An East End Girl

by Maggie Ford

  These last couple of weeks, however, her words seemed to be ringing truer. She didn’t trot around the tables as she had once done. Now and again Eddie noticed her thin mouth forming a brief, tight, O-shape, and her right hand would press into her side as though to allay some sharp pain there. Last week he asked her what was the matter.

  ‘Nothink’s the matter with me,’ she had admonished him.

  ‘You’ve got a pain in your side, haven’t you? You should see a doctor about that, Auntie.’

  ‘I’ve no time for doctors. Running off to them with a silly twinge. It’s just the wind.’

  ‘It could be appendicitis, you know.’

  ‘At my age? Besides, if it was appendicitis, I’d ’ave been flat on me back by now, sick as a dog. It’s just a bit of wind. I remember I ’ad it for three weeks when I was a kid. They thought it was appendix then. Me mum took me to the doctor. ’E said wind was what it was, after probin’ and pushin’ me stomach around. In the end it went away on its own. So I’m not paying no doctor to tell me I’ve got the wind!’

  Eddie had to back down before such intransigence, even though he still felt worried for her health and even though, two weeks later, he still noticed her features tighten momentarily, her body flexing a fraction at the waist every now and again as she served her customers.

  It had been taken out of her hands – she would not be going to France with Langley, now knowing what would be expected of her if she did. It had frightened her enough to realise how near she had come to disaster. Perhaps it was all for the best, but it had been awful.

  Angry and silent, because he’d obviously been made to look a fool, he had turned the car round and taken her home, leaving her at the end of her road. She told Mum and Dad that the reason she’d come home early was that her friend had been sick all day and couldn’t go out; that she thought it best not to stay, and had come home on the train.

  She felt miserable all over the weekend. Eddie, totally at a loss to know what was the matter with her, kept trying to cheer her up without once attempting to badger her over the cause of her sulk. He was so kind and thoughtful that it was a relief when Monday came, allowing her to escape back to work.

  She told Daisy, however, with whom she shared all her secrets. Daisy was understanding and said perhaps it was all for the best. Cissy had to agree although she didn’t want to, and all that day set her face obdurately to the readjustment of her life with Eddie.

  Then as she was getting ready for work the following morning the post fluttered through the letterbox, containing another letter addressed to her. The expensive blue envelope could only be from Langley.

  ‘Looks like another one of them fancy letters from that friend what left your firm,’ her mother smiled, amused, as she handed it to her.

  Cissy put it in her pocket without replying; resisting the temptation to scoot back up to her bedroom to read it, which would have looked very suspicious, and besides, she dared not let herself be late for work and lose half an hour’s money by it.

  Daisy met her at the bus stop. Finding seats, Daisy gazed avidly over Cissy’s arm as the envelope was ripped open and the single blue sheet unfolded to be read.

  ‘Coo!’ was all Daisy could say, reading the words with her.

  It was full of abject apologies: he didn’t know what had got into him; he must have been mad; he had been so overwhelmed by her; he was sorry; could she ever forgive him? He thought of her with the greatest respect. He admired her strength of will, her courage, where he had been a weak fool succumbing to a natural need of her. He’d never do anything like that again without her full consent. He’d wait as long as time itself for that; never again behaving so disrespectfully. He ended by apologising yet again, saying it was her beauty that had overwhelmed him – his ardent apologies in great danger of repeating themselves.

  He ended by asking if she would still consider going to Paris with him and their friends…she noted it was their friends, heaping them with her. He meant what he said – he would pay all her expenses, because he was in love with her.

  ‘Do come, Cissy,’ the letter ended. ‘I shall have a wretched time without you, my dearest darling.’

  Daisy’s hazel eyes were round with awe, having scanned everything over Cissy’s obliging shoulder.

  ‘Coo!’ she said again, stupefied. ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Cissy’s voice was almost a wail. Her heart seemed to be crying out, urging her to take the enormous step offered to her. Yet how could she? How did one walk along the edge of a chasm, then, without looking, take that step into thin air? What if Langley didn’t reach out to catch her as she plummeted down? What if there was no one there at all to break her fall? But that was silly.

