The Bermondsey Bookshop

by Mary Gibson

  She knew she was making a spectacle of herself – what would Ethel and her new friends at the bookshop think of her? But she also knew that she’d felt robbed of her own anger when Archie had asked her to say nothing to Aunt Sylvie. Now it felt good to spill her venom – if not her aunt’s blood – all over East Lane, no matter who was looking on.

  She eased her hold and Aunt Sylvie scrambled to her feet, beating a quick retreat, fully aware that Kate was quite capable of matching her strength. Kate didn’t think she’d have any more trouble from Aunt Sylvie, but she was worried about what her father had written to Aunt Sarah. She hoped he hadn’t been too harsh.

  The following day, after work, she went to the cook shop for a bowl of faggots, gravy and pease pudding and paid her aunt a visit.

  Aunt Sarah looked grim and offered no greeting. Her hair, entirely grey now, was drawn back in a severe bun that made her podgy face look even larger. She turned and led Kate silently down the passage to her bleak room and scullery. The contrast to her father’s fashionable house was stark. She’d placed an antimacassar on the armchair, stuck some photos from a countryside calendar on a wall, tacked a brass crucifix above her bed and propped a few photos of Archie and Kate’s grandparents on the mantelpiece. These few attempts at decoration only made Kate feel sad.

  Aunt Sarah spread newspaper on the table and started dividing the faggots onto two plates. Before she sat down to eat, her aunt took something from the mantelpiece, put it in front of Kate and tapped it with an arthritic forefinger.

  ‘There it is in black and white. He don’t want nothing to do with me. Says I’ve only ever been after his money.’ Aunt Sarah chewed thoughtfully for a while and then gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well, it’s been the other way around for most of his life, so what if I did think he’d want to give me a treat now he’s flush? It’s only what I’m due! But no, according to him, she’s put the kibosh on all that. He says she’s been lying to him for years, saying you hated him! Wicked mare. Did you know about this?’

  ‘He told me. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘No, love, it ain’t, but I’m tarred with the same brush.’ She heaved herself up to clear away the plates.

  ‘Let me do that.’ Kate went to the scullery and made some tea. There were pathetically few groceries in the kitchen cabinet and Kate determined that when she’d got to know her father a bit better she would persuade him to help Aunt Sarah. She put the tea in front of her aunt, who in a rare show of affection patted her hand.

  ‘You’re the only one I got now, Kate. Seems strange, Bessie’s daughter being me only comfort. Oh, I was such a cow to her. I regret it now.’

  ‘He told me you and Aunt Sylvie were both against the marriage, and so was Mum’s family. Are there any left?’

  ‘Of your mum’s family? Not that I know of… Well, only her down the end, if you can call her family.’

  Kate was confused. ‘Who down the end?’

  ‘Old Longbonnet.’ Aunt Sarah looked as if Kate should know this.

  Kate gave a disbelieving smile. ‘I didn’t know she was related. She told me they all used to live in Romany Row, but she’s never said anything about being related.’

  Aunt Sarah sniffed and tapped out her clay pipe on the range. She made several slow attempts to light it. ‘Well, she’s your great-aunt, your grandmother’s sister, I think.’

  Kate sat back in shock. ‘Why didn’t no one tell me?’

  ‘Didn’t seem any point – the old gel’s not right, is she? Never has been, and she got worse when your mum died. To be honest, some of the things she was saying back then nearly got her locked up in Cane Hill asylum!’

  ‘What things?’

  But Aunt Sarah waved a weary hand. ‘Oh, she was raving. I can’t remember. It’s all a long time ago now.’ Her aunt got up, with difficulty, went to the mantelpiece and took down the photo of Archie. She studied it for a few seconds and then placed it face down.

  ‘One thing old Longbonnet did say all them years ago, she said to me, “Sarah, Archie Goss breaks everything and you’ll be no exception, he’ll break your heart one day.” And no truer a word’s been spoken. Perhaps she wasn’t as mad as we thought she was.’

