The Cockney Angel

by Dilly Court

  After suffering almost an hour of this, Irene was only too glad to alight from the train at Romford. She was carried out past the ticket collector on a surging crowd of travellers eager to reach home, but just how she was going to get to Havering she had no idea. The white face of the station clock showed half past four and it was already dark. A smoky haze hung above the bare branches of a hawthorn hedge, dimming the light from the street lamps to a yellowish glow. The air smelt of hot cinders and damp earth, and the ground shook as the great iron beast shunted off towards its final destination. Her fellow passengers had vanished into the gloom, leaving Irene standing alone and wondering what to do next when a horse-drawn box wagon trundled to a halt outside the station entrance. The driver climbed down from his seat, barely giving her a glance as he hefted several heavy-looking sacks off the wagon and into the station.

  When he returned after depositing the last of his load he paused for a moment, staring hard at Irene. ‘What? You still here, boy?’ His voice was gruff and his accent was strange to Irene’s ears, but he did not sound unfriendly.

  ‘I got to get to a place called Havering-atte-Bower, mister. Are you going that way, by any chance?’

  The man tipped his cap to the back of his head. ‘That’s a fair way, young man.’

  ‘I can pay.’ Irene put her hand in her breeches pocket and jingled the few coins that were left after paying her train fare.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘I’m Jim …’ Irene hesitated for a moment. ‘Jim Smith.’

  ‘I go by the name of Farmer Mason, but you can call me Gaffer.’ He eyed Irene thoughtfully. ‘You’re powerful young to be travelling alone.’

  Irene did not like the way the conversation was going. She had always thought that country people were slow on the uptake, but this old bloke seemed to be all there and back again. He seemed to suspect that something was amiss, and he was probing for answers. She raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Either you can give me a ride to where I want to go or not.’

  ‘All right. No need to get in a state. I can take you as far as Noak Hill. That’s where my farm is.’ He climbed onto the driver’s seat and held out his hand. ‘Hop up beside me, and you can keep me company.’

  Irene hesitated for a moment, but then she realised she had very little choice. This was not London. There were no hansom cabs or hackney carriages tooling around looking for custom, and she did not want to be stranded all night at the station. She took his hand and flinched at the touch of his work-roughened skin.

  ‘You’ve got hands like a girl,’ Farmer Mason said, chuckling as he helped her clamber up beside him. ‘I’ll bet you’ve never done a hard day’s work in your whole life, boy. Are you running away from home then?’

  ‘No, I ain’t.’ She settled herself as comfortably as she could on the hard wooden seat. ‘I’m going to visit my aunt in Havering. She lives at the Round House. D’you know it, mister?’

  ‘No, can’t say I do, but I don’t often go that way. What’s her name?’

  ‘Miss Greenwood.’

  ‘Now I have heard of that lady. A bit eccentric she is by all accounts. I seen her in Romford market selling day-old chicks and bantam eggs. Dresses like a bloke she does, and smokes a clay pipe. And her supposed to be a lady too.’

  Irene digested this in silence. She had not given much thought to Arthur’s Aunt Maude until now. But what did it matter if the old lady was a bit strange? If she had taken Artie in, then she could act as weird as she liked. Irene clamped her hand on her cap as the sturdy shire horse plodded forward at the flick of Farmer Mason’s whip. Her hair was a sure giveaway, and to lose her cap would be a disaster. As they turned into the main marketplace, the stallholders were just packing up for the day. Their voices rang out above the deep lowing of cattle being driven from their pens and the grunting of pigs as they were loaded into farm carts. The smell of animal dung and damp straw filled the frosty air, and naphtha flares sent bright pools of light flooding onto the cobblestones.

  Farmer Mason acknowledged shouts and friendly insults from his fellow farmers with a cheery wave of his hand. They left the town behind them, plunging into the darkness of the country road. Here and there along the way there were groups of cottages with pale shafts of light streaming from their windows. Curls of smoke billowed into the night sky and above them countless stars twinkled with jewel brightness. Irene tucked her cold hands into the jacket pockets and wished she had her shawl to wrap around her shoulders.

