The Toomeys’ scheming daughter grinned to herself as she clocked in and joined the rest of the girls at the workbench. She was very familiar with the house routine, especially on Monday mornings. Her mother always went to the Tower Bridge Road for her shopping, then she called in to her friend Patience for a cup of tea and a chat. She never ever got home until after midday, and today her mother had lots to tell her trusted friend. It seemed ridiculous to Lillian that her father should be playing around with someone else, but her mother had said that she was positively convinced of it. What the eye did not see the heart could not grieve over, Lillian reasoned and, as far as she was concerned, her Sandor was not going to see anything. It had to look good, she told herself as she put a hand to her brow and swayed against the bench.
‘Are you all right, Lil?’ the girl next to her asked.
‘I’m all right. It’s just that fright I ’ad.’
‘What fright?’
‘Oh it was nufink really. It was just that a man jumped out on me last night as I was goin’ ’ome from the pictures.’
‘Did ’e? I bet it scared yer. ’E didn’t touch yer, did ’e?’
Lillian shook her head. ‘’E made a grab fer me but I run all the way ’ome. I fink it’s the shock comin’ out on me.’
The machines had started up and the girls decided to wait until tea break to hear more about Lillian’s traumatic experience.
Suddenly she swayed again and staggered into the girl next to her. ‘I’m sorry, Bet. I seem to be all wobbly.’
Betty got down from her stool purposefully. ‘Yer should be’ome in bed,’ she said quickly.
Lillian hoped she would be, very soon. ‘Don’t make a fuss, Bet. I can manage,’ she said weakly. ‘Yer a girl short as it is.’
‘Never you mind about that,’ said Bet. ‘I’m goin’ fer the forelady.’
The old hands exchanged glances and carried on at the machines while Lillian tried her hardest to look ill. Meanwhile Bet had found the forelady.
‘Miss Brownin’. Lillian Toomey’s ’avin’ a wobbly,’ she said.
Nora Browning knew Lillian Toomey very well and she was aware that the girl had had many different things in her time, but a wobbly was something else. ‘A wobbly?’ she repeated.
‘She does look ill, Miss Brownin’. She’s gonna faint soon, I’m sure she is.’
‘All right, Betty. You go back to your machine. I’ll be along in a minute.’
When the matronly-looking woman approached the workbench the final scene was already being enacted. Lillian had been propped up against the leg of the bench and someone was holding a cup of water to her quivering lips.
‘Now what’s the matter here?’ Nora asked, standing with her hands on her hips.
‘She jus’ fainted, Miss Brownin’. I turned round an’ there she was fainted,’ Betty told her. ‘She was stretched out on the floor.’
Nora bent down and looked closely at the Toomey girl. Well, the silly cow looks okay, she thought. She doesn’t seem to have lost any of her colour.
‘C’mon, Lillian. Let’s get you on your feet,’ she said sternly.
Lillian staggered up and sagged into her helpers’ arms. ‘I’ll be okay. Let me go back ter work.’
It was the only time Nora had ever heard Lillian Toomey volunteering to go back to work. The girl must be ill, she thought. ‘Okay Lillian. You come with me. You can sit in the sick bay. When you’re feeling able you’d better go home for the day.’
It was not long before Lillian was walking quickly home, a satisfied grin on her face. The church clock showed five minutes after nine and she crossed her fingers. Her mother had said William never left the house until after the pubs opened at eleven. There would be plenty of time, she told herself. Soon she had reached the market and with a quick glance at the stalls she took a side turning. It wouldn’t do for mother to see me, she thought as she hurried along to Ironmonger Street. As she walked into the turning and took the key from her handbag Lillian saw Widow Pacey looking up the street, clicking a few coins together.
‘’Ello, Lil,’ Widow Pacey called out from her street door. ‘No work?’
Lillian made a face and touched her forehead as she let herself in.
‘There’s bin somefink wrong wiv that fer years,’ Widow Pacey mumbled aloud.
Dennis Foreman heard the front door open and shut and a puzzled frown creased his forehead. Marie must be back early from the market, he thought. The knock on his door made him jump and he realised how nervous he was.
‘Who’s there?’ Dennis asked quickly.
‘It’s me, Lillian. Can I come in?’
