by Maggie Ford
As she passed, their chanting paused while they gawped at the fine-dressed lady with her fine hat, until their attention became distracted by an upper window across the road opening and a wooden box aimed down into the narrow street. It landed on the cobbles at Emma’s feet with an almighty crash that made her leap aside in a most unladylike fashion.
‘Don’t worrit, me lidy,’ quipped one young wag, his mind on gathering up the splintered box. ‘It wouldn’t of ’it yer and spoilt yer nice cloves.’
Half smiling she moved on, heard behind her the sounds of, ‘la-de-da!’ and ‘what me eye!’ and guessed that they were mimicking her progress with exaggerated steps and swaying shoulders.
There’d been a time when she’d have done the same, half admiring, half envious, she in her old skirt, blouse and jacket, her boots and her straw boater with its frayed ribbon.
Elsewhere could be heard other, fainter chants: ‘Guy! Guy! Guy! Stick ’im up on ’igh! Gunpowder, treason an’ plot!’ Again Emma smiled.
Reaching where Mum lived, she pushed open the main door, still as warped and ill-fitting as ever. She started up the stairs, already aware of Mrs Lovell peeping out to watch her progress. If this area could afford burglars, none would have ever been able to slip by Mrs Lovell. Emma could feel her eyes on her through the barely open crack of the door, but couldn’t escape the overpowering odour of squalor that wafted through it as well as she hurried on up the stained and echoing stairs.
Chapter Twenty
As ever, her mother stood for a moment staring at her as though looking at an apparition or someone she didn’t recognise, then she gave the welcome Emma had come to expect.
‘Oh, it’s you. Well, yer best come in then.’
Once inside, stiff formality took over. ‘Yer’d best sit down, d’yer want a cuppa tea?’
It couldn’t have been more grudgingly said had she prefixed it with the words, ‘I suppose you want.’
No continuing conversation presenting itself, Emma sat and watched in silence the two spoons of tea being ladled into a pot to be filled from the kettle simmering on the trivet in front of the fire – a fire now bright and cheery where once it would have been parsimoniously fed one grudgingly spared piece of coal or bit of wood at a time as it threatened to die.
The money she sent Mum was helping to make life more comfortable, the decent fire, a new blouse and skirt by the look of it, maybe still off a cheap market stall but certainly an improvement to second-hand bits scrounged from a woman on some corner also hardly able to keep her head above water. When Dad had been alive, Mum had always dressed decently. It had been heartbreaking to witness and share in that downhill trend after losing him. All different now: Mum was looking a treat.
The cup filled and sweetened with condensed milk was no longer a chipped one. Emma sipped it, gratified to know her money was achieving something at least.
‘How are you, Mum?’ she asked.
‘All right.’
The reply was brief. Her mother came and sat opposite her at the table, lifting her own cup to her lips, leaving Emma to rack her brains for something else to say. There was no common ground any more on which to base conversation. To even mention her life would be to provoke the usual disapproving reaction from her. This visit was as always a duty, nothing more. She was almost relieved to see the door open and Ben slouch in.
Emma had never seen him look so presentable, if that was the word, the ragged jacket, shapeless trousers tied at the knee, the frayed cap and greasy rag neckerchief, gone, in their place a loud and flashy check jacket, trousers, waistcoat, and though he still wore a choker it was new.
He took off the brown bowler and tossed it on to the sofa where he no doubt still slept, but his eyes were on Emma.
‘So what you doin’ ’ere? Come ter give us anuvver little ’and-out?’
His big frame followed the bowler to lounge back on the sofa’s two cushions, new, Emma noted, another bit of luxury that her hand-outs as he called it had provided.
‘All togged up, I see,’ he commented from the sofa. ‘Look as if yer doin’ well fer yerself.’
Emma forced her lips into a smile. ‘You don’t look so poor yourself.’ In truth he looked as if he’d been drinking, which wasn’t impossible for him. ‘Are you working?’
‘Huh!’ he said. She knew by that response that he wasn’t.
