by Mary Gibson
‘I don’t ’alf-inch the horse shit, if that’s what you mean!’ he said indignantly.
‘Well, it’s about the only thing you don’t!’
Freddie chose to ignore this and carried on. ‘So, I can do it?’
‘All right, but don’t you hop the wag, you’re not finished school yet!’
Freddie gave her a kiss goodnight, which was unusual for him, and said he would have to discuss it with his ‘boys’.
‘Do you think he’s got something dodgy cooking up?’ asked Alice, looking up curiously from her work.
‘Do you know what, Al, I’m getting to the stage I’d rather not ask, but this sounds better than some of the other stuff he’s been getting up to!’
Freddie was proving to be an adept businessman in all sorts of areas. Nellie had noticed a series of enigmatic boxes being stored in the yard. They never stayed for long, but they usually resulted in a few extra shillings in the housekeeping tin, which Freddie would drop in ostentatiously after each transaction. She told herself that if some of her brother’s gains were through the black market, they were on a small scale and she just hoped that, once he got a regular job, the shady dealings would fall by the wayside.
‘Wouldn’t it be good if we didn’t have to do the matchboxes any more?’ Alice said wistfully.
Nellie groaned as she reached for the pot of glue. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a house that didn’t stink of glue. And I do worry about the kids breathing it in all the time. Perhaps with Freddie’s extra money and Charlie’s wage, it might just be enough…’ Looking over at Alice’s hopeful face, she decided. ‘Bugger it, once we’ve finished this week’s, that’ll be our lot, Al. I don’t care how much overtime I have to do. We’re packing in the matchboxes!’
Alice’s normally quiet, worried face creased into a smile and she shouted, ‘Hoorah! No more white slavery! Get the banner out, Nell!’
To show she meant business, Nellie gathered up a stack of labels, threw them up in the air and slumped back against the chair, laughing, as they fluttered down around them like multicoloured butterflies.
‘France!’ Eliza should have known he would be in the first rush of volunteers. Sam, she thought bitterly, so full of your sense of what’s right, no wonder you jumped to be Kitchener’s cannon fodder! The woman could give her no information on Charlie or Matty’s whereabouts and, unsure what to do, Eliza walked briskly back along Rotherhithe Street, her face gradually growing numb in the icy air. She had brought an overnight bag; perhaps she should just look for a hotel and think about her search tomorrow? But the thought of Matty with strangers wrenched her heart. She had borne their separation when she knew Matty was safe with her own family, but now Sam was gone, perhaps never to return. She was her daughter’s only family now. Who would be looking after her? Perhaps, if she could only find her, this was her chance to make up for past mistakes? She saw a tram heading for Southwark Park Road and ran to catch it. She would go to the Fort Road Labour Institute; there was a chance someone there might know something.
The tram was full; she huddled into a seat on the top deck, pulling up the leather apron designed to keep out the worst of the weather, but still she shivered in the freezing mist rolling off the Thames. As the tram turned past Rotherhithe Tunnel and away from the river, she hoped the damp mist might clear, but getting off at Southwark Park Road she found herself enveloped in a thick yellow fog, all the everyday traffic sounds of horses’ hooves, iron-rimmed cartwheels and puttering motor engines muffled by its density. Registering only the thud of her own heart and the rasp of her own stinging breath, she started to feel herself overtaken by panic. Images of her daughter lost and alone in this fog assailed her. She quickened her pace, heedlessly colliding with startled pedestrians, each time wondering: Do you know Matty? Have you seen my daughter? Ignoring their puzzled looks, hurrying on through the late-afternoon streets, she found herself stumbling forward, breaking into a trot. She was dimly aware that the young girl she was frantic to find wasn’t the real Matty, a child she barely knew; but there was another Matty, an imagined child, dear to her, one she’d kept in her heart through all the years of separation, and this was the child she sought. But when she’d visited she’d seen a comforting tough streak in the real Matty that was totally absent from her imaginary daughter, whom she’d always imagined as a fragile rose amongst thorns. Trying to convince herself another day wouldn’t make much difference was useless – all composure had left her as she dashed on, desperate to find Matty. She darted down a side street, looking for a quicker way to the institute, but so many confused, conflicting thoughts raced through her head she was soon lost in a swaddled maze of back streets.
