by Annie Murray
‘She didn’t take anything for them – not even a farthing!’ Peggy laughed suddenly, a strange, overwrought sound. ‘She said she didn’t want money for them, she just wanted rid of them. These bloomers are brand new!’
Rachel smiled up at her, the tide of dread receding slowly. Mom was happy – oh, for once, Mom was in a good temper! Her mother’s mood brought light into the world – or darkness, depending. What her father had done was beyond her understanding. But it was Mom who was always there, was here now.
‘Come on. Bring the other stuff.’ Peggy started to walk off rapidly along the street. ‘We’ll go down to the Bristol Road and get the tram. And once we get to town we’re going to buy a tanner’s worth of chips to warm us up, that we are.’
Rachel skipped along beside her. Never, in all the days since her father died, had things felt as good as this. It felt like the grandest celebration in all the world!
Mom insisted that they take the chips home. ‘I’m not eating in the street,’ she said. ‘It’s not ladylike.’ Even though the smell of them through the newspaper, hot and tangy with vinegar, was making them both drool.
Peggy built up the fire with the last bit of kindling and slack and put the kettle on for tea. Both of them drew up as close as they could and Rachel turned this way and that, toasting first her front, then her back as she devoured her salty chips with what was left of the bread.
It was a front house that they lived in – one of two dwellings under one roof, backing onto one another and consisting of merely one room downstairs with a tiny scullery and the two upstairs bedrooms. The house backing theirs opened onto a small yard, reached by a narrow entry between the houses. The shared toilets were in the yard, as were the shared tap and the dustbins. At the back of the yard, in a low cutting, the River Rea flowed almost unseen through the heart of the city, bringing added damp to the houses and sometimes bursting its banks. At the front was the constant shadow of the viaduct. Bit by bit, over the months, Peggy had done what everyone in these jerry-built houses had to do – make the best of it. She scrubbed and cleaned, fixed up what she could, stitched curtains and acquired a few sticks of furniture. But it was still a poor, damp, tatty place, prone to infestations of bedbugs and silverfish which had to be stoved with a sulphur candle. And the family who lived in the back house, facing the yard, were noisy and quarrelsome and only added to Peggy’s rage and bitterness over her blighted life. But her anger did give her energy – the raging energy of one who wants, desperately, to get up and out of there.
Peggy coughed, groaning as the fit passed. But she seemed a little brighter now, thanks to the warm food and tea and the small victory of the afternoon. She sat with her hands warming around her cup. Rachel sat on the peg rug at her feet and stared into the fire. It was quiet for a few moments, with only the hiss of the flames which were quickly dying back for want of fuel. Just for a moment things felt good. Then there came a bang and shouts of raucous male voices from the house behind, the thud of boots on the wooden stairs.
‘Dear God –’ Peggy closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for the racket to die down.
The feet descended the stairs again. The voices carried on, but quiet. A woman had joined in. Peggy opened her eyes
‘We’ll go from this place,’ she murmured.
Rachel did not know if she was talking to her. She kept very still. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go somewhere else. There were things she didn’t like about living here. She often saw rats in the yard at the back, where they had to use the lavatories. Every time she went, she was in fear of meeting one of the rats with their horrible fleshy tails. But from her point of view not everything was bad. She went to the little school along the road and played out with some of the children. She had become an adaptable child, tougher than she might have been had things been different.
‘I’ll not punish myself with this place much longer.’ There was a silence, then in a voice full of venom, Peggy hissed, ‘His fault. His. His vile habits.’
Rachel squirmed a little. By now she understood that her father, a vaguely kind, male shape, had piled up debts. He had a business as a portrait photographer which seemed to be prospering. But the gains from the business were nothing compared to the losses from his habit.
‘Betting,’ Peggy had told her. ‘On horses. By God, he was good at picking losers!’ Peggy had not known a thing about it until afterwards. ‘Up to his neck,’ she said. A debt so big it must have overwhelmed him. Everything they owned had gone towards paying it off. Any thought of her past marriage was stalked by betrayal.
Rachel was getting sleepy. She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, bony but warm now.
‘We’ll be out of here soon. I vow we shall.’
