The Bermondsey Bookshop

by Mary Gibson

  ‘Now I know you’re not well, let me help you!’

  Nora supported Kate to an easy chair and fetched water from the kitchen.

  ‘Kate, this is ridiculous, you’re working yourself to death. Do you really need three jobs?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody well do! I never had a rich father to leave me a fortune like you, I’ve had to fend for meself!’

  Nora’s eyes widened in shock. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’ve had a very hard life. I just thought that now you’re doing more modelling for Martin, you might give up the bar work.’ Her luminous eyes reflected hurt and concern, but not, Kate was ashamed to see, any anger.

  ‘If I’ve said something to upset you, Kate, I’m sorry. I thought we were friends – that we could talk about anything. If it was what I said about Martin being dangerous before, well, I was only thinking of you.’

  ‘It’s not about Martin.’ Kate’s voice was harsh, and suddenly she felt cruel. It wasn’t Nora’s fault; she was obviously completely in the dark. ‘It’s not even about you,’ she said, more gently. ‘It’s about the man who was in your car.’

  Now Nora looked even more puzzled. ‘Just now? You mean Chibby?’

  So, it was true – Archie was her husband. ‘That’s what you call him.’

  ‘It’s a pet name. I’ve always detested Archibald. Actually, he came back from abroad only this morning, and I was a little worried about telling him I had to go out, but he had some business near London Bridge and said we might as well drive over together. I don’t understand why the sight of him has so upset you. I must have made him seem quite a bully, but—’

  ‘No, that’s not it.’ She took in a deep breath and fixed her eyes on Nora. Kate needed to be sure Nora had no idea who he was. ‘You call him Chibby.’

  ‘Yes, as I said.’

  ‘My mum used to call him Archie. I used to call him Dad.’

  Nora gripped the edge of the table, steadying herself. ‘What? No, no, you’re mistaken, Kate. Chibby can’t be your father.’ She was shaking her head, certain.

  Kate nodded slowly. ‘I know who he is. I’ve pictured him every night for twelve years, hoping he’d come for me, until I found out he’s been back in the country for over a year and never told me.’

  Nora shook her head. ‘No, that can’t be right… What’s your surname, Kate? I don’t even know it with Ethel’s first names policy…’

  ‘Goss, I’m Kate Goss.’

  Nora looked relieved. ‘Well then, that settles it, Chibby’s name is Archibald Grainger. He’s not your father, Kate.’ She shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘People can change their names – and I remember what me own dad looks like, Nora!’

  Nora stood, like a pale statue. She plucked her lower lip, trying to make sense of Kate’s revelation. ‘I told you, I met Chibby when he was serving in France in 1915. Chibby told me he was a widower. Estranged from his family – they’d disapproved of his marriage. He said he’d raised himself up out of squalor, that the family was only interested in sponging off him… You have to understand, I was only sixteen when I met him. My father had recently died. I had no one. Chibby was much older than me, of course. He is a wonderfully capable man, accomplished, clever… I never questioned…’ As Nora replayed her history, Kate thought she saw her certainty begin to evaporate. But now, she straightened her shoulders and thrust out her chin. ‘I know he’ll have an explanation for this.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to be a bloody good one.’

  *

  The bookshop did not get cleaned at all. They talked until Kate’s dinner hour was up, examining every possible reason for Archie Goss’s or Chibby Grainger’s behaviour. Before Kate returned to Boutle’s, they agreed to tell no one else until they’d given him a chance to explain.

  ‘I’ll wait till tomorrow before I speak to him about it,’ Nora said. ‘It’ll be eleven before I can leave tonight, and Chibby will be in bed before then – he’s had such a long, tiring journey.’

  ‘All the way from Canada?’

  Nora nodded, looking surprised. ‘But how did you know?’

  Kate gave a bitter laugh. ‘Whenever I asked Aunt Sylvie why my dad never came to see me, the excuse was either the war or his business in Canada. I got to hate the very name of the place.’