Forcing herself to stand stock still, she faced her terror: she would find Matty. She just had to think! Peering through the mist in search of a landmark, she spotted the dark spire of St Anne’s. This must be Thorburn Square! She knew where she was. Feeling her way forward, she followed the iron railings round the churchyard, till she came to Fort Road and the double-gabled institute. Suddenly the kindly face of Frank Morgan was staring at her from the front door of the Labour Institute.
‘It’s Eliza James, isn’t it? Come in, come in, you’re frozen!’ He drew her into his office, his surprise evident. ‘We haven’t seen you since… what, the year of the strike? I thought you were in Australia, with Mr James!’
He drew up a chair for her in front of the office fireplace, where he had a bright blaze burning. She was shivering.
‘Let me get you a cup of tea to warm you up!’ he said, and immediately despatched his young assistant to bring some.
‘Thank you, Mr Morgan, you’re very kind, but I really can’t stop.’ Eliza tapped her foot on the grate, leaning forward to warm her hands at the flames. ‘You see, I’m looking for a child, well, two in fact, and I’m very concerned for their welfare…’
She stopped herself short, growing aware of the irrationality of her panic. Telling herself to breathe, she accepted the tea and made herself sip it slowly. Sam loved Matty, she told herself, he would have left her safe. She took another deep breath and as the warmth of the room thawed her numbed hands, she explained her quest.
‘Oh, the Gilbie children! Yes, I know the family, poor Mrs Gilbie was on our Co-op round, and of course you are… I mean, you have a connection, don’t you?’
Frank Morgan was a local man, old enough to know the rumours about Eliza’s parentage, but though she was grateful for his tact, she no longer had anything to hide.
‘Yes, Mr Morgan, Lizzie Gilbie was my mother, but I’ve only just found out about her death.’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs James. Is that what brought you back from Australia?’
‘I’ve been back for some time.’ She didn’t have to tell him everything. ‘But not in London. Do you know where Sam sent the children, by any chance?’
Frank went to his desk and brought back a set of index cards, which he flicked through as he spoke.
‘Ahh, here she is!’ He looked up, having found the address. ‘Nellie Clark, she does a Co-op round for us, you may remember her from the strike days, one of the custard tarts?’
Eliza cast her mind back to a time that seemed part of another world, a golden summer’s day of hope and triumph, when Nellie Clark, bold as brass, had faced down a guardsman’s bayonet and then surfaced from the crushing crowd worrying only about the state of her new wool jacket.
‘Yes, I remember Nellie Clark very well,’ she said.
Nellie knew the children would be overjoyed to see the end of the matchbox-making, for once the novelty had worn off each evening had seen them produce less and less; of late she and Alice had done most of the work. Matty and Bobby still lent a hand, but Freddie and Charlie were now exempted. Still, she wanted them all together when she told them the good news, so she’d waited till teatime the next day.
Bobby’s relief was characteristically low-key. ‘At least we’ll be able to get into our bedroom now, them boxes take up al
l the space!’ he grunted.
But Matty was ecstatic, for handling the glue brought her out in a rash. She held up her red hands. ‘And I’ll have the hands of a ladeee!’ she sang out.
‘But listen, kids, we’ve got to give it one more push, so you’ll all have to muck in tonight to get them finished. I promise once I’ve taken this last lot to the depot, that’s it!’
Even Freddie and Charlie agreed to help and they all squeezed round the table, as of old.
‘Brings back memories, eh?’ Bobby asked, to snorts of universal incomprehension.
He could be sentimental about anything, Nellie observed fondly.
‘Yes, and all bad!’ said Freddie. ‘Stop wandering down memory lane and get workin’!’
‘Let’s have a sing-song, to keep us going!’ Matty set up a tune and their voices were soon making such a din that at first they didn’t hear the knock.
‘Shhhh, shhh a minute.’ Alice called for quiet. ‘Was that a knock?’
They all fell suddenly silent. Nellie’s heart lurched and her stomach tightened. Since Sam had left for France, every unexpected knock made her feel sick. The telegrams could come at any time and the news was never good. All the high-spirited cheer vanished from the room as she got up, white-faced, to answer the door.
