by Mary Gibson
*
When she visited the Bacons later that evening, she was struck by how much Johnny’s hopeful demeanour had diminished in a day. His eyes looked bruised with tiredness and worry. At her enquiry after his mother, he shook his head. ‘She’s bad, Kate. Ginger Bosher came to see why I’ve not been at work. He fetched the doctor for me. Pneumonia’s in her lungs and the drink hasn’t done her liver any good either. He didn’t seem to think…’ Johnny covered his face. For all her failings, mother and son loved each other. And Kate couldn’t help comparing Johnny to Martin, whose mother had given him all that material wealth could supply but not one ounce of love. She knew which of the two men was the richer.
10
The Bermondsey Triptych
The wind blew up East Lane from the river in great icy bursts, seizing every house in its iron-hard grip and shaking them till they rattled and cracked. The houses were so ancient they seemed to taint every life within them – however young – with their agues and their shivers. Kate’s return to work and the renewed daily dose of solder fumes hadn’t cured her as she’d hoped it would. The Monday morning fever had persisted for several weeks, breaking out every weekend. She’d made light of the illness, but secretly she feared this tightness in her lungs and crackling cough might become pneumonia – then she’d really be in trouble, for she could never afford the doctor’s bills. Noxious fumes alone weren’t to blame for her ailments, it wasn’t just the place she worked in making her ill – it was the place she slept in and the place she dreamed in too. And that was something Martin could never convey in his painting of her garret. He was coming to the end of his triptych, putting in the finishing touches. But new bouts of coughing interrupted the Sunday modelling session and Martin told her not to come the following weekend.
‘I can finish it without you, and besides, I want you fit for the private view!’
A small gallery near his flat was mounting an exhibition of his work, and The Bermondsey Triptych, as he called it, was to be the centrepiece.
‘I don’t think I’ll come, Martin.’
‘Of course you’ll come! I want to show off my Bermondsey muse,’ he said, with a proprietorial finality which only made her more stubborn.
‘Well, I’m busy helping Johnny with his mum, so I’ll be needed elsewhere.’
He considered her excuse for a few moments, then his face brightened. ‘John must come as well. I’ll send a nurse to look after his mother. He’ll probably need a break and he’s let me steal you every Sunday, so it’s only right he should share in the glory. And you will be a glorious triumph, Kate.’ He studied the painting and then looked at her with an affectionate and proud gaze. She wondered if he thought of her as a prize pet. ‘But right now, I’m driving you home.’
*
She’d tried to hide her continuing illness from Johnny, for his mother’s condition had worsened as she lay in the narrow house which caught the full venom of the river winds. Johnny had come less to the bookshop and the lectures so that he could devote himself to caring for her. But it was when he turned down Ethel’s request for another article for The Bermondsey Book that Kate began to seriously worry about him. He would never abandon his dream of writing, not unless he expected the worst.
At least having a Sunday off from the studio meant she could spend the day with him. She’d saved the last tin of stew from Nora’s hamper, and if she piled up the potatoes at least he’d have one good dinner this week. He let her in along with a snow flurry and then hurried to stoke up the fire. The coal bucket was nearly empty. He must have gone through a sack in a week. She didn’t know how he was finding the money for it, as he’d not worked since Mrs Bacon had fallen ill.
‘How is she?’
Kate followed him to the bed, where he stooped to feel his mother’s forehead.
‘She’s burning up, but then she’ll get the shivers so bad her teeth chatter. She can’t seem to stay warm.’
‘Is she eating at all?’
Johnny shook his head. ‘Nor drinking.’ Sadness and fear clouded his eyes and then he saw her unpacking her bag. ‘Oh, Kate, I can’t eat—’
‘Yes, you can! If you get ill you can’t look after her, can you?’
Johnny nodded. He’d handed the practical aspects of his life to Kate – washing, ironing and cleaning – while he bent his will to making his mother better. But Kate could see he was wasting away himself in the process.
‘Johnny, love, come over here a minute,’ she called.
