A Mother's Promise (10 page)

‘Enter.’

‘Could you open the door, please, sir? I have your breakfast tray and my hands are full.’

The door opened and a short, tubby man with mutton-chop whiskers stared at her in surprise. ‘Who are you?’

‘Hetty Huggins, sir. Mrs Huggins’ granddaughter.’

He stood aside to allow her to pass and Hetty placed the tray on a small table by the window. Her first impression of the room was that of impeccable tidiness. The bed had been made and Mr Shipworthy’s hairbrush and comb were set at right angles on top of the washstand. His towel was neatly folded and hanging over the exact centre of the rail, and the faint scent of bay rum brought back
memories of her Pa. She was about to leave the room but he barred her way. ‘You are Hetty Huggins from Autumn Road?’

Hetty tried to sidestep him, but he was amazingly light on his feet for such an over-weight man. ‘I am, sir. Please let me pass.’

He took off his steel-rimmed spectacles, pulled a white cotton handkerchief from his coat pocket and polished the lenses, eyeing her with a calculating gleam in his eyes. ‘I have a friend who might be interested in your whereabouts, young lady.’

There was something about him that made Hetty’s skin crawl, but she managed to sound unconcerned. ‘I can’t think who that could be, sir.’

He hooked his spectacles over his ears and his smile was not pleasant. ‘He’s told me all about you and your feckless family, Miss Huggins. I think that my very good friend Cyrus Clench would be most interested to know that you are here.’

Hetty found Jane in the back yard washing the dishes in the stone sink. She looked up and her face puckered with consternation. ‘What’s wrong, Hetty? You’re pale as a ghost.’

Hetty snatched up a drying towel. ‘That blooming man is a pal of Clench’s.’

‘What man? What are you talking about?’

‘Shipworthy, of course. He knows Clench and he’s threatened to tell him where we are.’ Hetty picked up a bowl and scrubbed at it with the cloth. ‘I’m sorry, Janey. I didn’t mean to snap at you, but I just can’t believe our bad luck. Apparently he knew Clench when he worked at Tipton’s Bank and they’re still mates.’

‘He might not say anything. Perhaps if we asked him nicely . . .?’

Hetty shook her head. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. I didn’t like him the minute I set eyes on the fellow. I tell you, Jane, we’re going to have to move on from here sooner than I planned, or we’ll never be free of Clench.’

‘I don’t think Granny will be too pleased if
she finds out we’re in debt to a tallyman. She’s got a low enough opinion of us as it is. What shall we do?’

Hetty put the bowl down with a thud on the wooden draining board. ‘I’m going to look for work.’

‘Will you go back to the match factory?’

‘Not with the strike still on. Anyway, I need to find something that will pay enough for us to live on.’

Jane cast a meaningful glance at Hetty’s attire. ‘You can’t go out looking like that. Best see if your old clothes are dry enough to wear.’

Hetty hesitated, torn between the desire to look presentable and the need to escape from Totty Street before Granny returned from her trip to the pawnshop. She crossed the yard to the washing line where her old black serge skirt and much-darned cotton blouse dangled in the still air. They were bone dry but stiff as boards and in desperate need of ironing. Hetty took them down and hurried into the parlour where, after a brief search, she found a flat iron. She placed it on the fire to heat and was waiting impatiently when Jane brought the clean crockery into the room and began stacking the dishes on the dresser. ‘It’s no good staring at it, Hetty,’ she said, chuckling. ‘You know what they say - a watched pot never boils.’

‘Yes, well “they” didn’t have Granny Huggins breathing down their necks.’ Hetty picked up the iron and spat on it. ‘It’ll have to do.’ She laid her blouse out on the tabletop and began to iron away the creases. ‘If she wants to know where I’ve gone, just tell her I’m out looking for work. Don’t say anything about her lodger or Clench.’

‘Ouch!’ Jane sat down suddenly, wrapping her arms around her belly. ‘Baby’s kicking something chronic this morning. He’s a lively one, all right, just like his dad.’ Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Oh, Nat. Why did you have to go and get yourself killed?’

‘There, there, don’t get upset,’ Hetty said anxiously. ‘You’ve got to think of little Nat now.’

Jane sniffed and wiped her eyes on her apron. ‘Little Nat, that’s what I’ll call him. He’ll be his dad all over again.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ Hetty said, hanging her blouse on the back of a chair and picking up her crumpled skirt. ‘That’s the way to look at it.’

‘And we’ll be all right, won’t we, Hetty?’