‘When did you last have a job?’ It was more challenge than question, but if he were living off what she was sending Mum, and that suit, as cheap as it looked, could be proof enough, she’d have something to say.
Ben shrugged, grinned and lounged even further back, giving her a look that said what’s it to do with you? But his reply was unruffled. There was even a tinge of pride in it.
‘I makes me way, one way or anuvver, usually anuvver.’
Mum was looking uneasy. ‘So what do you do?’ Emma persisted.
‘All sorts of fings.’ The grin became cunning, broadening to spread across his face, a face that as he approached twenty-one was becoming more heavy, more solid, the hazel eyes in the handsome features full of egotism and self-assured belligerence. There was a lump over one eyebrow with a small half-healed cut at its centre. From boxing or some street fight, she wasn’t prepared to guess.
‘What sort of things?’ Emma asked.
He gave another self-opinionated shrug. ‘Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Spot of boxin’, as yer can see.’ He touched the lump over his eye with a casual finger. ‘Bit of gambling.’
‘And you make money?’
‘What’s the point if yer don’t?’ he countered.
Mum reached out and lifted the teapot to replenish her cup, spooning in condensed milk and stirring energetically.
‘So yer do all right for yerself?’ Emma concluded.
‘Not bad.’ The easy expression clouded over, the eyes grew shrewd. ‘Anyway, what’s it got ter do with you? What’s all the questions for?’
‘Just interested.’
‘Well, don’t! What I do’s me own business.’ He scowled. ‘You ain’t got much ter brag about, in yer fancy clothes and yer bloody big expensive ’at.’ She was still wearing the hat, the long pins keeping it in place being hard to reinsert.
‘And yer wearing powder on yer face,’ he went on. ‘Yer smell like some of the women I know.’ That was obviously not meant as a compliment. ‘I take it yer still with that fancy bloke yer went orf with. Done orright fer yerself there, ain’t yer?’
It was hard not to retaliate. She tried to bury her feelings in her cup, sipping the last dregs furiously, but it wasn’t working. ‘At least my income is above board. I’m not crooked!’
Ben came upright, glaring at her. ‘You saying I am?’
She was ready for him, slowly taking in what he was wearing. ‘In that clobber? Unless you’ve been helping yourself to what I send Mum, and I sent it for her, not you, and you say you ain’t working, then yer must be making yer money somewhere else.’ Her refined accent had fled. ‘Them kind of clothes on a bloke like you don’t come from honest work. You ain’t that good a boxer – still the old sideshow booths, still gambling for a few bob on street corners. I reckon clothes like that come more from a bit of tealeafing, a bit of breaking and entering.’
Ben shot to his feet. So did Mum, getting herself between him and Emma, who still sat holding her empty teacup. Her eyes were on Emma. ‘Look, if you’ve just come ’ere ter start a row, then yer’d better go.’
Emma stared up at her in disbelief. ‘I came ter see you, to find out if you were all right, see if you’ve got enough money.’
‘Well, yer’ve seen!’ came the reply. ‘And I can do without yer ill-gotten money.’
‘It ain’t ill-gotten enough for yer to ’ave bought all this.’ She thumped the cup down on the table, taking her temper out on it, and stood up, one arm gesturing to embrace the room with all the new things being accrued on her money. Her face close to her mother’s, she added. ‘I don’t see you throwing all this back in
me face, the extra coal on the fire, the better food you’re eating, that new blouse. And I bet Ben does all right out of …’
She broke off to step back as her mother moved sharply towards her. ‘Is that me thanks, Mum, you ready to lash out?’
Her mother drew herself up, controlling her fury but not her indignation. ‘I think you’d better go, Em.’
‘I think I’d better. But what I send you is earned honestly. And don’t forget that, Mum. No matter what you think, I work for my money.’ She cast a pointed glance at Ben, who smirked.
‘Prostitutes say the same thing,’ he said calmly. ‘Call it work!’
Emma swung round on him. ‘Keep your dirty mouth to yerself.’ The way she looked at him made him frown suddenly.
