‘’Course yer should, don’t be daft. What’s the sense in mopin’? Our poor muvver—’ He suddenly faltered and Mabel took his hand. After a moment he continued, rather jerkily, ‘We’ll never know for sure ’ow much she knew, will we? Whether she fort it was cancer or . . . or the ovver. Ol’ Knowles did ’is best, but she might’ve twigged what ’e was finkin’, an’ she’d never ’ave bin able to live with that. When I fink o’ them last hours she went frough—’
Mabel took a handkerchief out of her pocket for him. ‘She’s done with trouble now, Albert dear. We mustn’t dwell on it.’
He patted her arm and swallowed. After a while he turned to another matter that had been on his mind. Harry Drover. ‘When ’e came rahnd the ovver night I tried to get George to come to the park, but yer wouldn’t let us go, so poor ol’ ’Arry was never on ’is own wiv yer. Why was that, Mabel? I ’ope ye’re not goin’ back on ’im ’cause of all this.’
She stopped in her tracks and faced him squarely. ‘For goodness’ sake, Albert, how could I possibly marry a man like Harry? Yer might as well ask why don’t I join the Salvation Army? Think about it, both me parents had that . . . that disease, an’ I had to be tested for it as well. An’ my mother took her own life, and my father—’
‘’Ad a nasty accident, yeah, not a pretty story, but no reason for yer to go orf poor ol’ ’Arry. It’d break ’is ’eart, Mabel, it really would. ’E worships the grahnd yer walk on.’
And how do you think I feel? What about my heart? thought Mabel silently. Aloud she said, ‘I’ve made up my mind, Albert, I shan’t marry anybody.’
‘Go on wiv yer, ye’ll change yer mind in anuvver year or two.’
‘No, I won’t. It’s a funny thing, I once vowed when I was a little girl that I’d never get married. I couldn’t understand why any woman ’ud want to.’
‘Not surprisin’, after what yer saw of our muvver’s lot.’
‘I remember when it was. I must’ve been about seven, ’cause Mum was nearly due to have Walter and it was near Christmas. Dad came home rollin’ drunk an’ singin’ his head off, and she was tryin’ to get him up the stairs. The noise woke me up, an’ I went to help her. When we’d got him on the bed, she asked me to hold the pot while he pee’d into it – talk about the Victoria Falls! – and there he stood singin’ “Lily of Laguna” at the top o’ his voice, and she cried ’cause I’d seen an’ heard it all. That’s when I said I’d never get married. I didn’t realise that there were men like . . . like Harry in the world.’
‘Pig. Swine. Bastard.’
‘Sh, Albert, he was yer father, an’ we’ve just come from buryin’ him. He wasn’t a bad man so much as a weak one. And he must’ve gone through hell at the end, when he knew what he’d got – an’ given to Mum. God help him, if ever a soul in torment looked out of a man’s eyes, I saw one then.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘It’s not for us to judge, Albert.’
Albert sighed deeply. ‘D’ye ever wonder where ’e came from, Mabel? The ol’ girl’s never talked abaht ’is farver, ’as she?’
‘Except to say he was a prince!’
‘Oh-ah, must’ve bin ol’ Edward the Seventh ’fore ’e was king, I dare say,’ said Albert with the ghost of a grin. ‘Touch o’ the tarbrush, more like!’
‘Albert! What a thing to say!’
‘Didn’t I ever tell yer they call me the Wog in the navy?’
‘Do they? You an’ Alice an’ Daisy all got his dark looks – specially you.’
‘As long as that’s all I got off ’im.’
They walked in silence for a while and then he returned to the subject of Harry. ‘Jus’ give yerself time to get over all this, Mabel, find a cushy little job wiv some ol’ girl wiv a bit o’ money an’ ye’ll change yer mind about marryin’, see if yer don’t.’
‘No, Albert. I shan’t marry Harry – or anybody.’ She spoke with sorrowful conviction and her face warned Albert not to press the matter.
She knew that even he could not comprehend the turmoil in her heart and mind when she thought how much she must hurt the man she loved – and herself – for his own future good. Harry could never be told the truth: that George had killed his father and that she had conspired to conceal that fact, giving false evidence in a coroner’s court. It was a burden she must carry all her life, like the shadow of syphilis that continued to haunt her. All she could hope for now was to pick up her dream of training to be a nurse and eventually to fulfil her lifelong hope of looking after children; but for the time being she felt utterly tired and dispirited, and soon she would be all alone in the world.
