Palace of Tears

by Anna King

  Outside the front of the house she could hear women’s voices as they exchanged a few minutes of idle gossip before getting down to their household chores. But she didn’t really know her other neighbours that well. She always said good morning, when encountering one of them in the street, but that was about as far as her acquaintance with them went. And these past months she had been only too aware of their curious eyes, eager to know who was responsible for the child she was carrying. No! No, she couldn’t crawl out into the street. It would be… well, undignified, and if nothing else, she still had her dignity. Then all such feelings vanished in a wave of searing pain and fear, as she began the fight for survival – for herself and for her unborn child.

  * * *

  ‘Wotcha, Doris, love. ’Ow’s fings?’

  ‘Oh, you know, Bert. Mustn’t complain. An’ it wouldn’t do any good if I did, ’cos no-one’d listen.’

  Well Street market was alive with activity. Despite the war, the East End stall-holders still managed to thrive, obtaining their wares from nefarious quarters to sell on to women who were always on the look-out for a bargain – war or no war.

  The warm July air was filled with the smells of dead fish, warm meat, flowers and fresh – and some not so fresh – fruit.

  ‘Yer found a job yet, duck?’

  Doris started, the large, bright orange that she’d idly picked up from the stall slipping from her grasp to fall back among its companions.

  ‘Nah, there’s nothing going at the moment. Still, keep smiling, eh? That’s what I say.’

  She was about to move off when the stall-holder caught hold of her arm with a dirt-encrusted hand.

  ‘’Ere, just a tick, Doris. The reason I asked is ’cos I ’eard there’s one going down at the baker’s. Yer know the one. The Baker’s Dozen down the end of the market, where we all get our rolls an’ tea. Why don’t yer go an’ see if it’s still going. Suit yer, that would, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Thanks, Bert. I’ll go along now an’ ask. Thanks a lot. See yer.’ With a cheery wave of her hand Doris walked off, appearing to head in the direction of the market bakery. But once out of sight of the helpful stall-holder, she crossed the road and continued to wander aimlessly through the market.

  What was the matter with her? She had never been afraid of work, or anything else for that matter. But since the accident she had seemed to retreat inside herself, unable, or unwilling, to do anything more arduous than cope with the everyday mundane necessities of living.

  At times she felt as if she were being sucked into a giant, dark void, a void that she had until now resisted. Yet she had the idea that if she were to succumb to the welcoming dark abyss, then she would be drawn down into a place from which she would never return – and the idea both appealed to and terrified her.

  Every little mishap, even something as trivial as finding there was no milk for her tea, was enough to bring tears gushing to her eyes. She couldn’t understand it. She’d never been one to let things get her down, yet now…!

  ‘’Ere, ’Arry. Wot yer done ter yer missus? I seen ’er just now crying ’er eyes out.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the silly cow won’t piss so much then, will she?’

  This sally, which would normally have brought forth a howl of laughter, didn’t even elicit a smile from Doris as she passed by the two labourers perched on a wall outside a terraced house, drinking strong, muddy tea from tin mugs. One of them, an elderly man in his fifties, looked up and gave an exaggerated wink at Doris. The unexpected gesture brought a sudden rush of colour to her pale cheeks and a jerking lift to her heart. Confused, she bowed her head and hurried on. Before the accident she would have dallied a while with the men, exchanging quips in harmless flirtation – before the accident, before the accident.

  Stop it, stop it, her mind screamed at her. It was no good harping back to the accident. It had happened, and now it was over, and she had to move on, let it go – but she couldn’t. She had tried, oh, yes, she had tried. But sometimes she didn’t even know herself. Didn’t recognise the miserable, moody, frightened, apathetic creature she had become. If she hadn’t been living with the Fords, she would have given up altogether. And all her frustrations and spite had found a release in tormenting Emily.

  Emily, her dear friend, whom she no longer hated, although she couldn’t seem to tell her so. The apologetic words, words that she rehearsed over and over again in her mind each night, became locked in her throat whenever the recipient of her inner feelings appeared.

