On Mother Brown's Doorstep Read online

  ‘You look like a young lady from here,’ said Will, pushing the cart on towards the Lane. The East Street market was known as the Lane.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Annie bitterly, ‘just keep lookin’. I like bein’ in a pushcart with me knees up and me legs showin’, don’t I?’

  ‘I’m not lookin’, said Will.

  Annie, who was facing him, gritted her teeth. People were looking and gawping, of course. Oh, the shame of it, at her age. It was worse when they reached the market, where Will turned left. She was sure everyone in Walworth was there.

  ‘Oi, Tommy Atkins,’ said some grinning middle-aged man, ‘did yer buy them goods off a stall?’

  ‘Yes, five bob the lot,’ said Will, and Annie fumed.

  ‘Five bob?’ said the interested party. ‘You should’ve ’ad ’er wrapped up in fancy paper for that, an’ tied with ribbon as well.’

  Will grinned and pushed on, crossing the street.

  ‘Did you hear that, did you hear what ’e said?’ demanded Annie.

  ‘I expect you’d look nice in ribbon,’ said Will, trying to cheer her up.

  ‘Oh, you saucy devil, you didn’t ought to be a soldier, you ought to be locked up till you can treat a girl proper.’

  ‘How’s your knee?’ asked Will, the boy still behind him.

  ‘Oh, thanks for askin’,’ said Annie.

  A passing woman said, ‘Givin’ yer sister a ride, are yer, soldier?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ said Will, ‘she’s just a new friend of mine, and we’re getting to know each other.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be his sister or his friend, not if he gave me a sackful of diamonds,’ fumed Annie. ‘He’s a demon, he is.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Will and pushed on.

  ‘Look, I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful,’ said Annie, ‘but how would you like to be wheeled ’ome in a pushcart?’

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ said Will.

  ‘Oh, blessed agony,’ breathed Annie. He had turned into Blackwood Street. ‘I know what’s goin’ to ’appen now, all the kids are goin’ to look.’

  Kids were there all right. They stopped their street games to stare. Recognizing Annie, they came running up.

  ‘Crikey, look at you, Annie!’

  ‘What’s the soldier wheelin’ yer in that can for?’

  ‘Is that yer knees showin’?’

  A girl darted from an open door and came to a halt in front of the pushcart. She addressed Will indignantly.

  ‘’Ere, that’s our sister you’ve got in there, mister.’

  ‘She hurt her knee,’ said Will, ‘so I’ve given her a ride home.’

  ‘Crikey, me an’ Charlie wondered why she was late,’ said fourteen-year-old Nellie Ford. ‘’Ave yer really ’urt yer knee, Annie?’

  ‘Yes, and me pride as well,’ said Annie.

  ‘You kids, push off,’ said Nellie, like Annie in her looks.

  ‘Can’t we see ’er knee?’ asked a small girl. ‘I never seen an ’urt knee except me own. I seen a bunion, me mum’s got one—’

  ‘Push off,’ said Nellie. The kids backed off for about a yard.

  ‘Right,’ said Will, ‘I’ll carry Annie indoors. You lead the way,’ he said to Nellie. ‘Up you come again, Daisy Bell.’

  ‘She ain’t Daisy Bell, she’s Annie,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Well, she’d look just like Daisy Bell if she had a boater and a bicycle,’ said Will. He lifted Annie. She clutched the hem of her frock. ‘Thanks for the loan of your pushcart, young tosh,’ he said to the boy, who at once made off with it before foreign street kids could get their hands on it.

  ‘This way, mister,’ said Nellie, and Will followed, Annie up in his arms, legs dangling, frock rucked.

  ‘Crikey, Annie,’ called a precocious boy, ‘I think yer knickers is showin’.’

  Annie gave a tight little scream as Will carried her indoors.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE FORD FAMILY, renting their house in Blackwood Street for twelve bob a week, consisted of Mr Harold Ford, a forty-two-year-old ganger on the LSER, his three daughters Annie, Nellie and Cassie, and his son Charlie. His wife, unfortunately, had developed pneumonia during the last year of the war. It proved fatal, as pneumonia nearly always did. She lay in the South London cemetery now, under green turf and a headstone. The vicar of St John’s Church had approved the wording.

  ‘RUTH ANNIE FORD. Born 1888, died 1918. Wife of Harold Stanley Ford and mother of Annie, Nellie, Charlie and Cassie. OUR MUM.’