  ‘How far now, Gaffer?’ she asked, making an effort to control her chattering teeth.

  ‘A couple of miles. Old Tom will start to pick up a bit when he thinks he’s near to home.’ Farmer Mason stuck a clay pipe between his teeth and handed the reins to Irene. ‘Hold him steady while I light up.’

  She took the leather straps nervously. She had never held reins before but perhaps the old horse would not realise that she was a complete novice. She glanced sideways at Farmer Mason as he filled his pipe from a baccy pouch and struck a match on the side of the wagon. It flared and then hissed as it ignited the tobacco. Fragrant plumes of smoke puffed into the air and he emitted a satisfied sigh as he took the reins from her hands. ‘You’ve never done that afore, I’ll warrant,’ he said conversationally. ‘What sort of life have you led, boy?’

  ‘Not your sort, that’s for certain. I’m London born and bred. I ain’t sure I like the countryside that much. It’s dark and it’s cold, and it smells funny.’

  Farmer Mason’s great gust of laughter caused Old Tom to prick his ears, and he quickened his pace to a near trot. ‘That’s good country air you can smell, son.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s awful cold here. It’s much warmer in the city.’

  ‘It is a bit chilly. What we need is something to warm our bellies. We’ll stop at the Ship Inn for a hot rum toddy. You can treat me by way of payment for the ride, if you feel so inclined.’

  Irene fingered the coins in her pocket and was about to make an excuse, but she was too late. The horse seemed to know his way, and obviously this was a normal stopping place. The wagon drew to a halt outside a black and white timbered inn, and Farmer Mason climbed down with surprising agility. ‘Stay, Tom,’ he murmured as he placed a nosebag over his horse’s head. ‘Good boy. I won’t be long.’

  ‘You’d think the animal understood,’ Irene said as she leapt to the ground.

  ‘Old Tom knows every word I say. Now come along, Jim. I can taste that toddy already.’

  Inside the pub, the low beamed ceiling was yellowed with many years of tobacco smoke and a log fire crackled in the inglenook where men sat chatting over their pints of ale. Irene fingered the coins in her pocket and reluctantly handed over a silver sixpence to her travelling companion. He pointed to an oak settle by the window and told her to take a seat while he went to the bar. Two men leaning against the counter greeted him like an old friend. They exchanged a few jocular words, slapping each other on the back and guffawing loudly, and then one of them shot a curious glance at Irene. ‘Hey, Gaffer. You haven’t been picking up waifs and strays, have you?’

  Farmer Mason grinned and shook his head. ‘Just giving the lad a lift as far as my place. He’s on his way to Havering to see his Aunt Greenwood. You know, the odd lady who lives in the Round House.’

  The landlord placed a foaming tankard on the counter. ‘That’s the second time today I’ve heard her name mentioned.’

  ‘I’ll have two hot rum toddies,’ Farmer Mason said, placing Irene’s sixpence on the bar counter. ‘And who was that then, asking about the lady in question?’

  The landlord slid the sixpence into the till and reached for the rum bottle. ‘It was the police. It seems they’re looking out for one of her relations. A bad lot, I’m told. One of them gangsters from the East End.’

  There was a sudden silence, as all eyes turned on her and Irene leapt to her feet. ‘They ain’t looking for me, mister. Honest, I’m no gangster.’

  Chapte
r Nine

  SHE HESITATED, POISED for flight, but the silence was broken by a bellow of laughter from Farmer Mason. ‘Just look at him standing there all white and shaking like a girl. Is that your idea of an East End villain?’

  A murmur ran through the taproom followed by a ripple of amusement. Farmer Mason slapped his hands on his thighs and tears of mirth ran down his cheeks. ‘Sit down, boy. No one could mistake you for a gangster unless they was deaf, dumb and blind.’

  Irene’s knees gave way beneath her and she collapsed onto the settle. She managed a weak smile. ‘I should hope not, Gaffer.’

