A Mother's Promise (17 page)

‘Better be careful that it isn’t,’ Granny said tersely. ‘That cart is only fit for matchwood or a bonfire.’ She stalked back inside the house and the brass doorknob rattled as she shut the door with a bang.

Hetty turned to her brothers. ‘All right, there’s a penny each if you help me scrub this barrow clean, and scrape off all the old paint. And a pie and mash supper with pease pudding if we get it done by the end of the day.’

It was hard work, hindered by intermittent showers of rain. By mid-afternoon they were still scrubbing and scraping with little visible sign of improvement. The groaning
of the back gate on its hinges made Hetty look up, and she stiffened as she saw Tom walk into the yard. He came to stand beside her, pushing his cap back and scratching his head. ‘You’ll never manage it on your own,’ he said, taking the rusty kitchen knife from her hands.

Hetty stood aside, rubbing her sore fingers as she watched his deft movements. The paint peeled off as easily as butter beneath his firm strokes. Sammy and Eddie stopped to stare in awe as Tom worked steadily and in silence. Hetty knew that this was his way of apologising, and, anyway, she could never be angry with Tom for long. ‘I think a cup of tea would go down nicely,’ she murmured, heading for the house.

‘We will get our pie and mash supper, won’t we, Hetty?’ Sammy called out anxiously. ‘I mean it ain’t fair if Tom does us out of it.’

Tom looked up at Hetty and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to do anyone out of their supper.’

She felt her heart lighten; she hated not being friends with Tom. ‘You won’t, and I might even include you in the treat.’

Next morning, Hetty was up at dawn. She went out into the yard to inspect the barrow. It had not rained in the night, and, in the pale spring sunshine, the wood gleamed as white as bleached bones, but there was still a long
way to go before the barrow was fit for use. There was little she could do, since she had no tools, and even if she had, she would not have known where to begin. She went indoors to get the fire going and put the kettle on. She was just making the tea when she heard the sound of voices outside in the yard. She ran to the window and looked out. There seemed to be a small army of men clustered round the barrow. George was at the front, pointing out the defects. She hurried outside to join them. ‘George?’

He turned to her and smiled. ‘These are my mates,’ he said, encompassing them with a sweep of his hand. ‘And this, boys, is our newest costermonger, Miss Hetty Huggins.’

Hetty bobbed a curtsey, suddenly feeling shy. ‘Pleased to meet you all.’

The tallest and brawniest man in the group stepped forward, taking off his cap and holding out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss. I’m Brush Barber. As you might guess, I sell brushes for sweeping, scrubbing and painting; mops, buckets, pails – anything in that line.’

‘How do, Mr Brush.’ Hetty shook his hand.

‘Just Brush, miss. That’s what they calls me.’ He backed away, replacing his cap on his bald head.

George pointed to a short, fat man who was
busy measuring up the spokes on the broken wheel. ‘This here is Joe Jenkins; he’s a butcher by trade, but a carpenter by nature. Ain’t that true, Joe?’

‘True as you’re standing there, George. How do, miss?’

Hetty nodded and smiled, but before she could reply George had thrust her towards a thickset man with a shock of ginger hair. ‘This is Ginger Turner. He sells haberdashery and he’s a demon with a needle. He was apprenticed to a sailmaker, but he didn’t have a liking for the trade, so now he sells pins, needles, thread and materials. He’s going to fix the canvas canopy for you. And lastly, here’s Fred Dixon. He sells paint and wallpaper and everything anyone might need to decorate their home. He’s going to paint the barrow and write Hetty Huggins on the side, not forgetting the “and Co.”’

Fred waved a paintbrush at Hetty. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss. I couldn’t half do with a cup of tea right now, if it ain’t asking too much.’

‘Yes,’ Hetty murmured, quite at a loss for words to thank them all. ‘Of course.’ She hurried back into the house. In the parlour, she took cups from the dresser and set them on a wooden tray with the best silver-plated teaspoons. Granny was very particular about doing things properly. Hetty hoped that she
would not be too put out when she saw her yard filled with a raggle-taggle assortment of men working on the barrow.

George stuck his head round the door. ‘Can I give you a hand?’

Hetty poured the tea. ‘I’m truly grateful for everything, George, but I can’t do nothing without me can.’

