On Mother Brown's Doorstep Page 13

  ‘I’m pleased to ’ave met yer, lady,’ said Henry Brannigan, ‘but I don’t go in for keepin’ company. Good night to yer.’ And he went on his way. He entered the Walworth Road, which was full of lighted shop windows and street lamps. The pavements were bathed in light. His feet knew the Walworth Road paving stones well, he adjusted his stride to them.

  ‘’Ere, be matey.’

  The woman had caught him up and was walking beside him, taking quick steps to keep up with him.

  ‘’Oppit, lady,’ said Henry Brannigan, the familiar scowl appearing on his face.

  ‘Don’t be like that, lovey,’ she said, and did a little one-two with her feet.

  ‘What made you do that?’ he asked, keeping relentlessly to his measured stride.

  ‘I don’t like treadin’ on the lines,’ she said, ‘it’s bad luck.’

  ‘What?’ Henry Brannigan could hardly believe his ears.

  ‘Last time I trod a bit careless on a line, a customer did it on me. Pulled ’is trousers on quick an’ went off without payin’, the swine,’ said Madge. ‘Not all me customers are gents, I can tell yer. ’Ere, I live in Amelia Street, it’s just across the road. You can come an’ spend ’alf an hour with me, can’t yer? I can do with a bit of company – ’elp, I nearly ’it that crack. Cracks count as lines to me. Don’t think I’m barmy, I ain’t, I’m just superstitious. I don’t walk under ladders, neither.’ She stopped. ‘Come on, share a pot of tea with me, I like yer, and I won’t pester yer or ask to see yer wallet.’

  ‘I’ll do that, lady, I’ll share a pot of tea with yer,’ said Henry Brannigan, hiding the excitement of discovery. This woman felt the same way as he did about lines? ‘Yes, I’ll come with yer.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Madge, a good-natured woman, even if she was a fallen one. A fancy large-brimmed hat crowned her head, and her waisted coat owned a glossy collar of fox fur. She’d bought both items for a song down Petticoat Lane, and they gave her quite a posh look. But she didn’t charge posh prices, her going rate was five bob. ‘Come on, then, but don’t tread on the tramlines.’ She laughed.

  ‘Tramlines count,’ he said as they stepped off the kerb.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m careful meself about treadin’ on lines.’

  ‘Well, I never, are yer really?’ said Madge. They crossed the road and she laughed again as they both took care not to tread on the tramlines. They reached the pavement. The road was darker on this side.

  ‘We can walk easy now,’ he said. ‘Lines don’t count, of course, if you can’t see ’em.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Madge, entering Amelia Street with him. ‘My, fancy you bein’ superstitious as well, lovey. Ain’t it a funny old world? Me lodgings ain’t far down ’ere, except they’re on the other side. Come on.’ She took him across the street and to the house in which she lodged. She fished her key out of her handbag, slipped it into the lock and opened the door. A glowing gas mantle illuminated the passage. Lace curtains framed the approach to the stairs. ‘This way,’ she said, ‘me dear old landlady don’t mind me bringing gents ’ome. She ’ad gentlemen friends ’erself when she was a chorus girl up West.’ Henry Brannigan closed the door and followed her up the stairs to the back room, where a slow-burning coal fire offered a warm cosiness. She took a box of matches from the mantelpiece, struck a match and applied the flame to a gas mantle. The onset of light drove away black shadows, and the room took on an inviting look. A rug of brown wool covered the linoleum in front of the hearth fender. Two leather-upholstered armchairs seemed slightly at odds with a kitchen dresser, but only in a friendly way. ‘This is me livin’ room,’ said Madge. ‘Me bedroom’s on the landing, but we won’t be usin’ that, will we?’

  ‘I ain’t felt the need since me wife died,’ said Henry Brannigan.

  ‘All right, lovey, I ain’t goin’ to push yer. Take yer coat off, and yer titfer, and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  He took his hat and coat off and hung them on the door peg. She looked at him. His features were gaunt, his eyes dark and hollow, but he had the kind of strong-boned face that would have been handsome if there’d been more flesh to it. His black hair was well-brushed, his working clothes coarse and hard-wearing.

  ‘Givin’ me the once-over, are yer?’ he said.

