Born to Trouble (30 page)

She planned to open the shop the following week, and for an incentive to encourage folk through the door she intended to give each customer a little bag of pickled onions with their order. A sprat to catch a mackerel, as James put it when she explained her plans to the lads. She laughed and nodded. In an area where more than a few of her customers wouldn’t be able to read or write, word of mouth was vital, and nothing spread faster in the East End than news of something for nothing.

The weekend was a time of frantic activity and a hundred and one small panics, but at six o’clock on Monday morning Pearl opened the door of the shop wide despite the freezing morning. She had put a notice in the window the week before, declaring when business would start, but there was nothing like the smell of hot food to tempt a man on his way home in the morning from the nightshift. She intended to stay open all morning, but shut for a time in the afternoon so she could prepare food for the next day, opening once again for the evening trade at six o’clock. If she could have afforded to pay an assistant to take orders and serve in the front of the shop, so she was released to work in the kitchen, she could have stayed open all day, but for the time being that was out of the question. James and Patrick had promised to get to work peeling and chopping vegetables and other mundane tasks before and after school, but they could only be expected to do so much.

She stood in the shop doorway after propping the door open, the glittering pavement and white rooftops indicative of the heavy frost which had fallen overnight. Inside the shop the new paraffin heaters were warming up the interior nicely, and for a moment she considered shutting the door again to keep the heat in. But what use was a warm shop if she had no customers? Once word had spread and she had her regulars, she could shut the door then.

At ten past six a young lad about Patrick’s age sidled into the shop, his huge eyes in a thin white face and hair streaked with nits immediately proclaiming his family’s circumstances. Before Pearl could speak, he said, ‘Me mam says what’s the least you can buy an’ still get the pickled onions?’

Pearl looked at the child. He wasn’t wearing a coat and his boots were several sizes too big and more holes than leather. She wanted to reach behind her and fill a bag with meat pies and chitterlings and sausages, but she knew that kind of weakness would be seized upon, and within a few short weeks she would be as destitute as his family obviously were. Swallowing hard, she said, ‘A bowl of soup is a penny, but you need a can for it. Have you got one?’ As he shook his head, she swallowed again. ‘A bag of battered pieces then.’

‘What’s them?’ he asked suspiciously.

Corinda had used to grind up all the offal of any meat the menfolk brought back, mix it with a blend of herbs and wild garlic and coat it in a seasoned batter before frying it over an open fire. The end result had been delicious. Rather than go into a lengthy explanation, Pearl said, ‘Meat bits.’

‘Aye, that’ll do.’

She gave him a generous bagful, along with the pickled onions, took his one and a half pence – all carefully counted out in farthings – and waved him out the door.

Her first customer. She stood staring after him, not knowing if she wanted to laugh or cry. Was she doing the right thing? Would she be able to stand it? She was still debating whether to run after the boy and make some excuse for giving him back his money when a couple of miners, still black from the night shift, stopped by the open door.

‘Somethin’ smells good, lass.’ One of the men, his teeth white in his coal-smeared face, smiled at her. ‘Taste as good as it smells, does it?’

‘You won’t know if you don’t try it.’

‘Aye, true enough. What you got then?’

Pearl went through the list along with the cost of each dish.

‘The soup sounds all right but I dare bet you don’t want us sittin’ down like this?’ He indicated his sooty clothes.

Pearl smiled into the black faces. ‘The way I look at it, you’ve done an honest night’s work for an honest night’s pay, so why not?’

‘I don’t know about the pay bit, lass. Them owners’d wring the last farthing out of you given half a chance with their measures an’ all, but we’ll come an’ have somethin’ to warm us.’