  Passing a second-hand stall, Doris listlessly picked up a pale green blouse and a brown hobble skirt.

  ‘Only five bob the pair, darlin’. Belonged ter a real Duchess, they did.’

  Doris nodded, dropping the garments back among the untidy heap of clothes. If the owners of second-hand stalls were to be believed, the entire wardrobes of the nobility had ended up in the East End markets.

  Inexplicably her throat tightened and the familiar urge to cry assailed her. She walked on, lost in her own deep, troubled thoughts, her footsteps taking her, like an unbridled horse, back towards Fenton Street. And as she listlessly dragged her feet along the uneven pavement, her mind again travelled back to the day of the accident.

  Poor Lucy Williams, the girl she had asked to clock in for her, had died almost instantly, and Freda Hawkins, an older, more experienced woman, had died of her injuries two days later. Five other women had been treated for burns and shock, as she herself had, and Doris had been extremely lucky. It still wasn’t clear what had caused the TNT to ignite. Either it had been a faulty batch, or someone had been careless; disastrously so. The explosion had occurred in the lower end of the factory floor, right behind the heavy entrance door, blasting it to smithereens, and fragments of the door had pierced Doris’s eyes, almost blinding her. She had been lucky – she had to keep telling herself that. For the accident had happened in the very part of the factory where she herself had worked. If she had been on time that day…!

  Her legs froze, and her heart began hammering inside her chest. Oh, my God! All this time she had been blaming Emily for everything that had befallen her, yet if Emily hadn’t told her about the baby, if she had kept quiet just another day longer, then she, Doris, would have gone into work as usual. Would have been working alongside Lucy and Freda and…!

  The weakness struck at her arms first, then at her legs, and for an awful, stomach-churning moment she thought she was going to pass out. Quickly she steadied herself. Why had she never realised that before?

  And the answer came back swiftly. Because yer was too bleeding busy feeling sorry fer yerself. Well, now yer know. If it wasn’t fer Emily, yer’d be lying six foot under right now. So get yer arse back home and start apologising. No, make that grovelling, ’cos yer’ve been a right bloody bitch these past couple of weeks; in fact, yer’ve been a right pain in the arse since… Oh, Gawd, she had ter get home, and could only hope that Emily wouldn’t spit in her eye when she apologised. No, never. Emily was too much of a lady to do anything so coarse.

  As if in a daze, Doris looked around her and saw that she was at the very end of the market, facing in the direction of Morning Lane. Shaking her head in bewilderment, she turned slowly and began to retrace her footsteps.

  Cutting through one of the side turnings that would bring her level with Fenton Street, she heard raised voices and the sound of glass shattering, and without stopping to think she began to walk in the direction of the commotion. What she saw brought her to an abrupt standstill.

  About half a dozen men, presumably from one of the nearby factories, were gathered outside a butcher’s shop, some clutching thick sticks, others holding stones high ready to throw, their faces contorted with savage rage, their mouths shouting hate-filled obscenities. More glass shattered and a loud, jeering cry rent the air.

  ‘Piss orf back ter Germany, yer bleeding Hun. We don’t want the likes of yer over ’ere, spying on us fer yer murdering pals. Yer all butchers, the whole bleeding lot of yer kind
.’

  Fear struck Doris’s heart at the almost demoniacal hatred she was witnessing. Then an elderly man, his head bleeding, his hands raised in a gesture of helplessness, ran from the shop, his quivering voice barely audible above the frenzied, clamouring noise.

  Heirhart Noschke, a German Jew who had lived in England for over twenty years, ran frantically to and fro, his sweaty palms rubbing the front of his striped, blood-stained apron, his eyes filled with bewilderment rather than fear. He had taken over the butcher’s shop from his father before him, and he looked upon England as his home, and the English people as his friends. He couldn’t understand what was happening, couldn’t comprehend the hate pouring from this small group of men, some of whom he knew and had passed the time of day with. Now they were looking at him as if he were some loathsome creature whom they were about to tread underfoot, with as much thought as they would crush an insect. Another stone found its target, hitting him squarely on the side of the temple. He wasn’t quick enough to put his arms out to cushion his fall, and his face hit the pavement, his lower and upper teeth slamming together with a sickening crack that jarred his entire body. As hot blood gushed from his mouth, the men surrounding him cheered loudly, and it was that awful, inhuman sound that spurred Doris on.

