AT THE SOUND of the front door closing the following evening, Mrs Queenie Watts said to her husband, ‘’Enry’s out ev’ry evenin’ now reg’lar as clockwork.’
‘Doin’ ’im good,’ said Stan Watts, ‘makin’ ’im more human. ’Ere, what’s this out ’ere on top of the copper?’
‘Oh, just some of ’is shirts,’ said Queenie, ‘I offered to put ’em in me Monday wash, if I’m up to doin’ it.’
‘But ’e uses the laundry, don’t ’e?’ called Stan from the scullery.
‘Yes, but I offered. I ’ad a weak moment, I forgot about me chronic back.’
‘What’s ’e use three shirts in a week for?’ asked Stan. ‘They’re bleedin’ best shirts, look at ’em.’
‘I can’t see from ’ere,’ said Queenie, lumpily lazing in a fireside chair, ‘but I take yer word for it.’
‘’Ere, yer know what three best shirts in a week mean, don’t yer?’ said Stan. ‘’E’s got a fancy woman, that’s what’s takin’ ’im out reg’lar ev’ry evenin’ about the same time. ’Ere, wait a bit, there’s a bloodstain on the cuff of one shirt, Queenie. I ’ope that don’t mean ’e’s cut ’is fancy woman’s throat.’
‘Oh, yer daft lummox, Stan. You don’t suppose, do yer, that ’e cut ’er throat last night and ’as gone back tonight to bury ’er somewhere? ’E just ’appened to nick ’is wrist when ’e got back ’ere last night, ’e told me so, and ’e showed it to me. It’s only a small nick.’
‘Well, ’e’s got some woman all right,’ said Stan, ‘dressin’ smart like ’e does an’ goin’ out so reg’lar in ’is new overcoat. And ’e don’t look these days as if the rozzers are ’unting ’im down.’
‘’E couldn’t help lookin’ like that,’ said Queenie. ‘It was Matty fallin’ out of that train that did it to ’im. ’E’s gettin’ over it at last.’
‘And ’e’s got a fancy piece that’s ’elping ’im,’ said Stan.
‘Time ’e ’ad a little bit of what ’e fancies,’ said Queenie indulgently.
After a nice homely supper of fresh haddock and poached eggs with Madge, Henry Brannigan took her for a walk along the Walworth Road. He, as usual, measured his strides whenever they reached a patch of light. Madge, as usual, fitted in with him, even though she was cheerfully disposed this evening to ignore the superstitions. Henry, however, was very set in the way he observed all the rules, and she didn’t like to go against him.
‘That one near caught the both of us,’ he said, as they came out of the light cast by a shop window. Some shop windows always showed light, but most had their shutters up.
‘Still, we both beat it,’ said Madge.
‘Well, good for both of us, eh? Like a drink? Say a port an’ lemon?’
‘That’s nice of you, Henry. I don’t know I ever met a man more gen’rous than you, nor more kind.’
‘I ain’t ever sure meself that dibs do a bloke much good by bein’ kept in ’is pocket,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘Dibs, yer might say, is there to be spent when there’s something worthwhile to spend ’em on. A good woman’s worthwhile, Madge, and it ain’t nothing to do with bein’ gen’rous. And I don’t know I’d call meself kind, I’m more rough and ready, like.’
‘A rough diamond, then, that’s you,’ said Madge, full-bodied and hearty, and surprising herself in her liking for taking walks with this strange and earthy man. The night was fine, the inky sky studded with a million tiny stars, the day clouds of early April swept from the heavens by a wind that had come and gone.
They crossed the road when they reached East Street, darkly empty of stalls. The tramlines, straight and true, faintly glimmered. They stepped over them, Madge doing so with a little laugh as they made for the pub on the corner of Penrose Street. The lamp above its door illuminated the paving stones. Madge, just a little bit careless then, trod on a line. Henry Brannigan emitted a sharp hissing breath.
‘Shouldn’t ’ave done that, Madge,’ he said.
‘Oh, it don’t really count, Henry,’ she said. ‘I’m not in a superstitious mood tonight, I’m ’appy bein’ out with yer.’
‘All the same, I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘Just take care tomorrer in case bad luck comes runnin’ after yer.’
‘I’ll do that, Henry, I’ll take care,’ she said, sorry that she’d upset him.
‘Good,’ he said, and took her into the pub. It gave them a warm if fuggy welcome, the clay pipes of elderly cockneys issuing smoke. The place was fairly full, lively customers enjoying old ale at fourpence a pint from the barrel. A table, unoccupied, offered itself. ‘You sit there, Madge, and I’ll order up yer port an’ lemon.’
