The Bermondsey Bookshop

by Mary Gibson

  She gathered up her clothes and the bed sheet. Finally, she pulled the now-filthy white towel to her breast, briefly putting it to her cheek. But she had only the smallest piece of Sunlight soap left. She put the towel back into the washtub and began scrubbing. Everything would have to stay dirty for another week. But not this.

  *

  She stood on the top step and knocked loudly on the door, which rattled in its frame. The place was barely a house. It was more a narrow yard between two buildings that had been covered with a roof and furnished with a door at some time in the distant past. There were no front windows, but Kate knew that there was a top-floor back window and a glazed door on the ground leading to a narrow passage which ran down to the Thames.

  The woman who answered her knock might once have been pretty, but her features had bloated, so that her nose and cheeks were differentiated by the merest indentation, as if someone had started to model a face in clay and had given up on the fine details. The eyes had receded into pockets of flesh, and her voice was deep with gin and Woodbines.

  ‘Hello, Kate!’ she rasped. ‘I ain’t seen you in ever such a long time. Come in, darlin’, I’ll put the kettle on.’ She stumbled back into the gloomy interior and fell into the main room, which contained a bed, a table and a range.

  Kate helped the woman to her bed, saying, ‘Thanks, but I can’t stop for tea.’ She knew there would be none in the house anyway. ‘I was wondering if your Johnny was in?’

  ‘I don’t see much of him, love. I don’t think he’s here… let me go and look.’ She attempted to get up and fell back onto the bed. The room was so full of gin fumes that Kate’s eyes watered. Mrs Bacon, finding herself flat on the bed, curled up, closed her eyes and began snoring almost immediately. Kate looked around, remembering how immaculate Rasher had looked on their drinks night. She wondered how he even kept himself clean in this place. ‘He must go to Bermondsey Baths,’ she muttered to herself.

  ‘Yes, I do. Sixpence a week for a bath and tuppence to do the laundry. Welcome to the family estate.’ Rasher stood in the doorway of what looked like a cupboard. He was wearing an old, baggy pair of corduroys, held up by braces over a collarless shirt, but still he managed to look good. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s what you can’t, Rasher. You went to Mr Smith! What’s the matter with you? You’ve got responsibilities…’ She looked at Mrs Bacon and Rasher did too.

  He sighed. ‘I’d better cover her up. She’s there for the night.’

  ‘Stan paid me another visit.’

  ‘Did he touch you?’

  ‘Oh, only the usual groping. I’m used to it. If I’d had my soldering iron instead of a plank of wood he’d be walking around on crutches. He says Mr Smith is coming after you. What have you done?’

  ‘It took some hard negotiation, but he’s agreed not to charge you interest. At least you won’t be paying him back for the next five years.’

  Mrs Bacon stirred and Rasher beckoned Kate to follow him. Through the cupboard door was a set of narrow stairs, leading to his room. It was like walking into another world. This room was spotless, with a yellow coverlet on the bed and a rug of modern design. An armchair was placed beside the tiny fireplace and a bookcase held volumes she recognized from dusting them in the bookshop.

  ‘Did you buy all these out of your sixpenny subs?’ She ran her fingers along the spines, reading their titles aloud.

  He joined her. ‘It’s a good way to build up a library.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope you live long enough to enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh, he won’t risk doing anything to me. I just told him to lay off you or the police would come and ask to see his licence.’

  ‘But he’s got a licence!’

  Rasher shook his head slowly. ‘If you’d looked at that certificate behind his desk properly, you’d have seen it’s fake. I think it’s a swimming certificate.’ He laughed and she felt stupid.

  ‘I was just desperate for the money.’

  ‘That’s what the likes of him bank on.’ He went to the bookcase. ‘But let’s not talk about Mr Smith any more. Here. It’s a present.’ He handed her a book, bound in red leather with gold blocking on the front.

  ‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales!’ As she flicked through the pages a bittersweet wave of remembrance washed over her. Each tale held her mother’s voice, each illustration was heavy with the memory of something loved and lost. For a moment she couldn’t speak. ‘You remembered,’ she said eventually. ‘You could have bought another Marx.’

