On Mother Brown's Doorstep

by Mary Jane Staples

  She turned. Oh, help, it was him, and with a straight face. But he wasn’t in uniform, he was wearing standard Walworth casual clothes, trousers, jersey and jacket, and a brown cap. What was it he’d asked for? Turnips?

  ‘That’s daft,’ she whispered, ‘we don’t sell turnips.’

  ‘You sure?’ said Will. Nellie had told him where her sister worked.

  ‘Course I’m sure. We’re not a greengrocer’s.’

  Will looked as if he might dispute that. Just for the fun of it. He’d returned an hour ago from his weekly visit to the hospital, where he’d been told his condition shouldn’t be considered alarming, that he might merely be allergic to the Indian climate. So I might, he’d said, but what about the attack I had, exerting myself a little? Oh, that can be expected, but we still feel your condition is only temporary. Come and see us once a fortnight now, instead of once a week.

  ‘All right, miss, no turnips, then,’ he said, ‘so I’ll have four pounds of potatoes. Can you put them in a bag?’

  ‘I’ll hit you,’ breathed Annie.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You know what for. Comin’ in here and playin’ about.’

  ‘No good askin’ for some spring onions, I suppose, or a cauliflower?’

  ‘How would you like a kick in the leg?’ whispered Annie.

  ‘Not much,’ said Will. ‘All right, how about a tin of Peak Frean’s mixed biscuits for me mum?’

  ‘Serious?’ said Annie.

  ‘Well, I don’t think me mum fancies funny ones,’ said Will.

  ‘You’ll come to a sad end, you will,’ said Annie. With Miss Banks having served her customer, Annie became brisk. ‘A tin of Peak Frean’s mixed, you said, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, miss, yes,’ said Will ‘and I’ll have a bag of coal as well.’

  ‘We don’t sell coal, sir,’ said Annie, ‘you’ll ’ave to go down a coal-mine for that.’ She fetched the tin of biscuits. ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Will, ‘I’ll wait for you outside, I heard you finish at four.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Annie.

  ‘Yes, not a bad afternoon outside,’ said Will. ‘Can I have one of your penny carrier bags for the biscuits?’

  Annie put the tin into a carrier bag and Will paid, Annie eyeing him with the suspicion of a young lady who felt he might just have a pushcart waiting for her outside the shop.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, thank you for your custom,’ she said.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Will, ‘pity about no turnips, though.’ He departed, his face still straight, which made Annie sure he was laughing at her. And she was sure he wouldn’t be outside the shop when she left.

  But he was.

  ‘You’re here,’ she said.

  ‘Walk you home?’ said Will, eyeing her in approval. She looked quite the young lady in a short skirt, red jumper and buttoned-up jacket.

  ‘D’you mind tellin’ me what you’re lookin’ at?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Just you,’ smiled Will.

  ‘Well, I just don’t know,’ said Annie, ‘you’re always lookin’. I never met any feller who did more lookin’ than you. You could get both eyes blacked one day. And how did you know where I worked?’

  ‘Nellie told me.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Annie, ‘but what d’you mean by comin’ into the shop and ’aving me on?’

  ‘I wanted a tin of biscuits,’ said Will.

  ‘You asked for turnips. And coal.’

  ‘I forget myself sometimes,’ said Will, and Annie laughed.

  ‘You’re daft,’ she said.

  ‘Now and again, I suppose,’ said Will. ‘D’you want to take a tram down to East Street?’

  ‘What, under me arm or in a carrier bag?’ asked Annie, having some of her own back.

  ‘No sauce,’ said Will.

  ‘You can talk, you’ve got more sauce than all the street kids,’ said Annie. ‘And I’m walkin’ home, thanks.’

  ‘I was thinkin’ of your knee,’ said Will.

  ‘How kind,’ said Annie. She was still suspicious of him. ‘You can walk with me, if you like, I always go home by the Walworth Road.’ She liked the Walworth Road with its shops, its trams and buses, its people and its handsome town hall.

  They walked to the Elephant and Castle.

  ‘I was told you called at our house yesterday,’ said Will.

  ‘Yes, I wanted to thank you properly for the flowers,’ said Annie. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t thank you properly at the time – oh, wait a minute, when you left you told Nellie you’d send a pair of trousers round for me, and you went off laughin’ about it.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘I bet you did,’ said Annie, as they turned into the Walworth Road. ‘And what were the trousers for, might I ask?’

  ‘To stop you worryin’,’ said Will.

