The Girl from Cotton Lane (70 page)

It was the early spring of ’37 and almost a year now since she had made that first journey to the East End in search of Joe Maitland. It had been difficult to arrange, she recalled. Her mother would have forbidden her to go to that citadel on the Isle of Dogs had she known, and Rachel had had to make excuses for her day’s absence from home. The Salvation Army people there were very nice though and they had been honest with her about the limited possibilities of tracing Joe. She had given them all the information she could and explained the reasons for wanting to find him. They had been very understanding, and since that one visit she had kept in touch with them by writing letters secretly in the seclusion of her tiny bedroom, with the replies sent to her friend Amy Brody, Danny’s young sister-in-law who had been sworn to secrecy.

The last letter she had received was very hopeful. A man of the right age had visited a soup kitchen only a week ago and had been called Joe by one or two of his acquaintances. When the Salvationist who was on duty at the time tried to question him he became evasive and left soon after, so the letter said. There was no more, however. The men who called him Joe had said on prompting that he was a ‘will-o’-the-wisp’ character who appeared and disappeared like the wind. He never seemed to stay in one place for very long, but his friends did say that he told them once he often earned a few coppers doing ‘penny-up-the-hill’. The letter had gone on to explain that the expression referred to men who helped the fish porters push their laden barrows up the steep cobbled lanes from the fish market in Billingsgate to the waiting vehicles in Eastcheap, which ran parallel.

Rachel closed her eyes and recalled the cold, silent morning a few days before when she had sneaked out of the house and let herself out of the yard as dawn was breaking. She had caught the early tram to London Bridge and walked over the windy Thames to the fish market, where she had wandered around for an hour, hoping against hope that she would spot Joe. It had been in vain, and when she returned at eight o’clock her mother was frantic with worry. The excuse she made that she couldn’t sleep and wanted to get some early morning air had sounded feeble, and she knew that her mother was beginning to worry about her secretive ways.

Rachel stared at the recollections she had just put down on paper to her confidante at the Salvation Army citadel and ended by saying she would try again to visit the fish market as soon as possible. This time though she would try another way, although she did not include her intentions in the letter.

The day dragged on interminably and when the Sunday evening meal was over Rachel stretched wearily and said that she needed an early night. Carrie and Nellie exchanged glances, and when Rachel had kissed them goodnight and gone to bed Carrie turned to her mother with a frown.

‘Yer know, Mum, that child is worrying me,’ she declared. ‘She shouldn’t be so tired this early. She’s become so secretive too. I don’t know what’s the matter wiv ’er, I’m sure I don’t.’

Nellie put down her piece of embroidery and peered at Carrie over the top of her metal-rimmed glasses. ‘There’s nuffink wrong wiv that gel that won’t right itself before long,’ she said. ‘It’s ’er age. It was the same wiv you. She’s growin’ up, Carrie, be patient.’

Up in the tiny front bedroom Rachel was making her plans, and when Carrie looked in before she retired for the night she heard her daughter’s even breathing and decided that she was fast asleep. Rachel waited until she heard the door click shut and then she sat up in bed. She knew that she would have to be patient. It would take some time for her mother to settle, and if her acquaintance at the cafe in Eastcheap had explained things properly there was no desperate hurry anyway.

‘Those “penny-up-the-’ill” men are always in ’ere,’ he had told her in answer to her persistent questions. ‘They earn all right - well, some of ’em do. They spend most o’ their earnin’s on cups o’ tea but they keep a few pennies fer their cider. They sleep rough down at the market an’ the stench o’ their fires fair makes yer sick. They use ole fish boxes, yer see.’

The thought of tramping around that fish market did not worry Rachel. She had learned that lorries and horse carts started to arrive a little after midnight and in the early hours it was a bustling place as the fish merchants opened for business. She intended to arrive there as soon after twelve as possible and maybe look for Joe at the camp fires.

At ten minutes past midnight she slipped into her long coat and wrapped a woollen scarf loosely around her neck. With extreme care she crept down the stairs, holding her breath in case the creaking disturbed her mother or her grandmother, and then crossed the yard and unlocked the wicket-gate. The harsh grating of the hinges sounded extra loud in the stillness of the night, and it was not until she had locked the gate after her and set off along the empty Salmon Lane that she began to breathe easier. There was no going back now, she knew, and her heart fluttered excitedly at the task ahead. Joe was out there somewhere. He would come back with her, she told herself. He just had to. Surely he could be made to understand what his long absence was doing to her mother, to both of them.