  ‘Goodness!’ Daisy was saying, her tone envious. ‘Fancy him coming it with you like that. Gosh! I wish it was me.’

  ‘I really do love you, Cissy.’

  Wary of responding, Cissy stood not looking up into Eddie’s ardent handsome face as they said their goodnights.

  Wednesday was their local pictures night, the grander West End picture palaces saved for Saturday nights. But the film – Blood and Sand, with Rudolf Valentino as a matador whose desire for a local vamp had led to his death in the bullring – had been one Eddie had been waiting for ages to see.

  ‘A damned good film,’ he had sighed with satisfaction, as the lights came up and they all stood for the national anthem, vigorously played by the pianist while the photos of King George and Queen Mary came up on the silver screen. ‘Good, didn’tcha think?’

  She’d echoed that it was, though her heart hadn’t been in it. She was not that struck on Valentino, much preferring Raymond Navarra or Douglas Fairbanks.

  But it wasn’t that which spoiled the film for her so much as her mind having been in a turmoil throughout. It still was. All she could think of was that she was about to break Eddie’s heart. How would he take it? Would he grab her in his arms, kiss her savagely, plead with her not to do this thing, or would he, with the shock of it, tell her to go to hell and stalk away to suffer on his own in a corner like a wounded animal?

  Either way, she trembled at the prospect of telling him. Even as he spoke these words of love in that way of his, plainly, lacking all the romance she so wanted, she knew she had to say it now and tear both him and herself apart, because – she didn’t want to admit it – she did love him. Even as he kissed her, gently – his idea of passion – her veins tingled to the soft touch of those caring lips.

  She didn’t want her veins to tingle. Without that, she might find it easier to say that she was leaving him to find a life for herself away from here. A life that didn’t include him or this place, he and this place were suffocating her. Yet it was him and his kiss that was suffocating this dream of hers and she could not bring herself to break his heart. At least not with words. It would have to be said by letter. Coward that she was.

  ‘It’s been nice tonight,’ she said now, wanting only to go indoors and be with her dismal thoughts. She saw his face grow wistful.

  ‘I hate having to say goodnight. I wish we could never have to say goodnight ever again. I wish…Oh, Cissy, I wish…’

  His face closed on hers. His lips felt warm and soft and gentle. Again a tingle stirred deep inside her, not so much in response to the kiss but with love for that rare gentleness that was so much part of him.

  Against her lips he whispered: ‘When we’re married…Let’s get married soon.’

  The spell was shattered. Cissy leaned away. ‘We can’t afford it,’ she managed to say. ‘It’s going to cost such a lot. We’ve still got lots more saving to do.’

  He was undeterred, pulling her gently back to him. ‘I love you for worrying so, Cissy. But we should at least start making proper plans.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time. It’s not till next spring.’

  ‘But we ain’t even set a proper date yet. Me mum’s beginning to ask why we ain’t. I know your people are beginnin’ to wonder and a
ll. We ought to start making a few solid arrangements. The church. The people we’re asking. The cars and things. The months go by so quick. Spring’ll be on us before we know it, and things ’alf done.

  Cissy squirmed in his embrace. ‘It’ll get done in time. But it’s getting late, Eddie. We can’t start discussing it all now. I’ll see you on Saturday, and we can get down to a real discussion.’

  By Saturday there might no longer be need to discuss anything.

  He was beaming. Nodding. His handsome face glowing in the faint light of the nearby street lamp, a wavy lock of his fair hair, escaping the clutches of brilliantine, had fallen over his brow giving him a debonairness that momentarily touched her heart. Determination began to waver. What in God’s name was she doing?

  Again came the vision, as it always did, of a tiny two-up-two-down around the corner from her mum and dad, his mum and dad. She saw herself in a pinny, washing socks and shirts, towels and sheets and then in a tiny kitchen everlastingly cooking evening meals, the same old routine stretching into infinity – all the chances she’d had to sample the richness of life, lost for ever. No!