Dennis cursed as he opened the door. Lillian was smiling sweetly at him, her eyelashes fluttering. He stood back and she walked in.
‘I thought yer might be a bit lonely an’ wanted ter talk a bit,’ she said, staring around the room.
‘I’m okay. I was goin’ out soon,’ he said with purpose.
‘Oh dear, yer bed’s not made. Let me do it.’
Before he could refuse Lillian had pulled up the bedclothes and was shaking his pillow. ‘There we are. That’s better,’ she said, sitting down on the bed and hoisting her skirt before crossing her long legs.
He mumbled his thanks and put his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘No work then?’ he asked.
‘They gave me the day off. Said I looked a bit peaky. I feel fine – now.’
Dennis looked away from her dark, liquid eyes and walked around behind the table, trying not to stare at her half revealed thigh. ‘’Ow’s yer young man?’ he asked, his voice sounding croaky.
‘Oh ’e’s all right, but don’t let’s talk about Sandor. Let’s talk about you,’ she purred, swinging her leg suggestively. ‘Yer much more interestin’.’
He backed away towards the window and glanced out quickly. ‘I’m expectin’ somebody soon. I thought it was ’im,’ he said weakly.
Lillian leaned back on the bed. ‘Yer not dad’s cousin, are yer?’ she asked with a searching look.
‘Well, I’m sort of ’is distant cousin, if yer see what I mean.’
Lillian did not, and she did not really wish to know either. Her mind was centring around something much more simple. ‘Are yer frightened of women, William?’ she asked him with a grin.
‘’Course not.’
‘I fink yer are. Come over ’ere.’
Dennis felt that his play-acting was convincing but it was leading him into a fix. He had to think fast. ‘It’s not that I’m frightened o’ women, Lil. I just don’t get excited that way, if yer know what I mean.’
The Toomey girl sat forward on the bed, a puzzled frown on her face. ‘Yer mean women don’t excite yer?’
Dennis felt he had her measure now and he sat down next to her. ‘Look, Lil. I fink yer very pretty. In fact I’d go furvver than that. I’d say yer was beautiful.’
She was smiling now, her eyes widening. ‘Do yer really fink I’m beautiful?’
‘I do,’ he answered. ‘But yer see, Lil. Men like me like to ’ave a pretty girl fer a good friend. Yer know, one they can confide in an’ tell their secrets to.’
‘What d’yer mean, men like you?’
‘I’m queer,’ Dennis said, holding his head in his hand and trying not to laugh. He did not dare to look at her for too long in case he gave himself away.
There was a shocked look on her face and slowly it changed into an expression of pity. She reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. ‘Yer can’t ’elp the way yer are, William,’ she said gently. ‘Jus’ you remember, I’m yer friend. Yer can tell me fings an’ I won’t tell a livin’ soul. Not even Sandor.’
‘Yer mustn’t tell Sandor,’ Dennis said dramatically. ‘’E might not understand.’
She patted his knee. ‘I won’t tell a livin’ soul. Yer secret’s safe wiv me, William.’
Marie Toomey had finished her shopping and she walked slowly along to John Street. Patience O’Brian was a good friend. She always listened carefully
to what she had to say, and usually had some sound advice to offer. Patience was made that way, she thought. Not like those interfering busybodies in the street. If she let on to one of them it would be all round the turning in five minutes. Patience wasn’t like that. Shame about her old man. All those years at the gas works, then he had to go and get himself killed six months after he retired. Still, walking down the middle of the Old Kent Road blind drunk wasn’t a very sensible thing to do, she mused. Something must have turned his brain. Maybe it was the shock of retirement? It did that to a lot of people. There was old Mr Copperstone, she recalled. He was only retired for six months and he drank a bottle of rat poison. Nasty one that was. Some people whispered that it had been administered. People had never stopped talking about it. Mrs Copperstone went stark raving mad a few months later. Pity that old git of mine didn’t think of taking rat poison, she thought, or maybe getting himself knocked up in the air by a tram. Trouble with Toby is, two pints of beer and he falls over before ’e’s even left the pub.
Chewing on her thoughts, Marie arrived at Patience’s house and her knock was answered by the lady herself. Patience O’Brian was a petite, smart-looking woman in her late fifties. Her deep-set blue eyes looked out of a tiny, well-moulded face and her hair was raven without a trace of grey. She beckoned her friend in.
