Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts

by Mary Gibson

  ‘Then we went into Wicks’s stables.’

  ‘And the purpose of your visit?’ Stone looked as if he was enjoying her blushes.

  ‘It was snowing and the stables are warm… well, truth is we never get a chance to be on our own…’

  ‘So you went there for a bit of canoodling, is that what you’re telling me?’

  Nellie nodded; her reputation was the least of her worries. The detective smirked. ‘Well, that seems to corroborate your friend’s statement. I won’t keep you any further, Miss Clark.’

  He shut up the notebook and showed her out of the office. Nellie felt like sprinting out of there like a hare at the greyhound track, but she purposely slowed her steps to match the inspector’s leisurely gait.

  ‘He didn’t seem like the type to me, as it happens,’ he remarked as they walked towards the entrance hall. ‘Respectable fresh-faced lad like him, good steady worker, it seems, no record. Anyway, thanks for your help, Miss Clark. You and Mr Gilbie can go now.’

  Nellie looked at him, bewildered. What did he mean? Surely Ted hadn’t been stupid enough to give a false name, and did he hate Sam so much he would try to set him up? Nellie was about to correct him, but just then, from an office opposite, emerged the familiar figure of Sam Gilbie.

  ‘Sam!’ His eyes met hers and with an almost imperceptible shake of his head she knew to say no more as he walked up to her and took her hand.

  ‘You’re free to go, Mr Gilbie,’ said the detective. ‘Sorry for the inconvenience, but we have to follow every lead.’

  Sam nodded and said it was no trouble and he was pleased to have been a help. He still held fast to Nellie’s hands and she could feel him trembling. They made a show of walking slowly out together and down the station steps.

  ‘Let’s walk over the other side,’ Sam said as they got free of the station. He led her towards Tower Bridge and they walked northward across it, towards the Tower of London, not stopping until the full width of the Thames was between them and Tower Bridge Police Station.

  13

  To the Tower

  They descended an icy flight of stone steps beside the bridge, Sam holding her arm as he led her to the embankment in front of the Tower. A row of pitted old black cannons, each capped with a mound of snow, stood sentinel before the silent walls of London’s old fortress. A Beefeater stood with a pike by a little drawbridge, his scarlet coat bright against the carpet of snow. Nellie wondered why they called it the White Tower, when it was black with soot and grime: the only white she could see was in the snowdrifts, blocking crenellations and arrow slits. They said nothing until they reached Traitor’s Gate, a desiccated reminder of all the ghostly prisoners who had passed beneath its portcullis. Nellie shivered and turned back to the wide open Thames, where a pewter sky rested heavily on its slate-grey waters. She walked to the railing and gazed up at the bridge, as its arms rose to let a red-sailed Thames barge pass beneath, on its way downriver.

  ‘It’s a wonderful sight.’ Sam spoke her thoughts. He leaned his elbows on the railing and they watched in silence as the arms descended again.

  Finally, she spoke. ‘Sam, why did you give me as your alibi, why didn’t you just tell them you were at home?’

  She turned to look at him. His face was grey and strained. ‘Because I wasn’t at home.’

  ‘You weren’t? Well, wherever you were, surely someone saw you?’

  ‘No, nobody saw me, Nell. I didn’t have an alibi, you see.’

  Nellie’s mouth went dry and she felt the silence of snow all around them, like a heavy presence. She tried to quell the horrible suspicion that Sam could be involved in the whole thing too. Had he just been playing a charade with Ted that night? Wasn’t there anyone she could trust?

  ‘Well, where were you, then?’

  ‘Mum’s bad again, and I needed to get out. It upsets me sometimes, Nell, to see her like that. So I reckon, at the time Ted was blowing himself up, I was in the stable working on the old penny-farthing and the only witnesses were old Thumper and his mates.’

  Nellie realized she hadn’t been breathing. She took in a gulp of the freezing air, surprised at her own relief. When had it started to become important to her, this feeling that she could trust Sam, that he was like a solid hub in all the turning world? But she wouldn’t reveal a feeling to him that was still so new to her. ‘Well, why didn’t you just tell them that, you stupid sod?’ she snapped. ‘And what if my story had been different? They would have put you down as a suspect straight away!’

