After Hours

by Jenny Oldfield

  Walter had kept both her small hands in his during the confession. He said he understood how much she liked to go to the pictures, and he didn’t blame her for taking a night out. He was sorry he couldn’t leave work to take her more often himself, only they were still building up the business, getting known beyond Duke Street, down Union Street and Bear Lane. It was wrong of him to neglect her, he knew. There was really nothing for him to forgive.

  After this, Sadie felt worse. For a start, she might have welcomed a small show of jealousy on Walter’s part; there was her female pride at stake. Second, her confession had only been partial, to save Walter’s feelings, she told herself. But she’d deliberately missed out the tumult in her heart when she kissed the silent, infuriating Richie Palmer. From now on she must keep out of his way, as a safeguard to her own peace of mind. Her stolen night out with him would be the one and only.

  Duke and Annie approved when they saw her and Walter back together. Walter was part of the scenery; steady as they came, loyal and true, a big support to Rob when he first came home wounded.

  Walter’s own war had been spent as a motor-bike dispatch rider around Ypres. It had kept him out of the thick of things on the front line, but he stored many terrible memories which he would forever keep to himself. His belief in the justice of the Allied cause had kept him going through thick and thin. Later, he’d trained as one of the first drivers of the new military tanks, and was in the last push of the autumn of 1918. He came home a hero to a country exhausted by war, unable to offer him a means of keeping body and soul together. So he and Rob resorted to their boyhood dream of setting up by themselves. They took casual employment on the docks and markets, working like navvies to scrape money together. Over the years, their meagre savings of one pound a week rose to thirty shillings, or on a good week, thirty-five. Still, their target seemed miles off.

  Help came along for the pair of them at last in the unlikely shape of Mrs Edith Cooper. She heard of their struggle to start up from one of the girl assistants in her husband’s drapery store. Mrs Cooper held a soft spot for Robert; he’d come to talk kindly to her on the death in action of her only son, Teddy. She’d seen in Robert all the maimed and wounded victims of the war, the wasted youth, the terrible price of victory. This dainty, fastidious woman, an East Ender herself in the days before her husband’s success, had once more requested Rob to visit her at home. She offered him a loan of £200 to be paid back according to a set plan at a low rate of interest. She wished him well, shook his hand and stood at her window, shielded by a long net curtain, watching him to the gate. Rob went with his head high, eagerly in spite of the impediment of his leg. Tears stood in her eyes. Her husband, Jack, sneered and told her she’d be lucky if she ever got back a penny of her investment. ‘Throwing good money down the drain,’ he complained. ‘And times are this bad.’

  Cock-a-hoop, Rob and Walter sat up late debating whether to spend their cash total of £350, £150 of which they’d saved for themselves over a three-year period, on one brand-new Morris Cowley with its revolutionary American engine, or on two older, used Bull nose Morrises. They’d gone for the latter; two cars meant twice as much business when there were two of them able to do the driving. They found premises to rent at the old carter’s yard under the railway bridge, installed a telephone and put up their nameplate. For two years now they’d struggled to repay their loan and to make ends meet. Each month, with a gleam in her eye, Edith Cooper unsealed the brown envelope and held up the five-pound note to show her disbelieving husband.

  It was a rare Saturday when they decided to take time off, but the Derby County game was a needle match and the whole of Southwark would be making a mass exodus to the Palace ground in Sydenham. When they spotted Tommy O’Hagan trudging along Duke Street through the pouring rain, water rolling from the brim of his trilby hat, they pulled up to offer a lift. The car, notorious for its poor road-holding, skidded to a halt.

  Tommy quickly gestured to his companion to hop in too, and the pair of them slid gratefully into the back seat. Glancing in his mirror, Rob saw that the uninvited guest was Bertie Hill, the unpopular new landlord of the O’Hagan tenement block. Tommy, keeping an eye open for the main chance as usual, had obviously thought it wise to keep well in with the man. He sniffed and shook his hat on to the floor. ‘Blimey, Rob, ain’t we glad to see you.’

  But Hill was the sort to put a dampener on the conversation with his snide remarks. He would assume familiarity where there was none, and managed to put Rob’s back up the moment he stepped on the running-board. ‘Whoa, Dobbin!’ he cried as the cab slewed sideways into the pavement. ‘Ain’t you got no control over the old girl?’

