On Mother Brown's Doorstep

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Is what good?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Leavin’ the Army for the wide open spaces, joinin’ the cowboys and Indians,’ said Will. ‘Didn’t you say it was?’

  ‘Oh, you daft thing,’ said Annie, ‘there’s wide open spaces down near Brighton in Sussex. Dad took us there once, on the train. Besides, cowboys and Indians ride ’orses. You can’t ride ’orses, can you?’

  ‘Not without fallin’ off,’ said Will, ‘but I can ride a bike.’

  Annie laughed. Other passengers glanced at her. They saw a girl in happiness. Will saw a girl bright and alive, her hip and thigh communicating feminine warmth to his. His body, vigorous and healthy despite his asthmatic condition, stirred reactively. Steady, he told himself again.

  They alighted at East Street.

  Feeling peckish, Will said, ‘Fancy some fish and chips, Annie?’

  ‘Oh, who wouldn’t?’ said Annie, liking the offer because it was just the kind of treat a girl could expect from a young man when she was his young lady.

  So they walked along the Walworth Road to the fish and chip shop near Manor Place, where Will bought two helpings of rock salmon and chips. They put salt and vinegar on, and spent a happy time eating them out of the newspaper wrapping on their way back to East Street. Annie deposited the newspaper in the wire basket fixed to the lamp-post on the corner of the street, and then Will walked her home.

  In the doorway of the Ford house, the cold night darkly enclosed them. Annie looked up at him. Her face seemed misty.

  ‘Will, thanks ever so much for a lovely evenin’,’ she said a little throatily.

  Will kissed her. He couldn’t help himself. Blissfully, Annie received the kiss, her first romantic one. Oh, help, swoony. Her mouth clung to his, and she pressed close. Ruddy fire and hell, thought Will, as warning signals arrived. Kissing a girl was doing it to his tubes? He released her.

  ‘Bless you, Annie,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, bless you too,’ she said, breathless and rapturous. ‘You’ll come in, won’t you, and see Dad and ’ave a cup of tea?’

  Will’s chest was tightening, but he felt it would be like giving her a slap in the face if he said no.

  ‘A cup of tea sounds just what the doctor ordered,’ he said. Annie opened the door and they entered, she in a quick way, he moving carefully, nursing his condition.

  The Gaffer was up, the rest of his children in bed. He greeted Will with cockney heartiness, and Annie put the kettle on. Then she set about making some corned beef sandwiches with pickle for her dad.

  ‘Good film, Will?’ enquired the Gaffer, sitting at the table with him.

  ‘Tom Mix? You bet,’ said Will.

  ‘Will was sayin’ on the tram that he might leave the Army and go and be a cowboy,’ said Annie, bobbed hair dancing a little as she sliced bread.

  ‘Ruddy good idea,’ said the Gaffer. ‘Let’s all push off an’ get away from bosses in top ’ats an’ gold watch-chains. Let’s all be cowboys.’

  ‘Me as well?’ said Annie, a little glow on her face.

  ‘I like the picture,’ said Will.

  ‘What picture?’ asked Annie, spreading margarine on the slices.

  ‘I reckon ’e means you on a cowboy’s ’orse in yer ’ighly fashionable frock, Annie,’ grinned the Gaffer.

  ‘Dad, you’re gettin’ as bad as Will, and if you don’t leave off I’ll make you stand in a corner.’

  ‘Gawd ’elp us,’ said the Gaffer.

  ‘Sounds fierce,’ said Will. The tightness was easing.

  ‘Yes, I’m the boss in this kitchen,’ said Annie, and made the tea and the sandwiches. Then she sat down with Will and her dad. Her dad tucked into the sandwiches and they drank the hot tea. Will mentioned that Susie was getting married at St John’s Church next Saturday week. Annie, at once intrigued, wanted to know who the bridegroom was. Will said Sammy Adams, and that he’d once run a glass and china stall down the market, where he’d first met Susie.

  ‘Oh, I know ’im,’ said Annie. ‘I mean, I saw him lots there. He’s a real lively feller, and good-lookin’ too. I bet he’s never put a girl in a—’ She stopped. The Gaffer coughed.

  ‘In a pushcart?’ said Will.

  ‘Blimey, yer done it now, Will,’ said the Gaffer, ‘that’s a word that’s forbidden in this ’ouse.’

  ‘What do I do now, then, duck under the table?’ said Will.

