The Bermondsey Bookshop

by Mary Gibson

  It was only when she arrived at the house that she realized which side of Aunt Sylvie’s the house was. It was actually her childhood home. She followed Mr Weston, the landlord’s agent, up the garret stairs, which were now boxed in so that she wouldn’t have to go through someone else’s bedroom. She pretended to be uninterested. ‘I’ve only come to see it cos me aunt sent me – ten shillings seems a lot for a garret!’

  She barely recognized the garret that she’d escaped through three years earlier. The beer bottles and sacks were gone, plaster repaired and new window panes fitted. There was a bed, a washstand and a chest of drawers. It looked far more like the childhood room she remembered and was certainly more habitable than her garret in Aunt Sylvie’s. She looked around without speaking, feeling as if she’d come home. But the agent mistook her silence for hesitation.

  ‘You’ll have use of the downstairs scullery. But if you’re not interested…’ He turned away and she had a moment’s panic, thinking of the cold and lonely nights she’d suffered.

  ‘No! I’ll take it. But I can’t give you the rent in advance.’

  He pretended to reconsider, but she knew not many people would put up with a garret at ten shillings.

  ‘All right, but if you’re late paying, you’re out.’

  The sense of relief was so overwhelming she skipped out of the house and didn’t see Aunt Sylvie until they were face to face.

  ‘Oh! I thought you’d be back!’ Her aunt folded her arms, blocking Kate’s way. ‘Realized how lucky you was, have you? Come begging me to take you back? Well, the answer’s no. You’re not coming inside this house to attack me children again, so you can slink off back to her up the lane and perhaps she’d like to feed and clothe you for the next twelve years!’

  Kate stared at the woman in whose care her father had placed her. ‘You’re a mean old witch and when my dad gets back, I’ll tell him exactly how lucky I was, don’t you worry!’

  Aunt Sylvie flinched. It was liberating to have the illusion of independence, the freedom to tell her aunt exactly what she thought of her. But it was only an illusion. When rent day came around, she might well be back again, and then she really would be forced to beg.

  *

  Happiness had never been something she looked for. A quiet day, with no insults or wallops, that was the best she could imagine. But now she thought she remembered this feeling. She was happy. Here in her childhood garret. Here where the walls and rafters had witnessed her earliest happiness, the feeling began to return.

  When she moved in, she first made sure to check the end walls. On Aunt Sylvie’s side, the planks of wood she’d pushed through to make her escape three years earlier had been nailed back, and at the opposite end there was the same hinged opening, with its small wooden fastener. Once she’d checked no one could crawl through, she felt safe as well as happy.

  It wasn’t easy to keep up the rent payments, but if there was ever a choice between the rent and a loaf of bread, she would choose the rent. Her only worry was the stab wound, which wouldn’t heal. She pushed herself to seam more tins than anyone else, but one morning in the soldering room, about a month after she’d been injured, she paid the price.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Kate felt something rip. She turned her wrist to get a better angle with the soldering iron and almost dropped it.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Marge glanced up from her work.

  ‘The cut’s opened up.’ She waved at Miss Dane. ‘Toilet break!’ She wasn’t letting on. The forelady had warned Kate she wouldn’t heal while she kept putting strain on her arm, but Kate couldn’t afford to go back on cleaning duties.

  When she returned from her toilet break Miss Dane called her over. Kate hoped she hadn’t noticed the damp patch on her overall arm, where blood and pus had seeped through. But a number of women were already gathered around the forelady’s bench and none of them looked happy.

  Miss Dane looked awkwardly at Kate. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I’ve just heard from the office – you’re getting your cards.’

  It was like a blow to the chest. ‘But why? Miss Dane, you know I’m a good worker. I can’t lose this job!’

  ‘If it was up to me, I’d keep you on. But you’re not getting the sack. Only being put off for a couple of months… till business picks up again. Couldn’t you go hopping?’