‘Of course we will. You mustn’t worry, Janey. I’ll take care of you and your baby. Everything will come right, you’ll see.’ Hetty tried to sound optimistic, but inwardly she was quaking. Life
in Autumn Road had been hard, but at least she had known what to expect. Now she was going out to face the unknown. She thumped away at the threadbare material with the hot iron, smothering a sigh. No amount of washing and ironing would make this skirt look anything other than old and shabby. Giving the garment a final shake, Hetty slipped off Granny’s old gown and dressed in her own clothes. ‘Well,’ she said, patting her hair into place. ‘I may not look smart but at least I’m clean and tidy.’

Jane stood up slowly and she went to the shelf where Granny kept the finished bonnets. After a moment’s deliberation, she selected the simplest creation, which was saved from being too severe by the addition of violet-blue ribbons. ‘Here, put this on, Hetty. You can’t go out looking like a poor servant girl.’

‘I dunno, Jane.’ Hetty fingered the fine straw and stroked the silky ribbon. ‘She’ll kill me.’

‘She won’t, not if you find yourself a good position. You got to look like a proper young lady, Hetty. Put it on and let’s see.’

Hetty placed the bonnet on her head and peered into the mirror above the mantelshelf. She tied the ribbons at a jaunty angle and was both amazed and pleased with the result. The ribbon was exactly the same shade of blue as her eyes, and the pale yellow straw contrasted
with her dark brown hair, making it look almost black.

‘There!’ Jane said triumphantly. ‘That makes all the difference. Go now, and good luck, dear.’

Hetty walked the streets of Bethnal Green, Bow and Whitechapel until her feet were blistered and sore. She knocked on doors with a boldness she had never known she possessed. She went into factories, workshops and small sweatshops hidden in the basements of courts and dark alleys, where the smell of fried fish mingled with the stench of excrement, both human and animal, and the sour odour of unwashed bodies. The sound of pigeons cooing in their lofts, the raucous laughter of drunks who staggered in and out of the many public houses, and the cries of the costermongers all merged into an ear-splitting din. Everywhere she went, she met with rebuffs and rejection. She was only too aware that there were well over a thousand factory girls out on strike and many had been forced to find work; some of them, Hetty was told by a watchman at one of the factory gates, had gone to the country to pick fruit, but others had taken any kind of work they could find in order to tide their families over until the strike ended. His boss, he said, had taken on as many as he could, but there were no vacancies
now. It was the same story wherever she went.

By mid-afternoon, Hetty was footsore, tired and extremely hungry. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue felt twice its size and she was lost in the maze of traffic-filled streets that teemed with people of all ages, colours and nationalities. She stopped at a barrow selling fruit to ask the way back to Totty Street.

‘Excuse me, mister.’ Hetty laid her hand on the coster’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, but . . .’ She swayed on her feet as the barrow, the costermonger and the buildings all seemed to be whirling around her head, making her dizzy. When she opened her eyes she discovered to her surprise that she was lying on the cobblestones amongst squashed cabbage leaves and turnip tops. A man was bending over her. His face was close to hers and his lips were moving, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

‘Ups-a-daisy.’ A pair of strong arms raised her to a sitting position. ‘Are you feeling a bit better now?’

Hetty blinked and stared into his friendly open features. ‘That’s the ticket,’ he said, grinning. ‘Feeling more like it now, are we? You swooned at me feet, girl. Not that that’s an unusual occurrence. Happens all the time to yours truly, George Cooper, costermonger and heart-breaker, at your service.’ He slipped his
arm around her waist and helped her onto an empty orange crate. ‘Here, take the weight off your tootsies and sit down.’

‘Ta, mister.’ Hetty was in no position to argue. She perched on the crate rubbing her hand across her forehead. ‘I must’ve fainted.’

‘I should say you did.’ George folded his arms across his chest, eyeing her critically. ‘You still look a bit peaky. I’d say, offhand, that you was in need of a bite to eat.’

‘Ta, but I’m fine now.’ Hetty tried to stand up and found that her knees had turned to jelly. She sat down again, sighing. ‘I am a bit thirsty, mister. I don’t suppose you’ve got a cup of water to spare?’

‘As a matter of fact, young lady, I was just about to eat me dinner when you threw yourself at me like a dying duck.’ He produced a meat pie and a ham sandwich from beneath the barrow with the air of a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He bent down again and picked up a bottle of beer. Undoing the stopper, he handed it to Hetty. ‘Take a swig of that, girl. It’ll put feathers on your chest, as they say.’

