by Beezy Marsh
The ribbons from Ivy’s bunches had come loose, so Annie tied them up neatly before shooing the two girls downstairs to play in the back yard for a while. ‘Will you show me how to do it?’ said Elsie, pointing to the heavy irons on the pagoda stove. ‘I’m nearly big enough, aren’t I?’
‘Soon,’ said Annie, patting her on the head. Mum didn’t like the girls near the heat of those irons. She’d seen too many of the younger laundrymaids scarred for life in a moment’s clumsiness to risk her children getting scorched.
Annie peered out of the window again, watching Ed as he walked Moses back to the stables around the corner. He had a loping sort of walk and a broad back under his black uniform jacket. Annie remembered the way he’d smelt faintly of sweat too when she’d sat next to him on the laundry rounds. It was all the effort of lifting those hampers into the back of the cart. He’d managed it easily, of course. He was really strong and when he rolled up his shirtsleeves you could see the muscles on his forearms.
Suddenly, there was a shriek and both she and Mum made a dash for the stairs. When they got down to the wash house, Ivy was sobbing and Elsie was half naked and soaking wet, with Bessie and Vera dunking her in one of the sinks as she tried to wriggle herself free.
‘She fell in the bleeding bleach tub!’ cried Vera, wiping Elsie’s face with a wet tea towel. ‘My back was only turned for a minute.’ She held up Elsie’s gingham pinafore. All the colour had disappeared where she had toppled in, so it had a huge white patch on it, instead of navy and white checks.
‘I just wanted to help with the washing,’ Elsie blubbed.
Bill appeared at the back door and scowled at Annie: ‘You were supposed to be looking after them!’ He picked Elsie up and gave her a little hug. ‘You’ll be right as rain, don’t worry, doll,’ he said, shooting Annie another filthy glance. He always made it her fault, even though he was probably chatting to Chas and the other laundry hands in the boiler room out the back instead of doing any work. It was amazing how much tinkering went on in there, with spanners and so on. Vera reckoned they were busy having a whist drive and just used to clank on the boiler with a hammer every now and then to trick the Missus that they were mending it.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Annie, who knew her mind really had been elsewhere. ‘I’ll take them back and look after them.’ It was silly to think of going out to the varieties anyway. She was needed at home.
‘No, love,’ said Mum, touching her on the arm. ‘I’ll take them home. You go off and enjoy yourself tonight.’
The Missus made a great show of making everyone work until six o’clock on the dot but then let the girls out a full fifteen minutes early, so that they could get to Chiswick High Road before the crowds.
As her girls stampeded out of the front door, she shooed after them, with a smile: ‘Get out of here, the lot of you!’ It was their one early night in the whole year and she loved playing up to being grumpy with them, just for the fun of seeing their worried faces, thinking they might have to stay behind and scrub the floors.
Ed let the other men go on ahead and fell into step with Annie and Vera. He brushed his fingers through his hair, so that it was a bit more swept back from his face. ‘Hello, ladies,’ he said. ‘Mind if I tag along?’
‘Don’t mind if you do,’ said Vera, giving him a smile. She had curled her hair last night and – Annie noticed – had somehow managed to get some red lipstick and slap that on, when no one was looking. Annie smoothed her hands over her hair, which was cut into a bob. She’d hoped it would make her look fashionable, like Vera, but unfortunately it just brought the kink out in the back of it. She’d stuck a clip in the side to keep it in place but the unruly waves at the back just stuck out in all the wrong places. Next to Vera, she was a total frump. She thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her cardigan as they wandered along, their breath puffing out in front of them in the damp night air.
Ed moved a bit closer to Annie. ‘Shall we sit next to each other, then?’
‘She’s already promised to sit with me, haven’t you, Annie?’ Vera cut in.
‘Well, I’m sure there’ll be room for me to squeeze in next to you both in that case,’ said Ed, before Annie could answer. He was quite undeterred by Vera’s glacial stare. Her eyes were clear blue, like icy water.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Vera, tossing her curls. ‘I’ll be watching the show in any case, not you.’
