Authors: Mary Gibson
Along the way she passed more factories. First Sarson’s, where she gagged at the acid, malty aroma coming from the huge wooden vinegar vats. She’d always avoided the more foul-smelling industries that clustered in Bermondsey, yet now she’d welcome a job in the bottling room. But again she was turned away. Hurrying under Tanner Street railway arch, just as several trains rattled over it on their way up to London Bridge, she felt the shuddering in her bones. The dank cool of the wide tunnel made her shiver after the bright sunlight of the morning and she longed to be home
.
Home? What’s that?
she asked herself as she scuttled out into the bright glare of day and came to the tannery. Most tanning was men’s work, the old man’s work. Dipping heavy wet hides in and out of lime pits all day was beyond the strength of the majority of women. But girls were employed for the fine leather dressing and she stopped at the yard, still hopeful that she might find a job before she reached Dockhead. When the foreman shook his head, Milly felt a lump form in her throat and tears prick her eyes. Once too proud to even consider working in such a smelly, filthy place, now his refusal seemed to her like the end of the world. Having a baby changed everything.
When she arrived back in Dockhead she could hear Jimmy’s screams from the end of Arnold’s Place. A couple of women were standing at their doors, babies on their hips. One of them turned away without meeting her gaze, but the other was Mrs Knight’s granddaughter, and she smiled at Milly.
‘You’ve got a hungry one there, gel!’ she ventured, then lowering her voice, said, ‘I’ve dropped a few bits off at your mum’s, stuff he’s grown out of.’ She nodded towards the child she was bouncing on her hip.
So now they all knew she was home with her baby; it hadn’t taken long. Blushing, Milly thanked the woman, glad to know that she would find kindness as well as the inevitable condemnation at her homecoming.
As soon as she entered the kitchen, her mother thrust Jimmy into her arms. ‘Here, take him quick. He’s turned into a little devil!’
‘You’re the one who said he was an angel!’ Milly managed a laugh. ‘Oh, Mum, I’m gasping. Make us a cup of tea while I feed him.’
Soon the noise of Jimmy’s contented sucking filled the kitchen. Reaching for the tea her mother handed her, Milly carefully sipped it over Jimmy’s urgent nuzzling form.
‘Oh, that’s better, and my feet are falling off me.’ She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes.
‘Any luck?’
Milly shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Jobs are getting terrible. The old man said it would all change.’
‘I remember.’
She hated admitting that he had been right about anything, but he’d warned her the days of plentiful jobs would one day fade. She’d never believed him, not with so many factories and breweries, tanneries, warehouses and docks. How could there ever be a job shortage in Bermondsey? It wasn’t called London’s Larder for nothing. Half the country’s food came in through the docks and it all had to be unloaded, sorted, packed and reloaded.
‘Perhaps I could try up Hay’s Wharf?’ she mused.
‘You always used to turn your nose up at the wharves.’
‘Well, things have changed. And to be honest, Mum, I think I’d do anything now.’
Milly sighed and shoved her swollen feet back into her shoes, which she noticed were scuffed and looking down at heel. She lay Jimmy back down in the bottom sideboard drawer that her mother had lined with a blanket, just as the front door banged open. Her sisters’ shrill voices, excited and tumbling over each other, preceded them as they burst into the kitchen. They stopped short in the doorway.
‘What you doing home?’ Elsie addressed her sullenly, all trace of excitement vanishing in an instant.
‘Good gawd, you’ve not been in two minutes!’ Their mother slapped her own knees for effect.
Milly shook her head. ‘I can’t do anything right, can I? Last time I saw you, you was begging me to stay!’
‘Well, you didn’t take no notice, and me and Amy’s not sharing our bed with you. Are we, Ame?’
Amy ignored Elsie. She was walking softly to the open drawer. Little Jimmy’s fists were just visible as he punched the air. Amy regarded him steadily.
‘He looks a bit like a Chinaman off the docks,’ she said, darting a look at Milly to see the effect of her words. Milly was pretty sure her sister knew who Jimmy’s father was, but she hadn’t come home to fight.
‘When did you ever see a Chinaman with golden hair?’ her mother countered.
‘I suppose his eyes do look a bit oriental,’ Milly said. But in truth, Jimmy’s almond eyes, though darker in colour, reminded her of Elsie’s.