Reluctantly, he left Mrs Bacon’s side. She held his hands and kissed them. ‘You’re not going to help your mum by giving up your life. And she wouldn’t want you to. Why don’t you go to the lecture tonight – you wanted to hear this one. I’ll stay here with your mum. Nora’s volunteered to make the refreshments and Martin said he’ll do the setting up.’
‘Martin?’ Johnny frowned. ‘Have you been talking to him about me?’
She disliked his suspicious tone. ‘No more than to anyone else. Everyone at the bookshop’s been asking after your mum – including Martin. Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about with him. I think he might be carrying on with Nora.’ She hadn’t meant to voice her speculations, but she’d been so eager to reassure him.
‘Nora? She’s married!’
‘And he’s an artist.’ Kate shrugged.
‘If that’s all it takes, I’m even more suspicious of him when it comes to you, not less!’
‘Well, you needn’t be. All I meant was that he likes to think he’s a bit of a rebel. But don’t you repeat what I said about Nora, not to a soul! It’s just one of those feelings.’
He put his arms around her. ‘There’s only one feeling I’m interested in, and that’s this.’ He kissed her and instinctively she pulled away.
‘What?’ He looked hurt.
‘Johnny, I can’t! Not with your mum lying there…’ She glanced at the sleeping figure by the fire. But he was too raw to see beyond his own jealousy.
‘Is it really that? Or is it because you’re more interested in your posh artist friend? What’s he called his Bermondsey Triptych? Cleaning, Kissing and Cheating?’
She resisted slapping him but, tight-lipped with anger, she said, ‘You might be out of your wits with worry, but you don’t talk to me like that, Johnny Bacon. I hope you’ve got a tin opener ’cause that’s the only way you’ll be getting any dinner tonight!’ Fury and fume fever were not a good combination. Her chest constricted and her breath came in painful rasps. She might have said more, but a fit of coughing silenced her. Flinging on her coat, she left him standing shocked and speechless. Once outside, she was immediately overcome with compassion for his sad, stubborn, stupid self. Oh, Johnny, you silly ’a’porth, she thought, but she wouldn’t go back.
*
Unable to face her garret room, she decided she might as well go to the bookshop. It would be warm and she needed something to take her mind off the argument with Johnny. No doubt other girls would have swallowed his insult – after all, he was considered a catch in East Lane – and if she hadn’t loved him so much, perhaps she would have too. But she did love him. And that made his suspicions even more hurtful. Perhaps, underneath it all, he believed her aunt’s version of her mother – a slut who’d tricked Archie Goss into marriage – and deep down he felt the apple never fell far from the tree. Cold air flayed her lungs and misery scoured her heart as she walked quickly to Bermondsey Street, where light from the old church spilled onto a crystalline pavement. When she arrived at the bookshop, Martin was already arranging chairs.
‘Kate? Why are you here? Is John’s mother all right?’
‘Mrs Bacon’s not at all well. But Johnny didn’t need me after all.’
‘But still, you shouldn’t have come. The idea was to give you a night off…’ He tried to help her with her coat, but she shrugged him away.
‘I can do that myself, and besides, I don’t want a night off!’ she snapped.
He took a step back. ‘Ah, now, I’ve
studied you for many an hour, Kate Goss, and I know what that face means. He’s upset you, hasn’t he?’
Martin sat her down on a chair, almost as if he were posing her for another painting. ‘Tell me all about it.’
She felt she was back in the studio, where their hours of voicing whatever came into their heads had formed a sort of confessional trust between them. ‘He’s jealous.’
‘Of what?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She looked away.
‘Not of me?’ he guessed, giving a disbelieving laugh. ‘Absurd!’
‘That’s what I told him!’
‘Told who what?’ Nora came out of the kitchen with a cloth in her hand. She looked chic even in the long black housecoat.
‘Kate’s John just accused me of having unworthy intentions towards her.’
A look passed between them and, almost as if they’d talked about it already, Nora repeated, ‘Absurd!’