  ‘I suppose I panicked. I wasn’t entirely innocent, remember. I helped Bosher, we both did, and that made me think you could do with an alibi as well…’

  Nellie hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘But anyway, knowing you, I guessed you’d be clever enough to tell them as near the truth as you could. I remembered you were going to walk in the park and then go to the Star, so I told the same story and made out I was your sweetheart.’

  Sam swallowed the last word and she saw his familiar blush rising, but now, instead of scorning it, she felt an urge to cup his burning face with her cold hands. She resisted and said instead, ‘You’re a kind-hearted fool, Sam Gilbie, and I don’t think I’ve deserved your friendship. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll always be a friend to you, Nellie,’ he said quietly, and before she could reply he went on, ‘and don’t think I mean more than that, will you? I’d hate to think we couldn’t be friends.’

  Their shared jeopardy seemed to have broken down a barrier between them and loosened Sam’s tongue. ‘And another thing, Nellie, that night you came home with me, remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘I know Mum got the wrong end of the stick about us, and you’re to take no notice of anything she said… or might have made you say… D’ye get me drift?’

  This was even more of a shock. How much did Sam see, how could he know about her promise? He’d said ‘knowing you as I do’ – how did he know her? And how did he see what she felt? For all the time she had spent with Ted, she never once felt that he knew her; it was all about what she felt for him, nothing more, she realized that now. She sighed.

  ‘I get your drift, Sam, but that’s something between me and your mum.’

  He stared hard at her and seemed to decide not to pursue it. ‘Come on, you’re perishing. Let’s keep walking,’ he said finally.

  They walked briskly along the river front, passing a few other well-wrapped Londoners, heads down, immune to the glories of history surrounding them – a couple of delivery boys trundling handcarts along the cobbles; a noisy group of sailors coming from St Katherine’s Dock, no doubt in search of the nearest pub. The normal hordes of Baedeker-carrying tourists were absent, though, and they skirted the Tower largely undisturbed. A few late white roses were blooming at the foot of the curtain wall, drooping under their extra petals of snow.

  ‘Who do you think spotted you at the arches?’ Nellie said, as they paused at Tower Pier to watch a paddle steamer swing out into the tugging tide, steam pluming from its white funnel.

  ‘They said it was an anonymous tip-off.’ He frowned. ‘But I don’t know how anyone saw me – there was no one about and I was careful when I moved Ted. Have you heard from him?’

  Nellie shook her head. ‘No, but Lily says he made it up north and they’re telling everyone he’s been up there a fortnight. He’s trying for a job on the boats, getting out of the country.’

  ‘Good riddance an’ all! If he’s out of the way, the coppers won’t be coming after you, will they?’

  Nellie felt a pang of disloyalty to Ted, in spite of his silence and apparent abandonment of her. Sam must have seen it in her face. He took her elbow, guiding her back towards the moat.

  ‘Sorry, Nell, it’s just I don’t think he’s been good to you, that’s all.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t been good to me, Sam, but I made my choices, didn’t I? So you could say I haven’t been good to myself.’

  They had made an al
most full circuit of the Tower and were now heading towards Tower Hill. The moat and front drawbridge fell into view and, with the gas lamps beginning to be lit, the castle took on a sparkling fairy-tale look, their light flaring off icicles dripping from the battlements. By now she was shivering. They stopped at a tea stall and Sam ordered two glasses of steaming-hot sarsaparilla. On a bench nearby Nellie spotted what looked like a huddled bundle of rags. As she stared, the bundle moved and a haggard white face peered out from under a worn docker’s cap. The old man was gazing at her drink.

  ‘Sam, look, I think he needs this more than I do,’ she said, and strode over to the bench, holding out her sarsaparilla to the man.

  ‘Thanks, miss, you’re very kind,’ he rasped. Cupping the glass in both hands for warmth, he gulped at the steaming liquid.

  ‘Have you got a bed for tonight?’ she asked. The bundle of belongings on the floor beside him showed he was obviously tramping.

