Jam and Roses

by Mary Gibson

  ‘What you doing home?’ Elsie addressed her sullenly, all trace of excitement vanishing in an instant.

  ‘Good gawd, you’ve not been in two minutes!’ Their mother slapped her own knees for effect.

  Milly shook her head. ‘I can’t do anything right, can I? Last time I saw you, you was begging me to stay!’

  ‘Well, you didn’t take no notice, and me and Amy’s not sharing our bed with you. Are we, Ame?’

  Amy ignored Elsie. She was walking softly to the open drawer. Little Jimmy’s fists were just visible as he punched the air. Amy regarded him steadily.

  ‘He looks a bit like a Chinaman off the docks,’ she said, darting a look at Milly to see the effect of her words. Milly was pretty sure her sister knew who Jimmy’s father was, but she hadn’t come home to fight.

  ‘When did you ever see a Chinaman with golden hair?’ her mother countered.

  ‘I suppose his eyes do look a bit oriental,’ Milly said. But in truth, Jimmy’s almond eyes, though darker in colour, reminded her of Elsie’s.

  Jimmy had grown still and was staring fixedly at Amy, who’d kneeled beside the drawer. The three sisters gathered round him. Jimmy seemed to radiate a contented calm. Milly had noticed right from birth that he was a happy baby, except when he was hungry, and that was her fault, not his. His serene, unblinking eyes rested on Amy and then he smiled, lifting a hand to her hair. Milly could see Amy’s determination to be unimpressed weaken, and the merest hint of a smile answered Jimmy’s own.

  Then Elsie stretched her finger out, to be grasped by Jimmy’s fist. As she did so, the sleeve of her dress rode up, revealing a deep, purple weal, striped across her arm. It had festered and a scab was trying to form over its angry centre.

  ‘What’s that?’ Milly said, reaching for her arm. But Elsie twisted away and darting a look at her mother, said defiantly, ‘The old bastard’s been at me with the hot poker.’

  ‘What did you do to upset him?’ Milly’s mouth had gone dry. Elsie’s face was impassive, but still, Milly felt accused.

  ‘She didn’t do anything,’ her mother said, with a face revealing as much guilt as Milly felt for not being there. ‘It was my fault. He will keep poking at the fire when he gets in and all the smuts and soot cover everything. I hid the soddin’ poker, didn’t I? But she got the blame.’

  ‘Oh! Mum. It’s not your fault.’

  There was silence in the kitchen, just the clock ticking and the unasked question in the faces of her sisters and mother. Would Milly stay to protect them? She looked over at Jimmy who was beginning to doze, blowing bubbles out of his tiny ‘o’ of a mouth with each breath. She straightened up.

  ‘I need to go and find a job. Will you be all right with him, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love, he’s good as gold except when he’s hungry.’

  ‘I know, it’s me. My milk’s drying up, but I’ll put him on bottles... as soon as I get paid.’

  Her mother nodded. ‘No wonder he’s been screaming, poor little bugger. Still, he’s all right for now. You go, but make sure you’re back before—’

  ‘I will be!’ Milly said, throwing on her coat and flying out into the street, as though she could escape all their expectations.

  Hay’s Wharf was abuzz with dockers, wearing uniform flat caps and tied cotton scarves. They were scurrying to and from the dense cluster of lighters moored near the dock edge. Some pushed hand trolleys piled with bulging sacks of coffee beans, others gathered in groups round the large vessel discharging its cargo. Platform cranes swung bales out of the hold and dockers guided them to dolly carts waiting below. Milly asked a boy in a too-tight waistcoat, standing guard over some tea crates, how far it was to the dried goods warehouse. When he pointed further along the wharf, nearer to London Bridge, she hurried along, hugging the warehouse walls so as not to collide with any barrows or swinging loads. The smell of coffee in this part of the wharf was pungent and inviting, and she inhaled deeply. But she was looking for beans of a different kind. The company employed hundreds of women to sort dried haricot beans, in a cavernous shed directly on the wharf side. But if the ship hadn’t docked, the jobs wouldn’t be there. She scrutinized each vessel as she passed, but was unable to guess their cargo.

