The Bermondsey Bookshop

by Mary Gibson

  That evening after work, she rushed home and waited for his knock with excitement. They spent more time in her garret room now, as he hated spending time in the house where his mother had died. Her room had even fewer of the comforts of home than his house, but at least he could settle there.

  She waited until she’d made him tea on the little paraffin stove and he was seated on the rag rug she’d made. His face was half obscured by the glare of the lamp, and at first it seemed he hadn’t heard her, so she repeated herself. ‘Didn’t you hear me? A publisher, Johnny! It’s your dream!’

  But he shook his head. ‘It’s rubbish, all rubbish. A few printed pages squashed between two boards – what difference will that make to anything or anyone?’

  ‘It will! You always said no one can hear your accent when you write. They’ll take you seriously, they’ll hear how hard it is to live—’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody hard to live!’ He flared up at her quickly these days. ‘It’s hard to be alive – doesn’t matter whether you’re poor or rich!’

  She moved the paraffin lamp so that she could see his face properly – every line of his handsome features seemed skewed with hopelessness.

  ‘Well, don’t do it to save the world, then. Do it to save yourself.’

  He looked at her in silence for a while and then reached out his arms to her. She led him to her narrow bed and she tried as best she could to soften all the hard edges of his despair with her kisses.

  *

  Johnny had come for her sake. Kate hoped she hadn’t made a mistake in persuading him to be here, but she was desperate for any way to rekindle his enthusiasm. His friends at the bookshop were coming, and perhaps Ethel might have the chance to reignite his interest in writing, or Ginger Bosher, from the Bermondsey contingent, might persuade him to read the latest trade union bulletin – anything to draw Johnny back into his own life.

  Martin had insisted she pass on to Johnny his invitation to the private view of his latest paintings. At first he’d flatly refused, but Kate had appealed to his protective instincts, implying she’d be lost without his support. What did she know about the art world or posh London galleries? She’d be like a fish out of water. ‘You’ll know exactly what to do, Johnny. Imagine me on my own, standing around drinking wine, trying to make conversation with that arty crowd!’ She’d laid it on thick, even though she felt no such trepidation. If any of these people could be induced to buy not one but three paintings of her, then they had more money than sense, and Kate could think of far better things to do with a few hundred quid. When she’d expressed that same opinion to Martin he’d laughed and called her a beautiful barbarian, which she’d taken as a compliment.

  The exhibition was to be held at a gallery in a terrace of white stucco houses not far from Martin’s studio in Fitzroy Square. The narrow frontage was deceiving. She and Johnny passed through the heavy wooden doors into the chequered-tiled hall and then into a single long gallery, which took up the entire depth of the house. She looked up at a roof that reminded her of an upturned glass-bottomed boat, flooding the lofty space with light. But it was an alien place. A high-pitched chatter like a twittering of birds in an aviary filled the room. Flamboyant dandies and sleek-haired women curved their bodies into self-conscious poses and lifted their voices to unnatural levels of brightness. They seemed determined to attract more attention than the paintings on the walls. But it was the walls which steadied Kate among all this strangeness. They reminded her of Martin’s staircase. Floor to ceiling, full of his paintings, and there she was – or rather three of her – taking centre stage at the far end of the gallery.

  Now she was here, she found herself glad that Johnny was beside her, not for his sake so much as her own. The gallery owner hushed the chattering crowd and, in his flowery introduction to Martin’s work, made special mention of The Bermondsey Triptych as the finest example of his new work. She gripped Johnny’s arm as heads turned in her direction. She overheard a couple whispering, ‘Where on earth did he find her? In a tin factory? How extraordinary!’ And then another young man declared loudly, ‘Seems more Botticelli than Bermondsey…’ followed by tinkling laughter from his companions. She felt as uncomfortable as on her first day at Boutle’s, when all the experienced girls had stared at her ragged frock and dirty appearance. Her face burned, but Johnny at that moment put an arm around her and whispered in her ear, ‘North hasn’t done you justice – my Kate’s much lovelier than those three up there.’