  ‘Well, I like to see what I bring into me livin’ room, ducky,’ said Madge, and filled a tin kettle with water from a pitcher. She put the kettle on a gas ring. ‘In me bedroom, well, I just shut me eyes. A gel can’t be too choosy when it’s what you might call a matter of business. Come on, sit down.’

  But Henry Brannigan remained on his feet, placing himself with his back to the fire and eyeing her in undisguised curiosity. Madge removed her hat and coat, and his dark eyes flickered, for she wore a white high-necked lace blouse with a lace front and a red flared skirt saucily short. It was knee-length, and the frilled hem of a white petticoat peeped and flirted above legs in lace-up boots and black stockings. Her hair was auburn, her mouth generously touched with lipstick and her face heavily powdered. She was a good five feet eight and still handsome. She’d been kept by a man for ten years, from the age of twenty-three. She’d have preferred marriage, but he had a wife. When she was thirty-three, he stopped visiting her. He had always visited twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. When he failed to appear, she waited for an explanatory letter. It never came, and she had no idea where he lived. He had always kept that from her. She thought he must be either ill or dead, but was unable to find out. She felt bitter about it. With his disappearance, her allowance stopped. She thought about getting a job, but it was 1921, and any job was hard to come by. She took herself up West one evening and met a young RAF pilot. She was willing, he was eager. He took her to a small hotel in Kensington and she slept with him. When she woke up in the morning, he’d gone, leaving her three pounds on the bedside table. Truthfully, she hadn’t thought about money. She simply owned a very healthy body and it was a bit starved. She put the three pounds in her purse and left the hotel, the manager giving her a funny look on her way out. Blow you, she thought.

  She started looking for a job, a decent one. She didn’t fancy factory work, not a bit, and not after ten years of being kept in comfortable style. She tried her luck in some West End clubs, thinking a job as a dining-room waitress might suit her. That proved unsuccessful. She had no family. She was the only child of a Bermondsey docker and his better half, and they were dead. But she met a very nice gent by one of the clubs, and he gave her a whole five quid for spending the night with him. It enabled her to set herself up in cheap lodgings. And that was the start of her real fall from grace. She’d come down in the world since then, a long way down, and had finished up here while plying for trade in Walworth pubs. She had to keep her eye open for the rozzers. She hadn’t ever been run in. A girl got her name in the papers when that happened.

  ‘You’re on the game, of course,’ said Henry Brannigan.

  ‘Well, how’d yer guess, lovey?’ she smiled. She quite liked him. She felt he was a bit withdrawn, but he looked a girl in the eye and spoke frankly. Well, everyone on the game was always a girl. ‘Like me workin’ outfit, do yer?’

  ‘Suits yer,’ he said, ‘you’ve got fine legs. Bit too much powder, though.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Madge.

  ‘Tone it down, you don’t want to look as if you fell in a flour bag. A bit less powder and not so much paint, an’ yer’ll look more like a lady than a pro. Men fancy ladies.’

  ‘Saucy devil,’ said Madge, but laughed. ‘Like a sandwich, would yer?’

  ‘A biscuit would do for me.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Biscuit and a cup of tea, I don’t need more.’

  ‘Suits me too,’ said Madge, and he watched her as she brought out a tin of biscuits from the dresser cupboard and prepared to make the tea. She chatted while she waited for the kettle to boil. He made responsive comments. He was absorbed, even fascinated. What a find, a w
oman who shared his feeling that to tread on lines was bad luck. Kids played at it on their way home from school, giving yells if they failed, and pushing at each other to try to bring about failure. But it was a serious business when you were an adult, and sod kids who got in your way. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d consorted with a woman apart from his wife. And his wife had gone now.

  Madge made the tea, let it stand for a minute or so, then filled two cups with the steaming golden liquid. God’s gift a cup of hot tea was, and nor was it unpleasing to have a man keeping her company, a man who wasn’t here to go to bed with her. She got him to sit down in front of the fire, and she sat down herself, in the other armchair, each of them with a cup of tea and a biscuit. He was a strong-looking figure even seated. She was a woman who had an affinity with men, and so she sat, of course, with her legs and knees unveiled and the lacy hem of her white petticoat showing.

  ‘’Ow long you been watchin’ lines?’ he asked.