They drank the soup and then ordered a couple of pies and peas to go with their pickled onions, complimenting her on her cooking and declaring they’d spread the word among their pit mates. They left Pearl in a rosy glow of achievement which faded once James and Patrick had left for school and she had no other customers all morning. Several housewives stuck their heads in the door asking her this and that, but no one bought anything. By midday Pearl had changed her mind and decided to stay open all day in the hope of selling the food she’d cooked the night before and that morning. She had a huge cauldron-type pot of soup simmering on a very low heat on the hob in the kitchen, but was beginning to think it was all going to go to waste when mid-afternoon customers began to dribble in in their ones and twos. By the time James and Patrick got home from school she had a small queue and was glad of the lads’ assistance. Customers again tailed off about eight in the evening, but a sudden rush just before ten meant Pearl didn’t lock the shop door until after eleven o’clock.

James and Patrick had peeled another pile of vegetables before Pearl had sent them to bed just before the late rush, but even so she didn’t fall into bed until gone three in the morning and by then she was dropping with fatigue.

The next few days were similar, and by the Saturday evening when she took stock she found she’d barely broken even and hadn’t made a profit. She had decided beforehand to close most of the day on a Sunday and only open in the evening so she could spend some time with James and Patrick. In the event she slept most of the day away before staggering out of bed at four in the afternoon to begin work.

The next few weeks were hard. There were moments when Pearl even thought longingly of the pickle factory; at least she had been able to have eight hours’ sleep a night when she had worked there. Christmas came and went in a blur. She had tried to make Christmas Day special for James and Patrick, and on Christmas Eve had pinned two stockings to the hearth in the sitting room. She filled them with nuts and all manner of sweets, along with an orange and apple each and a shiny half-crown. On Christmas Day they had a big fat turkey with all the trimmings and plum pudding to follow, but once the boys were in bed and asleep Pearl sat in front of the fire thinking of Christopher and wondering if he was thinking of her. She cried herself to sleep that night and woke up the next morning glad to return to the punishing pace which kept her from brooding.

On New Year’s Eve it snowed heavily. It being a Thursday, Pearl opened as normal but she let James and Patrick stay up late. That night in the kitchen, as the clock chimed midnight and all the ships’ hooters and whistles sounded and the streets round about were filled with shouts and laughter as neighbours first-footed each other and celebrated the start of a brand new year, the three of them toasted Seth, Walter and Fred with hot mulled wine.

James and Patrick went off to bed a little tiddly and once she was sure they were asleep, Pearl went downstairs and into the back yard. It was still snowing, a million starry flakes falling from a laden sky. It was quieter now, just the odd shout or dog barking breaking the silence of the hushed new white world.

‘I thought you might come tonight, Seth.’ She spoke softly, her breath a cloud of white as she stood on the doorstep. ‘Stupid I know, you might not even know where we are, but somehow I think you do. I wish you’d come. I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, you’re my brother and I love you. Much more than you know.’

She hugged herself, wrapping her arms round her waist as she shivered. A couple of streets away there was a sudden burst of sound, someone calling and another voice answering, and loud laughter borne on the night air.

The beginning of a new year. A snowflake landed in her eye and she blinked before turning and shutting the door. Walking back into the kitchen, she looked at the row of bread tins proving in front of the range. The dough had risen nicely, and bending down she popped the first batch of bread into the oven and then checked the meat pies in the roasting oven.

She couldn’t let this fail. Sinking down on one of the hardbacked chairs, she gazed into the light of the oil lamp in the middle of the table. She was dipping into what remained of the money Seth had given them each week to pay the rent and buy supplies, and although she wasn’t losing money in the shop she still wasn’t making any – and they couldn’t carry on like that for much longer.

The flickering light was hypnotic; she felt her eyes begin to close and stood up sharply. She was tired, so tired – but she still had two or three hours’ work in front of her before she could go to bed. And she didn’t mind the hard work, she really didn’t, but if only she could see some encouragement . . .

Fetching the meat pies out of the oven she put the next trayfuls in and then straightened, stretching her aching back.

She had to
believe
. She nodded to the thought. Believe this had been the right thing to do, that it wasn’t a mistake. Believe she could make a better life for James and Patrick, for all three of them. And her little band of regulars was growing, albeit slowly, and everyone said her food was the best they’d tasted. Mind, they probably would say that to her face, she reasoned in the next moment. They might be saying something quite different out of earshot.

