘She had to leave. I’ll make myself useful here if you don’t mind.’ He grinned.

  When the crush had died down, she thanked him for his help and then added, ‘Thanks for getting me these extra hours – I know it was you.’

  He shrugged, not denying it. ‘You wouldn’t let me sort out Mr Smith, so…’

  As she put down the milk jug she swayed and he caught her. ‘You all right, Kate? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just need some air. How long do they usually hang about?’

  ‘It could be gone eleven. Can I walk you home?’

  ‘If you like,’ she said. After all, it would be rude to refuse her fairy godmother.

  6

  Rasher

  The Hand and Marigold was not the sort of pub frequented by the young – for the latest jazz songs and dancing you’d have to go to the Folly at Dockhead – but there was a warmth about it, with its glowing gas lamps, veiled in a fog of cigarette smoke, and its friendly crowd of regulars. The Marigold had its fair share of old ladies in black porkpie hats who sat for the whole evening with a pint of Guinness, singing the songs of old Ireland. And around the bar lounged working men – from Boutle’s, Hartley’s and Pink’s jam factories or costermongers from Tower Bridge Road market. It wasn’t the most glamorous place for their first drink together, but it was convenient, as the landlady had recently offered Kate barmaid work on a couple of nights a week and they’d arranged to meet during her break.

  She knew the minute Rasher walked into the Marigold, even though she was concentrating on pulling a pint for Sean, the pianist. There was a little pause in the chatter and some heads turned. Rasher wore a wide, peaked cap and dark blue suit which hung well on his tall, slim figure. He was clean-shaven and his even features had a fineness about them that made him stand out in this crowd of weather-beaten traders. People stared at him as he made his way over to the bar. He looked like no other docker she’d ever seen and she suspected he knew it.

  ‘Goin’ on me break, Mrs Hardiman! All right?’

  And the landlady nodded. Kate placed the pint of beer on the lid of the upright piano. ‘Play something, Sean, it’s a bit quiet in here!’

  She and Rasher were probably the youngest in the pub, which made them even more an object of attention. She was glad when the old ladies started talking about this year’s hopping trip. Their laughter became raucous as one of them launched into a tale.

  ‘My Bill comes wandering back from the pub pissed as a puddin’, can’t find our hut so he gets in bed with the widow next door! She let him stay there all night an’ all, filthy cow! Gawd knows what they got up to.’ The old lady gave a disgusted sniff. ‘I never asked, but she had a bleedin’ smile on her face the next day and so did my old man! She was welcome…’ The old lady paused to sip her Guinness.

  Rasher looked at Kate and raised an eyebrow. ‘Are these your regulars?’

  She nodded. ‘I like them. I only have to serve them the one pint all night.’

  ‘Wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I asked you for a drink.’

  ‘Well. I’m here.’

  He smiled and raised his glass.

  ‘But I’m not sure why you asked,’ she added.

  ‘And I thought you were cleverer than that.’

  ‘You’ve never taken any notice of me, not since I started work at Boutle’s. So, why now?’

  She didn’t really know why she was being so awkward. This was a moment she’d dreamed of when she was a young girl. But now it was here, she felt safer pretending not to care.

  He leaned forward. ‘To be honest, I think it was your impression of Ethel Gutman got me interested!’ And he laughed at the memory. But then his expression turned serious. ‘And I did notice you in the lane. I noticed every time you picked my mum up off the street, brought her home and put her to bed. And I noticed every time the others took the piss out of her and you didn’t. I was just too embarrassed to say anything then.’

  She was glad he hadn’t insulted her by pretending he’d noticed her for her good looks.

  ‘Why were you embarrassed?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be if you had a mum like mine?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I’d love to have a mum like your’n. I’d love to have any mum.’

  ‘Sorry, Kate. I’m stupid.’

  ‘Suppose you are – for a clever boy…’ she teased. ‘When did you start the writing?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He blushed. ‘When I was at school. But only in secret, just for myself. In between looking after Mum.’