  The man shook his head. ‘Nah, no room in the Limehouse doss house, so I’m making me way over to the Sally Army in Bermondsey, but me legs give out.’ He lifted up from the bench two misshapen limbs, one foot twisted inwards. ‘Got these in an accident at the docks ten year ago. Finished me for heavy work and I couldn’t get no other work, so it’s tramping for me now.’

  Sam had joined them and was looking worriedly at Nellie. But she prided herself on being a good judge of character. ‘He’s all right,’ she whispered to Sam. ‘Will you get into the Sally Army?’ she asked the man. ‘It’s a bit late.’ She was familiar with the long queues outside the doss house in Spa Road. They’d sometimes start at lunchtime, both men and women, trying to make sure of a bed that night.

  The man shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try. Better than settling down here for the night. This old bench’ll make a cold bed.’

  ‘We’re walking that way, you can lean on Sam, can’t he, Sam?’

  Sam didn’t look too pleased to be offered as a crutch, especially as the man had obviously gone a while without a wash. When the bundle of rags extended itself to its full height, it was obvious he had once been a bull of a man, and the twisted legs gave him an odd rolling gait that made Sam’s job even harder. As they walked over the bridge, the man, whose name was Jim, pointed down to Butler’s Wharf on the south side. ‘I’ve worked bloody hard down there in my time,’ he said.

  The wharf, in contrast with the idleness of this summer’s strike, was now back to business. Barges packed the dockside and dockers and stevedores were scurrying to finish unloading the vessels before the light failed.

  ‘All back to work now, eh?’ Jim remarked. ‘Much good striking ever did me. I was one of the first to go out in eighty-nine, a right firebrand I was, but look at me now. I read me Marx and Engels, oh, yes. Got the docker’s tanner, thought I was so clever and still ended up on the scrapheap. I tell you they always win…’ he concluded morosely.

  Looking at the wreck of a man walking beside them, Nellie’s mind was filled with the memory of Ted’s fiery hair and flashing eyes that day of the women’s strike last year. His lithe, youthful figure striding up and down the podium had been a picture of passion and purpose as he gave his speech. Was it possible he could one day end up like this? Who knew how any of them would finish – a day’s work was all that kept them from a life on the streets, like this poor soul. Once they’d crossed the bridge, Nellie turned to Sam.

  ‘I’d best go straight to Lily’s, to let them know… Will you go on with Jim?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I’m going back that way to the yard. Old Wicks’ll be wondering why I never turned up for work today.’

  ‘Let me know how you get on.’ Nellie squeezed his hand and watched as he made his way up Tower Bridge Road, his rolling charge leaning on his arm, swaying out and then banging into him as if they were a pair of barges on the Thames.

  Nellie knocked at the Boshers’ basement door and Betty answered at the first knock. Her face bore the evidence of a few sleepless nights and her eyes were red-rimmed. She had clearly shed as many tears over Ted as Nellie had herself. ‘Come in, love, quick before nosey parker upstairs sees you.’

  Betty led her past the stairs, across the dark passage into the kitchen. Noises from the family who lived above drifted down – a child crying, and the raised voices of its parents arguing. ‘The noise of it! Still, if they’re at each other’s throats at least she’s not getting her nose into my business.’

  When the kitchen door was closed, Betty turned her searching eyes to Nellie. ‘Nell, tell me he’s all right. Did they let you see him?’

  ‘Sit down, Mrs B., and let me make you a cuppa,’ Nellie said, for the poor woman looked exhausted with worry. ‘You can stop worrying. It wasn’t him, they’d got the wrong feller!’

  Betty’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, thank God!’ She collapsed on to a chair and Nellie saw she was crying. ‘Oh, but I don’t mean that. Who was it, the poor soul?’

  ‘Sam Gilbie!’

  Betty groaned. ‘Sam! But how?’

  ‘Someone spotted him near the arches… well, did Lily tell you Sam helped him?’

  Betty nodded. ‘He’s his father’s son. Michael was my cousin, you know, always did a turn for anyone. Sam wouldn’t turn his back on his family.’