  *

  As the hot summer burned itself out into autumn, Kate found herself spending so many Sundays at her father’s house that Martin began to complain he’d never get the mudlark painting finished. The truth was she’d been glad of an excuse not to see Martin, even though she needed the modelling money. It had become awkward between them after Kate’s confession she’d suspected him of hurting Nora – she couldn’t really blame him. She’d probably spoilt whatever chance of a friendship they’d had. But during Archie’s next trip abroad, she did agree to go to his studio, just so that the finishing touches could be added to The Mudlark.

  He was placing her limbs in the awkward pose and she felt he was being unusually brusque and rapid.

  ‘This is the last painting you’ll do of me.’ It was better to make a clean break.

  ‘Why?’ He pulled her elbow further forward, but his expression was unmistakably crestfallen. ‘You can’t stop now! You’re my muse.’

  He’d obviously forgiven her, or at least he still needed her.

  ‘Well, if I do, then you’ll have to pick a pose that’s not going to turn me into a bent old lady before me time.’ She groaned and, in an ancient voice, quavered, ‘Oh, me poor old bones.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, beginning to paint. ‘Your father’s monopolizing you! He’s certainly making up for lost time. In fact, I bumped into John Bacon at the bookshop and we agreed, you’ve eyes for only one man these days.’ She held her breath. ‘And that man is neither of us!’

  ‘You and Johnny agreed about something? You’re telling me pork pies!’ She covered her confusion with a laugh.

  ‘We’ve buried the hatchet, didn’t he tell you?’

  She shook her head. She hadn’t talked to Johnny since their last meeting at the river stairs.

  ‘Well, in fact, he came and apologized for his behaviour at the gallery. I told him, all water under the bridge. He really is a decent fellow.’ He held his brush mid-air for a moment. ‘We both want what’s best for you. That’s another thing we agreed on.’

  ‘Oh? You were having quite a little chinwag.’ She nodded, wondering what else they’d been saying. ‘Were you talking about my dad?’

  ‘It would be strange if we hadn’t. Whatever’s happened between you two, John’s obviously still concerned about your happiness, whether that involves me or your father.’ He saw her frown and added quickly, ‘He’s not going to interfere, Kate. I explained that you and I are friends, but I admitted to wanting to be more… and that I would always put your happiness first.’ He paused, peering closely at the canvas. ‘And we shook hands on it.’

  It felt almost as if Johnny had given Martin his blessing, as if he were tying up every loose end to do with Kate before moving on. She felt a painful tearing in her heart, as if its two halves were moving inexorably apart. And yet she wouldn’t hold him back; she wanted Johnny to be happy too.

  ‘Yes…’ He raised his brush with a flourish. ‘A very decent chap. It’s finished.’

  She groaned with relief at being able to move again and keeled over, curling herself into a ball before stretching her back like a cat. Offering his hand, he pulled her up, with a strong grip that propelled her into his arms. She saw a spark of desire in his eyes, and the way he was holding her told her it wouldn’t take much to replace the veneer of friendship with something more serious. She pulled away.

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Not waiting for his answer, she went to look at The Mudlark. The paint still glistened, which was even more evocative of the oily, olive-green Thames. A smudgy yellow haze of sky made her feel hot with the memory of that warm day. She liked the way he’d painted her expression, a mixture of delight and pride in her treasure and of eagerness that he should share it. But then she spotted someone Marti
n had included in the background. Along with the group of kids combing the foreshore, a figure was outlined, almost a caricature. A ragged old woman, half-hidden behind a moored lighter. She was clearly looking in Kate’s direction, and Martin had captured the long nose in profile so perfectly that Kate knew instantly who it must be.

  ‘What’s she doing there?’ She pointed to the woman as Martin came up behind her.

  ‘I don’t know, she’s just a scavenger. I thought she looked so odd I had to put her in… Why, do you know her?’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ she said. ‘That’s old Longbonnet.’

  *

  She waited by East Lane Stairs. A warm autumn day had declined to a damp, foggy evening. The pewter veil hovering over the Thames crept up the lane, seeping into doorways, slithering along rooftops, and clutching at her neck with cold, slimy fingers. It was about this time every night when Longbonnet would make her way home from one of the ‘rounds’ that kept her body and soul together. This morning she had set out with two large wicker baskets on her arm and had spent most of Saturday, as she always did, selling bundles of watercress from door to door. Tonight she would go out on another round to the pubs, this time selling ‘supper delicacies’ of calves’ feet and pigs’ trotters. Kate was hoping to catch her between rounds.