  ‘About as much as you’ve got over your mouth, I’d say,’ Rob replied. He slapped on a grin from the outside without meaning it, before he pushed the car into gear and set off at breakneck speed. ‘Mind you, I have to admit the brakes ain’t so hot,’ he remarked, deliberately swerving wide of the giant tramcar which bore down upon them.

  Bertie Hill took a damp Woodbine out of his breast pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. ‘Now, a Daimler,’ he said slow and easy, ‘there’s a beauty of a car, if you ask me.’

  ‘I was in a Daimler once,’ Tommy told them. ‘She went like a bird, all the way down to Southend and back. Next thing I knew, the geezer what drove it was cooling his heels up the station at Union Street. Turns out this Lefty Harris had nicked the Daimler from Earl Somebody-or-other. Tries to lay it on me. I says I can’t even drive the bleeding thing, so how the hell can I nick it? In the end, they had to let me go.’

  Walter and Rob enjoyed the story. Tommy had a way of dissolving tension. He was always in a scrape from wheeling and dealing on the market, always one step ahead, but at the same time a strong family man who took home much of what he earned to his ma and pa. He kept just enough to socialize and get by. He had been the mainstay of the O’Hagans after Daisy’s tragic death, reckoning he’d no time for the birds or for settling down.

  ‘Hey, Tommy, there’s just one thing wrong with that,’ Rob protested. ‘You can drive almost as good as me!’

  ‘But the coppers don’t know that, do they? They take me out and put me behind the wheel of one of their Model Ts. I looks it all about like this, and takes hold of the handbrake. “Is this to turn the engine, or what?” I ask. And I let it go and we freewheel down the hill until the copper grabs hold of the wheel and slams the handbrake back on. “Just wait till I get my hands on that Lefty Harris!” he squeaks. He’s gone as white as a sheet. They give Lefty six months in the Scrubs, no messing.’

  ‘And did you nick the Daimler?’ Walter leaned back to listen to Tommy’s reply. Rob had begun to edge the car into a side street not far from the ground.

  Tommy looked at him, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘You know me, Walt!’

  ‘That’s why I’m asking, Tommy, believe me!’ Walter winked, and the subject was closed.

  Rob parked the car. The four of them pulled their hats down and joined the trudge up the street towards the turnstiles.

  Sadie stared down at the rain-sodden street. ‘Look at them poor blighters,’ she said to Hettie. Two women, shawls over their heads, pulled a sack half-full of coal along the pavement, ‘I bet they’ve been picking by the railway.’

  From the comfort of their living-room above the pub, Hettie and Sadie watched the women drag the sack. ‘A land fit for heroes,’ Hettie remarked, sinking into the shadow of Giant Despair. With an effort she shook herself free. ‘I dunno, Sadie, there’s a lot of work to do before we can afford to rest.’ Picking up her bonnet and fixing it on her head, Hettie got ready for her long, busy shift at the Mission.

  ‘Anyone’d think you can do it all single-handed, the way you work yourself to the bone, Ett.’ Sadie thought her sister looked worn out. ‘Them women struggling down there ain’t your fault, you know. You shouldn’t take on.’

  Hettie tied the bow smartly under her chin. ‘They ain’t my fault, but they are my sisters, Sadie, as sure
as you are, and I can’t let my sisters suffer in silence. We all gotta work and pray, and ask God to forgive our sins, until we reach the Heavenly gate.’

  ‘And I suppose I gotta watch you suffer in silence?’ Sadie refused to let the point drop. She knew that Hettie worked herself to the point of collapse on behalf of the poor down-and-outs.

  ‘I ain’t suffering,’ Hettie protested. ‘I’m doing God’s work.’

  She looked so pained and surprised that Sadie regretted her sharp tone and went up to her. ‘I know you are,’ she said gently. ‘And I’m just a horrible sinner, getting at you when I know you’re a hundred times better than me!’

  Hettie smiled. ‘Who’s counting?’

  ‘I am. I’m a wicked woman, and don’t I know it!’

  ‘How? How are you wicked?’ Hettie linked arms and fondly stroked Sadie’s wavy hair.

