Jam and Roses

by Mary Gibson

  ‘Please, Milly, take it... for Jimmy. I can’t bear it when he cries.’

  Her sister was offering her most prized possession, sent by Wilf from the Gold Coast for her first Communion. Overcome with gratitude, Milly took the peace offering and wrapped Amy in her arms. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  15

  Safe Haven

  July 1924

  Milly hurried towards Hay’s Wharf along Tooley Street, which was jammed with horse-drawn carts, trams and motor cars. She’d stopped off at the pawnshop and now she was late. She jogged past boys pushing handcarts and darted in and out of the traffic. London Bridge Station disgorged an endless stream of bowler-hatted clerks, funnelling them across the bridge into the City, and to avoid the crowds, Milly nipped down an alleyway leading to the wharf.

  The sky was a pearl sheen, veiling the sun, and the opaque river churned like dirty milk in the wash of a steam tug, piloting a big ship to the dockside. Another vessel was already unloading, and the stamps on the sacks revealed that these were the expected cargo of haricot beans. At least Milly knew she’d have work today.

  The acne-scarred office boy led her to a vast shed on the quayside, where dockers trundled trolleys, piled high with overstuffed sacks, from ship to shed. As deafening as waves crashing into a pebbled shore, sack after sack of beans were tipped into hoppers. Conveyer belts criss-crossed the vaulted space, carrying the beans past ranks of women sorters. Handing Milly a coarse, wrap-around apron, the forelady took her to the back of the shed, before explaining the simple task of sorting out the bad beans from the good. It wasn’t long before Milly was up to speed with the women on either side, her fingers moving independently of her brain, picking and flicking bad beans into a basket, in a blur of motion. The women around her were already chatting to their neighbours and she allowed her thoughts to return to the night before.

  Her memories of the riverbank were too searingly etched to linger over, and instead she thought about Bertie. He was a puzzle. Since coming to run his uncle’s shop, he’d always been friendly towards her, but she’d taken no more notice of him than of any other shopkeeper in Dockhead. But last night his actions had seemed more than those of a concerned acquaintance. He’d acted as if he were a friend, as if he knew her. Perhaps he would have extended the same help to anyone in similar trouble, but the help had felt pointed and personal. As more and more dried beans cascaded into hoppers, then clicked and bounced along chugging belts, she remembered how she’d caught him looking at her that morning at breakfast, in his quietly amused way. Their eyes had met for just an instant, but she’d seen nothing more than the kindness of a charitable man. In any case, from the way he’d spoken about Florence, Milly had a suspicion the only torch Bertie held burned chastely, for the respectable Methodist missionary with the sad eyes and warm heart. Milly was glad of it. Florence Green deserved to find happiness again with a good man.

  Milly was grateful that Jimmy hadn’t cried this morning when she’d left him. Today would be their longest time apart since running away from Edenvale, and even though she trusted him with her mother she’d still felt invisible cords tugging at her all morning. At their mid-morning break, Milly found Mrs Colman waiting outside the shed with Jimmy. There were other women who’d had their babies brought to them, some by their older children, and she followed their lead in turning down a less-frequented side passage.

  ‘Is he all right?’ she asked, holding her arms out for Jimmy as he began to cry in anticipation.

  ‘A bit grizzly. He needs to get used to me, poor little love.’

  She held him to her breast, her back muscles rippling with fire and her fingers raw from the morning’s work. She leaned against the clammy wall and remembered the weeks at Edenvale, which had left her fingertips petal soft. She’d been so happy when she’d lost the leather-like pads, built up over years of hop- and fruit-picking, for it meant that when she stroked Jimmy’s cheek, the smoothness of her own skin matched his. But now she could feel her sore fingers burn as she rubbed a smut from his forehead. It struck her as ironic; she hadn’t even wanted the tips of her fingers to scratch or harm him, yet last night she’d contemplated taking him under the water with her. She found herself shaking as she handed him to her mother.

  ‘I’ve got to get back,’ she said quietly and turned quickly to leave, before her mother could see how upset she was.

  Returning to the shed, she resumed sorting, wishing she could flick away her own self-condemnation as easily as she did a bean. The woman next to her must have mistaken her pained expression.

