Jam and Roses

by Mary Gibson

‘Strike me dumb, if you don’t want to take the food out of my mouth! Sit down a minute.’

  She did as she was told, waiting while he finished every last morsel.

  ‘That was delicious, Milly, you’re a good cook.’

  She pulled a face of disagreement. Her cooking skills were mediocre at best, but perhaps a bachelor might be impressed with any hot meal.

  ‘Don’t do yourself down, and that sewing job you did on my frayed jacket was perfect. Milly...’ He hesitated and fiddled with the knife and fork on his plate.

  She resisted the urge to jump up and take out the dirty plate.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know you’ll probably want to find a place nearer your mother, but I was wondering, what do you think about staying here with me?’

  She felt her heart lurch. Here it came, the proposal that her mother and Rosie Rockle assumed had already been made. The disappointment must have been clear to read in her face, for he hastily continued.

  ‘As a lodger, I mean! But perhaps instead of paying full rent, you could housekeep for me. I don’t keep up the place as well as I should... and as I said... you’re a good cook,’ he finished lamely.

  She was stunned. She’d been dreaming of a cocoon for her and Jimmy, and on the face of it, Bertie’s offer was the answer to her prayers. Yet she would certainly be adding fuel to the gossips’ fire. Her own reputation was already ruined, but would it be fair to risk Bertie’s?

  ‘Well, no rush, you can think about it, eh?’ he said, seeing her hesitate.

  She thanked him and then began clearing away. It wasn’t until much later that evening, as she sat in a chair beneath the gas lamp, sewing a frayed shirt cuff, that she made her decision. He hadn’t repeated his offer, and now as he sat opposite her, tamping tobacco into his pipe, she realized he never would. He would leave it to her. Without preamble, she said, ‘Thanks for the offer, Bertie. If you’re really sure you can put up with the gossip, then I’d like to stay.’

  During the following week, Milly began to realize that her new roles of mother, housekeeper and jam girl involved a delicate juggling act. The most difficult part was making sure she always reached Arnold’s Place in time to pick up Jimmy before the old man came home. He’d been mercifully absent, and even when at home was usually in a drunken haze, so she didn’t expect he’d pick up on any clues. Besides, she made sure to remove all evidence of nappies, bottles and baby clothes every evening, before she took Jimmy back to Storks Road. The biggest gamble was trusting her sisters with the secret; between Elsie’s forgetfulness and Amy’s mischievousness, she knew she was walking a fine line.

  She was alarmed, therefore, one evening, when her shift changeover had been delayed, to find her mother’s front door wide open and a man’s voice coming from the kitchen. She didn’t relish another battle with the old man but would give as good as she got, and she marched into the kitchen ready for a fight. The scene was not what she expected. Florence Green sat drinking tea and chatting amiably to her mother while a bespectacled man in a dark suit sat opposite, holding Jimmy in his arms. The memory of Elsie with her leg in the bloodied snare flashed before her, and now she felt equally trapped.

  ‘What’s he doing with my baby and who told you I was back?’ she asked Miss Green frostily.

  The woman raised her soft hazel eyes and Milly thought she’d identified the culprit. ‘Was it Bertie?’

  ‘Bertie?’ Miss Green looked puzzled. ‘Bertie Hughes? No, why on earth would he know? I heard it at the girls’ club, from Amy.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Milly said, feeling foolish.

  The man stood up and handed Jimmy to her. ‘He’s a lovely little chap,’ he said, ‘and seems to be in perfect health too.’ Milly took Jimmy gratefully, noticing a look pass between the man and Miss Green. Was he from the welfare?

  ‘Oh, Milly, I wish you’d contacted me,’ Miss Green continued. ‘I had no idea you were unhappy at Edenvale. Will you let me help you?’

  Milly looked nervously towards the bespectacled man as Miss Green guessed her thoughts.

  ‘Milly, your mother’s told me there was some talk at the home of you being declared unfit. Of course that’s nonsense! But once such a charge is made, there have to be investigations...’

  Milly felt her chest tighten as she clenched her fists, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘You haven’t come to take him away, have you?’ she challenged the man. He was large, with broad features and a wide mouth. His expression, though serious, wasn’t hard. He didn’t look like the villain of her nightmares, the one who would seize her child and leave her bereft. Now he held up his hands, palms outward. They looked like practical hands, but they were soft, milk-white.