  But at the unveiling in Martin’s studio, she’d been surprised to find she’d actually liked the triptych, which Nora had insisted so captured her likeness. Cleaning caught her looking exhausted and anxious – every job she did was hard work and her income always precarious – so why wouldn’t she be? She was glad that in Reading her secret love for Johnny was plain for all to see, if they’d only known what she was reading. But Dreaming was her favourite. It was the one that really did capture her true self.

  She’d spotted Ethel as they’d entered, and when the speech was over she saw her making a beeline for them. At that moment Nora appeared beside her. ‘John, would you mind?’ She put a hand beneath Kate’s elbow. ‘I need a word with Kate?’ Nora steered her in the direction of the drinks table. It was nicely timed, for Johnny, now standing alone, had no choice but to face Ethel’s warm smile.

  ‘Did you and Ethel plan that?’ Kate asked as Nora picked up two glasses of champagne.

  ‘Was it obvious?’

  Kate nodded, taking an exploratory sip of the champagne. She wrinkled her nose. The bubbles made her want to sneeze and the sharpness stripped the sides of her tongue.

  ‘Don’t you like champagne?’

  ‘There’s not much call for it at the Hand and Marigold – and now I can see why,’ she said, putting down the glass.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about John’s mother. Ethel says they were devoted to each other. I envy him that… my own mother died when I was young.’

  ‘So did mine.’

  ‘Did your father bring you up alone – or remarry like mine?’ She offered Kate a plate of tiny sandwiches and took one herself. ‘I hated my stepmother,’ she said, in a confidential tone.

  Kate took a bite of the sandwich, disappointed to find it contained only cucumber. ‘Oh, mine left me with an aunt – I reckon she was worse than a stepmother. At least you had your father to stick up for you.’

  Nora pulled a face. ‘It wasn’t quite like that. He was besotted. He always sided with her against me.’

  ‘Did she wallop you?’

  Nora laughed. ‘Oh no. She got a maid to do that. But she did lock me in a cupboard and leave me there all day when she said I was being “naughty”.’

  ‘And really you was good as gold, trying to please her all the time…’

  ‘Yes!’ Nora said. ‘You too?’

  ‘Until one day I realized nothing I did would ever be good enough – because she just didn’t like me! Was it because of your stepmother that you came to England – to be with your mother’s family?’

  ‘No. It was Chibby, my husband’s, wish. When we met, he was in the British Army, and his company were garrisoned in our town. He’d worked his way up the ranks to colour sergeant and when the Germans were making their final push, he was suddenly put in charge of a platoon and sent back to the front. He insisted I come to England – she hesitated – for my own safety.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kate was surprised – she’d imagined Nora’s husband as a passionate, jealous Frenchman, but now her image of him changed. He turned into a sober British Army officer, undemonstrative but adoring and perhaps overly protective.

  ‘I didn’t want to come here. I was nineteen, all alone in a country I barely remembered. I often wished I’d stayed to brave the Hun – I’m sure they would have been less fearsome than my mother’s family!’ She laughed, but her expression was bitter. ‘I was very unhappy.’

  ‘But what about your father? Couldn’t he help you?’ Kate’s imagination had seize
d upon the similarities between Nora’s family history and her own, and she was hoping that Nora’s story ended with a father who gave the wicked stepmother the elbow in order to reclaim his child from her evil aunts.

  Nora shook her head. ‘No, he’d died years before this, just as the war started.’

  ‘Oh, that must have been so hard. And what happened with your stepmother – did she chuck you out?’

  Here, Nora gave a mischievous smile and repeated in her lilting accent, ‘Oh no, I chucked her out! Father had seen through her by that time. He provided her with a small allowance in his will. Everything else was left to me.’

  Kate nodded. ‘So he did help you.’

  ‘He left me well provided for, but how could that make up for the years of his love I’d lost?’

  ‘I feel like that sometimes, but then I tell myself, when he does come back, I’ll be so happy I won’t remember all the years he wasn’t there.’

  Nora gave a rare smile. ‘I think you are very wise for your years, Kate.’

