Lizzie of Langley Street (2 page)

Tom Allen shuffled himself clumsily across the bed in order to make room for his wife. Lizzie averted her eyes from the covered stumps that never failed to fill her with a deep, pitying sadness.
She was terrified it would show. Her father hated sympathy and was swift to discern it.

‘I know where I’d like to leave the bloody lot of’em. Now if I hear another sound I’m taking me belt to all five of you, legs or no legs. And don’t forget, Lizzie
gel, we’re up first thing for the market.’

Lizzie wanted to ask her mother if there was anything more she could do, but catching Bert’s arm she led him away. Given half the chance he would open his big mouth, and cause another
row.

The rift in the family had started in earnest when her father had returned from the war, unable to exert discipline over his household. In his youth, Tom Allen had worked as a stevedore on the
big cargo boats that docked in the Port of London. His wage hadn’t made them rich, but it was regular work and they were no poorer than anyone else in Langley Street. Many of the dockers and
their families lived in the smoke-blackened two-up, two-down terraced houses that led down to the wharves. Dirty and overcrowded, their backyards brimmed with junk and washing lines. No one grew
flowers or vegetables and weeds thrived.

On Friday and Saturday nights the men spent their wage in the pub. The women waited to duck the drunken punches on their return and pray a few pennies remained. Lizzie knew that unlike many
households, where the men would beat their wives, her father never raised a hand to their mother. Despite all their troubles, he worshipped the ground she walked on.

Before the war, he’d ruled the family with an iron fist. Being strong and healthy, his rules were obeyed. That was the way things were; not a wonderful life by any means but they felt
secure and knew their boundaries. After the war it was a different story. Many men didn’t return; in the Allens’ case, it wasn’t death, but disability that ended the
family’s happiness.

As half a man, Tom Allen lost respect in himself, and without legs he would never regain it. A cold lack of regard had grown between Vinnie and his father. Lizzie knew there was nothing Tom
could do about it, especially since they only survived with the money Vinnie brought in. Where it came from was a bone of contention. Vinnie worked for a villain, a hard man of the East End, and it
had broken his parents’ hearts.

As for Babs, she was almost sick at the sight of the stumps. She only tolerated the gruesome spectacle by ignoring her father. Flo, however, at ten, was too young to remember him clearly before
he enlisted. She accepted him as he was and did her best, but Tom would have none of it. Lizzie knew he was frightened of seeing the same look of revulsion in Flo’s eyes as he had seen in
Babs’.

Once back out in the passage, Lizzie glared up at her brother. ‘You’re daft, you are, Bert Allen. Ain’t you got no sense at all in that whopping great ’ead of yours? I
ask you, going on about eels, what good was that?’

Bert stared down at his muddy boots. ‘Vin told me to fink of a good story,’ he admitted sheepishly.

‘Well, he must’ve forgot that thinking ain’t exactly a natural state for you,’ Lizzie answered sharply, pushing her brother up the stairs. Then, immediately regretting
her words, she added gently, ‘Still, I ain’t having a go at you, Bert. When all is said and done, you probably saved him a worse hiding.’

Bert brightened at the unexpected flattery. ‘I ’ope so, gel. ’Cos our Vin was on one ’ell of a bender ternight and nuffin’ I could say would stop ’im. One
minute ’e was drinkin’ wiv ’is mates, the next ’e was in a fight out the back, all ’is mates vanished.’

‘Fine friends our Vin has if they all do a bunk,’ Lizzie sniffed.

‘It ain’t Vin’s fault,’ Bert replied loyally. ‘He’s got ’imself in deep with Mik Ferreter but ’e says he’s gonna sort ’imself out
soon.’

‘What, as a bookie’s runner! Betting’s illegal and you know it, Bert Allen.’

Bert hung his head.

Again she regretted her tone, but she was worried for Bert, terrified he might get blamed on Vinnie’s account. She sighed as she stared down at Vinnie. The swelling was right up now,
covering his close-set eyes and distorting his thin mouth. It was strange how he resembled no one else in the family, Lizzie thought, not for the first time. She herself had long curling black hair
and deep green eyes, like their mother. Vinnie’s dark brown hair was dead straight and his eyes were jet black beads, always moving in their small sockets. Babs’ big brown eyes were
flecked with gold and Flo’s were a lovely soft brown, like a doe’s. Where Vinnie got his hard look from she didn’t know.