  ‘I could have. But I already know everything he’s got to say. I don’t know everything about you.’

  Looking up from the pages, she studied his face. She looked past the perfect features, the full lips, the beautifully shaped head. She looked into his eyes and saw someone who’d been hiding for all the years she’d known him. ‘Thank you, Johnny. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

  He came to her side and, taking the book from her, laid it on the chair. Brushing away a tear with his thumb, he said, ‘Don’t cry! It was meant to cheer you up.’

  ‘It has done!’ she sobbed as he put his arms around her. She hadn’t meant it to happen, she’d come here angry, but now, as she looked up into his eyes, just for a moment dropping every defence, she kissed those lips which had always seemed too beautiful for the likes of Kate Goss.

  *

  That night, after her work in the Hand and Marigold was finished, she took the Grimm’s Fairy Tales to bed with her, and by the light of the oil lamp she reread the stories that had thrilled her as a child: ‘Rapunzel’, ‘Snow White’, ‘Cinderella’ and all the others. And she realized that Ethel Gutman had been right about them – some of the scenes were truly blood-curdling. Why hadn’t she been frightened as a child? Perhaps her mother’s comforting presence had overridden any sense of peril. But now, she knew they were true. Life was harsh and cruel and if the princess ever found her prince, it usually involved a fair amount of gore and some savagerly inventive deaths. She was pleased to read some new stories, including the tale of ‘Faithful John’, which brought a dreamy smile to her face. Faithful John. She didn’t think that, after today, she could ever think of him as Rasher again.

  *

  She was woken early next morning by shouting and banging, coming from the street below. She flung open the dormer and looked down.

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s right, you hide yourself up there, you vicious tart!’ It was Aunt Sylvie and she was kicking the front door.

  ‘I’m not hiding! Keep your bloody voice down, Aunt Sylvie, or you’ll wake up the whole house.’ As if on cue, Mrs Wilson’s baby began to wail and Kate heard Mr Wilson open the window and call down, ‘What’s all the row about? I’ve been at work all night and I’ve just got to sleep!’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Wilson!’ Kate shouted, leaning far out of the dormer. ‘I’m coming down.’

  She’d woken so suddenly that now she felt herself trembling as she slipped on her frock and coat. Whatever she’d done wrong, she wasn’t going to have a slanging match with her aunt on the doorstep.

  But she didn’t get a choice. Aunt Sylvie grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her out of the house and down the lane towards the river. Kate struggled all the way, but her aunt merely yanked harder and twisted Kate’s curls more tightly.

  ‘Ow! Let me go! What have I done?’

  ‘What have you done? You ungrateful little cow. I’ve brought you up like one of me own and now you’ve put my Stan in hospital! That Rasher boy might have pulled the trigger but you loaded the bleedin’ gun!’

  What had Johnny done now? ‘Has Stan been shot?’

  Aunt Sylvie gave an almighty tug and Kate fell to her knees. ‘You know what I mean, you cheeky mare. You always was a sly, sneaking child – you’re behind it. You set your fancy man on my son and now I might lose him.’

  Curtains twitched and heads poked out of windows as neighbours enjoyed the spectacle of Aunt Sylvie dragging her the short distance to
Johnny’s house. Some who were ready for work came out a bit early to see the fight. When they arrived at the narrow house with no windows, her aunt, without letting go, began kicking on Johnny’s door. He was already dressed, ready for work himself.

  Aunt Sylvie aimed a left hook at his jaw. He dodged the punch and brought up a hand to catch her fist in a grip which forced a cry from her.

  ‘Mrs Lynch,’ Johnny said politely. ‘Why don’t you let Kate go? Then I can let you go.’

  Aunt Sylvie released her grip. Kate was free. But her aunt was not, and she began kicking out. Johnny’s long arm held her easily at a distance.

  ‘Sylvie! Come indoors, have a cup of tea. Don’t stand out there in the cold.’

  Johnny raised his eyes as his mother appeared.

  ‘And you! You drunken slut. It’s no wonder he’s turned out a killer, the way he’s had to drag himself up.’

  Mrs Bacon’s lip trembled and she shot Johnny a bewildered look. ‘My boy, a killer?’