  Kate dipped her head at the compliment and then Nora asked, ‘But what about you? Did your aunt “chuck you out”?’

  ‘Yes, she did. Me and my tin box!’

  She was explaining to Nora the nature of the tin box when Ethel joined them.

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t make any headway with John.’ Ethel glanced towards the front of the gallery, where Johnny now stood, closely examining the triptych. He had a half-smile on his face as Kate saw him move on from Cleaning to Reading and take a step closer. His face was inches from the canvas and then she saw his smile fade and turn to a frown. She excused herself and went to his side. He turned to her with doubt-filled eyes.

  ‘What’s going on, Kate?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With you and North.’ He pointed to Reading. ‘That’s the way you look at me,’ he said accusingly. ‘Why are you looking like that, when you’re with him?’

  ‘Johnny! Stop it, I was just reading—’

  ‘No!’ He raised his voice. ‘That expression… I’m not stupid, though the likes of North might think I am!’ He bristled with a sudden anger.

  ‘If you’ll just listen a minute, I’ll explain—’

  But just then Martin came up to her with a breezy smile and took her elbow. ‘I think I may have a buyer for the triptych!’ He turned to Johnny. ‘Can I steal her—’

  Whether Martin had noticed Johnny’s angry voice and had come to rescue Kate she couldn’t tell, but she certainly knew he hadn’t noticed Johnny’s fist until it struck his jaw with an audible crack. Martin was sent toppling across the gallery, sending gilded tables and drink trays flying. He collided with a woman swathed in long bright scarves, one of which caught on the toe of his black patent shoe. He tripped and slewed across the floor, landing in a pile at the feet of the astonished gallery owner. Martin was quickly up again and came at Johnny with surprising speed, both fists raised in boxing fashion.

  Her heart pounded. Johnny would make mincemeat out of him. She shouted, ‘Stop it, Martin!’, too late to stop his swift right hook from flooring Johnny, who shook his head, momentarily dazed. The gallery audience had formed a loose ring around the two men and Kate looked around, desperate for someone who might stop them. She spotted Ginger Bosher and ran to him as Martin waited, like a gentleman, for Johnny to get up.

  ‘Ginger, can you get Johnny out of here – quick!’

  But Johnny was already charging. His head connected with Martin’s stomach, winding him. Before Johnny could follow up with another punch, Ginger Bosher’s massive arms encircled him, lifting him off his feet. People turned aside, forming a clear path for Ginger to hustle Johnny from the gallery.

  Martin straightened his shirt front and pulled down his cuffs as he came to her side. ‘Are you quite all right, Kate?’

  She nodded, her face burning with shame. He put an arm around her shoulder and took her off to a drinks table, offering her water. She kept her eyes lowered, not wanting to see the sidelong glances in their direction as people returned to their groups, pretending to talk about the paintings and drawing their own conclusions.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Martin.’ She was glad he shielded her from the rest of the room, even though all eyes were avoiding her now.

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  She was trembling and felt cold suddenly. ‘No. You stay, this is your day. I’ll make me own way home.’

  ‘You will not.’ He looked around then beckoned to Nora, who had been hovering nearby. ‘Will you sit with Kate for a moment? I just need to see a few more people, then I’m taking her home.’

  Nora put a hand to his shoulder. ‘Go. I’ll look after her.’ Her eyes followed him as he crossed the gallery and Kate thought she saw a flicker of doubt, but then she turned to Kate.

  ‘Your Johnny’s a fiery one. Jealousy is a torment when it takes you over.’

  ‘It’s not so nice being on the receiving end either – is it?’

  *

  Shortly afterwards, the crowded gallery emptied and Martin came to find her. He drove her back to Bermondsey in his mother’s Rolls. She was silent as they wove their way through the early-evening traffic in Tottenham Court Road. He seemed unperturbed by the day’s events, even humming softly to himself as they negotiated the crush around Trafalgar Square and crossed Waterloo Bridge. She gazed beyond the bridge to the darkening Thames, trying to fathom him. Sometimes his unruffled exterior annoyed her. She could see nothing worth humming about. Johnny had made a farce of what should have been Martin’s moment of glory.