  Searching out the company office above the sorting shed, she leaped the stairs two at a time, and as she did, collided with an acne-faced youth holding an armful of shipping documents. The papers fluttered down towards the river.

  ‘Shit, me bills of lading!’ he cried out, vaulting the rest of the stairs. The wharfinger, a red-faced man with a carefully trimmed moustache, had witnessed the collision from the office, and as she approached he gave her an exasperated look, which told her she’d already made a bad impression.

  ‘Can you tell me if there’s any sorting jobs going?’ she asked, fingers crossed behind her back.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to be a bit more careful sorting beans than you are climbing stairs.’

  She swallowed her pride and her ready cheeky answer. ‘Sorry, I was in a hurry. But I’m very quick-fingered. I’m used to sorting fruit at Southwell’s.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, sounding unconvinced. He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and peered out over the dock. ‘Any rate, your luck’s in, we’ve got two vessels docking tomorrow and I can use some extra girls. Come in early and you’ll have a week’s work.’

  A week’s work! He might as well have given her a thousand pounds. She felt so elated, she tripped almost lightly back down the stairs in spite of her growing weariness.

  She knew full well it would be a horrible job, and the shed would be sweltering and airless. After the first hour her fingertips would start to burn, after a morning they would shred, by the end of the day her back and legs would be screaming and she’d probably be ready to throw herself into the Thames with boredom, but none of that mattered. With a job, she’d have the means to find a place for her and Jimmy to live.

  But now she hardly knew where to begin looking for lodgings. Halfway down Tooley Street she came across a shop that advertised rooms to let, and took note of the addresses. She discounted those in the more respectable areas – Storks Road and Reverdy Road would be beyond her means. But a couple were cheap enough and close enough to visit this afternoon. The first was in Snowsfields, only a ten-minute walk, but when she left the traffic-filled bustle of Tooley Street and found the back court, her heart quailed. The narrow house bowed at the waist and seemed to have a broken pane in every window. The grime of ages smeared its walls and standing at the door, with a baby on her hip, was a greasy-haired woman surrounded by filthy children. Milly turned away without even enquiring. She would never take Jimmy there.

  The next address was in Cherry Garden Street, a half-hour’s walk away. Now the afternoon was wearing on and she knew she had to be back to collect Jimmy, before the old man came home. Still, she couldn’t afford a tram, so she would just have to step out. Come on, Milly, don’t be such a feather legs! she chided herself. You can do better than this! She lengthened her stride, ignoring the cramp that gripped her calves.

  Cherry Garden Street hadn’t seen a cherry tree for many a long year, not since men in knee breeches and women in high wigs were ferried over from the other side, to enjoy the pleasure gardens. Now, it was a down-at-heel terrace that led to Cherry Garden Pier, jutting out into the Thames, and clustered about with tugs, lighters and steamers. The bowsprit of a large ship protruded right into the street, pointing its long finger at the door Milly was looking for. It wasn’t as bad as Snowsfields. The window frames were peeling, but at least they had glass in them. A sign in one of the windows announced Front room to let, share kitchen with respectable family. She knocked hesitantly on the front door, which was opened almost immediately by a pale-faced young woman. She was hoisting a child up on to one hip and another clung about her skirt.

  ‘I’ve come about the room.’

  The young woman’s face tightened with suspicion. ‘Have you got a deposit?’ she asked.


  ‘Yes,’ Milly answered, truthfully enough, but whether it was the amount the woman had in mind was another matter.

  The toddler, a boy of about two, pulled at his mother’s skirt and she reached into her apron pocket for a dummy which he shoved into his mouth.

  ‘Are you in work?’ she asked and when Milly nodded, the woman moved aside.

  ‘You want to see the room? It’s at the front.’

  Milly followed her into the passageway of just bare boards, then into the front room. Everything in there seemed to be missing some essential element. There was a bed, with one side propped up on a couple of bricks, a kitchen chair with only half the rungs, a washstand with a cracked china basin but no jug, and a chest of drawers minus one drawer. Milly noted with relief that it wasn’t too dirty.

  The woman waited, hungry-faced and wary. Milly knew she represented income.