Ed raised an eyebrow and stopped to light a cigarette. He drew in a breath and then blew smoke rings in the air as they walked along. Annie watched him, quite fascinated. He looked so sophisticated. He was only a year older than her, but he seemed so worldly. It was probably because he drove all over town in the horse and cart – he got to see a bit more of life than she did at the washtub.
A queue was already forming when they got to the theatre, which stood like a palace on the Chiswick High Road. The imposing facade with its grand entrance was like a gateway to another world for Annie and the laundresses from Soapsud Island. It was a place where they could forget their daily drudgery and have a proper giggle. But they had to get in, first, and some of those sneaky girls from the Cambrian had managed to knock off ten minutes before them, so they were first in line for the cheapest seats up in the gods. There was a fair bit of jostling between some of them and the Hope Cottage laundry-maids, but the Cambrian lot were stuck to the pavement like glue.
The management had put up a notice saying they’d been ‘obliged’ to put the price up – just as they did every year, when they got wind of the laundry Christmas outing. Plus, the whole show was a sell-out because of one of the so-called ‘trouser acts’, the male impersonator Ella Shields, who was a sensation. Annie couldn’t wait to see her; she’d heard Aunt Clara and Dora talking about her after they’d been to see her up in the West End. The posh folks from Chiswick had already paid for their tickets in the circle and the stalls and were walking into the theatre, done up to the nines in their expensive coats with fur collars. That meant they missed out on the free entertainment in the street outside, of course, which was all part of the fun.
A busker with a penny whistle and a budgie in his top pocket was playing ‘All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor’, while a young girl tapped in time on a wooden board by his side. Further down the line, some kids were entertaining for ha’pennies, doing cartwheels and leapfrogging each other. As they got nearer, Annie nearly died of shame when she realized that one of them was her little brother George, being egged on by Vera’s brother, Alf.
‘Get yourself home!’ she hissed at him. If Bill found out, he’d take his belt to him, but she was more bothered about being shown up in front of Ed, who would think they were common as muck to have a kid begging like that.
As George slunk away around the corner, the manager opened the door for the seats at the top of the house and the queue turned into a gaggle of excited people, surging forwards. Annie had her ninepence ready and found herself pressed up against Ed as they shuffled in. He gave her waist a little squeeze and she turned around and smiled at him. It was like a secret sign that they were here together. Annie’s heart soared almost as high as the ceiling, like some bird flitting about near the ornate plasterwork.
There were so many stairs to climb, but once they were up there in the balcony, the atmosphere was thrilling, with the whole place packed to the rafters and the chatter from the plush bottle-green seats down below rising to the top of the auditorium. The walls were lit by glowing gas lights, and the light bounced off the brass fittings and made them look like burnished gold.
Aunt Clara and her friend Dora sat on the end of the row behind them and, true to his word, Ed squeezed himself in between Vera and Annie, just as the curtain went up and the orchestra struck up a tune. The first act was a woman billed as Bunty St Clair the staircase dancer, and as the music got faster, so did her prancing up and down a little set of steps. She was showing a lot of leg, and Ed wolf-whistled as she jumped down into the splits for her grand finale.
A m
agician was next, pulling a whole washing line full of coloured handkerchiefs out of his pockets. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t fancy having to wash that lot,’ said Vera, with a giggle. Then came the main attraction, the male impersonator Ella Shields, who came on to a massive drum roll, dressed in a top hat, white tie and tails and spats. She was greeted by cheers as the orchestra struck up the opening bars of ‘Burlington Bertie from Bow’.
Annie could hear Aunt Clara and Dora singing along in the row behind her: ‘I’m Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty and saunter along like a toff.’
Ella tapped her way across the stage, her voice carrying across the vast auditorium and when she took her top hat off, her cropped, slicked hair glinted in the limelight: ‘I walk down the Strand, with my gloves on my hand, then I walk down again, with them off.’ There were guffaws from the stalls.
