by Maggie Ford
‘Right, we’ll put it on the market straight away, Mrs Hutton. I have no doubts that it’ll be snapped up the moment it goes on. Give us a week or two to finalise things. Meantime, have you a property in mind you want to buy? We can—’
‘No.’ Brenda stood up sharply. ‘I’m well settled at the moment, thank you.’
The man looked just a little disappointed but produced his bright smile as he too stood up to shake hands with her. ‘Leave it with us, then,’ he said as he showed her to the door.
She’d done it, at long last. There could be no changing her mind, taking it off the market again – no going back now.
‘I’m sorry, John,’ came the words in her heart. ‘I had to.’
Was he smiling at her? A thought crossed her mind. Had his gift of the house been given out of love or had it been more a curse, paying her out for turning him down as she had after all they’d been to each other. Perhaps he had foreseen that it would bring conflict between her and his rival. But John had never been like that. He’d been gentle, generous, kind. It was her own lies that had cursed this place. That was over now. There’d be no need to lie ever again.
Once the money was gone, she would rest easy, and hopefully so would John Stebbings’ ghost.
Now she must look to the future. Harry was gone too. She would never go back to him to have him throw everything in her face for the rest of her life.
With Mum getting Addie from school, Brenda made her way to her salon. She didn’t relish going there, fearing to bump into Harry, though he’d no doubt be at work. For a moment she wondered how he was feeling, then swept it from her mind. Perhaps when the money came through, she’d close the salon and find another further away. Would he leave the flat, no doubt go to stay with his parents where he could cry on his mother’s bosom and tell her how cruelly his wife had treated him? A sardonic smile touched Brenda’s lips. That would give his mother pleasure. It would go round the family like wildfire; his sisters would relish tearing her to pieces. Would Daphne be sympathetic? They had become good friends, but now she didn’t really care. That part of her life was over. All she wanted to do now was look ahead. Yet the thought of Harry belonging to the past and not the future induced a heavy sensation in her heart, a feeling she brushed angrily aside as she reached the salon.
The place was already busy. The staff had a key and all of them knew what to do. Instead of going in immediately, Brenda turned into the backyard and went up the iron staircase. She needed to get a few more things and the best time to do it was while Harry wasn’t there. She would only take necessities, Addie’s toys, and a few more of her belongings. He was welcome to whatever else she left behind, she didn’t want any of it.
Letting herself in by the kitchen door, she was relieved that the place was quiet. There was a letter on the mat just inside the door. Picking it up she saw it was addressed to her. It bore a United States stamp. She’d read it back at Mum’s.
Pocketing it, Brenda made for the bedroom, pulled down a somewhat battered suitcase and began packing it with what was left of Addie’s clothes, a few favourite toys going into carrier bags from the kitchen. She could buy Addie all the toys she wanted from now on. The next thing would be to find a place to live, a nice place, something she could be proud of, call her own. But without Harry . . .?
To combat a second wave of depression, Brenda sat on the double bed they used to share and opened Vera’s letter, imagining the joy on Vera’s face when she turned up in the not-too-distant future with the means for Vera and Hank to acquire a house of their own.
The letter, as always, was filled with what she and her husband were doing: news of his job, bits about his family, how hot and overpowering the weather had been this summer. Her scrawl was hard to decipher. Then came a passage that caught Brenda’s eye, making her read it twice over.
I’m having another baby, Bren, and Henry had a promotion a month or two back so we’ve been able to save well and we’ve gotten a place of our own, not too far away from his people, so we’ll see quite a bit of them. We’re painting and decorating at the moment and there’s lots of room for the larger family. Oh, Bren, I’m so happy.
There was not much else in the letter. Brenda folded it slowly. So her scheme of getting Vera her own home would not be needed. Still, she could go over and see her, perhaps at Christmas. She could take Mum and Dad with her. She could afford to live the high life well enough. Why was it that the prospect stirred her not at all?
