Authors: Mary Gibson
‘I know you’re a bit down in the mouth with this job business.’ She began to push the pram. ‘But I’ve just earned a week’s money in an afternoon!’
Her triumph was short-lived as she saw his face fall slightly.
‘How d’you manage that?’ he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
‘By using my noddle, and these!’ She waggled her fingers in his face and when he still looked confused, she explained. Only then did his expression show admiration. ‘Well, I’ll give it to you, Milly, you’ve got more nous than lots of businessmen I know! The money’ll come in handy for you.’
She looked at him with incomprehension. ‘Do you want us to get married, or not?’
‘More than anything in the world, Milly, you know I do.’ He had the air of a naughty schoolboy who knew he’d done something wrong, but wasn’t quite sure yet what it was.
‘Well then, just accept that whatever money I earn from now on is not for
me
, it’s for
us
! Bertie, I know you’ve got this idea you should provide for your wife. But if it’s me you want, then you’ve got to take me as I am, and I want it to be a partnership. You’ve given me more than I can ever repay...’ She stopped pushing the pram, so she could look him full in the face. ‘You gave me my life back.’
Then in the middle of Jamaica Road, his sense of propriety all forgotten, he lifted her clear of the ground and kissed her, in full view of whoever cared to look.
‘And you gave me a life I never had,’ he whispered in her ear, crushing her close so that she struggled for breath. ‘Let’s get married, Milly. We’ll have a pauper’s wedding for all I care, or we’ll just jump over the brush, but I don’t want to wait a minute longer.’
She laughed and grabbed his arm, dragging him home, like a victor with her spoils. ‘We’ll have a proper wedding at Dockhead Church, or Mum will never forgive us!’
With the profit from the two coats, Milly bought grey flannel material from Bernie. She made two pairs of boys’ trousers and two girls’ skirts. The following week she sold them at the Old Clo’ and the week after that she made two ladies’ dresses from a bolt of black silk that Freddie Clark acquired at cost, or so he said, from a warehouse near London Bridge. In a single month she’d made more money than she could in six at Southwell’s.
Bertie needed no more persuading to take his leap of faith and they were married in early February at Dockhead Church. For Milly, the day was perfect, like putting into harbour after years at sea. Her mother’s face, finally proud of her, perpetual worry lines smoothed by the joy of the day, her sister Amy, for once demure and trying very hard not to spoil the photo as Barrel and the gang stood outside the churchyard, attempting to make her laugh. Afterwards, the neighbours in Arnold’s Place, along with Kitty and her friends, were invited for sandwiches and a drink at the Folly.
Ma Donovan scandalized everyone by turning up for the free beer. But the woman had come with news that filled Milly with guilty relief. It seemed that Pat had bounced straight back into prison, this time for his part in the robbery of a wine merchant’s near Tooley Street. He’d been caught stashing barrels of port into a railway arch lock-up. Mrs Donovan, who’d had more than a few free pints, seemed proud of his exploits and, sipping her stout, held court with the tale. ‘There he is, with his head stuck in a barrel o’ port wine, sampling the stuff. The coppers charge in, he does no more ’an he dives into the bleedin’ barrel! Over he goes, in he goes, up he comes, pissed as a puddin, tells ’em the drinks is on him!’ Ma Donovan cackled like a crow and slapped down the pint glass. ‘Drinks is on him!’
Her laughter sounded forced and as Milly turned away, the woman fixed her with unsmiling eyes. ‘Some might think they’re too good for ’im, but you’ve got to give it to my Pat, he’ll put his hands up, he will, for
anythink
!’ she said, reaching for her glass.
Some of the guests had joined in the laughter, but Rosie Rockle and Milly’s mother looked on with frosty expressions. Mrs Knight urged her to turf ‘the mean old cow’ out, but Milly couldn’t bear to spoil the day with rancour.
The old man, when he heard about the wedding, said he wouldn’t spend good money on a collar and tie for ‘that slut’, and her mother told her he’d taken himself off to stay at his fancy woman’s, for which she thanked Our Lady as it meant she could look after Jimmy, while the newly-weds had the night to themselves. The only thing missing in her perfect day was Elsie. Milly had hoped that by some miracle she would be released in time for the wedding. But it was a fantasy based on nothing more than her need to keep her own guilt at bay. In the end, she decided that making herself miserable on this happiest of days would do Elsie no good, and would certainly spoil it for Bertie.
