After Hours (21 page)

‘A couple of hours. I promised Ernie I'd do him toasted teacakes. You could join us,' she suggested suddenly.

It was George's turn to colour up. ‘No, I have to finish here. Will you call in on your way back?' A knot of tension dissolved inside his chest: he'd been afraid that Hettie wouldn't care for him if he held on to his job as cellarman under a new boss. And he thought perhaps her affections had faded to the level of friendship only. Undemonstrative himself, with a long sense of being beholden to the Parsons family as a whole, he never pushed himself on Hettie, though he loved her steadily. His strong physique, quiet manner and untalkative nature gave no sign of vulnerability. He was good-tempered, reliable George Mann, steady as a rock.

Hettie nodded. ‘About half-seven then?' She put a hand on his arm and reached to kiss his cheek. Then she went on her way past the Ogdens', past the tenement, down to Annie's corner of Paradise Court.

From her own new home in Mile End, Sadie could only keep in touch with her family through phone calls and brief letters. In those early days of living with Richie work took up much of her time, and when she got back at night, traipsing up the stone stairway to the rooms they shared, there was often a feeling in her heart that made her want to hide away and cry.

At first she couldn't tell what this was; after all, she'd got what she wanted by taking a risk over Richie, and the home she was making for him gave her pleasure. Most days on her way home from the office, she would call in at the ironmonger's to buy a new pot or pan, or at a china shop for eggcups decorated with cornflowers or a little glass powder dish for her new dressing-table.

Yet she was sad. She would fuss in the living-room, putting up a picture or introducing lace curtains to stave off this uninvited feeling. She typed all day, cooked, cleaned and sewed in the evenings. One sunny Sunday afternoon, she even made the acquaintance of her neighbour; the woman who'd greeted her decently when she first arrived.

Sarah Morris belonged to the band of now elderly East End women who had dragged up a large brood in the old Board School days, dealing on a daily basis with lice, eye infections, outbreaks of diphtheria and constant hunger. Her husband, Harry Morris, had died in a drunken street fight, leaving her and the four small children only hardship and his ukelele, which Sarah kept hanging to this day on the wall of her miserable front room. She told Sadie she never took it down to play, but she would hum ‘Ukelele Lady', remembering how happy she was when Harry was alive. ‘Bacon, bread and butter for tea every weekday,' she boasted. ‘Harry was a glassmaker. He held down a good job. Only, drink was his downfall, you see.'

Sadie took this to heart. It depressed her to think of families broken up and suffering. And she began to ask Richie not to stay out so late. She'd only come to live with him a few weeks since, yet often he seemed to prefer the company at the pub to being with her. ‘Why do you have to stay there till they close?' she asked.

‘That's rich,' he said. ‘Coming from a landlord's daughter.'

She had the grace to smile, sitting up in bed waiting for him to get undressed. She'd put a glass shade over the gas mantel on the far wall; its light was soft and warm on his strong back. Soon she'd forgotten her lonely, anxious evening.

Richie always undressed as if there was no one else in the room, casting his clothes carelessly on to the floor, whereas she would turn away out of modesty, or if possible slip into bed before he came in. She was still startled by the beginnings of intimacy, willing to let him take the lead, unsure of herself. But when he got into bed and held her close, when he began to kiss her, she would cling to him, arms clasped around his neck, loving his weight and strength.

Richie slid into bed now, resting back on the pillow, staring up
at the ceiling. It had been a bad day; they'd laid off the casuals at the docks in large numbers, Richie among them. Tomorrow he would have to scout around for different work. Previously, when he'd lived alone, it wouldn't have worried him. But now there was Sadie. He decided to keep quiet about the job situation until he found himself something else. Not for the first time, he silently cursed Rob Parsons for kicking him out of his steady job at the taxi depot.

‘Frances telephoned me at work today,' Sadie said. She curved her body against his side, slipping her slim legs under his. ‘She says Pa and Ernie have settled in at Annie's place. Wiggin ain't popular down the court, though.'

Richie turned to look at her through half-dosed eyes. ‘Ain't the drink finished him off yet, then?'