  ‘Five years,’ she said, ‘ever since a bloke either died on me or walked out on me. Something got to me, something about bad luck an’ good luck, and I’m superstitious up to the top of me corsets now.’

  ‘Lines, I reckon, are put in yer way to test yer will power,’ said Henry Brannigan, crunching biscuit with strong teeth. ‘I ain’t sayin’ it applies to everyone, just to some of us. You’re kind of kindred, lady.’

  ‘Kind of tarty, yer mean,’ said Madge.

  ‘Not to me,’ he said, ‘except for yer paint an’ powder, but that can easy be washed off. It ain’t tarty to ask me up ’ere to share a pot of tea with yer, and to sit me in front of yer fire. That’s human kindness.’

  ‘What’s yer name?’ asked Madge.

  He wasn’t keen on offering his name to all and sundry, not since the inquest, when the newspapers had shouted it out.

  ‘’Ave I asked you for your name, lady?’

  ‘No, but I’d like to know yours, seein’ you just said something very nice to me,’ said Madge.

  ‘I’m Henry.’

  ‘Just Henry?’ Madge smiled. ‘All right, good enough, Henry. And I’m Madge. I’ll be thinkin’ of you when I’m next walkin’ the pavement an’ dodgin’ the lines.’

  ‘That’s it, you watch them lines.’

  ‘Mind, I only do it sometimes. You can’t be doin’ it all the time, only when the mood takes yer.’

  ‘You should do it all the time. Once you start, you’re on the wheel of fortune, take it from me.’

  ‘Oh, it don’t count if you ain’t botherin’,’ said Madge, and Henry Brannigan shook his head dubiously. ‘More tea? Let’s give you a refill.’ She took his cup and saucer, got up and took the cosy off the teapot. She refilled his cup and her own. He thanked her in a sober way, looking at her in her white blouse and short saucy skirt. She sat down again, and he eyed her legs quite openly. She didn’t mind. She liked a man to be frankly appreciative.

  ‘What got you on the game?’ he asked.

  ‘Me legs?’ she said jokingly.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell yer, Henry, seein’ yer keepin’ me friendly company,’ she said, and told him how she had been a comfortably kept woman for ten years before her lover just disappeared from her life. She recounted what happened after that. ‘Well, I didn’t fancy slavin’ in a fact’ry. It spoils yer for fact’ry work, bein’ kept by a gen’rous bloke who’s fond of yer as well. Mind, I sometimes wish it ’adn’t spoiled me that much, I might ’ave got used to a job and ended up a respectable workin’ woman, or even got married.’

  Henry Brannigan thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll keep you.’

  ‘What?’ said Madge.

  ‘A woman like you, and kind of kindred,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t be on the game. I’ll make you an allowance. I’ve got savings, and the insurance money paid to me on the death of me wife, and I’ve also got me wages of two pound ten a week.’

  ‘What?’ said Madge again, staring at him. ‘Listen, Henry, you’ve only just met me, and I ain’t takin’ that proposition as serious.’

  ‘I’m offerin’ serious,’ he said. ‘It’ll keep you out of pubs, it’ll keep you off the game, which’ll turn you into an old ’aybag sooner than yer think if you don’t give it up. You look an ’andsome woman to me. That day you picked up a West End gent and ’e paid yer for services rendered, I’d say that was a day when you trod on a line after startin’ the fateful business of avoidin’ them. That time with the clubman put you on the game, an’ that was bad luck, I tell yer. It’s bad luck for any woman the day she goes on the game. Now you get yerself a flat, say at twelve bob a week.’

  ‘Twelve bob would get any woman an ’andsome flat,’ said Madge, wondering if he really was serious.

  ‘Well, like I said, Madge, you’re ’andsome yerself,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘I’ll take care of the rent an’ the cost of keepin’ yerself in decent comfort.’

  ‘As yer mistress?’ said Madge.

  ‘I ain’t askin’ for that, but I’ll come to keep yer company frequent.’

  ‘But you’ll want yer pleasure, won’t yer?’

  ‘Just yer company,’ he said, ‘I’m short of company that suits me.’

  ‘’Old on, ducky,’ said Madge, ‘there’s a ruddy catch somewhere. You’ll keep me and only ask for me company now and again? Don’t yer fancy me, then?’

