ONE COULD HAVE said that Sally and Freddy came out of school in leaps and bounds, such was their rushing eagerness to get home and see if their bikes had come. School friends laughed and shouted at them.
‘Go it, Freddy, old Nick’s behind yer!’
‘Leg it, Sally!’
That Sally and her growing legs, thought Freddy, it just ain’t right. His sister was yards ahead of him and running fit to lick him to their door. Exuberant Sally ran on. Appalled at being beaten by a girl, and his sister at that, Freddy charged after her. Up through Walcorde Avenue they flew, Freddy gaining. Sally turned into Browning Street.
‘’Ere, you Sally!’
‘Slowcoach!’ called Sally.
Freddy belted after her and they were almost together as they turned into Caulfield Place. And there they almost sent Mr Ponsonby flying.
‘Oh, ’elp,’ panted Freddy.
‘Oh, sorry, Mr Ponsonby,’ said Sally. They stopped.
Mr Ponsonby, regaining his balance, straightened his bowler hat and peered at them.
‘Dear me, what a day,’ he said, ‘what high spirits. Who are you?’
‘I’m Sally, ’e’s Freddy.’
‘Ah, yes, Sally Brown. Charming, charming, such a sweet girl. And Freddy, yes, such a firework, my word, yes. Dear me, where are you going?’
‘’Ome,’ said Freddy, ‘to see if our bikes ’ave come.’
‘Bikes?’ said Mr Ponsonby, looking puzzled. ‘Ah, bicycles, of course. Have a peppermint.’ He produced the bag, opened it and proffered it. Sally and Freddy each took a peppermint while their feet fidgeted.
‘Thanks ever so, Mr Ponsonby,’ said Sally.
‘Not at all, Sally, not at all. My, you’re a pretty girl.’
‘She’s got special wooden legs,’ said Freddy.
‘He’s barmy,’ said Sally, and Mr Ponsonby peered at her legs.
‘Dear me, dear me, well, I never,’ he said, ‘how very charming.’
‘She just ’ad ordin’ry short legs before,’ said Freddy. ‘Well, we got to go now, Mr Ponsonby – crikey, look, Sally, that’s Mr Greenberg’s cart outside our front door – come on.’
Off they ran. Mr Ponsonby turned to watch them, a kind smile putting a crease in his tidy-looking face.
‘Dear me, what a very nice photograph I could take,’ he said, and helped himself to a peppermint. ‘But one is so busy, so busy. I must get on. Now, where am I going? Ah, yes.’ He turned about and twinkled off, rolled umbrella lightly tapping the pavement.
Having paid their joyous respects to the beaming Mr Greenberg, and gobbled up cake with their cups of tea, Sally and Freddy took up rapturous ownership of their bikes. Off went Sally to ride round and see her friend Mavis. Boys whistled at her legs.
‘Soppy ’a’porths,’ said Sally and cycled on.
Freddy just went careering around the back streets, having promised his mum and Mr Greenberg too not to tussle with trams and buses in the Walworth Road. Trams always come off best, said his mum. And Mr Greenberg said bikes were valuable as business goods, but boys were valuable to their families.
Pedalling from Rodney Road into Orb Street, Freddy spotted Cassie. She was meandering along and singing to herself. With a tyre-hissing swerve, Freddy crossed to her side of the street and stopped.
‘Watcher, Cassie.’
‘Oh, ’ello,’ said Cassie.
‘Like me bike, do yer?’ said Freddy.
‘Crikey, is it yourn?’ breathed Cassie in awe.
‘Not ’alf,’ said Freddy, ‘it’s a present from me eldest sister. She’s wealthy, yer know. Well, she is a bit.’
‘Oh, does she wear furs?’ asked Cassie. ‘I ’ad an aunt once who wore furs. An’ jewels. An’ she ’ad ’er own carriage with four white ’orses. Only she fell on ’ard times and ’ad to go an’ do the laundry for a wicked uncle.’
‘Rotten ’ard luck,’ said Freddy. ‘Did it turn ’er hair white?’
‘Oh, no, she ’ad lovely gold ’air,’ said Cassie, ‘and ’er wicked uncle tried to cut it off. ’E chased ’er all round the laundry room. Only ’e couldn’t see where she was in all the steam, and ’e fell in the great big laundry tub.’