  Tin making was oddly seasonal. The work tailed off in September when the demand for paint tins dropped. The lay-off always dovetailed nicely with September’s exodus to the hop fields, so, if they were lucky, women could swap tin bashing for picking hops. But it was too late for Kate, who’d never been affected by the yearly lay-off before.

  ‘If I’d had a bit of warning it would’ve been nice! There won’t be no places left on the hop farms now!’ Kate paused. ‘Is it cos I ain’t as quick as I was?’

  ‘No! You’ll get your speed up. More likely it’s that your wages are due to go up once you’re eighteen and they don’t want to pay you full whack for standing idle. You’ll have till the end of the week to find something else,’ Miss Dane said, turning away to give the bad news to the next girl.

  Kate was only one of many. But for her, all the rediscovered happiness dissolved in a moment and she was left with an anxious void. Happiness was precarious. She remembered now why she had never looked for it.

  4

  He Who Runs May Read

  That evening Kate went to see Mr Weston. The landlord’s agent lived at one of the posher houses at the top of the lane and considered himself superior to all the other residents. He held the power of life and death in his hands, so perhaps he deserved to feel better than everyone else. If you missed the rent and he liked you, he’d give you some leeway, and if he didn’t, you’d be out on the streets or in the workhouse. He was forever snooping and reporting back to the landlord if he caught anyone subletting.

  ‘Hello, Kate. Yours is not due till tomorrow,’ he said, seeing her into the front parlour that acted as the rent office. Kate eyed the open ledger on his desk, dreading totting up her own red entries for late payments. She fumbled in her bag for the rent book.

  ‘Thing is, Mr Weston, I’m getting put off for a couple of months and I was wondering if I could pay you a bit less and make it up later. I’m going back full time in November.’

  His smile faded and he shook his head. ‘If we did it for one…’

  ‘I know. But I’ve always been regular.’

  He shook his head again. ‘We’re not a moneylender.’ She supposed it was because he represented the landlord, but he always referred to himself in the plural, like the king or the Holy Trinity.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ The question was addressed to herself, but Mr Weston answered.

  ‘We are not a moneylender, but we know one. They might help you out. Tide you over till you get back on your feet?’

  Kate jumped at the lifeline. ‘How much will they lend me?’

  Mr Weston laughed. ‘As much as you like. Just make sure you can pay ’em back!’

  Kate took the address from him. The nearest thing to a moneylender she knew was old Mrs Page in George Row. She had a licence for a loan club. If you needed clothes or furniture you went to her, she bought the stuff and you paid her back with a bit of interest. But she never lent actual money. Kate had heard of others – the sharks – and they were the ones you fled from during the night.

  But it occurred to her she might not need a loan – perhaps it was time to test her long-held dream. On the way home from the rent office she stopped at Aunt Sarah’s.

  ‘I need to write to me dad.’

  ‘You don’t know his address.’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out! Where is his business?’

  Her aunt barked a laugh. ‘Timbuktu, for all I know. Abroad somewhere.’

  ‘Well, how do you know that? He must have written to you sometime in the past twelve years! Why won’t none of you tell me? He’s me dad!’

  Aunt Sarah heaved herself up. She was a big woman who
moved far too slowly for Kate’s liking. She pulled out a case from under her bed and rifled around, finally pulling out an envelope.

  ‘Here. This is the last address I’ve got.’ She handed it to Kate. ‘It won’t tell you much, though – that was five years ago, just after the war. He wanted to let us know he was alive. Says there he’s going to Canada. Something to do with the fur trade.’

  ‘Five years ago! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Didn’t seem worth upsetting you for. You always had this idea he’d turn up on your doorstep, and there he was, going the other side of the world. What good would it have done you?’

  ‘So, you don’t even know if he’s still there?’

  She shook her head. ‘He always said he wouldn’t set foot back in Bermondsey till he’d made his fortune. Her up the lane’ll tell you different, but I don’t think it could’ve been a big success in Canada. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Does he mention me? In the letter?’

  ‘Read it.’

  She read it – twice. He mentioned her once. I trust my daughter is well and Sylvie is looking after her.