  ‘I’ve got a baby,’ she said bluntly. She might as well get that out in the open.

  The woman sniffed, unconcerned. ‘Join the club, love. One more in this house won’t make no difference. I’ve got two more upstairs.’

  And as if to corroborate this, Milly heard the sound of children’s screams, and then feet thudding from one side of the ceiling to the other.

  ‘They’re good as gold really,’ the woman said apologetically.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she said quickly. She was simply too tired to go on looking for a better place. Besides, she was running out of time. Her father would be home soon and although it wasn’t ideal, at least it would save her from a night spent under the old man’s roof.

  Milly explained that she would be back in a little while with her things and her baby, and when she offered two shillings as a deposit the woman paused doubtfully, but just then a man appeared in the passage. He must have been listening from the back kitchen. His face was paler than his wife’s, pockmarked and gaunt, and Milly could smell the beer on him.

  ‘That’ll do,’ he said, pocketing the money and turning back to the kitchen.

  Back in the street, Milly felt her legs trembling. Irritated as the unaccustomed weakness washed over her, she summoned up a last reserve of energy and headed towards Arnold’s Place.

  The old man stood with one foot braced on the bottom sideboard drawer. He was holding the poker, glowing still from the fire, in one hand and waving it like some aimless wizard’s wand above the sleeping head of her baby. She stood very still, grasping the edge of the kitchen table. She was vaguely aware that Amy was crouched underneath the table and that Elsie was hiding in a shadowy corner of the kitchen. Her mother looked nervously from husband to daughter and made a move, which only resulted in a more energetic sweep of the poker in the air above the drawer. Milly’s gaze fixed on the old man’s bloodshot eyes, then moved to his leathery hand, his drunken, numb fingers loosely gripping the poker handle. Now he dangled it like a fiery sword above Jimmy. He swayed, then steadying himself, brought his booted foot down heavily on the edge of the drawer. Jimmy stirred, and she saw her child’s eyes open in calm wonder. It was his first glimpse of his grandfather. She edged towards the drawer.

  ‘Ha!’ the old man slurred, brandishing the poker. ‘Not so brave now, are you, you little slut? And what makes you think you and your bastard are welcome in my house?’

  She didn’t answer, but halted, calculating just how drunk he was and how slow his reactions might be. Images of what might happen if his grip loosened on the hot poker paralysed her. But before she could decide what to do, she glimpsed a swift movement at her feet. Like a darting mouse, Amy was out of her hiding place and across the kitchen, before the old man had time to react. Grabbing Jimmy in one arm, she scampered back and threw him into Milly’s arms. Milly clasped him tight, picked up her bag and flew down the passage out into the street. Heedless of Mrs Knight’s greeting or the curious stares of other neighbours who had gathered to gossip on their doorsteps, she ran as fast as her burdens would allow, all the way back to the house in Cherry Garden Street.

  14

  Turning Tide

  July 1924

  The landlady showed her into the sparse room that was to be their home, with the offer of a cup of tea. Milly only wished there was some food to go with it. She hadn’t stopped to eat all day and now she swayed with hunger and fatigue. She laid Jimmy on the bed and sat on the rickety chair, waiting for the woman to come back. Milly looked around the room, devoid of any warm, homely touches, and had to fend off the tears. She closed her eyes for a moment, but was soon jolted awake by a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I must have dropped right off,’ she said and gulped the tea, sweetened with condensed milk, which the landlady handed her. Milly picked Jimmy up and began to feed him, while the woman looked on.

  ‘Ain’t he got no father?’ the woman asked, already knowing the answer, for she carried on. ‘Still, husbands ain’t much cop ’alf the time.’ She jerked her head back towards the kitchen. ‘My useless lump’s sleeping it off in there.’ She sighed, then hearing her own baby crying, she said, ‘I’ve got to see to mine.’

  Milly could have wished for a more private lodging. There was no lock on the door but she shoved the chair up against it, and too exhausted to even undress, lay down on the bed, wrapping herself and Jimmy in her overcoat. But now sleep eluded her. Overwhelmed by her own solitary state, her thoughts flew to her mother and sisters, only half an hour distant, but feeling half a world away. The plum-blushed evening sky still gave light enough to pick out the sad testaments of her banishment: her pathetically small bag of belongings; this bare cell; and her baby, her only consolation.

