Jam and Roses

by Mary Gibson

  ‘That’s a sad old tune!’ Bertie stood, with his quirky smile, observing her. For some reason she found all the emotion of the day overflowing, and tears spattered the roses in her lap. Bertie was at her side immediately.

  ‘Milly, what’s the matter, is it the boy?’

  She shook her head and let the day’s events pour out, then immediately regretted it. The man had been kindness itself since the day he’d found her on Fountain Stairs and brought her home. She’d vowed to pay him back with her usefulness, and she was reluctant to involve him in any more of her troubles.

  ‘But it’s nothing I should be worrying you with, Bertie. My family’s troubles could keep you occupied two lifetimes. I’ll sort something out. Now let me get your tea, you must be starving.’ She wiped her tears on her pinafore, and as she stood up the petals of the thornless rose scattered at her feet.

  He bent to scoop them up and, as he stood up, she was surprised by the hurt expression on his face.

  ‘I hoped you’d come to think of me as a friend, Milly. It’s not a trouble to a friend, to help in time of need.’

  It was a shock to see his usually amused features suddenly so serious. Evening sun honeyed the back wall of the house, and reflected in his eyes. For the first time she experienced a warmth of feeling towards him, slow as the sleepy bees bumbling among the lavender. She smiled, not wanting now to deflect him with a joke or a brisk comment.

  ‘It’s just I’m so grateful... for what you’ve done already. I didn’t mean to...’ She wasn’t often speechless and noticing her discomfort, he was quick to save her.

  ‘Habits of a lifetime, eh? You always were the independent one.’ And then she realized that Bertie Hughes had probably been aware of her for a very long time, certainly much longer than she’d been aware of him.

  He allowed her to busy herself, setting his tea things before him, but all the while asking questions about Elsie’s crime and what the police had said. In the end he suggested she go to Florence Green for help. Immediately her guard was up. Did he merely see her as a worthy charity case for his lady friend at the Settlement? But she dismissed the thought with a blush, wishing she’d been made of less prickly stuff.

  ‘You should go now,’ he said, unaware of the effect of Miss Green’s name on her. ‘You’ll catch her before the clubs start, and if Elsie’s up before the beak tomorrow, there’s no time to lose.’ He saw her hesitate and put down his fork. ‘I’ll watch the boy for you. Or do you want me to go and talk to Miss Green?’ He’d already half risen.

  ‘No! No... I’ll go. If you think it’ll do some good, it’s worth a try.’ And before she lost her courage, she’d flung on her coat and hurried from the house.

  Milly hadn’t set foot in the Settlement for almost a year, but now as she stood in its wood-panelled calm, smelling the familiar mix of chalk dust, wood polish and dinner coming from the dining hall, she realized she’d missed it. It had always been such a strange oasis in her world of poverty, an alien settlement from a foreign world, where the promise of beautiful ordered lives hung about the galleries and music-filled classrooms, where in a world surrounded by malnourishment and rickety children, the prospect of health and physical prowess permeated gyms and exercise yards. She’d forgotten that such promise existed. Now, standing outside the dining room, waiting for Miss Green to finish her supper, she found herself clasping and unclasping her hands. She felt as though she’d treated Florence Green shabbily, and now here she was, asking another favour of the woman. But this favour wasn’t for herself. It was for Elsie, and for her mother. She knew that Miss Green had a soft spot for Elsie, the fey child who had taken to the folk songs and dances she taught, and had embraced the precepts of the Guild of Play with such gusto. Fragile Elsie, who would spend all day making fairy grottos, beautifying the pavements, only to have them scuffed away by so many hobnailed boots and careless feet by evening time.

  ‘Ah, Milly.’ Miss Green came out of the dining hall, her gentle smile already dispelling Milly’s doubts and fears. She took both Milly’s hands in hers. ‘I was visiting Arnold’s Place and heard of your family’s trouble. Our poor Elsie, she must be got out at all costs!’