  ‘No, no, please don’t be alarmed. I’m just here at my friend Miss Green’s invitation, to give my professional advice as a doctor, and I’m quite happy with what I’ve seen. Your child is healthy, well cared for and... obviously very much loved...’

  ‘Yes, and now, Milly, we can make a favourable report back to the authorities,’ Miss Green went on eagerly. ‘Once they’ve been assured that all is well with this little man, I’m sure there’ll be no more said about unfitness.’ She smiled. ‘After all, what better stamp of authority could you have than Dr Salter’s?’

  Now Milly knew why the man had looked familiar, and suddenly weak with relief, she sank down into a chair, grateful that their sainted doctor MP had indeed lived up to his reputation. Wait till she told Bertie!

  16

  ‘Then Like My Dreams’

  September 1924

  From somewhere came the smell of woodsmoke. Milly inhaled its bitter sweetness and looked up at the charcoal plume, smudging a dove-grey sky. Smoke snaked across the metallic halo of late summer sun, struggling to pierce the clouds. Someone was probably burning rubbish in a yard further down Storks Road, but the smell spirited Milly away to the hop fields and the early morning faggot fires, whose sweet signals would warn those still lying in bed that it was time for that first cup of tea, brewed and drunk steaming hot, outside in the damp, misty field. Her mind flew back to the previous September and she realized with sharp regret that she hadn’t even thought of going hopping this year. She simply couldn’t afford to give up her Southwell’s job and risk it not being there when she returned.

  Times were changing, just as her father had predicted last year, and maintaining her precarious existence as the sole provider for her child was paramount now. The hopping box, which had served as temporary suitcase and pram for Jimmy, had been returned long ago, and her mother had just about filled it to the brim, ready for her yearly departure to the hop farm at Horsmonden. Over the past few weeks, Milly had allowed herself the vicarious pleasure of examining the contents of the box, and every so often she was able to donate a jar of jam or bottle of sauce, smuggled out from Southwell’s. Bertie, whose only experience of hopping had been taking his uncle’s stall down last year, had entered into the spirit of things and given a gift of a new paraffin lamp and oil. Her mother had at first baulked at taking his ‘charity’, but it hadn’t taken Milly long to convince her it would be good for his proddywack soul to build up a few stars in the heavenly record book.

  Apart from evoking a sense of loss, the coming of the hopping season this year presented Milly with another problem. Who would look after Jimmy? It was a conundrum that the woodsmoke had brought to the forefront of her mind, and she was pondering it as she walked back from early morning Mass. She was pushing the pram, a second-hand offering from the Guardians of the Poor, which was serviceable but very squeaky, when, above the creaking of the springs, she became aware of footsteps behind her – light, clipped, rhythmic. Darting a look over her shoulder, she was surprised to see Elsie, skipping along behind her, seemingly attempting an eccentric tap dance.

  ‘Don’t skip!’ Milly’s response was involuntary.

  Don’t skip, don’t dream, don’t make yourself such an open target for the world. She wished, in that moment, that her reaction to Els
ie wasn’t habitually one of irritation. But always, the sight of her sister’s carefree, childish delight made Milly want to shake her. She told herself she just wanted Elsie to wake up to the ways of the world and her own coming responsibilities. But she knew herself well enough to recognize an unattractive streak of jealousy at the heart of her feelings. Surely she was not so mean-spirited that she wished some of her own burdens on to her sister’s shoulders? She blew out a sigh. It was complicated with Elsie, and with Amy too, for that matter. It had always been so complicated. In spite of everything, she was certain, if they were really in trouble she would do anything for them, yet some equally opposite certainty told her that so far in their lives, she had failed them.

  ‘For gawd’s sake, Elsie, you’re fourteen! If you dance along the pavement like that when you start work, they’ll rib you rotten.’

  The young girl looked up at her, surprised, as though she’d hardly been aware that Milly was in front of her. But the sudden spark of anger that Milly was expecting never came.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on, turning the pram to face her sister, ‘what are you doing here? Have you followed me from church?’