He pushed the door open and set the slightly dented but brightly polished can on the floor. ‘There, it’s as good as new. Well, almost. Anyway, it’ll have to do for now. I’ve scoured it inside and out. You’ll not find any tadpoles floating in your coffee, Hetty.’

‘Oh, George!’ Hetty rushed over to him and flung her arms around his neck, giving him a hug. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’

He extricated himself from her clasp with a rueful smile. ‘Now, if another pretty young lady had said that, I would have known exactly what to do. But being as how you’re my partner in this business, I think a hug will do nicely. For now, anyway.’

Sleep evaded Hetty that night. In the wakeful small hours she went over her plan of action again and again. She was excited, nervous and frankly scared that her big scheme would prove to be a failure, and that no one would want her ham sandwiches, or the eggs that she
had spent all evening boiling in batches on top of the range. Granny had complained bitterly about the steam ruining her half-finished creations on the shelves, and Jane had said the smell was making her feel sick. Despite their grumbling, Hetty had filled a basket with four dozen hard-boiled eggs, and had put them with the rest of her stock on the marble slab in the outhouse. She had made up her mind to leave home at first light and get the stall set up in order to catch people on their way to work.

She lay on the lumpy mattress listening to Jane’s rhythmic breathing, which was interrupted occasionally by a muffled snort as she turned over in her sleep. Natalia slept in her cradle, making no sound at all. Hetty made a silent vow - little Talia would not grow up in poverty as they had done. She would not have to spend twelve hours a day making matchboxes at the age of five. Talia would go to a good school and learn to be a proper young lady.

Hetty awakened with a start, her heart beating a tattoo inside her ribcage. She must have dozed off without realising it and the first light of dawn was filtering through the partially drawn curtains. She sat bolt upright in bed, gathering her wits. She was going to be late and now she would have to hurry. She
slipped out of bed, dressed hastily, and went outside to the yard to make everything ready. An hour later, as the sun rose in a misty pearl sky, she was trundling her barrow along Commercial Street towards Spitalfields market. It was chilly, but her hands were sweating as she clutched the freshly painted handles of the barrow, although it was excitement rather than nerves that was making the blood pulse through her veins. Today was a new beginning. The tin can might be dented but it would do its job, and the sound of the china cups rattling together in their cardboard box was music to her ears. The bright yellow paint, so carefully applied by Fred, had dried to a satin sheen, and her name stood out in bold black lettering on both sides of the cart –
HETTY HUGGINS AND CO
. As she pushed the barrow into the market hall, Hetty was met with a hive of activity. It seemed as though she was not the only early bird in Spitalfields.

‘Hello, love,’ Nora called in her wheezy foghorn of a voice. ‘You can bring me over a cup of tea when you’re ready. Two sugars and a dollop of milk.’

Her first order – Hetty’s heart swelled with pride. She began setting up her stall, lighting the charcoal in the fire pot and filling the can with water from the pump close by. She received cheery greetings from the costers who
were busy setting out their stalls. Brush waved to her from his pitch, and a woman who introduced herself as Floppy Flora, the flower lady, came over to pin a daffodil on Hetty’s straw bonnet.

By the time George arrived, Hetty had the water boiling and had served her first dozen customers, mostly the other costermongers who had arrived early and were now break-fasting off coffee and ham sandwiches. Hetty cut and buttered bread, sliced cooked gammon and spread mustard in response to the increasing demand.

‘How’s it going then, Hetty?’ George asked, helping himself to a slice of currant cake. He tossed a halfpenny into Hetty’s money bag. ‘Looks like you’re off to a good start.’

‘I can’t believe it, George. I never expected to be this busy so early in the morning. I’ve almost run out of bread.’

‘I’m not surprised. Your sandwiches look good enough to eat, not like the stale old doorsteps that Biggins sells over the way.’ George jerked his head in the direction of the coffee stall by the south entrance. ‘Besides which, you’re much prettier than he is. You’ll do well, Hetty. I know you will.’ He tipped his cap to her and sauntered off to set up his stall.

Things quietened down a little after the early
morning rush, and Hetty was able to leave her pitch in order to get fresh supplies from the bakery in Spital Square. She bargained hard with the baker and left his shop with a tray of freshly baked loaves, cake and buns, and she gave him a repeat order for the following day, obtaining a most satisfactory discount. Feeling extremely pleased with herself, she returned to her stall and made sandwiches ready for the midday rush.

