Nightingales on Call (2 page)

Jess lingered at the second-hand bookstall, imagining what she would buy once she had a few spare pennies to her name. The titles all seemed to call to her, each one promising great adventure, the chance to escape from her own life for a while. She could be transported back to the court of King Arthur or into the heat of the Arabian desert, just by turning the pages. Jess wasn’t sure she could have endured the last few years without being able to shut herself away in a quiet corner and live in someone else’s imagined world.

A copy of
Great Expectations
caught her eye. It had seen better days, its cover stained and worn, the spine tattered. But it had been her mother’s favourite, the story of a boy taken from his humble home and raised to wealth by a mysterious benefactor. Jess still remembered the tears running down her mother’s cheeks as Sarah Jago had read it out loud to her.

‘One day that will happen to you, Jess,’ she would whisper. ‘One day you’ll have the chance to get away from this place. And when that day comes I want you to go and never look back.’

‘Only if you come with me,’ Jess would always reply. ‘I’m not going anywhere without you.’

Her mother would look around at the damp, crumbling walls with her saddest smile on her face. ‘It’s too late for me, my love,’ she would sigh.

And she was right. That dingy terrace house had been Sarah Jago’s prison until the day she died.

The stallholder was leaning against the wall, smoking. He was a young man, no more than twenty years old, his dark hair slicked back off his face with brilliantine.

‘The penny romances are over there,’ he said carelessly, pointing with his cigarette to a heap of books spread out on a sheet on the pavement.

‘I prefer Dickens.’

Out of the corner of her eye Jess caught the young man’s look of surprise.

‘Oh, yeah? And what have you read?’ he asked with a smirk.

Jess paused for a moment, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘
Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, Nicholas Nickleby
. . .’

He looked impressed. ‘Is that a fact?’

‘And how much Dickens have you read?’ Jess fired back.

The young man grinned. ‘I’m more of a
Racing Post
man myself.’

‘And you run a bookstall?’ She couldn’t imagine being surrounded by books all day long and not wanting to read them.

‘It’s my dad’s. I’m just helping out till something else comes along.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette. His slicked-back hair emphasised the narrowness of his face. With that and the shiny patches on his suit, Jess got the impression of a young man trying too hard to be someone he wasn’t.

He looked down at the pile of dog-eared books. ‘Not much call for Dickens round here,’ he sighed. ‘Dunno why my dad bought them, to be honest. Reckon he must have got a job lot cheap.’ He regarded her with interest. ‘You know, I would have had you down as more of a romantic.’

Jess knew when she was being flirted with. She kept her eyes fixed on the gold lettering down the spine of the book. ‘I haven’t got time for all that nonsense.’

‘Go on! I thought every young girl liked a bit of love in her life.’

She ignored him. ‘So how much do you want for this?’ she asked, holding up the book.

‘A tanner?’ he said hopefully.

Jess laughed. ‘You just said you couldn’t get rid of them. Besides, it’s falling to bits!’

‘Yes, but it’s what’s inside that counts, ain’t it?’ He winked at her.

Before Jess could reply, an angry voice startled them both.

‘Oi, you! Sling your hook.’

Jess glanced around and realised the shout was directed at her. A costermonger from a nearby fruit and veg stall was bearing down on her, red-faced. Jess regarded him calmly.

‘You talking to me, Mister?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I am. We don’t want your sort round here.’

‘Do you mind? She’s a customer,’ the young man put in.

‘Customer?’ The costermonger’s mouth curled. ‘Don’t make me laugh. She’s one of them Jago kids, from the hatcheries. They’d nick the teeth out your head if they thought they could get away with it.’ He turned on Jess, jabbing his finger inches away from her face. ‘I caught one of your lot pinching apples off my stall this morning. Little sod thought I couldn’t see him.’

Jess squared up to her accuser. ‘I wasn’t going to pinch anything,’ she said.

‘No, ’cos you ain’t going to get the chance.’ The coster moved to grab her arm, but the young man stepped in.

‘Leave her alone,’ he said. ‘She’s got a right to look at the books, same as everyone else.’

The coster let out a snort of laughter. ‘Oh, I see. That’s the way the wind’s blowing, is it? Well, you wouldn’t be the first to be taken in by a pretty face. More fool you.’ He turned his sneering attention back to Jess. ‘She probably can’t even read. She’s just waiting till your back’s turned so she can nick summat to pawn.’

‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Jess snapped back. ‘I’ll bet your missus is down the pop shop often enough.’

Her barb must have hit its mark because the coster’s face contorted with rage. ‘Cheeky little cow! I’ll give you a clip round the ear—’

‘You just try it.’ Jess didn’t flinch. She could see him weighing up his chances. But she knew for all their bluster, there weren’t many people in Bethnal Green who would take on the Jagos.

‘You ain’t worth the bother,’ he muttered.

‘What was that all about?’ the young man asked as the coster stomped back to his stall.

‘Ain’t got a clue.’ Jess tried to hand the book back to him, but he waved it aside.

‘Keep it,’ he said.

‘But I couldn’t—’

‘I told you, we don’t have much call for that sort of thing around here.’

Jess hesitated, aware of the coster watching her from across the street. Other eyes were turned on her too. She could tell what they were thinking. Typical Jagos, always wanting something for nothing.

She made up her mind and pushed the book back into the young man’s hands. ‘Thanks, but I don’t take anything I haven’t paid for,’ she said firmly.

As she walked away, her head held high, she heard the young man sigh.

‘Blimey, I’m going to tell my dad we can’t even
give
bloody Dickens away now.’

In spite of her simmering anger, his comment made Jess smile all the way home.

BLACK MONDAY, THE
locals on the hatcheries called the day the rent was due. As she walked by, Jess could already see the line of women outside Solomon’s pawnbrokers with their belongings, waiting to see ‘Uncle’ for a few bob. Her cousin Betty was among them, a bundle under her arm.

Jess crossed the road to her. ‘Not Uncle Johnny’s suit again?’ she laughed.

‘It’s all we’ve got left,’ Betty sighed. She was eighteen, a year older than Jess, with the same dark colouring. But she was a head taller and had blossomed into a much more womanly shape. Jess always felt like a child next to her. ‘Dad won’t miss it till the end of the week.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t have to go to any funerals before then!’

‘Or up before the magistrate,’ Betty said. ‘That’s more likely, knowing my dad.’

Jess grimaced. ‘And mine.’

Betty gave her a sympathetic look. ‘He’ll be out soon enough, ducks.’

Worse luck, Jess thought. She knew she was supposed to feel sad her dad was behind bars, but the truth was she hadn’t been sorry when the judge sentenced him to jail for stealing the lead off the roof of a church hall.

She would never have been able to escape if he was still at home, at any rate. He would have given her the buckle end of his belt for even thinking about it.

You haven’t got away yet
, a small voice inside her head reminded her.

Jess chatted to Betty for a minute or two longer, then said goodbye to her cousin and plunged further into the hatcheries, the place she called home.

The hatcheries sat between Shoreditch and Bethnal Green, and no one with any sense went near it. No one was sure how the dark warren of stinking alleys, narrow back-to-back houses and cobbled yards had got its name. But the locals called it ‘Sweaters’ Hell’ because of all the people toiling in the overcrowded terraces and makeshift workshops, making clothes pegs and boxes, stitching clothes and leather, or curing and drying fish. The corporation had been trying to clear the place for years, but the locals clung fiercely to their closed-in little world. It might have been damp and overcrowded and seething with vermin, but it was also safe from the prying eyes of the outside world. And especially the local constabulary. Not many outsiders ever ventured into the hatcheries.

In the warmth of the afternoon, the stench of dung, fish and sulphur from the nearby match factory hung in the air. Flies buzzed against Jess’ face as she picked her way down a narrow alley, the cobbles slippery with rotting rubbish, pushing her way past the washing which sagged on lines strung from side to side like drab, grey flags, already grubby with soot from the factory chimneys.

Women gossiping in their yards sent her wary looks as she passed. It was easy to tell she was a Jago, with her blue-black hair, sharp features and dark eyes. Even in the hatcheries, people gave her family a wide berth.

There was a row going on in their house as usual. Jess could hear a baby howling and women’s voices screaming curses at each other, even before she reached the back door.

She stifled a sigh. With four brothers, their wives and ten kids packed together in a tiny house, there was always a fight brewing.

Her twelve-year-old stepbrother Cyril sat on the back step, whittling a stick into a sharp point with his penknife, unmoved by the racket raging behind him.