A young boy that Nellie didn’t recognize stood at the door, gasping for breath so much that at first he couldn’t deliver his message. She felt relief flood through her, as soon as she saw he wasn’t wearing the uniform of a telegram delivery boy. She relaxed her grip on the door handle; thank God Sam was safe – for now.
‘Are you Nellie Clark?’ the boy eventually managed to pant out.
She replied that she was and he delivered his message between heaving breaths. ‘I’ve come from Lily at the chandler’s shop. She said, can you come quick. She’s fallen down the stairs and thinks the baby’s coming!’
Nellie pulled the boy inside and stood him in front of the fire. All matchboxes were dropped, as the family followed his story. The boy was employed to do odd jobs around the chandler’s shop. Lily’s in-laws had gone out and the boy had been charged with watching the shop for the afternoon.
‘I heard this almighty clatter in the yard and when I run out to see what it was, Lily’s gone down the stairs!’ The poor boy’s eyes were wide as saucers.
‘Why didn’t she send you to her mum’s?’ Nellie was throwing on her coat.
‘She did. I run all the way there, but no one was home! She said to come to you next.’
Nellie took charge. ‘All right now, you stay here and catch your breath, then on your way back, you knock for Mrs Bosher again, she can’t have gone far. Al, give him a penny and a cup of tea. Can I trust you lot to finish the boxes?’
The little audience, squashed round the table, nodded in unison. The drama unfolding before them had for once stunned them to silence.
‘I’m off – I’ll take the penny-farthing, it’ll be quicker. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but go to bed if I’m late!’ she ordered as she launched herself out of the back door. She trotted the penny-farthing out into the icy fog and flung herself on to the saddle. Sam had fitted a lamp on the front handlebars, and she was glad of it now. She couldn’t afford to be run down by a hansom or a motor bus tonight!
By the time she finally turned into the chandler’s back yard she was damp through with sweat and freezing fog penetrating her clothes. She removed the bicycle lamp, shining it through the thick mist. She could see no light on in Lily’s upstairs rooms, the shop or the McBrides’ home.
‘Where the bloody hell is everyone?’ she called out. ‘Lily, where are you, love?’
A tremulous voice called back from the bottom of the steep flight of stairs that led up to Lily’s home. Nellie rushed to her friend’s side.
‘Oh, Lil, don’t tell me you’ve been stuck here all this time. Why didn’t you go in the McBrides’?’
Lily raised a pale face. ‘I’ve twisted me ankle, I can’t get up!’ she wailed.
‘All right, shhh, love, I’m here now, we’ll get you up.’
Summoning a strength she didn’t know she had, she put Lily’s arm over her shoulder, grasped under her other arm and heaved. Lily’s little boots slipped and scraped on the slick cobbles. Nellie strained, then, taking all Lily’s weight, managed to haul her upright.
‘All right, love, my dad always did say us Clark women was tough as coal heavers – here we go!’
Nellie lifted her friend like a sack of coal. Bending forward, she tottered under her weight towards the McBrides’ back door. Nellie kicked at it and it swung open. Using the last of her strength, she got Lily through the back scullery and into the McBrides’ kitchen, where she lowered her on to a chair.
‘Thank God there’s some embers.’ She glanced towards the grate. ‘Let’s get a fire going.’ Nellie knelt down and pulled out the damper, adding coal from the bucket at the hearth. Then she pulled off the kitchen tablecloth, wrapping it round a frozen Lily, whose teeth were chattering with cold.
‘I’m scared, Nellie. I think the baby’s coming and there was no one home, I didn’t know what to do. Where’s me mum?’ She burst into tears, sobbing and shaking.
‘She was out, love, but I’ve sent the boy to wait for her. Where’s your interfering in-laws when you need ’em, though?’
Lily managed a laugh. ‘I’ll never hear the last of it, will I? It was those soddin’ stairs! I’d ’ave been all right if it wasn’t for the mist. They was slippery as a bowl of eels. Ooohhhh!’
She clutched her stomach and Nellie remembered her mother’s various labours. She knew she had a bit of time. ‘Where’s your midwife live? I think I’d better get her.’