  ‘Fingers giving you gyp?’ she asked. Producing a roll of plaster from her apron pocket, she carefully taped up Milly’s fingertips. The plasters slowed her down, but better that than the agony of shredded fingers. She tried to lose herself in the work and when the noon hooter sounded, she flew back to Arnold’s Place, drawing stares from dockers as her long, stockinged legs found their effortless loping stride. On the way, she stopped at the chemist to buy two banana-shaped bottles and a tin of milk, blessing her sister’s fit of generosity. At least her mother wouldn’t have to bring Jimmy out to be fed at the wharf every day.

  She arrived home out of breath. ‘How’s he been?’ she asked, taking him from her mother’s arms. Jimmy’s face screwed up, threatening a scream.

  ‘Good as gold – not a murmur, not till you walked in, and now he’s started!’ her mother grunted.

  Milly felt the accusation sting. ‘It’s only because he’s hungry. He’s happy as a sandboy usually,’ she said defensively, and settled down to feed him. She indicated the bag she’d brought with her. ‘There’s bottles and milk in there. At least you can top him up now.’

  In answer to her mother’s enquiring look, Milly offered, ‘Amy gave me her cross to pawn... she’s a good kid really.’

  Her mother nodded wearily and picked up the bag. ‘I only wish I’d got more to give you, Mill.’

  Milly shook her head. ‘You’re doing more than enough. But I can’t stop long. I’m calling at Southwell’s before I go back, to check if there’s any openings.’

  ‘Sorting beans is a horrible job,’ her mother said. ‘Did I ever tell you I did it meself years ago? Before I met the old man. Terrible in the winter cold! No heating in them big sheds. You won’t want to be staying there long. While you’re at Southwell’s could you ask for our Elsie? I’m sure she thinks she can stay at school forever – she won’t even talk about it.’

  ‘She probably still thinks she can go on the stage, like Matty Gilbie!’ Milly replied.

  Matty Gilbie was Elsie’s heroine, a Bermondsey girl who’d made a name for herself in the West End theatres.

  ‘All right, I’ll ask, but I hope I’m not around when you tell her she’s got to be a jam girl instead!’ Milly said, laying Jimmy down softly. Just as she did, Elsie and Amy came in for dinner. Amy skirted her shyly, noting the baby bottles on the table and sneaking a look into the drawer at Jimmy. Then, sitting at the table, she looked at Milly solemnly and said, ‘I don’t think he does look much like a Chinaman off the boats, after all.’

  She smiled at Amy. ‘No, you’re right. He looks just like himself and no one else.’

  There were no jobs at Southwell’s for either herself or Elsie, but as she was leaving Milly bumped into Kitty Bunclerk at the factory gates. Throwing her arms round Milly, Kitty said, ‘Oh, Mill, why didn’t you let me know you were coming home? I could have put the feelers out for a job.’

  ‘I didn’t know myself till the last minute. I ran away!’

  ‘No! I can’t wait to hear all about it, and I want to see the baby! Can I come round after work?’

  Milly shook her head. ‘I’m not living in Arnold’s Place.’

  Kitty’s eyes opened wide in astonishment as Milly explained.

  ‘With Bertie Hughes? You’re going up in the world all of a sudden! He’ll have you keeping shop before you know it.’ Her friend giggled, and Milly shushed her.

  ‘He’s not like that. H
e’s just been really kind.’

  She expected Kitty to scoff at her naivety, but something in her friend’s face softened. ‘You’re right, we shouldn’t tar all men with the same brush. There are some decent ones around,’ she mused, a faraway look in her eyes.

  ‘How’s Freddie?’ Milly asked and when Kitty’s face reddened, Milly knew she’d guessed the source of her friend’s newfound trust in men. ‘Well, you’ve changed, Kitty Bunclerk. He’s a right little villain!’

  Kitty shook her head and mockingly repeated Milly’s own words. ‘He’s not like that. He’s just been really kind.’

  Milly smiled as Kitty tried to convince her. ‘He’s helped out with stuff for the kids and all sorts... All right, it’s mostly knocked off, but Freddie’s very generous-hearted, Mill.’

  The friends hugged and Milly promised to bring Jimmy to Hickman’s Folly as soon as she could. ‘And let me know if any of the casuals drop out!’ Milly called back as they parted.