‘Well, you’ve answered your own question – that’s the gist of what I told Johnny!’
Nora wiped her hands, thinking. ‘Perhaps Kate should stop sitting for you, Martin. It’s not fair if it’s making her life… difficult.’
But Martin waved a hand in dismissal.
‘Kate does what she wants. She’s a free spirit, like me.’
‘Is she?’ Nora asked drily, and then beckoned to Kate. ‘Come on, let’s leave our free-spirited friend here to finish his task. I know you don’t trust me to make tea properly – even though I am half English!’
When they were alone in the kitchen, Kate set about cutting the cake into much smaller slices than Nora’s and adding extra tea to the pots. They worked silently for a while until Nora said, ‘Kate, you should know something about Martin.’
Here it comes. Kate tensed. She’s going to confess!
‘I’ve noticed he has a tendency to fall head over heels – very quickly – usually with the young women his mother would approve of least…’
Kate swallowed hard and blushed. Was she trying to tell her that Johnny was right about Martin? Or was she just jealous of Kate herself?
‘You really shouldn’t let Martin come between you and John,’ Nora continued. ‘He’ll end up hurting you…’
Kate put down the knife and turned to Nora. ‘Thanks for the warning, but I could say the same to you…’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Nora’s dark-lashed eyes widened.
‘I’ll be straight with you, Nora. I think you’re the only woman Martin North’s interested in. And I reckon you’d be better off if he wasn’t…’
Nora put a hand to her ivory throat. ‘No, Kate, you’re wrong. When I came to England it was so hard – my mother’s family wanted nothing to do with me. But Mrs Cliffe – and Martin – were my only friends here. Martin and I did become close, you have to understand we were both very young – it was natural. But I couldn’t have survived without either of them.’ Her pale face flushed, whether from anger or guilt Kate couldn’t tell. She thought Nora would have said more, but just then Martin put his head around the door, begging a piece of cake before the proceedings started. Nora handed him a plate and turned away as he flashed Kate a broad smile.
Tonight it wasn’t so much a lecture as a debate. The subject was ‘Art Versus Industrialism’, and Kate was interested, if only because one of the speakers was Ethel’s husband, Sidney Gutman. She was curious about the man who paid her wages, for successful businessman Sidney subsidized the bookshop heavily. She usually preferred to listen from the kitchen, but tonight she slipped into the audience after the introductions had been made.
Sidney Gutman was older than Ethel; sober-suited and serious-looking, he at first seemed an unusual choice for the theatrical Ethel. But Kate quickly warmed to his no-nonsense style. His fellow debater argued that industrialism killed any artistic aspirations in its workforce and had just mentioned Boutle’s to prove his point! She sat up, her interest piqued.
‘Not far from here is one of these tin bashers of the soul!’ the man said dramatically. ‘How could anyone sensitive to culture or literature expect to survive with their sensibilities intact once in its satanic grasp?’
Sidney responded with the dry observation that even the most sensitive soul came with a body attached and those bodies generally needed to be fed and watered. Boutle’s did the job admirably! Kate joined in the appreciative applause, for there were many in the audience employed in the leather trade or the food factories who had built up substantial libraries using the bookshop’s ‘tick’ cards and Sidney was popular. With an affectionate look towards his wife, he gave her the rightful glory.
‘And now we come to the very reason for the existence of this place – the Bermondsey Bookshop – a very bulwark against what my friend here so eloquently refers to as “the tin bashers of the soul”. When, in 1921, my wife Ethel Gutman had the faith to open the portals of 89 Bermondsey Street to bring the love of books and the allied arts into the lives of the working men and women of Bermondsey, the naysayers were vocal. We were assured the adventure was doomed – the very idea – books in Bermondsey! Beer and boxing, yes, but books! Even the letting agent shook his head and prophesied the shutters would go up again in a matter of six weeks!’
He spread his arms to include the audience. ‘And yet three years on – here we are! Proof incontestable that whatever industries the working classes may labour at – be it tin bashing or tea packing – the desire for knowledge and a love of literature are not quashed and indeed, given the opportunity, will manifest themselves in a surprising degree. We only hope that other such shops may soon be opened in all the poorer quarters!’