‘Did ’e? You sure ’e did, Cassie?’
‘Oh, yes, and it boiled ’im all over,’ said Cassie.
‘Did it drown ’im as well?’ asked Freddy.
‘Oh, no, ’is servants got ’im out,’ said Cassie.
‘And hung ’im on the line?’
‘I think they ’ad to,’ said Cassie, ‘he was all soppin’ wet. Still, me aunt did say he was sort of different after that. Is it really yer own bike?’
‘Yes, like a ride?’ said Freddy. ‘You can sit on the carrier be’ind me.’
‘Oh, could I?’ Cassie was aglow with pleasure.
‘Yes, come on,’ said Freddy, and held the bike steady. Cassie perched herself astride the wire carrier.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s all wiry,’ she said, ‘’ave yer got a little cushion I could put in me knickers?’
‘I dunno, you girls don’t ’alf ’ave soft bums,’ said Freddy. ‘I suppose us blokes ought to carry cushions around, only we don’t. Never mind, Cassie, use this.’ He took his soft cap off and handed it to her. Cassie unperched herself and with no more than two or three facile movements she lodged the cap in the seat of her knickers. Then she frowned.
‘It’s all lumpy,’ she said.
‘Look, Cassie, as me mate you ain’t supposed to complain,’ said Freddy. ‘Me old mate Daisy never complained not once.’
‘I ain’t complainin’,’ said Cassie, ‘I’m just sayin’, that’s all. I’m just sayin’ it’s a bit lumpy.’
‘Well, try it,’ said Freddy, and Cassie perched herself astride the carrier again. ‘’Ow’s that?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it don’t feel ’alf so lumpy now,’ said Cassie.
A boy came up.
‘What’s she doin’ on yer bike?’ he asked.
‘Sittin’,’ said Freddy.
‘You ain’t supposed to give girls bike rides. Get ’er orf, and I’ll ride.’
‘She’s me mate, Alfie Gibbons, and you ain’t,’ said Freddy.
‘Bleedin’ cissy,’ said young Alfie Gibbons.
‘’Ere, Cassie, ’old me bike while I roll me sleeves up,’ said Freddy.
‘Oh, you goin’ to ’ave a duel?’ asked Cassie in excitement.
‘No, I ain’t, I’m just goin’ to fatten ’is ’ooter,’ said Freddy, who had a lot of his mum’s equability but couldn’t stand being called a cissy.
‘Ain’t you got a sword?’ asked Cassie, off her perch and holding the bike. ‘Me dad ’ad lots of swords once and ’ad lots of duels. ’E ’ad one once with a French duke. On ’Ampstead ’Eath. Dad cut ’is ’ead off.’
‘Cor blimey,’ said Alfie Gibbons, ‘she’s yer mate? She’s as daft as old Ma Simmonds, who ain’t got no teef, eiver.’
‘Right, put yer dooks up,’ said Freddy, sleeves rolled up and muscles flexed. Cassie’s eyes grew big. It was the first time a boy had threatened to fight a duel on her behalf. Street kids were approaching, sensing an up-and-downer.
‘I just remembered, I got to do some errands for me mum,’ said Alfie Gibbons, and made tracks for his home in Stead Street.
Freddy rolled his sleeves down and Cassie said, ‘Oh, ’e didn’t give you a chance to bash ’im.’
‘Still, it saved ’im goin’ ’ome with a flat ’ooter,’ said Freddy. ‘Come on, let’s ’ave our ride.’
Once again Cassie perched herself astride the carrier, Freddy’s soft cap cushioning her bottom, and away they went. It was Cassie’s very first bike ride and she pictured herself being carried away on a white horse by King Arthur, the horse galloping and six wicked uncles chasing after them.
Around the back streets Freddy cycled, but could hardly believe his ears when Cassie, coming out of her dreams, suddenly said, ‘I’m ’ungry’. They had just passed the shop in Rodney Road that sold boiled sheep’s heads for sixpence, or half a one for fourpence.
‘Well, if yer don’t mind, Cassie, I ain’t stoppin’ to buy yer any sheep’s ’ead.’
‘Ugh, I don’t want no sheep’s ’ead,’ said Cassie, ‘I was just sayin’ I’m ’ungry, that’s all.’
