On Mother Brown's Doorstep (3 page)

‘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. And 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.

‘I’m not goin’ upstairs,’ she said, ‘there’s the vegetables to do.’

‘I’ll help Nellie do them,’ said Will, pouring the tea, ‘I’ve got to do something to make up for puttin’ you in the pushcart.’

‘Well, it’s kind of you,’ said Annie, ‘but I’m sure you’ve got to be on your way soon.’

‘Time’s my own until six,’ said Will.

‘We’d best let ’im help, Annie,’ said Nellie. ‘’E’s a corporal and can order people about, can’t you, Will?’

‘On top of that I’m bossy as well,’ said Will.

‘Don’t I know it,’ said Annie darkly.

Well, bless me, thought Nellie, two bossy people together, what a lark. And where’s our Cassie got to, that’s what I’d like to know. Wandering about in a dream, I shouldn’t wonder, and looking for the cat.

‘A SAILOR SUIT?’
said eleven-year-old Freddy Brown in horror.

‘A nice sailor suit would look lovely for Susie’s weddin’,’ said Mrs Brown, his affable mother.

‘Not on me it wouldn’t,’ said Freddy. ‘I ain’t goin’ to wear no sailor suit, not for Susie’s weddin’ nor anyone else’s. I’ll fall down dead. You wouldn’t like that, I bet, me fallin’ down dead in the church.’

‘But, Freddy love—’

‘I’m eleven, I’ll ’ave you know,’ said Freddy, ‘I ain’t six.’

‘Still, you’d look ever so sweet in a sailor suit,’ said Sally, his fourteen-year-old sister. They were just home from school. They lived in Caulfield Place, off Browning Street, Walworth. Easter was approaching, so were the school holidays and so was their sister Susie’s wedding. It was a time of excitement for the Brown family, and for the whole street. A cockney wedding wasn’t the sort of event that concerned only the bride and her family. Everyone wanted to know everything about it, and Mr Brown kept saying to Mrs Brown that the way things were going the bridegroom would finish up finding himself married to every female in Caulfield Place. And Mrs Brown kept saying of course he wouldn’t, he’d get charged with multiplied bigamy if he did.

‘No sailor suit, if yer don’t mind,’ said Freddy resolutely.

‘Perhaps Freddy wants to be a bridesmaid, Mum, and wear a pink frock,’ said Sally.

‘Here, leave off,’ said Freddy, eating a slice of cake to keep the wolf from the door until supper.

‘Well, all right, love,’ said Mrs Brown, a natural peacemaker, ‘perhaps a nice dark grey suit, then, that you could wear afterwards for Sundays.’

‘With long trousers,’ said Freddy.

‘Long trousers at your age?’ said Sally.

‘I’ve made up me mind I ain’t wearing shorts at Susie’s weddin’,’ said Freddy, ‘they ain’t important enough.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about long trousers,’ said Mrs Brown, cutting away surplus greenery from a firm cauliflower. ‘You are only eleven, Freddy.’

‘All right,’ said Freddy, ‘I won’t wear no trousers at all, just me shirt, waistcoat an’ jacket.’

‘Oh, yer rotten ’orror,’ said Sally, ‘I’m not goin’ in that church if you’re not wearin’ any trousers.’

‘Can’t ’elp it,’ said Freddy, ‘me mind’s made up, I’m not wearin’ no trousers unless they’re long ones.’

‘Well, listen to ’im,’ said Sally, ‘just wait till Dad comes in, I bet ’e’ll make you sing a different tune.’

‘I bet ’e won’t,’ said Freddy, ‘I bet Dad wouldn’t wear no trousers, either, if Mum tried to put ’im in shorts for Susie’s weddin’.’

‘Dad’s a man, you soppy date,’ said Sally, ‘you’re only a boy.’

‘Can’t ’elp that,’ said Freddy, ‘me mind’s made up.’

‘Now, Freddy love, stop actin’ up,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Crikey, what a life,’ said Freddy. ‘Me mate Daisy’s moved and me mum won’t let me wear long trousers. I ’ope this kind of bad luck ain’t goin’ to last me all year.’

‘I’ll speak sympathetic to your dad,’ said Mrs Brown placatingly, ‘but as for Daisy, she and her fam’ly couldn’t help ’aving to move, love.’

Young Daisy Cook had been Freddy’s best street pal. She and her family had moved because their house had a rather unhappy history. A grisly murder had taken place there twelve years ago, in 1914.

Freddy, eyeing his sister, took on a puzzled expression.

‘What’s ’appening to Sally?’ he asked. His young sister, who had fair curly hair and hazel eyes, was getting pretty. And something else. Crikey, she’d stopped growing short, she was shooting up. He’d been taller than her, even though three years younger. Now she was suddenly above him. All in a few months. ‘Here, what’re you wearin’, sis?’

‘Me?’ said Sally, her blue school gymslip short. 1926 was the year of exceptionally short hemlines. Legs were in. Or legs had come out, according to how one thought about the fashion. ‘What d’you mean, what’m I wearin’?’

‘Whose legs you wearin’?’ asked Freddy.

‘Not yours,’ said Sally, ‘or Susie’s.’

‘Look at ’er, Mum,’ said Freddy, ‘she’s standin’ on some kind of stilts.’

‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ said Mrs Brown, and smiled proudly at Sally. ‘Yes, she’s goin’ to be as tall as our Susie.’

‘Something’s goin’ on,’ said Freddy. ‘Come on, you Sally, let’s ’ave a proper look at them legs of yours, I don’t want me friends sayin’ you’re walkin’ on someone else’s.’

‘Keep off,’ said Sally. Freddy, as larky as any Walworth boy, sped around the kitchen table to get at her. Sally yelled and rushed.

‘Mum, stop ’im!’

‘Now, Freddy, leave Sally be, there’s a good boy,’ said Mrs Brown placidly. In all her forty-three years, nothing had ever seriously ruffled her, except the possibility, during the war, that her husband Jim might not survive his terrible life in the trenches.

‘Mum!’ shrieked Sally, as Freddy kept after her.

‘Freddy, stop teasin’ her,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Someone’s got to see whose legs she’s wearin’,’ said Freddy, but gave up when Sally put herself behind their plump mother.

‘Oh, yer daft ha’porth,’ said Sally, ‘how can anyone be wearin’ someone else’s legs?’

‘Yes, it beats me,’ said Freddy, ‘unless you bought a pair of long wooden ones down the market. I dunno what I’m goin’ to do if me mates find out one of me sisters is walkin’ about on wooden legs.’

‘Now you’re talkin’ silly, love,’ said Mrs Brown, going into the scullery to peel potatoes at the sink, ‘our Sally’s got nice natural legs.’

‘Yes, but ’ave yer seen what’s been ’appening to them lately?’ asked Freddy.

‘Sally’s growin’ up,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘I remember Susie growin’ up once,’ said Freddy.

‘Now how could anyone remember Susie only growin’ up once?’ asked Sally.

‘Well, I was only little at the time,’ said Freddy.

‘You’re potty,’ said Sally. ‘Mum, don’t you think it’s lovely our Will bein’ ’ome for the weddin’? Susie nearly cried when she saw ’im.’

‘It beats me, girls nearly cryin’ when they’re ’appy,’ said Freddy. ‘Mind you, Mum, I dunno that me brother’s all that well.’