  Something was saying: this is your last chance. Take it now or be doomed. Before Saturday, her letter must be on Eddie’s doormat. By Saturday she must be gone before he could bring her back to the fold with its consequential imprisonment for life. Yet it was breaking her heart as it would break his. Once away, it would be easier to bear.

  Eddie was still beaming. Contemplating Saturday, he was so easy to please; a trait endearing at times, at others, frustrating. Not one for arguing, Cissy knew he wasn’t so much concerned about winning or losing an argument as being content to keep his own beliefs while nodding his acquiescence.

  She knew too that she was going to have to wait until the very last minute to tell him of her intent. Otherwise he would be straight round, the pain of disbelief weakening those strong features of his, melting her heart, breaking down her resolve. She must word the letter as firmly as possible, give no hint of how he made her feel when he was near her; merely say that she didn’t love him, couldn’t marry him. Nothing to do with pre-wedding nerves or some other silly notion, but that she did not love him and was going away.

  That lie rang like a clarion in her head. She did love him. She did. But to give in now, her dream almost within reach…

  Sheet after sheet of notepaper was torn up the next day, nothing conveying what she wanted to say. The thought alone of the shock he was to experience almost pulled her resolve to shreds. All she wanted was for it to be all over. And once she was away from here…

  She didn’t realise, but some undefined apprehension had already begun to stir in Eddie. Even as he beamed at her like an idiot, something inside him kept saying, it won’t happen – she’ll never marry me.

  Was it fear of marriage? He was sure she loved him. Or was it his own silly self unable to believe that such a wonderful, beautiful girl like Cissy would ever really love him, he with nothing to offer any girl – not even looks?

  He needed to get advice. Not his or Cissy’s parents. They’d stare at him as if he was mad and tell him he was imagining things. But he was sure he wasn’t. He turned instead to his future brother-in-law, Bobby. A married man of only a few months, he might have an answer for this…whatever it was that was nagging at him.

  Stirring the lukewarm cup of tea Ethel had brought him before huffing off into the kitchen again, her face tight at being told by her husband that Eddie had something private he wanted to speak to him about, Eddie took a deep breath and launched into his worries.

  ‘Me and Cissy,’ he began. ‘Would you say we was well matched?’

  ‘I would say so,’ Bobby said confidently, but Eddie was not at all convinced.

  ‘Trouble is, my idea of enjoyment ain’t the sort she particularly enjoys. I’m not a very good dancer. And I’m not one for sitting long hours in the pictures either. Not three times a week. She loves going, and she’s a lovely dancer too. Me, I’ve got two left feet, and that’s the truth. I wish I could afford to take ’er to the theatre, perhaps once a week, or to a really nice restaurant, but I can’t afford any of that. Not that and savin’ ter get married. If we get married.

  Bobby frowned. ‘That’s a funny thing to say.’

  Eddie was still aimlessly stirring his tea, his eyes trained on his cup. ‘If it ’as to be said, me and her are as different as chalk and cheese. I love walking. She don’t. I love to go rowing on the river, even though it’s me job…Busman’s ’oliday, you might say.’ He gave a small laugh, then continued, ‘To ’er it’s boring.’

  ‘Does she say so?’ Bobby’s frown had deepened with a sense of something definitely not being right.

  ‘Of course she don’t,’ Eddie’s spoon clinked sharply against the saucer. ‘But I know she is. When I take ’er rowing, she goes all quiet and just sits and watches me. She only smiles when I smile at ’er, and I have this awful feeling she’s thinking we’re going nowhere. I don’t mean just boating. I get the same feeling when we go for a walk. I’m not one for strolling aimlessly. I like to get to where I’m going.’

  ‘I thought couples were supposed to stroll.’ Bobby’s attempted joke didn’t even make Eddie’s lips twitch. His eyes held a distant look.

