Lily held out her hand, eyes bright. ‘One day I’ll have one of these,’ she told him.
‘And how are you gonna earn such money? Not vorking for old Mrs Cohen.’
Lily thought it funny that he of all people should refer to Rachel as old. He was balding, his face was wrinkled and his beard was long and wispy.
‘One day I’ll marry a rich man.’
Abraham laughed. ‘I hope you do, my dear. But remember this. Money ain’t everything. You have the love of a good man, you have so much more. You have riches of the heart.’
Handing back the ring, she said, ‘I’d best go or Rachel will get mad at me.’
He caught hold of her arm with his scrawny hand. ‘You come and see me any time, Lily.’
At night, alone in the shop, Lily would try on the exquisitely decorated evening gowns. Tying beaded ribbon around her forehead, she would pick up a long cigarette-holder and prance around, pretending she was attending some grand function. Or she’d dress up in one of the hats and sing one of Marie Lloyd’s songs.
Sometimes, Rachel would let Lily wear one of the hats as she served. Her good looks and dark wavy hair were a perfect foil for the creations, and the sale of them escalated.
One Saturday morning, a tall, good-looking young man, his hair the shade of autumn leaves, stopped outside to examine a smart dark-brown gent’s suit.
‘That would suit you, sir, with your colouring,’ Lily piped up, walking over to him.
‘Would it now.’ As he smiled, his hazel eyes twinkled.
He was neatly dressed. His suit was clean but old, yet his shoes gleamed with polish and around his neck he wore a red neckerchief. In a soft Irish brogue he asked, ‘And how much would you be wanting for the suit then?’
‘Two and six. Cheap at half the price,’ Lily grinned. ‘You’ll be able to cut quite a dash wearing that. Better with a shirt and tie, of course. Make you look a real gent!’
Chuckling, he asked, ‘Are you saying I don’t look a gent now?’
Blushing she retorted, ‘Did I say that? Well, did I?’
‘You did not. What’s your name?’
‘Lily.’
‘Just Lily? Don’t you have a surname?’
‘Lily Pickford.’ She’d decided she’d call herself after Mary Pickford, the film star. ‘I’m an orphan,’ she added.
‘Sure and that’s sad,’ he said, his voice full of sympathy.
‘No, I do all right. Now, do you want to buy the suit before someone else realises they’re missing a bargain?’
Laughing he said, ‘How can I resist?’ His gaze made her heart race. He bought the suit, plus a shirt and a tie, chosen by Lily. Handing over the change, she said, ‘Thanks.’
‘Now, Lily Pickford, if I dress meself up as a gent, would you come out for a walk and a spot of tea with me tomorrow afternoon?’
Immediately thinking of her own shabby clothes she said, ‘No, thanks. I don’t go out with strangers.’
‘I’ll just have to get to know you then. My name’s Tom McCann and I’ll be back.’ With a cheeky wink he walked away, clutching his purchases under his arm.
Lily watched the stranger as he disappeared down the street. His shoulders were broad, his figure upright, like a soldier’s. There was a gleam in her eyes as she remembered his smile, his soft voice.
Rachel Cohen had been standing in the doorway listening to the conversation. ‘Why did you turn him down, a good-looking man like that?’
‘How could I accept, Mrs Cohen? I don’t have any decent clothes to go courting.’
‘You could always borrow a dress and coat from the shop.’
‘You’d let me do that?’
The older woman said, ‘Why not? I can’t get my Manny married off, but perhaps I can help you. Mind you, spill anything on it and you’ll have to pay for it.’ In unison they said, ‘So much a week out of your wages.’
Lily loved working in The Ditches. It was a lively place, and all manner of life could be observed here. It was particularly festive on Saturday nights, when meat, fruit and vegetables were sold off cheaply. Business for all was brisk. But she found the most fascinating aspect of The Ditches was watching the local prostitutes at work, parading up and down outside the pubs.
She would watch them approach a punter and hear their spiel. ‘Hello, darlin’, you’re looking lonely. Out for a bit of fun, are you? You come with me and I’ll show you a good time.’
With a shiver, she would remember her own experience, as she watched them lead the men away to some shabby room nearby. She didn’t condemn the women – everyone had to survive. She just didn’t understand how they could do it. Not by choice.