  ‘What about? Just tell me, go on. I didn’t ’ave any worries at all until I bumped into that pushcart because you were lookin’ at me.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all this lookin’,’ said Will, ‘and I thought you could use a pair of trousers to cover your legs and knees up when I’m around.’

  ‘Oh, I never heard anything so barmy,’ said Annie. ‘You’re laughin’ at me again. Anyway, how would you like to be a grown-up girl with her knees in the air in a pushcart?’

  ‘You’re not still worried about that, are you, Annie?’ said Will.

  ‘I’ll never get over it,’ said Annie, ‘and I never thought you’d be rotten enough to tell your fam’ly about it, specially that nice sister and dad of yours. I bet it won’t be long before everyone in London knows.’

  ‘Only if it gets in the newspapers,’ said Will.

  ‘Newspapers?’ Annie nearly fainted in public.

  ‘They’ll send reporters round to see you, and they’ll take photographs.’

  ‘Photographs of me?’ gasped Annie in horror.

  ‘In the pushcart,’ said Will.

  ‘D’you want me to die? I’m not bein’ sat in any pushcart again, I can tell you, I’ll—’ Annie stopped and gave him a searching look. ‘Oh, you rotten ha’porth, you’re havin’ me on again.’

  ‘No, it could get serious,’ said Will, ‘they might drag me in and take photographs of me pushin’ the cart with you in it and your knees up in the air. Strike a light, Annie, if the Army saw it, they’d throw me to the lions.’

  ‘They wouldn’t, would they?’ Annie gave him another searching glance. Will tried to look worried but brave. It didn’t work. ‘Oh, you lunatic,’ said Annie, ‘you’re doin’ it again, laughin’ at me. And you a soldier too, a corporal. Where’s your uniform?’

  ‘In my wardrobe,’ said Will. ‘I bought some civvies this mornin’.’

  ‘Your sister said you were on three months leave, I’ve never ’eard of any soldier havin’ that amount of leave before.’

  ‘It’s for good behaviour,’ said Will, ‘for bein’ respectful to officers, nice to old ladies and kind to girls.’

  ‘I’m not simple, I’ll ’ave you know,’ said Annie. ‘Did you get three months leave as a reward for doin’ something brave?’

  ‘No, just for doin’ three years duty in India.’

  ‘India? Oh, no wonder you look so brown. What’s it like there?’

  ‘Hot, mostly,’ said Will, and talked to her about that teeming continent. When they reached Caulfield Place down Browning Street, they stopped.

  ‘Here’s where you live,’ she said. ‘I’d best get a move on now and give Charlie and Nellie and Cassie a bit of tea.’

  ‘How many young men come knockin’ at your door?’ asked Will.

  ‘Hundreds,’ said Annie.

  ‘As many as that? Well, I suppose there’s no point askin’ if I can take you out when you’ve got—’

  ‘Of course I ’aven’t,’ said Annie.

  ‘All right,’ said Will, ‘how about a row on the Serpentine next Sunday afternoon, if the weather’s fine?’

  ‘You askin’ ser
ious?’

  ‘Yes, d’you mind?’ said Will.

  ‘No, I like bein’ asked out,’ said Annie.

  ‘Good,’ said Will, ‘I’ll call for you at half-past two next Sunday.’ He thought he could manage a gentle row on the Serpentine. There was no real exertion in that. He wouldn’t be entering a boat race. ‘That suit you?’

  ‘A row round the Serpentine sounds nice,’ said Annie.

  ‘Don’t fall out of the boat,’ said Will.

  ‘You’d better make sure I don’t, or I’ll pull you in with me.’

  ‘I’m hopin’ for a fine afternoon, not a wet one,’ said Will.

  Annie laughed, and they parted, Will strolling down Caulfield Place and Annie hurrying along to King and Queen Street, a little smile on her face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MONDAY HAVING BEEN washday, the Brown family expected the usual supper of cold meat with mounds of piping hot bubble-and-squeak. But because it was Mr Brown’s first day as manager of the new scrap yard, Mrs Brown put herself out to do grilled pork chops. However tasty bubble-and-squeak was, the cold meat just wasn’t good enough for celebrating a proud day like this. Mrs Brown’s scullery had been full of steam from the copper for hours, and the yard line was still laden with laundry. The scullery was still full of the smell of washing, but the door from the kitchen was shut tight to keep the smell from interfering with the aroma of the supper. Mr Brown had decided to say nothing about the grisly find at the yard. He didn’t think he needed to upset his family, especially with Susie’s wedding in the offing. In any case, it was nothing to do with Sammy’s ownership of the yard. Any headaches belonged to the previous owners, Collier and Son. With luck, when it got into the papers, Adams Enterprises wouldn’t even be mentioned. Boots was a godsend in cases like this, he’d know how to talk to the police and to any newspaper reporters if they asked questions.

