On Mother Brown's Doorstep

by Mary Jane Staples

  It was definitely cold meat and bubble-and-squeak for Gaffer Ford and his family. Annie had had to see to the washing, which Nellie and Charlie had collected from a bagwash on their way home from school. It had all needed to be sorted out and hung on the yard lines. Still, the bubble-and-squeak, crisply browned, was a treat any Monday.

  Gaffer Ford thought of something.

  ‘Seen any more of the soldier bloke that wheeled your knees ’ome in a pushcart, Annie?’ he asked.

  ‘You done it now, Dad,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Done what?’ said the Gaffer.

  ‘You’re not to say that word,’ said Nellie.

  ‘No-one ain’t,’ said Charlie, ‘and I got orders to bash any of the street kids that talk about it.’

  ‘No, you ain’t,’ said Nellie. ‘Annie didn’t give you no orders to do any bashin’. You just said you would, it’s yer ’ooliganism that makes yer want to go around bashin’ people.’

  ‘Charlie,’ said the Gaffer, ‘I ’ope I ain’t goin’ to have to take me belt to yer one day, which I’ve been recommended to by certain neighbours. Anyway, what word ain’t I to say?’

  ‘Pushcart,’ piped up Cassie.

  ‘Cor, she’s said it,’ groaned Charlie.

  ‘Cassie, you know Annie’s forbid it,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Yes, I don’t want it ever mentioned again,’ said Annie, ‘not by any of you – Dad, is that you laughin’?’

  ‘Bless yer, Annie, not me,’ said the Gaffer.

  ‘It’s bad enough him always laughin’ – no, never mind that,’ said Annie, ‘just get on with your suppers.’

  ‘Who’s ’im?’ asked the Gaffer.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Annie.

  ‘The one that’s always laughin’,’ said the Gaffer, who knew the answer.

  ‘Betcher it’s ’er soldier,’ said Charlie.

  ‘If you must know,’ said Annie, ‘he came into the shop to buy a tin of biscuits for ’is mum, and I just happened to serve him.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked the Gaffer.

  ‘What d’you mean, then what?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Did ’e come on ’orseback?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘’Ow could ’e come on ’orseback for a tin of biscuits?’ asked Charlie. ‘’Orses ain’t allowed in grocers’ shops.’

  ‘Small ’orses are,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Cassie,’ said Annie, ‘stop givin’ your meat to that cat.’

  ‘It’s only the bits of fat,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Did yer soldier ’ave a chat with yer, Annie?’ asked the Gaffer.

  ‘Well, he did walk down the Walworth Road with me on me way home,’ said Annie, ‘when I spoke to him about makin’ a joke of what I suffered.’

  ‘Cor, I bet ’is ears ’urt,’ said Charlie.

  ‘The Queen went down the Walworth Road once,’ said Cassie dreamily.

  ‘What for?’ asked Nellie.

  ‘Well, she ’ad some shoppin’ to do,’ said Cassie.

  ‘What shoppin’?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Oh, jellied eels an’ pie an’ mash, I think,’ said Cassie. ‘Yes, it was that, I remember now, they don’t ’ave any in Windsor Castle, only liver an’ bacon an’ fairy cakes with pink icing. And plums an’ custard,’ she added, after a brief but thoughtful pause.

  ‘Cassie,’ said Annie, hiding a smile, ‘I just don’t know what we can do with you and all your fancies.’

  ‘We could turn ’er upside-down an’ shake ’em out of ’er,’ said Charlie.

  ‘No, we couldn’t,’ said the Gaffer, ‘not our Cassie, she’s one of me sweet’earts.’

  ‘We could turn Charlie upside-down and make an ’ole in the floor with ’is big ’ead,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Yes, time we ’ad some ’oles knocked in the floor,’ said the Gaffer. ‘Anyway, so yer soldier walked you ’ome, Annie, did ’e?’

  ‘Yes, and he asked me to go for a row on the Serpentine with ’im next Sunday, if it’s fine,’ said Annie.

  ‘Annie, did yer say yes?’ asked Nellie.

  ‘I ’ad to be gracious and forgivin’,’ said Annie. ‘You can’t be church-goin’ and not forgivin’.’