Jamaica Road was empty except for one or two people who hurried along, coming or going from their night shifts. The all-night tram trundled past but Rachel let it go. There was a full moon lighting her way and the air was surprisingly mild. As she reached the foot of Tower Bridge she glanced towards the tall stone towers bleached white in the moonlight. It would be just as quick to travel over the bridge, she thought, but she knew that the City policemen patrolled it throughout the night. One of them might ask her what a young girl was doing out on her own at that hour and he might get someone to take her home. Better to cross the Thames at London Bridge, she decided. As she quickly walked along Tooley Street the deserted wharves looked eerie in the moonlight and she was glad when she finally reached the foot of London Bridge. With a silent prayer she set off over the dark, swift water of the river, her hurrying footsteps echoing on the flintstone walkway.

The market was lined with lorries and horse carts when Rachel turned into Monument Street and walked beneath the tall fire memorial topped with its gilded iron cap of flame. The pungent smell and the increasing noise as shutters went up and traders shouted cheered her and she set off along the brightly lit lower stretch which backed on to the river. Alleyways were piled high with empty boxes and here and there a group of carmen stood talking together. Rachel tried to disregard the bawdy remarks as she passed one group but felt her face flushing hot. A drunken man lurched towards her and as she halted in her tracks he staggered back into a doorway and mumbled some unintelligible remark. A scruffy cat was picking at a fishhead in a passageway, and a little deeper into the shadows two men were arguing and struggling with each other over a bottle of cider which they both had hold of.

Rachel purposely crossed the greasy cobbled lane to avoid passing by a coffee stall and as she did so saw a group of men sitting around on boxes just inside an alleyway. There was a lighted brazier giving off clouds of smoke and as she stood trying to catch a glimpse of the men’s faces one of them saw her. He staggered to his feet and came out of the alley, swaying and tottering with a leer on his smoke-blackened face. ‘’Ave a drink, girlie,’ he slurred. ‘C’mon an’ ’ave a drink wiv yer ole friend Jim.’

Rachel hurried off, looking over her shoulder fearfully in case the man was following her. Further along the lane a fish merchant was lifting a huge shutter. He noticed her as she drew near. ‘Careful, young lady, it’s slippery just ’ere,’ he said, smiling at her.

Rachel returned a faint smile and he looked closely at her. ‘This is a bit off the beaten track fer a pretty gel like you, ain’t it?’ he asked.

The man was tall, with a wide girth partly hidden under his clean white smock. He wore a flat-topped fish porter’s hat with a wide brim. His face was ruddy, and his pleasant smile seemed to reassure Rachel.

‘I’m lookin’ fer somebody,’ she told him.

‘Well, there’s many a lost soul frequents this market,’ he said.

‘The man I’m lookin’ for is called Joe Maitland,’ she informed him.

‘They’re all called Joes an’ Jims in the market, luv,’ he told her. ‘Nobody gets called by their full moniker. Now yer see them lads over there? Them what are waitin’ fer a few shekels?’

Rachel followed his gaze to the other side of the road and saw a group of scruffily dressed men standing beneath a canopy.

‘There’s a few Joes over there,’ he said grinning. ‘But I don’t s’pose any o’ them would be your Joe.’

Rachel smiled and made to walk on but the fish merchant planted himself directly in front of her. ‘Tell me, luv, is the Joe you’re lookin’ for a kinsman? Is ’e family?’

She nodded. ‘Sort of.’

‘Is ’e your beau?’

Rachel felt her face flush. ‘My mum’s,’ she said quietly.

The man gave her a huge grin and beckoned her to follow him. Rachel hesitated but he was persistent. ‘C’mon, luv, yer quite safe,’ he said. ‘I want yer ter meet my ole china.’

She followed him into the open-fronted warehouse and he suddenly whistled loudly through his teeth. ‘Oi! Come ’ere, Lofty. I wanna ask yer somefink fer a friend o’ mine.’

