by Maggie Ford
More likely so he could be cosy with her nearer the back, but she submitted to that, because it was true what he said: the flickering, stark black and white screen was hard on the eyes close to. It could give you such a headache. For another threepence they’d have gone upstairs in the circle seats, but Eddie was saving, so he’d said on more than one occasion – rather too pointedly for Cissy’s peace of mind – for the day when he’d have to provide for a wife. ‘It’s a big responsibility when you have to take care of a family, which I hope to one day, Cissy.’ A statement she chose to ignore.
The full house was already rocking with mirth at Keaton, the air thick with cigarette smoke and it reeked of packed bodies and the perfume of disinfectant the usherettes had sprayed along the aisle. Cissy soon forgot Eddie’s apology and its connotation for not going in the circle seats, as hardly had she sat down than she too had joined in with the laughter.
From beginning to end, Keaton’s deadpan approach to every form of adversity kept her in stitches, especially in the steam-engine scene. Yet all the time she laughed, Eddie’s gaze was riveted on her in obvious pleasure at her laughter as if he and not Keaton were responsible for her enjoyment, which had the effect of dashing her laughter.
‘Stop staring at me!’ she hissed angrily and went immediately back to doubling up at Keaton in a top hat footing along on a wooden bicycle without pedals, stopping at a crossroads in an embryo 1830s New York to let a cart go by. But she was still aware of Eddie’s brown-eyed gaze watching her every outburst of laughter.
‘Will you stop it! Watch the film, Eddie, for goodness sake!’
She was glad when the interval brought on an entertainer doing a turn with jokes and a song or two.
The Covered Wagon finally came on, interpreted by some dramatic piano playing, along with protests of ‘Siddown’ from an enthralled audience, to anyone daring now to fumble their way along a darkened row to go to the Ladies or Gents. Eddie’s attention was at last distracted. Except that in the love scene, his arm stole around her shoulders, drawing her to him and making them ache through having to sit awkwardly. She resisted the temptation to ask him to take his arm away. It would have hurt his feelings. Instead she tried wriggling into a more comfortable position, hoping he’d take the hint, which of course he didn’t, and gritted her teeth until it was time to leave.
‘I’m sorry if I upset you in there, Cissy,’ he said, as they joined the tram queue for home.
She remembered her sharp words. ‘You didn’t upset me.’
‘It’s just that I love watching you.’
‘Don’t be soppy, Eddie.’
Their tram drew up with a diminishing whine and a low moan. The queue moved forward, taking them with it. Eddie helped her on.
‘I’m not being soppy.’ He turned avidly to her after he had paid their fares. ‘Cissy, I’m in love with you.’
She smothered a laugh. In fact she realised suddenly that she didn’t want to laugh at all. A sidelong glance at him made her heart bounce for an instant. The sight of the lean face beneath the trilby hat threatened to steal that heart away; the strong hard muscles she imagined beneath the formal buttoned jacket made her shiver and there was a tightness deep in her chest. She looked quickly away, blessing the protection of the cloche hat that hid her eyes.
‘Not here, Eddie. You can’t say things like that here in a public place.’
For a moment he was silent, chewing over the remark. Then he said slowly, quietly, ‘You’re right, I shouldn’t. Things like that should be kept private.’ But it spoiled any further conversation.
They sat side by side, swaying to the jerky progress of the tram, its rattling, moaning din preventing any chance of talking, passengers having to shout over the top of it. She, with her mind going round and round, unable to cope with this new situation, and he – the good Lord alone knew what he was thinking, she contemplated dismally.
Walking home through the quiet streets, Cissy’s thoughts were still in a whirl and she put her arm through his in an attempt to make him feel better. Each time he attempted to broach the subject again she managed somehow to parry it with some comment about the film they’d just seen.
Reaching her doorstep, she leapt in with a quick goodnight and, before he had a chance to declare his ardour afresh, had her key ready, turning it in the lock and pushing open the door.
‘I’ve had a lovely evening,’ she said, from the safety of the two steps up from the street. ‘Thanks for taking me to the pictures. It was nice. See you tomorrow, perhaps.’
