Authors: Carol Rivers
Lily of Love Lane
By the same author
Lizzie of Langley Street
Rose of Ruby Street
Connie of Kettle Street
Bella of Bow Street
About the author
Carol Rivers, whose family comes from the Isle of Dogs, East London, now lives in Dorset.
Lily of Love Lane
is her fifth novel.
Visit www.carolrivers.com
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster, 2008
The edition first published by Pocket Books, 2008
An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Carol Rivers, 2008
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster
The right of Carol Rivers to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
Africa House
64-78 Kingsway
London WC2B 6AH
Simon & Schuster Australia
Sydney
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-84739-360-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-47113-394-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Cox and Wyman, Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX
Readers, this is my chance to dedicate a book to
you.
And thanks to libraries everywhere, especially to Vickie Goldie and the girls of Southbourne and Kinson branches Dorset and to Eve Hostettler, co-ordinator of the Island History
Trust, East London.
Special thanks go to Dorothy, a wonderful agent – the best! Also to the fabulous Kate and Libby and Joe and all the sales, production and design teams at Simon &
Schuster who have worked so hard on this series of East End sagas.
Please visit my website for more information on the books.
www.carolrivers.com
Noteworthy Extracts from the
Mission Hall Quarterly
1937
January 1930
Isle of Dogs, East London
L
ily Bright watched in concern as her mother pushed back a strand of thin, greying hair from her careworn face. For the last ten minutes she had
been searching all the cups on the dresser and was now turning out her purse.
‘What’s the matter, Mum? Lost something?’
‘I thought I’d put a bit more by for the rent but I must have spent it.’
Lily lifted the flap of her bag and searched inside. She gave her mother the two shillings she found. ‘Reube pays me tomorrow so I’ll be able to give you me wages then.’
‘Money seems like water these days,’ sighed Josie Bright as she counted the change on the kitchen table. ‘It just runs away. But with what you’ve given me I’ve got
ten bob to give to the landlord.’
‘What about the arrears?’
‘I’ll ask him to call again on Monday.’
Lily silently said goodbye to the pair of boots she desperately needed. She knew the debts were piling up.
Josie sighed once more. ‘Your father’s gone down the docks again this morning, but I don’t hold out much hope. Not when there’s so many out of work and he’s only a
casual.’
‘I can work Saturday afternoons, p’raps.’ Lily met her mother’s anxious blue gaze with an encouraging smile. Lily’s own eyes were the same shade of blue but had the
shimmering clarity of youth. The cloud of short, wavy fair hair around her face that stubbornly refused to be shaped into a modern cut, made her look much younger than she was. Despite her youthful
appearance, at twenty, Lily had had more than her fair share of worry. It was nothing new for her to shoulder her family’s financial burdens, as for the past six years, since she’d left
school, her dad had been in and out of employment. Bob Bright, a docker by trade, had accepted any kind of work he could get hold of since the general strike of 1926. Now, there were so many men
wanting jobs in the dockyards that poverty and unemployment on the Isle of Dogs, East London, was a fact of life.
Sometimes, like this morning, Lily wished her job on a market stall paid better, but she loved working in the open air. The stallholders were a happy bunch and made a joke of hard times. Unlike
in the factories, where the pay was better, but everyone was cooped up, doing monotonous work, which could make life miserable. She loved the market so much she was willing to work long days to
make up her wages. And she knew her boss, Reube James who lived opposite, would be happy to give her more hours.
‘You’re up at the crack of dawn as it is, Lily, love,’ her mother replied with a deep frown. ‘Saturday afternoons is your only time off with Hattie.’
‘We can always go out on Sundays,’ Lily shrugged. She didn’t want her mother to get any more upset. It was bad enough that her dad couldn’t find work. At least one of the
family was in employment and Lily was grateful for this. And anyway, Hattie would understand. They had been through bad times before, and always gave one another support. Hattie had been
Lily’s best friend since school. Wandering around the markets and strolling the streets of the island on a Saturday afternoon was the highlight of the girls’ week. But in times of
crisis, their outings had to be put on the back burner.
‘Your dad said he might be lucky.’ Josie Bright’s quiet voice held a note of hope. ‘There’s a skin boat in.’
‘Oh, I hope he don’t get one of those.’ Lily knew all too well that working in the holds of skin ships, the men could catch Anthrax. It was a dangerous task, removing the
infected carcasses. Someone had to do it and it was usually the most desperate of the men, like her father, who did. They needed to feed their families. Any job would do, if it achieved a wage. But
Lily always hoped that someone else would be given the skin boats. She didn’t want her dad put at risk.
