by Mary Gibson
But here he was, back in England, with a new idea of his future and a new book written. He’d called it A Really Common Reader – Adventures in a Bermondsey Bookshop, and he had dedicated it to the memory of Ethel Gutman, his dear friend and mentor. It seemed fitting. Without her encouragement and enthusiasm, without her belief in him, he would never have dared believe in himself. She had died last spring, shortly after he’d left Bermondsey, and when he’d heard the news, he’d been so ill he thought he might be joining her very soon. But she’d given strict instructions that the Bermondsey Bookshop was not to die with her, and she had left him a bequest – to fund his literary career, she’d stipulated – her faith in him strong to the end. He thought perhaps he’d only decided to live because of that faith.
He hadn’t intended to seek Kate out, not at first, but when the chance came to speak at the St Agnes Miners and Mechanics Institute, it felt as if fate had made it easier for him. He had a legitimate reason for being here. He’d come to give a talk about the new book. But the event wasn’t until tomorrow and he would have time on his hands. He’d settled into his St Agnes bed and breakfast yesterday and had asked around at the local pub last night. He was pretty sure it must be Kate. They’d called her the whitesmith, and described a cottage near the coastal path above a small cove. He set out along the cliff path early. It was a mild morning, with a clear sky, and the path was dotted with small yellow and magenta flowers. He took off his jacket and hung it over his shoulder, feeling a rising sense of anticipation, yet still with no clear idea of what he would find, nor what he would say to her. He knew she was here with Martin, but he felt strong enough now to face her happiness.
At the top of a steep stretch of path, he stopped for breath. This must be the place. A whitewashed cottage with a wooden lean-to workshop, its windows facing the sea. The path took him around the side of the house. And then, from inside, he heard a sound: a baby crying. He stopped. A baby? This he hadn’t expected. In that moment he realized he’d been lying to himself. She had a family, a husband, a craft, a beautiful place to call home. Why on earth had he come? He turned around and walked away.
*
Kate had finished engraving the loving cup with her simple message. She was glad that she could give a gift made with her own hands. Now she sat on a little bench outside the whitewashed cottage and closed her eyes, enjoying the spring sunshine, waiting for Martin. She heard a noise on the path and looked up. A man was walking away from her. He was in his shirtsleeve, his coat flung over one shoulder, his walk easy, his eyes on the path. The sight of the tall, slim figure made her heart leap. She stood and called out, ‘Johnny!’ She began walking, and then running, to catch him up. It was only on her second call, ‘Johnny, stop! Is it you?’, that he halted and turned around.
He looked so different from their last meeting. His face was tanned, relaxed; his body had lost its worrying thinness. ‘It is you! But why were you walking away?’
She was bewildered and delighted, her heart thumping; she took his hand, to stop him from retreating another step. He responded with an awkward handshake.
‘Johnny!’ She wrapped her arms around him. ‘Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you write?’ Tears were in her eyes as she let go and looked at him.
‘I’m sorry. I was ill and to be honest, I thought my time was up. I thought it was best to leave you to make a life for yourself without worrying about me. And Kate, you have!’
He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her the same old smile, full of charm and amusement.
‘But you weren’t going to stop and even say hello?’
He put his head to one side. ‘I knew you’d be married, I suppose, but I wasn’t counting on the baby. You’ve got all your future here… why would you want the past coming back to haunt you? I’m just glad to see you’ve made a good life for yourself, Kate. I’ll be going now.’
Kate grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the house. ‘You’re not going nowhere, Johnny Bacon. You come with me!’ She dragged him back to the cottage and he ducked as they entered through the low door. She led him through the small, sunlit sitting room into the kitchen, where a baby sat in a high chair. A woman feeding the child rusks in milk looked up at Kate and said, ‘Madam here’s leading me a dog’s life this morning, spitting it out all over the place!’ And then she saw Johnny. ‘Blimey, hello, stranger!’
