Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts

by Mary Gibson

  By now she was terribly late. She jumped on the penny-farthing and cycled as quickly as she dared through the stinging rain. Tyres hissing on the wet roads, she felt herself skidding dangerously and made herself slow down. When she arrived at the Labour Institute, Frank Morgan was fretting in the yard. She dismounted as nimbly as she could in the voluminous mackintosh.

  ‘I was getting worried, Nellie! Thought you might have come a cropper. Sure you can manage your round in this weather?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Frank, I’ll go steady. Anyway, I think it’s easing off now.’

  She eyed the heavens and held out her hand. Frank looked doubtful but Nellie was determined to do her round, and, in fact, it did feel as though the fat raindrops had given way to a stinging drizzle.

  Frank loaded up the penny-farthing’s trailer with groceries; each parcel wrapped in oiled paper was labelled with an address. Scanning the delivery sheet, she noticed an order for Beatson Street.

  ‘Oh, is this one for Mrs Gilbie? Sam not collecting it today?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Wicks made him work this afternoon. He’s down at Surrey Docks, collecting a load of grain.’

  Some Saturday afternoons on his way home Sam collected his mother’s Co-op groceries, but when he had to work, Nellie would make the Gilbies’ delivery. Beatson Street was the last in her round and she usually stopped for a cup of tea with Lizzie Gilbie whenever she delivered there. The first time she’d delivered to Lizzie, she’d expected to hand over the groceries at the door and be on her way, but she’d reckoned without Matty, who called out to her mother, ‘Look who’s come with the groceries!’

  It had been one of Lizzie’s good days and she’d walked on painfully swollen legs to the front door. Her face showed both astonishment and, to Nellie’s surprise, delight. She’d spotted the penny-farthing.

  ‘That’s never Michael’s infernal machine!’ she’d exclaimed. ‘Sam told me you were using it for your matchbox deliveries, but look how spruce he’s made it, and what a clever little cart!’

  Leaning heavily on the front door frame, she’d seemed suddenly overcome with weariness. It was a natural thing for Nellie to help her inside. She’d settled her gently back into her chair by the fire in the kitchen.

  Lizzie had smiled gratefully. ‘My husband would have been so pleased to see his old Ariel getting such good use.’ She patted Nellie’s hand and wouldn’t hear of her leaving without a cup of tea. ‘Charlie, go and watch the penny-farthing!’ she called to her son.

  ‘Shall I get Dad’s old padlock and chain it to the lamp post, Mum?’ asked Charlie.

  Lizzie nodded and then sent Matty off into the back kitchen to make their tea. Lizzie, though ill, was obviously still the matriarch, and her will clearly kept the home running. Nellie thought it touching the way the younger children were so gentle around her.

  So it had become a habit for Nellie to stop and chat to Mrs Gilbie at the end of her Saturday round, and when the woman was strong enough, Nellie enjoyed her bright mind and sharp wit. She entertained Nellie with tales of her old life in Hull, before her husband brought the family to London. Sometimes Nellie would still be there when Sam came home and then they would carry on chatting together, till Sam became embarrassed by the tales of his childhood.

  ‘Oh, he was a terror for swimming in that river! Do you know, I think he’s swallowed more Thames water than he’s had cups of tea! Used to swim all the way across to Wapping and back again, little mudlark. And the colour of his shirt when he come home, it was dandy grey russet!’

  Nellie noticed how indulgently Sam let his mother rattle on. Sometimes he would cleverly deflect the conversation to one of the other children. ‘What about a tune, Matty?’ he would call to his little sister, and without any hesitation or shyness the child would take her place on the hearthrug to perform her latest song.

  ‘Now, take a deep breath, and sing from down here!’ Lizzie would instruct, patting her stomach.

  Nellie never failed to be moved by the strength and sweetness of their little canary’s voice. She was glad of this new easiness with Sam’s mother. Never once did they refer to the night of Nellie’s promise, or to Lizzie’s misunderstanding about her friendship with Sam. The little kitchen in Beatson Street became simply a warm haven for Nellie at the end of a long gruelling Saturday, and she was grateful for the respite from her endless round of responsibilities.