‘Cissy.’ He looked at her and in the reflection of the street lamp two doors down, she saw pleading in his eyes. Even with her being two steps above the pavement, her lesser height only brought her eyes on a level with his. ‘Cissy, what I said earlier…’
‘Mum and Dad are waiting up,’ she interrupted brightly, looking away. Parents, decent-living parents that was, always waited up for their unmarried daughters, unlike their sons. Woe betide the girl who didn’t come home on time. But a son out late was a man about town, given licence. Not that she didn’t respect the strict regime Dad set for her – home by eleven, not a minute later, unless given leave by special arrangement – but why should Bobby have rope and not her?
‘They’re probably waiting to go to bed,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll have to go in now.’
Eddie capitulated, shoulders sagging. ‘S’pose so. See you tomorrer, then? If it’s nice, we could go down to the river for the afternoon?’
‘Yes, that would be nice.’
Quickly, she moved back as he looked hopeful, half closing the door against the suggestion of his leaning forward to snatch a kiss. She had let him kiss her before on a couple of occasions, but very briefly, more to be sociable than anything, all the time hinting at the fact that she still only considered him a friend.
Friend or not, on each occasion she had felt herself melt, and it had alarmed her. There was danger in melting. It led to other things, and that led to commitment, and marriage, and getting stuck in a rut, never to get anywhere beyond summer trips to Margate for a week’s holiday, in time with two or three kids in tail. That wasn’t for her. Feel something for Eddie though she might, it wasn’t for her.
‘Goodnight, Eddie.’
She shut the door forcefully and went to announce herself to Mum and Dad. Bobby, of course, wasn’t yet home, but they would go to bed now she was in, leaving him to wander home in his own time.
Bobby boasted a string of girlfriends, with his looks he could take his pick. Not for him the nagging to settle down. When he finally married, he would still be allowed to follow his own path to success, his wife, whoever she would be, encouraging him and bathing in the life he cut out for her.
Not so her. She would be required to follow in the shadow of her husband’s success; whatever ambitions she’d had before marriage would be sacrificed to his. It wasn’t fair. She wanted her own life, her own success. And no man was going to come between her and that – at least not for a long time.
Chapter Three
On this clear November evening, surprisingly clear after the fog that had lingered for two days, Bobby sat on a bench in Tower Gardens with Ethel Cottle, watching the reflection of street and house lights from the other side shimmering in the night-black water. Romantic…it deserved beautiful phrases – the sort of things Cissy said. He murmured into Ethel Cottle’s pretty ear and was rewarded by a wistful sigh.
‘Oh, Bobby, you talk so nice, you really do. I wish I could talk like that, all romantic like.’
‘You do, Ethel. You do.’
The closeness of her, the feel of her, her gentle voice, that elusive perfume she wore – Devon Violets, she’d told him when he had asked – swept away thoughts of all other girls. In his time he’d taken out quite a few pretty girls, but Ethel topped them all. If he played his cards right, he would soon be courting her properly.
He leaned his head against hers as they sat with the Tower looming like a dark mountain behind them. Wi
th just a flickering street lamp several yards away, he couldn’t see her very well, but the three times he had taken her out, a record for him with any girl, he could recall in every detail how she looked. Not tall, but willowy, her face a delicate oval shape, her narrow nose up-tilted, her rouged lips soft and sweet, her eyes the bluest of cornflowers and her hair the colour of burnished gold that glinted in the sunlight. Her laugh was tinkling and she laughed often at what he said. A girl of eighteen with a tender, loving nature, she was filled with the sweetness and love of life.
His thoughts on her waxing strong, later on, when he became more confident of himself with her, he’d tell her all these things. Until then, he would keep them wrapped up safely in a velvet and golden box in his mind. But he was prompted now to divulge just a little of what he felt. Not too much in case he frightened her off.
‘You’re the loveliest gel I’ve ever known, Ethel.’ Ethel. What a wonderful name that was.
Her head moved away from his sharply and turned to regard him, the cornflower-blue eyes startled, accusing, taking him off guard.
