by Dilly Court
Chapter Six
Hetty accepted Granny’s offer gratefully, but she worried about how Tom would take the news that he was not allowed to visit them. It seemed, however, that she had reckoned without his dogged determination to get his own way. He arrived in Totty Street one evening armed with a bunch of flowers which he presented to Granny, and asked very politely if she would spare him a few moments of her valuable time. Hetty and Jane exchanged amused glances, fully expecting her to send him packing, but she surprised them by saying she would be happy to speak to such a well-mannered young man. Hetty and Jane were banished to the back yard and they had to wait until Tom emerged, smiling and triumphant, with permission to call on them whenever he was passing by.
‘How did you do it?’ Hetty demanded in astonishment. ‘Granny doesn’t approve of gentlemen callers.’
‘I said I had looked out for you since you was a nipper and that I had no intention of abandoning you now.’ Tom winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s all you need to know, but Mrs Huggins and me have come to an understanding.’
Jane rushed over to give him a hug. ‘Well, I’m glad. We would all miss you if you didn’t come round regular.’
Hetty nodded in agreement, and she smiled. ‘I don’t know how you did it, Tom, but you certainly worked a spell on Granny.’
‘I’m a part of this family, girl. You won’t get rid of me that easily.’
‘And I wouldn’t want to.’
‘Now what’s all this I hear about you planning to sell hot taters? I think you’d best come clean, Hetty.’
Now that she had made up her mind to become a street seller, Hetty couldn’t wait to put her plans into action. Life in Totty Street was far from easy. Jasper Shipworthy’s continued occupation of the front parlour was a constant reminder of Clench and all that he stood for, but at least Granny seemed to have relented a little towards them. She was still as spiky as a holly bush and Hetty was conscious that they were only there on sufferance. It was all too obvious that Granny had little time for her or Jane, but she doted on Sammy and seemed to have grown quite fond of Eddie. It was fortunate, Hetty thought, that Jane was too wrapped up in herself to worry about what went on in the house. She seemed content to sit all day, dutifully stitching material for bonnets under Granny’s strict supervision. For Jane the future was limited to birthing her baby. After that she seemed to assume that everything would naturally follow.
Sammy and Eddie started at the school in Sewardstone Road, reluctantly at first, but to Hetty’s relief they came home on the first day with glowing faces and actually seemed to have enjoyed the experience. Sammy was a different child now that his new spectacles enabled him to see properly, and he said proudly that the teacher had held his ability to read up as an example to the other boys in the class. He had not, he said, told Miss that his first reading primer had been the labels for Bryant and May matchboxes. Hetty told him he was a clever boy, as was Eddie, who had also proved to be an apt pupil. She was glad now that she had searched the street markets for second-hand books, reading to them before they fell asleep at night and teaching them the alphabet in a sing-song voice by way of a lullaby. Ma had been very keen that they should all be literate, and Hetty could see that she had, as always, been right.
At the beginning of August, Hetty was almost ready to set up business as a huckster. She had ordered a can to be made by the tin man in Ratcliff Highway, and a fire pot to hang beneath it. She asked George if he could supply her with sacks of potatoes, and he advised her to use the cheaper imported French Regents, which were waxy and would not shrivel up when cooked. She walked the streets looking for suitable sites on which to start trading, and having watched street sellers at work she realised that there was something very important that she had overlooked. She would need some means by which to transport a heavy can filled with potatoes.
It was George who came to the rescue. He turned up in Totty Street one evening pushing a small handcart, which he said he had found half submerged in the canal. He had rescued it from a watery grave and had fixed the broken wheel. Now it was almost as good as new. He brushed aside all offers of payment and Hetty thanked him profusely. After he had left, having exerted his charm on Granny who fell instantly under his spell and invited him to call again whenever he was in the neighborhood, Jane teased Hetty mercilessly. ‘George fancies you,’ she said, giggling. ‘Hetty’s got a fellah.’
The boys took this up immediately and ran around the yard chanting, ‘Hetty’s got a new fellah. George loves Hetty.’