  So, on this rain-soaked March Saturday, she was looking forward to the end of her round and a quiet spell, drying off in the Gilbies’ warm kitchen. The little cart was empty but for the one parcel and was much less of a drag on her as she wove in and out of the carts that splashed and hissed along Rotherhithe Street. Saturday traffic was always busy and crowds of shoppers on their afternoon off added to the menace as they ambled along the street, stepping out in front of her as though she were invisible. At least today the rain had kept many people at home and Nellie made good progress. She passed Jock’s father’s chandlery, waving to Jock, who happened to be standing in the doorway. Gratefully, she turned into Beatson Street. Sam had given her his dad’s padlock and now she chained the bike to the lamp post outside his house.

  When Matty opened the door, her face was clouded by anxiety and she frowned at Nellie, hesitating. ‘Nellie, I’m not sure if Mum can see you. She’s ever so bad today, and I don’t know what to do ’cause Sam and Charlie’s not here and I’m all on me own!’

  The little girl’s lower lip trembled and her sobs broke. Nellie was too wet to take her in her arms.

  ‘Do you want me to come in and just sit with you for a bit? We won’t wake your mum up if she’s sleeping.’

  Matty nodded, wiping her tears with her pinafore, and Nellie stepped into the passage. Hanging up her wet mackintosh and hat, she followed Matty into the kitchen, where Mrs Gilbie lay in her truckle bed beside the fire. Her hoarse, laboured breathing filled the little room. Nellie ushered Matty into the scullery.

  ‘Has she been like this all day, love?’ she asked gently.

  Matty nodded, fingering a bowl of porridge on the scullery table. ‘I tried to get her to eat it, I did try!’

  Nellie’s heart went out to Matty. ‘It’s not your fault if she doesn’t eat, love. It’s just she didn’t fancy it, that’s all. Did she have anything to drink?’

  ‘Tea and condensed milk, she likes it strong.’

  ‘And when did she go to sleep?’

  ‘All day.’

  Twelve-year-old Matty had been forced to grow up early but, still, Nellie knew it must have been a terrible ordeal for the poor girl, alone in this house all day, watching anxiously over the insensible woman, longing for her to wake. She hoped she was wrong, but Nellie feared that Lizzie might not wake again, not in this life anyway.

  ‘Did Sam say when he’d be home, Matty?’

  The young girl shook her head. She seemed frightened even to open her mouth in case the tears came again. Even though she had seen Lizzie in every state of illness, perhaps she too sensed that this time it was different. Lizzie’s harsh breathing penetrated the thin scullery wall, but apart from that, a strange stillness filled the house. Nellie felt she couldn’t leave Matty here alone and was wondering what best to do when she heard the front door open.

  ‘Sam!’ she said in relief. ‘Thank goodness he’s home!’ But then she heard Charlie’s voice calling.

  ‘Matty, where are you? What’s wrong with Mum?’

  His loud boy’s voice roused the sleeping woman and Nellie heard her croaking voice calling. ‘Michael! Is that my Michael?’

  Nellie rushed in from the scullery and knelt beside the truckle bed. ‘It’s Nellie, Mrs Gilbie. That’s just your Charlie come home.’

  For an instant she thought Lizzie didn’t understand. Her glassy eyes looked past Nellie, seemingly searching for someone who was not there. Then she fell back.

  ‘No, I remember now, not Michael. What a fool I am,’ she said weakly. Then, recognizing Nellie, she asked, ‘Have you seen my
Sam?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure he’ll be home soon, Mrs Gilbie.’ Nellie stroked the woman’s hair from her face.

  ‘I don’t think I can wait, love.’ The large liquid-blue eyes were now full of her usual intelligence and she looked at Nellie, in full understanding. ‘I think you’d better get him. I’ll hang on. Can you get my Sam for me?’

  Nellie was galvanized. ‘I’ll get him, Mrs Gilbie. Charlie and Matty are here.’

  She pulled the two children closer. ‘Stay with Mum. I won’t be long, don’t worry.’

  As she looked back from the door, Mrs Gilbie was reaching out to the two children, so that they were half on the tiny bed with her. Nellie threw on her mackintosh and hat, then dashed out and fumbled with the wet padlock. She had to find Sam in time, but where to look first? She knew he was picking up grain somewhere in Surrey Docks, but the docks and basins covered a vast area and it was getting towards evening now. What if he’d already made his collection and she missed him?

