‘That’s right, Mrs Porter. He’s a good man is old Rabinski. A real gentleman, always very correct and very polite. A bit formal, if you know what I mean, but a good man.’
‘A bakery?’ Emma murmured, feeling a sudden surge of hope. It seemed like a good omen. ‘Do – do you think he would consider us, then?’
Mrs Porter’s beam widened. ‘’Course he will, if I tell him I’ve found him someone.’
Suddenly, tears of thankfulness spilled over and ran down Emma’s cheeks.
‘There, there, m’duck. Don’t take on so. You come along with me and we’ll go and see him right now.’
‘Thank you, oh, thank you,’ was all Emma could say.
Twenty-Nine
Mr Rabinski was as nice as Mrs Porter had assured her he would be. A small, sad looking man whose age was difficult to guess for the wiry, grey beard that covered half his face. He was dressed in a long black frock coat and wore small, round, wire-framed spectacles half way down his nose, over which he peered at his customers, his head bent forward, his eyes slanting upwards. His English was excellent except for a slight accent that was the only reminder of whatever had once been his native country.
‘You take the keys,’ he offered at once. ‘If Mrs Porter likes you, that is good enough for me.’
‘Thank you, you’re very kind,’ Emma smiled as he waved her away.
‘You move in wheneffer you want. Let me know if there is anything you need, uh?’
‘Thank you,’ Emma said again.
‘I’ll help you clean it, m’duck, if it’s bad,’ Mrs Porter offered, trotting along beside Emma. ‘They were only in there three or four weeks.’ She sniffed. ‘Mind you, that’s long enough for some folks to make it into a pigsty.’
The kindly woman had insisted on taking Emma to Mr Rabinski’s bakery in the next street and now they were on their way to the house two streets away. In her arms, Billy whimpered and then his cries became more insistent.
‘Hungry, ain’t he?’ Mrs Porter nodded. ‘That’s a hungry cry, that is.’
Sighing, Emma shifted the baby’s weight in her arms. ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’
‘Well, not far now, m’duck, and you can come into our place and feed him first and then we’ll go and inspect next door.’
Once more Emma thanked her and glanced at the little figure walking beside her. Mrs Porter was thin but every movement was energetic. She was dressed in a black skirt and hip length coat. She wore black stockings and shoes, lace-ups with a small, cubed heel. From under her grey hat, pulled down low over her forehead, her sharp eyes missed nothing. She was carrying heavy shopping bags, but these seemed to be no trouble to her for she chattered nonstop, hardly seeming to pause to take in a breath.
Emma hid a smile; Mrs Porter was not quite what she would have imagined a guardian angel should look like but without a doubt, Emma thought, that was exactly what she was.
When Billy had been fed and Emma had rested, Mrs Porter, obviously enjoying her importance, ushered her next door.
The terraced house, separated from Mrs Porter’s by a shared passage running between the two, was of much the same design as the one they had arrived at the previous night but the difference was noticeable the moment they stepped over the threshold from the street and straight into the front room.
‘Rent’ll be ten and six a week,’ Mrs Porter said, ‘and he comes on a Saturday afternoon every four weeks.’ She laughed and nodded knowingly, ‘’Spect he reckons that’s when he might catch most of the fellers at home.’
Not much chance in our house, Emma thought. Most Saturdays, Leonard disappeared after dinner and didn’t appear again until the early hours of Sunday morning, flushed and walking very unsteadily. But she said nothing and listened as Mrs Porter extolled the virtues of the little house.
‘This ’ere’s the front room. We don’t use ours much, ’cept at Christmas and if we have folks in, like. But there’s a nice fire grate and it’s furnished nicely, ain’t it?’ She looked at Emma for reassurance that her own standards were shared by her prospective new neighbour.
With genuine enthusiasm, Emma said, ‘Indeed it is,’ and she ran her hand along the back of the sofa, feeling the roughness of the brown moquette beneath her fingertips. The walls were papered with a darkish blue paper heavily patterned with a Jacobean design of flowers and leaves. A square of carpet covered the centre of the floor and around the edges, the floorboards were painted black.