  ‘I ain’t partial to usin’ a woman like that,’ he said, ‘I’m more partial to sharin’ ’er fireside, or doin’ a bit of walkin’ with ’er when the summer evenings come. We can beat the lines together.’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ said Madge, ‘but not much of a bargain for you.’

  ‘You look for a flat tomorrer,’ he said, ‘and I’ll meet yer outside the town ’all at eight in the evenin’. Are yer willin’?’

  ‘Henry, you’re cheatin’ yerself,’ she said.

  ‘Are yer willin’?’

  ‘More like dreamin’,’ said Madge. ‘No, of course I’m willin’, but it’s goin’ to cost yer, Henry, for just me company. Rent an’ keep cost more than a bag of ’ot chestnuts.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘No more customers. You got that, lady?’

  ‘That was included when I said I was willin’. I don’t go in for cheatin’ a man.’

  ‘It don’t pay a woman, cheatin’,’ said Henry Brannigan, and the ghost of a smile came and went.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SAMMY, WHO HAD left for Manchester on Monday evening without returning to the office, was back on Wednesday afternoon. In Manchester he’d been talking to mill owners. His new contract with Coates meant he couldn’t take the slightest risk in respect of fabric deliveries.

  Susie, hearing him enter his office, immediately went to see him.

  ‘Ah, good afternoon, Miss Brown,’ he said, hanging up his hat and coat.

  ‘Ah to you too,’ said Susie, and walked up to him, lifted her face and pursed her lips.

  ‘Not in office time, Miss Brown,’ said Sammy.

  A kick arrived on his left shin.

  ‘Take that,’ said Susie. There had been other times in her prolonged and electric relationship with Sammy when she’d had to deliver kicks.

  ‘You did that with your eyes shut,’ said Sammy, and kissed her.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Susie.

  ‘Not bad at all,’ said Sammy, ‘but I think we’ll have to stop meetin’ like this in office hours.’ But another kiss arrived, a lovely one to Susie. He had a man’s fine firm lips, and didn’t believe in pecking a girl.

  ‘Now you’re takin’ advantage,’ she said.

  ‘Well, Susie, while I’m not purportin’—’

  ‘While you’re not what?’

  ‘While I’m not purportin’ to imply the Manchester girls don’t have fashionable legs and female bosoms, the fact is what you’ve got, Susie, is high-class and adorable all over. Mind, I haven’t been all over yet—’

  ‘Sammy!’

  ‘S
o I’m speakin’ blindly, you might say, but not without bein’ confident and optimistic. Accordingly, when we keep meetin’ like this I can’t help takin’ advantage – hold on, is me declaration of confidence amusin’ you, Miss Brown?’

  Susie, laughing, said, ‘Sammy, I love it. More, please.’

  ‘Later, Miss Brown, later. Did you see Eli?’

  ‘I did, and he’s goin’ to put his nose into every suitable warehouse. Sammy, exactly why do you want him to buy up our kind of materials?’

  ‘Well,’ said Sammy, ‘Harriet—’

  ‘Miss de Vere.’

  ‘The selfsame, Susie. Our summer fashions are sellin’ like hot faggots in her branches—’

  ‘Cakes. Hot cakes.’

  ‘Same thing, Susie, except hot faggots are tastier and more nourishing,’ said Sammy. ‘Now, on account of that, Miss de Vere, who is actually a widow name of Mrs Bird, persuaded her directors to give us a huge contract for autumn and winter designs.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Susie.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you do, Susie, it does me heart good to know your brainbox is tickin’, because we’ve got to make sure we don’t fall flat on our faces when it comes to delivery. I acquired promises in Manchester regardin’ delivery of fabrics, and before I went there I had a specialized talk with Harriet—’

  ‘Miss de Vere,’ said Susie. Before becoming engaged to Sammy, she’d felt somewhat threatened by his attachment to his old girlfriend, Rachel Goodman. So she’d discouraged the development of anything but a strictly business relationship between Sammy and Harriet de Vere. Harriet had found Sammy mesmerizing. However, she had subsequently met Boots and found him fascinating. Even so, Susie was taking no chances. The horrendous casualties of the Great War had resulted in a shortage of eligible men and a worrying surplus of women.

  ‘The obligin’ lady—’