  ‘Pa thinks I am. The other day he asked Frances not to bring me no more lip-rouge from her chemist’s shop because it ain’t ladylike.’ Poor Sadie had been kept under strict control since her escapade with Richie.

  ‘And what did Frances say?’

  ‘She told Pa not to be so old-hat. All the girls wear lip rouge these days.’

  ‘See.’ Hettie smiled. ‘Frances has her head screwed on.’ Of the four sisters, Frances was the one they looked up to. Even Duke stood in awe of her since she’d married Billy Wray, the widowed ex-newspaper vendor, and gone to live with him above the Workers’ Education place in Commercial Street. ‘You ain’t wicked just because you wear a touch of make-up. Same as the women who come into our shop; they ain’t terrible vain things just because they want a dress to look nice in.’

  ‘But you don’t know the half of it,’ Sadie told her. Her one serious transgression, the luxurious, forbidden kiss was beginning to worm its way out of her conscience.

  ‘I know one thing.’ Hettie glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’m gonna miss my tram if I don’t get a move on.’ She gave Sadie a quick smile. ‘Why not come to church with me and Ernie tomorrow?’ Her hand was already on the doorknob.

  Sadie half-nodded and smiled. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  But as soon as Hettie vanished downstairs, Sadie’s brooding mood returned. Feeling the urge to shake herself free of it and make herself useful, in a pale shadow of Hettie’s own missionary zeal, she decided to heat some soup and nip down to the depot with it. Rob and Walter would be glad of a warm lining to their stomachs on an afternoon like this. Quickly she set the pan to boil on the range. She put on her broad-brimmed grey hat to keep off the rain, and slipped into a matching wrap-around coat. Then she set the pan inside a linen teatowel at the base of her shopping-basket, tied the towel in a knot to secure the top of the pan, and set off on her errand.

  Puddles barred her way when she reached the cinder-strewn yard where Rob and Walter garaged their two cars. One of the Bullnoses stood safe inside, under the brick arch of the massive railway bridge. The other was missing; presumably out on a job. Carefully she picked her way across the yard, trying to shield her basket from the worst of the rain. ‘Rob?’ she called as she peered inside towards the corner office. There was no sign of life. ‘Walter?’ Cautiously she stepped inside.

  Richie Palmer eased himself from under the stationary car and stood up. He’d recognized the voice and the ankles, and thought for a moment that if he stayed put, Sadie might well conclude there was no one there and turn right around. But he’d look a fool if she spotted him hiding, spanner in hand. So he got up to face her, watched her spin round at the dink of metal as he rapped the spanner on to the ground. This was a meeting he could well do without.

  ‘Where’s Rob?’ Sadie felt her throat go dry.

  ‘At the match. They both are.’

  ‘Oh.’ This possibility had never occurred to her. She was irritated; even her good deeds turned against her. Richie was the last person she’d planned to bump into. ‘Are you sure? They never take a Saturday off.’

  ‘It’s Derby County.’

  She tilted her head back. ‘I brought them some soup.’

  Her remark hung in the air. Richie looked steadily at Sadie, aware of how she’d avoided him since their night out together. It was clear that she wished the ground would swallow her. ‘I’ll tell them you dropped by,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no!’ Even being here, alone with Richie, would upset Rob if he found our. He’d think she’d planned it, ‘No, never mind. I’d best be off.’

  He didn’t respond, wiping his hands on a rag slung from a hook on the wall. Then she felt ashamed of treating him so badly, and angry that this was how others arranged her life for her. Why shouldn’t she talk to him? Talk was only talk. ‘Shall I leave you this soup?’ she offered.

  He wished she’d make up her mind; either he was below notice, or he wasn’t. When he’d taken her out to the picture palace, she’d proved in one unguarded moment that she found him attractive. Then she’d gone and cut him dead. Now she was being friendly all over again. Cat and mouse. He stared silently at her.

  His gaze succeeded in unnerving her. ‘It was Rob, really,’ she explained. ‘He went mad at me for walking out with you.’

  ‘Were we walking out? I thought we went to see a picture.’

  She nodded and turned away, resenting being teased.

  ‘I ain’t good enough, I don’t suppose?’ Richie stood in her way.