Hetty felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment and she attempted to laugh it off, but she could see that Tom was simmering with resentment. She did her best to placate him. George was a good-hearted rattle-brain, she said, and not to be taken seriously. She did not add that she liked him immensely, or that he had an undeniable way with the ladies. He was not what most people would consider handsome, but his larger than life personality made up for a nose that was a shade too big, a chin that was a little too square, and a wide mouth that curled in a wicked grin when he was amused. His brown eyes, which seemed to vary in colour according to his moods, could glow with sympathy or twinkle with good humour and she could quite understand why women customers favoured his stall. She recalled the day when they had first met, and how his merry laughter had rung out across the market place, causing people to turn their heads and smile in a natural reaction. Yes, she thought, giving Tom’s arm a companionable squeeze, George was good fun but not a man to be taken too seriously.
As the time for collecting the finished can drew near, Hetty approached the local baker and he agreed to bake a hundred potatoes at the cost of ninepence. She used the last of her money to buy butter, salt, pepper and charcoal, and when she collected the can she polished it until it gleamed like silver. She was now ready to launch herself in business, but Tom was becoming increasingly worried about her decision to work alone on the East End streets. He visited them almost every evening after work, and he did everything he could to dissuade Hetty from her purpose, but she turned a deaf ear to his pleadings, cajoling and downright sulks.
Their final argument, on the evening before Hetty was due to start work, was conducted in Granny Huggins’ back yard, which was the only place where they could have a little privacy. Even so, Hetty had been aware of Sammy’s and Eddie’s faces pressed against the windowpane in the upstairs bedroom, and she supposed that Granny and Jane had overhead every word as they sat in the parlour, finishing off her new work clothes.
‘You’re an obstinate, stubborn mule of a girl,’ Tom cried passionately. ‘Don’t come crying to me when you get bullied or worse by the other hucksters, or your takings are stolen by villains.’ He strode out of the yard, slamming the gate behind him, and Hetty went back indoors. She was too angry for tears, but she was deeply hurt that Tom had not supported her. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t care, and that he was just a stupid man, but somehow she felt betrayed. She did not feel like facing the family. If she had been a man she could have gone to the pub and drunk herself into oblivion, but she was a girl and she had no choice but to join Jane and Granny in the parlour.
Jane looked up from stitching the hem of the navy-blue linsey-woolsey skirt and her eyes were filled with sympathy. ‘Are you all right, Hetty?’
‘Of course she’s all right,’ Granny snapped, biting off a thread of white cotton with her yellowed teeth. ‘I thought he was different, but that boy is an idiot, just like most of his gender, with the exception of my dear, departed Harold. He would never have behaved like that, shouting and storming just because he couldn’t get his own way.’
‘He wouldn’t have dared,’ Jane whispered as Hetty sat down on a stool beside her.
‘What was that?’ Granny fixed her with an angry stare. ‘I hope you weren’t being cheeky, miss?’
‘No, Granny,’ Jane murmured, suppressing a giggle.
Hetty was too emotionally drained to suffer yet more unpleasantness, and she leaned over to
touch the crisp white cotton blouse that Granny was just finishing off. ‘That’s too good to wear for work, Granny. I ought to keep that for Sunday best.’
‘It is a fine piece of work, although I say it myself. I’ve always been good with my needle. As to being kept for best, that is not the point. I won’t have a granddaughter of mine going out to work looking like something the cat’s dragged in. You’re starting up in trade now, Hetty. You’ve got to look businesslike. ‘She fastened off the cotton on the last button, and handed the garment to Hetty. ‘Wearing that and the new straw bonnet I made for you, you’ll look respectable and people will have confidence in you. If you look clean and tidy, they won’t be afraid to taste your wares.’