He was a real gent, she thought, in the way he treated her, especially as a lot of people would just see her as an old pro. Still, she was off the game now. She sat down while he took himself to the crowded bar. Her handsomely mature looks drew the eyes of some men. She knew this pub, of course, she knew all the pubs and their noisy cockney atmosphere and their sawdust floors. Walworth men and women liked their pubs.
A man, catching sight of her, gave her a second look, then elbowed his way out of a group of men and women. He shifted his cap a little until its soft peak was at a perky angle and walked across to Madge.
‘Watcher, Daisy gel, ain’t seen yer around lately,’ he said, and winked at her.
Oh, blow it, thought Madge, he’s been a customer of mine, I suppose. Daisy was the name she’d always used. She could rarely remember any of their faces, not generally she couldn’t, and she’d hoped none of them would remember hers now that she wasn’t tarted up.
‘Beg yer pardon?’ she said.
‘Are yer booked, love?’ The man wasn’t at all bad-looking. He was about thirty, with a fine pair of shoulders and a scarf around his brawny neck. A faint sexual surge disturbed her healthy body. That was often the trouble. She was healthy. She liked men, except the pathetic kind who’d never been able to look her in the eye. Henry looked her in the eye like a real man should. She frankly fancied Henry. He was middle-aged but as strong as a horse, she could tell that.
‘You after something, mister?’ she said distantly.
‘You offerin’, Daisy? ’Ow about a bit of what I’ve ’ad before, eh? Bleedin’ fine woman, you are, and ’ere’s me ’ard-earned silver in advance.’ His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with two half-crowns, which he placed on the table in front of her. Madge felt sick, then angry. ‘Meet yer outside in twenty minutes, say?’ The man gave her another wink.
A glass of port and lemon appeared. A hand set it down beside the heavy silver coins. That was followed by a pint glass of old ale, and Henry Brannigan, having rid himself of both glasses, addressed himself to the intruding third party.
‘The lady’s with me,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t be greedy, tosh,’ said the third party, ‘I’m paid-up an’ booked.’
Henry Brannigan drew a long breath. It seemed to expand him and to lengthen him. He picked up the half-crowns and dropped them into the third party’s jacket pocket.
‘Do yerself a favour, mate, an’ bugger off,’ he said.
‘Watch yer north-and-south, cully, I ain’t yer private doormat.’
‘Would you be invitin’ me outside?’ asked Henry Brannigan.
‘You want it, you’ll get it.’
‘Right.’ Henry Brannigan glanced at Madge. ‘Won’t be a tick,’ he said.
‘Henry—’
‘Look after me pint,’ he said, and went outside with the man. No-one took any notice. Amid all the boisterous noise, the brief dialogue had gone unheard except by Madge. She sat stiffly, biting her lip. But she didn’t have long to wait. Henry was back within a couple of minutes. He didn’t look ruffled, and he didn’t look heated. He sat down and picked up his glass of ale.
‘Oh, me gawd, what’ve yer done to ’im?’ breathed Madge.
‘Hit ’im,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘’E won’t be comin’ back. I ’ope that’ll show yer, Madge, that it don’t do to challenge them fates.’
‘What d’yer mean?’ she asked.
‘Trod on a line outside, didn’t yer?’ he said. ‘An’ bad luck didn’t take any time to catch up with yer, did it? You’re off the game now, so I’d say you count it as bad luck to get an offer from a bloke when you’re livin’ respectable, don’t yer?’
‘So ’elp me, I don’t want to go back on the game,’ breathed Madge, ‘nor ’ave anyone makin’ an offer.’
‘There y’ar, then, lady, don’t risk it. Don’t ask for bad luck to come runnin’ after yer. It chased after yer when you trod on that line, and caught up quick with yer. I ain’t partial to ’aving you accosted, not now you’re keepin’ yer bed to yerself. Well, the fates ’ave taught you yer lesson. Now ’ere’s good ’ealth an’ good luck to yer, Madge.’
Madge, a shaky little smile on her face, said, ‘Bless yer, Henry, and ’ere’s good luck to you too.’
They drank to each other, with Madge thinking he’s right, you can’t shut superstitions up in a cupboard whenever you feel like it, you’ve got to keep them out in the open all the time and pay respect to them.
Susie entered Sammy’s office on Saturday morning the moment she heard him come in.
‘Mister Sammy,’ she said, consulting her watch, ‘you’re late.’
‘Did I hear you say something, Miss Brown?’
