Lizzie of Langley Street (3 page)

Glancing seaward she spotted a tall ship’s mast over the roofs of the tatty cottages. Hooters echoed, oil and tar blew in on the wind, another day of sea trading had begun. Her grandfather
and great-grandfather had sailed on the big, ocean going vessels, the
Triton
and the
Oceanides.

It had been nothing, once, to see the bowsprit of a ship leaning over a backyard. Children had swung from the long poles, pretending to be pirates, and up above them the main masts had seemed to
pierce the sky. Lizzie could remember her brothers playing along the wharves. She could see them now, scavenging under the furnaces of the factories, black with ash. Bert had a deep voice even as a
boy. He’d often sung sea shanties with the sailors and Vinnie had dug in the silt, convinced he’d find treasure.

The war had seemed a long way away then.

Her father huddled down under his scarves. His jaw jutted out against the wind, and she pushed on, her efforts keeping her warm as the November day dawned, bright and clear. Horses and carts
trotted by, women whitened their doorsteps.

‘A Good Pull-Up at Carmen’, announced a notice over one door. Lizzie waved at the owner, standing outside his café fastening his apron. The Carmen was no more than a shack,
with a corrugated roof and a flap that came down over the front, but the smell of cheesecake was tantalizing. She’d never tasted the pastries covered in thick coconut, but they were always
lined up on trays inside. The aroma of hot dough and coconut made her mouth water.

On they went, her load heavier now. Some of the girls from the pickle factory said hello. They all looked and smelled the same. Their hair was hidden under white caps and they walked noisily on
their clogs. Their white coats were stained with yellow from the onions and they stank of vinegar.

Lizzie had always feared having to work at the pickle factory. Then one day her mother had remarked, ‘It’s better than the sacking factory. The dust fills up your lungs and chokes
you to death. Listen to the women coughing and you know they work with sack.’ After that, the pickle factory seemed like heaven.

As they skirted the docks a small band of men huddled on the stones. ‘There must be a skin boat in. Poor sods,’ her father sighed. These were older men, casual labour, waiting for
work. No man in his right mind would work with animal skins from abroad, her father had once commented. The skins were riddled with disease. And there were rats. Vermin as big as dogs. But these
men were starving and they’d resort to anything to feed their families.

Lizzie shivered. There were always anthrax deaths on the island. The stories were gruesome. At least Bert and Vinnie had never had to unload skins, she thought more cheerfully. Perhaps being a
bookie’s runner wasn’t so bad after all.

The market stalls were suddenly in sight and Lizzie quickened her step. Would Danny be there with his barrow? Eagerly she looked for his fair head and broad shoulders, her heart beating fast as
her eyes scanned the crowd. Colour, laughter and early morning jokes abounded. The traders were busy erecting stalls and insulting one another. Fruit and vegetables, fish, meat, materials, china.
It was all there, like Aladdin’s cave, spread out over the tables.

It seemed as though she hadn’t lived till this minute.

The beautiful features of the young woman were enhanced by a soft smile as she drew the delicate pink silk through her fingers. ‘How much are these ribbons?’ she
asked in a refined accent.

‘A penny’s worth there, miss.’ Lizzie gazed up, fascinated by the aura of wealth and respectability. ‘The blue would look lovely on you.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Why don’t you try one on, miss?’ Lizzie held up one of the blue ribbons. It matched the girl’s powder blue coat and velvet hat with an upturned brim.

‘Have you a mirror?’

‘No, but Freda has. Over there on the fruit and veg stall. Freda’ll hold your hat whilst you try them on.’ Lizzie knew that Fat Freda, who was always putting on her red
lipstick and smacking her lips in a big, cracked mirror, would gladly offer her help. She watched the girl walk gracefully to Fat Freda’s stall.

The next moment Freda was holding her mirror up and giving Lizzie a wink on the sly. Lizzie knew once those ribbons were in the girl’s hair she’d be hooked. The girl didn’t
give Freda her hat, just held the ribbons against her peaches and cream cheek and Lizzie knew it was enough. She would be opening her purse any moment.

Freda raised her pencilled eyebrows behind the mirror.

Lizzie giggled.

‘Off you go, gel.’ Tom Allen gave his daughter a nudge. ‘Stop staring at the customers and go and find Dickie for me. Tell him to come up for a chat if he’s done all his
business.’

‘But Pa—!’ The girl was walking back, a satisfied look on her face.