‘Could yer wait till next time I see yer?’ said Freddy, turning into Charleston Street. ‘Then if I got a bit of pocket money on me I’ll buy yer a toffee-apple.’
‘Oh, I like toffee-apples,’ said Cassie, legs swinging, hands holding on to Freddy. At the end of Charleston Street, he let the bike bump gently up on to the pavement and rode along the path separating St John’s Church from the vicarage. This time he could hardly believe his eyes. It was that big bloke again, the one with a flapping overcoat and hollow staring eyes. He was striding straight towards them.
Henry Brannigan hissed with rage. A bloody bicycle and two bloody kids riding on it. Those kids, the ones who’d been in his way before. Look at that girl, she had her legs stuck out, curse her. She was bad luck, if any kid was. But he refused to stop, he came barging on, keeping to the measured stride that ensured he trod on no lines.
Freddy wavered and veered. The man, glaring, brushed the bike as he bruised his way by. The machine fell over, and Cassie and Freddy toppled and sprawled.
‘Oh, yer rotten great elephant!’ yelled Freddy.
‘Bloody bikes, bloody kids, ridin’ on pavements, I’ll ’ave the rozzers on the pair of yer,’ said Henry Brannigan in a growling roar, and strode on.
‘I bet me bruvver Will ’ud kick ’is teeth all the way down ’is throat,’ said Freddy. ‘You ’urt, Cassie?’ He helped her up.
‘I don’t like ’im,’ said Cassie, brushing herself down, ‘I bet ’e’s someone’s wicked uncle, I bet ’e tramples people to death under ’is ’orses, I bet ’e rides six ’orses at once.’
‘Yes, but are you all right?’ asked Freddy.
‘Yes, course I am, I just fell over, that’s all. Me sister Annie fell over last week and ’urt ’er knee.’
‘That was when me bruvver Will met ’er,’ said Freddy, examining his bike for dents.
‘Yes, ’e looked at ’er, an’ that was what made ’er fall over, she said.’
‘Don’t be daft, Cassie, ’ow could anyone fall over just by bein’ looked at?’
‘Well, she could see ’e was a lion tamer,’ said Cassie, ‘that was what done it.’
‘’E ain’t a lion tamer, ’e’s a soldier,’ said Freddy.
‘Yes, ain’t ’e ’andsome?’ said Cassie. ‘I expect ’e’ll get a job one day servin’ the King an’ Queen with their Sunday teas. They always ’ave strawberry jam with their Sunday teas, did yer know that, Freddy?’
‘I suppose I know it now,’ grinned Freddy.
‘Can we do more ridin’?’ asked Cassie.
‘D’you like me bike, then?’
‘Not ’alf,’ said Cassie, ‘an’ yer cap’s ever such an ’elp.’
‘All right, we’ll do mote ridin’ till our suppers,’ said Freddy. ‘Lucky there ain’t no dents in me bike.’
‘Your cap’s got all creased, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown when Freddy returned home alive and unscratched.
Freddy, taking his cap off, gave it a critical look, then banged it about on his knee.
‘Yes, well, it’s been in Cassie’s bloomers,’ he said.
‘It’s what?’ said Will.
‘It’s what?’ yelled Susie.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘That blessed boy, you can’t believe ’im, can yer?’ said Sally.
‘Bein’ ’is dad, I want to believe ’im, but I ain’t sure I ’eard ’im right,’ said Mr Brown.
‘I dunno what yer all fallin’ about for,’ said Freddy. ‘Cassie rode on me carrier an’ used me cap for a cushion, and it ain’t my fault girls ’ave got soft bums.’
Sally had a fit, Susie shrieked with laughter, Will grinned all over, Mr Brown rolled his eyes and Mrs Brown said, ‘It’s best to say bottoms, Freddy love, specially in company. Now let’s all sit down and ’ave supper.’
‘Wait a tick,’ said Will, ‘I’d like to know who stuffed your cap down Cassie’s whatsits, Freddy. Was it you, or did Cassie manage it herself?’
‘Oh, don’t,’ gasped Sally, ‘I’ll fall ill.’
‘’Ere, can you see me doin’ a thing like that?’ protested Freddy.
‘Not without usin’ my imagination,’ said Susie.
‘Cassie did it ’erself,’ said Freddy.
‘Well, I suppose some part of the fam’ly honour’s been saved,’ said Will.