‘You did. It’s nearly eleven, and I wasn’t aware you had any appointments this mornin’. Lilian Hyams phoned and said to tell you all the autumn and winter designs are now finished in respect of suggested alterations by Miss de Vere. And Tommy phoned to say the hire of another warehouse has been arranged. And there’s a letter from Shuttleworth Mills about their new cotton fabrics that wants answerin’. Eleven o’clock in the mornin’ won’t do, Mister Sammy, unless you’ve got a good excuse.’
‘I’ll come after you in a minute,’ said Sammy.
‘Yes, please – no, I mean no – not in office time. Just kindly explain why you’re late, and if it’s because you’ve been up to see Miss de Vere, I won’t invite you to my weddin’.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Sammy, ‘I get a painful feelin’ I’d be better off deaf, you saucebox. I’d give you the sack if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d miss your legs walkin’ in and out of me office. What’s kept me, you want to know? Well, I’m able to inform you, Miss Brown, that I’ve been to the Bermondsey Borough Council and offered them the scrap yard as a buildin’ site, at the price we paid for the business, so that they could put up a block of municipal flats.’
‘You want to sell that yard?’ asked Susie.
‘Well, I know your dad could get back to it in time, Susie, but there’s always goin’ to be some geezers nosin’ about to get a look at where that girl’s body was found. It’s what’s called morbid curiosity. You remember, don’t you, a woman called Mrs Chivers, who was murdered a few doors away from where you’re livin’ now?’
‘Yes, everyone in Walworth knew about that,’ said Susie. ‘Your fam’ly told me the full story. Boots was a witness at the trial of Elsie Chivers, the daughter, and so was your mum.’
‘Boots got her off,’ said Sammy. ‘Our respected Ma said he gave his evidence like the Lord of creation, and juries take notice of the Lord of creation.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Susie. ‘It must’ve been awful, a woman accused of murderin’ her own mother. Em’ly said she wouldn’t have hurt a fly. Yes, I can imagine Boots bein’ impressive. He’s got such an air, don’t you think so?’ Susie smiled teasingly. ‘We all adore him, of course. Doreen says he makes her bosom rise and fall.’
‘Might I remind you that I’ve told you before I won’t have any adorin’ on these premises, it interferes with business. Nor don’t I want to see any bosoms risin’ and fallin’. Tell Doreen a decent corset will solve her breathin’ problems. Let’s see, where was I? Yes, the point is, Susie, after the trial geezers from newspapers haunted the street for weeks. When they’d given up, along came the Nosey Parkers to look at the house and to ask questions. They kept comin’. Morbid curiosity, don’t yer see, a bit of wordage Boots acquainted me with. It’s goin’ to be like that at Bennondsey, partic’larly if the police find the murderer and hang him. I don’t want your dad to have to put up with staring eyeballs and queer questions. So I made the Council an offer of the yard, which they’re considerin’, and after that I made an offer for Rodgers and Company’s scrap yard off the Old Kent Road. Which old man Rodgers accepted on the spot. That’s the yard for your dad, Susie.’
‘Sammy, oh, you lovely feller,’ said Susie.
‘Sound as a bell, your dad is,’ said Sammy.
‘Sammy, I’m goin’ to be your best and only wife ever.’
‘I’ll try not to mind the expense,’ said Sammy.
‘I’ll try not to as well,’ said Susie. ‘Tommy said he thinks you’re usin’ Mr Greenberg to corner all the textiles held by London wholesalers. I told him I was grievously afraid you are.’
‘Well, we might get lucky,’ said Sammy.
‘It’s just not fair,’ said Susie.
‘So you said before, Susie, but it’s rattlin’ good business. Now, kindly inform Ronnie to mount his bike and ride off to our Brixton shop with this box. They’re expectin’ it.’
The cardboard box, white, was on Sammy’s desk.
‘What’s in it?’ asked Susie.
‘Silver-white bridal stockings,’ said Sammy.
‘Silver-white? Oh, let me see,’ said Susie.
‘You’ve already got your weddin’ stockings, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, white, but not silver-white.’ Susie picked up the box and sped into her office with it, closing the door behind her. Sammy grinned. Susie’s legs in silver-white. Even a high-class reputable businessman could hardly wait.
When Ronnie, the office boy for two months, rode off to Brixton with the box, one pair of stockings was missing, a note from Susie in its place.
Sammy, having heard from Susie that Polly Simms wouldn’t be at the wedding, after all, because she had to go abroad, felt a bit sorrowful about it. He liked Polly, the whole family did. She might be upper class, but could mix with all kinds. They’d miss her, the family, but it was just as well she was going abroad. She was a lot too fond of Boots, and Chinese Lady would raise the roof if Boots let it get out of hand.
Yes, just as well she was leaving.