After the landlord called last orders and the guests had all rolled home, she took Bertie by the hand and, weaving in a tipsy, euphoric stroll, led him through the dark, riverside streets till they arrived at St James’s Churchyard. She let go of his hand and with two loping strides was at the railings. Grasping the top, she vaulted clear over them. Her landing on the other side was a little wobbly, but she straightened up and beamed at him.
‘Come on, Bertie!’ she urged.
‘Strike me dumb, what are you doing?’
‘Come and see!’
Bertie climbed the fence in a more conventional way and when he jumped down beside her, grabbed her round the waist. ‘What trouble are you getting me into now, you minx?’ He spun her round and she escaped his grasp. ‘I’ve never been on it before, but there’s always a first time,’ she said, breathless with happiness and excitement.
‘First time for what?’ he said, rushing now to keep up with her as she ran round the side of the church. Moonlight bounced off the tall wooden structure, as Milly called back.
‘Follow me, Bertie, time to live a bit. We’re going on the joy slide!’
December 1925
–May 1926
Ellen Colman was cradling her granddaughter in her arms. She had been waging a campaign to choose her name, ever since the baby’s birth two weeks earlier on a misty December morning in 1925. ‘It’s a disgrace. The poor child still hasn’t got a name!’
‘Mum, we’ve got plenty of time to register her,’ Milly said. ‘Anyway, I want something a bit different. There’s already too many Marys in Dockhead!’
Her mother looked shocked. ‘If it’s good enough for Our Lady, it’s good enough for her! And she was born at Christmas time, what else can you call her? I hope you’re not going for any of Bertie’s proddywack names.’
Milly laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve already told him she’s not being named after any of his Welsh relations, so she won’t be a Blodwen if that’s what you mean!’
At that moment Bertie came in with Jimmy; they had been in the Storks Road garden.
‘Eggsies!’ Jimmy announced. ‘Eggsies!’
‘Yes, you clever boy, you’ve been collecting eggs!’ Milly said, holding out her arms to hug him as he ran towards her. All her attention had been on the new baby and she’d missed her little boy. He pulled out of her arms, then sidled up shyly to his grandmother. With a gentle forefinger, he prodded the baby’s cheek. ‘Baby.’ He looked round smiling.
‘Yes, darlin’,’ said Mrs Colman, ‘and we’ll be calling her that till the cows come home if your mother’s got anything to do with it!’
Bertie caught Milly’s eye. She hoped he wasn’t going to give in, but she’d noticed that he would fall over backwards when it came to her mother. Though Mrs Colman would never forgive him for not being Catholic, her early distrust had mellowed and she’d begun to show grudging respect, and even affection, for her son-in-law in the past year.
‘Well, if Mary’s too common,’ he said, looking with undisguised adoration at his daughter, ‘what about Marie?’ He pronounced it in the Welsh way.
Jimmy looked up at Bertie, then pointed at the baby. ‘Mahri!’ he said, mimicking Bertie.
Her mother nodded. ‘That’ll do. Marie’s Our Lady, whatever way you want to pronounce it.’
‘Well, I’m glad you three are happy,’ said Milly. ‘Now give Marie to me. She’s hungry.’
Milly may have been tired, but she was happy too. Marie was not proving such an easy baby as Jimmy. He’d been passive and largely contented, but Marie seemed born fidgety. She couldn’t keep still and apparently needed very little sleep. But nonetheless, Milly was captivated by her alert little presence, large blue comprehending eyes taking in everything around her, as though she’d already been a long time in the world. As if reading her thoughts, Marie pushed away from her breast and began grizzling.
‘Oh, you don’t know what you want, do you?’ she asked her restless child, then making the decision for her, she tucked her into the pram and began to bounce it vigorously. No gentle rocking would pacify her daughter. She had to believe the pram was really moving before she would be content.
‘Bounce the baby!’ said Jimmy, toddling over to join in the fun, a huge grin on his elfin little face.
Milly looked on, marvelling at how, from the day she’d married Bertie, everything had gone right, and not more than a month after the wedding he’d finally got a job. She’d suggested that instead of looking for shop work, he use his other skill, and try for a driving job. Many factories were supplementing horse-driven delivery carts with motors, and it was one of the few areas where skilled people were in demand. One afternoon, walking home from Southwell’s along Wolseley Street, she’d seen a sign outside the Jacob’s biscuit factory advertising for drivers, and the next day Bertie was taken on.