  ‘It ain’t that. Rob don’t care about that. But it’s Walter he’s thinking of. Walter’s his pal!’

  ‘And does Walter own you? What about you? What do you think?’ He kept his distance, but didn’t offer to shift.

  ‘’Course not. Only, I owe it to him. Oh, I don’t know!’ She backed off. ‘It’s best left alone.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  His look, his slow voice hooked her like a fish on a line. ‘Yes, it’s what I think!’ She felt the rain slanting against her back as she stepped outside.

  ‘And is it what you feel?’

  ‘It’s the same thing, ain’t it?’ With a sudden change of mind, she rushed forward and thrust the basket into his arms. ‘Don’t ask me!’ she cried.

  ‘You said that before.’ He caught her by the elbow. ‘Remember?’

  The shock of his touch ran through her. She felt herself tremble, then she struggled to get free.

  He let her pull away and stand upright, but he’d brushed his face close to hers, smelt the rose of her soap or perfume. ‘I’ll move on, then,’ he said abruptly. He decided in an instant. ‘It ain’t no good hanging round here waiting for this whole thing to blow up in my face. Your Rob’s got a temper. I’ll go; you won’t have to worry no more.’

  ‘No!’ Once more she let herself down, gave herself away. ‘I mean to say, there’s no need. You’re wanted here to work on the cars.’

  Richie looked away. ‘You’d best get out of here. They’ll be back soon.’ The match would be over. He had several messages from customers to hand over to his bosses when they returned. ‘You can have a lift if you want.’

  ‘No.’ She darted out into the heavy downpour, careless of the huge, dirty puddles. ‘I can walk, thanks.’ And she ran off, her thoughts as ragged and confused as ever.

  Richie deposited her basket on the desk, squatted down, took hold of the front bumper of the old Bullnose and swung himself from view once more.

  Palace had lost two-nothing. The home crowd had sung ‘Abide with Me’ right through to the dying seconds, to no avail. Bertie Hill blamed the muddy conditions, Walter said that County were the best side on the day. Rob coughed the engine back into life as the other three flung open the doors and piled into the car. He swung his disappointment into the violent turning of the starter-handle, but he’d forgotten to retard the engine. The motor caught fire and turned at full speed, kicking back the handle, nearly taking his thumb with it. Rob cursed and climbed into the driver’s seat. They drove in subdued silence; only after they’d drowned their sorrows in a pint or two of best bitter would they be able to
take their defeat philosophically. The inside of the car smelt of wet worsted and stale cigarette smoke. The windows steamed up, the old car refused to grip the wet road.

  ‘Thanks for the lift, pal,’ Tommy said. Rob had stopped to drop Bertie and him off at the Duke. ‘Another day, another dollar, as they say.’ He shrugged and slammed the door shut.

  ‘You been watching too many American pictures,’ Walter warned. But he knew Rob was anxious to get back to the depot. The rain would mean plenty of taxi business tonight; people didn’t like standing in a queue for the tram, getting soaked on their night out.

  But halfway down Meredith Court, the Morris started churning out steam from under the bonnet. The plugs had overheated and the car was losing water fast. ‘Bleeding thing!’ Rob cried, mouthing curses as Walter scrambled in the boot for the emergency canvas bucket. He filled it at a nearby standpipe while Rob lifted the bonnet and eased the cap off the radiator. Minutes ticked by. Richie would already have booked them in for jobs, expecting them back by now.

  Walter shook his head. ‘This old girl’s on her last legs, you know that?’ His race was serious as he refilled the radiator. ‘She ain’t reliable no more.’

  Rob sighed. He leaned against the door biting his thumbnail. ‘Got a spare three hundred and forty-one quid on you, pal?’

  Walter gave a hollow laugh. He felt in his pockets. ‘Well, it just so happens . . . no!’ He slammed down the bonnet and chucked the canvas bucket into the boot. ‘Things are a bit tight right now.’ He turned the starter-handle while Rob advanced the engine. They’d lost a good fifteen minutes waiting for it to cool.

  ‘We beat ’em on the Marne,’ Rob growled, swinging the car back into the slow crawl of traffic. He chanted the old war song with savage irony.