  Enjoying his supper, he came up with the opinion that his trouble-and-strife was worth her weight in roast beef. Susie said you mean pork chops, Dad. Sally said no, he meant gold. Same thing, said Mr Brown, seeing I’m talking about the roast beef of old England.

  ‘Now, Jim,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I don’t want to be stood up pound for pound against roast beef.’

  ‘’Ow much roast beef would it be, then?’ asked Sally.

  ‘With any luck, a few ’undredweight,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘Me a few ’undredweight?’ said Mrs Brown, whose motherliness was constant and unvarying. ‘Dad, you’re askin’ for a clip, makin’ out I’m like the Fat Woman of Peckham.’

  ‘I think it’s the Fat Boy of Peckham,’ said Will.

  ‘Well, I’m not him, either,’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘You’re a nice comfy lady, Mum’, said Susie, ‘and worth all the pork chops in the Tower of London.’

  ‘’Ow many they got there, then?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘Millions,’ said Susie.

  ‘’Ow’d they get millions?’

  ‘Well, they order ninety every week for the Beefeaters,’ said Will, ‘but the Beefeaters won’t eat them, they only like beef chops.’

  ‘I never ’eard of beef chops,’ said Sally.

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’ said Will. ‘The Beefeaters grab them all.’

  ‘Mum, if I’ave to listen to any more jokes like that, I’ll leave ’ome,’ said Sally.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘just finish your pork chop.’

  ‘I’ eard a joke once,’ said Freddy, holding his chop and biting at what was left of the pork. ‘There was this absent-minded bloke, yer see, an’ when ’e got to ’is work one day someone told ’im ’e was wearin’ odd socks. “No, they ain’t odd,” he said, “I got another pair at ’ome just like these.”’

  Sally giggled. Mrs Brown smiled fondly. Susie smiled. Will grinned.

  Mr Brown said, ‘An’ then what, Freddy?’

  ‘Joke over,’ said Freddy. ‘Wake up, Dad. ’Ere, do all the fam’ly get presents at the weddin’? I wouldn’t mind a bike meself.’

  ‘Blessed boy,’ said Sally, ‘what’s ’e talkin’ about?’

  ‘It’s only the ’appy couple that get presents, Freddy,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘I dunno what Susie’s gettin’ any for,’ said Freddy, ‘not when she’s goin’ to get all Sammy’s worldly goods. Crikey, she’ll get ’is motorcar as well, and I ain’t even got a bike.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a bike, Freddy,’ said Susie.

  Freddy nearly swallowed his chop bone.

  ‘Now, son, you can’t eat that bone,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘Did our Susie say something?’ asked Freddy, slightly hoarse.

  ‘She said she’ll buy you a bike,’ smiled Will.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Freddy, ‘ain’t our Susie lovely, Will? I bet there ain’t many bruvvers that ’ave got a sister like her. I bet Ernie Flint’s sister could eat broken glass. Susie, did yer really say you’d buy me a bike?’

  ‘I have bought it, lovey,’ said Susie. At Sammy’s request, she had placed an order with Mr Greenberg and Mr Greenberg had said what a pleasure to see you, Susie, and what a pleasure to buy up certain textiles at certain warehouses for Sammy at ten per cent commission. Two and a half, said Susie. Susie, Susie, said Mr Greenberg, and sat down under the stress of a sudden heart attack. Seven and a half, he said faintly. Susie smiled, and Mr Greenberg recovered slightly. Four, said Susie. Mr Greenberg had a relapse. Susie fanned him. Six, he said hoarsely. Five, said Susie. Susie, Susie, you’ll be my death, he said. But five is twice as much as two and a half, and you don’t want to ruin us, do you, Mr Greenberg? Mr Greenberg settled for five and forgave Susie because of her blue eyes. Susie saw some bicycles among a mountain of stuff in his yard. She examined them. She found two very good ones and offered to take them both off Mr Greenberg’s hands. On my life, Susie, said Mr Greenberg, ain’t it a pleasure at twelve and six each? Bless you, Mr Greenberg, said Susie. Eh? said Mr Greenberg. Thanks, said Susie. Mr Greenberg said did I hear a quid for the pair? No, I’m happy with twenty-five bob, said Susie. Done at a guinea, Susie, said Mr Greenberg. Susie laughed. She was happy to pay up. Earning twelve pounds a month, which few young women of her age did, her savings made her relatively affluent, and she had insisted on helping her dad with the wedding expenses.