It was a good job and though he would never have the sort of income he’d once had from his uncle’s business, at least his pride hadn’t been tested for too long, so Milly’s ingenuity had only been required to keep them afloat for a short while. Bertie hadn’t wanted her to go back to Southwell’s after Marie’s birth, but however much she loved being at home with the children, his wage would never be enough to pay the rent on Storks Road and keep them all clothed and fed, so she’d carried on making and selling clothes at the Old Clo’. She’d done so well that Bertie had shown her how to do simple book-keeping to keep track of the profits.
One evening, about a month after Marie was born, Bertie came home from Jacob’s to find Milly with Marie asleep over one shoulder, Jimmy curled in her lap, a table full of material and a mouthful of pins. She was desperately trying to finish another dress for the market.
‘Sorry, Bertie, love, it’s cold meat tonight. I’ve got to get this finished!’ she said, through the pins, lifting her cheek to be kissed and smiling gratefully as Bertie lifted Marie from her shoulder.
‘Shhhh,’ he said, quickly rocking the baby when she threatened to wake.
Milly darted him a look that needed no translation.
‘You’ve only just got her to sleep then?’ Bertie said, as one-handed he scooped up Jimmy. ‘You look like you’ve had a day of it. I’ll put them to bed, while you clear up your sewing.’
After they’d eaten, Bertie sat reading the local Labour Party newspaper and Milly took out her sewing again. They were silent for a while and then Milly became conscious of him looking at her intently.
‘What?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘You look tired.’ He reached for her hand.
‘Not the fresh young thing you married a year ago?’
‘Strike me dumb, I didn’t mean that. I just wish you didn’t have to do all this sewing.’
‘Don’t start on that again. We need the extra money, and anyway, you know I love it.’
‘But it’s wearing you out.’
‘It’s the kids wearing me out!’
‘Well, life shouldn’t be all work and bed. Let’s have a holiday.’
She looked up sharply. ‘We haven’t got the—’
‘And don’t say we haven’t got the money. I’ll find the money. It’ll be good for you and the kids. We’re having a holiday.’
And that was that. Bertie was the most easy-going person she’d ever met, but he could also be the most stubborn. In the end he’d sold his father’s gold hunter without any regret and booked a week in a guest house in Ramsgate. She would never have admitted it, but her second pregnancy and the demands of two small children had proved more energy sapping than any triple shifts in the jam factory, and by the time they boarded the train at London Bridge, she was secretly glad she’d given in to Bertie’s urgings.
Milly narrowed her eyes against bright discs of light which bounced off the rippling waves. The tide was coming in, but the sea was still separated from her by an expanse of ridged wet sand and a paler strip of dry sand. She could see Bertie, with his trousers rolled to the knee, the small curling waves foaming about his bare feet. Her toddler stood next to him, one hand firmly in Bertie’s and the other holding a red tin bucket. Bertie squatted down, so he could help the little boy fill the bucket with water. They had been building a sandcastle all morning and were now in the process of filling the moat, making laborious treks from sea to castle with buckets full of water. They were on their fourth trip.
Milly sat in the deckchair, her hand gently resting on the pram where Marie slept. She’d moved their little encampment back into the narrow strip of shade cast by the high promenade wall, grateful for some relief from the heat radiating off fine white sand. It was an unusually warm day in late April, and Ramsgate beach was crowded with holidaymakers and day trippers, encouraged out by fine weather. There wasn’t a patch of spare sand between the red-and-white striped deckchairs. All along the shoreline, children splashed and ran in and out of the sea, while men with suit trousers rolled and women holding up skirts paddled and strolled along the sea edge.
This was Milly’s first trip to the seaside, and she had been every bit as excited as Jimmy by the novelty of it. Some of the families in Dockhead were able to afford seaside holidays if the fathers were foremen or dockmasters, but generally there was only one form of holiday: hop-picking in Kent. Much as Milly loved the hop fields, the seaside had been a revelation. It was the air that struck her. Sharp as salt on the tongue; clean as a blade with a honed edge. Compared to this sea air, Bermondsey’s was thick as dirty cotton wool, clogged with soot and smoke. At home, it was hard work sometimes even to breathe, but here, each breath was as easy and natural as the daily incoming and outgoing of the tide. Each morning she threw up the bedroom window of their guest house and took in a gulping breath. No wonder people loved the sea. And then there was the uncluttered horizon, not a roof or a chimney stack, just sky meeting the straight edge of sea, broken here and there by a steamer or a sail.