  Out in the street, it was much colder now. The rain had stopped, but dark skies still threatened. She threw herself on to the penny-farthing and sped, heedless of anything but finding Sam, back down Rotherhithe Street, the great loop of the river always on her right-hand side. Pedalling hard, the first icy drops of hail stung her face and hands. When she got to the familiar frontage of Jock’s shop, she pulled hard on the spoon brake. Letting the bike fall, she dashed into the dark tar-smelling interior of the chandler’s. Jock was tidying coils of rope and looked up, startled.

  ‘Nellie, whatever’s the matter? Have you come from Sam’s?’

  Shivering now and breathless, she nodded, only able to manage staccato bursts. ‘His mum, she’s bad, asking for him. Do you know where he’d be picking up grain?’

  Jock took her hands. ‘Nellie, you’re freezing, you can’t get back on that bike. I’ll go.’

  But Nellie wouldn’t have it. ‘No, I’ll be quicker on the bike. Just tell me where, there’s not much time.’

  Jock reluctantly gave her directions to the huge grain warehouse near the Surrey Canal. ‘Go down towards Stave Dock and it’s right by the entrance. You can’t miss it. Be careful!’ he called after her, but she was already out of the door.

  Now she pedalled like the wind, her breath coming in burning gasps. Huge hailstones the size of pigeon’s eggs began to beat down. She’d never seen hail like it! With her vision obscured, she pushed on through the icy piles of hail collecting in the road. At last she saw the entrance to the canal. Dismounting at the warehouse, she searched out the loading bay.

  Please God be here, Sam, she prayed silently, every muscle aching and screaming. She’d pushed herself so hard to get here she hardly knew how she would get back. But none of that mattered, so long as Sam saw his beloved mother before she died. Then she spotted him. His cart was in a covered loading bay, fully loaded. He was covering the grain sacks with tarpaulin to keep them dry.

  ‘Sam!’ she called to him. He looked over at her, hail-battered, dripping and bedraggled as she was, and his face registered fear. He knew.

  ‘Mum?’ was all he said.

  She felt a pain shoot through her, knowing what he would have to face, but she kept her voice calm. ‘She’s waiting for you, Sam, but go now, there might not be much time!’

  He nodded grimly, looking at the cart. ‘I can’t leave the load here…’

  He looked so hesitant and vulnerable she made the decision for him. ‘Take the cart home, then.’

  ‘Will you come with me, Nellie?’

  ‘Of course I will, Sam, if you want me there. You go on, I’ll follow on this. Go on, go quickly!’

  She cycled back more slowly. Mercifully, the hail was easing, though the streets and rooftops were now so deep in ice they looked coated in snow. She stopped off at Jock’s to let him know what had happened, then made her way back to Sam’s. She dreaded what she would find, but she steeled herself to be as strong for Sam as he’d been for her when her father had died. Charlie opened the door without a word and she followed silently. Sam, seated beside his mother’s bed, looked up at her as she entered the room. Had he been in time? She looked down at Lizzie, whose eyes were closed, but her breath still came, weak and erratic now. Lizzie Gilbie’s children had formed a protective circle round her bed; now they made a space for Nellie and it didn’t seem to her like an intrusion. Lizzie’s eyes opened, resting on each of her children in turn and then upon Nellie. She smiled, as though to herself, and said, ‘Ah, she’s here, they’ll be all right now. I’m ready to go and see my Michael.’

  Then she closed her eyes and, still smiling, drifted away.

  21

  Orphans of the Storm

  It seemed natural for the children to melt into Nellie’s arms, and for Sam to join the circle to enclose them all. This was how Jock and Lily found them when they walked in through the unlocked front door. Jock immediately went to Sam, offering his hand and whispering a quiet condolence. Nellie was relieved to see her friend, for there was no one she’d rather have beside her in a crisis than Lily. Straight away, Lily saw Sam would need someone with him to attend to his mother and to the children. She drew Nellie into the scullery.