  Nellie didn’t think it was the time to let her know Sam’s true opinion of Ted. ‘You’re right there, he’s got a heart of gold, Sam. It was lucky for him I could give him an alibi, though.’

  She handed Betty the tea and sat down to drink her own. ‘Mrs B., have you heard anything from Ted?’

  Just then there was a knock on the front door and Betty hurried out. She came back, holding a telegram. Putting it on the table in front of Nellie, she slumped back into her chair.

  ‘Read it,’ she ordered shortly, for she couldn’t.

  Nellie picked up the telegram. ‘“Took ship for St Petersburg, am well.”’ Her voice faltered. ‘At least he’s safe,’ she said weakly.

  Betty was not stupid enough to be taken in, however. Looking at Nellie as though she were an idiot, she shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Oh, Nellie, safe? On a ship sailing through icebergs! You have heard of the Titanic, haven’t you? And Russia? If I know my Ted, he won’t rest till he joins them Bolsheviks and ends up dead!’

  14

  Christmas Contrasts

  She breathed deep. It was a warm, balmy June morning of unbelievable freshness. Even the air of Australia felt expansive, and on such days Eliza James had no doubt that her choice to come with Ernest had been the right one. Freedom! It was the reason she had come here. They had taken the white weatherboard villa shortly after arriving in Melbourne, and she loved it. On fine mornings she drank her tea on the wraparound verandah, looking over the well-tended garden. It was a world away from the huddled streets of Bermondsey where she could have spent her whole life, and every day she let herself appreciate that difference. She breathed deeply again and caught the scent of sun-warmed eucalyptus, the smell of freedom. The instinct that had driven her to this new world might have been flight, but her choices in life had always aimed at self-improvement, and this one was no exception: life in Australia was definitely an improvement.

  Her greatest relief was to drop the pretence of being Ernest’s housekeeper. In a country that easily swallowed the secret pasts of those arriving on its shores, no one openly questioned her marital status. So, too, the balance of her relationship with Ernest had changed for the better. Even he had to acknowledge that her work among the women’s trade unions was proving of equal value to his own. The working women she met had the same no-nonsense earthiness of Bermondsey women and she’d thrown herself into improving their lot, making a name for herself as someone who could break the will of the most intransigent of factory owners. Ernest seemed to have found a new respect for her: no longer his token cockney sparrow, she felt herself a falcon soaring. In London she had chafed at his iron grip on her life, but here it had relaxed somewhat, perhaps because he was happier in his own work. Whatever the reason
, he seemed content to allow her more freedom to come and go as she pleased and to choose her own companions.

  But sometimes, on dark nights, when Ernest was working in his study, she would sit on this verandah, looking up at the unfamiliar stars, and she’d hear troubling echoes. She heard her mother’s sad voice during that last meeting, apologizing for doing anything that might have kept her daughter away. At such times, the deep flame of her own self-knowledge would spark into an unwanted life. She knew it was never her mother or father who’d kept her away. It had been her own choice, her own drive for freedom, her own desire for more in life than the lot of a domestic servant. Servitude of any kind was repulsive to her, whether it was the everyday servitude of a wife and mother, or the institutionalized servitude of the wage slave. It was the act of submission that she wished to evade, to smash and to conquer.

  But on this particular June morning, something had happened that threatened all her newfound liberty. She found she was expecting Ernest’s child and now the discovery was filling her with dread. The doctor who confirmed her suspicion had seemed shocked at her reaction.

  ‘No, no, I can’t have a child! It will kill me!’ she’d cried out in horror.

  The tall, composed woman before him had suddenly crumpled and he left his desk to come and put his arm round her heaving shoulders.

  ‘But there is really no danger, my dear, you are a strong healthy woman. You’re what, thirty-one now? Your age should cause no problems, and we will give you the best of care. So there is no reason why you should lose your life in childbirth!’

  He was a kindly man, but she became irrationally angry that he should so misunderstand her and shouted into his concerned face, ‘I mean, it’ll kill me to lose my child. I can’t lose another!’

  The doctor nodded; he thought he understood now. ‘There’s no reason why you should not deliver this child,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll take special care of your baby, Mrs James. Never fear, you will not lose this one.’