The Girl from Cotton Lane (23 page)

‘That’s right,’ Nellie said, puzzled by the woman’s tone. ‘Elsie gave my gel the address of ’er daughter an’ . . .’

‘Elsie Wishart’s daughter died of diphtheria in 1910. She was only four years old,’ Gert Jolly told her.

‘But I don’t understand,’ Nellie said, feeling suddenly thrown. ‘When Carrie went ter Catford ter see the gel the people there told ’er that the young woman ’ad left an’ didn’t leave an address.’

‘That would be Elsie’s younger sister. ’Er name’s Wishart too,’ Gert replied.

‘I still don’t understand,’ Nellie said frowning. ‘Wishart is Elsie’s married name, ain’t it?’

Gert Jolly smiled. ‘Phyllis Wishart, Elsie’s younger sister, married Elsie’s ’usband’s cousin. Both the women married inter the same family, yer see.’

‘So Elsie was makin’ that story up about ’er daughter,’ Nellie ventured.

‘Well, I don’t know what the woman told your Carrie, but I can guess,’ Gert said, smiling sadly. ‘Elsie used ter talk about ’er daughter as though she was still alive, an’ she’s bin dead fer fourteen years nigh.’

‘My Carrie told me Elsie said she see ’er daughter in the market and the gel turned ’er back on ’er,’ Nellie recalled. ‘Elsie said that the gel wouldn’t fergive ’er fer causin’ ’er farvver ter take ’is own life.’

‘It wasn’t Elsie’s fault ’er ’usband ’ung ’imself,’ Gert said, shaking her head. ‘Elsie Wishart was a lovely woman, an’ a good wife an’ muvver. Me an’ my Albert knew the family well. It was a tragedy losin’ their only child. Elsie couldn’t ’ave any more. ’Er ’usband Lawrence went on the booze after the child died an’ ’is business started ter go down the drain. A year later ter the day Lawrence ’ung ’imself from the banisters. Elsie found ’im jus’ swingin’ there stone cold. I remember the date well. It was March the seventh, 1911. I remember it ’cos that was my Albert’s birthday.’

‘That’s terday’s date,’ Nellie remarked.

‘That’s right,’ Gert said quietly, pointing to the spray of daffodils. ‘I always buy a few flowers ter celebrate Albert’s birthday.’

Broomhead Smith was absent from the Bermondsey streets having an enforced rest. The totter had dropped a heavy piece of old iron on his big toe and it swelled up like a balloon. He could not get his boot on and he realised it would be pointless trying to carry on with his totting wearing one boot and one carpet slipper. He decided that he could at least manage to tidy up the shed where he stabled his faithful old horse and also kept his old lumber. The nag seemed to be enjoying the rest and Broomhead swore that the animal had a grin on its face when it looked at him.

The day went well and while he was tidying up Broomhead found bits and pieces which he had mislaid months ago. He discovered what he considered to be quite a few saleable items lying around, and with the thought of earning money on them he struggled to get fit for the road once more. Every night he soaked his foot in salt water and soon the nail of his big toe dropped off. The swelling was going down nicely and the toe was not so painful now, he found, taking a swig of brandy from the hip flask that was his constant companion. It was just as well. The owner of the shed was after his rent, and so was the landlord of his little two-up two-down house around the corner in Weston Street. With a bit of luck he would be riding through the backstreets again on Monday morning, he told himself cheerfully.

Broomhead had not counted on his horse’s clumsiness however, and when it stepped back on his tender toe he let out a yell that could be heard in the Tower Bridge Road market.

It was another two weeks before the totter’s damaged toe could take his weight and by then his plight was desperate. The landlord was threatening Broomhead with eviction unless the rent was paid forthwith, and the owner of the shed had also issued him with an ultimatum. The totter had thought of selling his nag for horsemeat, but by the look of the animal he would have thought himself lucky to get the price of a packet of Woodbines. Maybe it would be better to sell the business and go into something else, he considered. Broomhead’s problem was that he only knew totting, and he had to admit that he wasn’t very successful in that profession.

At last Broomhead was back on the streets, and as he vainly urged his tired nag to greater effort he pondered on his future. Perhaps he should find himself a comfortable widow, he thought to himself. There were a few around, although he could not remember any in these parts. He would then be able to get up at a civilised time and stroll up for the morning paper, clean a few windows and maybe brighten up the front doorstep to keep the peace, then saunter off to the pub for his daily constitutional. It seemed a perfect idea, but where was he to find such a catch? All the women around these streets were struggling to make ends meet and they were the hardest people to bargain with he had ever come across.