When she got to the chorus, ‘I’m Bert, Bert, I haven’t a shirt,’ all the laundry girls in the balcony were singing along. Bessie had tears of laughter rolling down her face; Annie had never seen her looking so happy.
Just as the curtain came down for the interval, Annie’s mother appeared out of nowhere, at the end of their row of seats. She was flushed from running and had beads of sweat in her fringe.
‘You’ve got to come home now,’ she gasped, clutching her chest. ‘It’s Nanny. She’s had a funny turn.’
Annie leaped to her feet and spun around, to catch Aunt Clara letting go of Dora’s hand.
‘So, you’re off, then?’ said Ed, moving his legs sideways to let her pass. She nodded. He was almost perfunctory about his goodbye, but she didn’t mind too much because he obviously didn’t want to get teased about being soppy with her, that was all.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Vera, airily.
But as Annie was leaving, she spotted Ed’s arm snaking its way around Vera’s back.
10
December 1925
‘Kiziah, Kizzy? Is that you?’
Nanny Chick lay in a darkened room, with the bed-sheets pulled almost up to her chin, clutching her big red medicine book to her chest.
‘It’s me, Nan,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t worry yourself, everything is going to be just fine.’
The wind rattled on the windowpanes and the rain was hammering down outside as Annie went over to the bedside and held her grandmother’s hand. She looked so thin and small lying there and her cheeks were all sunken.
Nanny’s fingers tightened their grip: ‘Don’t leave me, Kizzy, please don’t leave me.’ She opened her eyes but didn’t seem to recognize Annie standing before her.
In the hallway, the doctor was talking in hushed tones to Mum: ‘It’s a stroke. I have done what I can to make her comfortable, but only time will tell how well she is going to recover,’ he murmured. ‘I will pop round again in the morning to see how she is getting along.’
Mum stifled a sob. Annie stepped into the hallway to comfort her and found the kindly doctor standing there, clasping his black bag.
Annie handed him his coat and his hat, as Mum sank down onto the stairs, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept. Aunt Clara rushed out from the scullery, carrying a teacup.
She offered it to Mum: ‘It’s a tot of brandy, Em, I think you need it.’
Annie had never seen her mum drink anything more than the occasional sherry but she knocked it back in one go and dried her eyes on her apron. It seemed to fortify her. ‘Forgive me, doctor, you must think me very rude,’ she said, getting up.
‘No, no, not at all,’ he said.
‘We can settle up with you when you come tomorrow, if that is all right – it’s just I haven’t . . .’ her voice trailed off. It went without saying that payday was Friday and she didn’t have the money now to meet his bill.
‘Please don’t trouble yourself, Mrs Pett,’ he said, in his most avuncular tone. ‘You have all had a huge shock and I know this is a respectable family. There’s no need to be worrying about my bill now.’
Annie opened the door for him and he smiled at her: ‘And how’s that little brother of yours getting along these days?’
‘Fine, I think,’ said Annie. She had no idea whether George had even come home yet, but the last thing Mum needed now was to be troubled with the fact that her son had been dancing for pennies outside the Chiswick Empire.
The door had barely shut on its hinges when Bill appeared from the scullery. ‘Well,’ he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. ‘I was hoping to give the girls a real treat this year for Christmas but I suppose that will be the money from my paying-out club going to that bleeding doctor again.’ Like most of the men around Soapsud Island, Bill had been squirrelling away a few pennies a week to help pay for the turkey, trimmings and presents. Mum shot him a look of deep hurt. Aunt Clara weighed in: ‘Oh, stop it Bill, you’ll have your twenty shillings for Christmas! I will help out.’
Annie feared she’d say something she’d live to regret, so she retreated into the darkness of Nanny Chick’s bedroom instead, with Aunt Clara hot on her heels, as Mum stormed off upstairs.
‘Kiziah, Kizzy, come here, love, let me see you,’ said Nanny.
Even in the half-light Annie could see that the colour had drained from Aunt Clara’s face.
‘She keeps asking for her,’ said Annie. ‘Who is Kizzy?’