Events moved swiftly. Mabel persuaded Albert not to delay his return to sea any longer and so he took his leave of her two days after George moved into the home on Clapham High Street. Letters arrived from Belhampton asking her when she was coming to stay, but she wrote back delaying the visit, wanting to keep in touch with George and see him off on the day of his departure.
The brother and sister stood on Waterloo Station where a crowd of around forty boys were herded on to the platform awaiting the train to Southampton. Their ages ranged from about seven to sixteen, and all wore dark knickerbockers or trousers, with shirt collars turned back over their buttoned jackets and peaked caps. To Mabel they all looked alarmingly alike, and though there was excitement in the air, she saw some pale, scared little faces and most seemed to be without relatives. She desperately hoped and prayed that George would find friends among these boys whom nobody wanted.
All at once she caught sight of a tall, fair lad of about fourteen, square-jawed and blue-eyed. She had never seen him before and knew nothing about him, but something in his face attracted her, and on an impulse she marched up to him to introduce herself and George. ‘Hello – er, good mornin’. I see ye’re off to Canada with all these boys,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘This is my brother George Court who’s comin’ with yer.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ The lad looked George up and down. ‘Yeah, I seen ’im a couple o’ times in the ’ome. Only come last week, di’n’t ’e?’
‘Yes, well, he’s twelve and a half, and I . . . I’m asking if ye’d keep an eye on him if yer wouldn’t mind,’ faltered Mabel. ‘We’ve lost our parents this year and so he – that’s why he’s going to Canada with yer.’
The lad looked at her curiously for a moment. ‘Yer want me to guard ’im, eh?’
Mabel nodded.
‘Right.’ He straightened himself up to full height. ‘Davy ‘Ook at yer service, gettin’ chucked aht o’ Barnardo’s at last. It was eiver Canada or prison, so they tossed a shillin’ an’ it came dahn ’eads.’ He raised his eyebrows in a question.
Mabel responded at once. ‘I’m not askin’ why ye’re here, Davy, I just want yer to look after me brother. Soon as I saw yer face, I knew I could trust yer.’
He looked hard at her, then his face lit up in a broad grin. He gave a thumbs-up sign. ‘It’s as good as done, miss. Anybody lay a finger on ’im an’ they’ll rue the day. Wotcher, George! Get in along o’ me an’ ye’ll be all right.’
Mabel felt that she had passed some kind of test and smiled back at the boy. ‘Thank yer, that’s really good o’ yer, er, Davy. George, yer heard what he said – stay with him, won’t yer?’
George nodded and Davy gave him a wink. ‘Don’t ’ang abaht, miss, kiss yer bruvver goodbye an’ ’op it,’ he advised. ‘George, yer stay close to me, savvy?’
Of course she could not leave until she’d seen George on to the train and somehow she managed to keep smiling as it drew out, taking her brother away for – how long? Heaven only knew. For years, perhaps for life.
‘Goodbye, George! God bless yer – oh, Georgie—’
He was gone and only then could Mabel give way to the tears she had held in check until now; they poured down her cheeks as she left the station, praying that Davy Hook would be as good as his word, whether or not he was the young criminal he made himself out to be.
That was the moment when she saw a
familiar figure hurrying towards her and in spite of all her resolutions her heart leapt for joy, followed at once by the anguish of knowing she must not give way to weakness. This must be another final goodbye.
Yet his dear face was here before her and she heard the sound of his voice reproaching her. ‘Mabel! Oh, Mabel, I got here as fast as I could, but – has he – have they gone?’
She turned away, walking quickly. He tried to keep up with her, but she did not stop. ‘I never told yer it was today,’ she muttered.
‘No, but I asked at the boys’ home, an’ they said – Mabel, why didn’t yer let me know? I’d’ve been here for yer, my dearest girl. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to ’im, nor give ’im the present I got – oh, Mabel, why won’t yer let me help yer? Why’ve yer changed? Is it somethin’ I’ve done? Only tell me, Mabel—’
She quickened her pace. ‘We can’t meet any more, Harry. I can’t ever join the Army. I’m not . . . not the girl I was any more, not the girl yer think yer know – knew. Leave me, Harry, just let me go.’