She said as much to Amy, one of the prostitutes who bought her clothes from the shop. As Amy slipped a dress over her shoulders, she said, ‘There’s nothing to it, girl. Blimey! So many of the poor buggers are so eager to shove their pricks somewhere, it’s all over in five minutes.’
Lily coloured, but couldn’t help laughing.
‘Look, love,’ said Amy as her tousled dark hair emerged from the neck of the dress, ‘it’s just a job like anything else. What’s wrong with fucking for a living?’
‘But it’s dangerous.’ Lily frowned. ‘What happens if you get someone violent?’
‘I squeeze his balls till he screams.’ Smoothing the dress down over her hips, Amy asked, ‘What do you think?’
‘Looks lovely on you …’ But Lily couldn’t leave the topic alone. ‘Don’t you ever get someone you can’t handle?’
‘Sometimes. It’s a chance we all take. One girl got her face cut last week by some crazy bastard. Some of the girls have a pimp to look after them, but I’m not passing my hard-earned cash over to some man to piss up the wall. Of course, I could have worked for The Maltese, in luxury, but that’s still pimping. I want all of what I earn for myself.’
Lily felt a chill run down her spine at the mention of Vittorio. ‘This Maltese … I was told he was a dangerous individual.’
Amy’s countenance became serious. ‘You heard right. He’s into all the rackets – gambling, prostitution, loan-sharking. Not a man to be messed with.’
Lily shuddered.
Late one Sunday morning, Lily carefully locked the shop door behind her, aware of the responsibility she held. Mrs Cohen had warned her: ‘You forget to lock up once and you’re out on your ear.’
She made her way to the Royal Pier, glad of the coat she’d borrowed as the wind was cool. She paid her penny entrance and walked along looking down through the wooden slats at the water swirling below.
She loved the pier, with its penny arcades. The machine with ‘What the Butler Saw’ was a favourite of hers. In decent weather, people would sit in gaily clad deckchairs, watching the paddle-steamers sail off to Southsea, Brighton and the Isle of Wight. Some went to Cherbourg on a day’s excursion for twelve and six. One day, Lily thought, I’ll save up the money and go myself.
Here, on the Pier, she would sit and watch happy families together and long to be a member of one. She’d dream of bringing her own children here one day. Or of getting on to an ocean liner and sailing to New York. Of marrying a millionaire … Of walking into The South Western Hotel, well dressed, with the night porter who had chased her from the entrance bowing and scraping. Treating her with respect. Such were her dreams whilst walking on the pier – alone.
Standing by the rail looking out over the Solent, her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Lily Pickford.’
Turning quickly, she gazed into the smiling eyes of Tom McCann. He was wearing his new suit, shirt and tie. On his head was a smart trilby, which he raised in greeting.
‘Well, Mr McCann, you look the bee’s knees and no mistake.’ Lily was relieved to be wearing something decent herself and silently thanked Rachel for her generosity.
‘I know you don’t go out with strangers,’ said Tom, the corners of his mouth quirking with amusement, ‘but then we’re not strangers, are we? We’ve met before, so how about me taking you along to the restaurant for something to eat?’
Her blue eyes shone with pleasure. ‘That would be lovely. How could I say no to such a gentleman?’
Over a meal of cod and chips, he told her about his home and family in Ireland. ‘We came over here when I was small, but me ma couldn’t stand it. When I was fifteen she went back to Ireland. I stayed and learnt me trade. I’m one of the best caulkers in the docks,’ he said proudly.
‘Tell me about Ireland,’ asked Lily, hungry for tales of life outside her own environs.
‘I live in Newcastle, nestling at the foot of the Mountains of Mourne.’
‘There’s a song about them,’ said Lily. ‘I know it.’ In a sweet voice she began to sing softly: ‘Oh Mary, this London’s a beautiful sight …’
He sat hypnotised by her beauty, her innocence, as she sang the words. ‘That was lovely, as are the mountains. Where did you learn the words?’
She spoke before thinking. ‘There was an Irish family next door to us, Eileen and Paddy Ryan. She taught me a lot of Irish songs. She had a fine voice.’
‘I know a Paddy Ryan – I think his wife’s name is Eileen, an’ all. I wonder if it’s the same one?’
Lily’s heart sank. If he knew the Ryans he would find out the truth about her family, and maybe learn her guilty secret. She’d die rather than let anyone know her father had had sex with her.
‘My Ryans went back to Ireland,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Tell me about the mountains, Tom.’
