A Mother's Promise (26 page)

On the hot summer nights, when she was too exhausted to write any more, she would lie down on her narrow iron bed and stare through the grimy panes of the roof window,
peering at the diamond pinpoints of stars twinkling in the black velvet sky. Was Charles looking up at them and thinking of her? She would eventually drift off to sleep and dream that he had come for her, but harsh reality would return with the dawn, and each new day brought the prospect of long hours, sore feet and blistered hands. Hetty suffered it all without complaint. As long as she could put away a little money each week in a leather pouch which she hid beneath a loose floorboard in the attic, she was satisfied that she was on her way to a blissful reunion with the only man she had ever truly loved.

The blistering heat of August eased gradually into the mellow month of September. The days grew shorter and the mornings chillier in October, and November brought the return of the dreaded peasouper fog that wrapped itself around London in an evil-smelling, suffocating blanket, blotting out sight and sound, and making trade impossible. When the fog lifted, the pot-bellied clouds brought torrential rain to the streets, and workers who might have stopped for a cup of something hot or a bite to eat before embarking on their bus or train journeys to the suburbs hurried past Hetty’s stall intent on getting home as fast as possible.

Late one afternoon towards the end of November, a sudden thunderstorm had forced Hetty to pack up her barrow earlier than she would normally have done. She was soaked to the skin before she reached Spital Square, and the sore throat which had started that morning had now developed into a racking cough. She trudged homewards, pushing the heavy barrow with her booted feet slipping and sliding on the wet cobblestones. Someone hailed her as she was about to pass the north entrance to Spitalfields market, and she stopped to wipe the rainwater from her eyes. George came hurrying out of the market with a piece of sacking held over his head and a look of concern on his face. ‘Hetty, you looked like a drownded rat, girl. Come inside and dry off a bit before you catch your death of cold.’

Seized with a fit of coughing, Hetty shook her head. ‘Got to get home,’ she wheezed.

George took the handles of the barrow and pushed it inside the entrance, tucking it against a wall close to Jane’s stall. ‘Keep an eye on Hetty’s barrow, ducks. I’m just taking her to the pub to get a brandy inside her.’

Jane hurried over to them. ‘She ought to be in bed by the look of her. Take her straight home, George.’

Hetty raised a wet hand. ‘I can speak for
meself, ta.’ Another fit of coughing rendered her speechless.

‘I’ll take her home, but first she’s going to have a tot of something stronger than ginger beer. I won’t be long, Jane.’ George took Hetty by the arm and guided her out of the market to a pub on the opposite side of the road. He found her a seat close to the fire where he helped her off with her sodden jacket, which he hung on the back of her chair. Steam billowed from her wet skirts as she warmed her chilled limbs by the fire while he went off to fetch their drinks.

He returned, handing her a glass of brandy. ‘Here, drink this and no argument.’

Hetty sipped it and coughed as the spirit hit the back of her throat.

‘All of it,’ George said firmly. He sat watching her as she struggled to get the alcohol down her sore throat, nodding in approval when she drained the glass. ‘Why didn’t you take shelter? What was you thinking of, Hetty Huggins?’

‘M-money,’ Hetty murmured with a slightly tipsy smile. ‘I c-can’t afford to lose a day’s earnings, G-George.’

‘You’ll lose more than that if you go down with the lung fever, girl.’ He sat back in his chair, taking a swig of his ale. ‘You can’t keep on working like this in the winter, Hetty. For
one thing, trade drops off when the weather is bad, and for another, you ain’t fit enough to stand on street corners in rain, sleet and snow, to say nothing of the London particulars.’

Warmed by the brandy, Hetty grimaced as the feeling came back to her extremities, making them tingle painfully. Her chilblains began to throb and her chest was so sore that every rattling breath hurt. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew that what George said was true. The coffee stall trade was largely dependent on the weather. If she could have done the night shift she might have been able to earn more, but with the possible resurgence of the Ripper the streets were dangerous after dark and the risk too great for a young, un-protected female. She nodded her head, sighing. ‘I know you’re right, George.’

‘Thank the Lord for that. I thought you’d put up a fight. You must be feeling off colour.’ She managed a weary smile. ‘Just a bit, but I’ll be fine in the morning.’