Perhaps Vinnie was a throwback, she thought now, as she studied the unpleasant sight. Both maternal and paternal grandparents were born and bred on the Isle of Dogs but they had died long ago.
Three of her uncles, Tom’s brothers, had been killed during the war. On her mother’s side there were two sisters, who had married and left the island, their own families scattered far
and wide. So if Vinnie resembled any relative, they were destined never to know.

‘We’d better get ’im to bed,’ Lizzie said as Vinnie stirred, ‘then I’ll clean up.’

‘I’ll sort out ’is mess, gel,’ Bert said cheerfully. ‘Don’t you worry, leave it to me. You get yer ’ead down.’

Lizzie watched Bert haul Vinnie over his shoulder as though he was lifting a sack of feathers. Brute strength and ignorance, she thought, smiling to herself. Vinnie’s dangling arms
disappeared along the landing and she heaved a sigh of relief. Selfish and greedy, that was Vinnie. He gave money to Kate only to boast of his role as breadwinner. It gave him power to sneer at
others, including Tom. Not that Kate had been able to refuse the money; with business at Cox Street market being so slack, it was all that had kept a roof over their heads and food on the
table.

Lizzie tiptoed downstairs to the scullery, squeezing past the Bath chair and its detachable tray on which were displayed the ribbons and souvenirs that were her father’s livelihood; the
Seaman’s Rest Home at Greenwich provided sources of goods for disabled veterans. Lizzie had left school at thirteen, when Tom came home from the war and her mother needed help, and for the
past year she had pushed him in the Bath chair from Cubitt Town to Cox Street market, Poplar, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, then all the way home again.

Lizzie lifted the galvanized iron pail that stood behind the back door. She filled it with cold water from the tap over the china sink. Next to the sink was the boiler and beside this, during
the day, a kettle boiled perpetually on the hob.

The bucket half full, Lizzie hauled it over the sink, careful not to spill any on the large oak table. Her mother scrubbed the table religiously and fed her family well on it. The few extra
pennies she earned taking in sewing all went on food. Lizzie glanced fondly at the big rocking chair squeezed in one corner. Her mother sat there at night, head bent over a needle that flashed
incessantly through every cloth known to mankind.

A shiny black roach fell on to the back of the chair. Lizzie watched it skid down a rung, keeping its balance with agility. The porous distempered walls were infested with bugs, skittish black
insects that acrobatically stuck to any surface and were the devil to kill.

She ignored it, going quietly upstairs. The house was silent. It was music to her ears, no fights or rows taking place. Langley Street was where they had grown up, where her maternal
grandparents had lived. All their history was in this house. A roof to call their own was more than a lot of families had. At school, one of her friends had been taken to an orphanage along with
her six brothers and sisters, her parents unable to pay the rent and evicted from their home. Destitution hadn’t befallen the Allens; and whilst she had breath in her body, Lizzie vowed it
never would.

Upstairs she lowered the bucket to the boards. Bert had done the proverbial vanishing act. She went and looked in their bedroom. Bert lay beside his brother on the big double bed, fully dressed,
boots sticking up like tombstones. Despite his injuries, Vinnie snored loudly, and Bert was no longer in the land of the living.

Lizzie returned to the landing and began to clean up the vomit. It was more trouble than it was worth to rouse either of her brothers. As usual, it was quicker to repair the damage herself.

At four o’clock in the morning, a sepia light filled the scullery. Always the first to rise on market days, Lizzie turned on the lamp. Her clothes were folded on a chair,
and she struggled into them, pulling one jersey on top of another.

She cut a slight little figure. Most of her clothes were second-hand from Cox Street market. Every stitch was someone else’s, darned, patched and lengthened. Several shades of blue ran
round the hem of her skirt, a clue to the number of its previous owners. The jerseys were darned and had squares of cloth from her mother’s work-box sewn over the elbows. Her boots had been
outgrown by their neighbour’s daughter, Blakies hammered into their soles.

She reached behind her, scooped up her long dark hair and plaited it. Then she poured water into the kettle and warmed her hands beside it. Next, she sliced the big crusty loaf that was
purchased from the baker’s roundsman, also referred to as the Midnight Baker because he delivered at night. Kate bought bread and milk from him twice a week. On Fridays, when she had money,
and on Tuesdays, when she had none. Her debt was recorded on the slate. Lizzie knew it was robbing Peter to pay Paul but that was how people survived on the island.