‘I’ve got the kettle on, Marie,’ she said. ‘Put yer bag down in the passage, it looks ’eavy.’
They had sat together sipping tea for some time before Marie brought up the subject. ‘Patience. I’m worried about my Toby.’
‘What’s wrong, Marie. Is ’e ill?’ her friend asked.
‘No, ’e’s as fit as a fiddle,’ Marie replied, dabbing at her eyes.
‘Whatever’s wrong, girl?’
‘I fink ’e’s got anuvver woman.’
‘I don’t believe it. Not your Toby.’
Marie nodded. ‘’E ’as, Patience. I’m sure of it.’
‘What makes yer fink ’e’s playin’ around then?’
‘Look, luv. My Toby was never one ter wear out me block o’ Sunlight soap, an’ I used ter get on to ’im every week ter change ’is socks. It was the same wiv ’is underclothes, but since ’e’s ’ad this job e’s a changed man. ’E goes out every mornin’ smellin’ like a Lisle Street whore, an’ ’e smacks brilliantine on ’is ’air an’ stands in front o’ that mirror lookin’ at ’imself until I feel like crownin’ ’im.’
‘Well maybe ’e likes ter look smart when ’e goes ter work, Marie. Lookin’ smart goes a long way, girl.’
‘Patience, ’e’s a bloody barrel-washer, not a bleedin’ penpusher. Barrel-washers don’t wear collars an’ ties.’
Patience smiled. ‘Well, I fink yer makin’ too much out of it. Lots o’ men start ter smarten themselves up as they get older. My Frankie did, Gawd rest ’is soul.’
Marie screwed a handkerchief up around her fingers. ‘There’s somefink else.’
‘Oh, an’ what’s that?’
‘’E’s got more darin’ lately.’
‘Darin’?’
‘Well, we ’ad a row the ovver mornin’ an’ ’e told me straight ’e’s bin goin’ up the pub on Friday nights when I’m out. When I asked ’im what pub ’e uses ’e told me ter mind me own business.’
‘Why don’t yer say yer’ll go out wiv ’im, Marie? P’raps ’e’d like yer to?’
‘I already did.’
‘What did ’e say?’
‘’E told me ’e wants ter be on ’is own ter fink. That ain’t like my Toby.’
‘Well, I did warn yer, Marie. I told yer not ter be too ’ard on’im.’
‘I’ve bin a good wife,’ Marie sobbed. ‘I might ’ave got on to ’im at times, but it was fer ’is own good.’
‘C’mon, yer do go a bit strong. What about when Toby lost the pram. Yer took the poker to ’im, yer told me yerself.’
Marie did not answer but continued to twist the handkerchief around her fingers.
‘Then there was the time ’e brought that dirty ole carpet’ome. What did yer do then?’
‘I made ’im take it out in the yard an’ scrub it,’ Marie sobbed, feeling suddenly very sorry for her wayward husband.
‘There yer are then. That’s what I mean. Listen, Marie. A man’ll work ’ard an’ give up all ’is wages, an’ e’ll go wivout’is pint o’ beer, just as long as yer give ’im yer respect. Do that an’ yer ’ome an dry. Trouble wiv you is, yer ain’t give ’im no respect. All yer do is ruck ’im. No man’s gonna stan’ fer that. It don’t matter ’ow meek an’ mild they are, sooner or later they’re gonna turn, an’ when they do, watch out.’
‘What am I gonna do, Patience?’
‘I’ll tell yer what yer gonna do. Now listen ter me.’
Toby Toomey walked home on Friday evening feeling rather low. Friday evening was normally his night out with Iris, but tonight she was taking Monty to the vet to get him neutered. She had said that poor Monty would want a bit of nursing after all that pulling about and she ought to stop in with him until he perked up a bit. They had arranged to change their evening to Monday and Toby did not feel like having to wait until then. As he walked home he wondered what neutering was. Maybe it was something to do with worms, he thought. Mrs Adams bought dozens of worming powders for her cats. He’d seen her buy them at the cats’ meat stall in the market. Perhaps Iris didn’t know about worming powders. He would have to remember to tell her on Monday.