‘You’ll be a corpse if you go on like this, Hetty. I’m sick of standing by while you flog yourself to death on that stall.’ George leaned over and clasped her hands, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘You mean a lot to me, Hetty. I mean, we’re business partners, ain’t we? And as such, I’ve got a proposition to make.’

His earnest face was moving in and out of
focus as the heat from the fire and the alcohol began to take effect. Hetty blinked hard, forcing herself to concentrate on his words, which seemed to make little sense. ‘Go on, George. Say what you got to say, because I don’t feel so good.’

‘It’s this, Hetty. I have to say it now because I never get a chance to speak to you on your own in that madhouse of Nora’s. What I want to say is that I’ve got a little nest egg saved up, and I want to invest it in our business venture, all proper and above board.’

‘Y-you do?’

‘I’ve been doing a bit of snooping round and I think I’ve found the ideal premises for you to open up a coffee shop.’

‘A coffee shop?’

He squeezed her fingers, and his mouth curved in a grin. ‘That’s right, girl. It’s close to Liverpool Street station, not far from Petticoat Lane. I know you’ve been saving up for just this event, and if I put my money in we could sign the lease in the morning and be ready to open for business before Christmas. What do you say?’

Hetty could never remember what her reply had been to George’s startling proposition; in fact she lost several days completely as she lay in her bed racked with fever. Jane told her afterwards that they had feared for her life, and Granny had even gone so far as to send for the doctor, paying his fee out of her own purse. The crusty old physician had made them strip the cotton sheets off the bed so that Hetty was lying between thick woollen blankets. ‘She must sweat it out. Give her some drops of laudanum in water if she becomes too restless,’ he had said, shaking his head. ‘I can do no more. The rest is in the hands of the Lord.’

Jane giggled at this point and said that Hetty would have died laughing if she had seen Granny’s face when she saw the bed piled high with blankets and rugs. Granny had swooped on the covers like an avenging angel and stripped off everything, replacing the cotton sheets and calling the doctor all manner of names. She had insisted on bathing Hetty with cool water to bring her temperature down,
ignoring Jane and Nora’s protests that it would probably kill rather than cure her. Granny had condemned the doctor as a charlatan and not worth the half-crown he had charged for the visit. It was scandalous taking money from poor folks on false pretences. Jane did a pretty fair imitation of Granny in one of her sniffy moods, placing her hands on her hips and rolling her eyes. ‘Anyone knows that if you have a pot boiling over you take it off the heat, you don’t pile more coal on the fire. It’s the same with a fever, any fool can see that.’ Jane emphasised each word with a toss of her head, in just the way that Granny did when she was annoyed or offended.

Hetty couldn’t help laughing, but this made her cough and she had to sip some water from the cup that Jane held to her lips. ‘I was terrified that she was going to do you more harm than good,’ Jane continued, wiping Hetty’s mouth with a corner of the sheet. ‘But then, just like a miracle, the fever broke, and you opened your eyes and spoke to me, quite like your old self.’ Jane’s voice quavered, and, as if embarrassed by this show of emotion, she plumped up the pillows behind Hetty’s head. ‘Now all you got to do is sip this broth that Nora made for you, and get your strength back.’

Obediently, Hetty took a little of the beef
broth from the spoon that Jane held to her lips. ‘How long have I been like this, and what’s happened to my stall?’

Jane chuckled, dipping the spoon into the cup and waiting until Hetty had swallowed another mouthful. ‘Trust you to put the stall first.’

Hetty attempted to sit up. ‘I must get up. I’m better . . .’ Her voice tailed off as a spell of dizziness forced her to sink back against the pillows.

‘Yes, it looks like it.’ Jane put the cup down on a box beside the bed. ‘You’re not to worry about anything, Hetty. I’ve been working your barrow outside the station, and the boys helped Granny to keep the stall in the market ticking along nicely.’

If Jane had said that the Archangel Gabriel had descended from heaven to work the stall in Spitalfields market, Hetty would not have been more astonished. ‘Granny and the boys! You’re joking.’

‘I am not, I swear it. George kept an eye on them, of course, and Nora took care of baby. Although most of the time Natalia was being passed around the market women like a little doll. She’s been spoilt to death by everyone.’