  Annie was her dad’s right hand now. She had any amount of spirit and as much bossiness as was necessary to get the better of twelve-year-old Charlie. She wasn’t averse to chasing him with the brush and pan. The back of the brush was good for whacking his bottom, and the pan good for giving his head a thump. Charlie complained she’d knock it off one day. She told him he wouldn’t miss it.

  ‘Course I would,’ said Charlie, ‘I couldn’t even walk about without me loaf of bread, nor see where I was goin’, neither.’

  ‘Dear oh lor’,’ said Annie, ‘what a shame.’

  Not that affection wasn’t there. Annie had a characteristically warm cockney heart under her scolding exterior, and was very fond of her family, especially her dad. But someone had to keep them in order, her dad as well. Sometimes on Sundays she’d make them all go to church with her.

  ‘You too, Dad,’ she’d say.

  ‘Well, Annie, I was thinkin’ about mendin’ the chair that’s—’

  ‘No, you weren’t. Go and put your Sunday suit on. And you, Charlie – here, where you off to, Cassie? Come back here. Sit on ’er, Nellie, till we’re ready. Charlie, you goin’ to put your suit on, or do I ’ave to belt you one?’

  Charlie, strong-willed, was a holy terror who needed belting occasionally. Annie made do with thumping him and applying her own will, which was just as strong as Charlie’s. So whenever she said they’d all got to go to church with her, Charlie went too. Annie could fashion hurtful beds of nails for defaulters.

  Her dad gave her a hand with meals at weekends, but he was always home too late to be a help on weekdays. Still, he never failed to do full justice to what she set before him. Everyone had to wash their hands before they sat down to a meal. Annie was nearly ten when her mum died and could remember how particular she’d been about clean hands at meal times. She remembered lots of things about her lively pretty mum, nice things, and Annie meant never to let her down. She could never quite understand why the Lord had taken her when she was only thirty. Nellie asked a question on those lines once, and their dad said he supposed the Lord often took the ones He liked best while they were still young. Nellie said she didn’t want the Lord not to like her, but she didn’t want to be liked so much that she’d have to go to an early grave. Wouldn’t it be better if the Lord took people like Mrs Potter? She’s not young, said Charlie, she’s ninety and she’s got whiskers. Still, age before beauty, said Nellie. Not when it’s got whiskers on, said Charlie. You Charlie, said Annie, don’t you talk like that about kind old ladies.

  Annie could sort Charlie out fairly well most times. Ten-year-old Cassie was a different problem. She was a dreamy girl with a vivid imagination that took her into the realms of never-never land far too often. A neighbour would stop Annie and say something like what’s all this I hear about your family being invited to tea at Windsor Castle next Sunday afternoon? Or, Annie love, I can’t hardly believe your dad swam the Channel last week, there wasn’t nothing about it in the papers. Or even, fancy your Charlie saving a girl from drowning in the Serpentine last week and being given a gold medal by the King.

  It could all be traced back to Cassie, and Cassie would get a talking-to.

  ‘Now, you Cassie, you’ve been tellin’ stories again.’

  ‘Me, Annie?’

  ‘Yes, you. I saw Alice Miller down the Lane. What d’you mean by tellin’ ’er Dad’s goin’ to get a job at Buckingham Palace?’

  The Royal Family a
nd much of what was associated with it featured prominently in Cassie’s inventive mind.

  ‘Annie, I only said Dad might. Well, ’e might one day. The King and Queen ’ave to ’ave men doin’ jobs there, they couldn’t do them themselves, they ’ave to sit on their throne mostly. I bet Dad could do a good job at Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘Cassie, you little ’orror, the best job Dad could do would be to stop you tellin’ all these fancy stories about us. You even told Mrs Woodley last week that Dad used to be a sea captain. If you keep on like this, you’ll never go to ’eaven.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to go yet, Annie, honest, not before Mrs Potter.’

  If Charlie could be thumped for being a bit of a tearaway, there wasn’t much that could be done about Cassie and her imagination, except hope that she’d grow out of it. All their dad did about it was to cough a bit. Annie told him he could cough as much as he liked, but none of it would cure Cassie. No, but it’s a help to me, said her dad. What sort of help? It stops me falling about, said her dad.

  Cassie, Nellie and Charlie were all attending school. Annie had a job from ten until four with a grocer near the Elephant and Castle. The grocer, Mr Urcott, was a really kind bloke, he let her work those hours so that she could see to the family in the mornings and get home in time to make a pot of tea and do some bread and marge for herself and her brother and sisters. Supper came later.