  Without stopping to think of her own safety, she stormed through the pocket of men, her raised hand punching and whacking indiscriminately, knocking caps from ducking heads as she waded into the startled mob.

  ‘Yer bleeding cowardly bastards,’ she screamed defiantly, ‘picking on an old man on his own.’

  ‘Stay out of it, love. That old geezer’s a German. ’E ain’t got no business being ’ere, spying on us fer ’is bleeding mates back ’ome, while our boys are out there being murdered by that bastard’s relations.’ One man strode forward, his chin thrust out aggressively, his whole bearing one of self-righteousness. He glared down at Doris with dark, menacing eyes, but she never wavered. Gripping her arm, he began to drag her away, but Doris’s blood was up. Any influence that Emily might have had on her over the years was stripped away to reveal a wild animal, an animal prepared to fight to its last breath to defend the weak. Swinging her handbag, which was as usual filled to capacity with an assortment of junk, she brought it up and round, landing it with a resounding, satisfying thwack on the side of the man’s head. With a string of obscenities the man staggered back, caught off-guard by the suddenness of the attack.

  ‘Oh, yeah, worried about our soldiers, are yer, yer miserable fucking bastard. That goes fer the rest of yer, does it?’ She spun round, her eyes blazing at the group of men who were now beginning to shuffle uneasily, an element of shame overwhelming then, their heads lowered against the ferocity of this young woman’s gaze.

  ‘If yer that worried, why ain’t yer over there fighting alongside them? Nah, men like you lot wouldn’t have the stomach fer a real fight. Yer only good fer beating up defenceless old men. Scum of the earth, that’s what you lot are, scum of the earth.’

  The man she had knocked sideways bent to pick his cap up from where it had fallen on the dusty road. Ramming it back on his head, he looked at his companions, then, seeing no help forthcoming, again sought to justify his actions. Stretching his neck up from the collar of his starched shirt, he ground out fiercely, ‘We’re no cowards. But someone has to stay behind to keep the factories going. You women can’t do everyfink, though most of yer fink yer can.’ The last words came out as a sneer. ‘What we do is vital ter the war effort an’ we don’t ’ave ter…’

  ‘Vital war work, my arse!’ Doris screeched derisively, her hands placed firmly on her hips.

  What would have happened next she wasn’t sure, but in the distance the unmistakable wailing of a siren brought the men to their senses. Swiftly now they disbanded, all but the man Doris had struck with her handbag. Perched on his toes ready to flee, he snarled at her, ‘Yer interfering bitch. If I sees yer around I’ll…’

  Doris threw her head back and laughed.

  ‘Yer’ll what, yer great big bag of wind. I ain’t frightened of the likes of you. Go on, piss off before I land yer another one.’

  With a final, threatening shake of his fist the man scarpered away, the wailing black Maria chasing after him and his companions.

  Doris watched in some amusement as the back of the van opened and four burly policemen leapt to the ground, pulling out their batons before giving chase. Then her face altered, her chin wobbling as she realised just how close she had come to receiving the same brutal treatment as that poor old…!

  Oh, my Gawd! She had completely forgotten about him. Whirling round, she ran to where the elderly gentleman was sitting on the edge of the pavement holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his mouth, seemingly unaware of his head wound, which was by now bleeding profusely.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ Even as she spoke the words she cursed herself for her stupidity. Of course he wasn’t all bleeding right. A person could be lying by the side of the road with a dozen knives sticking out of their back, and some bright spark would come along and say, ‘You all right, mate?’