‘I’m still goin’ to be ill,’ said Sally.
‘It’s a corkin’ bike, Susie,’ said Freddy, ‘I really like yer for it.’
‘Me too for mine,’ said Sally.
‘Well, if we could all sit down now?’ said Mrs Brown, and they all took their places at the table for rabbit stew, highly succulent and flavoursome.
Mr Brown had brought an evening paper in and was sitting on it. It contained the news that the dead girl had been strangled, that the scrap yard in which her body had been found used to be owned by Collier and Son of Bermondsey and was now the property of Adams Enterprises of Camberwell. The pathologist had given her age as twelve at the time of death. This had enabled the police to narrow the field in respect of missing persons, and the police were interviewing a Bermondsey family whose daughter had disappeared thirteen months ago. They were also making enquiries in other directions.
They were, in fact, giving beery Mr Collier and his equally beery son a hard time.
Susie asked her dad how he was getting on in Bermondsey.
‘Well, we’re ’eld up a bit on account of ’aving to sort a lot of things out before we can start doin’ any business,’ he said.
‘You’ll do it, Dad,’ said Susie, ‘you’re a good old sorter-out. Sally, don’t forget that on Saturday afternoon you’re comin’ with me to our Brixton shop for a fittin’. We’re meetin’ Sammy’s nieces Rosie and Annabelle there.’
The fittings were for Susie’s bridal gown and the bridesmaids’ dresses.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t forget that, Susie,’ said Sally. ‘I could cycle there on me new bike, if yer like.’
‘No, you couldn’t, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘we can’t have you cyclin’ in all that traffic.’
‘I don’t mind takin’ ’er, Mum,’ said Freddy, ‘she can ride on me carrier, like Cassie did.’
‘With a decent cushion down her whatsits,’ said Will.
Hysterics ran around the table, but stopped when they reached Mrs Brown, who said, ‘No, Freddy love, you’re not ridin’ any bike to Brixton, either.’
‘There’s a murder been done down Bermondsey way,’ said Mrs Queenie Watts, who lived with her husband in Brandon Street and had her brother, Henry Brannigan, as a lodger. She was reading her husband’s evening paper.
‘There’ll be a nasty one done ’ere in a minute,’ said Stan Watts from the scullery. He was regarding the sink. It was full of washing-up. ‘There’s two days’ dirty dishes out ’ere.’
‘Oh, I ain’t been feelin’ up to things recent,’ said Mrs Watts, hairpins loose and a button looking as if it was about to desert her blouse. ‘I think I’m gettin’ an ’eart condition. ‘Ave yer read about this pore young girl that’s got done in?’
‘I’ve read it all right,’ said Mr Watts, ‘and I’ll be readin’ tomorrer about you bein’ done in yerself.’
‘That ain’t a very nice joke,’ said Mrs Watts.
‘It ain’t a joke.’
‘Nor’s me ’eart condition, I can feel it gettin’ chronic. Now come in ’ere, Stan, an’ pour yerself a glass of beer. I’ll ’ave one too, it’ll cheer me up a bit. I don’t like readin’ about murders.’
‘One thing,’ said Mr Watts, ‘you won’t get the miseries readin’ about your own, you won’t be doin’ no more readin’.’
‘Strangled she was, pore girl,’ said Mrs Watts.
‘So will you be, Queenie, if I keep comin’ ’ome to this kind of mess,’ said Mr Watts.
‘Only twelve she was, did yer read that?’ said Mrs Watts.
‘Well, you’re nearly fifty, but that won’t save yer,’ said Mr Watts. Resignedly, he filled the kettle and put it on a gas ring, knowing he’d got to do the washing-up himself. If his wife was lazy, she was still good-natured and always managed to give him a decent supper. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he said, ‘’Enry’s on ’is way out, Queenie. ’E’s always goin’ out, that brother of yourn.’ The front door opened and closed.
‘Well, ’e don’t do no ’arm,’ said Mrs Watts, ‘and I expect ’e can enjoy a bit of company in a pub.’
‘Not ’im,’ said Mr Watts, ‘’e don’t need company.’
‘Course ’e does, Stan, ’e’s still a grievin’ widower and ’e knows ’e can get cheered up in a pub.’