A business acquaintance, a Covent Garden wholesale florist, popped in to see Sammy at twenty minutes past eleven. Susie had left at eleven – she had a hundred things to do, all in respect of the wedding. Josh Walker, who had gravitated from a flower stall in the East Street market to Covent Garden, owed Sammy a small favour. It was one of Sammy’s profitable principles, to contrive for business friends or acquaintances to owe him favours.
‘Well, ’ow’s yerself, Sammy? In the pink, I see. Bloomin’, as yer might say.’
‘I might, if I didn’t have headaches, Josh,’ said Sammy.
‘Oh, we all got those, Sammy. I’m just on me way to Peckham, so I thought I’d just look in on yer and ’and yer something for your fiancée, seein’ yer doin’ the honours with ’er next Saturday.’ Josh Walker placed a long cardboard box on Sammy’s desk. Sammy lifted the lid and saw at least a dozen bunches of magnificent King Alfred daffodils.
‘Josh, I’m overcome,’ he said.
‘Pleasure. Good luck, mate. I can tell yer, marriage don’t actu’lly kill yer.’
‘Is that a fact?’ said Sammy. ‘Well, it suits me, one of me main business ambitions is to stay alive.’
‘I admire an ambition like that,’ said Josh Walker, and shook hands and departed, a large grin on his face.
Sammy, left with a plethora of superb blooms, decided this was ladies’ day. He called Doreen in, gave her three dozen and told her to share them out among the girls.
‘Mister Sammy, oh, ain’t you an angel?’ said Doreen.
‘Glad you mentioned that,’ said Sammy, ‘in me modesty I sometimes forget it.’ He took another four dozen blooms through Susie’s office to Emily’s little sanctum. She was at her typewriter. She worked from ten to twelve on Saturdays, the rest of the staff from nine to twelve-thirty.
‘Sammy?’ she said, gazing huge-eyed at the King Alfreds. Sammy winced a little at her thinness. His affection for Emily, who’d been a godsend to the family when they lived in Walworth, was deep-rooted. ‘Sammy, what’re all those daffodils doin’ against your waistcoat?’
‘Nothing useful,’ said Sammy. ‘Josh Walker’s just handed me a box of them. Here’s some for you. There you are, Em. Look a lot better against your bodice than my waistcoat.’
‘Sammy, all these?’ Emily, always demonstrative, positively sparkled. ‘I’ll stand them in a vase in the hall, where everyone can enjoy them. And you can give us a kiss for bein’ a lovely bloke.’
‘Cost you tuppence,’ said Sammy.
‘Oh, still chargin’, are you?’ smiled Emily, cuddling the blooms. ‘All right, let’s go mad, give us fourpennyworth.’ Sammy gave her two smackers, one on her cheek and one on her good-looking mouth. ‘Here, that’s not a brother-in-law’s kiss.’
‘Just a tuppenny one,’ said Sammy. ‘All right, Em, are you?’ He hadn’t the heart to refer directly to her thin look.
‘Me?’ said Emily, who hated what was happening to her, and only talked about it with Boots and Chinese Lady. Chinese Lady was doing her best to stuff her with lightly cooked liver and almost raw red meat. ‘Me?’
‘I like to ask after the health of me close relatives,’ said Sammy.
‘Well, this one’s fine, Sammy love.’
‘Tower of strength, you are, Em, as our shorthand-typist and a close relative.’
‘Well, bless yer cotton socks for sayin’ so, Sammy, and you’re not so bad yourself. We’re all lookin’ forward to the weddin’, and me and Boots are prayin’ marriage won’t ruin you.’
‘Kind of you, Em. You had a wartime weddin’, so did Lizzy. If mine’s as good as yours was, I’ll face up to the consequent ruination.’
‘Same old Sammy,’ said Emily.
‘Good on yer, love,’ said Sammy. On his way back to his office, he said, ‘By the way, you owe me fourpence. Pay me later.’ Emily laughed.
Sammy then called Ronnie in, the office boy having just got back from Brixton. Sammy had finally given in to demands from the general office staff for a runabout lad, and sixteen-year-old Ronnie Jarvis of Camberwell, looking for a job and eager for anything, had been taken on two months ago. Sammy already had his eye on the lad. He was willing, adaptable and good-natured. He stuck stamps on letters as readily as he helped Mitch, the firm’s van driver, to load and unload. And he assisted in the shop below whenever he was asked to. Sammy liked anyone who liked work.
‘Right, Ronnie, got your bike at the ready still, have you?’
‘At your service, Mister Sammy, sir,’ said Ronnie, slim, lanky and pleasant-looking. Sammy approved the fact that he didn’t sport a quiff or put brilliantine on his hair.