Directly opposite the front door through which they had entered, Mrs Porter was opening a door leading further into the house. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at the rest of it ’
They passed through a tiny hallway, with the stairs leading up on the left-hand side and into the living room.
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Porter said with an air of definite satisfaction. ‘Now that is a nice grate and . . .’ she bent and opened a black iron door to one side of the fire basket, ‘yes, the oven’s in good order too. And that,’ the woman pointed to the opposite side of the grate, ‘that there is a boiler. You have to fill it and empty it by hand ’cos there’s no tap, but it heats the water lovely, it does. Oh, Mr Rabinski is a good landlord,’ she said again, straightening up and glancing round the room with a shrewd glance that missed nothing. Emma, too, looked about her. The room was square with the fireplace on the wall adjoining the next house. Another door led into what was more than likely the kitchen and in the far corner a long sash window looked out over the backyard towards the wash-house and lavatory at the far end. She was pleased to see that there was no lane running between this row of houses and the backs of the houses in the next street. Their yard was completely closed off and private.
Mrs Porter was pointing to the linoleum on the floor and pursing her lips. ‘Y’know, I’m sure there was a strip of carpet down here and a peg rug. Them beggars must ’ave taken it.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Emma said, ‘I’ve a few bits and pieces of me own.’
Mrs Porter sniffed. ‘Still, they ’ad no right to nick Mr Rabinski’s stuff, now did they? Anyway, let’s have a look how they’ve left the kitchen.’ She opened the door and led the way again. ‘Stove wants a good clean, just look at the grease on it. And the sink’s bunged up, by the look of it.’ She sniffed disapprovingly, then she smiled. ‘Mr Rabinski’s just bought me a brand new stove. Mebbe he’ll do the same for you, once you’ve been here a bit.’
‘It’ll be fine once I’ve cleaned it up,’ Emma assured her. ‘Really, everything’s wonderful. I can hardly believe my luck after what we’ve been living in. I really don’t know how to thank you, Mrs Porter.’
The woman flapped her hand, embarrassed by Emma’s gratitude. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m that glad to think we shall have some nice neighbours ’stead of that rowdy lot.’ She laughed. ‘I’m doin’ myself a favour an’ all. And call me Mary, ’cos I reckon we’re going to be good friends.’
‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ Emma murmured, a smile curving her mouth. She was ecstatic. In comparison to the other house, this was a palace. The place was even furnished, sparsely admittedly, she thought, but there was enough for her family to manage with for the immediate future.
Upstairs, there were iron bedsteads but no mattresses or bedding.
‘The beggars have nicked them an’ all,’ Mrs Porter ranted. ‘’Cos Mr Rabinski provides everything. You could move into one of his houses with nothing to your name and be all right. Oh, he’ll be upset about that, I can tell you.’
‘We have some bedding with us,’ Emma said, ‘and a feather bed. That’ll do us.’
‘But only temporary,’ Mrs Porter insisted. ‘Mr Rabinski’ll see you right, don’t you worry. Now,’ she went on briskly, her movements quick and energetic. ‘We’ll go back to my place and you can leave the bairn with me, as long as you’ll be back for his next feed.’ She smiled. ‘’Cos I ain’t had baby things around my house since young Joey was born and he’s nearly eight.’
Back in her spotless, though clut
tered living room, Mary Porter opened the bottom drawer of a dresser, scooped out the conglomeration of years on to the floor and then pulled the drawer out completely. Taking two cushions from the old sofa and patting them down in to the depths of the drawer, she held out her arms for young Billy. ‘There now, that’ll make him a nice cradle till you get back. Off you go and fetch your things. Your little man’ll be fine with me.’
As Emma walked back through the streets, she could hardly believe the turn in their fortunes that the last five hours had taken.
Leonard was marching up and down the cold, rubbish-strewn room in a raging temper. ‘I thought you’d have got this place cleaned up a bit by now. Where the devil have you been, woman?’
‘Doing what you should have done, Leonard. Finding a decent place for this family to live.’