  Eventually she surrendered to a sleep, disturbed by Jimmy’s stirrings and odd dreams full of angels falling from heaven, holding fiery flaming swords, and each with the livid face of her father. The noise which finally roused her completely was not loud, but an insistent squeaking and scratching, which in her groggy state, Milly at first put down to mice under the floorboards. When she realized it was the door handle being turned and the chair rattling under pressure from outside, she shot up, listening intently. Leaving Jimmy on the bed, she stole to the door. She could hear snuffling breaths outside and felt the rickety old chair begin to give way as the door opened a crack. A waft of beery breath and a low, hoarse voice reached her.

  ‘I know you’re there! Your sort won’t mind a bit of fun, eh?’ He rattled the door and shoved. The chair broke and he stumbled in, sending Milly flying back on to the bed.

  Before she could get up, he’d pinned her down with his drunken, beery weight. Milly’s first thought was for Jimmy. She flung out her arm to protect him and at the same time jerked up her knee sharply, causing the landlord to yelp and roll over in pain. Suddenly the bed collapsed, sending the pile of bricks thundering across the lino, and toppling him on to the floor. Milly had only seconds to decide what to do as he was trying to push himself up. She lunged for the china basin on the washstand, smashing it over his head, but the impact wasn’t as great as she’d hoped. Already cracked, it simply shattered into fragments.

  Where was his wife? Surely she must have heard the commotion, but either she’d gone to bed as drunk as her husband, or she preferred to stay out of his nocturnal adventures. In any event, there was no help coming. While he was still recovering from the crack on the head, Milly took her chance. She shoved on her shoes, bundled Jimmy in her coat, grabbed her bag and fled the house, leaving the front door wide open behind her.

  She ran, not stopping until she reached Cherry Garden Pier. When she looked back, the street was deserted. Thank God, he hadn’t followed her, so pausing to catch her breath, she wrapped Jimmy more tightly before setting off, she hardly knew where. Following the dank river smell carried on the cool breeze, she stumbled into a jog, forcing herself to keep moving, scared that if she once stood still, she’d have to admit she had no idea where she was going, or what she was going to do.

  These side streets, hard by the river, had a muted peace during the night that was never present in da
ylight hours, when wharves would bristle with swinging cranes, delivery vans and swarms of dockers. Turning along Bermondsey Wall, deserted warehouses closed in silently around her as she made her way instinctively to a breach in their massive bulks. At Fountain Stairs she found the river – wide, calm and moon-striped. Stopping for a few heaving breaths, her hand gripped the dank river wall, then something impelled her down the steps, towards the river’s inky waters lapping at their base. Detritus bobbed rapidly past her and the water flowed swiftly, as did her memory, back to the day when she’d sat on these very steps, deciding to give up her child. She had come full circle. Life, forcing her to make the same choice again. What on earth had persuaded her she could ever manage alone with a baby? It was impossible. Jimmy, now awake in her arms, looked up at her with those peaceful, accepting eyes, devoid of condemnation. She rested her face, wet with tears, against his smooth cheek. The river tugged her irresistibly downward, one step at a time. Never before had she understood why someone would come to the water’s edge to end all their pain, but tonight, she understood.

  Letting the tide of her own past choices take her, lacking strength to resist the fierce current of events she’d set in motion, she found herself succumbing to the river – she would let it take her and her child, there was nothing else she could do.

  Up swirled the black eddies, rippling with moonlight, the dripping steps swayed beneath her. She flung herself forward, eager for the icy, swirling water to swallow her. But instead of its numbing embrace, strong hands suddenly yanked her backwards. Stars whirled into her vision, an indigo sky replacing the inky water, and she felt encircling arms grasp her and Jimmy.

  As if from a great distance, she heard a man saying, ‘You’re all right, Milly, I’ve got you.’

  She felt a hand beneath her elbow as she was helped to her feet.

  ‘Here, let me take the baby.’ And when she hesitated, he went on, ‘This damp air can’t be good for him, can it?’