‘Good. Saddle up, then, me lad, and kindly deliver this box to Miss Brown. I’ve scribbled her address on the lid. Mind you hand it in with my compliments, and don’t damage the contents or you and your bike will be hanged upside-down, which will hurt considerable.’
‘Mister Sammy, I can frankly tell yer I don’t like bein’ hurt considerable.’
‘Highly sensible,’ said Sammy. ‘Kindly get movin’, and when you’ve made the delivery you can go home, which you’ll be entitled to if it takes you up twelve-thirty. Here’s a tanner for doin’ this special delivery.’
‘Well, thanks, sir,’ said Ronnie, ‘and I’d like to say I’m pleasured to be included with the staff at your weddin’, seein’ I’ve only been workin’ here for two months.’
‘Can’t leave any of you out,’ said Sammy, ‘or there’d be ructions. Off you go.’
Ronnie had contributed to the staff collection for a wedding present, and the money had been used to buy Susie and Sammy a chiming clock.
Off went the whistling office boy to Caulfield Place, Walworth, the box strapped securely to the carrier. A knock on the door of the Browns’ house was answered by Sally. She blinked at the caller.
‘Hello,’ he said, the cardboard box balanced on his hands.
‘Hello yerself,’ said Sally, looking pretty nice in a Saturday frock.
Ronnie, who hadn’t worked in the offices for two months without taking educational note of the verbal attributes of Boots and Sammy, said, ‘Am I addressin’ a lady member of the Brown fam’ly?’
‘You ’ave that honour,’ said Sally, deciding he was putting it on.
‘Might I ’ave the further honour of speakin’ with Miss Susie Brown?’ asked Ronnie, deciding he wasn’t in any hurry.
‘Alas,’ said Sally, who’d never yet played second fiddle to a boy’s chat.
‘What?’ said Ronnie.
‘Alas.’
‘Alas what?’
‘Miss Susie Brown, my sister, don’t ’appen to be in,’ said Sally, ‘she’s gone shoppin’ from ’er work.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Ronnie, ‘p’raps I might have another further honour.’
‘You’re comin’ it a bit with all these honours, ain’t you?’ said Sally.
‘Could I enquire your name?’
‘What for?’
‘I think I like you,’ said Ronnie.
‘That’s nothing,’ said Sally, ‘ev’ryone likes me, even me brother Freddy. What’s that box you’re ’olding?’
‘Special deliv’ry to Miss Susie Brown, with the compliments of Mister Sammy Adams. I’m ’is assistant.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Sally, ‘that’s Susie.’
‘Yes, I’m his junior assistant,’ said Ronnie. ‘Shall I come in and wait? I don’t mind havin’ a chat with you in your parlour.’
‘I’m thrilled,’ said Sally, ‘but alas.’
‘Alas what?’ asked Ronnie, grinning.
‘Alas, I’m just goin’ to have poached eggs on Welsh Rabbit with me fam’ly,’ said Sally. ‘You honestly on the firm’s staff?’
‘I have that honour,’ said Ronnie.
‘You’re not comin’ to the weddin’, are you, with all the staff?’
‘I have that further honour,’ said Ronnie.
‘You’re a sad case, you are,’ said Sally, ‘you talk like someone’s butler.’
‘Funny thing, I was once—’
‘Well, never mind, you’re a junior assistant now,’ said Sally. ‘You can give the box to me.’
‘Pleasure. I’m Ronnie Jarvis, by the way. Who did you say you were?’
‘I didn’t. Well, all right, I’m Sally Brown.’
‘Pleased to meet yer, Sally. D’you go out with fellers?’
‘No, course I don’t, I’m still only fourteen.’
‘I used to be fourteen,’ said Ronnie. ‘You soon grow out of it. Here.’ He placed the box in her arms. ‘I might come and sit in your parlour with you sometimes, and bring my mouth organ.’
‘’Elp, I can ’ardly wait,’ said Sally.
‘Me neither,’ said Ronnie, and rode off whistling. Sally giggled and took the box to her mum, who lifted the lid and saw it was full of daffodils. She was so overcome by Sammy’s flowery gift to Susie that she hardly heard anything of what Sally said about the boy who’d brought them. So Sally had to say most of it twice.
Coming to, Mrs Brown said, ‘Oh, was he a nice boy, then?’
‘Well, ’e was honoured at just standin’ on our doorstep,’ said Sally.
‘Why, is our doorstep special, then?’ asked Freddy.
‘No, but he probably thinks Sally is,’ said Will.
‘Our Sally’s only fourteen, she’s only just left school,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Oh, you soon grow out of only bein’ fourteen,’ said Sally.