‘What do you mean? This place is good enough once we get it cleaned up—’
‘I’m not staying here a moment longer. There was a rat running freely around this room this morning. With one leap it could have been in the baby’s cradle. This place is worse than that awful room we’ve just left, to say nothing of having to fetch every drop of water from a tap in the lane out there—’
‘We can’t go back to those rooms, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I’ve no intention of going back,’ she told him shortly. ‘I’ve found us somewhere else, so you can get the handcart loaded up again and—’
‘Oh yes? And where is this wonderful place you’ve found for us? Have you stopped to think if we can afford fancy rent?’
‘Ten and six a week, and worth every penny,’ she snapped.
‘Well, if you think I’m paying that, you’ve another think coming. This one is only seven and six.’
‘You stay here if you want to, Leonard. Me and the boys are going.’
She faced him squarely. Leonard was arguing with her over three shillings and she remembered how often he came home, his breath smelling of drink, with the telltale rolling gait that meant he’d drunk freely, Emma’s mouth tightened. She thought of the times when he came home loaded with presents, flowers for her, toys for Charles. He was generous with his money when he was flush, she had to admit, and he was a great deal easier to live with when he was in that expansive mood. She didn’t want to be too hard on him. She didn’t want to spoil the good times they did have. And yet . . .
Quietly, she said, ‘If you were a little more careful with your money when you have plenty, then—’
His fist was bunched only inches from her face. ‘Don’t you dare to tell me how to spend my money, woman. I earn it, I’ll spend it.’
Emma blinked, but stood her ground not flinching under his threat. ‘The children and I are moving to this house I’ve found,’ she said slowly and deliberately. ‘It’s up to you whether you come as well.’
For a long moment they stood glaring at each other, until shamefacedly, Leonard dropped his gaze. ‘Where is it, then, this palace?’ She saw that his anger had died as swiftly as it had come and she was determined not to let him spoil the moment.
‘On a side road leading off one of the main roads, just opposite a park. And there’s such a nice woman lives next door.’ She moved towards him and put her hand on his arm, eager to dispel their quarrel, and launched into the story of her morning’s efforts. She was still talking whilst they loaded their bedding back on to the handcart which still stood outside the front door.
‘It was such good luck meeting Mary Porter in the corner shop and her saying her neighbours had done a moonlight.’ She giggled and added, ‘I didn’t let on that we’d done much the same.’
Leonard glanced at her in surprise but said nothing, busying himself tying the load safely on to the cart. He picked up the handles. ‘Ready then?’
Emma smiled brightly. ‘Aye, I’m ready. We’ll be all right there, Leonard. I know we will. Come on.’ And with a newfound strength she marched ahead of him down the street leading the way to their new home.
Whether it was the relief at having found a decent place to live at last, or meeting the friendly Mary Porter, that had given Emma such a lift in her spirits, she didn’t know. Whatever it was, she felt her old strength flowing back into her and she set to work on their new home with renewed vigour. Keep busy, she told herself sternly, it will stop you feeling so homesick and wondering all the time what is happening back home in Marsh Thorpe. The next morning, in one corner of the wash-house across the backyard, she found a small heap of coal left by the previous tenant. She cleaned the range grate in the living room and lit the fire. Then she cleaned the gas stove in the scullery and set the kettle on the ring. The gas made a gentle popping sound and made the place more homely, she thought. Having placed the cradle out in the back yard in the morning sunshine, she cleaned her kitchen, scrubbing the shelves above the sink that would house her pans and the space beneath where she would keep the enamel washing-up bowl, scrubbing brushes and dusters.
In the living room she wiped the wooden table with its bulbous legs and the four chairs that fitted underneath it. She put down her own peg rug on the hearth in front of the range and swept the ceiling and the walls with a long-handled brush. She took down the thick brown curtains hanging either side of the window and out in the back yard she shook them vigorously till the dust rose in clouds and she glanced in alarm towards the cradle where the baby lay sleeping peacefully. Even little Billy seemed to have found a new contentment. As for Charles, he was already firm friends with Joey Porter.
When she had gone the previous afternoon to meet her son from school, Charles had walked beside her, dragging his feet as if reluctant to go home.
She took his hand and said, ‘It’s all right, Charles, I’ve found us a better house than the one we went to last night.’