  She turned away from the river to see Longbonnet emerging from the fog. She was almost at her house before Kate could run from the stairs and catch her by the arm. The old woman whirled round, dropping one of her empty baskets onto the slick cobbles.

  ‘Kate Goss! You scared me to death!’

  Kate picked up the basket, thinking it was a strange turn of events that Longbonnet should be frightened of her. ‘Sorry… I just wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Come in, come in! You can help me load up me pads with trotters,’ she said, holding up her empty baskets.

  The old woman’s kitchen was steamy and thick with greasy cooking smells of trotters and calves’ feet that had been bubbling away in cauldrons for most of the day. Longbonnet took off her coat and scarf and went to remove the pots from the range. ‘Give us an ’and, gel,’ she said, and Kate hurried to help carry the cast-iron pans to the table. She groaned with the effort. ‘How do you lift these on your own!’

  Longbonnet cackled. ‘I’m stronger than I look. I’ll get the pots and you can help me fill ’em.’

  Kate clearly had no choice in the matter. Longbonnet lit the gas mantles and disappeared into the scullery. She came out with a tray of earthenware pots and lids and placed them on the table. She muttered to herself as she searched for an extra spoon in the cutlery drawer. Handing it to Kate, she explained what to do. ‘Fill it up, but leave enough room on the top for the jelly. Like this.’ She demonstrated once and they began dipping into the greasy stewpot and filling up pots with ‘supper delicacies’. Kate wouldn’t have touched them, but it was surprising what a man would eat after a heavy night’s drinking.

  They worked in silence for a while. ‘So, Archie Goss is back,’ Longbonnet said matter-of-factly. ‘I suppose you’ll want to go and live with him in his posh house over the other side.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Kate said, shocked that her secret was well and truly out.

  Longbonnet’s shoulders shook in a silent chuckle. ‘I watch. I hear. I might have a wall eye, but I can see clear enough when it comes to this place. I see you coming and going, I see your face. You look happy, Kate. And it’s what you always wanted.’ She tugged on one of her pendulous earrings. ‘And I might be old but I ain’t deaf. I hear Sid Smith’s popped out of his hole for a bite of a juicy worm.’

  The picture made Kate’s stomach turn as she spooned pigs’ trotters.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised. There’s nothing happens in East Lane I don’t know about.’

  ‘Mr Smith sent Stan to my dad’s. He’s got a posh house and a business, so why would he need Mr Smith?’

  ‘Oh, them two. They used to be in some sort of business together. Thick as thieves. But I heard Archie left owing him money.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me you was my mum’s aunt?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have done you ’a’porth o’ good, gel. If you’d ever come running to me, Sylvie would’ve made you pay for it.’

  ‘I wish I’d known.’

  Longbonnet shook her head. ‘Archie wouldn’t have liked it either. If it was a choice between me and your dad, I know who you’d rather have. No. It’s best as it is.’

  ‘Dad’s cut off both my aunts because of the way I’ve been treated.’

  Longbonnet made a dismissive noise. ‘He should have been here a bit sooner himself, then, shouldn’t he?’

  They continued to pot up the trotters and calves’ feet till the pots were all full, then placed them into the long, flat baskets Longbonnet called pads. She covered them with white cloths and they left together, making their way down East Lane till they got to Kate’s house. Here Longbonnet stopped, giving Kate a long, squint-eyed stare. ‘I know you’ll end up with your father. But if you ever need any help, you know where to find your Great-Aunt Rosina.’ She tapped her long nose. ‘That’s me name,’ she said, nodding her head, as if she’d conferred on Kate a great gift.