Johnny gave her an awkward smile and Kate decided it was time to put him out of his misery. ‘You remember my friend Conny from Boutle’s? This is her baby, Kathy.’
Conny smiled adoringly at the little girl. ‘I named her after Kate – and she’s just as awkward, ain’t you?’ She pinched Kathy’s cheek and was rewarded with a rusky smile.
‘Oh, I see my mistake,’ Johnny said, blushing as Kate went to pick up her namesake.
‘Conny and Kathy both live with me now,’ Kate explained.
‘I’m her apprentice!’ Conny informed him with exaggerated pride. ‘Though I ain’t half as good as our Kate. Never will be.’
‘You’re getting better!’ Kate said, handing the baby back to her mother. ‘Put the kettle on, Conny, while I show Johnny the workshop.’
A door in the kitchen led to the wooden lean-to Kate used as her workshop. Johnny bent to avoid the tin lanterns, jugs and mugs Kate had hung from the rafters, ready for sale.
‘This is my bench.’ She smoothed her hand across it and was pleased to see he was impressed. ‘And here’s my latest piece…’ She handed him the loving cup.
‘It’s beautiful, Kate. Such fine detail on these handles! I’m so pleased you never gave it up.’
She took the cup and showed him the interior. ‘See, I’ve engraved it. It’s a wedding present for Martin.’
He looked bewildered. ‘You two aren’t married yet?’
She bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Read it!’ she ordered, and enjoyed seeing him understand.
‘“With my love and blessing, to Martin and Nora on your wedding”! It’s Martin and Nora that are getting married! Not you? He’s not marrying you? Why not? The idiot – though of course Nora is marvellous…’ He was spluttering and smiling.
‘Not me. No, Johnny. Once Nora was free, I knew. For Martin, it had always been Nora. I let him go, Johnny.’
‘He broke your heart!’ And she saw his eyes flash with a protective fire that reminded her of the old Johnny.
‘No. My heart wasn’t broken.’
‘So, he’s not living here, with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Actually he’s in a cottage up the lane. But he should be here soon. Let’s go and meet him.’
Outside the back door of the workshop was a garden, planted in the lee of the thorn brakes, and at the end was a gate, leading to a lane. As they began walking along the sun-splashed lane, she felt Johnny’s eyes on her. He eventually asked in disbelief, ‘I don’t understand. You’re still friends?’
‘Yes, Johnny. We’re still friends. I love him… but it’s a different sort of love to— Ah, here they are.’
Martin came first, with Nora walking beside him and then Paul. His gait was ungainly as he swung one twisted leg around the other; he was slow, but he was smiling broadly.
‘He can walk?’ Johnny asked in wonder.
She raised her hand in a wave. ‘Yes, he always could. He just needed the right care – proper exercise, good food to build up his muscles. It didn’t take us long to get him on his feet.’
It was Paul who spotted them first and he waved excitedly back, then tugged at Nora’s sleeve. A slow smile spread across Nora’s face and Kate saw relief mixed with her happiness. It seemed her friend had been hoping for this moment for a very long time.
*
Conny brought out some kitchen chairs and a blanket for the baby to crawl on and they sat in the early spring sunshine, Johnny telling how he’d undergone the pioneering treatment for tuberculosis in Switzerland. ‘I had to spend hours and hours lying in bed on a freezing mountainside. They used to park us in the
snow and leave us all day. They say if it doesn’t kill you it cures you!’ He was silent for a moment. ‘And when I heard about Ethel, that’s when I decided I needed to live if I was going to write this book…’
He’d brought a copy with him and he handed it to Kate. She opened it, reading the dedication aloud. ‘She would have been so proud of you, Johnny,’ she said softly.
‘We’re all proud of you, dear chap,’ Martin said. ‘And we’re all glad you decided to live…’
And Kate noticed the same look of relief as she’d seen on Nora’s face. Obviously neither of them had believed her when she’d promised her heart wasn’t broken. She’d been telling the truth, but what she’d never admitted, even to herself, was that her heart had been incomplete.