  ‘I had a book once,’ she said wistfully. ‘But if Aunt Sylvie found me reading, she’d give me such a walloping. She said I got enough of that at school. So, I’d read in the outside lav. Grimm’s Fairy Tales it was called. But one day she dragged me out, tore up all the pages and stuck ’em on the spike for toilet paper. So I give up on books after that.’

  ‘She’s a witch.’

  ‘Hmm, but I’ve escaped now…’

  ‘Is your dad dead?’

  ‘No! What makes you think that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because no one ever talks about him.’

  ‘Oh, my aunts talk about him, they just never tell me anything. They reckon he’s coming back to Bermondsey when he’s made his fortune.’

  ‘What about you?’

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t want to divulge her greatest dream. And suddenly that gave her an understanding of why he hadn’t wanted anyone in the lane to know about his writing.

  ‘I don’t talk about him. But I think about him all the time. He’ll come back for me.’

  Rasher nodded. ‘He’d be mad not to.’ His eyes held hers and she looked away, conscious of how scruffy she must seem in the dress she’d mended so many times it couldn’t take another darn. Was he playing with her? He obviously had ambitions and she knew he wouldn’t stay a docker forever. He’d probably take up with that clever blonde, Pamela, and move away as soon as he could. She stood up abruptly.

  ‘Well – back to work!’

  ‘Oh! Already? I wanted to ask you something, and don’t get offended. Are you all right for money now? I mean, can you keep up your payments to Mr Smith?’

  ‘Some weeks. If I get enough work in the bar...’

  ‘And what do you do if you’re short? Not eat?’

  She hugged herself, hoping somehow to disguise the skinny waist and bony ribcage.

  ‘Let me help, Kate.’

  ‘No, no. I’m all right. And once I’m
back at Boutle’s…’

  But she’d begun to despair of ever going back there. The lay-off had made her realize just how vulnerable she was. She never thought she’d miss the hard, filthy work of tin bashing, but at least she’d earned enough to keep the wolf from the door. These past months, the wolves had been howling and she feared she’d be their next meal.

  He watched her go back to the bar, taking his time drinking his beer. When she next looked in his direction, he was gone. He won’t do this again in a hurry, she thought, convinced that she’d put him off for good.

  *

  A few days later, she was hanging out washing in the backyard on the one line each family took turns using. Because she always had so little laundry, she did hers mid-week, leaving the copper, wringer and washing line free for the Wilsons to use on Mondays. It also meant that she never had to hang out washing on the same day as Aunt Sylvie next door. But Stan had got wind of her weekly routine and now poked his head over the fence.

  ‘Your feller made a big mistake going after my boss like that,’ he smirked. ‘Mr Smith’ll have his balls cut off and fed to the fishes.’

  She said nothing, but he continued to grin at her. Finding himself ignored, he stepped over a broken bit of fence. The sheet billowed on the line, obscuring him. Suddenly she felt herself seized from behind, his hands making clumsy grabs for her breasts. She twisted out of his grasp, picked up a piece of broken fencing and swung it in a low arc.

  ‘Blimey, Kate!’ he yelled, rubbing his shin.

  ‘Stan, you’re an ugly bastard and your breath stinks, what makes you think I’d want your filthy hands all over me? If you carry on, one of these days I’ll end up smashing your brains out!’ She squared up to him with the plank.

  ‘You’re a nutter! I was only giving a friendly bit of advice.’

  ‘Well thanks, but I don’t know who you’re talking about. I haven’t got a feller.’

  ‘I ain’t silly,’ he said with an oily smile. ‘That Rasher’d like to get his hands all over you too.’ He curled his lip and turned to go. ‘But Rasher won’t last long if he carries on. My offer’s still there if you want your debt paid off.’ He turned to go, but as he left he ripped every bit of her washing from the line and trampled it into the dirty cobbles.