Jimmy had grown still and was staring fixedly at Amy, who’d kneeled beside the drawer. The three sisters gathered round him. Jimmy seemed to radiate a contented calm. Milly had noticed right from birth that he was a happy baby, except when he was hungry, and that was her fault, not his. His serene, unblinking eyes rested on Amy and then he smiled, lifting a hand to her hair. Milly could see Amy’s determination to be unimpressed weaken, and the merest hint of a smile answered Jimmy’s own.
Then Elsie stretched her finger out, to be grasped by Jimmy’s fist. As she did so, the sleeve of her dress rode up, revealing a deep, purple weal, striped across her arm. It had festered and a scab was trying to form over its angry centre.
‘What’s that?’ Milly said, reaching for her arm. But Elsie twisted away and darting a look at her mother, said defiantly, ‘The old bastard’s been at me with the hot poker.’
‘What did you do to upset him?’ Milly’s mouth had gone dry. Elsie’s face was impassive, but still, Milly felt accused.
‘She didn’t do anything,’ her mother said, with a face revealing as much guilt as Milly felt for not being there. ‘It was my fault. He will keep poking at the fire when he gets in and all the smuts and soot cover everything. I hid the soddin’ poker, didn’t I? But she got the blame.’
‘Oh! Mum. It’s not your fault.’
There was silence in the kitchen, just the clock ticking and the unasked question in the faces of her sisters and mother. Would Milly stay to protect them? She looked over at Jimmy who was beginning to doze, blowing bubbles out of his tiny ‘o’ of a mouth with each breath. She straightened up.
‘I need to go and find a job. Will you be all right with him, Mum?’
‘Yes, love, he’s good as gold except when he’s hungry.’
‘I know, it’s me. My milk’s drying up, but I’ll put him on bottles... as soon as I get paid.’
Her mother nodded. ‘No wonder he’s been screaming, poor little bugger. Still, he’s all right for now. You go, but make sure you’re back before—’
‘I will be!’ Milly said, throwing on her coat and flying out into the street, as though she could escape all their expectations.
Hay’s Wharf was abuzz with dockers, wearing uniform flat caps and tied cotton scarves. They were scurrying to and from the dense cluster of lighters moored near the dock edge. Some pushed hand trolleys piled with bulging sacks of coffee beans, others gathered in groups round the large vessel discharging its cargo. Platform cranes swung bales out of the hold and dockers guided them to dolly carts waiting below. Milly asked a boy in a too-tight waistcoat, standing guard over some tea crates, how far it was to the dried goods warehouse. When he pointed further along the wharf, nearer to London Bridge, she hurried along, hugging the warehouse walls so as not to collide with any barrows or swinging loads. The smell of coffee in this part of the wharf was pungent and inviting, and she inhaled deeply. But she was looking for beans of a different kind. The company employed hundreds of women to sort dried haricot beans, in a cavernous shed directly on the wharf side. But if the ship hadn’t docked, the jobs wouldn’t be there. She scrutinized each vessel as she passed, but was unable to guess their cargo.
Searching out the company office above the sorting shed, she leaped the stairs two at a time, and as she did, collided with an acne-faced youth holding an armful of shipping documents. The papers fluttered down towards the river.
‘Shit, me bills of lading!’ he cried out, vaulting the rest of the stairs. The wharfinger, a red-faced man with a carefully trimmed moustache, had witnessed the collision from the office, and as she approached he gave her an exasperated look, which told her she’d already made a bad impression.
‘Can you tell me if there’s any sorting jobs going?’ she asked, fingers crossed behind her back.
‘Well, you’ll have to be a bit more careful sorting beans than you are climbing stairs.’
She swallowed her pride and her ready cheeky answer. ‘Sorry, I was in a hurry. But I’m very quick-fingered. I’m used to sorting fruit at Southwell’s.’
‘Hmm,’ he said, sounding unconvinced. He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and peered out over the dock. ‘Any rate, your luck’s in, we’ve got two vessels docking tomorrow and I can use some extra girls. Come in early and you’ll have a week’s work.’
A week’s work! He might as well have given her a thousand pounds. She felt so elated, she tripped almost lightly back down the stairs in spite of her growing weariness.
She knew full well it would be a horrible job, and the shed would be sweltering and airless. After the first hour her fingertips would start to burn, after a morning they would shred, by the end of the day her back and legs would be screaming and she’d probably be ready to throw herself into the Thames with boredom, but none of that mattered. With a job, she’d have the means to find a place for her and Jimmy to live.
