Lizzie of Langley Street

by Carol Rivers

  Upstairs she lowered the bucket to the boards. Bert had done the proverbial vanishing act. She went and looked in their bedroom. Bert lay beside his brother on the big double bed, fully dressed, boots sticking up like tombstones. Despite his injuries, Vinnie snored loudly, and Bert was no longer in the land of the living.

  Lizzie returned to the landing and began to clean up the vomit. It was more trouble than it was worth to rouse either of her brothers. As usual, it was quicker to repair the damage herself.

  At four o’clock in the morning, a sepia light filled the scullery. Always the first to rise on market days, Lizzie turned on the lamp. Her clothes were folded on a chair, and she struggled into them, pulling one jersey on top of another.

  She cut a slight little figure. Most of her clothes were second-hand from Cox Street market. Every stitch was someone else’s, darned, patched and lengthened. Several shades of blue ran round the hem of her skirt, a clue to the number of its previous owners. The jerseys were darned and had squares of cloth from her mother’s work-box sewn over the elbows. Her boots had been outgrown by their neighbour’s daughter, Blakies hammered into their soles.

  She reached behind her, scooped up her long dark hair and plaited it. Then she poured water into the kettle and warmed her hands beside it. Next, she sliced the big crusty loaf that was purchased from the baker’s roundsman, also referred to as the Midnight Baker because he delivered at night. Kate bought bread and milk from him twice a week. On Fridays, when she had money, and on Tuesdays, when she had none. Her debt was recorded on the slate. Lizzie knew it was robbing Peter to pay Paul but that was how people survived on the island.

  When she had finished her chores, she went outside to the lavatory. The path to the wooden shed in the backyard was covered in frost. Sitting on the cold seat, she left the door wide open and shivered as she gazed up at the stars still lighting the sky. With luck, it would be a fine, dry day and business would be brisk at market.

  Lizzie’s heart raced at the thought of seeing Danny Flowers, the tall, blond-haired barrow boy whom she secretly worshipped. She thought of the silk ribbons lying on the tray, imagining them tied in her own curling black hair. Ribbons were all the rage, favoured by the young women who travelled down from the West End. Gentry were always dressed impeccably. Lizzie was fascinated with their clothes and loved to study the fashions. It was the only opportunity she had to do so and she made the most of it.

  Thoughts of Danny and beautiful clothes vanished as she returned to the house, stifling a yawn. It was time to wake her father and she’d only had three hours’ sleep. All because of Vinnie. His drinking was becoming worse and so were his black moods.

  The stink of disinfectant flowed out as she opened the bedroom door. It was the only antidote the islanders had to bugs and mice. Distributed free at the local park each week, Kate used it in the bedroom, which, because of Tom’s injuries and the risk of infection, was the priority.

  Once acclimatized, Lizzie pushed the Bath chair up to the bed. Her father groaned as she parted the heavy curtains.

  Kate woke and sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Wait, Lizzie. I’ll help you get ’im into the chair. You’ll do yer back in if you try it on yer own.’

  ‘I’ll manage, Ma, you couldn’t have got much sleep last night.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right now, love.’ Still sitting, Kate wound her long grey plait into a bun. ‘Let’s get your father dressed, then,’ she sighed, rising slowly.

  As usual, Tom complained throughout the performance. It was not until he was washed and fully clothed that Lizzie had time to notice how ill her mother looked.

  ‘You sure you feel all right, Ma?’ Lizzie asked at the breakfast table.

  ‘I’ll be right as rain when I get me second breath.’ Kate poured tea into three enamel mugs. ‘Spread the drippin’, gel, will you?’

  Lizzie’s mouth watered as she spread the thick, juicy paste scooped off the top of the stock. Kate rarely cooked a joint of beef now. They wouldn’t eat another one for at least a month. Lizzie remembered how every Sunday before the war they ate thick slices of succulent roast beef, the leftovers fried as bubble and squeak the next day. The rich brown juice was made into broth, eked out over the week. They had taken the beef for granted then. Now, even the dripping was a delicacy.

  ‘Eat up, you two,’ Kate told them briskly. ‘You won’t get much more before the day’s out.’

  Lizzie bolted her food. She noticed Kate hadn’t eaten a crumb. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed, Ma? Babs could take Flo to school today.’

  ‘Aw, stop fussing,’ Kate scolded. ‘Anyone would think I’m on me last legs.’