Brenda put the letter in her pocket, stood up and looked round the room. She could see nothing she wanted as a keepsake, or could she? She reached out for a small ornament Harry had bought her at Hampstead Heath. It had been at Whitsun 1938 – another world, yet at this moment, holding the cheap little trinket, so near. No, she wouldn’t take it. Better to cut and run.
She was putting it back on the windowsill when she heard the door to the kitchen open. Maybe one of the staff had seen her come up and needed advice or help.
‘Who’s there?’
The voice that answered her was masculine, alarmed. ‘Who’s that?’
For a moment Brenda hesitated. But she would have to emerge from the bedroom at some time. Gathering her dignity together, she walked out to the kitchen where Harry was standing stock-still.
Seeing her his first words hit her like a bullet. ‘What’re you doin’ ’ere?’
Brenda felt her lips thin. ‘I have every right to be here. It is still my home.’
She expected the retort, ‘Not for much longer.’ Instead, he looked at her for a moment longer then without speaking brushed past her, going into the living room.
Brenda followed at a pace to find him sitting on the sofa and gazing down at the carpet. Out of the blue she experienced the faintest touch of sympathy, already expecting to hear him plead with her to come back.
‘I’ve lost me bleedin’ job,’ he said instead.
Sympathy turned to irritation. How dare he act as though they hadn’t split up at all? She said nothing. If he had cared to glance up he’d have seen the cold look of indifference creep over her face, but he merely continued talking as if to the carpet.
‘Had a run in with me guv’nor again. Told ’im ter stick his bloody job up ’is arse, and when he said right-o, he would, I picked up me tools and walked out. So now I’m out of work.’
Brenda found her voice, startled by how icy it sounded, especially as there had been none of the usual belligerence in his tone. ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’
‘Nuffink,’ he replied, almost meekly. ‘Ain’t your worry no more. Just thought I’d tell yer, that’s all. I expect I’ll find somethink.’
She couldn’t help herself. ‘And make another doormat of yourself for some other jumped-up employer? With your own business you’d never have to kowtow to anyone ever again.’
To her surprise he did not leap down her throat but merely shrugged, encouraging a feeling of power inside her.
‘I’ve put the house on the market, you know,’ she informed him in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘The estate agent says it could definitely be snapped up inside a week of the board going up. I’m putting the money in the bank. If you and me do part company, then I’ll vacate the salon and set up somewhere else away from here, buy a place for me and Addie, and what’s left can be put away for a rainy day.’
Still he remained silent, merely sitting staring again at the carpet. It was strange having the upper hand for once, not meeting opposition to every one of her suggestions.
Gaining strength with every word was a wonderful feeling. She was calling the tune. There came a strong sense of independence, dominance even. It surprised her. She’d always argued, protested fiercely, but this felt different. She could go it alone if necessary, could do without him. She didn’t need him.
Yet in the midst of these thoughts came sudden doubt. Did she really want to spend her life coming home to an empty house, bringing up Addie alone? She might remarry. But better the devil you know .
. . came a voice.
‘Or you could . . .’ Brenda hesitated, swallowed hard. One final attempt. If he didn’t respond to this, she was finished with him. Even as the words formed themselves she knew she was burning her bridges.
‘Or you could put it into that garage business you’ve always wanted and be your own boss. It’s your choice, Harry. It’s not my money, it’s ours, so don’t throw it back in my face ever again!’
Her own strength continued to amaze her. ‘That money we could both use, and if you want to make use of it then take charge of it neither of us will mention where it came from ever again, right? Otherwise I’m leaving – no arguments, I’ll just leave.’
She was speaking as though they had already agreed to get together again, but nothing had been said. She stopped short.
‘That’s if we’re going to stay married,’ she began hurriedly. She was surprised to see a half-nod from him, but managed to hold herself together despite sudden elation and relief. She still couldn’t be sure if that had been a sign of agreement or not. She needed to keep talking to allay the threat of caving in to some kind of compromise. She needed to win this one or else go her own way. Whatever way it went, she mustn’t be the one to break down. After all, this was all his fault – him and his silly pride!