‘What d’you mean, Bobby Farmer – the loveliest girl you’ve ever known? I s’pose you’ve known lots, then? I s’pose I’m just one of your long string? And there’s me thinking I was special to yer.’
‘I didn’t mean that at all, Ethel,’ he burst in, horrified. ‘You see the most beautiful girls passing by in London, but you top ’em all – straight you do.’ He made his voice soften. ‘And to think you’ve condescended to let me take you out…’ He got the long words from Cissy, the way she used them, so sophisticated, they were worth saving up for use.
Ethel melted, giggled, then shivered as she let her head fall back against his.
‘I think you’re the nicest boy I’ve ever known, Bobby…’
It was his turn to draw his head away. ‘What d’yer mean, Ethel Cottle – the nicest boy you’ve ever known? I s’pose you’ve known lots, then? And there’s me thinkin’ I was something special to yer.’ But his lips had begun to curve upwards. She saw it and realising that he was joking, mimicking her, she burst out with one of her tinkling giggles and gave him a small shove.
‘Oh, Bobby, you’re a caution, you really are.’
‘Come here,’ he murmured forcefully, his voice soft, his purpose now full of confidence.
She did as she was told, her face turned towards his, and in the darkness the kiss was long and ardent, and the lights twinkling across the quiet dark Thames went unnoticed by the budding lovers.
‘Why do I have to be in by eleven, when you can come home any old time you please?’ Cissy burst out at breakfast on the Monday morning. ‘My alarm clock showed twelve-thirty when I heard you come in on Saturday night – Sunday morning to be more precise.’
‘Exactly twelve-thirty?’ Bobby grinned over his cornflakes.
‘Does it matter how exact? As a matter of fact it was nearer twenty-five to one. It’s unfair. Just because you are a boy and…’
‘That’s enough, you two,’ Mum said sharply. In a couple of hours she’d be calling May and the boys to come down for breakfast, the boys ready for school and May for work. She felt harassed and tired, always having to be up so early to see her menfolk off. With Cissy going on at Bobby all through Sunday and again this morning, it was too much.
For much of Sunday dinnertime Charlie had been down the pub with his waterman chums, something to do with union matters. He’d come home to snooze all afternoon leaving her to cope with Cissy nagging on and on at Bobby, throwing herself around the house, pouting, and refusing to let the matter drop. Bobby took it in good part, but Cissy…she could be a real madam when she wanted to.
‘Do a bit more eating and a bit less nagging,’ she told her now, ‘or you’ll end up late fer work.’
In reality it’d be two hours before she’d be late for work. There had been no need for her to get up as early as this. Only Bobby and his dad needed to rise at five o’clock. Still dark outside but they’d be on the river by the time dawn came up. Dad was out the back now, emptying himself before leaving. Bobby, having finished his cornflakes, was waiting for his turn for the lavatory. Their lunch boxes, with good thick doorsteps of cheese and pickle sandwiches and their flasks of tea, stood waiting on the dresser, while their haversacks were at the door to be picked up on their way out.
Cissy didn’t need to be in work until eight; she could have had another couple of hours in bed. But, oh no, she just had to get up to continue nagging at Bobby, hoping to get her own way.
Charlie came back into the kitchen, his coat, cap and choker dotted by the first drops of rain that Doris reckoned would become a downpour. No shelter for a lighterman at the oars; rain, snow, fog, wind, they withstood it all while office and factory workers complained to high heaven whenever the weather was the slightest bit inclement, and even dockers and the like skulked under sheds out of the worst of it. But Charlie never complained. He’d come home after a wet day out on the river, shaking his cap and spraying everyone in reach, the grin on his ruddy face as broad as ever. This morning, however, he wasn’t grinning.
He glared down at Cissy, toying with her bread and marmalade like a duchess, her lips a pout as Bobby made his way out to the lav.
‘You’d do better, young lady, goin’ back ter bed and gettin’ out of it again the right side, instead of annoying yer muvver. It ain’t got nothing ter do with you, what Bobby do and don’t do. I don’t blame ’im fer wanting ter be wiv ’is fiancée as many hours as ’e can.’