  ‘It seems there are a good many coincidences…’

  Soon Nora would be as sure as she was that Chibby was Archie, but let her go home and ask him for herself.

  ‘We’ll talk again about this tomorrow – after the play reading. I promise we’ll sort all this out then, Kate.’ Nora put a cool hand to Kate’s cheek. ‘You must take this evening off and try not to worry. I trust Chibby to do the right thing.’

  For someone who’d just learned that her husband was not the person she thought he was, Nora was remarkably confident and self-controlled. Kate admired her. She was so much tougher than she looked.

  *

  Kate decided to follow Nora’s advice. She’d skip her stint at the elocution lesson tonight, but she had to return to Boutle’s this afternoon. She was grateful for the comforting familiarity and monotony. Heating irons in coke ovens, soldering seams, stacking completed tins, chasing the cleaner who’d taken over from Conny – all felt safe and secure. Only once she was home in her garret in East Lane did the real torment begin.

  Though she thought she’d abandoned all her expectations of Archie Goss, that night, she realized he still had absolute power over her. The fairy tales she’d conjured about him still held sway and she wished she had no imagination. She wished she could be like Marge, who took everything at face value and romanticized no one, not even her husband, though she loved him. Don’t be fooled by any man, Marge had warned her more than once. Don’t be taken in by good looks, they’re all selfish bastards underneath it, and it’s the women make the sacrifices to keep things going. Why couldn’t Kate be as practically minded? She knew it had something to do with her mother, and those fairy tales about scullery maids marrying handsome princes. Her mother. Whose voice was as sweet as Nora’s, whose eyes as sad, whose touch as gentle. And then it struck her. The similarities: the dark colouring, the delicate features. Archie Goss had a type, and the original was Kate’s mother.

  She tossed and turned and lay for a while staring through the dormer window at the stars and crescent moon, slicing an indigo sky. She gave up and, lighting the lamp, pulled out her tin box and began looking for Archie. There wasn’t much to go on. The photograph of him in uniform had always been a comfort: the face clean-shaven, not particularly youthful even then, when he must have been in his late twenties; the hooded eyes, sleepy, confident; the smile, lopsided, self-assured. But now she studied the background more carefully. The French town was in ruins, the blurry figures never of interest till now: an old lady carrying a basket; a shoeless boy, hands in pockets. But that young girl, leaning against a tree? Could it be Nora? And was that chateau in the distance hers? Archie’s history, which Kate had largely written herself, now belonged to Nora. Even this photo, which Kate had treasured, imagining it had been taken specially for her, now seemed more like a memento for Archie’s sweetheart. Even the cocky pose proclaimed him the conquering hero – a man his beloved could trust with her future.

  She finally fell asleep in the chair with the tin box on her lap and was woken in the early hours when it clattered to the floor. When she thought of the day ahead and Nora’s promised report of her talk with Chibby, she felt weary beyond her years. She wasn’t even sure she had the energy or desire to face the truth.

  *

  They met in the Hand and Marigold before the play-reading session that evening. The snug had nothing to recommend it other than being little frequented and quiet. Kate heard the piano strike up in the saloon bar, another mournful Irish song – the only thing the Marigolds loved better than a sad song was a rude one.

  This wasn’t the best place to bring Nora, but she couldn’t think of anywhere else. Though Kate’s eyes had been glued to the snug door for ten
minutes, Nora’s appearance was still a surprise. She wore a dark green coat and hat, with a peacock-blue scarf wound around her slender neck. The perfect planes of her face were gilded by gas lamps dotted around the walls. She looked nervous.

  Kate half rose, attracting Nora’s attention, which was hardly necessary as there was no one else in the snug. She quickly sat down again, feeling so anxious she could barely breathe. Nora sat at the table and Kate, suddenly wanting to put off the conversation, asked, ‘What do you want to drink?’

  Nora reached for the small handbag she’d placed on the table. ‘Please, let me pay.’

  ‘There’s no need. I work here. It’ll be on the house.’ Which wasn’t true, it would be docked from her wages.