But now she hardly knew where to begin looking for lodgings. Halfway down Tooley Street she came across a shop that advertised rooms to let, and took note of the addresses. She discounted those in the more respectable areas – Storks Road and Reverdy Road would be beyond her means. But a couple were cheap enough and close enough to visit this afternoon. The first was in Snowsfields, only a ten-minute walk, but when she left the traffic-filled bustle of Tooley Street and found the back court, her heart quailed. The narrow house bowed at the waist and seemed to have a broken pane in every window. The grime of ages smeared its walls and standing at the door, with a baby on her hip, was a greasy-haired woman surrounded by filthy children. Milly turned away without even enquiring. She would never take Jimmy there.
The next address was in Cherry Garden Street, a half-hour’s walk away. Now the afternoon was wearing on and she knew she had to be back to collect Jimmy, before the old man came home. Still, she couldn’t afford a tram, so she would just have to step out.
Come on, Milly, don’t be such a feather legs!
she chided herself.
You can do better than this!
She lengthened her stride, ignoring the cramp that gripped her calves.
Cherry Garden Street hadn’t seen a cherry tree for many a long year, not since men in knee breeches and women in high wigs were ferried over from the other side, to enjoy the pleasure gardens. Now, it was a down-at-heel terrace that led to Cherry Garden Pier, jutting out into the Thames, and clustered about with tugs, lighters and steamers. The bowsprit of a large ship protruded right into the street, pointing its long finger at the door Milly was looking for. It wasn’t as bad as Snowsfields. The window frames were peeling, but at least they had glass in them. A sign in one of the windows announced
Front room to let, share kitchen with respectable family
. She knocked hesitantly on the front door, which was opened almost immediately by a pale-faced young woman. She was hoisting a child up on to one hip and another clung about her skirt.
‘I’ve come about the room.’
The young woman’s face tightened with suspicion. ‘Have you got a deposit?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Milly answered, truthfully enough, but whether it was the amount the woman had in mind was another matter.
The toddler, a boy of about two, pulled at his mother’s skirt and she reached into her apron pocket for a dummy which he shoved into his mouth.
‘Are you in work?’ she asked and when Milly nodded, the woman moved aside.
‘You want to see the room? It’s at the front.’
Milly followed her into the passageway of just bare boards, then into the front room. Everything in there seemed to be missing some essential element. There was a bed, with one side propped up on a couple of bricks, a kitchen chair with only half the rungs, a washstand with a cracked china basin but no jug, and a chest of drawers minus one drawer. Milly noted with relief that it wasn’t too dirty.
The woman waited, hungry-faced and wary. Milly knew she represented income.
‘I’ve got a baby,’ she said bluntly. She might as well get that out in the open.
The woman sniffed, unconcerned. ‘Join the club, love. One more in this house won’t make no difference. I’ve got two more upstairs.’
And as if to corroborate this, Milly heard the sound of children’s screams, and then feet thudding from one side of the ceiling to the other.
‘They’re good as gold really,’ the woman said apologetically.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said quickly. She was simply too tired to go on looking for a better place. Besides, she was running out of time. Her father would be home soon and although it wasn’t ideal, at least it would save her from a night spent under the old man’s roof.
Milly explained that she would be back in a little while with her things and her baby, and when she offered two shillings as a deposit the woman paused doubtfully, but just then a man appeared in the passage. He must have been listening from the back kitchen. His face was paler than his wife’s, pockmarked and gaunt, and Milly could smell the beer on him.
‘That’ll do,’ he said, pocketing the money and turning back to the kitchen.
Back in the street, Milly felt her legs trembling. Irritated as the unaccustomed weakness washed over her, she summoned up a last reserve of energy and headed towards Arnold’s Place.
The old man stood with one foot braced on the bottom sideboard drawer. He was holding the poker, glowing still from the fire, in one hand and waving it like some aimless wizard’s wand above the sleeping head of her baby. She stood very still, grasping the edge of the kitchen table. She was vaguely aware that Amy was crouched underneath the table and that Elsie was hiding in a shadowy corner of the kitchen. Her mother looked nervously from husband to daughter and made a move, which only resulted in a more energetic sweep of the poker in the air above the drawer. Milly’s gaze fixed on the old man’s bloodshot eyes, then moved to his leathery hand, his drunken, numb fingers loosely gripping the poker handle. Now he dangled it like a fiery sword above Jimmy. He swayed, then steadying himself, brought his booted foot down heavily on the edge of the drawer. Jimmy stirred, and she saw her child’s eyes open in calm wonder. It was his first glimpse of his grandfather. She edged towards the drawer.