  And she wanted to shout at the letter, No, Dad! No, she wasn’t looking after me.

  ‘He was never a very feeling sort of chap, my brother Archie. More of a thinker,’ said Aunt Sarah, taking back the letter.

  *

  The moneylender was a woman, but nothing like old Mrs Page. She was in her forties, with dyed blonde hair and bright red lips. When Kate explained what she wanted, the woman flicked ash and put down her cigarette. ‘I’ll get my… Mr Smith. I don’t deal with that side of things. I thought you’d come cos you was in trouble.’

  ‘I’ll be in trouble all right if I don’t get the rent money on time.’

  The woman sniggered. ‘I meant the other kind of trouble, the nine months sort?’

  ‘I’m not a slut!’ she said, remembering the lifelong slurs on her mother.

  ‘Don’t take offence. I’ll get him. He’ll sort you out. But if you ever did need to get rid of anything – you know. You come to me.’

  Mr Smith came in from a back room and she risked offending him by asking if he was licenced.

  He answered by pointing to a certificate on the wall and then drew out a pad of preprinted forms interleaved with carbon paper.

  ‘How much do you need?’ He didn’t look at her.

  She’d decided on the bare minimum, just enough to pay the rent for two months and avoid starving.

  As he took down her details, she felt as if she were in a bank manager’s office. Mr Smith even looked like a bank manager, with his sober suit and his oiled hair, parted in the middle. He clenched a pipe between his teeth as he pressed down on the carbon paper. He smelt of a sweetish cologne which made Kate feel faintly sick. As she read over the agreement she baulked at the eyewatering interest rate and even as she signed, she feared Mr Smith wasn’t the man to trust with her future. But her need and her instincts were in such conflict that she ignored the one to serve the other. She emerged from the house with her knees trembling and five pounds in her purse.

  *

  It was during the afternoon shift that Marge told her about an advert for a cleaner.

  ‘It’s a funny little place, probably won’t pay much.’

  ‘That don’t matter, Marge, I need every penny I can get. Where is it?’

  ‘Bermondsey Street, you can’t miss it, it’s painted bright bleedin’ orange!’

  ‘What do they sell?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t say for certain, love, didn’t look in the window. Haberdashery, I think. I only noticed the advert on the door cos I was thinking of you.’

  Kate didn’t really care what they sold – if she could earn enough money cleaning, perhaps she’d just be able to pay Mr Smith back the five pounds. After her shift, eager to beat anyone else to the job, she set off at a trot in search of the bright orange shop, drawing a few stares, for only common girls ran in the street. The disapproval only made her run faster, and when she came to the orange shop she was out of breath. She smoothed her hair and, as she did so, noticed a blue-and-yellow sign swinging above the entrance. Fancy lettering proclaimed: He Who Runs May Read. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she pushed open the door to a satisfyingly loud ringing of the bell.

  It was not what she’d expected. Books! There were shelves of them, all shapes, sizes and colours. Books in Bermondsey? Kate was struggling to understand. What useless businessman had decided it was a good idea to sell books in a place where most people struggled to afford the rent? And what on earth would they want with a cleaner? A chandler’s or an ironmonger’s, she could understand. But books were a clean trade. Marge was right, this one wouldn’t pay much.

  She had given herself a stitch and now wiped her sweaty face with the back of her sleeve, wishing she hadn’t lost half her hairpins on the way. When no one responded to the ringing bell, she strolled to a large table at the back of the shop, which was littered with books. Picking one up, she took a deep breath, attempting to slow her pounding heart. The book, bound in red leather and stamped with a golden flower design, was Grimm’s Fairy Tales. There had been no books at Aunt Sylvie’s, but a memory surfaced, of illustrations glowing with colour, just like these, and her mother’s lilting voice, reading to Kate, who always asked: ‘Read it again.’ Lost in the memory, she didn’t hear someone coming down the stairs.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ The cultured voice seemed to accuse her of some wrongdoing.

  Kate clutched the book defiantly. ‘Well, I’ve run, so I think I may read!’ she answered, pointing to the sign hanging outside the shop.