Next morning, Hetty and Jane took their wicker baskets to the bakery where they collected the hot potatoes. They wrapped them in green baize to keep them warm, and then hurried back to Totty Street where the can was wedged in the handcart waiting to be transported to Hetty’s chosen pitch outside Bethnal Green station. Jane insisted on accompanying her, but it was a hot day and about halfway there she began to complain that her feet were sore and swollen. Hetty was sympathetic but eventually she could stand it no longer and sent Jane home with strict instructions to rest. When she reached the station Hetty found to her dismay that another potato vendor had already set up his pitch. He scowled at her and shook his fist. She did her best to ignore his threatening looks, but as she called out her wares her voice quavered and was lost in the blast of a whistle from a steam engine. She tried again, and was drowned out by her competitor’s stentorian tones.
Hetty moved a little further away and this time she took a hot potato from the can, and slit it so that the fragrant steam wafted under the noses of the passers-by. ‘Tasty hot taters. Come and buy.’
A man wearing a black city suit with a greenish tinge to it and slightly frayed at the cuffs stopped to make a purchase, and Hetty pocketed the halfpenny with a feeling of triumph. But, at that moment, the irate huckster came striding over to her. ‘What d’you think you’re doing, girlie?’
Hetty swallowed hard. He was a head and shoulders taller than she, and his face was scarred, causing the eyelid to droop over his left eye, which gave him an even more sinister appearance. ‘I’m selling taters,’ she said, hoping that she sounded more confident than she felt.
‘Push off and sell them somewhere else. This is my pitch.’
She opened her mouth to argue, but his fists were as big as York hams and his broken nose suggested that he was no stranger to violence. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘All right, mister. I’m going.’ She could hear him swearing as she pushed her cart down the street. Tears of anger and frustration burned the backs of her eyes, but she bit her lip and trudged on, not really knowing where she was going, until she turned a corner and found herself in the middle of a street market. Taking a quick look round, Hetty couldn’t see anyone else selling hot potatoes, and she set up her stand. ‘Hot taters,’ she shouted. Her voice was lost in the general hubbub of voices and costermongers’ cries, but it was almost midday and the appetising smell of baked potatoes was enough to entice customers to buy. She did a brisk trade, and even the costers themselves began to wander up and make purchases.
By the time the crowds had thinned and the market stalls were closing down, Hetty had sold almost all her stock. Despite the heat, the flies and the stench of the city streets, Hetty pushed her cart homewards with a spring in her step. She did a rapid calculation in her head, and worked out that she had made one shilling and threepence profit. If she carried on at this rate she would be able to start repaying Granny as well as Cyrus Clench. If she worked even harder, perhaps taking her stand outside the People’s Palace or one of the larger railway stations in the evenings, she could double her takings. Then, she thought, crossing the busy Cambridge Road and narrowly missing being run down by a carthorse pulling a dray laden with barrels, by the time the potato season ended in April, she might have saved enough to start up a proper stall and sell ham sandwiches and cups of tea and coffee.
She was sweating profusely and the sun beat down on her back, making her feel slightly sick. Her feet were swollen and sore in her ill-fitting second-hand boots, bought cheaply from the dolly shop, and she stopped at a communal pump to fill her cupped hands with cool water. She drank some and splashed the rest on her hot cheeks. Judging by the position of the sun, it must be after six o’clock; she would be late for supper, but Jane would be sure to have saved her some food. Hetty realised then that she was ravenously hungry. In her enthusiasm for trading, she had forgotten about her own needs and had eaten nothing since a bowl of watery porridge at breakfast. Her muscles were aching, but she pressed on, attempting to find a short cut by venturing down narrow side streets and alleyways.
When she reached the Regent’s Canal she knew that she was heading in the right direction, but she found herself in a dismal jungle of industrial waste, bent girders, rusty paint cans and piles of slag. She was afraid to go on, but retracing her steps was not an option as she would almost certainly lose her way. She put her head down and concentrated on getting the cart through the debris that was littered all over the towpath. She had reached the bridge which carried the trains of the Great Eastern Railway over the canal when she realised that the echoing footsteps were not hers alone. She turned her head to see Cyrus loping towards her at a jogging pace. She wanted to run, but it was impossible to do so without upsetting the cart and damaging her precious can. She tried to ignore him and quickened her pace, but he was at her side before she reached the end of the tunnel. He clamped his hand on her shoulder. ‘What’s this, Miss Hetty? Have you grown too proud to speak to an old friend?’