  ‘It’s them lazy buggers upstairs that’s the cause of the trouble,’ muttered Tom angrily, pushing himself away from the table, his breakfast uneaten. ‘They treat this house like a bloody lodgings. I tell you, I’ve had enough of it. If they can’t abide by the rules they can clear out. Idle good for nothing layabouts—’

  ‘I’ll get yer coat and scarf, Pa,’ Lizzie said quickly, catching her mother’s look of dismay.

  ‘And wrap up warm,’ Kate called after her. ‘I don’t want you both coming down with pneumonia. And who knows, if the weather holds, you might have a good day and we can settle the rent with old Symons.’

  A remark that didn’t make Tom Allen any the happier as, swathed in coats, scarves and mittens, they left the house and Lizzie began the long push from Cubitt Town to Poplar. It was a sombre beginning to the day, but Lizzie knew their spirits would lift when they saw their friends. For her, one in particular: Danny Flowers.

  The Isle of Dogs was still asleep as she pushed her father through the empty streets of Cubitt Town. Only Island Gardens, the park where she brought her sisters to play, was alive with birdsong. Soon they had reached the Mudchute, years ago a mountainous health hazard of rotting silt. Now the islanders grew vegetables there. It was barricaded with wooden fences so the kids wouldn’t get in.

  Lizzie was proud of the island’s ancient roots. She had learned at school that the Isle of Dogs had first been recorded on the maps in the sixteenth century. Over time, the rough horseshoe of land, surrounded on three sides by water, had become the centre of the capital’s trade and industry.

  Glancing seaward she spotted a tall ship’s mast over the roofs of the tatty cottages. Hooters echoed, oil and tar blew in on the wind, another day of sea trading had begun. Her grandfather and great-grandfather had sailed on the big, ocean going vessels, the Triton and the Oceanides.

  It had been nothing, once, to see the bowsprit of a ship leaning over a backyard. Children had swung from the long poles, pretending to be pirates, and up above them the main masts had seemed to pierce the sky. Lizzie could remember her brothers playing along the wharves. She could see them now, scavenging under the furnaces of the factories, black with ash. Bert had a deep voice even as a boy. He’d often sung sea shanties with the sailors and Vinnie had dug in the silt, convinced he’d find treasure.

  The war had seemed a long way away then.

  Her father huddled down under his scarves. His jaw jutted out against the wind, and she pushed on, her efforts keeping her warm as the November day dawned, bright and clear. Horses and carts trotted by, women whitened their doorsteps.

  ‘A Good Pull-Up at Carmen’, announced a notice over one door. Lizzie waved at the owner, standing outside his café fastening his apron. The Carmen was no more than a shack, with a corrugated roof and a flap that came down over the front, but the smell of cheesecake was tantalizing. She’d never tasted the pastries covered in thick coconut, but they were always lined up on trays inside. The aroma of hot dough and coconut made her mouth water.

  On they went, her load heavier now. Some of the girls from the pickle factory said hello. They all looked and smelled the same. Their hair was hidden under white caps and they walked noisily on their clogs. Their white coats were stained with yellow from the onions and they stank of vinegar.

  Lizzie had always feared having to work
at the pickle factory. Then one day her mother had remarked, ‘It’s better than the sacking factory. The dust fills up your lungs and chokes you to death. Listen to the women coughing and you know they work with sack.’ After that, the pickle factory seemed like heaven.

  As they skirted the docks a small band of men huddled on the stones. ‘There must be a skin boat in. Poor sods,’ her father sighed. These were older men, casual labour, waiting for work. No man in his right mind would work with animal skins from abroad, her father had once commented. The skins were riddled with disease. And there were rats. Vermin as big as dogs. But these men were starving and they’d resort to anything to feed their families.

  Lizzie shivered. There were always anthrax deaths on the island. The stories were gruesome. At least Bert and Vinnie had never had to unload skins, she thought more cheerfully. Perhaps being a bookie’s runner wasn’t so bad after all.

  The market stalls were suddenly in sight and Lizzie quickened her step. Would Danny be there with his barrow? Eagerly she looked for his fair head and broad shoulders, her heart beating fast as her eyes scanned the crowd. Colour, laughter and early morning jokes abounded. The traders were busy erecting stalls and insulting one another. Fruit and vegetables, fish, meat, materials, china. It was all there, like Aladdin’s cave, spread out over the tables.

  It seemed as though she hadn’t lived till this minute.