‘It’s something to start off with,’ she hurried on, giving him no chance to have his say, if in fact he had been about to. ‘You’re a good motor mechanic, Harry, and it’ll be your skill and your business sense that’ll make it grow. You could go a long way. We could go a long way. But it’s up to you. If you’d sooner we part company, then . . .’ She broke off, unable to explore that possibility. All she could do was to repeat, ‘It’s up to you – your decision.’
She waited, her heart pounding in her throat. Laying herself wide open with her ultimatum, that was what she was doing. No going back now.
He looked up. ‘And what about this ’airdressin’ lark of yours?’
Couldn’t she have bet her last penny he’d ask that? She stood her ground. If this was to be the deciding factor, that she give up her hairdressing, bow to his dictates, she would walk out right now and never come back.
‘I’ll go on with it,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s something I love. Maybe one day I’ll get fed up with it. Or maybe you’ll earn so much money I’d feel it’s not worth me worrying about. Or maybe I’ll have another baby to keep Addie company, and all my time’ll be taken up with that.’
Where had that notion come from? She almost startled herself. She saw his eyes light up at the mention of enlarging their family, and realised suddenly that she would like that too. Even so, she had to be firm.
‘It’s up to you, Harry. There’ll be no humble pie to be eaten by either of us. Not ever. Your choice.’
Harry got up and moved to the window to stand staring out.
Brenda waited, already preparing herself to gather up what she had come to collect and go.
‘I could take on a decent bloke to ’elp,’ he said from out of the blue. ‘If I did expand – did get bigger – I’d need ter employ someone.’
It took a moment or two for her to absorb what he had said. With those few words he’d spoken volumes: of their marriage continuing, of his acceptance of her offer, of his capitulation to her terms regarding her own business. So much.
She didn’t rush into his arms as he turned round to face her. She merely stood there looking at him, relief and tenderness showing on her face. The time for embraces would come later, as would the baby they would produce.
This was what she had wanted – not to triumph over him but to share a simple, uncomplicated married life with him, the two of them pulling together rather than against each other all the time. It had taken all this while since his demob from the forces to get it correct. Maybe there had been faults on both sides, she wasn’t sure. But the knowledge that she had won brought no sense of triumph. Yes, she had won, but he must never be allowed to realise that. Not ever.
‘Yes, you could,’ she agreed simply to his suggestion. Any more than that would have spoilt the moment.
Read on for an extract from:
An East End Girl
Also by Maggie Ford
Available now from Ebury Press
Chapter One
The Thames sweeping round the Isle of Dogs flowed smoothly. Deceptively smoothly. Tidal, the cold North Sea ebbing and flowing twice daily past Southend on the east Essex coast and Sheerness on the Kent side, the movement was noticeable right up to Teddington Lock seventy miles up.
At low ebb, with tide-left mud and water-worn posts exposed, the river could have a drab look; it looked almost too inadequate to carry all the world’s trade up to the Pool of London – the hinged road of Tower Bridge opening up like a great steel and concrete butterfly flexing its wings to allow tall-funnelled freighters through.
It was very different at flood tide; the sense of space and freedom took away a man’s breath, made him want to gulp in huge lungfuls of its fresh feel, made him proud to be part of it, proud to be a Londoner.
Charlie Farmer stood gazing at it, enjoying the sight on this fine August evening. From his vantage point where Westferry Road became Manchester Road, Greenwich foot tunnel under the Thames not a mile away, from which he and Doris had emerged a little over half an hour ago, he could see clearly across to Greenwich Observatory where they’d spent the afternoon. Between him and Greenwich, the wide expanse of water, flowing smooth on the ebb, glowed translucent bronze in the liquid evening light. There were greater rivers in the world with mouths so wide that their banks were totally lost to sight. But this was his river. London’s artery. It was in his blood, flowed as his blood flowed – reliable, steady, tranquil.