  ‘You’ll look nice in yer best Sunday frock, Annie, while you’re standin’ on yer dignity in a rowin’-boat,’ said the Gaffer. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased for yer.’

  ‘Ain’t it nice, Annie’s soldier bein’ romantic about ’er?’ said Nellie.

  ‘Romantic’s daft,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Annie, I’ll come as well, if yer like,’ said Cassie, ‘there might be a circus with lion tamers in the park.’

  ‘Cassie, you can’t go, you silly,’ said Nellie.

  ‘I could take Tabby,’ said Cassie, ‘’e’s really a circus cat.’

  ‘First I’ve ’eard of it,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Well, ’e can do circus tricks,’ said Cassie, ‘like puttin’ ’is tail up in the air an’ standin’ on one leg.’

  ‘I never seen ’im standin’ on one leg,’ said Nellie.

  ‘’E did it once, I saw ’im,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Then what ’appened?’ asked the Gaffer.

  ‘Well, ’e fell over,’ said Cassie dolefully.

  The family yelled with laughter. Cassie couldn’t think why.

  ‘You’re a real scream, you are, Cassie,’ said Nellie.

  ‘She’s our little coughdrop,’ said the Gaffer.

  ‘Who wants some marmalade tart?’ asked Annie. They all wanted a slice of one she had made on Saturday evening.

  ‘Can I ’ave mine ’ot?’ asked Charlie. Annie said yes, put it in the fire for a minute. The family yelled with laughter again, and the Gaffer was certain of one thing then.

  And that was that a man’s kids were the best thing in his life when he’d lost his wife.

  Mr Brown was at the Bermondsey yard again on Tuesday morning. Not that there was anything he could do. The police had said don’t touch. He sent his assistant off to the Olney Road yard, which was busy and could use a bit of help. The police had appeared early. They were going to take away the boards that had lain above the corpse and give them a minute examination. Mr Brown asked why, and was astonished to hear them talk about fingerprints. Fingerprints on floorboards that had been walked on ever since that poor girl had been buried there? On the underside, said the police. It’s smooth planking.

  Mr Brown asked if the girl had been identified. The police said they were working on it, using a list of missing persons. Did they know how old the girl had been? Not yet. The pathologist would come up with that information pretty soon. Had they got any helpful information from Collier and Son? The reply made Mr Brown infer that Collier and Son had let their business go to the dogs on account of too much time spent in pubs. The father and his son had had no employees at this yard, they worked the business themselves. On and off. And mostly off during the last eighteen months. Mr Brown drew another inference, that the CID were investigating father and son. He asked if he could get rid of the stacks of timber. He’d taken down the notice on the gates after the body had been uncovered yesterday. The police said they’d be obliged if he left everything just as it was. Finally, he asked if they wanted to speak to Mr Sammy Adams, managing director of the firm that had bought the yard and the business just a week or so ago. The police said they had no plans to at the moment.

  That was something, thought Mr Brown.

  One of the closed double gates was pushed open and Boots entered the yard, raincoat over his arm. The day was showery.

  ‘Morning, Jim,’ he said, and introduced himself to the police. He spoke to them and received from them the same kind of information they’d given to Mr Brown, no more and no less. Mr Brown couldn’t help noting how easily he conducted himself. He never seemed to let people bother him, whoever they were and however awkward they could get. Mr Brown knew him for a man to whom the fact of being alive in God’s world was far more important than the attitudes of people. People seemed to amuse him, and he nearly always looked as if a hint
of amusement was lurking in his eyes, even his almost blind one. He might not be amused at the moment. He wasn’t. You could see that, you could see a steely light, and Mr Brown knew he was thinking of the man who had murdered that poor young girl and buried her body under a scrap yard shed.

  Mr Brown knew his background, that he was the eldest of his redoubtable mother’s four children, that he’d been born and bred in cockney Walworth, won a place in a grammar school, made himself temporarily famous as the most important defence witness at an Old Bailey murder trial and soldiered in the trenches of France and Flanders before being blinded on the Somme. He’d married the girl next door while he was still blind, and now he was the general manager of his brother Sammy’s business. Mr Brown thought that for all its complications, Boots did the job standing on his head. Unlike Sammy, however, he did not seem ambitious. He seemed a contented man, although his wife, Emily, once said there was a lot more to him than met the eye. His adopted daughter Rosie adored him. And, according to what Mr Brown had heard from Sammy in an unguarded moment, so did Miss Polly Simms, daughter of General Sir Henry Simms. Miss Simms had been an ambulance driver during the war, and although she had never met Boots while in France, Sammy said she complained bitterly that Emily had pinched Boots while her back was turned. But keep it dark, Jim, said Sammy, or there’ll be ructions and my dear old Ma will start boxing ears all round. Not that Boots can’t handle the situation. He’s a family man.