Broomhead had just coaxed his horse into Page Street when he was hailed by a woman who was cleaning her step. ‘D’yer take mangles?’ she said.

‘I take anyfing within reason, missus,’ he told her.

‘Well, my ole man brought me a new wringer an’ I gotta get rid o’ the old one,’ she said.

Broomhead climbed down from his cart and followed the woman out to the back yard, where there was a wringer showing clear signs of rust. ‘Is this it?’ he asked.

‘Nah, that’s me new one. There’s me old one under that sheet,’ she told him.

Broomhead lifted his trilby and scratched his head while she fiddled with the strings that secured the cover. ‘Tell me somfink, missus. Why keep an old wringer under a sheet an’ leave the new one out in the weavver?’ he asked her.

The woman put her hands on her hips and surveyed him. ‘Well, yer see, I can’t bear ter look at it,’ she told him. ‘Me first ole man bought it fer me, an’ ’e’s bin gorn fer over twenty years now. Lovely man, ’e was, not like the ole goat I’m married to now.’

‘Well, I should fink it ain’t much joy lookin’ at the new wringer if yer can’t stand the man what bought it fer yer,’ Broomhead remarked, taking his hat off and scratching his head again.

‘Oh, but yer see it’s nice ter look at that new one,’ she said, smiling crookedly at him. ‘That was about the only fing I ever got orf my second ole man that didn’t ’urt. A violent man ’e was.’

‘Was?’

‘Yeah, ’e run orf wiv a barmaid from the Crown. Yer know the Crown?’ she asked him.

Broomhead nodded. ‘’E’s still livin’ then?’ he queried.

‘Oh, yeah. Well, I fink so anyway. Last I ’eard ’e was knockin’ ’er about, so she ain’t won a prize, ’as she?’

Broomhead studied the newly exposed wringer. ‘I couldn’t give yer anyfing fer this, missus,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s rusted right frew. It’d prob’ly fall ter pieces before I got it on the cart.’

‘Well, I really want it out o’ the way,’ the woman said, her voice taking on a pleading tone. ‘Won’t yer consider it?’

‘I could take it, but it ain’t werf nuffink ter me,’ Broomhead said in a thoughtful tone of voice. ‘It’s only good fer the dustmen.’

‘The dustmen won’t take it. I’ve already asked ’em,’ she replied.

Broomhead studied the woman. She was in her late forties, he guessed. Rather plump, but a nice, kind face, and spotlessly clean. Her dark, greying hair was neat and tidy too. She had dimples in her chubby cheeks, and that was the deciding feature as far as Broomhead was concerned.

‘I’ll tell yer what I can do, luv,’ he said, reverting to the term of endearment he used when he was feeling amiable. ‘I’ll take it fer two bob. Mind yer, I wouldn’t normally do this, but as it’s the wringer yer first ole man bought yer I’ll make an exception.’

‘Well, that’s very nice of yer, I mus’ say,’ the lady declared, giving him a wide smile.

‘Righto then, I’ll get it on the cart,’ Broomhead said, flexing his muscles.

‘Would yer like a cuppa?’ she asked him.

Broomhead nodded as he struggled with the rusty wringer. This lump of old iron wasn’t going to bring much, he knew full well, but the cogs were still full of grease and they could be used to fix up the other wringer he had in his shed. More importantly, though, he had made a good impression on the woman. She might be just the sort he had been thinking about. She was presentable, even if she was a little plump, and it looked like she had a tidy home. He would have to give it some thought while he was having his cup of tea and a chat, he decided.

The tired nag turned its head and stared at Broomhead while he struggled with the wringer, and once it was safely loaded on the cart the totter turned and glared at the horse. ‘Who you lookin’ at, yer bloody fleabag?’ he growled, taking a sack of chaff from under his seat and filling the horse’s nosebag.

The woman came out and stood in her doorway watching him fit the nosebag over the animal’s head. ‘Yer do look after yer ’orse, don’t yer?’ she remarked with a smile on her face.

Broomhead nuzzled his nag and ruffled its ear fondly. The animal was so surprised at such a show of affection that it jerked its head upwards, blowing into the bag and showering him with chaff. The totter smiled at the woman and dusted himself down carefully, casting a few deadly glances back at the horse as he followed her into her neat and tidy parlour.