‘But Mabel, why? How can yer be so cruel?’ He put a hand out to touch her, but she shrank away.
‘Let me go, I said – let me go!’ And knowing only that she must tear herself away, Mabel broke into a run, her skirt flying up around her legs, her hat askew, held on by a couple of pins. He started to pursue her, and bystanders watched in astonishment as she tripped and fell headlong. Just as he reached her she scrambled to her feet without his aid and went on running, gasping and sobbing as she ran, until he gave up the chase for the sake of propriety and followed at a distance, never taking his eyes from her.
Where could she go? Not to 12 Sorrel Street, empty and silent, and besides, he would follow and find her there. No, there was only one place left to her now. A place where she had been offered bed and board, and a chance to learn the art of midwifery while earning a pound a week.
Curious passers-by saw the wild-eyed girl jump on the electric tram that went down from Westminster to Tooting.
Chapter Fourteen
WHEN MABEL ARRIVED on the doorstep of 23 Macaulay Road, hatless and half fainting, her grandmother asked no questions but summoned Elsie to help get the girl upstairs to a small bedroom where she drew the curtains and assisted Mabel to undress. A nightgown was found and Mabel was put to bed. Mimi herself brought in a tray of tea and poured out cups for them both, adding a generous top-up of brandy and a spoonful of sugar to Mabel’s. ‘Ye’ll stay there till tomorrow mornin’,’ she said, eyeing Mabel with a keen professional air. ‘Yer look terrible, girl, worn out an’ thin as a rake. Come on, drink up, it’ll help yer to settle. Yer did well to come here, anyway.’
Mabel finished the tea and lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes. Two tears spilled from under her swollen lids. The brandy began to blur the edges of her consciousness and a great weariness spread over her body.
She heard water being poured from a pitcher into a bowl and felt a warm, wet facecloth being applied to her face and neck, with a fragrance of carnation-scented soap; her hands were washed and dried on a soft towel, and a comb was run through her unpinned hair.
‘That’ll do for now – yer can have a proper wash later. Go to sleep. The chamber pot’s under the bed if yer need it.’
A summer breeze stirred the curtains and Mabel gave a long sigh as she drifted into sleep. She had completely forgotten that tomorrow would be Ada’s wedding day.
Her granddaughter’s precipitate arrival was by no means unwelcome to Mimi Court. She too had been feeling the desolation of bereavement, the loss of her son in such a shameful way, though she was not entirely convinced by the coroner’s verdict. Incapable of truly unselfish affection, she nevertheless felt bereft of the family she had liked to rule; the money and possessions she had acquired over the years could no longer be used to bestow or withhold favours and the future looked bleak. Albert’s bitter hostility had cut her deeply, in spite of her scorn of him: what a disappointment he had been! And the departure to Belhampton of Alice and Daisy with their newly found aunts had been an even more devastating rejection; she had assumed that Mabel – and presumably George – would follow them after the inquest, while for herself the threat of a lonely old age loomed.
And yet here was Mabel in a desperate state, clearly at the end of her tether, come to throw herself on Mimi’s mercy, in spite of all the harsh things that had been said outside the coroner’s court. Mabel had come here, rather than to Belhampton.
Yes. Mimi allowed herself a slow smile of satisfaction. This was one in the eye for those Chalcotts! Mabel would rest and revive in her care; she would be patient with her, biding her time until the girl was ready to talk. All at once the future appeared decidedly less bleak.
Over that weekend Mabel stayed in her room, waited on by her grandmother and Elsie. On the Sunday afternoon she put on a dressing gown and went downstairs to the parlour where over tea and seed-cake Miss Lawton timidly enquired if she felt better.
When that lady had gone to Evensong at St Nicholas’s church, Mimi sat down in her place. ‘Ye’re lookin’ better, apart from the circles under yer eyes,’ she said. ‘Have yer got any thoughts about Sorrel Street? Stuff yer want fetched from there? I shan’t be payin’ any more rent and the landlord’ll want to let it to somebody else.’
‘Yes – oh, yes, I’ve brought nothing except what I stood up in,’ Mabel said helplessly.