  The police, ready to depart, requested that Mr Brown and Mr Adams leave with them. They locked the gates and went on their way, the relevant floorboards wrapped in an old sheet. Boots took a stroll with Mr Brown.

  ‘Good of yer to come,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘Just wanted you to know it’s not your problem or your worry,’ said Boots, ‘and that the scrap yard in Kennington is short of a manager. He’s off sick. Would you care to take over, Jim?’

  ‘That’ll suit me, Boots.’

  ‘I need to get back to the office,’ said Boots.

  ‘I’ll push off to Kennington,’ said Mr Brown. ‘By the way, I’ve kept all this to meself.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Boots.

  ‘I didn’t want me fam’ly to know, specially Susie.’

  ‘Everybody’ll know soon, of course,’ said Boots, ‘but the papers might not mention it’s now an Adams yard.’

  ‘Well, with the weddin’ comin’ up, yer know, Boots.’

  ‘We’re all looking forward to it, Jim.’

  ‘Special special it’s goin’ to be for Susie.’

  ‘And a revelation to Sammy, I’d say,’ said Boots, and the lurking hint of amusement turned into a smile.

  * * *

  The midday editions of the evening papers came up with the news of the discovery of a girl’s body in a scrap yard in Bermondsey. The possibility that she’d been murdered was hinted at. Mr Brown felt certain the police had no doubts. The pathologist’s report was expected today, and the papers informed their readers that the police were trying to establish the girl’s identity by checking their lists of missing persons.

  ‘Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Brown,’ smiled Mr Greenberg as the good lady opened the door to him. ‘And vhat a pleasant day, ain’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose a nice drop of rain is doin’ someone some good,’ said Mrs Brown in her agreeable way. No disillusioned male could ever have said Mrs Brown was a contrary female. ‘’Ave you brought the bikes, Mr Green-berg?’

  Mr Greenberg’s small pony and cart stood outside the house. The well-known rag-and-bone man also had a horse and cart.

  ‘Vell, how could I let Susie down? Vhat a happy young lady she is, ain’t it? Might I bring the bikes in, Mrs Brown?’

  ‘I’d be ever so obliged,’ said Mrs Brown proudly. Some neighbours were on their doorsteps, watching through the light shower of rain. It could make any woman proud to have neighbours witnessing two bikes going into her house. ‘And I’m that glad you’re deliverin’ now, as Sally and Freddy will be home from school in half an hour.’

  ‘I vill bring them in at vunce, von’t I?’ beamed Mr Greenberg.

  ‘And stay for a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘Vell, time ain’t alvays money,’ said Mr Greenberg, his beard curling happily, ‘and ain’t this a house and a home of fond memories for me? Vhy, ain’t it the only house that’s known the Adams and Browns, all of vhich are my friends? I vill bring in the bikes and drink tea vith you vith great pleasure.’

  ‘Leave them in the passage,’ said Mrs Brown, and bustled back to her kitchen to put the kettle on.

  Mr Greenberg unloaded the bikes one at a time and placed them in the passage. He returned to his cart to put the nosebag on his pony. He looked around for a moment. The shower of rain ceased its patter, the clouds broke and the sun came out, creating a rainbow over Walworth. Ah, such a country with its rain, its rainbows and its good people, thought Mr Greenberg. His love for his adopted country surfaced, and he took out his large red handkerchief and blew his nose. He thought of the trodden muddy streets of Russian villages, and the perils of being Jewish whenever a patrol of Russian police or Cossacks rode in. The tsars and their knout-wielding Cossacks had gone, and the Bolsheviks and their commissars had Russia now. They were no better than the tsars. Who would want to go back and live under them? Who would ever exchange a life with the people of London for a life under the Bolsheviks? There were a few people, ah, yes, who would never smile on a Jew, but did he not have a thousand friends who would laugh with him and crack jokes with him?