  She came back with brandies, suspecting they would both be in need of them. Nora took a sip of hers and Kate a gulp. It burned her throat.

  Nora got straight to the point. ‘It’s as I thought, dear Kate. Chibby has explained it all. It is a very sad tale indeed. And I believe every word of it.’

  ‘Tell me the story, then.’

  ‘I already knew that Chibby’s estranged family was from Bermondsey. I think it was one of the reasons I agreed to volunteer at the bookshop when Violet Cliffe asked me – and perhaps for the same reason, Chibby was totally against it. He has no good memories of the place, nor of his family, a bad bunch, he says, whom he wanted to distance himself from. So he’d changed his surname, before he met me, from Goss to Grainger. When I told him about you and asked why he’d never mentioned having a daughter, he broke down completely. Chibby is devastated, Kate. Utterly heartbroken to think that you have been patiently waiting for him to come back all these years. I’m afraid you have both been wronged by a very wicked woman.’

  Kate had forgotten to breathe and so her voice, when it came, was a strangulated whisper. ‘Aunt Sylvie?’

  She nodded. ‘He entrusted you to her and she betrayed him. When he left for the war he sent his child allowance and most of his army pay to Sylvie and, of course, asked after your health, and always the answer came back that you were thriving and well cared for, but that you were not settling into life with the family.’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t, they treated me like a slave! And I don’t know how much he sent home, but not a brass farthing was spent on me!’

  ‘But Chibby didn’t know that. Your aunt insisted you’d never settle if he kept coming and going in your life – and then later, as the war dragged on, she told him the most wicked lie of all. That you had turned against him, blamed him for leaving you, and refused point-blank to see him! Of course, now he’s racked with guilt for not coming to see for himself. He trusted her.’

  Kate sat back in her chair and took another gulp of the brandy; this time, it didn’t burn enough. ‘Why would she lie like that about me?’

  ‘Spite and greed. When the war ended Chibby’s army pay and allowance stopped. He went back into business, and of course sent money for you, but she wanted more and more. His business took off and he was bombarded with begging letters from the family. Chibby can be ruthless, I admit, and he squashed any idea Sylvie might have had that he was an endless money pot. So, she took her revenge. She deprived him of his greatest treasure.’

  ‘Aunt Sylvie told me it was grief – the reason he never come back to Bermondsey to see me. Grief over me mum, because it brought all the memories back.’

  ‘I know he loved your mother very much. And for a time, I think that grief might have been the reason, but then the war came, when every day could mean death. How would it be if he came back into your life one week, only to be removed the next?’

  ‘He should have come himself, or at least he could have written to me!’

  ‘He didn’t think he would be welcome.’

  ‘Sod welcome! He was me dad, he should have been looking after me!’ A sob broke like a wave from the depth of her stomach and she swallowed it. What was the point of railing at Nora? She was only the messenger. Up until now, Nora had been intent on pleading Chibby’s cause, but now Kate saw a slight nod of her head. An acknowledgement that he was not blameless. She paused and her gaze seemed to turn inward for a second. ‘Chibby is not easy around children. He’s a man of business, of action, he loves striking deals, he loves many things, fine food, music, books… but he does not love domesticity. It’s why he’s away so much. I’m sure half the time someone else could be overseeing those business transactions, but he must always go himself…’

  ‘But he never even told you about me.’

  Nora shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘No. He wouldn’t have done. The subject of children is a difficult one for us personally – we have our differences, Kate.’

  She didn’t want to press the woman about her marriage. It was enough that Nora had been faced with the secret of Kate’s existence. She could imagine the conversation between the two hadn’t been as comfortable as Nora might make out. They sat in silence for a moment and then Nora said, ‘When you meet him, you mustn’t be disappointed if he seems…’ She searched for the word ‘…cool.’ Odd that it was the word Johnny had once used to describe Nora herself. ‘He hides his feelings very deeply, but they are there.’

  ‘So, he does want to meet me?’

  ‘Of course he does! He needs to explain all this himself, but he thought it would be better for me to prepare the ground. In case you didn’t want to see him.’