‘He don’t make yer, does ’e? If this geezer’s livin’ off yer, I’ll kill ’im, an’ it don’t matter ’ow famous ’e is, he ain’t using my sister.’
He shrugged his mother away as she made to stop him going on any more. ‘Don’t tell me yer money’s all comin’ from workin’ on the stage.’
Emma drew herself up, refusing to lower herself to deny what he was surmising or even throw his show of sudden protectiveness back in his face and say she didn’t need his protection.
‘I think I’d better go,’ she said slowly.
She was surprised by Mum saying, ‘No, don’t go, Emma.’
She saw her turn on Ben, ‘Now see what yer’ve done?’
Turning back to Emma, she repeated her plea. ‘Stay a bit longer, Em, please. Ben’s a silly sod, that’s what he is!’
Emma hesitated. A cruel little voice inside her head was saying that Mum’s fear was that were she to go, there’d be no more money forthcoming. As if she’d see Mum return to the terrible conditions she’d once had to battle with.
‘I won’t stop sending you money, Mum,’ she said, and it wasn’t a knock at her, she meant it. ‘But I must get back. We’re at the Oxford this evening and I must get ready. Theodore will be waiting for me.’ Her carefully nurtured accents had returned on mentioning Theo’s name. ‘He’ll be furious if I’m late. We can’t let the show …’
The look on her mother’s face, alarmed – a mother shielding her chick – made her break off. ‘He wouldn’t hit yer, would ’e?’
Emma wanted to laugh except that the look stopped her. ‘He wouldn’t dare!’ she said, but there was no way to explain that a single look from him could be as hard to deal with as any blow. Over the months she’d discovered that Theo possessed the power to diminish a person with a single glance.
At the door she turned to look at Ben to see him glowering into space, muttering, ‘I’ll kill ’im, the bleeder!’ being directed at what he imagined this bloke of hers might be making her do. She smirked. Ben was all bombast.
‘I’ll always see you all right for money, Mum, no matter what,’ she repeated as she stepped out on to the landing. One thing she wouldn’t do was to come here too often. It caused too many upsets.
‘Don’t make yerself short, luv,’ Mum said anxiously.
This time she did laugh, mostly at this rapid change of heart but to Mum it probably sounded friendly. There was relief on Mum’s face that the argument they’d had was now patched up. It would not even have begun at all if Ben hadn’t come in.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ she said easily, ‘I can afford it.’
Mum had no idea how much Theo gave her. His fame going ahead of him, gone was the time of running from one hall to another, and he was now guaranteed at least ninety pounds a week for an exclusive appearance at one hall, even a hundred, demonstrating how popular was his act; and she was part of it.
Each week he handed her twenty pounds. Some would say she was worth more, and perhaps she was. But Theo bought all her clothes for her, her stage make-up, paid for her hair to be professionally styled, and paid all the hotel bills as well as taking her out to lunches, dinners and suppers. Simmons had to have his ten per cent, and there were other bills too. She was happy enough with her twenty pounds, with the opportunity of even putting some of it into savings – for that rainy day, she told herself.
She was well aware that, faced with unexpected wealth, most poor people would spend it like a starving man devouring a feast, or save it in fear of such a fortune coming to a sudden end. Emma was the saving kind. She knew too well how easily money slips through careless fingers, and once having had it, the lack of it would be all the worse.
She hoped she wasn’t a selfish saver and there was one thing she would always make certain of: Mum would never go short of cash again. And if all this good fortune did come to an end, then a bit of savings would be there for lean times; God forbid they should ever come again. Emma could bet her life that Mum would also save. She’d always been like that – if she had sixpence she would try to put a penny of it aside. Emma only hoped she was keeping what she had now well hidden from Ben’s prying eyes.
As Emma passed the downstairs door, it was opened and Mrs Lovell appeared in a man’s flat cap, prepared now to chat, to probe, no doubt.
‘It’s young Emma Beech, ain’t it? My, yer look swell. I ’ardly recognise yer. In a bit of an ’urry, are yer, then?’