  Casting around her for something to stem the flow of blood, Doris let out an angry exclamation, lifted up her loose black skirt and, with much cursing and panting, managed to rip the white petticoat apart at its seam. But try as she might she couldn’t tear a piece off to use as a bandage. Without stopping to think, she hastily pulled the petticoat down and over her feet. Bunching it up into a ball, she pressed the soft fabric against the man’s forehead, effectively stemming the flow of blood.

  ‘It’s all right, it is clean.’ Doris smiled wanly and then, placing a hand gently under his elbow, assisted the dazed man to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, thank you for helping me.’ The man’s voice, which had a foreign inflection, quavered as he held gratefully onto her arms. ‘I… I don’t understand… These people are my friends… my friends. Why did those men hate me so? I’ve never done them any harm, never done harm to anyone… I… I don’t understand. Why! I was born in Germany, that is true, but I’m a British citizen now… I don’t understand.’

  The feel of the man’s trembling body brought a lump to Doris’s throat. How could people be so cruel… so evil. When a hand came to rest on hers she jumped, startled by the warmth of the gesture. Swallowing hard she muttered, ‘I’m sorry fer what happened ter yer, but we ain’t all like that lot. They’re scum, ignorant scum. Some people are so barmy about the war that they’d hang someone fer having German measles.’

  Looking into the reddened eyes of the old man, it was all Doris could do to stop herself from bursting into tears.

  ‘You’re a very brave girl, very brave. You put those men to shame. If… if I can ever be of service, please…’

  Doris fidgeted with embarrassment. She was about to make light of her involvement and say, ‘If ever I need a pound of sausages on the cheap, I’ll let yer know.’ But instead she said quietly, ‘Don’t be daft, I’d have done the same fer anyone. Anyone would.’

  The grizzled grey head shook slowly.

  ‘No. No they wouldn’t, dear.’ And there was such a wealth of despair in those quietly spoken words that Doris had to turn her head away.

  Doors that had been ajar were now flung wide, as people rushed to help and involve themselves in the drama. As two women, obviously known to the butcher, began clucking round him, Doris looked up and said scathingly, ‘Took yer time, didn’t yer. What were yer doing while this poor sod was being beaten up – watching yer drawers drying on the line?’

  The women had the good grace to look ashamed as they led the tottering man across the road and into one of the terraced houses opposite his shop.

  As he was about to enter the house, the old man turned and mustered up a trembling smile at Doris, then the women closed round him and he was lost from sight. Not wishing to hang around for the police to return, she set off at a brisk walk.

  She wanted to get home. Home to a welcoming cup of tea and a sit down. Home to Emil
y. Her steps quickened, and such was her desire to see her friend, the friend who had inadvertently saved her life, that by the time Doris turned into Fenton Street she was practically running. Yet when she came to rest outside the door of number fifteen she hesitated, memories of the past flooding her brain, reminding her painfully of the way she had behaved, and the cruel words she had spoken. She could hear herself screaming the words ‘whore’ and ‘slag’ at Emily’s white face, and shame at the memory brought her head low. How could she have said those things? More importantly, would Emily be prepared to bury the hatchet and start again? Oh, she hoped so, because if not, if Emily turned away from her, then Doris would truly be all alone in the world – and she’d have nobody to blame but herself; herself and her big gob.

  She felt shaky, and wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the fight she had been involved in or the prospect of facing Emily. She drew in great lungfuls of air and felt slightly better; not marvellous, but definitely better. She stared at the familiar front door, unsure now she was here exactly what she would say. Rubbing a hand over her mouth, she began to form the words in her mind, trying to find a good opening with which to greet Emily. After the first sentence it would become easier, she hoped.

  Being a Saturday, most of the doors in the street were wide open and smells – some appetising, others less appealing – wafted from the terraced houses, in the sultry July air. Children swarmed in the narrow street, playing hopscotch, marbles and kiss-chase. A few of the older, more daring ones had fitted a rope to one of the lampposts and were twirling around it, shrieking and laughing as they enjoyed the start of the weekend.