  ‘What’s he doin’, where’s he gone?’ asked Annie, as his head and shoulders disappeared. She shrieked, knowing that under the table she was all legs. Will’s head re-emerged.

  ‘Dropped me teaspoon,’ he said.

  ‘I bet,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t know how you can just sit there grinnin’, Dad.’

  ‘Well, a bloke can’t ’elp droppin’ ’is teaspoon,’ said the Gaffer, frankly tickled by what was developing between his lovable daughter and her likeable soldier. He knew Annie far too well not to realize she was in high spirits and uncommonly happy. She’d had a tough time since the death of her mum, and she’d taken on all kinds of responsibilities while doing a job as well. It hadn’t got her down, even though she’d never had much time to spare for herself or for boys. Now, when she was in her eighteenth year, it looked as if she’d got a young man. It was making her come alive. Well, Will was a bit of all right, and he’d got a nice sense of humour.

  Will, remembering that a wedding guest had cried off, someone called Polly Simms, said, ‘Like to come, Annie?’

  ‘Come where?’ she asked.

  ‘To Susie’s weddin’.’

  ‘Me?’ said Annie, eyes opening wide.

  ‘There’s room for you. There’ll be dancin’ at the Institute in the evenin’.’

  ‘But your parents must’ve done all the arrangement,’ said Annie, ‘they couldn’t take an extra guest now, could they?’

  ‘Not extra big and fat ones, no,’ said Will, ‘but you’re not big and fat. We could fit you in nicely.’

  Annie went warm with pleasure, then made a face.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t, Saturdays are Mr Urcott’s busiest days, I couldn’t ask ’im for the afternoon off.’

  ‘Well, come to the Institute when you’ve finished work,’ said Will.

  ‘Oh, I’d love to,’ said Annie.

  ‘Good,’ said Will, ‘and now I think I’d better push off. Good night, Mr Ford.’

  ‘Best of luck, Will,’ said the Gaffer.

  Annie saw Will to the front door.

  ‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said.

  ‘It’s been a lovely evenin’,’ said Annie, wondering if he was going to kiss her again. ‘Oh, and thanks ever so much for the weddin’ invite.’

  ‘Wear your high fashion knockout,’ said Will. ‘Like to go to Ruskin Park on Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘You’re gettin’ quite nicer all the time,’ she said.

  ‘Hope I can keep it up,’ said Will, and went off with a smile, but without kissing her.

  I’ll have to go and see Dr McManus again, he thought, and ask him if kissing a girl is fatal to me asthma.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AT THE SOUND of the front door closing the following evening, Mrs Queenie Watts said to her husband, ‘’Enry’s out ev’ry evenin’ now reg’lar as clockwork.’

  ‘Doin’ ’im good,’ said Stan Watts, ‘makin’ ’im more human. ’Ere, what’s this out ’ere on top of the copper?’

  ‘Oh, just some of ’is shirts,’ said Queenie, ‘I offered to put ’em in me Monday wash, if I’m up to doin’ it.’

  ‘But ’e uses the laundry, don’t ’e?’ called Stan from the scullery.

  ‘Yes, but I offered. I ’ad a weak moment, I forgot about me chronic back.’

  ‘What’s ’e use three shirts in a week for?’ asked Stan. ‘They’re bleedin’ best shirts, look at ’em.’

  ‘I can’t see from ’ere,’ said Queenie, lumpily lazing in a fireside chair, ‘but I take yer word for it.’

  ‘’Ere, yer know what three best shirts in a week mean, don’t yer?
’ said Stan. ‘’E’s got a fancy woman, that’s what’s takin’ ’im out reg’lar ev’ry evenin’ about the same time. ’Ere, wait a bit, there’s a bloodstain on the cuff of one shirt, Queenie. I ’ope that don’t mean ’e’s cut ’is fancy woman’s throat.’

  ‘Oh, yer daft lummox, Stan. You don’t suppose, do yer, that ’e cut ’er throat last night and ’as gone back tonight to bury ’er somewhere? ’E just ’appened to nick ’is wrist when ’e got back ’ere last night, ’e told me so, and ’e showed it to me. It’s only a small nick.’

  ‘Well, ’e’s got some woman all right,’ said Stan, ‘dressin’ smart like ’e does an’ goin’ out so reg’lar in ’is new overcoat. And ’e don’t look these days as if the rozzers are ’unting ’im down.’

  ‘’E couldn’t help lookin’ like that,’ said Queenie. ‘It was Matty fallin’ out of that train that did it to ’im. ’E’s gettin’ over it at last.’