Peggy’s voice was gentler now, not blaming Rachel for all her burdens. The young girl looked up and saw her mother’s intent face, her eyes reflecting little orange furnaces of fire. She didn’t mind where they lived, not really. She just wanted Mom to be well, not to be sick and angry and struggling, forever exhausted taking in washing and cleaning other people’s houses until her hands were red raw. Perhaps now they were on the market everything would be all right. She closed her eyes and leaned against her mother’s leg. And on that happy, memorable night, Peggy stroked her hair until she was almost asleep, then she took her hand and led her up to bed.
Three
It was the Saturday after that, at the Rag Market, that Rachel saw Danny Booker for the first time.
Market day was Saturday. By midday the fruit and veg traders who had set up early in the morning had cleared away. The place was swept up and it was time for the Rag Market to move in. The gates were closed while they set up, to keep the crowds out. Not everyone got a pitch. Some had permanent pitches in the market, but the ‘casuals’ had to queue up to see if there would be a pitch for them. It was a nerve-wracking business when you were desperate for the trade. For Peggy to line up amid the other jostling casuals, some of whom she was afraid of – sometimes fights broke out – only to be turned away was a huge disappointment and meant she would have to find other bits of work to get by for the week. Peggy was especially irritable with nerves on a Saturday morning and nagged Rachel for them to get out as early as possible. But she seemed to have endless energy, as if driven by rage and by her determination that she was owed a better life. She was getting quicker at reaching the front of the queue. If they did not get a pitch they waited, and sometimes managed to scramble into one if someone else sold out early and went home.
Every time Rachel passed through the immense iron gates decorated with the city’s crest – an arm bringing down a heavy hammer, and the exhortation ‘forward!’ – she brimmed over with excitement. Peggy felt that market trading was something she had had to stoop to, but Rachel loved everything about the markets.
Her first job was to go round to the stables at the back of a pub in Bromsgrove Street where for a couple of bob a week, the landlord allowed market traders to store their carriages with whatever leftover goods would fit in them. The ‘carriage’ was a big wicker basket on wheels. Rachel always felt very important, fetching it out of the dark stable building, and wheeling it round into all the bustle of the streets.
As she pushed the carriage over the cobbles and along Jamaica Row – Smithfield, the huge wholesale market on one side and the meat markets on the other – and into the Rag Market, all around her was the raucous, busy bustle of lorries and carts and banter of the trade. The air was full of voices calling out, the low rumble of the carriage wheels, the smells of roasting chestnuts and potatoes, of tobacco smoke on the winter air. And all around, amid the legs, skirts, bundles, carts, trestle tables, prams and hat stands, grew up piles of second-hand clothing for sale, rolls of cloth, ribbons and bows, hats and coats, all in a host of shapes and rainbows of colour. And other wares were laid out – crocks and glass, zips and buttons, cutlery, scent, food, sheets, toys, table linen . . .
When she found Peggy that morning, her mother – on her ow
n as usual, not joining in the banter – was setting out the new clothing she had brought that week. Peggy was still not very well, troubled by her cough. But Rachel knew her mother always gave off this aura of self-contained isolation, almost as if there was a line drawn around her. I am not really here. I am above all this. Head down, under her sporty hat with the feather in it, she was laying out the sheets from her bundle on the ground to keep the clothing off the floor and arranging things folded to look as neat and attractive as possible.
‘It’s no good throwing them down any old how,’ she’d remark sometimes. ‘That’s what Harold would say, I know he would.’
These were rare moments when she spoke of her dead husband with respect. Harold Mills’s photographic business in Sparkhill had had a marvellous display window, full of his best portraits artistically arranged. ‘Oh, Harold was very good at appearances,’ Peggy would say in more bitter moods. The debts she had inherited were a worse shock than the loss of her husband itself. People understood grief – they gave sympathy. A body in the cut, as the canal was known locally, and a legacy of debt was another matter altogether. Harold took with him to his grave her trust and respect, buried them forever and left her with fear, bitterness and penury. She had left the neat villa where they had lived and the neighbours she could not look in the eye, found the cheapest place she could bear to rent and set out to earn her own living.