  Banging her knee against that pushcart meant she had failed them today. It also meant she’d arrived home in a mortifying way for a girl her age, even if she knew she couldn’t have got there by herself on one leg. She’d never live that pushcart down. Neighbours would ask if she really had been wheeled home in it by a soldier.

  Will sat her down on the edge of the kitchen table. With its solid legs and square deal top, it was the kind of table seen in most Walworth kitchens, and the kitchen itself, with its oven range and its window facing the back yard, was like a thousand others. The range fire was alight, burning very slowly, the coals covered by a pinky-white ash. China filled the dresser shelves and cups hung from hooks. Will thought the kitchen had a homely look similar to his mother’s. He didn’t think Annie and her family were too hard-up. Her sister’s gymslip and white blouse had quite a new look, and the blue frock she herself was wearing was quite pretty.

  ‘What yer doin’ that for, sittin’ Annie on the table?’ asked Nellie, intrigued at having a soldier in the house.

  ‘I’m taking care of her knee,’ said Will, and stood back to regard Annie, who at once brushed at the skirt of her short frock and covered her knees. Crumbs, thought Nellie, what’s our Annie gone all shy for?

  Annie stared accusingly at Will.

  ‘I don’t know why you keep lookin’ at me,’ she said. ‘I never met anyone who does more lookin’ than you. I might not ’ave bumped into that pushcart if you hadn’t been lookin’ then.’

  ‘We’ve had all that,’ said Will, smiling. Crikey, thought Nellie, ain’t he handsome? ‘Where’s your mum?’ asked Will.

  ‘She died when we was young,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Will, who couldn’t imagine what it must be like for a family to have no mum. His own mum had always been there, placid, affectionate and uncritical.

  ‘But we got a nice dad,’ said Nellie.

  ‘That’s a consolation,’ said Will. ‘About the knee, Annie—’

  ‘Never mind me knee,’ said Annie, ‘you’re not gettin’ a look at that too.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Will, ‘I like knees. Well, girls’ knees. Anyway, Annie, from what I’ve seen of yours, I’d say you’ve just bruised the right one. If it’s a bit stiff, put some liniment on it.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Annie, ‘and thanks ever so much, I’ll try and forget how you dumped me in that pushcart. Nellie, where’s Cassie and Charlie?’

  ‘Charlie’s next door,’ said Nellie. ‘Pam Nicholls sauced him over the wall, so ’e jumped over it so’s ’e could chase ’er into ’er kitchen and smack ’er up-an’-downer.’

  ‘I’ll kill the little ’ooligan,’ fumed Annie.

  ‘What’s her up-and-downer?’ asked Will.

  ‘’Er bottom,’ said Nellie, giggling.

  ‘Jamaica Rum?’ said Will, grinning.

  ‘Charlie calls it up-an’-downer, I don’t know where ’e got it from,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Wait till I get my hands on him,’ said Annie.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, Annie,’ said Nellie, ‘Pam likes it. That’s why she sauced him. Oh, an’ Cassie’s gone to look for Tabby. Tabby’s our cat,’ she said to Will. ‘’E’s always goin’ off an’ gettin’ lost. Annie says she’ll drown ’im one day.’

  ‘Nellie, have you all had a bit of tea?’ asked Annie, her knee feeling stiff.

  ‘Yes, I did some bread an’ marge,’ said Nellie. ‘an’ Charlie made a pot of tea. ’E only took ’alf an hour. Annie, could yer do with a cup yerself?’

  ‘Yes, I could,’ said Annie, ‘but you’re not to make it, you’ll ’ave another accident with the kettle.’

  ‘I upset the kettle once, when it was boilin’,’ said Nellie to Will. ‘Not over meself, thank goodness, over the gas stove. Annie won’t let me go near one now. Would you like a cup of tea yerself now, mister? I’ll try an’ get Charlie in.’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ said Will, ‘I’ve got plenty of time.’ He was making a leisurely thing of his leave, as he’d been advised to. ‘Annie ought to rest her knee on her bed, of course. Come on, Annie, I’ll carry you up.’ He could manage that, he thought.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t let soldiers I ’ardly know carry me up to me bed. Nellie can help me up the stairs when I’ve had that cup of tea. You really goin’ to make it?’