  ‘Susie, you really bought me a bike?’ asked Freddy, blissfully agape.

  ‘Mr Greenberg’s deliverin’ it tomorrow,’ said Susie, ‘with one for Sally as well. A lady’s bike, and both nearly as good as new, with bells.’

  ‘Oh, Susie,’ breathed Sally in rapture.

  ‘Bless you, Susie love,’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘Seconded,’ said Will, and Mr Brown looked affectionately proud of his one and only elder daughter. Sally jumped up and gave Susie a hug and a kiss. Freddy said he’d do all Susie’s wedding errands for her, and what’s more, he said, I won’t come to the church in me shirt tails, I’ll wear me new suit.

  ‘What a blessin’,’ said Sally, ‘we’re all honoured, ain’t we, Dad?’

  ‘’Ighly,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘I’ll wear me bicycle clips as well,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Not in the church, lovey,’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Freddy generously. ‘Susie, we goin’ to ’ave “Knees Up, Mother Brown” in the Institute?’

  ‘Sammy says you can’t have a Walworth weddin’ without a knees-up,’ smiled Susie.

  ‘That you can’t,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘It occurs to me,’ said Freddy, ‘was—’

  ‘Crikey, listen to ’im,’ said Sally, ‘fancy anything occurrin’ to ’im.’

  ‘Yes, was “Knees Up, Mother Brown” wrote for our mum, Dad?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘Funny you should ask that, Freddy,’ said Mr Brown. ‘It was the Sunday our Susie was christened, and we ’ad a bit of a do afterwards. Me and yer mum did a lively dance, and a bloke in a posh suit and a bow tie come up as yer mum was showin’ ’er knees. ’E complimented ’er and ask
ed me would I mind if ’e wrote a song in ’er honour, and what was ’er name. Seein’ she’d become a mother, I said you can call ’er Mother Brown. ’E said ’e was much obliged, then went an’ sat in a corner and wrote the song there an’ then. Then ’e played it on the joanner. “Knees Up, Mother Brown”, that’s what it was, and everyone did a dance to it, and ever since everyone in Walworth’s danced to it.’

  ‘Dad, you scream,’ said Susie, ‘you just made all that up.’

  ‘You ask yer mum,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘Well, I do remember some saucy bloke comin’ up and sayin’ he liked me knees,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘but I don’t remember him writin’ a song about them. Well, I boxed ’is ears.’

  Susie laughed. She listened as her dad talked about how he felt he’d had one over the eight when he first met their mum. She was that pretty he was sorry none of them had been there at the time. Freddy tried to puzzle that out while his dad went on to say that for the first time in his life he’d felt inebriated without a single drop of what you fancy having passed his lips. Susie listened to Sally pulling his leg, and to her mum announcing that Will had treated her to a lovely tin of biscuits after getting back from the hospital. It was a relief, she said, that the doctors had told him his asthma might only be temporary, and that they’d given him some special tablets to take, specially if it got temporarily chronic.

  ‘Aspro, I reckon,’ said Mr Brown, ‘they give yer that for everything.’

  ‘Yes, Henry the Eighth’s wives were given a couple each after he had their heads chopped off,’ said Will, ‘but it didn’t cure their headache.’

  Susie laughed again. Will could be really funny, and he was letting his sense of humour make light of his condition. The evening sunshine was going, but its light was still lingering on the grimy rooftops of Walworth and touching the kitchen. It was a lovely old kitchen to Susie. She could rarely sit at the table in the evenings without thinking of the previous tenants, the Adams family. Sammy and his sister and brothers had all grown up here. She often felt that she and her family were an extension of the Adams. Sammy said life was all about families, that loyalties began with the family, and that if you didn’t have loyalties you didn’t have anything worthwhile to hang on to when you started slipping. She and Sammy would have a family. Two boys and two girls. That is, Sammy had said would she mind doing him the honour four times and come up with two of each. Susie said would he mind giving her a little help, since she didn’t think she could manage everything by herself. Sammy asked if she’d write down exactly what he had to do, as he was dead ignorant about that sort of thing. So am I, said Susie, but we can practise together. What, now, in your parlour? said Sammy. No, when we’re married, said Susie, so leave my legs alone. Now? said Sammy. Well, not exactly now, said Susie, not immediately.