Emma wanted to move on but politeness forced her to pause. ‘I am, in fact. Hope you’re well, Mrs Lovell.’
A grin revealed the missing front tooth. ‘Oh, I’m fine. Got meself a man, I ’ave. As yer can see.’
Obviously she’d come to her door eager to convey the news. Emma could see a big, burly, unshaven individual standing behind her. Scruffily dressed, his grubby brown waistcoat undone to reveal a sweaty, striped, collarless shirt, he removed a tobacco-stained, hand-rolled cigarette from his lips and grinned. Having made her acquaintance he lifted a chipped pint glass by its handle and took a swig of the beer, leaving a frothy rime on his heavy, yellow-tinged moustache, and replaced the cigarette.
‘This is ’Erbert,’ Mrs Lovell went on. ‘Looks after me a treat, ’e do. Next month I’ll be Mrs ’Erbert Arfer Skipman.’
Her little boy had come to cling to the sackcloth covering his mother’s skirt. Thumb in mouth, the grooves below his nose revealed twin smears of mucus while the remains of whatever he’d been eating clung to the corners of his lips. Emma hastily removed her glance.
‘Congratulations,’ she managed, looking to escape, but the woman had more to say.
‘This one’ll ’ave a dad at last.’ She looked down at her offspring, patting the grubby cheek. ‘Gawd knows where his own dad went. Me ready ter marry ’im an’ orf ’e goes, never seen again and me wiv this one just born. But we’re lookin’ forward ter termorrer. Guy Fawkes Night, y’know. This one can’t remember last year’s one.’
She gave the child another pat on the cheek and the boy snuggled close with his face, leaving a trail of mucus on the sackcloth. ‘My ’Erbert’s got us a big bag of squibs an’ bangers an’ coloured ones,’ she went on. ‘More fireworks than we’ve ever seen. They’re in a box on the floor, all ready ter let orf. This one,’ again she patted her boy, ‘keeps playin’ wiv ’em. Wait till ’e sees what they can do.’
‘Very nice, but I must be away,’ said Emma, wondering how someone as unsavoury as Mrs Lovell with her awful little child could persuade any man to marry her. But one look at Herbert Arthur Skipman was enough to see an example of like attracting like.
Time was getting on. Glad to be in relatively open air, Emma turned her face towards Commercial Road, starting to walk briskly, her skirt swaying about her ankles with each step. There would be a motor cab in Commercial Road.
She had hardly gone a dozen yards when what sounded like a muffled, deep-throated thump, followed by a woman’s shriek, made her turn. The next second came a series of equally muffled cracks and bangs, growing suddenly sharper as Mrs Lovell burst out of her street door, screaming for help.
Emma ran back to her. ‘What is it?’
‘Me baby! Me baby! The fireworks caught fire!’
Before Emma could stop her, she had run ba
ck inside. Following her, Emma could see low flames licking almost lazily across part of the room’s floor, years of cooking grease absorbed by floorboards having ignited. The man was frantically pounding at them with a piece of towel, causing more draught to feed them. He would soon be fighting a losing battle.
Emma could just see a now blazing box of fireworks by the fireplace. A piece of wood must have tumbled from the fire grate and into the box. Even as she looked, the flames were being fanned by the man’s efforts into an inferno. In a panic, Emma moved back. But Mrs Lovell, for all her bulk, seemed to take wings, flying past her and into the flames, screaming for her baby, dimly seen through the now coiling, black and oily smoke, standing in the far corner.
The man was cursing – high-pitched words of terror and anger. ‘Come out, yer silly cow! Yer can’t get to ’im, yer silly bitch! Come away!’
The fire was already running up the table’s greasy legs and across its greasy surface. Skipman was backing out before the heat. Emma couldn’t see Mrs Lovell for flames and smoke, but she could hear her choking and shrieking, ‘Me baby!’ from the far corner.
Once Emma caught a glimpse of her, the boy in her arms, before the rolling, black smoke enveloped them again. She could hear them coughing, could see flickering tongues of orange within the pall of smoke, the terrified woman with her child now completely hidden from view.