  She had to trot all the way along Shad Thames in order to get back for the afternoon shift at Hay’s Wharf, but she felt lighter of heart now that she’d seen her friend. It had made her feel more at home than anything else since she’d returned to Bermondsey.

  Milly’s working day at the sorting shed finished earlier than at the factory, so it was still afternoon when she returned home to collect Jimmy. She was only paid by the hour, and she could have wished for a few hours more work, but at least it meant there was little chance of the old man discovering the baby at Arnold’s Place. As she was passing Hughes’ grocery, Bertie came to the window and beckoned her in.

  Rosie Rockle stood at the counter with a jug. She looked up as Milly came in.

  ‘Hello, darlin’!’ she said, surprised to see her. Milly had always been her favourite. Dropping her voice, Rosie mouthed, ‘How’s the little one?’ as though it was indecent to refer to her bastard child in front of Hughes the grocer. Milly was aware of a stealthy sadness invading her. Poor Jimmy, innocent of everything except being born to Milly. Why should he be talked of in lowered tones?

  ‘His name’s Jimmy,’ she answered boldly, ‘and he’s beautiful, Rosie, just beautiful. I’ll have to bring him to see you and all the neighbours soon!’

  In defiance, she turned brightly to Bertie. ‘What did you want that can’t wait till tonight?’ When he blushed, she immediately regretted her selfishness. Refusing to be ashamed of Jimmy was one thing, but now she’d put Bertie in the very position she’d been so keen to save him from. He drew out a key.

  ‘I won’t be home till late and I forgot to give you this. Didn’t want you hanging about on the doorstep with Jimmy.’

  He slid the key across the counter, not looking at Rosie, but as she pocketed it, Milly was aware of Rosie Rockle’s eyes glimmering with hungry glee. However fond Rosie was of Milly, in these long summer evenings, when neighbours lounged in their doorways or sat in the street on kitchen chairs, catching the evening breeze, it was always good to have something new to add to the day’s gossip. Milly had just handed her a plum and at the same time shoved Bertie into the vipers’ nest. Her brashness disappeared and she turned placatingly to Rosie Rockle.

  ‘I’m his lodger.’ She felt the heat rise from her throat to her cheeks. ‘Ain’t I?’ Then, looking at Bertie, she was appalled to see that his face was as red as the bowl of cooked beetroots in the shop window.

  Rosie looked from one to the other. ‘Don’t make no difference to me, love. Good luck to you, I say!’ she said knowingly, and thrust the jug into Bertie’s hands. ‘Penn’orth o’ mustard pickle, please.’

  Milly escaped miserably to her mother’s house. Mrs Colman immediately commented on her pale face and Milly made her tiredness the excuse. ‘I’d better not hang about in case he comes home early, but I want to get some clothes first. Can I borrow the hopping box?’

  ‘All right, but make sure I get it back. I’ve got me letter, I want to start filling it up soon.’ If she ever had a spare shilling, which wasn’t often, her mother would begin stocking the box with tinned food and staples.

  ‘Surely the old man’s not turned over a new leaf?’ Milly said, shocked that there should be spare money floating around in Arnold’s Place.

  ‘With the corner up he has! No, it’s that Freddie Clark. He’s been getting so much stuff lately, we’ve been living the life of Riley on the tins of beans and soup and gawd knows what.’

  It made Milly smile that her mother could be such a good Catholic and never once feel guilt at accepting stolen goods – in fact she saw them as a gift from God, and would cross herself when any came her way.

  ‘Oh, he’s muscling in on Pat’s territory, is he?’

  ‘Well, he might be, but Mrs Donovan says he’s been very good to her too, drops her a quid every now an’ again.’ Her mother sniffed at the mention of the woman who had so slighted her grandchild, and then went on. ‘Do you think you’d better talk to Pat, you know, about what he wants to do?’

  ‘About what?’

  Her mother raised her eyes. ‘What do you think? Now you’ve kept the baby you two’ll be getting married when he gets out, won’t you?’

  Milly folded another of her dresses and placed it in the box. For a long moment it seemed she wasn’t going to answer.

  ‘Mum, I made a mistake with Pat. I don’t think I’ll be marrying him. I just want it to be me and my Jimmy from now on, that’s all I need.’