  The beautiful features of the young woman were enhanced by a soft smile as she drew the delicate pink silk through her fingers. ‘How much are these ribbons?’ she asked in a refined accent.

  ‘A penny’s worth there, miss.’ Lizzie gazed up, fascinated by the aura of wealth and respectability. ‘The blue would look lovely on you.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Why don’t you try one on, miss?’ Lizzie held up one of the blue ribbons. It matched the girl’s powder blue coat and velvet hat with an upturned brim.

  ‘Have you a mirror?’

  ‘No, but Freda has. Over there on the fruit and veg stall. Freda’ll hold your hat whilst you try them on.’ Lizzie knew that Fat Freda, who was always putting on her red lipstick and smacking her lips in a big, cracked mirror, would gladly offer her help. She watched the girl walk gracefully to Fat Freda’s stall.

  The next moment Freda was holding her mirror up and giving Lizzie a wink on the sly. Lizzie knew once those ribbons were in the girl’s hair she’d be hooked. The girl didn’t give Freda her hat, just held the ribbons against her peaches and cream cheek and Lizzie knew it was enough. She would be opening her purse any moment.

  Freda raised her pencilled eyebrows behind the mirror.

  Lizzie giggled.

  ‘Off you go, gel.’ Tom Allen gave his daughter a nudge. ‘Stop staring at the customers and go and find Dickie for me. Tell him to come up for a chat if he’s done all his business.’

  ‘But Pa—!’ The girl was walking back, a satisfied look on her face.

  Tom Allen pulled down his scarf with an irritable jerk. ‘Ain’t you awake yet, gel? Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes, Pa.’ Lizzie glanced at their customer one last time before walking away. She liked selling, but it wasn’t often Tom let her. He preferred her to push the chair or run errands, like now, irritably dispatching her to find Dickie Potts, one of his friends.

  ‘How’d it go?’ Fat Freda asked as Lizzie passed her stall.

  ‘She’ll buy ’em I think. Thanks for the loan of the mirror.’

  ‘Yer old man oughta let you flog stuff more often,’ Freda exclaimed. ‘You’re a natural, gel. You’d sell sand to an Arab.’

  Lizzie liked Fat Freda, so named because of her immense girth and chins. She was not from the island, but hailed from Poplar. Freda was a widow with a large family and numerous grandchildren. She attended the market each week and was known for her loud singing voice and hammering out tunes on the pub piano. Tickling the ivories, as she called it.

  ‘You seen Danny yet?’ Freda asked, winking.

  Lizzie blushed and tried to pretend she hadn’t heard.

  ‘He’s along there with his barra,’ Freda said loudly enough for the whole market to hear. ‘Down the end of the row.’

  Lizzie went scarlet. She kept her head down as she left Freda’s stall. She had to take the long route in order to pass Danny and she hoped no one would notice. Her heart was pounding as she walked through the crowd. Would Danny speak when he saw her? Or would he be too busy selling chestnuts and not notice her pass by? Lizzie couldn’t see anything but bodies squashed together, and a sense of panic filled her. What if she couldn’t find him? What if he hadn’t come?

  ‘Enough brass monkeys for you?’ a voice called and she spun round. Danny’s barrow, slightly set back from the stalls, was brimming with hot roasting chestnuts. He was standing there, tall and handsome in his cloth cap and waistcoat, warming his hands over the brazier. ‘Come and have a warm up,’ he called, his blue eyes inviting.

  Lizzie flushed with pleasure. ‘Can’t yet, Danny. I’ll be over later.’

  ‘You make sure you are.’ Danny winked as he tilted his cap. ‘Me day don’t start till you come over and have a chat.’

  ‘Get on with you, you saucy bugger,’ called the stallholder next to the barrow. ‘Leave the poor girl alone. She ain’t got time to spend with the likes of you, silly sod.’

  Lizzie smiled and caught Danny’s eye again.

  By the time she found Dickie Potts he was counting his change and totting up the morning’s sales. ‘How’s yer dad, Lizzie?’ Dickie grinned, displaying big, brown, horse-like teeth.

  ‘Said he’d like to have a chat, Dickie.’ Lizzie tried to dodge the spray of spittle.

  ‘Yeah, all right, gel. I’m almost done.’ Dickie had survived Flanders like her father. He suffered from a hacking cough, the effects of gas poisoning. He had sold newspapers before the war and was still selling them now. Newspapers were his passion.