A smile wrinkled his broad, weathered face at the word tranquil. On the surface perhaps. To the eyes of a landsman perhaps. He knew from experience that beneath its sleek surface lurked undercurrents waiting to sweep away anyone silly enough to try swimming from one bank to the other – young men, full of drink, doing a dare, the white corpse popping up days later on the outside of a bend circling among the old rope and driftwood after the Thames had done playing with it. Only when you took a craft upstream against a falling tide did you appreciate its pull, traffic passing fast the other way; only when you squeezed between the abutments of arches of its many bridges, the current swirling in treacherous rips, could you truly know the brute strength of this old river.
Charlie Farmer’s grin broadened. Like life in a way, hiding from eyes the turmoil that surged beneath a placid surface.
Not that much surged beneath the surface of his life. He was proud of his family, his wife, Doris and their children: Cissy aged twenty, Robert, eighteen, May just fourteen, left school last month; then Sidney, ten, and Harry, eight. No more children now – he and Doris were past all that, hopefully.
They’d never truly known poverty. Struggled a bit at times, but never starved. He’d always been able to provide. A Thames waterman and lighterman, a Freeman, balding a bit now, but strong as ever, he loved his life, loved his work – something few men could boast.
‘Ain’t no better life,’ he murmured, his gaze sweeping the wide expanse of water flowing smooth as silk.
Doris, her waist thickened by childbearing, her fair hair going gently grey and her open features placid, tightened her hold on her shopping bag with its empty Thermos flask and sandwich wrappings.
‘Maybe not, but I’ve got supper to get when we get ’ome. And it’s turning chilly. It’ll take us an hour getting back, and I’ve got no big coat. Come on, Charlie, before we freeze to death.’
It was an exaggeration. It had been a lovely sultry hot August Bank Holiday Monday, but a breeze had sprung up with the sun’s going, not cold, but compared to the earlier heat felt cooler than it was, and Doris’s fleshy bare arms had begun to show goose pimples.
Charlie put an affectionate arm about her shoulders.
‘Right, ole gel, time to go ’ome. Me ole tum’s beginning to rum
ble a bit, I must admit. It’s been a lovely afternoon, without the kids.’
It had been lovely. Away from the family for once, Cissy giving eye to the children, although not too happy about it. Arm in arm like a couple of youngsters, they’d made their way through the foot tunnel under the Thames, sat in Greenwich Park with other Bank Holiday families, the stewed tea from a Thermos flask tasting wonderful after plodding uphill, Doris puffing behind all the way, to where the shiny-domed Observatory stood. Once up there they had sat with their tea and sandwiches, enjoying the views of London basking in heat haze on the far side of the sleepy Thames.
Trains bound for Southend and Margate for the day would have been standing only; Hyde Park, like all London parks on bank holiday, would have been crowded with hardly a pin being put between each group; the Serpentine a seething mass of bathers. But in Greenwich Park all had been peaceful, a breath of countryside.
It was getting late. Tomorrow he’d be back on the river. Robert, too – in the boy’s case, taking orders, still learning the skill, next year to apply hopefully to be a Freeman of the Company of Watermen and Lightermen of the River Thames.
Bobby, as Charlie called him, had been apprenticed for nearly four years, bound to him as he himself had been to his father some twenty-odd years ago around the turn of the century. Life was tougher then, Bobby didn’t know the half of it. Six years since the war had ended, dumb barges more often towed by tug now, in double lines of three, saving lightermen that hard row against the current.
But he was a good lad, was Bobby. Quick to learn, willing, doing well. One for the girls, of course, with his looks – but a good lad.
‘Coming then?’ Doris’s voice betrayed faint impatience. Charlie gave her a grin, nodded, and followed her away from the river wall.