  Milly was thankful for once to the gossipy neighbours. At least she was spared the long, embarrassing explanations of her family’s collapse.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m asking another favour of you... and I threw the last one back in your face,’ Milly said.

  ‘Milly, you did nothing wrong in wanting to keep your child.’ She held Milly’s gaze for a long moment, as if despairing that she would be believed. ‘In any event,’ she went on, ‘this is why we’re here. You mustn’t feel awkward about asking for help. Come upstairs.’

  Milly found herself once more in the poignant little room and remembered with shame her judgement on the single Miss Green. For all she knew, she and Bertie had already been deep into a romance all those months ago. Milly realized she’d been very short-sighted and resolved to judge less and observe more in future.

  ‘Now, Bertie was right to send you to me. He may have told you that we have a lawyer on our team of volunteers and I will consult him first thing tomorrow morning. With your mother’s permission, I’ll ask him to appear for Elsie at the magistrate’s court.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Miss Green. I can’t see Mum objecting, but the old man... well, you know it was him that took her to the police?’

  The woman nodded, distaste clouding her features. She gave a little shake of her head and went on to explain the court procedure. If the lawyer was successful, they could have Elsie home by teatime.

  Milly made a few hasty arrangements with Miss Green for the following day and then, impatient to be off, so she could tell her mother the good news, she launched herself down the wooden staircase and out into the street. She sped along Bermondsey Wall, taking the shortest route back to Dockhead, intent on getting home as fast as she could. Careering round the corner of Hickman’s Folly, buried in thought, she suddenly found herself colliding with a heavy-set figure. Rebounding with an audible smack, she was about to apologize when she realized she had just bounced off the solid bulk of her father, making his way to the Swan for his nightly drink. She was aware of an almost animal growl coming from deep in her throat.

  ‘You bastard! How could you do that to your own daughter?’ She fixed her eyes on him, almost willing him to come against her.

  But instead, he rocked back on his heels, giving her a smug grin of satisfaction. ‘She’s where she belongs. I’m not having another nutter of a daughter trying to kill me, like you did. It’s what I should’a done with you, and I will do, if you give me any more trouble! Then see what happens to your bastard, when you’re locked up!’

  She checked herself. Jimmy. She’d called him her secret weapon, but, with a stab of fear, she realized he was also her greatest weakness. The old man could hurt her through Jimmy, any time he wanted.

  He nodded knowingly. ‘Ahhh, not so quick with your fists now, are you?’

  She had a vivid recollection of the first time she’d ever seen electric light, the wonder of the invisible current that flowed and resulted in such instant incandescence. Now she seemed the conduit for two opposing currents: shooting through her veins like lightning was the impulse to fight him, the red-hot desire to feel again the triumph of that day she’d called him out of the Swan, but there was also a slower, contradictory current, originating in her heart, pulsing only a warning about her child. She turned her back on the old man, and walked away.

  Early next morning, when Milly and her mother arrived for Elsie’s arraignment, Florence Green was waiting with the young solicitor outside Tower Bridge magistrate’s court. The lawyer introduced himself as Francis Beaumont, a lanky young man who, with his round face and smooth complexion, seemed far too young to be a qualified lawyer. But who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth? Even if he was inexperienced, he knew more about the law than she ever would. He led them up the white stone steps of the court building in
to the wood-panelled interior. The waiting area was dimly lit and lined with doors leading to the courtrooms. Beside each courtroom door was a wooden bench and the young lawyer indicated they should sit at one.

  ‘Elsie’s due to appear in court number three,’ he nodded towards the door nearest them, ‘at ten thirty.’ He gave Mrs Colman a reassuring look. ‘Not long now.’

  Milly squeezed her mother’s bony hand, the paper-thin skin contoured with protruding veins. She absently rubbed the swollen red knuckles; they were the hands of a much older woman.

  ‘We’ll have her home today, won’t we, sir?’ Her mother looked appealingly at the young man in his well-cut black suit and tie, and Milly saw him blush.