  ‘Have a butchers at this.’ Dickie lowered a newspaper and Lizzie was able to read the headlines. ‘Marshall Foch Salutes Unknown Warrior!’

  ‘Bloody liars and hypocrites!’ exclaimed Dickie. Like her father, Dickie didn’t believe the printed word, but he wanted to read the lies all the same. By the time the afternoon came, the newspaper seller and her father would have analysed every article in the paper from cover to cover.

  Lizzie knew that the war had changed their beliefs, as it had millions of others who had lived to tell the tale. The government’s words, her father said, were at variance with its deeds. He’d heard all their promises and been the victim of the broken ones. No one came to relieve him or Dickie in the trenches. From the minute he woke in hospital and saw his two stumps, he knew the government’s promises of an acre of land and a pig for every soldier after the war was a myth.

  Dickie himself was a hive of knowledge. He and her father were always debating politics. Both held allegiance to no one after the atrocities they’d witnessed. War disgusted them along with the warmongers on both sides that had sent millions of men to their deaths.

  ‘Why is he called “Unknown”, Dickie?’ Lizzie asked as Dickie licked the spittle from his lips.

  ‘’Cos ’e represents the unknown dead,’ Dickie replied gravely. ‘The French are takin’ six unidentified dead bodies to a hut at Saint Pol, near Arras. Then they’re gonna get an officer to close ’is eyes, rest ’is hand on one of them there coffins, and that’ll be the poor bastard who’ll travel to England in a box.’ Dickie sucked his teeth grimly. Suddenly he looked very far away. ‘The coffin’s going from Boulogne to Dover on the British destroyer, Verdun. Another destroyer, the Vendetta, is gonna accompany her across the Channel, very regal like. As a special tribute, they’re gonna fly the White Ensign at ’alf mast and dock to a nineteen gun salute.’

  Lizzie was silent for a moment, the gravity and importance of what Dickie had just told her bringing a lump to her throat. ‘What’s gonna happen then?’ she asked quietly.

  Dickie coughed loudly and w
iped his nose with a grubby sleeve. ‘The coffin goes by train to London, gel. They’ll put a bloody great wreath on top of the gun carriage and take it from the Cenotaph to Westminster Abbey. King George’ll be there and Queen Mary.’ Dickie’s face darkened. ‘All I say is, why couldn’t they bloody shake the poor devil’s hand when ’e was alive, before ’e ’ad to spill ’is guts for King and Country? A bloodbath that’s what it was – for the working classes and kids! We was expendable.’ Dickie shook his head slowly. ‘Nah. It’s too late to honour ’em now. And I wouldn’t mind bettin’ ’alf the country thinks so too.’

  Lizzie had heard the rumours of unrest at market. She knew her father was of the same opinion as Dickie. Ex-servicemen, the unemployed, every one of them was disillusioned with their meagre lot.

  ‘Would you believe Foch is sending over one ’undred sandbags of French earth?’ Dickie went on in a low voice. ‘They’re gonna line ’is grave with it. French earth or British, what does it matter? All earth’s got worms, don’t matter where it comes from. The maggots’ll get a bellyful just the same. It ain’t going to matter to the corpse, is it?’

  Lizzie shuddered. She felt sorry for Dickie, but sometimes he frightened her. She knew that, like her father, he would never recover mentally from the terrifying experiences of war.

  ‘Saw ’undreds o’ worms, I did, saw ’em crawlin’ over torsos and limbs, burrowin’ their way inside flesh and bone. Worms has filthy ’abits. Worms ain’t fussed wevver it’s the Boche or the Allies.’ Dickie cackled lewdly. ‘All rot tastes the same.’

  A shiver went down Lizzie’s spine. ‘Is there anything else in the papers?’ she asked, changing the subject quickly, hoping he would hurry up and get his things together. She wanted to see to Danny again.

  Dickie looked at her and blinked. Then he stabbed a filthy finger at the paper. ‘Yeah, a big burglary up West. They coshed a night watchman and got away with two ’undred quid’s worth of stuff from a jewellers. One of’em was seen by a passer-by. They think they can trace him with a bit of luck. Two ’undred smackers in one night, more ‘n’ I make in a lifetime. Big, ’e was, a bloody big bloke.’ Dickie licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘Says ’ere over six foot. Gotta big ’ead and long arms. Like a bleedin’ great gorilla.’