When she had finished her chores, she went outside to the lavatory. The path to the wooden shed in the backyard was covered in frost. Sitting on the cold seat, she left the door wide open and
shivered as she gazed up at the stars still lighting the sky. With luck, it would be a fine, dry day and business would be brisk at market.

Lizzie’s heart raced at the thought of seeing Danny Flowers, the tall, blond-haired barrow boy whom she secretly worshipped. She thought of the silk ribbons lying on the tray, imagining
them tied in her own curling black hair. Ribbons were all the rage, favoured by the young women who travelled down from the West End. Gentry were always dressed impeccably. Lizzie was fascinated
with their clothes and loved to study the fashions. It was the only opportunity she had to do so and she made the most of it.

Thoughts of Danny and beautiful clothes vanished as she returned to the house, stifling a yawn. It was time to wake her father and she’d only had three hours’ sleep. All because of
Vinnie. His drinking was becoming worse and so were his black moods.

The stink of disinfectant flowed out as she opened the bedroom door. It was the only antidote the islanders had to bugs and mice. Distributed free at the local park each week, Kate used it in
the bedroom, which, because of Tom’s injuries and the risk of infection, was the priority.

Once acclimatized, Lizzie pushed the Bath chair up to the bed. Her father groaned as she parted the heavy curtains.

Kate woke and sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Wait, Lizzie. I’ll help you get ’im into the chair. You’ll do yer back in if you try it on yer own.’

‘I’ll manage, Ma, you couldn’t have got much sleep last night.’

‘Oh, I’m all right now, love.’ Still sitting, Kate wound her long grey plait into a bun. ‘Let’s get your father dressed, then,’ she sighed, rising slowly.

As usual, Tom complained throughout the performance. It was not until he was washed and fully clothed that Lizzie had time to notice how ill her mother looked.

‘You sure you feel all right, Ma?’ Lizzie asked at the breakfast table.

‘I’ll be right as rain when I get me second breath.’ Kate poured tea into three enamel mugs. ‘Spread the drippin’, gel, will you?’

Lizzie’s mouth watered as she spread the thick, juicy paste scooped off the top of the stock. Kate rarely cooked a joint of beef now. They wouldn’t eat another one for at least a
month. Lizzie remembered how every Sunday before the war they ate thick slices of succulent roast beef, the leftovers fried as bubble and squeak the next day. The rich brown juice was made into
broth, eked out over the week. They had taken the beef for granted then. Now, even the dripping was a delicacy.

‘Eat up, you two,’ Kate told them briskly. ‘You won’t get much more before the day’s out.’

Lizzie bolted her food. She noticed Kate hadn’t eaten a crumb. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed, Ma? Babs could take Flo to school today.’

‘Aw, stop fussing,’ Kate scolded. ‘Anyone would think I’m on me last legs.’

‘It’s them lazy buggers upstairs that’s the cause of the trouble,’ muttered Tom angrily, pushing himself away from the table, his breakfast uneaten. ‘They treat
this house like a bloody lodgings. I tell you, I’ve had enough of it. If they can’t abide by the rules they can clear out. Idle good for nothing layabouts—’

‘I’ll get yer coat and scarf, Pa,’ Lizzie said quickly, catching her mother’s look of dismay.

‘And wrap up warm,’ Kate called after her. ‘I don’t want you both coming down with pneumonia. And who knows, if the weather holds, you might have a good day and we can
settle the rent with old Symons.’

A remark that didn’t make Tom Allen any the happier as, swathed in coats, scarves and mittens, they left the house and Lizzie began the long push from Cubitt Town to Poplar. It was a
sombre beginning to the day, but Lizzie knew their spirits would lift when they saw their friends. For her, one in particular: Danny Flowers.

The Isle of Dogs was still asleep as she pushed her father through the empty streets of Cubitt Town. Only Island Gardens, the park where she brought her sisters to play, was alive with birdsong.
Soon they had reached the Mudchute, years ago a mountainous health hazard of rotting silt. Now the islanders grew vegetables there. It was barricaded with wooden fences so the kids wouldn’t
get in.

Lizzie was proud of the island’s ancient roots. She had learned at school that the Isle of Dogs had first been recorded on the maps in the sixteenth century. Over time, the rough horseshoe
of land, surrounded on three sides by water, had become the centre of the capital’s trade and industry.