‘I told him to tie a scarf round his mouth and wash his hands after touching them dead things. And when he comes home, he can have a good scrub in the Naptha.’
Before Lily could reply that the strong smelling disinfectant was no real answer to the deadly disease, a loud banging started up outside. Josie Bright jumped up. ‘That’ll be your
uncle, locked in the closet again. I warned him not to use the latch, it sticks. But does the silly old duffer ever listen? No, I’m just wasting me breath.’
Lily went to the kitchen window and looked out. It was so cold a film of white frost covered the roofs and backyards. Her uncle’s bootprints led to the closet halfway down the path. There
was no inside toilet in the house; everyone had to go outside, come rain or shine.
‘I’m going to scream if your uncle plays me up again today. If I hear just one more daft syllable drop from his lips.’
Lily smiled at this. Her uncle tended to be absentminded. It was funny if you took it as a joke but it could also be very wearing. At sixty-five, her mother’s brother was a confirmed
bachelor and ten years older than her mum. Josie had complained to Lily that she rued the day when she’d let him come to live with them after closing up his rag and bone yard. But Lily knew
they were really very fond of one another.
‘I’ll go out and get him,’ Lily already had her coat on as she had dressed to leave the house at half past six. The market started very early but it was now ten past seven, and
Reube would be wondering where she was.
Lily hurried into the yard, leaving the warmth behind her. The big kitchen adjacent to the scullery was her favourite room in the dilapidated three-storey house she had grown up in. All the
houses of Love Lane were terraced, each one built along the same lines. Most kitchens contained freshly washed clothes aired above people’s heads on a wooden pulley. Every corner beneath was
usually crammed with cooking utensils. Her mum’s pride and joy was a large scrubbed wooden table where she did a lot of mixing and preparing of food next to the black leaded range. Four
wooden chairs were stowed under it, so that the cosy space was used more frequently than the parlour for social gatherings.
‘Uncle Noah, you shouldn’t have dropped the latch.’ Lily put her ear against the wooden door.
‘I didn’t,’ came the indignant reply. ‘It fell down of its own accord.’
‘Stand back then, and I’ll push hard. Are you decent?’
‘I got me pants up if that’s what you mean.’
Lily put her small shoulder to the door. She was only slight at five foot five but was quite strong, even though she didn’t look it.
The door groaned loudly and finally gave way. Her uncle stood in his combinations and big black boots. The laces, as usual, were undone. He clutched the newspaper pieces that Lily had cut into
squares and dangled them in front of her. ‘A lot of use this is!’ he exclaimed. ‘Must have froze overnight. Good job I didn’t need to evacuate me bowels.’ Replacing
the newspaper on the nail, he crossed his matchstick arms across his skinny chest. ‘What you doing out here, gel?’
‘I’ve come to get you.’ Lily’s teeth began to chatter. She admired her mum a lot, as she had to look after Uncle Noah all day and every day. And he wasn’t getting
any easier.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you’re likely to freeze.’
‘It’s not that cold.’
‘Then why are your lips turning blue?’ Lily shivered, her feet already growing numb in her leather lace-up boots. For such a small man, with a birdlike chest, bow legs and arms the
size of pipe cleaners, Lily knew her uncle was more resilient than he looked. By rights, every bone in his body should be frozen by now, but experience had taught her that just like her mother the
same seamless energies ran through the Kelly bloodline.
He stared at her from behind a pair of ancient pince-nez spectacles. ‘Is me breakfast ready?’
‘No, Mum ain’t too good this morning.’ Lily knew that if she asked him to hurry, as likely or not he would do the opposite.
‘What’s up?’
‘Dad might have to work on a skin ship.’
‘Poor bugger.’
‘Why don’t you cook breakfast for her this morning, Uncle?’ Lily suggested gently. ‘It might cheer her up.’
‘She won’t let me do that.’
‘Let’s go inside and see.’
‘All right, I’m a-coming.’ To Lily’s relief he sped past her like a two-year-old. ‘Lovely fresh morning, ain’t it? Let’s get the troops
sorted.’
Lily smiled as she watched him advance on the back door. A wave of nostalgia filled her as she heard his booming voice call out to her mother. As a child she had travelled beside him on the rag
and bone cart. His cry of ‘Any old iron?’ had caused doors and windows to be flung open. By the time she was five, he had taught her how to use the reins, commanding Samson the horse to
‘walk on!’ or ‘stand!’ She still recalled the wonderful feeling of the old animal’s response and the strength of his big grey body. But the sentimental moment was soon
over as Lily entered the kitchen.