As soon as they arrived at their new home, the boy rushed from room to room. ‘Mam, it’s great. Can that little bedroom at the front looking out on to the street be mine? Oh, please say”yes”?’
Emma smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘Great!’ He dashed outside to inspect the backyard and its potential for ball games. After a few moments she heard his high-pitched voice and then another boy’s and looking out of the window she saw Charles had hauled himself up to peer over the fence into the Porters’ backyard next door. Only minutes later he was asking, ‘Can I go out an’ play, Mam? Joey’s going to take me to play down the street with the other boys.’
Emma hesitated only a moment. She could not keep her young son close to her for ever. He was growing and needed to be with children of his own age. She sighed, wishing that it did not have to be a street playground instead of green meadows and sandy beaches, but she smiled at him and said, ‘Of course. Off you go.’
With a whoop of delight he was out of the door and pounding down the passage out into the street. Emma opened the front door and stood watching as he trotted down the sloping street beside the older, taller Joey Porter. Mary’s boy was seven years old, dressed in short trousers with braces over his shirt, knee-length socks that were permanently wrinkled and black boots with scuffed toe-caps. He was thin and wiry like his mother, but he walked with a swagger and whistled piercingly, the sound echoing down the street.
It seemed, she thought perceptively as she watched from a distance, that Joey Porter was the leader of the gang of boys, who were kicking a football about at the end of the street. The game was suspended for a moment, the boys clustering around the new arrival.
‘This is Charles Smith. He’s come to live next door to me,’ she heard Joey introduce him. ‘He can play with us.’
The next minute the ball was back in motion and, Emma noticed, the boys were aiming it towards Charles, immediately involving him in their game. There was no fuss amongst children, she mused, smiling to herself. They’d accepted Charles as Joey’s new friend without question.
The following morning Charles had been up earlier than usual, eager to go to school. ‘I’m walking with Joey,’ Charles had informed her importantly. �
�I don’t need you or Dad to take me now.’
When Leonard too had left the house and she had settled the baby, Emma washed all her own pots and pans and arranged them on the newly scrubbed open shelves above the now spotlessly white sink. She had just started to sweep the red tiles of the kitchen floor when she heard the latch on the back gate and a moment later a cheerful voice shouted. ‘Hello, anybody in?’
‘Yes. Just a minute.’ Emma stopped her sweeping, removed the scarf from around her mouth and went to the door. She knew she must look a sight with dust streaking her face and her long black hair plaited and wound around her head with a headscarf covering it.
Mary Porter stood there holding a tray with two mugs of steaming tea. ‘I thought you might like a cuppa.’ Her smile widened and she nodded towards the interior of Emma’s home. ‘I reckoned you’d have a bit of clearing up to do.’
‘That is kind of you,’ Emma said. ‘Come in, Mary.’
Mary set the tray down on the table, still damp from Emma’s scrubbing. ‘By heck, m’duck, you’ve made a difference to this place already.’ The woman looked at Emma with kindly concern. ‘But don’t you go mad, now. You look a bit tired. Overdo it an’ you’ll drive your milk away.’ She nodded towards Emma’s ripe and overflowing breasts. ‘It’s still not that long since you had the bairn, now is it?’
Emma smiled and sank thankfully into one of the chairs at the table. Mary pushed a mug of tea towards her and sat opposite.
‘No, you’re right,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve got the worst done now, with the kitchen and this room. The rest can wait its turn. Actually, the other rooms aren’t so bad.’
‘That’s the way, m’duck. No good doing yourself in over the job.’
There was silence in the kitchen whilst the two women slipped their tea companionably. Mary Porter was a few years older than her, Emma guessed, and in some ways she reminded Emma of her friend, Sarah. Mary had the same blunt kindliness, but whereas Sarah had a round, comforting little body, Mary Porter was thin and energetic. For a moment, thinking of Sarah and reminded sharply of Marsh Thorpe, Emma felt suddenly homesick. But as she listened to her new friend launch into a ceaseless chatter about all her new neighbours in the street, Emma realized that at least she was feeling the happiest she had been since coming to the city.
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