  ‘I do! I’ve wanted to see him every day since I was six,’ Kate said, remembering the last sight she’d had of him from Aunt Sylvie’s doorstep. The lopsided smile, the slow wave of his large, freckled hand and how after he’d turned the corner, Aunt Sylvie had dragged her back inside. Now she wanted to kill her.

  *

  The drama group were reading Lady Huntworth’s Experiment. She gathered from snippets overheard from the kitchen that the heroine was an aristocrat divorcee whose ex-husband had gambled and drunk away her fortune, so that she’d been forced to disguise herself as a cook to make some money. It was meant to be humorous and Kate smiled at some of the lines. She admired how the heroine bravely took on a world that was not her own. The girl playing the divorcee was far too young, but she had good timing and her posh accent was convincing. One line of the heroine’s to her ex-husband struck her as oddly coincidental: When [Father] died, I inherited a fortune – and my freedom – without much notion what to do with either. That was a bad year for me. I lost my father and I found you.

  At least during the play reading and afterwards, serving tea, her murderous thoughts towards Aunt Sylvie had time to subside. She walked home past Aunt Sarah’s house and found it hard not to stop and tell her aunt about Archie. But, according to Nora, he regarded ‘the family’ as spongers, a judgement she assumed must include her Aunt Sarah, who had never struck Kate as being motivated so much by money as by love. She might have pretended to wash her hands of her brother Archie, but Kate doubted she really had. But it was harder still to walk past Aunt Sylvie’s, who she didn’t doubt was motivated entirely by money and not the least by love. She halted for a moment, staring at the darkened windows, realizing how much she’d changed. The old Kate would certainly have kicked the door in and pulled the old witch from her bed.

  Her meeting with Archie would not be as she’d always imagined it. Nora said he wouldn’t come to Bermondsey and was unsure if Kate would want to come to their home. He would send the car to collect her – not from East Lane, but from the bookshop – and they would meet at his business premises, which he thought would be private enough, but neutral. She wished Archie had come to collect her himself. But perhaps a first meeting in a car would have been awkward. She would have felt awkward going to his house too, so maybe he’d got the meeting place just right.

  She sat in the back as they drove across Tower Bridge and passed the looming dark presence of the Tower. It was a warm, bright day, but the massive, soot-stained old fortress seemed to absorb all the light bouncing off the river. They circuited the Tower and she was surprised when they t
urned into Lower Thames Street and began slowing down. She knew that Nora lived in Belgravia and she’d assumed that Archie’s business premises would be in the same posh area of London. Ancient wharfside offices and the colonnaded Custom House took up much of the busy street. But as they approached Billingsgate fish market they slowed almost to a halt.

  ‘Not far now, Miss Goss. That’s if we can get through this lot!’ the driver explained, tooting his horn at a young boy pushing a hand barrow piled high with fish crates. The whole street was jammed with barrows, horses, carts and lorries going to the market. As she peered through the window, some porters walked past, baskets of fish piled high on their flat, black hats. One turned his head to wink at her and still managed to keep his load balanced.

  Eventually they turned down an alleyway, barely wide enough for the car, stopping outside a tall, narrow house with a bow window jutting over the river like a captain’s cabin on a sailing ship.

  The driver helped her out and showed her to the front door. He pushed it open and they stepped into a dim passageway. It was panelled with dark, old wood and the stairs in front of her were steep, furthering the impression that she’d entered a ship.

  ‘I believe Mr Grainger is in the downstairs office.’ He indicated a long bench for her to sit on while she waited to be announced. She felt sick with anticipation, half wishing that she’d never found her father, dreading the possibility that he would be different to her memory of him. Cool, as Nora had warned. But there was no more time to anticipate – the driver was beckoning her through. He stepped aside as she entered a spacious, shadowy room, wood-panelled like the passage and with a solid wooden desk in front of the bow window. Its dusty panes let in enough light to reveal, sitting in an armchair next to the fireplace, the figure of Archie Goss, her father.