Enough.
Again she nodded and then said the word out loud: ‘Enough.’ If she didn’t believe in herself, then for sure no one else would. Word
was
spreading. Only the other day a small group of workers from the candle factory had come in, saying how one of their number had recommended her. It wouldn’t take too many incidents like that before she’d be making a go of things.

When Pearl did her accounts at the end of the week, she had to add them up twice before she believed what her eyes were telling her. Five shillings’ profit! All right, admittedly it wouldn’t even cover the rent for the week, but five shillings was five shillings nonetheless.

The next week it was just over one pound. The week after that, it doubled.

In March, Pearl felt the shop was doing well enough to justify the employment of an assistant. She hired a very capable widowwoman who was struggling to make ends meet. Nessie Ramshaw proved to be a blessing in all sorts of ways. Not only did she free Pearl up to concentrate on the cooking, but this motherly soul with a heart of gold also had a tongue that could cut the most awkward customer down to size; she was tailor-made for working in the front of the shop.

James and Patrick soon adored the stalwart little woman, a feeling which Nessie fully reciprocated. Nessie’s only child, a son, had died with the fever when he was eight, and it was soon clear to Pearl that her young brothers filled a heart-shaped hole in Nessie’s life.

It was Nessie who prompted Pearl to go to the bank and see the manager with a view to taking out a mortgage. Shortly after this, towards the end of that year, Pearl put in an offer of eighty pounds for the premises through the good Mr Mallard. When the owner demanded ninety, Pearl didn’t quibble. She knew if Ma Potts’s cousin took it upon herself to pay them a visit and observed how she’d improved their living quarters and the shop itself, and how prosperous it was becoming, she’d ask more.

Pearl took out a mortgage for half of the amount; the other half she could afford to pay outright. When everything was done and dusted and she was officially a woman of property, she and Nessie and the lads went for a slap-up meal at the Grand Hotel to celebrate. They virtually tiptoed into the hotel feeling completely out of their depth in the impressive surroundings, but once they were seated at a table in the fine dining room – lit by the modern phenomenon of electricity – Pearl began to enjoy herself. They ordered their meal from the embossed menu and when the first course came, Pearl relaxed back in her seat.

This wouldn’t be the last time they’d dine here, she vowed to herself, watching her brothers’ faces as they stared at the smartly dressed waiters gliding about, a white cloth draped over one arm. She was going to rise in the world and take James and Patrick with her. Christopher’s family had treated her as though she was something distasteful they’d brought in on the bottom of their shoes; she would never allow anyone to speak to her again in that fashion. And if she had to work her fingers to the bone to achieve what she wanted, so be it. It was a man’s world – look how the poor Suffragettes were being treated – but already women in Finland had won a real taste of political power when they’d secured seats in the Finnish Parliament, and a few years ago no one would have thought that possible. So why not more women in all realms of society, including business? The bank manager had been faintly patronising when he’d agreed her mortgage facility; one day – and not in the far distant future either – she’d repay that and buy another shop, more than one . . .

‘This soup’s not a patch on yours, lass,’ Nessie murmured in her ear. ‘An’ can you hear that man a couple of tables away? He might look like the gentry but he’s got a mouth on him as big as the pithead.’

Pearl grinned. Nessie wasn’t in awe of any establishment or person, and she was so glad the two of them were firm friends. She had never had a real friend of her own before; Freda had been kind to her, but Byron’s sister’s confidantes had been among her own kind, which was understandable. In the last months she had found she could talk to Nessie about almost anything. Her friend knew all about her life with the Romanies, and about Byron and Christopher, all her hopes and fears for the future and her poverty-stricken childhood. The only thing Pearl hadn’t revealed was Seth’s part in providing the wherewithal for the shop premises. As far as Nessie was concerned, Seth and the others were in prison and she’d last seen them as a child. She had explained away her means of setting up the shop by saying she’d had a windfall from a relative – which was true in a way – and, Nessie being Nessie, the little woman hadn’t pressed her further.