When Toby put his key in the door he could smell steak and kidney pudding. It was years since Marie had cooked steak and kidney pudding. He was licking his lips as he walked into the parlour and his eyes opened wide. A clean tablecloth had been spread over the rickety old table and Marie was standing in front of the freshly laid grate. She wore a new apron and her hair was out of curlers.
‘Sit down, luv. Yer mus’ be fair worn out,’ she said sweetly.
Toby looked behind him, and then back to Marie. ‘That smells nice. Is it . . .’
‘Yes it is, Toby. I know it’s yer favourite. I thought it was about time I did a nice steak an’ kidney pudden.’
Toby sat down at the table. Something was wrong, he thought. Maybe Marie was going a bit funny in the head. No it wasn’t that. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. It must be something else. Maybe she intended to poison him. Christ! She’s poisoned the dinner, he decided. No, he was being silly. Marie would be more likely to throw him out if she wanted to get rid of him or even just smash him over the head. It must be something else. That was it! She was going to ask for a rise. Well she was going to be unlucky. The pocket money she gave him just about stretched to a couple of pints and a sherry for Iris and now that old misery-guts had got Iris transferred from the packing department the supply of illicit jars of pickles had dried up. It was going to be a tight squeeze as it was.
Toby finished his meal and Marie brought in a large chunk of suet pudding smeared with golden syrup. Finally he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his middle contentedly. ‘That was really ’andsome, girl,’ he said stretching. ‘I fink I could just about manage anuvver cuppa.’
Marie tripped out into the scullery and fetched the tea. She sat opposite him, a smile forming on her lips, and when he drained the cup she motioned to the easy chair. ‘Yer look tired. Why don’t yer put yer ’ead back fer ’alf an ’our? By the way, I’ve got the evenin’ paper. It’s down by the chair.’
Toby looked at her closely, expecting the worst, but she remained quiet. He went over to the chair and settled himself down for a snooze.
‘D’yer want me ter wake yer up later, Toby?’ Marie asked. ‘I know yer go out on Fridays.’
‘No, dear. I fink I’ll stay in ternight.’
She sat sewing in the chair opposite him, occasionally looking over. Toby was snoring lightly, his mouth opening and shutting at regular intervals. The wireless was playing softly and Marie hummed to herself contentedly. Patience was a wise old owl, she thought.
When Toby climbed into bed and made him
self comfortable he was still puzzling over Marie’s sudden change of mood and, when she slipped in beside him and laid her arm on his stomach, Toby really began to worry.
The weekend was free of arguments. The meals were on time, and Marie remained very attentive. On Monday morning Toby got ready for work quickly. He felt he should not spend too much time in front of the mirror. He didn’t want Marie to get upset and slip back into her old ways. When it was time for him to leave for work Marie kissed him on the cheek and he walked towards the pickle factory deep in thought. Iris wouldn’t like to hear about Marie’s change of mood, he mused. Better if he kept quiet about it. He spent the day worrying and, when he got home that evening, Marie was more than usually attentive. Toby had eaten his fill and was settling down for a quick nap when she sprang it on him. ‘I was wonderin’ if yer’d like an’ early night, luv?’
‘Sorry, Marie. I’m goin’ out ternight.’
When he had left Marie kicked the cat and threw two of her best plates against the scullery wall. ‘I’ll be ’avin a few words wiv Patience termorrer,’ she grumbled aloud.
Chapter Forty-Three
Jennie was feeling as though she had not slept a wink. She cut two thick slices of bread and put them under the gas-stove grill. It had been well after midnight when she got in, and then the sound of a taxi drawing up in the early hours and the door slamming had awakened her. She poured herself a mug of tea and dropped three spoonfuls of sugar into it, then walked back into the parlour and sat down wearily at the table. She had had a few heated words with Steve the night before and as she slowly stirred her tea and went over the argument in her mind the smell of charred bread drifted in. She got up quickly and swore violently as she stubbed her toe hurrying out to the scullery. She cut two more slices and slipped them under the grill and this time she stood over the gas stove, yawning widely. Monday was always a bad day for Jennie and this Monday was going to be a bad one, she knew. It was always the same when she and Steve rowed. It upset her for the whole day and, as she buttered the toast, she vehemently cursed Monday mornings.
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