  ‘And ’e’s got a fancy piece that’s ’elping ’im,’ said Stan.

  ‘Time ’e ’ad a little bit of what ’e fancies,’ said Queenie indulgently.

  After a nice homely supper of fresh haddock and poached eggs with Madge, Henry Brannigan took her for a walk along the Walworth Road. He, as usual, measured his strides whenever they reached a patch of light. Madge, as usual, fitted in with him, even though she was cheerfully disposed this evening to ignore the superstitions. Henry, however, was very set in the way he observed all the rules, and she didn’t like to go against him.

  ‘That one near caught the both of us,’ he said, as they came out of the light cast by a shop window. Some shop windows always showed light, but most had their shutters up.

  ‘Still, we both beat it,’ said Madge.

  ‘Well, good for both of us, eh? Like a drink? Say a port an’ lemon?’

  ‘That’s nice of you, Henry. I don’t know I ever met a man more gen’rous than you, nor more kind.’

  ‘I ain’t ever sure meself that dibs do a bloke much good by bein’ kept in ’is pocket,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘Dibs, yer might say, is there to be spent when there’s something worthwhile to spend ’em on. A good woman’s worthwhile, Madge, and it ain’t nothing to do with bein’ gen’rous. And I don’t know I’d call meself kind, I’m more rough and ready, like.’

  ‘A rough diamond, then, that’s you,’ said Madge, full-bodied and hearty, and surprising herself in her liking for taking walks with this strange and earthy man. The night was fine, the inky sky studded with a million tiny stars, the day clouds of early April swept from the heavens by a wind that had come and gone.

  They crossed the road when they reached East Street, darkly empty of stalls. The tramlines, straight and true, faintly glimmered. They stepped over them, Madge doing so with a little laugh as they made for the pub on the corner of Penrose Street. The lamp above its door illuminated the paving stones. Madge, just a little bit careless then, trod on a line. Henry Brannigan emitted a sharp hissing breath.

  ‘Shouldn’t ’ave done that, Madge,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it don’t really count, Henry,’ she said. ‘I’m not in a superstitious mood tonight, I’m ’appy bein’ out with yer.’

  ‘All the same, I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘Just take care tomorrer in case bad luck comes runnin’ after yer.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Henry, I’ll take care,’ she said, sorry that she’d upset him.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and took her into the pub. It gave them a warm if fuggy welcome, the clay pipes of elderly cockneys issuing smoke. The place was fairly full, lively customers enjoying old ale at fourpence a pint from the barrel. A table, unoccupied, offered itself. ‘You sit there, Madge, and I’ll order up yer port an’ lemon.’

  He was a real gent, she thought, in the way he treated her, especially as a lot of people would just see her as an old pro. Still, she was off the game now. She sat down while he took himself to the crowded bar. Her handsomely mature looks drew the eyes of some men. She knew this pub, of course, she knew all the pubs and their noisy cockney atmosphere and their sawdust floors. Walworth men and women liked their pubs.

  A man, catching sight of her, gave her a second look, then elbowed his way out of a group of men and women. He shifted his cap a little until its soft peak was at a perky angle and walked across to Madge.

  ‘Watcher, Daisy gel, ain’t seen yer around lately,’ he said, and winked at her.

  Oh, blow it, thought Madge, he’s been a customer of mine, I suppose. Daisy was the name she’d always used. She could rarely remember any of their faces, not generally she couldn’t, and she’d hoped none of them would remember hers now that she wasn’t tarted up.

  ‘Beg yer pardon?’ she said.

  ‘Are yer booked, love?’ The man wasn’t at all bad-looking. He was about thirty, with a fine pair of shoulders and a scarf around his brawny neck. A faint sexual surge disturbed her healthy body. That was often the trouble. She was healthy. She liked men, except the pathetic kind who’d never been able to look her in the eye. Henry looked her in the eye like a real man should. She frankly fancied Henry. He was middle-aged but as strong as a horse, she could tell that.

  ‘You after something, mister?’ she said distantly.

  ‘You offerin’, Daisy? ’Ow about a bit of what I’ve ’ad before, eh? Bleedin’ fine woman, you are, and ’ere’s me ’ard-earned silver in advance.’ His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with two half-crowns, which he placed on the table in front of her. Madge felt sick, then angry. ‘Meet yer outside in twenty minutes, say?’ The man gave her another wink.