Lily clutched her hand. ‘Can’t you wait till someone else gets home – I got so scared out there on me own, I kept thinking, what if I’ve killed me baby?’ And she resumed her sobbing.
‘Don’t be such a soppy cow – your baby’s fine, he just wants to come out and see what all the fuss is about! But, Lil, I don’t think we can wait any longer. I’ll be back in a jiff.’
Mrs Turner, the old lady who supervised all the births in Rotherhithe Street, lived only a few doors away, so Nellie didn’t have to run far. The old woman was not at all disconcerted by Nellie’s story and seemed to take a delight in gathering her things at a snail’s pace.
‘She’s been out in the freezing cold for over an hour!’ Nellie tried to convey the urgency.
‘You run back, dear, get some hot water on and find me some clean linen, will you? I’ll be along shortly.’
Nellie, exasperated, shot off, glad to be doing something. Mrs Turner sauntered in fifteen minutes later, by which time Nellie had boiled kettles and raided the McBrides’ linen cupboard.
Finally, when half an hour later the McBrides appeared, with Betty Bosher and the shop boy, Nellie faced a barrage of questions, but the parents seemed incapable of taking in the situation. The little kitchen was full to bursting and so was Lily, suddenly letting out one long howl, which finally galvanized Mrs Turner into action.
‘Come on, this is like Casey’s Court. Will someone help me get the poor girl to the bedroom?’
Helped by the two men, Lily was installed in the spare bedroom, next to the kitchen. Nellie followed them in, squeezing Lily’s hand as she asked gently, ‘You be all right now, love?’
Lily nodded. ‘Thanks, Nell, you’re my angel!’
‘Funny sort of angel, me, on a penny-farthing!’
She left her friend in good hands and after making the two sets of parents cups of tea left them still discussing those stairs. Lily was right, she never would hear the last of it!
Frank Morgan had given Eliza directions, but once she found herself in the right vicinity, she merely followed her nose. He’d told her Vauban Street ran off Spa Road, not far from Pearce Duff’s. That vanilla scent told her exactly where she was. She passed the factory gates and looked up at the glowing windows; the factory was lit up now for the night shift. Peek
ing in through the ground-floor windowpanes, she could see the sills thick with golden powder and beyond them rows of women bending over the powder machines. It satisfied her to know they were considerably better off for her efforts of three years ago. How she had fought for those women! She doubted any of them would recognize her now but all the same she hurried on past; she preferred her anonymity. The area looked shabbier than she’d remembered it; perhaps back then she’d viewed it through the eyes of her own triumph. On this fog-draped night it looked drear and down at heel. She passed the Salvation Army; lines of shuffling men still queued in hopes of a bed. Skirting round them, she was assaulted by the aroma of unwashed bodies. Did Matty have to walk past them every day? She passed a public house, just as the door was flung open; from inside came a fug of smoke and a flare of light. A drunk tumbled out, held up by a woman who was haranguing him.
‘That’s all yer good for,’ she bellowed into his insensible ear, ‘pissin’ it all up the wall, while the kids are indoors starvin’ ’ungry!’
The woman dropped the man and gave him a well-aimed kick, brushing past Eliza. Looking for somewhere to vent her anger, she shouted at her. ‘And if you’re one o’ them Band of ’opers you can sling yer hook. He’s signed the pledge hundred times and look at ’im!’
Eliza mumbled some useless words of sympathy and scurried on. At the next corner she sniffed, as the unmistakable smell of boiling bones reached her through the fog. She knew there was a glue works near by; how could she have forgotten? Bermondsey wasn’t all strawberry jam and spices. The delicate Matty of her imagination wouldn’t flourish here, not at all. She turned into Vauban Street, a long row of closely packed terrace houses that had seen better days. The house where Nellie Clark lived was directly next door to a carter’s stable yard. The smell of horse dung wafted past her as she hesitated on the doorstep. She hadn’t planned what she would say, and for the moment she just wanted to know that Matty was safe and well cared for. Her knock was answered almost immediately by a bird-boned young girl of about fifteen. Her look of surprise told Eliza she had been expecting someone else, but she was polite enough, once Eliza explained she had business with Nellie.