‘Always found ’im a funny bloke meself,’ said Mr Watts, ‘and it didn’t do ’im much good losin’ ’is wife Matilda like that. Ruddy ’orrible that was, fallin’ out of a train. Poor old Matty.’
‘Don’t talk about it,’ said Mrs Watts, and let a shudder squirm its way through her stout and indolent body.
Lines at night didn’t count if they couldn’t be seen. It was only when they showed up under the light of shop windows or street lamps that they offered their challenge. It was then that Henry Brannigan had to step carefully. He sometimes had horrible dreams, dreams in which he trod on a pavement line and then had bad luck rushing at him in the shape of howling red-eyed wolves. In the nightmarish dreams he ran like a madman, the animals at his back, and every dream always finished with him running until he fell off the edge of the world into a black void. His plummeting fall jerked him awake and brought him out of his nightmare.
He went out frequently at night to escape the solitude of his room. He liked walking, he liked to use his long vigorous stride to eat up the pavements, knowing the lines that couldn’t be seen didn’t matter.
It was damned dark tonight, with no moon and the starry sky blanketed by heavy clouds. The patches of light at intervals caused him to watch for the visible lines. Approaching a pub that cast faint light, he knew a few lines would show up. A man appeared, coming towards him. Henry Brannigan judged they would meet in the faint light. Damnation. It was always a challenge to him not to falter or check, so he kept going, eyes searching for the lines he knew would be visible, even if only faintly. The approaching man had a stride as determined as his own. Curse him. Calamity loomed. Then the pub door opened and a woman in a large hat and a long coat came out. It caused the approaching man to change step and to leave the pavement. It got him out of Henry Brannigan’s way at a moment when lines appeared and he needed to lengthen his stride. He was able to do so freely, and a sigh of relief escaped him.
‘’Ere, ’alf a mo’, dearie.’ The woman was at his back, and his feet were in darkness again. He stopped. He owed her a favour, although she didn’t know it. He turned. The faint light reached out to make her face visible. She was handsome after a fashion, but she was tarted up with paint and powder.
‘What d’you want?’ he asked.
‘Make me an offer, lovey.’
He realized what she was, but he still owed her a favour. It wasn’t often that someone’s action was helpful. Usually it was the other way about. He parted his unbuttoned coat, thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out a silver coin, half a crown.
‘Here,’ he said, and gave it to her. Her hand closed over it, and its weight and its feel told her its value. She had had a blank evening, and no-one had even bought her a drink. She liked a drink, just one. She knew that a lot of drink didn’t help a woman’s looks, and she needed her looks. At thirty-eight she had to take care of them.
‘Kind of yer, lovey,’ she said, smiling up into his dark face, ‘but can yer make it five bob? I’ve got a nice flat and you can stay till midnight, if yer like.’
‘I don’t go with women,’ said Henry Brannigan, who would already have gone on his way if he hadn’t felt that fate required him to be friendly as well as grateful. ‘Out of respect for me late wife.’
‘Oh, yer poor man, but what did yer give me this ’alf-crown for, then?’ asked Madge Simpson, who’d been on the game for five years and knew how to keep an eye open for the coppers.
Henry Brannigan wasn’t going to explain. People were bleeding idiots. None of them understood. That coroner hadn’t understood. What a man had to do, he had to do.
‘You ’ard-up?’ he said to the woman.
‘Who ain’t?’ said Madge Simpson.
‘Well, keep the ’alf-crown.’
‘You don’t want nothing for it, lovey?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yer a gent,’ said Madge. ‘Mind, I ain’t fond of takin’ something for nothing, I ain’t come down to plain beggin’ yet. ’Ere, come ’ome with me, anyway, an’ keep me company for a bit. I’ll make us a pot of tea and a sandwich, it’s one of them evenings when customers don’t seem in the mood.’
‘I’m pleased to ’ave met yer, lady,’ said Henry Brannigan, ‘but I don’t go in for keepin’ company. Good night to yer.’ And he went on his way. He entered the Walworth Road, which was full of lighted shop windows and street lamps. The pavements were bathed in light. His feet knew the Walworth Road paving stones well, he adjusted his stride to them.
‘’Ere, be matey.’
The woman had caught him up and was walking beside him, taking quick steps to keep up with him.
‘’Oppit, lady,’ said Henry Brannigan, the familiar scowl appearing on his face.
‘Don’t be like that, lovey,’ she said, and did a little one-two with her feet.