Peggy was laying out the clothes from the lady in Edgbaston, giving them pride of place. Rachel had wondered if her mother would keep the blouse. It was so pretty and she could see she was tempted. But no. There it was, carefully folded to show off the lace collar. The peach-coloured garment had turned out to be a beautiful, expertly tailored dress. Usually Peggy spent a long time with any clothes she bought, washing and pressing them so that they would look their best, in addition to the other washing and sewing she took in to keep afloat. But these clothes needed no improvement – they were new and of good quality.
‘Why did ’er give ’em yer, Mom?’ Rachel had asked as they went home that night, clutching their chips.
‘She, not ’er,’ Peggy said sharply. ‘She. For the love of God speak properly, not like those urchins at school. She said they were her sister’s. I never asked any more. P’raps they’d had a death in the family. It wasn’t as if she’d tell me, was it?’
As they went to set up their pitch that morning – the day of Danny – in the middle of the market, Rachel saw, to her consternation, that another woman was with her mother and that an argument was brewing. She had seen the lady before and she was rather fascinating – tall and voluptuous and wearing a dress with rusty-coloured flowers all over it. Her broad, big-boned face was heavily powdered, the lips bright scarlet, and her thick blonde hair topped by a wide-brimmed hat.
‘You just move over!’ the woman boomed at Peggy. Beside her were bundles of clothes in disorderly heaps. ‘You’re on my pitch – look, you’ve pinched nearly a yard – I’m paying for this. You just clear off!’
Peggy had her hands on her waist and was standing tall, looking proud and disdainful. ‘You just stop shouting at me,’ she was saying. ‘You only need to ask. There’s no call to be so unpleasant.’
‘Eh, eh, now, ladies . . .’ a deep, tobacco-laden voice interrupted. Rachel saw the person they called the Toby Man, with his pouch at his waist, striding over towards them. He was a solidly built man with a bottle-green neckerchief tied in the opening of his shirt, and a cap resting at a sideways angle on his head, from under which looked out a fleshy face with brown, twinkling eyes. His manner was relaxed, as if dealing with squabbling women was a completely familiar part of the job. But he knew he was in charge. ‘What’s going on ’ere then?’
‘’Er’s pushing onto my pitch . . .’ the red-lipped woman began again. ‘These casuals don’t know how to go on. This is mine – up to ’ere, see?’ Rachel could see her mother seething but she was holding her anger in. It would do her no good to get into a fight. ‘Tell ’er to move over. I ain’t paid for my patch to ’ave ’er moving in on it.’
The Toby Man eyed Peggy up and down. He stroked his stubbly chin for a moment, and considered the wares the two women were setting out.
‘So far as I know,’ the Toby Man retorted, ‘you ain’t paid for nowt yet today, Aggie, so yer’d best button it ’til you ’ave.’
‘’Ere’s my money –’ The woman rummaged about in her cleavage and slammed some coins into the man’s outstretched hand. The Toby Man made a comical face.
‘Flamin’ ’ell, Aggie – where’s this lot been?’
‘Never you mind,’ Aggie said tartly, rearranging her upper storey by yanking at her clothes so that her mountainous breasts lurched about. ‘Now you tell that one –’ she nodded her head towards Peggy – ‘to pay up and shove over.’
‘Here you are,’ Peggy said quietly, holding out her own rent for the pitch. Her solemn face and neat, simple dress automatically gave her a dignified appearance.
‘Ta.’ The Toby Man looked intently down at the ground where the goods were laid out as if reading it in some way, then declared, with a wave of his hand, ‘Move yerself over a foot this way, missis. Aggie’s right – you’re too far over.’
‘Told yer, didn’ I?’ Aggie crowed. ‘That’s it – you shift yerself.’
Aggie stood, arms folded, and was obviously not going to move until Peggy did as she commanded. Without responding or looking at her neighbour, Peggy tugged at the edge of her sheets, easing the whole pile over.
‘You just stay there,’ Aggie said, with a self-righteous nod.
Rachel watched her mother’s face, but it was a blank. As the Toby Man moved away, he patted Rachel’s head. ‘That’s it, wench – you ’elp yer mother get settled.’