‘Just someone from the old days, back in Notting Hill, I should think,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and get some rest? I’ll sit with her for a while.’
As Annie was closing the door, she saw her aunt free the book from Nanny’s grasp, smoothing the bedclothes and tenderly stroking Nanny Chick’s forehead. ‘There,’ she whispered. ‘No more talk of Kiziah, now, you’ll only upset yourself. It’s Clara, I’m here. I won’t leave you, ever.’
Later that night, Annie fell into an uneasy sleep.
Mum and Aunt Clara were taking it in turns to sit with Nanny, and every time Annie heard footsteps pattering on the stairs, she woke with a start. Her brother was snoring softly next to her and Ivy and Elsie were tucked up fast asleep in a little single bed against the opposite wall, so Annie didn’t dare get out of bed in case she disturbed them. Instead, she lay there, quietly, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the old woman who had been such a big part of her life but who now seemed so frail, as if she was fading away into dust.
It was still dark when the tap-tap came on the bedroom window from the knocker-up, who was paid to wake everyone in the street in time for their jobs at the laundry. Annie crept out of bed, her feet freezing on the cold square of linoleum which covered the boards, and made her way downstairs. Mum was already up in the scullery, pouring some tea for Aunt Clara.
‘She’s still sleeping and doesn’t seem any worse,’ said Mum. ‘The Missus won’t do without me, but if you can stay here for the morning, Aunt Clara will cover the afternoon and you can take over her job on packing.’
‘Of course,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll do whatever you need me to.’
Mum smiled at her and gave her a hug. ‘I don’t tell you enough, Annie, but you are such a good girl, my best girl, I don’t know where I’d be without you.’
Once she’d cleared up the breakfast things and tidied the house, Annie opened the curtains a little way in Nanny’s room, to allow some of the thin light of the winter’s morning to enter. Nanny stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. Annie brought a glass of water and, cradling Nanny’s head, pressed it to her lips, to help her drink.
‘Annie,’ she croaked.
‘How are you feeling?’ said Annie.
Nanny pointed to her sewing workbox, on top of the chest of drawers in the corner.
‘Do you want me to bring it to you?’
Nanny nodded.
‘It’s all yours now. It’s time,’ she whispered, as Annie carried it to over to the bedside.
Nanny Chick closed her eyes with a sigh and went back to sleep.
Annie sat down in the rocking chair and opened the box. She’d spent so many hours watching Nanny sew and kn
it. Nanny had taught her too: how to mend and make a strong seam, how to make a nightdress pretty by buying a scrap of lace from the market for the collar and the cuffs and stitching it on. Then there were all Nanny’s best buttons, the ones she’d collected over the years from the laundry floors back in Notting Hill when she first went to work there back in the eighties. The pearly ones were Annie’s favourites. There were wooden buttons from babies’ jumpers, big brass buttons from a gent’s overcoat, delicate white mother-of-pearl ones and some fabric-covered ones, faded now, from grand ladies’ ball gowns. Nanny liked to tell stories about each one of those buttons and the life it had led before it fell off in the wash. She could make up some funny things about going out dancing and the like, whirling around ballrooms and riding in carriages with the fancy horses up in Piccadilly and down Rotten Row. Annie knew it in her heart, but she didn’t want to say it – Nanny’s storytelling days were over now.
Annie opened the sewing box and peeked inside, her fingers finding their way over balls of wool, a button hook, a thimble – Nanny’s best one. She put it on and rummaged some more – a scrap of linen, an old tobacco tin. She pulled the lid open and rifled through the needles, being careful not to prick her finger, scarcely believing that Nanny was giving all this to her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want it; she wasn’t ready for what it meant – that Nanny wouldn’t be needing it any more.
She reached the bottom of the sewing box. Nanny had never let her go through the box before. She hesitated. It wasn’t right, really. Nanny was sleeping there in front of her and she was going through her things. But her fingers carried on, as if they had developed a life of their own, as if they were searching for something. Annie felt a ridge at the bottom of the box. She tapped it. It was hollow.