  ‘If you want to stay with Sam for a bit, me and Jock’ll go and tell Alice where you are.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Lil, I was beginning to worry about her. She’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  ‘Well, you’re not to worry. Sam needs you here for now. We’ll come back later and stay with this lot while Sam takes you home. How’s that?’

  Nellie kissed Lily and the young couple left quietly for Vauban Street, letting themselves out.

  After the grief of the children had subsided, Nellie tucked them up into bed and left Sam comforting them, while she went to the kitchen where Lizzie lay. She did what she had done for her own mother at far too young an age. Death for her no longer held any horror. She had seen her two baby brothers die while still in their cots, then her mother fade away under the burden of hard work and her father cruelly crushed by the weight of his own grief. Now she treated death as what it was, another part of life.

  She washed the woman, carefully combed her once fiery hair, and pulled the sheet up to her chin. Lizzie looked peaceful, contented even, all the marks of woe and worry lifted forever.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’

  It was Sam’s voice behind her. He slumped down into the chair next to his mother and held his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. His shoulders began to shake and Nellie could tell he was trying to stifle his sobs.

  ‘Sorry, Nell, sorry,’ he said, apologizing for the tears, wiping them away. ‘It’s not like I’m the first to go through it. I should be stronger, got to be, for the kids.’

  Going to his side, she put her arm round his shoulders. ‘Time enough for strength, Sam. You let yourself go now, it’s only me.’ She was comforted that he trusted her enough to let the heaving sobs take him and the tears run down freely. When he was able to speak, he looked up and said, ‘I thought I was prepared, oh, but, Nell, I never thought it would hurt so much.’

  Then Nellie’s heart broke for him and they both cried quietly, while Lizzie lay serenely beside them. When eventually his crying ebbed, Nellie went to make them tea. She came back with two cups of brown, steaming, sweet tea and he took his, gratefully.

  ‘Thanks, Nell, for coming to get me and for staying. I’m glad I wasn’t here on me own.’

  ‘You didn’t leave me on my own when Dad died, did you?’

  ‘Well, I’m grateful, that’s all. I don’t know why this is such a shock for me, Nellie. I suppose it’s all these years she’s kept going and I can’t understand why now, why now?’

  ‘When did she first get ill, Sam?’

  His eyes wandered to his mother and he seemed to think back.

  ‘She was always living on her nerves, never really strong, but she had a will of iron and that’s what kept her going. Lost two little babies and then had the
worry of my simple brother. He died before I was born and I know it broke her heart. The doctors always said it was her liver packed up, ’cause of years of hard work and worry. But you know what I think took the life out of her?’

  Nellie shook her head.

  ‘When me dad died; that’s when she took to her bed and she’s never been the same since.’

  ‘Did she manage to talk to you before I got here?’

  Nellie knew it was important to fix Lizzie’s last words and looks in his mind. She herself had fed upon the last words of her father like a starving woman, and they had made up for so much that sometimes she simply forgot the harshness of former years.

  ‘She did say something. She said I was to keep the family together and she said I was to…’ He hesitated, seeming unsure whether to go on. ‘Well, she said I was to look after you.’

  ‘Me? Look after me? I don’t need looking after!’ Nellie said, bewildered.

  ‘Don’t you?’ he asked.

  Nellie was surprised for the second time in her life by Lizzie Gilbie’s assessment of her. She was flustered. ‘Well, I’m blowed, your mother! First she wants me to look after her kids when she’s gone, then she’s asking you to look after me!’

  Sam actually laughed and shook his head. ‘You can never second-guess my mum, she’s always making her plans. Don’t mean to say any of us ever take much notice of them, though!’

  Nellie laughed with him, glad he could speak of Lizzie as though she were still with him.

  ‘One other thing she did, though, I think that’s what’s made me so upset. She got Matty to sing for her. One of Dad’s favourites. His people came from around Loch Lomond years back and he loved the old Scottish songs. Matty picked them up so quick.’

  ‘Which one did she want?’

  ‘“My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose”. Matty sang it all the way through, not a note wrong, what a little trouper.’

  Here Sam had to blow his nose again and dab at his eyes. Nellie knew the old air and she thought she understood why Lizzie Gilbie had chosen to die now. She whispered the last verse almost without thinking.