Tom Allen pulled down his scarf with an irritable jerk. ‘Ain’t you awake yet, gel? Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes, Pa.’ Lizzie glanced at their customer one last time before walking away. She liked selling, but it wasn’t often Tom let her. He preferred her to push the chair or run
errands, like now, irritably dispatching her to find Dickie Potts, one of his friends.

‘How’d it go?’ Fat Freda asked as Lizzie passed her stall.

‘She’ll buy ’em I think. Thanks for the loan of the mirror.’

‘Yer old man oughta let you flog stuff more often,’ Freda exclaimed. ‘You’re a natural, gel. You’d sell sand to an Arab.’

Lizzie liked Fat Freda, so named because of her immense girth and chins. She was not from the island, but hailed from Poplar. Freda was a widow with a large family and numerous grandchildren.
She attended the market each week and was known for her loud singing voice and hammering out tunes on the pub piano. Tickling the ivories, as she called it.

‘You seen Danny yet?’ Freda asked, winking.

Lizzie blushed and tried to pretend she hadn’t heard.

‘He’s along there with his barra,’ Freda said loudly enough for the whole market to hear. ‘Down the end of the row.’

Lizzie went scarlet. She kept her head down as she left Freda’s stall. She had to take the long route in order to pass Danny and she hoped no one would notice. Her heart was pounding as
she walked through the crowd. Would Danny speak when he saw her? Or would he be too busy selling chestnuts and not notice her pass by? Lizzie couldn’t see anything but bodies squashed
together, and a sense of panic filled her. What if she couldn’t find him? What if he hadn’t come?

‘Enough brass monkeys for you?’ a voice called and she spun round. Danny’s barrow, slightly set back from the stalls, was brimming with hot roasting chestnuts. He was standing
there, tall and handsome in his cloth cap and waistcoat, warming his hands over the brazier. ‘Come and have a warm up,’ he called, his blue eyes inviting.

Lizzie flushed with pleasure. ‘Can’t yet, Danny. I’ll be over later.’

‘You make sure you are.’ Danny winked as he tilted his cap. ‘Me day don’t start till you come over and have a chat.’

‘Get on with you, you saucy bugger,’ called the stallholder next to the barrow. ‘Leave the poor girl alone. She ain’t got time to spend with the likes of you, silly
sod.’

Lizzie smiled and caught Danny’s eye again.

By the time she found Dickie Potts he was counting his change and totting up the morning’s sales. ‘How’s yer dad, Lizzie?’ Dickie grinned, displaying big, brown,
horse-like teeth.

‘Said he’d like to have a chat, Dickie.’ Lizzie tried to dodge the spray of spittle.

‘Yeah, all right, gel. I’m almost done.’ Dickie had survived Flanders like her father. He suffered from a hacking cough, the effects of gas poisoning. He had sold newspapers
before the war and was still selling them now. Newspapers were his passion.

‘Have a butchers at this.’ Dickie lowered a newspaper and Lizzie was able to read the headlines. ‘Marshall Foch Salutes Unknown Warrior!’

‘Bloody liars and hypocrites!’ exclaimed Dickie. Like her father, Dickie didn’t believe the printed word, but he wanted to read the lies all the same. By the time the afternoon
came, the newspaper seller and her father would have analysed every article in the paper from cover to cover.

Lizzie knew that the war had changed their beliefs, as it had millions of others who had lived to tell the tale. The government’s words, her father said, were at variance with its deeds.
He’d heard all their promises and been the victim of the broken ones. No one came to relieve him or Dickie in the trenches. From the minute he woke in hospital and saw his two stumps, he knew
the government’s promises of an acre of land and a pig for every soldier after the war was a myth.

Dickie himself was a hive of knowledge. He and her father were always debating politics. Both held allegiance to no one after the atrocities they’d witnessed. War disgusted them along with
the warmongers on both sides that had sent millions of men to their deaths.

‘Why is he called “Unknown”, Dickie?’ Lizzie asked as Dickie licked the spittle from his lips.

‘’Cos ’e represents the unknown dead,’ Dickie replied gravely. ‘The French are takin’ six unidentified dead bodies to a hut at Saint Pol, near Arras. Then
they’re gonna get an officer to close ’is eyes, rest ’is hand on one of them there coffins, and that’ll be the poor bastard who’ll travel to England in a box.’
Dickie sucked his teeth grimly. Suddenly he looked very far away. ‘The coffin’s going from Boulogne to Dover on the British destroyer,
Verdun.
Another destroyer, the
Vendetta,
is gonna accompany her across the Channel, very regal like. As a special tribute, they’re gonna fly the White Ensign at ’alf mast and dock to a nineteen gun
salute.’