‘What made you do that?’ he asked, keeping relentlessly to his measured stride.
‘I don’t like treadin’ on the lines,’ she said, ‘it’s bad luck.’
‘What?’ Henry Brannigan could hardly believe his ears.
‘Last time I trod a bit careless on a line, a customer did it on me. Pulled ’is trousers on quick an’ went off without payin’, the swine,’ said Madge. ‘Not all me customers are gents, I can tell yer. ’Ere, I live in Amelia Street, it’s just across the road. You can come an’ spend ’alf an hour with me, can’t yer? I can do with a bit of company – ’elp, I nearly ’it that crack. Cracks count as lines to me. Don’t think I’m barmy, I ain’t, I’m just superstitious. I don’t walk under ladders, neither.’ She stopped. ‘Come on, share a pot of tea with me, I like yer, and I won’t pester yer or ask to see yer wallet.’
‘I’ll do that, lady, I’ll share a pot of tea with yer,’ said Henry Brannigan, hiding the excitement of discovery. This woman felt the same way as he did about lines? ‘Yes, I’ll come with yer.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Madge, a good-natured woman, even if she was a fallen one. A fancy large-brimmed hat crowned her head, and her waisted coat owned a glossy collar of fox fur. She’d bought both items for a song down Petticoat Lane, and they gave her quite a posh look. But she didn’t charge posh prices, her going rate was five bob. ‘Come on, then, but don’t tread on the tramlines.’ She laughed.
‘Tramlines count,’ he said as they stepped off the kerb.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘I’m careful meself about treadin’ on lines.’
‘Well, I never, are yer really?’ said Madge. They crossed the road and she laughed again as they both took care not to tread on the tramlines. They reached the pavement. The road was darker on this side.
‘We can walk easy now,’ he said. ‘Lines don’t count, of course, if you can’t see ’em.’
‘That’s right,’ said Madge, entering Amelia Street with him. ‘My, fancy you bein’ superstitious as well, lovey. Ain’t it a funny old world? Me lodgings ain’t far down ’ere, except they’re on the other side. Come on.’ She took him across the street and to the house in which she lodged. She fished her key out of her handbag, slipped it into the lock and opened the door. A glowing gas mantle illuminated the passage. Lace curtains framed the approach to the stairs. ‘This way,’ she said, ‘me dear old landlady don’t mind me bringing gents ’ome. She ’ad gentlemen friends ’erself when she was a chorus girl up West.’ Henry Brannigan closed the door and followed her up the stairs to the back room, where a slow-burning coal fire offered a warm cosiness. She took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, struck a match and applied the flame to a gas mantle. The onset of light drove away black shadows, and the room took on an inviting look. A rug of brown wool covered the linoleum in front of the hearth fender. Two leather-upholstered armchairs seemed slightly at odds with a kitchen dresser, but only in a friendly way. ‘This is me livin’ room,’ said Madge. ‘Me bedroom’s on the landing, but we won’t be usin’ that, will we?’
‘I ain’t felt the need since me wife died,’ said Henry Brannigan.
‘All right, lovey, I ain’t goin’ to push yer. Take yer coat off, and yer titfer, and I’ll put the kettle on.’
He took his hat and coat off and hung them on the door peg. She looked at him. His features were gaunt, his eyes dark and hollow, but he had the kind of strong-boned face that would have been handsome if there’d been more flesh to it. His black hair was well-brushed, his working clothes coarse and hard-wearing.
‘Givin’ me the once-over, are yer?’ he said.
‘Well, I like to see what I bring into me livin’ room, ducky,’ said Madge, and filled a tin kettle with water from a pitcher. She put the kettle on a gas ring. ‘In me bedroom, well, I just shut me eyes. A gel can’t be too choosy when it’s what you might call a matter of business. Come on, sit down.’