  Elsie didn’t answer. Instead she leaned over the pram adoringly. Milly had been surprised at how easily both her sisters had fallen in love with Jimmy.

  ‘I bet you’ll never tell him not to skip,’ Elsie said, tickling him to elicit the throaty little gurgle, which at three months was barely a laugh but never failed to delight her. ‘I bet you’ll let him skip till he’s an old man.’ And Elsie giggled, pleased with the image she’d conjured.

  Milly knew what she meant. Wouldn’t she want Jimmy to be happy enough to skip along the street, without a care in the world? Would she want to squash his dreams as she did Elsie’s?

  ‘I wanted to ask a favour,’ Elsie said.

  They had reached Bertie’s house and Milly was conscious that she had a morning’s work ahead of her, for usually it was on a Sunday that she caught up on her housekeeping duties and made sure there was a good Sunday dinner ready for Bertie when he came back from the Wesleyan chapel.

  Milly led Elsie into the house, leaving Jimmy outside the front door in his pram to benefit from the late summer sun. She set about preparing vegetables in the scullery while Elsie leaned against the draining board.

  ‘Here, make yourself useful.’ Milly gave her a bowl full of peas to shell. ‘What’s the favour anyway?’

  ‘I need a new dress.’ Elsie hesitated. ‘But Mum says there’s no money. Can you lend me some?’

  Milly laughed. ‘Elsie! What makes you think I’ve got any money to spare?’

  ‘Well, you live with Hughes, and grocers have always got money, haven’t they?’

  Milly sighed. ‘I swear you’re as silly as a sackload o’ monkeys sometimes. Just because Bertie’s got money doesn’t mean he gives any to me!’

  ‘But Barrel says he does give you money, he says you’re kept.’

  ‘Barrel should keep his big nose out of other people’s business, and you shouldn’t listen to him.’ She felt herself flushing, then returned to the subject of the dress.

  ‘Why do you need a new dress all of a sudden?’

  Elsie looked crestfallen. She really had believed that Milly could come up with money out of some imaginary pot of gold. Her sister’s earlier light-heartedness faded and she said dully, ‘I’m going in for a singing competition at the Star and I’ve got nothing decent to wear.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not still hankering after the stage? Elsie, love, you’re starting at Southwell’s and that’s that. The old man won’t have it any other way, so just get used to it, for God’s sake.’

  This was the spark that ignited Elsie’s precarious fuse. ‘That old bastard can’t boss me about no more. I sleep with the kitchen knife under me pillow like you used to, and I’ll get out, just like you did.’

  Milly hoped her sister wasn’t contemplating the same escape route as her own. Even a shot at the stage, however fanciful, would be better than that.

  ‘Well, if you really want to try again, then I tell you what, I’ll get you a cheap dress from the Old Clo’, and I’ll alter it. I can put fringing on and tart it up – it’ll be just like new!’

  But Elsie flung down the bowl of peas, green beads cascading on to the wooden draining board.

  ‘There’s no time for that. The competition’s Saturday! Anyway, I’m fed up of always having your cast-offs. I want something new! Just for me!’ She was shouting so loudly, they didn’t hear Bertie come in. He stood in the scullery doorway, looking from sister to sister, then ducked his head. ‘Got some business to do... I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned on his heel, seemingly eager to be out of the line of fire.

  ‘Don’t bother, I’m going.’ Elsie pushed passed him and from the front door flung back. ‘Comes to something when you’ll do more for a stranger than your own family!’

  Bertie looked at Milly, eyebrow raised.

  ‘She’ll get over it.’ She turned to retrieve the peas. ‘You got in the firing line, that’s all. She just needs to grow up and realize life doesn’t deliver your dreams on a plate!’ She was angry now, flinging shelled peas back into the enamel bowl, so that they rang like the death knell of all her own girlish fantasies. Bertie came over to help.

  ‘Steady on, Milly, you’re losing more than you’re putting back in. And anyway, I think you’re wrong. Life gives you exactly what you expect of it, so why not expect the best?’

  Now she felt as irritated with his determined optimism as she had with Elsie’s fantasies. ‘Will you get out of me way!’