By teatime, she had sold everything, even the large bunches of watercress supplied by George. Nora left her barrow and came over to give Hetty a hug, and to present her with a bag of cinder toffee from her own stall. ‘Well done, ducks. You’re a natural, I’d say. I’ve been keeping an eye on you and I can see that you’ve got your head screwed on right. We’ll make a proper coster of you yet. You’ll be sewing pearl buttons on your clothes afore the year is out.’

‘Ta, Nora,’ Hetty murmured, feeling the ready blush rising to her cheeks at such fulsome praise. ‘And ta for the toffee. Me little brothers will go mad for it.’

‘So they should. Nora Jackson is famous for her cinder toffee and raisin fudge.’ She took a square of fudge from the capacious pocket of her apron and popped it into her mouth as if to prove her words. She returned to her barrow, chewing and chuckling.

Hetty began packing everything away, still elated by her success and by the friendliness of the other costermongers. She felt as though she had just joined a large and happy family, but then a shadow fell over her stall, and a shiver ran down her spine. Slowly, she turned her head.

‘So here you are.’ Cyrus Clench was standing so close to her that his rank odour of sweat and stale tobacco made her feel physically sick.

‘I’m closed for the day,’ Hetty said sharply.

‘I see you got the can back from the canal,’ Cyrus said, curling his lip in a snarl. ‘I should have weighted it down with bigger bricks.’

‘It was you,’ Hetty gasped. ‘Why? Why did you do that to me?’

‘Because Cyrus Clench never forgets or forgives a wrong done to him in the past.’ He leaned closer to her, baring his teeth. ‘When your sainted grandpa caught me with me fingers in the till so to speak, and had me dismissed from my position at the bank without a character, he ruined my life.’

Hetty tried to back away from him but he had her pressed up against her stall. ‘But it wasn’t my fault,’ she protested. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’

‘I vowed then to get even with your family, but it’s taken me all these years to get a hold over you. I’ve watched and waited for me
chance, and I’ve seen you grow into a tasty bit of skirt. Then you and your old hag of a grandmother humiliated me in front of me friend Jasper. And that bloke over there,’ he jerked his head in George’s direction, ‘pitched me into the canal. I’ll get him one of these days, and I’ll get you too, lady. We’ve got unfinished business, you and me.’

Hetty opened her mouth to cry for help, but Cyrus skittered off, walking sideways like a malevolent crab as he left the market hall. Hetty leaned against her stall, clasping her hands to her chest in an effort to still her erratic heartbeats. She looked across at George, but he had his back to her and was busy serving a customer. She had only to call out and he would come running, but she did not want to draw him any further into her troubles. Gradually, and with a supreme effort, she regained her composure. Cyrus Clench was all hot air, like one of the big balloons she had once seen floating above Victoria Park. She would take great care never again to put herself in a position where he could attack or terrorise her. Dismissing his threats with a defiant shrug of her shoulders, Hetty turned away to resume packing the clean cups back in their box. She had done well today, and if her stall continued to prosper she would get another stall in a different site, and then another. She would rent
a larger house where they could all be comfortable. The possibilities were endless.

‘Daydreaming again, Hetty?’

George’s voice broke into her reverie and she almost dropped a cup. ‘You made me jump, George.’

‘You done well today, girl. You couldn’t have had a better start.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll just pack up and then we’ll wander off home together, if that’s all right with you?’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Ta, George. I’d like that.’ Hetty stifled a sigh of relief as she watched him stroll back to his barrow. She would be more than glad to have his company on the way home. She had toyed with the idea of telling him what Clench had said, but then she decided that it would serve no useful purpose. She did not want him to go rushing off to fight her battles. Violence was not the answer, although for the life of her, Hetty couldn’t think what to do about her tormentor. She finished packing up her stall, and she tried to put Clench and his threats out of her mind as she counted her takings. When she had counted the last farthing, she was feeling much more cheerful. She did a quick sum in her head and smiled. If she continued like this, by the end of the week she would have cleared a whole pound. It seemed like riches beyond her wildest dreams. She was now on her way up
and no one, not even a brute like Clench, was going to stop her.