  How busy he had been almost from the day he and his parents and his sisters had stepped ashore and taken their first steps over the soil of England. He had been fifteen then and was now just fifty. In all that time he had been too busy to find a wife. And now, when grey was peppering his hair and his beard, a woman had entered his house in the Old Kent Road. A woman of thirty-six, a widow, Hannah Borovich, who had three children, all boys.

  ‘Mr Greenberg, shame on you,’ she had said.

  ‘Vhat? Vhat? You enter my house and address me in Russian, not even in Yiddish?’

  ‘We are Russian,’ she said.

  ‘I spit on Russia.’

  ‘Tck, tck,’ said the handsome widow. ‘It is time you were married, time you became a father.’

  ‘To whom should I be married?’

  ‘To myself. You are a good man, Eli Greenberg, and a kind one. I will take you for my husband and give my sons what they need, a father. Go to Rabbi Goldstein and tell him so.’

  What could a man do with such a woman who had three sons all with dark liquid eyes and crisp curly black hair? Should he take a wife at his age and her three sons too? She was poor and was concerned for them.

  What could a man do except think about it?

  Mr Greenberg smiled, raised his round black hat to Mrs Brown’s neighbours who were still on their doorsteps, then entered the house to drink tea with Susie’s affable mother.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ONE COULD HAVE said that Sally and Freddy came out of school in leaps and bounds, such was their rushing eagerness to get home and see if their bikes had come. School friends laughed and shouted at them.

  ‘Go it, Freddy, old Nick’s behind yer!’

  ‘Leg it, Sally!’

  That Sally and her growing legs, thought Freddy, it just ain’t right. His sister was yards ahead of him and running fit to lick him to their door. Exuberant Sally ran on. Appalled at being beaten by a girl, and his sister at that, Freddy charged after her. Up through Walcorde Avenue they flew, Freddy gaining. Sally turned into Browning Street.

  ‘’Ere, you Sally!’

  ‘Slowcoach!’ called Sally.

  Freddy belted after her and they were almost together as they turned into Caulfield Place. And there they almost sent Mr Ponsonby flying.

  ‘Oh, ’elp,’ panted Freddy.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mr Ponsonby,’ said Sally. They stopped.

  Mr Ponsonby, regaining his balance, straightened his bowler hat and p
eered at them.

  ‘Dear me, what a day,’ he said, ‘what high spirits. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Sally, ’e’s Freddy.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Sally Brown. Charming, charming, such a sweet girl. And Freddy, yes, such a firework, my word, yes. Dear me, where are you going?’

  ‘’Ome,’ said Freddy, ‘to see if our bikes ’ave come.’

  ‘Bikes?’ said Mr Ponsonby, looking puzzled. ‘Ah, bicycles, of course. Have a peppermint.’ He produced the bag, opened it and proffered it. Sally and Freddy each took a peppermint while their feet fidgeted.

  ‘Thanks ever so, Mr Ponsonby,’ said Sally.

  ‘Not at all, Sally, not at all. My, you’re a pretty girl.’

  ‘She’s got special wooden legs,’ said Freddy.

  ‘He’s barmy,’ said Sally, and Mr Ponsonby peered at her legs.

  ‘Dear me, dear me, well, I never,’ he said, ‘how very charming.’

  ‘She just ’ad ordin’ry short legs before,’ said Freddy. ‘Well, we got to go now, Mr Ponsonby – crikey, look, Sally, that’s Mr Greenberg’s cart outside our front door – come on.’

  Off they ran. Mr Ponsonby turned to watch them, a kind smile putting a crease in his tidy-looking face.

  ‘Dear me, what a very nice photograph I could take,’ he said, and helped himself to a peppermint. ‘But one is so busy, so busy. I must get on. Now, where am I going? Ah, yes.’ He turned about and twinkled off, rolled umbrella lightly tapping the pavement.

  Having paid their joyous respects to the beaming Mr Greenberg, and gobbled up cake with their cups of tea, Sally and Freddy took up rapturous ownership of their bikes. Off went Sally to ride round and see her friend Mavis. Boys whistled at her legs.