  He looked at Miss Green, as if for reassurance. ‘I will certainly do my best, Mrs Colman.’ He swallowed hard. ‘But it may not be today... exactly.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Elsie is in good hands. Francis is an excellent lawyer.’ Florence Green came to his aid. ‘He has a very promising career ahead of him!’

  Milly only wished his promising career was half behind him, or had, at the very least, actually begun. They waited in an awkward silence, while other people came to sit on the benches. Two cocky-looking boys, in cheap, fashionable suits, strolled in together, closely followed by a bloated woman with a red nose and a large bag, clinking with what sounded suspiciously like beer bottles. Milly could hardly believe she’d brought booze to court, but as the woman passed them, her mother muttered, ‘Smells worse’n the Anchor Brewery.’

  On the stroke of ten thirty they were called into the courtroom. A cry broke from her mother’s lips when Elsie was brought in. Milly held on to her arm, unsure what Mrs Colman might do. Her sister looked pitiful. Her eyes, red-rimmed with crying, stared out of her sharp-featured face and fixed on Milly’s.

  ‘Get me out!’ she mouthed silently.

  Milly nodded, hoping the contact made her feel less alone. Then the charges were read: robbery, concealing a weapon, threatening to kill her father, inflicting grievous bodily harm on a police officer. Only now did Milly understand how serious matters were, and she began to fear the worst.

  The detective gave evidence of Elsie’s ‘unstable mental state’. And, as he described her behaviour – the sudden violent rage, followed by a trancelike, almost catatonic state, the unprompted laughter, the songs and pieces of verse that she addressed only to herself, the lack of any remorse – Milly realized he was indeed describing her sister. However much Milly had called her ‘a nutter’ in the past, she never really believed it. She wanted to shout out to the drawling, dismissive judge that it all meant nothing – it was just Elsie being Elsie!

  Every time a new charge was read out, she saw her sister slump closer to the floor, until eventually she had to be held up by the officer standing next to her. The whole proceedings seemed to take place outside of time, for afterwards, Milly couldn’t remember who had said what, or when. Overawed by the formality of the room, where all was laid out to demonstrate the guilt of one and the power of another, Milly struggled to keep track of the arguments over Elsie’s fate. Eventually she heard her mother’s name mentioned and Francis Beaumont extolling her motherly virtues, a good Catholic woman, he said, who kept her children fed and clothed, made sure Elsie attended the school and church regularly. While he spoke of her, Milly’s mother sat up a little straighter and lifted her chin, eager to show that she was here in support of her daughter and that everything Francis Beaumont had said was true.

  The judge looked their way, unsmiling, and asked if there were any other character witnesses. Miss Green rose, and spoke of Elsie in glowing terms, though Milly wondered how much sway she would have with the hard-faced judge. Still, she praised Elsie’s abilities in song and dance and drawing, and said that she was an unusually imaginative child, with a few character quirks, quite normal in the sensitive personality and not at all evidence of mental instability. Milly, for so long her sister’s sternest critic, now ached to be able to say something in Elsie’s defence, but she knew, that as a woman with an illegitimate child herself, she could do no good as a character witness for anyone.

  Then the judge asked, ‘Is the father here?’

  ‘No, your honour,’ Francis Beaumont replied. ‘But there are allegations against him of brutality, which I respectfully suggest as mitigating circumstance for the... ahmm, attack. The police have indicated they would take this into consideration...’

  The young man’s confident tone had dwindled, as it became evident the judge’s stern expression was not melting. His mouth was a tight, thin line that had not once curled into anything resembling a smile.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he replied testily. ‘These are very serious charges and they cannot be dropped at this point, and furthermore, if neither the father...’ here he looked over his glasses at Mrs Colman, ‘nor the mother can control this violent child, then she must be put into the hands of those who can. I believe I’ve heard enough. The juvenile is to be committed to Stonefield Asylum.’