  The laughter died away and Irene found herself largely ignored as the men’s conversation turned to topics more close to their hearts.

  A young barmaid brought her a rummer filled with hot toddy. ‘So you’re the boy from London. Do you know any of them bad men up there?’

  ‘Nah! Not me.’

  ‘Oh, you’re no use then.’ The girl flounced off to collect empty tankards, leaving Irene to sip the heady brew in peace, but her heart was still thumping against her ribs. If the police had traced Arthur to Miss Greenwood’s house, she would be too late. He might already have been arrested and taken back to London. She swallowed the drink in a couple of gulps, and as the strong spirit warmed her stomach she began to feel more optimistic. She might still be in time, but she would have to make haste. She was about to ask if anyone might be travelling as far as Havering-atte-Bower when Farmer Mason put his glass down and said goodnight to his friends. He strode over to the door, beckoning Irene to follow him. ‘C’mon, lad. We’d best be on our way. I think there’s a hint of snow in the air.’

  Half an hour later Old Tom pulled the wagon into the farmyard. It seemed to Irene that they had been travelling for hours and it must be close to midnight, but when Farmer Mason ushered her into the kitchen she saw by the clock on the wall that it was just half past seven. Mrs Mason, a thin scrawny little woman with a neck like a plucked chicken, was ladling soup into bowls from a black pan resembling a witch’s cauldron. Seated round the table were six children ranging in age from a toddler of about two to a strapping lad of fifteen or sixteen.

  ‘You’re late, husband,’ Mrs Mason said angrily. ‘The children have almost finished their supper. I was thinking that you must have suffered a broken axle or something of the kind, but I can tell by stink of your breath that you stopped off at the pub.’

  Ignoring this accusation, Farmer Mason pushed Irene forward. ‘This here is Jim. He’s on his way to Havering but I said he could stay here tonight since it’s too far to walk and with snow threatening.’

  Mrs Mason cast an accusing look at Irene. ‘I hope you wasn’t imbibing strong liquor, my boy. It’s the work of the devil.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, take a seat at the table then,’ Mrs Mason said, pointing the ladle at a vacant chair.

  Irene sat down next to a scruffy little girl who sniffed the air like a bloodhound. ‘You was telling whoppers, boy. I can smell rum on your breath.’

  ‘Shut up, Cora.’ The girl seated on Irene’s left scowled at her younger sister. ‘Take no notice of her, Jim. She’s only ten. I’m fourteen.’ She fluttered her eyelashes.

  Cora poked her tongue out. ‘You’re not fourteen until January, Hilda.’

  Irene crammed a hunk of bread into her mouth. It was hot from the oven and spread thickly with farmhouse butter. It tasted good and she was starving. She applied herself to eating the savoury soup, ignoring the children’s chatter. Most of them had finished eating and she could feel six pairs of eyes staring at her.

  ‘You should take you cap off indoors,’ Mrs Mason said, sniffing. ‘It’s bad manners to keep it on. Didn’t your mother teach you that, boy?’

  ‘I’m an orphan,’ Irene said, keeping her head down. ‘And I got a bald spot. It might be catching. I have to keep me cap on or I’ll die of lung fever.’

  ‘What nonsense. George, don’t stare.’ Mrs Mason clipped her son round the ear and she glared across the table at his younger brother, who had begun to giggle. ‘Don’t think I can’t reach you, Ronald Mason, because I’ve got a long arm and a strong hand.’ She looked round the table. ‘If you’ve all finished you can go into the yard and wash your hands and faces ready for bed.’

  The younger children rose in silence and marched out into the farmyard, leaving Hilda and the eldest boy to clear the table. Irene gave up her plate reluctantly. She would have welcomed another helping of soup but she did not like to ask anything of the fierce woman sitting opposite her. Farmer Mason ate his meal in silence and with a good appetite. He seemed unperturbed by his wife’s sharp manner and quick temper, or perhaps he simply found it easier to let her vent her feelings without comment.