‘No matter, no matter, them clothes are threadbare anyway. We’ll soon get yer some new things. I was thinkin’ more about books an’ stuff, yer little bits an’ pieces. When yer feel like it we could go over there an’ have a look. The furniture isn’t up to much and might as well be sold to a dealer for what we can get.’
In fact, it was decided to let the neighbours in to take their pick of the furnishings, curtains, carpets and Jack’s and Annie’s clothes. Mimi turned her nose up at everything she saw, but Mabel retrieved her mother’s Bible and prayer book, also a pathetic handful of cheap trinkets in a drawer, brooches that Jack and Albert had given her, a necklace of china beads that had been a present from Mabel and a few treasured birthday cards. Alice and Daisy had taken their favourite books, but Mabel reclaimed Elizabeth Wetherell’s The Wide, Wide World and Charlotte Yonge’s The Daisy Chain. On the doormat lay a couple of handbills and an envelope addressed to her in Harry Drover’s handwriting; she quickly stuffed it into her pocket. It made her think of other letters that might arrive, particularly from Canada, and she asked Mimi to let her call at the main post office on Lavender Hill to request that letters be redirected to Macaulay Road. She had already written a brief note to Aunt Nell to say she was staying with her grandmother and giving her new address. ‘It’s most important that yer send on anything from Canada,’ she told the postmaster anxiously and he promised it would be done.
Mimi had listened intently when Mabel told her about George’s hasty departure to Canada with the Barnardo boys. She asked only one question. ‘Yer say this Dr Knowles – the one who spoke at the inquest – yer say he arranged it?’
‘Yes, he’s always been our family doctor and he saw that George’s nerves were in a shockin’ state, so he spoke with Mr Maillard and got it all fixed up. George wanted to go, he needed to get right away – and there was this older boy, Davy Hook, on Waterloo Station. I asked him to look after poor Georgie, an’ . . . an’ . . . oh, it was terrible!’ Mabel gave way to tears again at the memory of her last sight of her brother, and Mimi sat silently waiting for her to compose herself.
‘And what about Mr Drover?’ she asked at length. ‘What’s he say about all this?’
Mabel turned her face away. ‘I’m not seein’ Mr Drover any more, Grandmother,’ she replied in a deliberately hard voice. ‘I can’t ever join the Salvation Army now and it means so much to him – it’s his life. We’ve got to forget each other.’
‘Hm. So that’s the way of it, I thought as much. Well, Mabel, I reckon ye’ve made the right decision. I never saw a future for yer there. Now list
en to me. My offer still stands. Yer can help out with local confinements and learn midwifery from me. Not a bad class o’ woman in Tooting. I don’t take on the low sort, they book with that old gossip Taylor in Fishponds Road. But for the next couple o’ weeks yer can rest and feed yerself up. Yer won’t be sorry yer came here.’
‘Thank yer, Grandmother.’ Mabel tried to sound appreciative, but she was drained of energy and enthusiasm, and felt that her dreams had all collapsed around her. Her sisters were being well cared for at Belhampton and Albert seemed happy enough in the merchant service, but she was haunted by the thought of George somewhere out on the Atlantic and the words of Harry’s impassioned letter were written on her brain:
Dearest Mabel,
Whatever your feelings to me may be changed yet you must know that your in my thoughts every day. I pray that you be happy again and in the Lord’s care.
I believe that your suffering is because of the grate shock of your parents deaths and then to say goodby to poor George going so far away. I trust it was the right thing to do but it seems so hard when he has a kind Aunt to go to in the country and him so young only twelve.
Mabel I will not trouble you in your grief but I beg you to send me word of how you are. You must know that I will wait for as long as my love for you which is for the rest of my life until you feel better and able to see me again. I prommise not to follow you or trouble you but I pray for your Salvation and the Peace which passeth all understanding.
In September I shall start my training to be an officer in the Army. It is at Clapton, but you can write to meet at 8 Falcon Terrace at any time.
From your Friend as always,
Harry W. Drover
Mabel had intended to throw the letter on the range fire, but could not bear to part with such a declaration of love. She thought of putting it in her mother’s Bible, but in the end she hid it under the clothes in the bottom drawer of the little chest in her room at number 23. In time she trusted that he would forget her and find another girl to share his life . . .
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