Needless to say, Mr Sidney Gutman’s argument won the day, and now Kate could well understand what Ethel saw in him. But her pleasure in listening to his arguments was all wrapped up with Johnny and his hopes for himself and she experienced a sharp longing that he could have been here.
She decided to make up with him tomorrow before work. But late that night, shortly after she’d gone to bed, she was woken by a loud knocking. Instantly she was alert and, not stopping to look out of the window to see who it was, she ran down the garret stairs before Mr Wilson had even stirred from his bed. She fumbled with the stiff bolt and yanked open the front door.
‘Can you help me, Kate?’ Johnny’s stricken face confirmed what she already knew. Her heartbeat seemed to slow and she felt a calm settle over her, even as she realized what she would have to face.
*
The silence of the house struck her first; Mrs Bacon’s laboured breathing was now absent and the crackling fire reduced to grey ash. And yet the silence seemed to have a presence. She stood at the bedside and kissed Mrs Bacon’s forehead. It had already cooled.
‘When?’
Johnny blinked back tears before answering. ‘Not long after you left.’
Kate pictured what she had been doing at the time – complaining to Martin, cutting cake, applauding Sidney Gutman. She should have been here, with him.
‘I didn’t notice she’d gone – not for ages. How couldn’t I have known?’ He paced the tiny room, hugging himself. She made him sit down. ‘I knew something was different, and then I couldn’t hear her breathing any more. She’d gone and—’ His sentence was cut short by a shuddering cry. She enfolded him in her arms.
‘Oh, Kate, what a bloody pitiful life she had – pointless, and now it’s over. That’s it – gone. I tried to make it better for her… I did.’ He swept the tears from his cheeks and she waited till he could hear her.
‘But you did make it better, Johnny. Just by being you. She loved you and you loved her and that was the point of her life… you.’
‘No, no, if it was, why did she drink herself to… this…’
Tears caught at her throat, but her voice stayed steady: ‘She loved you, but she didn’t love herself – and that was never your fault.’
*
Kate woke with a start and a deep intake of breath. It was a while before she realized she was breathing
without pain, and she said a silent prayer of thanks that the metal fume fever had lessened its grip. For today she would need all of her strength to help Johnny. The congregation numbered just four: Johnny, Kate, an old workmate and a cousin who’d known Mrs Bacon as a girl. Some of the neighbours in the lane stood respectfully at their doors as the coffin was placed in the hearse; they were the ones who knew too well what she’d suffered at the hands of a drunken husband who’d beaten her daily until he left her with a baby to bring up alone. It had driven her to drink and they didn’t condemn. Others, like Aunt Sylvie, kept their doors firmly shut.
Johnny’s normally assured expression was dimmed by loss. He was like a dark, thin blade, his grief so sharp she feared she’d cut herself if she reached out to him. But she did – linking her arm through his and never leaving his side through the whole sorry day. Johnny believed his mother’s life had been a pointless waste, and in the days after the funeral he seemed intent on making his own life one too. None of the things that had once lit his eyes with enthusiasm could move him. He worked every shift he could, he stopped buying books or going to the reading room, the lectures, and he even gave up writing. One day, as she was dusting around the table where Ethel was proofreading the latest Bermondsey Book, she looked up suddenly and said, ‘We haven’t seen John Bacon here since his mother died… how is he?’
‘There was only ever the two of them – Johnny and his mum. He’s blaming himself because he wasn’t enough.’
‘Enough for what?’
‘Enough to save her.’
She nodded as if she understood. ‘I wouldn’t presume to visit him at his home, but perhaps you could persuade him to take solace in his writing? Would you let him know that we’ve had interest from a publisher in his “Life of a Docker”? They feel it could be expanded into book form. Surely that will lift his spirits?’ Ethel’s concern was touching and she promised she would, hopeful that this might be the very news to dispel his sadness.