‘What’s going on in there?’ Jess asked, jerking her head towards the door.

Cyril lifted his skinny shoulders in a shrug. ‘I dunno, do I?’ He carried on striking at the point of the stick with his knife, not meeting her eye. He might not have been blood family, but he was as sly as any Jago with his narrow, foxy face and sinister birthmark like an inky thumbprint on one cheekbone.

‘Better find out for myself then, hadn’t I?’

Jess braced herself and lifted the latch on the back door. The tiny scullery was a mess as usual, with washing up in the sink and a pot of cold stew congealing on the stove. Baby Sal sat howling alone on the stone floor, her screams barely heard above the quarrel going on in the next room. When she saw Jess she stopped crying and held out her fat little arms to be picked up.

‘Mama,’ she mewed. Tears traced pink tracks down her grubby face.

‘We’ll find her, shall we?’ Jess hitched the child on to her hip, grimacing at the acrid dampness that seeped through her nappy. With her free hand, Jess pushed aside the curtain that separated the scullery from the kitchen.

Her stepmother Gladys stood in the middle of the room, all screaming rage as usual, her arms waving and fingers jabbing. Uncle Johnny’s wife Hannah stood toe to toe with her, hands planted on her hips as they spat curses into each other’s face.

‘I told you, you silly mare, I ain’t got it!’ Gladys was screeching. ‘Why would I want your bloody jewellery? I’ve got enough of my own, thank you very much.’

Aunt Hannah snorted. ‘You’re having a laugh, ain’t you? You and that light-fingered son of yours are always helping yourselves!’

‘Oh, and your lot are bloody saints, I suppose?’

‘We don’t nick from our own, that’s for sure.’

‘No one would nick something like that! Nasty old paste brooch, like something you’d hang off a Christmas tree. I wouldn’t be seen dead in it!’ Gladys declared with a proud toss of her head.

‘Then give it back!’

‘I told you I ain’t had it, you silly cow!’

‘I swear to God, Gladys Jago, if I find out you’ve had your hands on my property, I’ll rip every one of them dyed hairs out of your head!’

As soon as she saw her mother, Baby Sal started howling and wriggling in Jess’ arms. Gladys instantly forgot her argument with her sister-in-law and turned on Jess.

‘What are you doing home? Why ain’t you at work?’ she demanded.

‘I got a new job.’ Jess shifted Baby Sal’s writhing weight. ‘This one wants changing. She stinks to high heaven.’

‘You change her, then.’ Gladys gave her a hostile glare. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Busy helping yourself to other people’s stuff!’ Aunt Hannah put in. The next moment they were arguing again. Jess dumped Baby Sal on the rug between them and went into the back room, which she shared with the five other girls in the family. A large bed almost filled the room, the faded counterpane thrown haphazardly over an assortment of pillows. Jess automatically straightened it, wondering which of her cousins had left it in such a mess.

At least it wouldn’t be her problem for much longer. Soon she would have a room of her own and she could have it as tidy as she liked.

She was plumping up the last of the pillows when Gladys appeared in the doorway. She was done up to the nines as usual. She told everyone she was thirty, but the thick powder settling into the lines on her face told a different story. Her hair was bleached till it looked like the straw in Dicky Fothergill’s donkey yard. She reeked of cigarettes and cheap scent.

Gladys Grimshaw had been a barmaid at the Three Beggars when Stan Jago married her four years earlier, less than two months after Jess’ own mother had passed away. And by then she was already three months pregnant.

‘What’s all this about a new job?’ she demanded.

‘I’ve got a job at the hospital. As a maid,’ Jess hauled her suitcase from under the bed.

‘That’s the first I’ve heard about it.’

‘I’m telling you now.’

‘Don’t you give me any of your cheek! I’m in charge while your dad’s locked up. I say what goes in this family.’ Gladys’s scarlet-painted mouth pursed. ‘Anyway, what do you want another job for? You’ve already got a perfectly good maid’s position.’

Her gaze fell on the suitcase and Jess could see the truth slowly dawning in her stepmother’s dull eyes. ‘You ain’t got a live-in job, I hope?’

‘That’s all they were offering.’ Jess shrugged. She opened the drawer and started gathering her belongings together. Thankfully she didn’t have much, just a few clothes and her beloved books.