  The gavel struck, wood on wood, and Milly’s heart flinched from the blow. Elsie was half carried out, looking over her shoulder, bewildered and disbelieving. She fixed her eyes on Milly once more and mouthed again, silently, as though robbed of speech.

  ‘Get me out!’

  Outside the courtroom they gathered in a little huddle of despair, Francis Beaumont shamefaced and apologetic, her mother inconsolable, Miss Green disbelieving. But as Milly felt herself being sucked into their defeat, she decided she must replace it with determination. Whatever it needed, however long it took, she would answer her sister’s mute cry for help. She would get her out of Stonefield Asylum, or ‘the nuthouse’ as it was commonly called. Its very name was used to strike terror into the heart of any wayward child. It was the place where young delinquents and unfortunates were sent to improve their ways, in the company of the slow of mind, the truly mad and the only ever mildly bad.

  Bertie had been looking out for them. Milly saw him first, in his long white apron, standing at the shop door looking eagerly in their direction. They slowed down as they approached the shop and she saw his expectant, hopeful face turn to disbelief as he read her expression.

  ‘What happened?’

  Milly’s mother’s tears returned and it was left to Milly to explain.

  ‘The lawyer was a nice young chap,’ she said, trying to put a positive slant on things. It had, after all, been Bertie’s suggestion she go to the Settlement for help. ‘He did his best, but well, to tell the truth, Bertie, he wasn’t much older than me.’

  Bertie’s face fell. ‘So where’s Elsie?’

  ‘Stonefield Asylum,’ Milly said softly.

  ‘What? But that’s ridiculous. She’s not an imbecile!’ His face flushed red and with unusual vehemence he slammed his hand against the door jamb. Then seeing Mrs Colman’s renewed sobbing, he softened his voice. ‘Come into the shop, Mrs Colman. Let me get you a drop of brandy before you go any further.’

  Together they helped her mother to the chair that always sat by the counter, for those customers with weak legs, or with time on their hands for chatting. Soon her mother was sipping brandy and Milly was able to give Bertie the details.

  ‘It was the knife did it, Bertie. She attacked a copper. To be fair to Mr Beaumont, not many lawyers would have got her off. The old man’s testimony just put the dairy on it, and the judge said, if her parents couldn’t control her, then someone else would have to try.’

  ‘But why the asylum?’ Although he worked at Dockhead, as a member of the shopkeeping classes, Bertie hadn’t the same first-hand experience of the law and its ways that Milly had. She, however, had seen playmates come and go from a whole host of institutions and in the end it didn’t much matter what they were called, they were all forbidding old Victorian buildings, echoing repositories for those too young or feeble to be placed into prisons. She remembered poor Johnny Harper in the class above her. He’d scaled the walls of the meat factory in Spa Road and stolen sausages, dipped
into the barrels of oranges at Lipton’s and lifted pats of butter from Fogden’s Dairy. It was no coincidence all his contraband was food, for in a family of fourteen he was continually hungry. He’d always said he wasn’t scared of Stonefield, but as others before him had discovered, there, the mixture of bad and mad was so toxic that if you went inside as one, you would certainly come out as the other. She feared that her sister, who had always skipped so precariously along the margin of both, would certainly be tipped over the edge in such a place.

  And she couldn’t bear the thought Elsie might suffer the same fate as poor Johnny, who now roamed the streets of Bermondsey, collecting newspapers in an old pram. He’d been given the new cruel name of ‘pissy pants’ and the last time she’d seen him he was emaciated and still hungry, living in a lean-to in Wild’s Rents.

  ‘Why Stonefield?’ She shuddered. ‘Because there’s nowhere else to put her.’

  Soon the word seeped out that they were back and the neighbours, eager to know the verdict on Elsie, began to join them in the shop. The tiny square of black-and-white tiles in front of the counter was soon crowded. Mrs Knight claimed to be so overcome with shock that she needed a tipple of what Mrs Colman was drinking, and Rosie Rockle, who’d been minding Jimmy all morning, offered to keep him for the afternoon.