  A glass of port and lemon appeared. A hand set it down beside the heavy silver coins. That was followed by a pint glass of old ale, and Henry Brannigan, having rid himself of both glasses, addressed himself to the intruding third party.

  ‘The lady’s with me,’ he said.

  ‘Well, don’t be greedy, tosh,’ said the third party, ‘I’m paid-up an’ booked.’

  Henry Brannigan drew a long breath. It seemed to expand him and to lengthen him. He picked up the half-crowns and dropped them into the third party’s jacket pocket.

  ‘Do yerself a favour, mate, an’ bugger off,’ he said.

  ‘Watch yer north-and-south, cully, I ain’t yer private doormat.’

  ‘Would you be invitin’ me outside?’ asked Henry Brannigan.

  ‘You want it, you’ll get it.’

  ‘Right.’ Henry Brannigan glanced at Madge. ‘Won’t be a tick,’ he said.

  ‘Henry—’

  ‘Look after me pint,’ he said, and went outside with the man. No-one took any notice. Amid all the boisterous noise, the brief dialogue had gone unheard except by Madge. She sat stiffly, biting her lip. But she didn’t have long to wait. Henry was back within a couple of minutes. He didn’t look ruffled, and he didn’t look heated. He sat down and picked up his glass of ale.

  ‘Oh, me gawd, what’ve yer done to ’im?’ breathed Madge.

  ‘Hit ’im,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘’E won’t be comin’ back. I ’ope that’ll show yer, Madge, that it don’t do to challenge them fates.’

  ‘What d’yer mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Trod on a line outside, didn’t yer?’ he said. ‘An’ bad luck didn’t take any time to catch up with yer, did it? You’re off the game now, so I’d say you count it as bad luck to get an offer from a bloke when you’re livin’ respectable, don’t yer?’

  ‘So ’elp me, I don’t want to go back on the game,’ breathed Madge, ‘nor ’ave anyone makin’ an offer.’

  ‘There y’ar, then, lady, don’t risk it. Don’t ask for bad luck to come runnin’ after yer. It chased after yer when you trod on that line, and caught up quick with yer. I ain’t partial to ’aving you accosted, not now you’re keepin’ yer bed to yerself. Well, the fates ’ave taught you yer lesson. Now ’ere’s good ’ealth an’ good luck to yer, Madge.’

  Madge, a shaky little smile on her face, said, ‘Bless yer, Henry, and ’ere’s good luck to you too.’

  They dra
nk to each other, with Madge thinking he’s right, you can’t shut superstitions up in a cupboard whenever you feel like it, you’ve got to keep them out in the open all the time and pay respect to them.

  Susie entered Sammy’s office on Saturday morning the moment she heard him come in.

  ‘Mister Sammy,’ she said, consulting her watch, ‘you’re late.’

  ‘Did I hear you say something, Miss Brown?’

  ‘You did. It’s nearly eleven, and I wasn’t aware you had any appointments this mornin’. Lilian Hyams phoned and said to tell you all the autumn and winter designs are now finished in respect of suggested alterations by Miss de Vere. And Tommy phoned to say the hire of another warehouse has been arranged. And there’s a letter from Shuttleworth Mills about their new cotton fabrics that wants answerin’. Eleven o’clock in the mornin’ won’t do, Mister Sammy, unless you’ve got a good excuse.’

  ‘I’ll come after you in a minute,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Yes, please – no, I mean no – not in office time. Just kindly explain why you’re late, and if it’s because you’ve been up to see Miss de Vere, I won’t invite you to my weddin’.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Sammy, ‘I get a painful feelin’ I’d be better off deaf, you saucebox. I’d give you the sack if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d miss your legs walkin’ in and out of me office. What’s kept me, you want to know? Well, I’m able to inform you, Miss Brown, that I’ve been to the Bermondsey Borough Council and offered them the scrap yard as a buildin’ site, at the price we paid for the business, so that they could put up a block of municipal flats.’

  ‘You want to sell that yard?’ asked Susie.

  ‘Well, I know your dad could get back to it in time, Susie, but there’s always goin’ to be some geezers nosin’ about to get a look at where that girl’s body was found. It’s what’s called morbid curiosity. You remember, don’t you, a woman called Mrs Chivers, who was murdered a few doors away from where you’re livin’ now?’

  ‘Yes, everyone in Walworth knew about that,’ said Susie. ‘Your fam’ly told me the full story. Boots was a witness at the trial of Elsie Chivers, the daughter, and so was your mum.’