  ‘Where’s the kettle?’ asked Will. ‘There it is.’ It was on the hob, and he transferred it to the top of the gas oven in the scullery. He searched for a match.

  In the kitchen, Nellie whispered, ‘Oh, ain’t he ‘andsome, Annie? Fancy you findin’ a nice soldier like ’im.’

  Since Annie knew that her dignity had taken a hiding, she said loudly, ‘Well, I won’t say he wasn’t helpful, nor that he ’asn’t got a kind heart somewhere, but dumpin’ me in that pushcart with ’undreds of people about, I wonder I didn’t die of bein’ Looked at. I expect some soldiers – what’s that I can hear?’

  ‘It’s ’im,’ whispered Nellie, ‘’e’s laughin’.’

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said Annie, even more loudly. ‘He was laughin’ all the time he was wheelin’ me home. Some soldiers would have covered my legs up, but not ’im, oh, no. He let all the street kids have a look.’

  ‘Yes, and Eddie Marsh said ’e saw yer knickers,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Oh, you Nellie, wasn’t it bad enough havin’ that little ’ooligan speak the word without you speakin’ it as well?’ fumed Annie.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Will from the kitchen, ‘I didn’t see them myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ breathed Annie, ‘I’ll spit in a minute.’

  ‘Annie, you shouldn’t spit,’ said Nellie, ‘Dad wouldn’t like you to.’

  ‘Got a teapot in there?’ called Will. ‘And some tea?’

  Nellie took the teapot and caddy out to him.

  ‘You goin’ to stay and keep an eye on our Annie till our dad gets ’ome?’ she asked, putting the question in the belief it was a sister’s natural duty to help an older one enjoy a romance. Annie mostly turned her nose up at young men. She said she was too busy to go walking out with any of them, and that she liked her family best, anyway. Nellie knew she was wild with this soldier for putting her in a pushcart, but she wasn’t actually turning her nose up at him. If she had been, she’d have spoken very politely to him, thanked him for bringing her home, and asked her, Nellie, to show him out. Instead, she was giving him what for and not making any move to get off the table and hop to a chair. It was like she was waiting for him to carry her up to her room, even though she’d said he wasn’t to. A
nd Nellie thought her knee hadn’t suffered a mortal injury, she was hardly taking any notice of it. ‘I don’t mind if you stay,’ said Nellie, as Will stirred the pot, ‘only me an’ Charlie can’t do much with her at times, specially if she’s a bit upset, poor woman, an’ needs someone to see she rests ’er knee.’

  There was a muffled little yell from Annie.

  ‘You Nellie, I’m listening to you!’

  ‘Poor what, Nellie?’ asked Will, grinning.

  ‘Yes, poor woman,’ said Nellie. ‘Mind, she’s ever so nice really, and our dad says she’s pretty too. So does ’Arold Seymour down the street, ’e’s potty about ’er, but ’e’s got ginger ’air and Annie ’ates ginger ’air. D’you think she’s pretty?’

  ‘You Nellie!’ yelled Annie. ‘I’ll smother you!’

  ‘There, you can see she’s upset,’ said Nellie.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Will, waiting for the tea to draw.

  ‘I heard that!’ cried Annie, who had never felt more put upon since she’d become a young lady. ‘I’m not a poor woman!’

  ‘We’ll be with you in a moment,’ called Will.

  ‘What’s yer name?’ asked Nellie.

  ‘Will Brown, from Caulfield Place.’

  ‘That’s a nice name. What’s them stripes on yer sleeve for?’

  ‘To show I’m a corporal and can order people about,’ said Will.

  ‘Crikey, can yer really? You goin’ to order Annie about?’

  ‘What’ll happen if I do?’

  ‘Oh, she’ll think you’re ever so manly,’ said Nellie.

  Annie could hardly believe what she was listening to. That Nellie, talking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Will, bringing the teapot in. ‘How about some cups and saucers, Nellie, and some milk and sugar?’

  Nellie supplied the requirements.

  ‘I’m still sittin’ here like a lemon, you know,’ said Annie.

  ‘All right, let’s try a chair,’ said Will, and lifted her and sat her on one. Annie was a slender girl of five feet seven. She was proud of her legs and happy about her bosom, which was happy about itself. Well, it was firm and didn’t joggle about like some other girls’ bosoms did, especially if they didn’t wear decent stays. Any bosom that didn’t joggle felt happy about itself.