She turned her head to give him a disdainful look. ‘You are not my friend, Mr Clench.’
He struck a pose. ‘That is a cruel thing to say, my dear. Who was it who provided you with the money for your late mother’s funeral? And at a very reasonable rate of interest, I should add.’ He tightened his grip, digging his clawed fingers into her soft flesh. ‘I think you owe me a little civility, at the very least.’
She drew away from him in alarm, but he moved even closer, leering into her face. ‘No need to be afraid of me, girlie. I won’t hurt you. On the contrary, I like you, Hetty.’ He slid his hand down her arm to fondle her breast. ‘I could make your life a lot easier if you would let me. If you were my woman, I wouldn’t let you hawk hot taters like a common huckster.’
‘Let me go, Mr Clench,’ Hetty said, pushing him as hard as she could, but she was no match for him. Cyrus might not be a big man, but he was much stronger that she. He seized her round the waist, drawing her so close to him that she recoiled at the smell of beer, onions and dental decay on his breath. ‘Just a little kiss and a cuddle, dearie. Don’t forget you still owe me three weeks’ money. I’ve been a patient man, but now I want some recompense for my good nature.’
Hetty struggled in vain. ‘Let me go, Mr Clench. I’ll pay you in full as soon as I am able.’
He pushed her back against the damp brick wall and he took her lips in a wet, slobbery kiss. Hetty kicked out with her feet and twisted her head away, but he pushed his knee between her legs, growling with laughter as his hot mouth travelled down her neck, biting, sucking and making animal noises as his excitement intensified. She screamed, and the sound ricocheted off the damp walls, and was carried away on the murky waters of the canal. She felt the buttons popping off her blouse and his fingers sought her left nipple, tweaking and twisting it until she yelped with pain. This only seemed to excite him further, and the more she struggled, the harder he pressed himself against her. He lifted her skirt, forcing her ruthlessly against the hard bricks, and his hand slid up her thigh. She screamed again, but he released her breast only to clamp his hand over her mouth. ‘You will pay me the interest here and now, dearie.’
She felt him hard and warm against her bare flesh. She could scarcely breathe, let alone cry out for help. Then suddenly she was free. Cyrus was grabbed from b
ehind and flung into the canal, where he landed in the murky water with a resounding splash.
‘Hetty, are you all right?’ George’s face was close to hers, and his arms supported her as her knees trembled and gave way. ‘Are you hurt?’
She leaned against him, sobbing as she fought to catch the breath that Cyrus had almost squeezed out of her, but she managed somehow to shake her head in answer to his question.
‘The dirty old dog,’ George said, holding her close. ‘I saw what he was trying to do to you. Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?’
‘N-no, I’m all right, th-thanks to you, George. ‘Hetty steadied herself and turned away to fasten her blouse, although several of the buttons had been torn off in the assault.
George shook his fist at Clench, who was struggling ashore on the far side. ‘I should set the police on you, you villain.’
Coughing and spluttering, Clench heaved his body out of the water. ‘She led me on, the little trull. And she owes me money. You wait, Hetty Huggins. I won’t forget this in a hurry.’
George waded into the canal. ‘Come near her again, mister, and you’ll get what you rightly deserve.’
‘Come out of the water, George,’ Hetty pleaded. ‘It’s filthy dirty.’
He turned to her and his angry expression dissolved into a sheepish grin. ‘I got carried away.’ He climbed out and shook himself like a wet dog. ‘Now I got a bootful of the Regent’s Canal. At least I won’t need to wash me socks!’
Cyrus stomped away along the towpath, his muttered insults and threats drowned by the sound of a steam engine thundering across the bridge.
‘He’s gone,’ George said, eyeing her with concern. ‘You’re very pale, Hetty. Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, he didn’t actually . . .?’