‘No, worse luck. Annie still goes in to look after, him, even after what he's done. I wish she wouldn't.' She knew how hard that must be for Duke. Ernie went along to keep an eye on Wiggin these days, in case he turned violent. All this Sadie learned second-hand from Frances or Hettie.

‘Someone has to.' Richie slid one hand along the pillow, under Sadie's dark head. Her hair fanned across his arm, he leaned to kiss her mouth.

She put her arms around his neck, gazing at him; ‘Richie, what harm is there in you and me going to visit one Sunday?' she said softly. ‘Pa would like to see us, I know.' She paused. ‘And Rob ain't living with them no more.'

He frowned and pulled away, lying back once more. ‘It ain't me they want to see.'

Sadie leaned up on one elbow, letting the sheet fall from her shoulder. Her hair swung across her face. ‘Oh, but it is. Pa wants to see us both. And I want you to come!'

‘Why?' He turned his head away.

‘So they get to know you.'

‘They don't want to know me.' He was stubborn. Anyway, there was no other member of the Parsons family he was interested in except Sadie.

‘You're wrong there.' Sadie felt the rejection badly, but her tone came out wheedling and high. ‘And I don't like to visit without you. Think of me once in a while, why don't you?'

Richie felt they were on the brink of their first quarrel. ‘I think of you all the time, Sadie.' He turned to her and gathered her in his arms.

‘Do you, Richie?' She stroked his cheek, ran her fingertip across his brow. ‘Ain't I being very nice to you?'

He kissed her again. ‘It ain't you, Sadie, it's Rob. You know what I think of him.'

‘But I don't mean us to visit Rob.' She made one last protest.

‘Don't talk about it,' he whispered. ‘I ain't going to change.'

Their way out of a quarrel was to make love, swept up in the touch of skin against skin, melted by kisses, so that in the end nothing could matter more.

Only, next morning, as Sadie got ready for the daily grind, she returned to the subject of his staying out late. ‘Why don't we go to see a picture tonight?' she suggested. She put on a broad-brimmed straw hat with a deep crown and a green chiffon band. She turned from the mirror, her face eager and fresh. ‘I can see if I can get out early and meet you if you like.'

Richie's mind was back on the search for work. He shrugged by way of reply, then took his place in front of the mirror, razor in hand, ready to continue shaving.

Sadie went and picked up her bag from the table. ‘Shall we?'

He shook his head. ‘I ain't sure what I've got on tonight.'

‘Another session down the pub, I shouldn't wonder!' she retorted, suddenly angry. ‘Don't mind me. I can always go to the pictures by myself.' She flounced from the room and down the steps.

Richie went on shaving. He wasn't worried by this. As long as Sadie went on wanting to go out with him or take him visiting, that was the main thing. Whether he said yes or no was beside the point. Carefully he wiped the specks of lather from his throat. If she ever stopped wanting that, then he would start to worry. It didn't occur to him that this might be leaving things late. And he
didn't recognize the importance of family to Sadie, never having had one himself.

But Sadie sat on the top deck of the bus, eyes smarting. She took deep breaths, hid her face from the gaze of other passengers with the broad brim of her hat. Now she knew what that nagging, aching feeling was, that she staved off with housework and physical arousal. It was loneliness.

Feeling sorry for herself and helpless, she swayed with the motion of the bus, under green trees, past the park. How could she be lonely when she had Richie? she wondered.

Pills, ointments, suppositories, powders and plaster. Gripe-water at one and six a bottle, Clarke's Blood Mixture for four shillings. Frances's days were laid end to end, measured out like the medicines she dispensed, the patent remedies she sold over the counter. The only task she disliked was fishing out the leeches from their wide-mouth jar, the black, sluglike creatures that shrivelled into long worms when prodded, which doctors still recommended for sucking out poisons.

Otherwise, skilled and patient as she was, Frances was content with her work, choosing a small bottle of 4711 cologne to take home to Annie, and remembering that Sadie's favourite face powder was Ashes of Roses. She took care of everyone's needs, treating her small nephew and niece to milk chocolate bars whenever she went over to Ealing to visit, taking Duke leaflets and books from the Workers' Educational Institute which she thought might interest him.