‘They stretch for miles. In sunlight, they’re a thing of beauty, but on dark days they’re menacing and dangerous. Get caught on them in an Irish mist and you’re in trouble.’
‘Did that ever happen to you?’
‘Sure it did, but only once, when I was seven. I went up near the top of one, when a mist came from nowhere. I couldn’t see a hand in front of me face.’
With a look of horror, Lily asked, ‘What did you do?’
‘Me? Nothing. I stayed put. Curled into a rock and waited for the mist to go. I was out all night.’
‘Weren’t you scared?’
‘Bloody right I was, but me ma always told me to stay put if I got caught ever.’
Lily remembered her first night on the street, waking up and seeing the mist. She knew that kind of fear.
He told her of the McCanns. ‘Me daddy has a smallholding and me brothers work it with him. They sell the produce in Newcastle.’
‘There’s a Newcastle here in England.’
‘Yes, you’re right, but mine has a wonderful beach and the sea stretches for miles. But wherever you go, you can’t get away from the mountains. One of them is called “The Divil’s Bite” – or “Bit” as we called it.’
‘What a strange name.’
‘Well, you see, it’s said that when St Patrick chased the Divil out of Ireland, the Divil was so mad, He bit a piece out of one of the peaks.’
Lily chuckled with delight at the tale. Looking across at the man sitting opposite, she saw the strong cut of his jaw, the fire in his eyes and knew his heart was still there, among the mountains.
‘And what of your family, Lily?’
Her blood ran cold. ‘My parents died when I was little. I lived with my aunt.’ The words came out so easily, she surprised herself.
‘You must miss them.’
Do I hell, she thought. ‘Not any more,’ she replied truthfully. ‘It was a long time ago.’
They walked back along the Pier. ‘Thanks, Tom,’ she said. ‘It was a lovely meal, and I really enjoyed hearing about Ireland. It sounds a magical place.’
‘It is. There are many more stories I can tell you about it … if you’ll come out with me again.’
Lily felt her heart swell with happiness as she looked up into his smiling eyes. ‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ll come by the shop and we’ll arrange something. I have to go now. I’ve to meet some friends.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Goodbye, lovely Lily.’
She walked back to The Ditches, humming happily about the Mountains of Mourne that sweep down to the sea.
As she settled for the night on her home-made bed, covered with a blanket and an old coat, she went over every moment of her meeting with Tom. It was the first time she’d ever been taken out by a man. She’d so enjoyed being fussed over.
He’d been very generous, too, telling her she could order whatever she wanted from the menu. She’d been a bit nervous about that, not wanting him to know this was a new experience for her, and was quite proud of the way she carried it off. ‘I’d enjoy being a lady,’ she said. She hugged her knees as she sat up in bed. He really was the most handsome chap. He hadn’t tried anything either, just held her arm across the road, like a gentleman. If he took her out again, she wondered how she’d feel if he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. She’d only ever been kissed by one man. She shuddered. It couldn’t be like that … could it?
Vittorio Teglia walked along Bernard Street and turned into The Lower Ditches, making a few calls on some of his customers. Some of the shop-keepers here frequented his club. They liked to gamble and finish the evening in a private room with one of his girls. Vittorio greeted them all, shopped with them, but was discreet in his conversation. Most of his clients were family men, who spent a lot of money on his premises. His buying their goods made them feel they were getting back some of their lost earnings. But he knew the odds were always on his side.
His eyes narrowed as he recognised the youthful figure setting out a display of second-hand clothes outside Mrs Cohen’s shop. The woman’s son Manny – a nasty, greasy individual – sometimes came to his club. The girls didn’t like him, and neither did Vittorio.
He slowed his pace and watched the trim figure bustling about, listening to the saucy banter flying between the girl and the other traders. She certainly had character, this one. He remembered the wide blue eyes that had stared hard at him when he’d offered her a job.
‘Good morning. We meet again.’
When she saw who had spoken to her, the smile faded momentarily from Lily’s face, then she grinned cheekily at The Maltese. ‘Told you I could take care of myself, didn’t I?’
He nodded slowly. She was better dressed this time, and was wearing shoes. He admired her small waist and rounded hips, and his eyes lingered on the shape of her full breasts. He didn’t like scrawny women. Dark waves framed her pretty face beneath a neat hat and around her neck she wore a feather boa.
‘Going somewhere, all dressed up like that?’ he asked with amusement.