  Once south of the river, she finally spoke. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me, Martin. I know you must be upset. Johnny’s ruined it for you.’

  Martin turned a smiling face to her. ‘You’re quite wrong, Kate. John Bacon has done me an enormous favour. The Bermondsey Triptych is apparently worth twice as much with a dramatic story attached to it – jealous lover, fisticuffs with the artist at its first showing, and who is this mysterious muse from Bermondsey who caused all the fuss? There was a bidding war for it – and I think I can finally chuck Mother’s Rolls and buy myself a Baby Austin with the proceeds!’ He laughed and then flinched, rubbing his face where the bruising was now evident. He turned into East Lane. ‘Besides, he’s just lost his mother, poor chap.’

  She’d found that Martin wasn’t easily rattled, but even so, she was impressed with this good-natured forgiveness. As they came to a halt outside her house, he added, ‘The last thing he wants is to lose you as well.’

  ‘But he’s not going to!’

  Martin turned in his seat and unexpectedly took her hand. ‘Well, he might. If it has anything to do with me.’ He leaned forward and put his lips to hers. It was the briefest of kisses, but when he pulled away he said, ‘Cinderella is returned safely from the ball and I’m so glad I know exactly where to find her again…’

  She was so shocked she could barely speak. She wanted to say, And what about Nora? But he put a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t speak, don’t break the spell, Kate. I want you to be more than just my model. I want to offer you a new life. Just think about it, think about me. Think about what John saw in my paintings of you that made him so jealous.’

  He hopped out of the car and came around to open her door. A couple were strolling past and stopped to stare at the posh car, wondering to each other what on earth such a handsome, well-off couple were doing in East Lane, Bermondsey.

  *

  She didn’t go to see Johnny straight away. She was too angry and too heartsick to face him. They had grown so close during the days of his mum’s illness that he’d called her his anchor. And she’d let her guard down, pouring out all her love without reservation. But now she felt set adrift – his jealousy and his rage had cut the tie.

  After a few days of soul-searching she went to his house. When he opened the door, he said morosely, ‘I don’t want to see you.’

  Before he could shut the door, she slipped inside, following him into the room.
He looked as if he hadn’t changed his clothes since the fight at the gallery; still wearing his good shirt, he bore the bruises from Martin’s fists. She’d expected him to be contrite.

  ‘You’re not still blaming me?’ she asked, a hot surge of anger taking her by surprise.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? You’re the one who cheated.’

  ‘You bloody idiot, Johnny Bacon, that’s not true. I love you.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t live like this, I can’t compete with the likes of Martin North.’

  He hadn’t heard her at all. ‘Well, perhaps I can’t live like it either. Wondering when you’ll get into a rage and start using your fists instead of listening to me… When you’re angry like that, Johnny, I don’t know you at all and…’ She was left hanging, caught by the sudden realization of what frightened her most about his sudden rages – it was that he disappeared.

  ‘I love you, Johnny.’ She said it again. ‘But I think it’s best if we just go back to being friends. We’ll both be happier,’ she added miserably, hoping that he would raise his dear, familiar eyes to her and be himself again and say it would all be different. But instead, he turned away, saying nothing, and she could only take his silence as a goodbye. She let herself out and walked down to the river stairs, looking out over the Thames, her tears flowing as relentlessly as the tide.

  *

  It was shortly after Martin’s startling proposal that Kate proved Nora wrong about her youthful wisdom. It turned out she had never been wise beyond her years when it came to her father. She had been blind and stupid and she found out just how much after a conversation with her Aunt Sarah. Kate often went to see her aunt on her evenings off, taking saveloy and pease pudding – Aunt Sarah’s favourite. Kate had never received much attention from her when growing up, but now she felt sorry for the elderly spinster who for so long had been in thrall to the dream of her brother’s return – the rich man who would save them all from East Lane. But one night she arrived at the house to find her aunt in tears. Kate had never before witnessed such a sight and for a moment she reacted as if hers were a normal family. She threw her arms around her aunt, asking what was wrong, only to be unceremoniously pushed away.