‘You'll wear yourself to a shadow,' Billy warned. Early August had turned sultry, energy drained from the streets as people stayed indoors or continued to take their annual trips to Kent to combine hop picking with a break from grimy, noisy London. A change was as good as a rest, they said.

‘Nonsense.' Frances buttoned her fawn jacket across the hip. ‘You're sure you won't come?'

Billy glanced up from his print machine. ‘Where is it tonight, Ealing?' He felt uncomfortable visiting Jess's place these days, the
house was stuffed with too many gadgets and ornaments for his liking. He stuck to his old nonconformist ways. And though Maurice Leigh still professed to support the ideas of Ramsay MacDonald and the Labour Party, Billy remained doubtful whether a man could live in what he considered to be the lap of luxury and still be a socialist. Frances and he disagreed over it. ‘Jess and Maurice deserve to be comfortable,' she would say. ‘They work hard for it.'

Frances told him that she was going to Paradise Court to see Annie and Duke. ‘There's a book here I want to lend them.' In her considerate way, Frances had realized how heavily time lay on their hands.

‘In that case . . .' Billy wiped his hands and switched off the electric light over the machine. He smiled at his wife. ‘Give me a minute to go and fetch my jacket. We'll walk over together.'

They took their time, enjoying their quiet walk, noticing a new flower shop open on Union Street, wondering what would eventually happen to Coopers' old drapery store. ‘I hear he's left with nothing,' Billy said.

Frances paused to gaze in at the empty shop. Dust and cobwebs; that was all that was left. ‘Poor Edith Cooper, I don't know how she'll get on,' she said quietly. Though she didn't say so, she had no sympathy for Jack Cooper, who had brought things on himself. She knew him as a pigheaded, overbearing man who neglected his East End roots after he became a wealthy store owner, treating his women workers abominably. But his wife was altogether a gentler, more charitable sort who'd suffered greatly after Teddy Cooper was killed in the war.

‘They say they'll have to sell their big house now.' Billy offered Frances his arm and they set off steadily up the street once more. ‘Just to pay off his creditors.'

She shook her head. ‘There ain't no one safe these days.'

But as they approached the corner of Paradise Court, their quiet conversation came to an abrupt halt.

Billy stopped short and pointed to the pub. ‘Blimey, took at that!'

Frances felt a jolt of anger. Workmen were busy on the building. Scaffolding ran up the front and down the side. Gone was the old
green paint, the woodwork stripped bare by blowlamps. All the old green and gold signs were down from the now bare stone frontage. ‘What's going on?' Frances gripped Billy's arm.

‘Steady on, they're giving the old place a fresh lick of paint, that's all.' But Billy, too, was astonished at the transformation. He took an empty pipe from his pocket and began to suck at it.

Frances couldn't have felt worse if she'd been publicly stripped bare herself. She was scandalized. ‘What for? Weren't it good enough?' She recalled how Annie would come out each day, regular as clockwork, carrying her stepladder and a bucket of hot soapy water to wash down the paint around the doorway and windows.

‘I expect they want to make a new start,' Billy said quietly. ‘When the new landlord comes in.'

‘But look at this!' Frances stepped towards smart new signboards propped face down against the door. She caught sight of George Mann working inside the bar and called him out. ‘What's going on, George? What are these here?'

George nodded a silent greeting at Billy, wrinkling his eyes against the low sun. ‘New signs,' he said, reluctant to have anything to do with them.

‘Why do they need them?' She poked at them with her shoe. ‘Think of the expense. It's a crying shame!'

‘Come on, Frances,' Billy urged. ‘Let George carry on here.' He led her to one side, as two men in paint-splashed overalls, carrying a plank between them, made their way into the pub. Inside, they caught a glimpse of walls stripped to the plaster, gas-fittings ripped from the wall, dust-sheets covering all the fixtures.

She dug in her heels. ‘Just a second, Billy. I want to take a proper look.' In growing dismay she peeped inside, then as she stepped back, one of the new signs tipped sideways to reveal the words underneath. The blackboard was decorated in modern, straight letters in a style just corning in. Frances read the words out loud. Instead of The Duke of Wellington, it read The Prince of Wales.