Lizzie was silent for a moment, the gravity and importance of what Dickie had just told her bringing a lump to her throat. ‘What’s gonna happen then?’ she asked quietly.

Dickie coughed loudly and wiped his nose with a grubby sleeve. ‘The coffin goes by train to London, gel. They’ll put a bloody great wreath on top of the gun carriage and take it from
the Cenotaph to Westminster Abbey. King George’ll be there and Queen Mary.’ Dickie’s face darkened. ‘All I say is, why couldn’t they bloody shake the poor
devil’s hand when ’e was alive, before ’e ’ad to spill ’is guts for King and Country? A bloodbath that’s what it was – for the working classes and kids! We
was expendable.’ Dickie shook his head slowly. ‘Nah. It’s too late to honour ’em now. And I wouldn’t mind bettin’ ’alf the country thinks so
too.’

Lizzie had heard the rumours of unrest at market. She knew her father was of the same opinion as Dickie. Ex-servicemen, the unemployed, every one of them was disillusioned with their meagre
lot.

‘Would you believe Foch is sending over one ’undred sandbags of French earth?’ Dickie went on in a low voice. ‘They’re gonna line ’is grave with it. French
earth or British, what does it matter? All earth’s got worms, don’t matter where it comes from. The maggots’ll get a bellyful just the same. It ain’t going to matter to the
corpse, is it?’

Lizzie shuddered. She felt sorry for Dickie, but sometimes he frightened her. She knew that, like her father, he would never recover mentally from the terrifying experiences of war.

‘Saw ’undreds o’ worms, I did, saw ’em crawlin’ over torsos and limbs, burrowin’ their way inside flesh and bone. Worms has filthy ’abits. Worms
ain’t fussed wevver it’s the Boche or the Allies.’ Dickie cackled lewdly. ‘All rot tastes the same.’

A shiver went down Lizzie’s spine. ‘Is there anything else in the papers?’ she asked, changing the subject quickly, hoping he would hurry up and get his things together. She
wanted to see to Danny again.

Dickie looked at her and blinked. Then he stabbed a filthy finger at the paper. ‘Yeah, a big burglary up West. They coshed a night watchman and got away with two ’undred quid’s
worth of stuff from a jewellers. One of’em was seen by a passer-by. They think they can trace him with a bit of luck. Two ’undred smackers in one night, more ‘n’ I make in a
lifetime. Big, ’e was, a bloody big bloke.’ Dickie licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘Says ’ere over six foot. Gotta big ’ead and long arms. Like a bleedin’ great
gorilla.’

Lizzie instantly thought of Bert. He had a big head and long arms. ‘When was it?’ she asked, telling herself not to be silly.

‘Thursday,’ Dickie read, ‘in the wee small hours.’

Bert and Vinnie had been out on Thursday night. She recalled her mother’s words as she had run up the stairs
. The second night running
. . .

Dickie folded away his paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He lifted his floppy sack bag over his shoulder. ‘Come on then, gel. Lead the way.’

Lizzie walked through the market in a daze as Dickie’s voice went in one ear and out the other.

‘’E
llo Dickie.’ Lizzie saw that her father was looking pleased with himself when they arrived back. The tray in front of him had
large gaps in it and his money bag was open as he counted the pennies.

‘You done some business then.’ Dickie dumped his sack by the Bath chair.

‘Yeah, business is brisk. And it’s only the middle of the morning.’

‘What d’you put that down to?’ Dickie asked.

‘Everyone’s talkin’ about next week,’ Tom replied. ‘They seem to be doing a fair bit of spending at the same time.’

‘You mean Armistice Day,’ Dickie said with a nod. ‘Well, we ought to ’ave a bleeding big funeral every week if it ’elps business. One of them there politicians
would do for starters. I can think of a few of’em I’d be pleased to see six feet under.’

‘I’ll go along with you there all right.’

Dickie made himself comfortable on an orange box and began to read the newspaper aloud.

Lizzie’s thoughts, though, were still on the robbery. She didn’t know why she was so worried. There must be lots of big men involved in robberies all over London, so why suspect
Bert? He was not the right sort of material for a thief. He was slow moving and clumsy, but what worried her was that Vinnie might use his influence to involve Bert.

She could still hear Vi Catcher telling her about Vinnie the other day. Vi lived opposite at number seventy-nine. She was the street’s gossip and made it her business to know everyone
else’s. She was always dressed in her apron and turban, but never seemed to do much work. She stood at her front door, watching the world go by, her plump arms folded over her pinny. Kate
said Vi was harmless enough, but Lizzie tried to avoid her if she could.