  Her mother came and kneeled down beside her. Placing her hand over Milly’s, she stopped her from packing. ‘Oh, love, listen to me, you’re still young and your life’s not over just because you’ve saddled yourself with a baby. Believe me, there’ll come a time when you get lonely and you’ll be glad of someone.’

  She answered her mother’s touch with her own and looked into her face, etched with worry lines and anxious love.

  ‘I don’t think I will want someone. Marriage ain’t the answer to all life’s problems, is it?’

  ‘No, I won’t make you wrong there, but sometimes it’s the difference between being on the streets or not.’

  And Milly knew that by ‘on the streets’ her mother hadn’t meant homeless, and she knew too that Ellen Colman shared every one of Rosie Rockle’s suspicions about Bertie Hughes’ motives. She stiffened and rose.

  ‘I’ll make sure you have the box back, once I’ve found some proper lodgings. I won’t be at Bertie’s for long.’

  Her mother sniffed. ‘Let’s hope not, love.’

  Milly quickly kissed her goodbye and hurried back to Bertie’s. Clattering the hopping box along Storks Road, she was conscious that in this more respectable street, she might be considered a spectacle. The box was stuffed full of her belongings and her baby was tucked up snugly on the top. She was grateful to slip into the seclusion of Bertie’s home, and though it was a stranger’s house, it felt like a quiet haven. This house, though only an ordinary brick terrace, felt a world away from Arnold’s Place. Milly reflected that it really took so little to make the difference between a pleasant, comfortable home and one where every domestic activity was a struggle. Although her mother made valiant efforts to keep her house clean, the grinding fight against bugs and damp in the walls had all but worn her out. In Bertie’s scullery there was an ascot over the sink and a gas copper that could heat up enough water for baths and laundry. How different from the kettle after kettle that her mother had to boil on the range to fill their old tin tub. Ellen Colman had told her of the days when the whole street would share a single standpipe, and how she felt herself lucky to have a tap in the house at all. But Milly had been to Edenvale. She had seen what was possible, what others considered necessary to live a decent life, and now, even in this modest house in Bermondsey, she saw glimmerings of the better life she wanted for Jimmy.

  She didn’t feel shy about going into Bertie’s larder and preparing tea. He’d told her this morning to help herself. But she would make sure he had a decent meal to come home to; it was the least she could do in lieu of rent
. And when he came home, his face cheerful and unreproachful of her indiscreet blabbing in front of Rosie, she felt genuinely glad to see him.

  For the rest of that week Milly worked at Hay’s Wharf and went every morning to check for vacancies at Southwell’s. On Friday, a frazzled-looking Tom Pelton met her as he was coming across the yard. Before she could even ask, he had all but pounced on her.

  ‘Can you start Monday morning?’

  ‘’Course I can, I’m only sorting beans by the hour. Where do you want me?’

  ‘I know you’re good at picking, but I need someone I can trust in the boiling room – one of the girls had a cauldron of jam down her this morning!’

  It wasn’t her favourite job in the factory, but the money was better than the wharf and she couldn’t afford to be choosy. Bertie had literally pulled her back from the brink, and now it felt to Milly that she must grasp her second chance, if not for her own sake, then for Jimmy’s. She would willingly spend her days hauling boiling jam from copper to cart, if it meant she could pay back Bertie and carve out a life for Jimmy. The comforts of Edenvale were nothing compared to that.

  At tea that evening, she was eager to tell Bertie her news.

  ‘So I’ll be able to pay you my week’s rent as soon as I get my pay packet,’ she said. ‘And with the extra money I’ll be earning, I can look for proper lodgings, then me and Jimmy’ll be out of your hair.’

  Bertie didn’t respond immediately. He was a man who ate very slowly, unlike the old man who, ever eager to get to the pub, bolted his food, hardly tasting it even though he always made such a fuss if her mother cut corners with the meat. But Bertie often paused between mouthfuls, laying down his knife and fork, to talk about his day in the shop. She was unused to such behaviour at the table, but on the whole she liked it. She’d been so used to anticipating her father’s rap on the knuckles for any tardiness that habit made her jump up to begin clearing away, before Bertie had finished his meal. He grabbed his plate, smiling.