A tall, gangling fish porter strolled up and eyed Rachel warily. ‘Yeah?’

‘Lofty knows all the “penny-up-the-’ill” men, don’t yer, Lofty?’

The tall man nodded. ‘I know most of ’em, yeah,’ he said in a tired voice.

‘What about a Joe Maitland?’

‘I know a couple o’ Joes, but we don’t get ter know their full monikers,’ he answered.

‘That’s what I told ’er,’ the big man said. ‘What’s ’e look like, luv?’

‘Well, ’e’s tall an’ pretty broad, an’ ’e’s got black wavy ’air. ’E speaks quietly an’ ’e . . .’

‘That could fit anybody,’ the tall one cut in. ‘I tell yer what, though, it could be Big Joe. What d’yer reckon, Solly?’

‘Yeah, I s’pose it could fit ’im,’ Solly replied, stroking his chin. ‘Now I tell yer what yer do. Carry on along ’ere till yer come ter the coffee stall. Big Joe usually uses that stall. Failin’ that, try the flea-pit.’

‘I beg yer pardon?’ Rachel said, frowning.

‘Sorry, luv. It’s an alleyway jus’ past the coffee stall on the same side. Most o’ the “up-the-’ill” lads kip down there.’

Rachel smiled her thanks to both men and hurried away, hoping against hope that this would be the end of her long quest.

Solly watched her go and then turned to his friend. ‘It’s what I’ve always said, Lofty. There’s a tragic story be’ind most o’ them dregs o’ ’umanity what pitch their weight be’ind our barrers,’ he remarked with feeling.

There were only two old men standing at the coffee stall and Rachel walked on past. She spotted the alleyway, and when she glanced along its dark, filthy length she saw a few men sitting hunched together beside a smouldering brazier. Without thinking she slowly passed between the dank brick walls into the shadows, stepping quietly along the stinking cobbles of the alley to look at them. There were four men sitting with their heads bowed and they hardly seemed to notice her presence. One looked up vaguely and Rachel saw that he was an old man. ‘I’m lookin’ fer a bloke called Joe Maitland,’ she said in a voice she hardly recognised.

‘Maitland, yer say? Never ’eard of ’im, miss,’ the man croaked.

‘They call ’im Big Joe,’ Rachel said, blinking against the pungent smoke.

‘Oi, Big Joe. Somebody wants yer,’ the man growled, prodding the man next to him.

When the sleepy-eyed tramp looked up at Rachel she felt her heart would break. It was Joe Maitland, but she could barely recognise him. He had a thick stubble on his grubby face and his eyes were bloodshot and bleary. His clothes were in tatters and his clasped hands were black and scarred from work. His previously well-brushed wavy hair was matted and filthy, and as he struggled to focus his eyes his mouth dropped open.

‘Joe, it’s Rachel. Don’t yer remember me?’ the young woman said in a shaking voice.

‘It’s Rachel!’ Joe exclaimed to his companion, his eyes widening with surprise as he struggled to find his feet.

She took his arm and helped him stagger up. ‘Yer gotta come back, Joe. Mum needs yer, we both need yer,’ she said, her voice breaking as tears filled her deep blue eyes.

Joe took her by the arm and tried to lead her from the alley, his feet moving unsteadily over the cobbles. He turned his head towards her every few steps, as though not believing it was really her. ‘Yer look like an angel from ’eaven,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘I thought I’d died when I looked up an’ saw yer.’

Rachel gritted her teeth. She had found him at last and now she was going to take him home, whatever it took, regardless of what he said. ‘C’mon, Joebo, let’s get yer a cuppa an’ somefing to eat,’ she said, pulling on his arm.

Joe shied away but she held on to him tightly. ‘C’mon, don’t argue,’ she said sharply.

They walked slowly up the steep cobbled lane which led out to Eastcheap and Rachel steered him towards the little cafe that she had visited on her earlier search. The moon had dropped down lower in the early morning sky and the air felt damp as they approached the brightly lit establishment. Rachel could see that Joe was beginning to tremble as she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

‘’Ello, Big Joe,’ the owner called out in greeting, giving Rachel a strange look when he saw her holding on to his arm.