*
After they’d drunk too much tea and eaten too much cake and Paul had made the baby laugh till she was sick, Conny went to put Kathy down for a nap. Martin and Nora took Paul back to their own cottage, and when they were alone, Kate said, ‘Let me show you my cove.’
She led the way to a fork in the coast path, where some stairs had been cut into the cliff. They zigzagged down to a sandy cove and once there, Kate took off her shoes.
‘Yours too!’ she ordered and Johnny obeyed.
They walked through the yielding, fine sand, the only sound the calling of two gulls swooping above them and the regular crash of the surf. As they walked, Johnny asked her about her future. ‘So, when those two marry, will you move back to London? It’s beautiful here, but won’t it be a bit isolated if you’re on your own?’
‘I’ve got Conny and the baby, but no, we won’t be on our own. Martin and Nora are buying a house in the village; they’re going to make their home here. Paul’s thriving and Martin has produced so much since we came. It’s good for us all.’
Johnny nodded. ‘I can see that. You’ve never looked so happy – nor so beautiful.’
They reached the sea edge and Johnny took her hand. He traced the long white scar along her arm and said, ‘We’re a long way from home, Kate.’
‘Not so far, Johnny,’ she said, bending to pick up a bright object that had washed up on the tide. Handing him the old silver coin, she kissed him and he enfolded her in his arms. As they turned to face the horizon, it felt almost as if they were back on the riverbank, looking out at the Thames. But here, they couldn’t see the farther shore, just an endless possibility of sky and sea.
Acknowledgements
Bringing a book to publication is very much a team effort and I have been very fortunate to benefit from the advice and help of many publishing professionals: my brilliant agent, Anne Williams, my talented editor, Rosie de Courcy, my eagle-eyed copy-editor Liz Hatherell and all the dedicated team at Head of Zeus. A big thank you to all of them.
I am also very grateful to Julie Orchin, for sharing with me her vivid descriptions of life in Bermondsey during the first half of the twentieth century. I would like to acknowledge G. R. Clift and his evocative memoir My Life in Industry 1900 – 1954, about his time at T. F. Boutle & Company.
Many thanks for their continued support to my writing pals at Bexley Scribblers and to my wonderful family. Finally, to Josie Bartholomew, special thanks for making it all possible.
Author’s Note
The Bermondsey Bookshop was founded by Ethel Gutman in February 1921. It’s stated aim was: ‘To bring books and the love of books into Bermondsey.’ With evening opening hours, a sixpenny ‘instalment plan’ for buying books, and free lectures and classes – everything was designed to make the shop attractive and accessible to local working people. In this aim it succeeded, but in the process, it also drew students and literati from all over London, with the Sunday-night lectures attracting celebrity speakers such as John Galsworthy and Walter de la Mare.
In 1923 the bookshop began publishing its own literary quarterly, The Bermondsey Book, which quickly became international, gaining critical acclaim and launching the careers of well-known writers such as H. E. Bates as well as local Bermondsey writers. The publication welcomed ‘new voices’ from any class of society. Contributions from hitherto unpublished working-class writers sat alongside pieces by H. G. Wells, Virginia Woolf and Thornton Wilder.
After Ethel Gutman’s untimely death in 1925, the bookshop continued to be run in the spirit she had intended, by her husband Sidney Gutman, until its closure in 1930. The Bermondsey Bookshop made a lasting impact on many Bermondsey people, some of whom still remembered it with fondness fifty years later.
About the Author
Mary Gibson was born and brought up in Bermondsey, where both her grandmother and mother were factory girls. She is the author of the bestselling Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts, which was selected for World Book Night in 2015, and five other novels, Jam and Roses, Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys, Bourbon Creams and Tattered Dreams, Hattie’s Home and A Sister’s Struggle. She lives in Kent.
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