  The young lady broke into bright laughter. ‘You certainly may read! That is what we promise at the entrance.’ Her long, pale dress swished as she approached the table and Kate noticed she wore a loose cotton housecoat to protect it. It was much prettier than the Boutle’s overalls.

  The woman offered her hand. ‘How do you do. I’m Ethel Gutman. Proprietor of the Bermondsey Bookshop.’ She looked too young to be the owner. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but she was striking, with dark, straight hair looped back in a bun. Her face and nose were long and thin. Beneath straight dark brows, eyes of intense warmth fixed Kate with a curious stare. Glancing at the red-and-gold book, she said, ‘I adore the Brothers Grimm, so blood-curdling their version of “Cinderella”, don’t you agree?’ And she gave an appreciative shudder.

  Kate felt wrong-footed for an instant. It was as if she’d intruded into this woman’s private parlour. It didn’t look much like a shop. The long table, although full of books, was surrounded by wooden chairs, as if ready for dinner. Beside the table was a prettily tiled fireplace. Two hangings, brightly painted with elaborate vases and foliage, shaded the long windows, protecting the books from the late-afternoon sun.

  She couldn’t believe Ethel Gutman really wanted her opinion about the Cinderella story, so she said, ‘Anyway, I ain’t come to read, I’ve come to clean.’

  ‘Well, my idea, of course, is that you can do both.’ Miss Gutman smiled and paused, but when Kate didn’t answer, she went on, ‘But let’s talk about the cleaning first!’ The dark eyes were bright with interest. ‘And have you had much experience of cleaning?’ She mimed a vague circular action, polishing the air.

  Kate stifled a laugh – it was obvious that Miss Ethel Gutman had none. ‘I’ve certainly done me share, miss,’ she said, thinking of the hours spent blackleading Aunt Sylvie’s range. ‘I’m quick, thorough and hardworking…’

  ‘I’m sure you are. I have to warn you – the hours are rather odd. We cater for the working man, so we’re closed during factory hours, then open from four thirty until ten thirty, sometimes eleven if there’s a lecture. So, your cleaning duties would have to fit around those times.’ Her tone was hesitant, almost apologetic.

  ‘I can do that!’ Kate answered quickly. ‘I’m getting laid off from Boutle’s for a couple of months. So, I can come during the day.’

>   ‘Perfect! Sorry – not perfect for you, of course. But I’m afraid we can’t offer full-time employment, we’d only require you for three days a week…’

  Looking around, Kate couldn’t see how the place would need even that much cleaning.

  ‘That don’t matter, I’m looking for an early-morning and an evening job as well.’

  ‘Three jobs? Won’t that be too much?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m used to hard work. Besides, there’s no one else to support me now. So, I’ve got no choice.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Have you been orphaned?’

  It seemed an oddly personal question and Kate was about to take offence, but the woman’s expression was so kind she decided to tell her the truth.

  ‘Me mum’s dead. I’ve been living with me aunt, but we didn’t get on… she threw me out.’

  ‘That’s very unfortunate. And your father?’

  ‘He’s presently away on business, miss. But he’ll be back soon,’ she said, wanting no more questions.

  ‘Well. Let me show you the rest of the place and explain your duties before you make up your mind.’

  She spoke as if Kate had a choice, and Kate decided that in spite of her odd, over-familiar ways, she liked the woman. She led Kate upstairs to another room that looked even more like a parlour, with easy chairs, small tables, shaded lamps and a couple of bookcases. The walls were painted with a frieze of such bright yellow and blue that it seemed to leap out at her.

  ‘This is the reading room. It’s open to any working person and for sixpence a month you may become a member – after a few months your subscriptions will be offset against the cost of any books you purchase. A working girl such as yourself might soon build up a very fine library.’

  No wonder she loved the Brothers Grimm – Miss Gutman was clearly living in a fairy-tale world herself. Kate decided it was best to be gentle with her, as if she were a child.

  ‘It’s a question of space, miss. You see, I ain’t got much space for books.’