  Aunt Sylvie was heavily built and strong, but Johnny easily hoisted her off her feet and into the house. Kate followed, shutting the door behind her, feeling as if there were far too many bodies in the tiny room.

  ‘Now you listen to me, you evil bitch.’ Johnny’s tone had hardened now they were out of public view. ‘Stan’s not dead, and he’s not going to die. He’s had a bloody good hiding, which you should have given him years ago, instead of using a motherless little girl as your punchbag.’

  Aunt Sylvie opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Shut up and listen to me. Stan won’t be giving Kate any more trouble… and if you want him to stay healthy, neither will you. Understand?’

  His eyes that yesterday had been so clear, revealing so much to her, were now intense and impenetrable. ‘Understand?’ he repeated.

  Aunt Sylvie nodded.

  Kate prided herself on being able to read people – certainly she could read them better than any book – but this contained anger of Johnny’s was somehow more frightening to her than an uncontrolled outburst. His fury, focused into a menacing power, made him unreadable to her and far too unpredictable for her liking. For an instant she regretted letting her guard down last night, wondering what else Johnny Bacon had kept hidden about himself for all these years.

  Aunt Sylvie stared at Mrs Bacon as she meekly held out a cup of tea for her. Except it wasn’t tea. It was hot water, with some condensed milk stirred into it.

  ‘Aunt Sylvie hasn’t got time for tea, Mum,’ Johnny said, suddenly gentle. ‘She’s going to see Stan in hospital.’

  Mrs Bacon’s puffy face creased in concern. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that, Sylvie. Wish him better for me, won’t you?’

  Aunt Sylvie gave Mrs Bacon a look of disgust and muttered, ‘Blind drunk!’

  Which proved too much for Johnny. ‘You’re not welcome in my mother’s home,’ he said, manhandling her out of the door and closing it softly behind him.

  Kate didn’t look at him. Instead she went to Mrs Bacon. ‘Did I do something to upset Sylvie?’ the woman asked, a bewildered look on her face.

  ‘No! Of course not, Mrs Bacon. You know what she’s like… short fuse! Why don’t you let me take that,’ she said, easing the teacup from her hands. ‘I’ll top it up, shall I? You go and sit down.’

  She reboiled the kettle and found a few leaves of tea in a paper bag.

  ‘Have you been behaving yourself, Johnny? Are you in trouble with Sylvie Lynch?’ Mrs Bacon asked Johnny, whose eyes, as he looked at his ruined mother, were once again clear as day. What they revealed touched Kate’s heart. She wouldn’t show him how angry she was with him. Not now.

  ‘I’m late for work, are you OK?’ He gave Kate an enquiring look.

  ‘We’ll talk about it tonight – at the bookshop. I’ll look after your mum – don’t worry.’

  *

  Her extra duties now included setting up, clearing away and serving refreshments for the Wednesday night play-reading group. She’d finished her usual cleaning when Lucy came to show her how the group liked their chairs set out.

  ‘In a circle, with a chair here for the director – me!’

  Kate arranged the chairs, placing a copy of the play on each of them.

  ‘Pygmalion tonight! We found Androcles and the Lion so entertaining we thought we’d give Mr Shaw another go. Actually, Ethel is a friend of his and she’s hoping he’ll give us a lecture one Sunday. We’re branching out from reading into productions, which will be such fun! And we’ll need your help for those too, Kate!’

  ‘I ain’t doing no acting! I told Miss Gutman that.’

  ‘No, I understand. But we really need help with costumes and props, that sort of thing.’

  Kate wasn’t going to turn down work. ‘All right, Miss Mannheim.’

  ‘Lucy, please, Ethel insists it’s always first names at the bookshop. Besides, I feel you know me so well. If it hadn’t been for your good advice, I believe I’d still be pining for Henry Baynes. But what about you, Kate? Do you have a young man you pine for?’ A secret smile played on Lucy’s pretty lips.

  Kate didn’t mind giving advice, but she wasn’t so good at taking it and she always felt uncomfortable when Lucy or Miss Gutman wanted to treat her as a friend. But Lucy’s expression was eager, open and innocent of anything but girlish curiosity.