Too tired to argue, Hetty swallowed a mouthful of the strong beer. She wrinkled her nose at the bitter, hop-flavoured taste, but it had an immediate effect and she felt refreshed, if a little tipsy as the alcohol hit her empty
stomach. ‘Ta, mister.’ She eyed the sandwich and her mouth watered, but, even so, she couldn’t take his food. It might be all that he would eat that day. ‘But I ain’t all that hungry. Best be on me way now.’

George pressed her back on the crate and he wrapped her fingers around the ham sandwich. ‘Not until you’ve had something to eat. Now be a good girl and sink your toothy-pegs into that.’ He turned away to serve an old lady. ‘Yes, ducks. What can I do you for today?’

The old lady cackled with laughter and nudged him in the midriff with her elbow. ‘You’re a one, George. But you always got a smile, that’s what I like about you.’

‘I know, ducks. It’s me winning smile what gets all the ladies going.’

‘Half a pound of onions, a pound of carrots and a bit less of your cheek, young man.’

The temptation was too great, and while George was busy weighing out the customer’s order Hetty bit into the white bread, thickly buttered and filled with a slice of best ham with just a hint of mustard. She hadn’t tasted a sandwich like this for so long that she had almost forgotten how good it was. She chewed and swallowed, barely able to stop herself gobbling the lot in a couple of mouthfuls. When George turned round to speak to her, she was licking her fingers, one by one. He threw back his head
and laughed. ‘Well, now. Who said she wasn’t hungry?’

Hetty stood up. She was feeling so much better that she almost forgot her aching limbs and sore feet. ‘I was hungry, and you was very kind to share your dinner with me, but now I really must be going.’

‘Hold on a moment, girl. You still look done in. Won’t you rest up for a bit?’

‘I can’t, mister.’

‘Me name is George, like I said. And you are?’

Hetty took his outstretched hand, a little shyly in the face of such an ebullient nature, and she shook it. ‘Hester Huggins, Hetty for short.’

‘Well, Hetty for short, what are you doing walking the streets in this part of Whitechapel and falling in a faint under me barrow?’

She smiled. ‘Looking for work, George. So I’ve got to get on.’

‘You wouldn’t be one of them matchgirls that I’ve read about in the newspapers, now would you?’

‘I was. I mean, we were; me and me sister and our little brothers. We worked at home making up the matchboxes, but now we’ve had to go and live in Totty Street with our granny who doesn’t want us, and Cyrus Clench will be after me for his money, so you see I got to find work.’

‘My my, girl. You’ve left me quite out of breath.’ George stared at her with a puzzled frown. ‘Why don’t your grandma want you, and who is this Clench fellow? Would you like me to come round your place and beat him up a bit?’

A gurgle of laughter escaped from Hetty’s lips. ‘It’s a long story. I don’t think beating up Mr Clench would fix anything, but ta for the offer.’ She began to walk away but George followed her.

‘Look, I don’t like to see no one in trouble. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be wandering about alone, knocking on strange doors. There’s bad places round here with some evil sorts who might do you harm.’

‘I’m grateful for your concern, but I can look after meself.’ Hetty was about to walk on, but he caught her by the hand.

‘Wait. I’ll knock off when all me stock is gone, and then I’ll see you home. No, don’t shake your head. You can help me on the stall, if that makes you feel any better.’

‘I would, but there’ll be trouble if I gets home late. Granny ain’t in the best of spirits having us foisted on her. She hates us all, with maybe the exception of Sammy who reminds her of our dad, and we’re only there on sufferance. If I was to be late for supper, she’d skin me alive and probably throw us all out on the street.’

‘You help me, and I’ll pay you in fruit and veg.’ George led her back to his barrow, where he wrapped a hessian apron round her. ‘I’ll bet the old lady will look on you more favourably if you go home with a couple of pounds of apples, some oranges and bananas, not to mention a fine head of cabbage and some taters.’

Put like that, Hetty simply couldn’t refuse. Besides which, she had taken an instant liking to George, and she needed someone to lead her out of the maze of backstreets and festering alleyways. ‘All right, then. It’s a bargain.’

She worked diligently, side by side with him, watching his every move and the way in which he dealt with customers, from pleasant little old ladies to aggressive cabbies who accused him of selling rotten fruit, and barefooted street urchins who tried to steal apples from his barrow. Mostly, she noticed, he turned a blind eye to the starving younger children, but the bigger boys, who were simply out to steal his goods and sell them on street corners, were dealt a sound cuff round the ear and a good telling off. ‘There’s all sorts round here,’ George explained, after the first incident. ‘You got to keep on your toes and be able to tell the good ‘uns from the bad ‘uns.’