  ‘My mother used to tell me that when I was a kid, I’d say, “If we run, it won’t be so far to walk!” And I suppose that’s how I’ve always been. I know I tend to take long strides, and Cissy often ’as to trot to keep up with me. I slow down for ’er, but before we know it, I’m off again. And there we are, both out of step, and then she gets annoyed and breaks away from me, and we walk apart. It’s not a lot to make a fuss about, yet lately it’s seems to me to ’ave become sort of symbolic – the two of us – out of step. You know. As if…’

  He trailed off, searching for some way to explain how he felt, then began again. ‘As if there’s such a difference between us – a little thing like us not walking in step. That she feels we ain’t…’

  Again he trailed off, but Bobby began to see what he was trying to say.

  Listening to him, it seemed to Bobby that if he had been visited by the sort of premonition Eddie was experiencing, he would never have married Ethel.

  The thought came with a bitter surge of regret that their marriage had been a mistake all round. The stunner that Ethel had been before marriage, had afterwards been a real let-down; the sweet thing had become a sour shrew, always moaning about his shortcomings. What had been a delightfully indecisive girl had turned into a carping, mind-changing, misery: ‘Why d’you ’ave to do that? Couldn’t you do it this way? Can’t you ever do it as I want it? Why must I always make all the decisions?’ and when he did make them: ‘Why couldn’t you ask me first? You don’t ever consult me, do you?’ And so on and so on.

  The baby had been a girl. They had hoped for a boy, but where he was content, she, for some unaccountable reason, seemed to blame him for it being a girl – as if he could help that. They had called her Jean.

  He hoped their next might be a boy. But after her first experience of childbirth, she had made it loudly plain that she would never go through it again. And to cement that vow, she hadn’t allowed him near her since, never letting him forget that it was he who had got her in the family way in the first place, forcing her to marry when she could be having a good time as she put it.

  Yes, he could tell Eddie a thing or two about how girls change once they were married, and even though Cissy was his own sister, secretly he felt that Eddie might be in line for a lucky escape.

  But he held his peace.

  It was not too much of a surprise, therefore, when Eddie knocked on the door of his flat on Saturday morning, a scrunched-up letter in his hand, his face pale as a ghost, his eyes hollow.

  Chapter Ten

  It was eleven-thirty on Thursday morning, the sun climbing to its zenith made a breeze-ruffled sea glint around the boat like a million diamonds.

  Cissy, hatless, in a pale green summer dress
and white stockings, reclined in a deckchair on the sun deck listening to the hiss of the ship’s bows moving smoothly through the water. Here, out of the breeze, the sun beat down onto her bare arms, a greater warmth than ever one got on the crowded, cold, brown sandy beaches of Margate where the wind came off the sea, damp and salty even on the brightest day. Only half an hour out of Dover but already in this sheltered part of the boat it felt as if she were sailing on a tropical sea. Around her came the laughter of passengers with means, their voices conveying not a care in the world, gay with the comfort money provided.

  Cissy narrowed her eyes against the morning glare. Just across the sun deck, Langley was leaning on the rail, arms folded, chatting with Miles Devlin and Effie Messenger. Miles was shortish and sort of podgy. Effie was tallish and extremely thin, with a gaunt face that forbade prettiness. But highly strung and full of go, she was a gas to be with, as Cissy had heard it put, first in with any sort of romp. Already she’d had the hat of one of the crew, snatching it off his head as he went by, throwing it high into the air and squealing with laughter as the wind caught it and sent it spinning overboard. Still laughing, she’d readily offered to pay for the bit of fun, but nothing more was said, as she was one of the more lavish with her money of the first-class paying passengers, and money could speak volumes, Cissy was coming to realise.

  Where the rest of Langley’s circle of friends were, Cissy had no idea. Most likely in the first-class bar drinking champagne cocktails, she hazarded a guess, but felt too languid to care.

  She felt deliciously drowsy. Deliciously…already she was picking up the vernacular of those she had been around with just these last few days. Soon she would be indistinguishable from any of them; she might even come to indulge in the same silly high spirits that seemed to bedevil them all. But at this moment she was too indolent to concern herself with that. Far too content, drowsy. Too drowsy even to pinch herself to see if this was indeed she lazing here.