But Henry Brannigan remained on his feet, placing himself with his back to the fire and eyeing her in undisguised curiosity. Madge removed her hat and coat, and his dark eyes flickered, for she wore a white high-necked lace blouse with a lace front and a red flared skirt saucily short. It was knee-length, and the frilled hem of a white petticoat peeped and flirted above legs in lace-up boots and black stockings. Her hair was auburn, her mouth generously touched with lipstick and her face heavily powdered. She was a good five feet eight and still handsome. She’d been kept by a man for ten years, from the age of twenty-three. She’d have preferred marriage, but he had a wife. When she was thirty-three, he stopped visiting her. He had always visited twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. When he failed to appear, she waited for an explanatory letter. It never came, and she had no idea where he lived. He had always kept that from her. She thought he must be either ill or dead, but was unable to find out. She felt bitter about it. With his disappearance, her allowance stopped. She thought about getting a job, but it was 1921, and any job was hard to come by. She took herself up West one evening and met a young RAF pilot. She was willing, he was eager. He took her to a small hotel in Kensington and she slept with him. When she woke up in the morning, he’d gone, leaving her three pounds on the bedside table. Truthfully, she hadn’t thought about money. She simply owned a very healthy body and it was a bit starved. She put the three pounds in her purse and left the hotel, the manager giving her a funny look on her way out. Blow you, she thought.
She started looking for a job, a decent one. She didn’t fancy factory work, not a bit, and not after ten years of being kept in comfortable style. She tried her luck in some West End clubs, thinking a job as a dining-room waitress might suit her. That proved unsuccessful. She had no family. She was the only child of a Bermondsey docker and his better half, and they were dead. But she met a very nice gent by one of the clubs, and he gave her a whole five quid for spending the night with him. It enabled her to set herself up in cheap lodgings. And that was the start of her real fall from grace. She’d come down in the world since then, a long way down, and had finished up here while plying for trade in Walworth pubs. She had to keep her eye open for the rozzers. She hadn’t ever been run in. A girl got her name in the papers when that happened.
‘You’re on the game, of course,’ said Henry Brannigan.
‘Well, how’d yer guess, lovey?’ she smiled. She quite liked him. She felt he was a bit withdrawn, but he looked a girl in the eye and spoke frankly. Well, everyone on the game was always a girl. ‘Like me workin’ outfit, do yer?’
‘Suits yer,’ he said, ‘you’ve got fine legs. Bit too much powder, though.’
‘Eh?’ said Madge.
‘Tone it down, you don’t want to look as if you fell in a flour bag. A bit less powder and not so much paint, an’ yer’ll look more like a lady than a pro. Men fancy ladies.’
‘Saucy devil,’ said Madge, but laughed. ‘Like a sandwich, would yer?’
‘A biscuit would do for me.’
‘Sure?’
‘Biscuit and a cup of tea, I don’t need more.’
‘Suits me too,’ said Madge, and he watched her as she brought out a tin of biscuits from the dresser cupboard and prepared to make the tea. She chatted while she waited for the kettle to boil. He made responsive comments. He was absorbed, even fascinated. What a find, a woman who shared his feeling that to tread on lines was bad luck. Kids played at it on their way home from school, giving yells if they failed, and pushing at each other to try to bring about failure. But it was a serious business when you were an adult, and sod kids who got in your way. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d consorted with a woman apart from his wife. And his wife had gone now.
Madge made the tea, let it stand for a minute or so, then filled two cups with the steaming golden liquid. God’s gift a cup of hot tea was, and nor was it unpleasing to have a man keeping her company, a man who wasn’t here to go to bed with her. She got him to sit down in front of the fire, and she sat down herself, in the other armchair, each of them with a cup of tea and a biscuit. He was a strong-looking figure even seated. She was a woman who had an affinity with men, and so she sat, of course, with her legs and knees unveiled and the lacy hem of her white petticoat showing.
‘’Ow long you been watchin’ lines?’ he asked.
‘Five years,’ she said, ‘ever since a bloke either died on me or walked out on me. Something got to me, something about bad luck an’ good luck, and I’m superstitious up to the top of me corsets now.’
‘Lines, I reckon, are put in yer way to test yer will power,’ said Henry Brannigan, crunching biscuit with strong teeth. ‘I ain’t sayin’ it applies to everyone, just to some of us. You’re kind of kindred, lady.’
‘Kind of tarty, yer mean,’ said Madge.
‘Not to me,’ he said, ‘except for yer paint an’ powder, but that can easy be washed off. It ain’t tarty to ask me up ’ere to share a pot of tea with yer, and to sit me in front of yer fire. That’s human kindness.’
‘What’s yer name?’ asked Madge.
He wasn’t keen on offering his name to all and sundry, not since the inquest, when the newspapers had shouted it out.