Tears spilled from Hetty’s eyes. She had never felt so weak and helpless, or so grateful to her family. ‘I dunno what to say.’

Jane smoothed the coverlet with a practised hand. ‘You didn’t think we’d let you down, did you? We may have our differences at times, Hetty, but you’re my sister and I love you. We all do, and Tom’s called round every evening to see how you are, and George has done all the buying for both stalls. He’s been a real brick.’

‘I must see him, Jane. I can’t remember much about what he said in the pub, but I think he offered to set me up in a proper coffee shop, although maybe I dreamt it.’

‘You didn’t dream it, Hetty. George told me all about it and you can see him tomorrow, but only if you take a little more of this broth.’

When Jane had gone downstairs, Hetty lay in her bed staring up at the windowpanes where sleety rain traced patterns in the coating of city grime. Her mind was filled with visions of her coffee shop. It would be warm and welcoming, with spotlessly clean floral-patterned tablecloths and comfortable chairs. She would attract the better class of customer, especially the young lady type-writers, clerks and secretaries who now worked in the city offices. The coffee shop would be a place where they could spend their midday break, meet their friends and maybe even flirt a little with the gentle-men who also worked in offices. She would serve behind a glass-fronted counter and
there would be luxury items like chocolate cake and pastries, as well as ham sandwiches and perhaps even salmon and cucumber in season, or cheese and pickle. Gentleman liked cheese and pickle; sausage rolls, too. Hetty closed her eyes and she could see it all. A waitress in a black uniform with a starched white cap and apron was scurrying in between the tables, serving the customers with their orders. Outside her imaginary coffee shop the rain was sheeting down, but the well-dressed clientele were chatting and laughing as they lunched off freshly prepared sandwiches and pastries. Hetty could smell the coffee and taste the rich, dark chocolate cake. It would all be wonderful and she would soon make enough money to pay her fare to America. Hetty smiled as she slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

As promised, George came round after he had packed up his stall the following evening. Hetty had been allowed downstairs for an hour and she sat by the fire with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and everyone fussing around her. She realised just how ill she had been when George presented her with a bunch of hothouse grapes. ‘How are you, girl?’ He pulled up a stool to sit beside her. ‘Are you feeling well enough to talk?’

‘I’m much better now, ta.’ Hetty glanced over
his shoulder. Sammy and Eddie were eyeing the grapes and she could tell by the expressions on their faces that they were longing to taste them. She beckoned to Sammy. ‘I’m sure that George won’t mind if you and Eddie have a few of my grapes. Leave a couple for me, though.’

Sammy’s eager hand shot out to take the fruit. ‘Ta, Hetty. I’m glad you didn’t die.’

‘So am I, Sammy,’ Hetty said, chuckling. ‘So am I.’

George took her hand in his. ‘You mustn’t overtire yourself. I just wanted you to know that I meant what I said before you was took sick. Just give me the nod and I’ll go ahead and sign the lease on the shop in Artillery Lane. Then, when you’ve got your strength back, we can see about fitting it out as a proper coffee shop.’

‘As easy as that,’ Hetty said, smiling at his boundless optimism. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, George?’

‘What’s that, Hetty?’

‘I haven’t seen this place and it might not be what I had in mind. And then there’s the small matter of money, George. What I want to do will cost a lot.’

‘I told you that I’ve got a bit put by, and I’m more than willing to invest it in the business. This is just the start, Hetty. I reckon we could
have a whole string of coffee shops in a few years’ time.’

He looked so much like an eager schoolboy that Hetty had not the heart to pour cold water on his scheme, but, even so, she had to be practical. Her memories of living in poverty were all too vivid and she had no intention of allowing her family to fall back into that particular trap. She covered his hand with hers. ‘We got to work it all out, George. There’s tables and chairs to be bought or hired, and crockery, glassware, cutlery, tablecloths . . .’

‘Stop, you’re making my head spin.’

‘I want to do it properly, George. There are plenty of places for working men to get their food and drink, but I want to cater for young women office workers, and mothers with children who can afford to take them out for a glass of lemonade and maybe an ice cream in the summer.’

Jane bustled over to them, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘That’s enough excitement for today, Hetty. You need to rest or you’ll get sick again.’