  *

  As Christmas approached, the Hand and Marigold got busier and Kate took on extra shifts. It was one early evening in December that she was shocked to see Johnny come walking through the door. Since the bookshop had reopened after the summer break, she’d seen him more and more in the company of Pamela, the clever blonde who’d helped him with his writing. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t jealous, but no one would know it, certainly not Johnny. It wouldn’t be fair. He sauntered over to the bar. He was freshly shaved and smelt of pine needles. He’d obviously been to Bermondsey Baths.

  ‘Pint of bitter, please, miss,’ he said with a grin. ‘And have a drink yourself.’

  ‘Thanks. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Are you all right?’ Kate couldn’t help looking out for signs that Johnny had simply papered over the cracks of his grief and would break out in some rash act of self-destruction at any minute.

  A shadow passed across his face and he gave a brief sigh. ‘I’m fine, Kate. It’s just I thought I’d catch you here – you’re always in Belgravia these days.’

  It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact, but she had to stop herself from apologizing.

  ‘I’ve come here to ask if you want to spend Christmas with me.’ His open, assured smile struck her with guilt. She hadn’t even thought. ‘Christmas Day in your garret’s not going to be much fun for you – my house won’t be a riot, but at least we’ll have company.’

  She could feel herself beginning to flush and she saw his smile fade. ‘Oh, I’m stupid. Of course, you’ll be going to your dad’s.’

  She nodded. Archie had invited her when he got back from his trip to Germany, where he’d spent a few weeks trying to expand his fur business. ‘I’m sorry, Johnny. Dad and Nora asked me a while ago. He wants me to stay for a week…’

  ‘Oh, well, just a thought.’ He ventured a smile, but his disappointment was clear.

  ‘What about your friend – Pamela? Won’t you want to spend Christmas with her?’

  He shifted awkwardly. ‘Oh, no. Pamela’s gone home to her parents for Christmas. I think she’s a bit scared to tell them about me…’

  ‘What if I ask Dad to invite you for Christmas Day too?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right. He doesn’t even know me.’

  ‘He does. He remembers you – from when you were little. He told me he knew your mum.’

  Johnny pulled a surprised face. ‘I always forget he comes from East Lane.’

  ‘Let me just serve this gentleman,’ she said, turning to a customer, ‘and then I’ll take my break.’

  At their usual table, she shared a sandwich with Johnny.

  Kate said, ‘I have trouble remembering Dad’s a Bermondsey boy too. There’s a lot of his his
tory that’s muddier than the foreshore. I found out he’s had dealings with Mr Smith! Some sort of business deal years ago – and Mr Smith thought he’d been diddled. You’ll never guess who he sent to Dad’s house to squeeze some money out of him – Stan!’

  Johnny whistled. ‘What, to Belgravia! I bet that’s one business partnership your dad regrets.’

  Kate shrugged. ‘He’s always so confident. He talks as if he’s the world’s best businessman, but I think all his money’s tied up in the business.’

  ‘That’s usually the way with businesses,’ Johnny said knowledgeably.

  ‘Doesn’t stop Nora spending it like water! Every time I go there, she’s bought me a new frock or pair of shoes.’

  ‘She was brought up as some sort of princess, what can you expect!’ He laughed, and it felt good to be talking easily with him.

  ‘She showed me a photo of the chateau – I thought it’d be like Buckingham Palace but it’s really just a great big house, with a few turrets stuck on the top.’

  ‘Well, I’ve warmed to her. It seems she’s treating you well… So’s your dad, by the sound of it.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘When will you go?’ In spite of having drunk a pint of bitter, he seemed dry-mouthed, and she sensed he was holding his breath.

  ‘He wants me to… soon.’

  He let out the breath, drawing a pattern in a little pool of beer. ‘You’d have to give up work at Boutle’s – and here, and the bookshop.’

  ‘No. I’d still come to the bookshop!’ she said quickly.

  ‘But not as the cleaner.’

  She shook her head. ‘I suppose not.’

  She’d been happy in this limbo, going back and forth from Bermondsey to Belgravia, enjoying the luxury of having her father back without the pressure of choosing between his world and her own.

  ‘But we’ll still see each other, Johnny. I’ll be a volunteer, like Nora, and I can visit you.’ But even as she said it, she knew that choosing Belgravia meant leaving East Lane, and everyone in it, behind.