‘’Ave I asked you for your name, lady?’
‘No, but I’d like to know yours, seein’ you just said something very nice to me,’ said Madge.
‘I’m Henry.’
‘Just Henry?’ Madge smiled. ‘All right, good enough, Henry. And I’m Madge. I’ll be thinkin’ of you when I’m next walkin’ the pavement an’ dodgin’ the lines.’
‘That’s it, you watch them lines.’
‘Mind, I only do it sometimes. You can’t be doin’ it all the time, only when the mood takes yer.’
‘You should do it all the time. Once you start, you’re on the wheel of fortune, take it from me.’
‘Oh, it don’t count if you ain’t botherin’,’ said Madge, and Henry Brannigan shook his head dubiously. ‘More tea? Let’s give you a refill.’ She took his cup and saucer, got up and took the cosy off the teapot. She refilled his cup and her own. He thanked her in a sober way, looking at her in her white blouse and short saucy skirt. She sat down again, and he eyed her legs quite openly. She didn’t mind. She liked a man to be frankly appreciative.
‘What got you on the game?’ he asked.
‘Me legs?’ she said jokingly.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said.
‘Well, I’ll tell yer, Henry, seein’ yer keepin’ me friendly company,’ she said, and told him how she had been a comfortably kept woman for ten years before her lover just disappeared from her life. She recounted what happened after that. ‘Well, I didn’t fancy slavin’ in a fact’ry. It spoils yer for fact’ry work, bein’ kept by a gen’rous bloke who’s fond of yer as well. Mind, I sometimes wish it ’adn’t spoiled me that much, I might ’ave got used to a job and ended up a respectable workin’ woman, or even got married.’
Henry Brannigan thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll keep you.’
‘What?’ said Madge.
‘A woman like you, and kind of kindred,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t be on the game. I’ll make you an allowance. I’ve got savings, and the insurance money paid to me on the death of me wife, and I’ve also got me wages of two pound ten a week.’
‘What?’ said Madge again, staring at him. ‘Listen, Henry, you’ve only just met me, and I ain’t takin’ that proposition as serious.’
‘I’m offerin’ serious,’ he said. ‘It’ll keep you out of pubs, it’ll keep you off the game, which’ll turn you into an old ’aybag sooner than yer think if you don’t give it up. You look an ’andsome woman to me. That day you picked up a West End gent and ’e paid yer for services rendered, I’d say that was a day when you trod on a line after startin’ the fateful business of avoidin’ them. That time with the clubman put you on the game, an’ that was bad luck, I tell yer. It’s bad luck for any woman the day she goes on the game. Now you get yerself a flat, say at twelve bob a week.’
‘Twelve bob would get any woman an ’andsome flat,’ said Madge, wondering if he really was serious.
‘Well, like I said, Madge, you’re ’andsome yerself,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘I’ll take care of the rent an’ the cost of keepin’ yerself in decent comfort.’
‘As yer mistress?’ said Madge.
‘I ain’t askin’ for that, but I’ll come to keep yer company frequent.’
‘But you’ll want yer pleasure, won’t yer?’
‘Just yer company,’ he said, ‘I’m short of company that suits me.’
‘’Old on, ducky,’ said Madge, ‘there’s a ruddy catch somewhere. You’ll keep me and only ask for me company now and again? Don’t yer fancy me, then?’
‘I ain’t partial to usin’ a woman like that,’ he said, ‘I’m more partial to sharin’ ’er fireside, or doin’ a bit of walkin’ with ’er when the summer evenings come. We can beat the lines together.’
‘Sounds nice,’ said Madge, ‘but not much of a bargain for you.’
‘You look for a flat tomorrer,’ he said, ‘and I’ll meet yer outside the town ’all at eight in the evenin’. Are yer willin’?’
‘Henry, you’re cheatin’ yerself,’ she said.
‘Are yer willin’?’
‘More like dreamin’,’ said Madge. ‘No, of course I’m willin’, but it’s goin’ to cost yer, Henry, for just me company. Rent an’ keep cost more than a bag of ’ot chestnuts.’
‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘No more customers. You got that, lady?’
‘That was included when I said I was willin’. I don’t go in for cheatin’ a man.’
‘It don’t pay a woman, cheatin’,’ said Henry Brannigan, and the ghost of a smile came and went.