  Irene cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for my supper. It was very good.’ She rose from her chair. ‘If you could just tell me how to get to Havering from here, I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘You’ll never find your way in the dark,’ Farmer Mason said, glancing up from his plate. ‘Best wait until morning.’

  ‘Ta, but I really need to get there tonight.’

  Mrs Mason rose to her feet. ‘My husband is right. You’d be lost before you’d walked a hundred yards. You can sleep with the boys and leave first thing in the morning. We’re early risers.’

  ‘Ta very much.’ Irene struggled to think of a plausible reason for not sharing a bed with the boys, but perhaps it was safer than doubling up with Hilda and Cora. It would be almost impossible to keep her secret from the girls. Hilda would have the cap off her head and the rest of her clothes too, if her flirtatious glances were anything to go by. Irene surmised that the boys would barely notice if she kept her head covered. She managed what she hoped was a grateful smile. ‘You’re very kind, missis.’

  ‘Get along with you and your London ways.’ Mrs Mason rose from the table, flapping her apron at Hilda and George. ‘Clear the table and take Jim with you to the pump. Nobody goes to bed dirty in my house.’ She shooed them out into the yard where the younger children were crowded around the trough, splashing and flicking water at each other seemingly impervious to the cold. Irene was reluctant to join in but Cora flapped a wash rag at her. ‘Let’s see your bald patch then, Jim.’

  ‘You’ll catch the disease,’ Irene said gruffly.

  ‘Leave him be.’ Hilda gave her sister a shove that send her tumbling backwards into a pile of wet straw. ‘Serves you right, you pest.’

  Cora began to howl and George bent down to pull her to her feet. He shot a withering look at Hilda. ‘Say you’re sorry, or I’ll tell Mum.’

  Hilda hid behind Irene. ‘Shan’t.’

  Irene was tempted to bang their stupid heads together, but she managed to restrain herself. What would Jim have said in similar circumstances? She ruffled Cora’s curls. ‘No harm done, eh?’

  Cora wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a snail-trail of mucus on the thin cotton. ‘She’s a bully.’

  George slapped Irene on the back. ‘Sisters! Who’d have ’em?’

  ‘Yeah! They’re nothing but trouble.’ Irene nudged him in the ribs, chuckling and deepening her voice. ‘Hey, it’s blooming freezing. Do we have to stay out here all night?’

  George curled his lip. ‘You London folk are soft. You’d best go into the house then, city boy, while me and Ronnie go and lock the hens up for the night.’

  ‘Lock the hens up?’

  George thrust his face close to hers. ‘Or the foxes will get them. Don’t you know nothing?’

  Irene bit back a sharp retort. ‘I never been in the countryside afore, but I bet you wouldn’t be so cocky if you was on your own in London with sewer rats the size of dogs and cutthroats lurking round every corner.’

  George shrugged his shoulders and stomped off in the direction of some wooden outhouses with Ronnie trotting after him.

  Hilda linked her arm through Irene’s. ‘C’mon, Jim. I’ll show you where you’re going to sleep tonight.’

  Irene pulle
d her arm free with a grunt. ‘It ain’t bedtime yet.’

  ‘It’s near eight o’clock. We always goes to bed at eight, and gets up at five. Don’t you do that in London?’

  ‘Nah!’ Irene said, swaggering towards the kitchen door with her thumbs tucked in her belt. ‘We goes to bed at midnight or later if we feels like it, and don’t get up until dinnertime.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Cora said enthusiastically. ‘Maybe I’ll come to London and see you one day.’

  ‘Don’t pay no heed to her,’ Hilda said, elbowing Cora out of the way. ‘She’s just a kid. You and me is grown up compared to her, Jim.’

  Irene would have loved to cut and run at that point, but sleety rain had begun to fall and the air was so cold that each breath she took was like swallowing shards of ice. She had no alternative but to follow the girls into the welcome warmth of the farmhouse kitchen. As soon as the boys returned from securing the livestock Mrs Mason packed them all off to bed, and Irene followed the children up a narrow flight of stairs to a room beneath the eaves.