‘Fiancée!’ Cissy scoffed. ‘He’s taken her out twice as I know of.’
‘More’n that. Nor do it take long ter know when you’ve got ’old of the right gel. A lighterman’s gel, Milly Lee, and I approve of that.’
Cissy stared up at him. ‘Milly Lee? He’s not going with Milly Lee. He gave her up ages ago. She told me when I met her last week. And she wasn’t too happy about it either. Bobby’s been going out with someone called Ethel. Ethel…’ she thought for a moment. ‘Cottle, I think Milly said the name was.’
Dad was frowning at her. Mum stood looking bewildered.
‘He never told us nothing about an Ethel Cottle,’ she said quietly. ‘Who is she?’
‘I don’t know. Milly said she lives in Jude Street.’
‘I don’t know no Cottles in Jude Street,’ Doris said, a person who knew everyone for streets around, as did most women, in receipt of all the gossip circulating in the local greengrocer’s. Jude Street was only a few streets away, the name began to ring bells at last.
‘Yes, I do know! They moved in last year. I think someone told me they was evicted from their last place. They said he’d not been too well. ’Adn’t had no work at the docks ’cause of it. That’s the trouble – they lay ’em off for the least thing and then they leave ’em hanging around them gates until work comes in. Poor devils.’
‘You mean she’s a docker’s gel, this Ethel whatever ’er name is?’ Charlie’s face was full of horror. ‘Our Bobby ain’t found hisself a docker’s gel?’
He turned abruptly as his son came back into the room, checking his fly buttons with one hand, dragging his choker on and trying to knot it with the other.
‘What the hell did you stop seein’ Milly Lee for?’
For a moment, Bobby stared enquiringly, then his broad and solid features tightened. ‘I don’t ’ave ter account to you, Dad, for every gel I take up with.’
‘You’ll account ter me if you take up wiv one what’s got a docker fer a father. Never got money, them. Standin’ around waitin’ fer piecework like andouts to a tramp. And then workin’ like bloody navvies. And spendin’ what they do get like water.’
‘What d’you know about it?’ Bobby’s blue eyes blazed. ‘Her dad works ’ard, she told me. All right, bin a bit poorly lately, but when he’s well, ’e works as ’ard as we do. Harder.’
‘Will you both get off to work?’ Doris put her spoke in, seeing matters between father and son getting out of hand. They so seldom had arg
uments, at least nothing more serious than football, Charlie’s team being Millwall and Bobby’s East Ham which his father thought pathetic, that she glared at them both in alarm.
‘Sort it all out when you get ’ome. ’Urry on now, both of you. It’s starting to come down cats an’ dogs.’
The rain could be heard rattling against the tiny square window of the washhouse. Difference of opinion cut short, Bobby snatched up his cap from the back of the chair and crammed it on his head with both hands, settling it well down, picked up his lunch box and trudged out through the front door with his haversack in the wake of his father.
Doris closed the door after them with a sigh, coming back to her daughter. ‘Now p’raps, madam, you can get out of me way an’ go up an’ tidy yer room till it’s time fer work.’
Shrugging, but still petulant over Bobby’s licence, Cissy went.
Charlie Farmer sat on the edge of the narrow bench in the open aft cabin out of the rain and unstoppered his vacuum flask. Doris had made the tea good and hot, as always.
Slowly, savouring the brew’s bitter aroma, he poured it into the Bakelite cup and stirred in a spoonful of condensed milk from the tin on the cabin shelf. The top of the thick syrupy stuff, left open in its tin by the craft’s previous occupier, had developed a crusty sugary skin, adhering to the spoon which he gave a lick before taking a gulp of the boiling whitened tea.
He sighed with satisfaction. Doris maintained he had an asbestos stomach. She took everything lukewarm; working around the house, always feeding others before she fed herself, she ended up with her own meals near cold. But she was used to it and preferred it that way, eating quickly so she could get back to ironing, mending, washing or whatever.