  As he retreated down the passage, she heard him say softly to himself, ‘Strike me dumb for opening my mouth!’

  The following Saturday afternoon Milly, her mother and Amy sat in the darkness of the auditorium in the Star Cinema in Abbey Street. Elsie walked on to the stage for her last attempt at singing stardom, before the jam factory claimed her and she entered a life to which she was totally unsuited. They had already seen a dozen hopeful acts, but now they summoned all their enthusiasm to cheer on the nervous, gawky figure, clutching her sheet music. Milly noticed immediately that Elsie was wearing a new dress – a green velvet shift, with thin straps, that showed off her skinny arms and boyish figure. Three deep rows of green fringing swished as she walked across the stage to the pianist and handed him the sheet music.

  Milly leaned over and whispered in her mother’s ear. ‘A new dress and sheet music? Where d’you get that sort of money?’ Her mother shot her a puzzled look, then shushed her. Elsie was about to start. She gave a nod to the pianist, who launched into ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’. It was a favourite of Elsie’s and she looked confident, her dreamy eyes gazing into the far distance as she began the yearning verse:

  ‘I’m dreaming dreams, I’m scheming schemes,

  I’m building castles high. They’re born anew,

  Their days are few, just like a sweet butterfly.

  And as the daylight is dawning,

  They come again in the morning.’

  But as she came to the end of the verse, Milly saw Elsie glance nervously at the pianist. She almost missed the cue for the chorus and while Milly was aware that her own palms had begun to sweat, a sheen was now clearly visible on Elsie’s brow as she swallowed hard and began the chorus.

  ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles, Pretty bubbles in the air,

  They fly so high, nearly reach the sky,

  Then like my dreams, they fade and die.’

  Now Milly could feel her mother shifting in her seat. ‘Gawd, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he’s playing it too high!’ Mrs Colman hissed.

  Now Milly understood what was wrong. Elsie had never sung with sheet music – she’d always pitched the song lower to suit her own contralto voice, invariably reaching the top note effortlessly. But now as it approached, in this unknown register, it was a much more daunting prospect. ‘Fortune’s always hiding,’ she ploughed gamely on, ‘I’ve looked everywhere, I’m foreve
r blowing bubbles...’ As the high note was upon her, poor Elsie looked despairingly at her mother’s reassuring face. From the front row where they sat, Mrs Colman was mouthing ‘You can do it!’ But it was obvious to Milly that her sister certainly could not do it. ‘Pretty bubbles...’ Milly could see disaster fast approaching and knew of only one way to avert it. She jumped to her feet and in the strong soprano that she’d inherited from their mother, she belted out the high note without fault, lingering over the last phrase ‘... in the air!’ Holding it for the longest time, she covered her sister’s faltering, cracked voice with her own. It brought the house down. The applause was tumultuous and the crowd stamped their feet and bellowed for more as Mrs Colman, wrapped in her old brown woollen coat and squashed black hat, stood up to join her two daughters. The threesome sang together, all the way to the end, when Milly and her mother sat down, letting Elsie take the bows.

  Elsie’s idol, the locally beloved music hall performer, Matty Gilbie, was the judge of the competition, which explained to Milly why Elsie had so wanted to be wearing a new dress. The elegant young singer, after handing out the first three prizes, announced a special award for the artist with the best supporting act. And although Elsie hadn’t won the competition, she certainly looked happy enough as Matty Gilbie called her up on to the stage to receive her consolation prize. While her sister stood there curtseying, Milly had to admit that perhaps Elsie had proved Bertie right. If life gives you what you expect, then why not expect the best?

  Milly waited for her outside the Star with her mother and Amy, but when Elsie emerged from the stage door, all her smiles for Matty Gilbie had faded and she met Milly with a scowl.

  ‘Trust you to steal me bloody thunder!’ She grabbed Amy by the arm and swept past Milly, with her chin tilted defiantly.

  ‘And there I was thinking I’d done her a favour!’ Milly said to her mother.

  ‘Well, shit’s yer thanks, love.’ Mrs Colman summed up her feelings exactly.

  She linked arms with her mother as they made their way through the happy Saturday afternoon crowd and turned the corner of Abbey Street, back into Arnold’s Place.