‘Get the rest of the clothes out, Rachel,’ Peggy said, calmly ignoring Aggie.
‘’Er’s a proper snooty bit, that one,’ Rachel heard Aggie mutter behind her.
Together they lifted the bundle of clothes out of the wicker carriage and laid those out as well. There were some very large bloomers and camisoles, a pair of gent’s trousers which were on the small size and which no one had wanted last time, and a misshapen man’s jacket with a paint stain on one sleeve. It smelt smoky and musty. Peggy folded it to make it look as good as she could. There were several hats that they had bought at a church jumble sale and Rachel enjoyed arranging those. Peggy had also acquired a set of embroidered table mats.
The queue of shoppers was building up outside. Excitement mounted before the gates opened. At last as they swung back, a tight crowd in hats and coats poured in, the ones at the front jostling good-naturedly, laughing and moving out all around the market. Some already had bags of meat from Jamaica Row or other goods they had bought; some were in deadly earnest looking for bargains, and others were there just for a mooch around. Soon the place was buzzing with crowds and activity.
It was a cold, overcast day. Rachel looked around her, watching one lady haggling for a nesting trio of pudding basins, another comparing the feel of skirt lengths. Customers approached her mother’s pitch and immediately took interest in the new things she had on display.
‘Ooh – look at that! How much is that?’ a woman asked, pointing at the peach creation with its silken ruffles along the neckline. Rachel thought that such an enormous lady would never fit into the dress. Surely she didn’t want it for herself?
‘Three pounds,’ Peggy said. ‘It’s brand new – never been worn. Very good quality. Made in Paris.’
‘Three pound?’ The lady chortled incredulously. ‘I’ll give yer ten bob and that’s robbing myself.’ Peggy shook her head with disdain.
‘Huh!’ Rachel heard the woman say as she turned away. ‘She’ll be lucky – three quid! This ain’t Lewis’s, you know.’
As the market got into full swing Rachel wandered back and forth among the crowds, taking it all in. A man stood in a gap to one side of a crock stall juggling plates, letting out banter at the same time. Rachel watched,
smiling. Would he drop one? But he never did. One lady was selling cheap bottles of perfume and the sweet, heady smell filled the air. There were mouth-watering aromas from all around of roasting chestnuts and potatoes and meat and frying onions from the cafe by the gates. From the edges of the market came a cacophony of shouting. Only those who were lucky enough to have places along the walls were allowed to pitch their wares and they were almost always the regulars who had worked their way into the best pitches.
Gradually, as Rachel wandered back towards her mother, she became aware of a voice sailing upwards over the cries of other traders. It was high and strong and thrumming with energy.
‘Come and get yer comics ’ere – get yer Champion, the Tip-Top Story Weekly! Get yer Triumph, yer Buck Rogers . . . ! A farthing each – three for a halfpenny! Never say I don’t give yer a bargain!’
Rachel realized that the voice was coming from somewhere across from them where a woman called Gladys Poulter regularly had a pitch against the back wall. Gladys was a handsome woman with strong, high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose and piercing blue eyes. Rachel thought Gladys looked rather forbidding, with an air of strength and dignity which defied anyone to give her trouble. She wore her dark brown hair plaited and coiled up into a bun and dressed her wide, curvaceous body in dark, old-fashioned clothes, a black skirt, high-necked blouse and, in the cold, a black woollen shawl hugged round it.
There were some women at Peggy’s pitch leaning down to feel some of the clothes and Rachel could see her mother watching them carefully.
‘Those underclothes are brand new,’ Peggy was saying to them.
Feeling she was not needed, Rachel wandered away again through the milling shoppers, amid the smells of people’s coats, their sweat and perfume, towards Gladys’s pitch. That voice was still coming through loud and clear. Through a gap she saw a young lad, about her own age, standing in front of Gladys’s cascades of clothing, belting out his patter. He held one hand out like a seasoned professional. She smiled, impressed. The boy looked like a grown-up man who had shrunk. He too had striking blue eyes. He must be Gladys’s son, she thought.