Around the walls there were prints in ebony frames and on the mantelshelf Broomhead saw large iron statues of nude maidens holding flaring torches aloft. In the centre of the shelf there was an ormolu clock mounted on a black marble plinth and above it an oval mirror in a silver frame. A gingham tablecloth was spread over the table and in the centre there was a vase containing paper flowers. The two armchairs were shabby but with spotless white linen headcloths and arm covers spread over them, and there was a walnut sideboard against the wall facing the lace-covered window.

Broomhead took off his trilby and placed it on the floor beside him as he settled into an armchair. ‘Yer got a nice place, missus,’ he told her.

She smiled at him as she went over to the sideboard and picked up a small oval-shaped picture frame. ‘That’s my first ’usband,’ she said, handing him the picture.

Broomhead studied the stern face and looked up at the woman. ‘What ’appened to ’im?’ he asked.

‘’E ran orf wiv anuvver woman,’ she said without showing any emotion.

‘I thought yer said yer second ole man ran orf wiv anuvver woman,’ Broomhead queried.

‘They both did, but ’e was a lovely man,’ she said abstractedly, smiling down at the picture.

The totter scratched his head, realising that he was never going to understand the workings of a woman’s mind. ‘Ain’t yer never thought o’ gettin’ married again?’ he asked her.

‘I’ve never give it much thought, ter tell yer the trufe,’ she told him. ‘There’s nobody round ’ere I fancy. A woman ’as ter be sure before she lets a man put ’is boots under ’er bed.’

‘Yer quite right,’ Broomhead replied, sipping his tea. ‘I’m the same in a manner o’ speakin’. I never found a woman I liked enough ter give up me freedom for. I do all me own cookin’, yer know, an’ me washin’. Sometimes it’s ’ard though, luv, but I manage some’ow. I always find time ter read the good book an’ look after me ’orse. I reckon that’s the best cared for ’orse in Bermondsey, although I’m not one fer braggin’.’

The large woman smiled sweetly at him. ‘I fink any woman would be lucky ter find a fish like you,’ she told him. ‘Any man who ’as ter care fer ’imself an’ still finds time ter look after ’is animal an’ read a book as well is got ter be a nice man as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Not any book, missus,’ Broomhead said quickly. ‘I’m talkin’ about the Bible. Oh, yes, I read it nearly every night. That’s if I get me extra chores done in time.’

‘Extra chores?’

‘Well, the extra washin’ an’ ironin’.’

‘What d’yer mean?’ she asked him.

‘I live near an old lady who’s ate up wiv the rheumatics, yer see,’ he lied. ‘I take ’er washin’ in an’ iron it every week. It’s the least yer can do fer a poor ole gel who’s got nobody in the world except ’er cat.’

‘Yer a lovely man, Mr - eh, I don’t know yer name,’ she faltered.

‘It’s Bill Smith, at yer service,’ he grinned.

‘I’m Alice, Alice Johnson, an’ I’m pleased ter know yer,’ she said, holding out her hand.

Broomhead shook her hand and picked up his teacup, his eyes going around the room. ‘’Ow d’yer manage, wiv no man ter care fer yer?’ he asked slyly.

‘Oh, I’ve got a few bob put away, an’ I do a bit o’ charrin’ in the mornin’s,’ she replied. ‘Then there’s me ovver little job.’

‘Ovver little job?’ Broomhead repeated, hoping he did not sound too interested in the woman’s affairs.

‘I work be’ind the bar at the Pig an’ Whistle four nights a week,’ she told him. ‘So yer see I ain’t got ’ardly any money worries really, Bill. Well, not like most round ’ere.’

Broomhead put down his empty teacup. He wanted to stay longer but he had suddenly remembered about his horse. The brake chain was broken and he had forgotten to fix it before he came out that morning. The nag often took it into its head to stroll off on its own and last time it happened he found it four streets away being fed a carrot by a huge woman who slated him for abandoning such a lovely animal.

He got up. ‘Well, it’s bin lovely talkin’ ter yer, Alice,’ he said. ‘I might jus’ come round the Pig an’ Whistle one night fer a drink an’ a chat.’

‘I’m there every Thursday night ter Sunday - saloon bar by the way,’ she added quickly.