  ‘I’m not pining for no one.’ She went to the kitchen and Lucy followed. The young woman made a show of helping with the cups. ‘But there is someone?’ She gave Kate a sidelong glance. ‘And I think I know who it is. I can understand – he’s very handsome – and I’m sure he’s taken with you too.’

  Kate hadn’t credited her with so much sharpness. How could she know about Johnny’s interest in her when Kate had so recently found out herself?

  ‘You’re wrong.’ Kate shook her head, wanting to maintain the secret. All day long she’d been wondering if it wouldn’t be wise to pull back from the brink of this particular dream.

  ‘All right then, I’ll say who I think it is… it’s Martin North!’

  Relieved, Kate heard her own laugh ringing round the kitchen. ‘You must be joking!’

  Lucy looked puzzled. ‘No! Actually, I’m not.’ There was a pause and Kate could see her thinking. ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Lucy put a hand to her mouth. ‘Has he sworn you to secrecy? His mother’s a dreadful snob.’

  Laughter bubbled up again and Kate couldn’t restrain her giggles. ‘I’ve hardly spoken to Mr North!’

  Lucy flapped a hand impatiently. ‘Oh, what does talking matter? I’ve seen him looking at you. Poor thing, he’s like a stricken animal.’

  ‘Well, he can look all he likes, but he won’t be touching!’

  Now Lucy laughed. ‘All right, if you say so.’ And she left her to greet her class. Kate peeked out from the open kitchen door, watching excited little groups arriving, full of chatter and laughter. There was obviously a hierarchy, with the star parts sitting nearest to Lucy. She overheard one of the female leads giggle and mention the ‘scandalous line’! Kate made a point to listen out for it from her hideaway. Although they took up at Act Three, she quickly got the gist of the story. A flower girl and a middle-class man? Lucy’s stupid idea about Martin North was obviously the result of reading too much Mr Shaw. But some of the readers were good enough to have her believing in them, and when the tea break arrived, she was surprised at how swiftly the time had passed. This felt nothing like work and she hated the idea of proving Miss Gutman right, but she would have loved to try her hand at Eliza. The actress playing her was making a mess of it and Kate had only spotted the ‘scandalous line’ because the girl had made such a fuss and blushed before she said it.

  After the reading was over and the last of the group had left, Kate filled the silence of the deserted room with the clatter of crockery. But as she cleared away, she heard echoes of the actors’ voices.

  ‘Not bloody likely!’ She whispered the ‘scandalous’ swear word Eliza had used and smiled to herself. Whoever thought th
at was scandalous needed to spend a day or two in East Lane! Turning from the table to face the room, she spoke the line again, louder this time. ‘Not bloody likely!’

  She was startled by three loud claps, which came from the stairwell. Johnny stuck his head around the door. ‘You’ve already learned your lines! You’ll be on at the Star Music Hall next!’ He stood laughing at her and she was about to smile back, but then she remembered.

  ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I had to leave you with Mum,’ he said, mistaking her.

  ‘That was no trouble at all. Your mum’s lovely. And Aunt Sylvie was wrong, she wasn’t really drunk, just a bit confused.’

  ‘Drink doesn’t make her nasty, but I think it’s addled her brain. You just have to remind her what day it is sometimes,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Why are you upset with me then?’

  ‘You’re good at looking after her, you’ve been doing it so long. But, Johnny, I don’t need you looking after me! I know you meant well, but I didn’t ask you to sort out Mr Smith or beat up Stan. You might have brought yourself up – but so have I. I don’t need no one’s help.’

  She said it as firmly as she could without seeming ungrateful. This morning’s anger had virtually gone, but its cause was still there. He’d assumed a right that wasn’t his. It hadn’t been his place to step in and save her. And she’d had the uncomfortable feeling that if she let herself rely on Johnny it would be disloyal to her dad. For in her dreams it had always been her father who’d be coming to rescue her. He was meant to be her protector – one day.

  He nodded slowly. ‘I overstepped the mark. I’m sorry. I get a bit hotheaded sometimes.’

  It had made her uneasy that their first kiss should be followed so closely by their first argument, but if there had been any remaining anger, he’d just defused the last of it with his apology.