Читать книгу The Street - Kay Brellend - Страница 8

Chapter Three

A little jeering crowd had already gathered about the railings outside number fifty-five. Soon Alice was close enough to see what entertained them. Her mum had hold of a fistful of Nellie Tucker’s fair hair and was dragging her head down close to the pavement. Her other hand was busy delivering swift punches to Nellie’s face. Uncle Jimmy looked embarrassed and keen to get away from Aunt Fran, who was waving her arms and ranting at him.

Alice knew that Uncle Jimmy had beaten his wife, and that it wasn’t the first time. It seemed hard to believe he could ever do such a thing. He always had a laugh and a joke for her and Sophy when they met him. She could see now that he had that soppy smile on his face. It looked like he was puzzled as to what the fuss was all about. Alice edged nearer, hoping to find out what had started this latest upset.

‘Yer fuckin’ whore. Get yerself back down Finsbury Park. Keep to reg’lar clients, or yer’ll have more o’ the same.’ Alice recognised her mum’s raucous voice.

As if to make her point Tilly landed one final blow on the side of Nellie’s head before letting go of her hair. Nellie tipped forward onto all fours. To add insult to injury, Tilly sent the woman crashing down onto her chin by kicking her up the behind. A hoot of laughter erupted from the assembled throng. A few of the women started to clap. ‘New position for you, love, eh? Or perhaps you like it up the jacksie,’ someone shouted.

Another time Tilly might have joined in the banter but she was in no mood for it today. She stuck her hands on her hips and swiftly got her breath back before swinging about. She immediately stalked after her brother-in-law. ‘You fuckin’ animal.’ One of her thick fingers was up close to Jimmy’s unshaven chin. ‘Find yourself another place and another punch bag. Come back here again and touch me sister ‘n’ you’ll be leavin’ in a pine box.’

Bright colour started to creep up under Jimmy’s collar. Having a brawl in the street with a man was one thing; being threatened by a woman in front of an audience was another. Tilly bloody Keiver was making him into a laughing stock and he didn’t even have the consolation of knowing that later he could, behind closed doors and at his leisure, kick the words back down her throat. She wasn’t his to tame, more was the pity. Only once had she been at his mercy and if he’d known what a thorn in his side she’d become over the years he’d have done a far better job of making sure she gave him respect and a wide berth in the future. That soft sod she’d married let her get away with too much and she’d got cocksure.

He took a furtive glance to right and left to see who was witnessing his humiliation. One of his drinking pals from Lennox Road was laughing openly at him and it made his gut start to writhe. He’d have to give Tilly Keiver a smack in public just to save face.

With his fists tightening at his sides he marched after Tilly to confront her. ‘You interfering bitch,’ he enunciated in a furious whisper whilst swaying on the balls of his feet, ready to strike. ‘Why don’t yer piss off home and sort out your own business?’

‘This is my business, you bastard,’ Tilly snarled and lunged forward, her fingers curled. Before she could tear into him she was grabbed from behind and hauled clear of Jimmy’s swinging fist.

Jack Keiver held onto his struggling wife, his arms hooked under hers so she could do nothing but kick out in frustration and punch her hands in the air. Ignoring her threats and curses he simply said one word, ‘Twitch.’ It was enough to immediately calm her down and quieten the crowd.

The little group of spectators started to shuffle, then disperse. In less than a minute only Nellie, still on her hands and knees and whimpering, remained with the Keiver clan when the two constables reached them.

‘What’s going on here?’

The officer who had spoken was Constable Bickerstaff, nicknamed Twitch by inhabitants of The Bunk on account of a recurrent tic that regularly brought one of his shoulders and ears together. He spasmed and cast a stern look at the dishevelled woman crouching on the floor. ‘What’s going on?’ he again demanded to know. He fiddled with the truncheon on his hip as though to reinforce his authority and hurry an explanation.

‘Nuthin’.’

The single word was chorused by all, even Nellie. Twitch turned to his colleague. Constable Franks was more interested in eyeing a comely woman across the road than bothering with this rabble. Connie Whitton had been watching the spectacle at a distance. The little tease knew he liked her and tauntingly flicked up her skirt to give him a glimpse of her knees before having a raucous laugh with her friends at his expense.

‘What d’you reckon about all this?’ Bickerstaff asked Franks. ‘It looks like more than nothing to me.’

‘I reckon it’s nothing if that’s what they all say it is,’ the younger man replied flatly, then looked around, his expression displaying disgust at his environment. The depressing, rotten houses marched off either side of the road as far as the eye could see, interspersed here and there by shops that seemed to make little effort to draw in customers, judging by their gloomy window displays. Franks had been transferred from Hampstead so was quite new to this beat. He knew they were required to walk this route but he saw no reason why they should linger unnecessarily in the worst street in North London.

Campbell Road, so he had been told by long-serving colleagues, and some of The Bunk’s inhabitants, was home to the most notorious criminals: thieves, prostitutes, fraudsters – every sort of rogue and vagabond drifted through this slum. Unbelievable as it seemed to Franks, some had settled and been resident a very long while. If a couple of women – one who looked like she’d had seven bells beaten out of her – wanted to set about a well-known brass, it didn’t take a genius to work out that one of their old men was playing away. Bickerstaff might be a stickler for doing things by the book but, in the great scheme of things, this was a petty domestic incident. The Bunk community had its own system of justice. Franks agreed with it: leave them be to shovel up their own shit.

‘Well . . . right . . . come on, then. Get on home, the lot of you, before I change my mind and get out my book.’ Twitch earned his nickname again. He didn’t want to start an argument with Franks in front of this crowd. But back at base he’d have something to say about his colleague’s lack of support. To his mind, the new recruit was too keen on warming his arse on a chair and his hands on a mug of tea.

Jimmy Wild needed no further telling. With a sly, poisonous look encompassing his wife and his in-laws he sauntered off towards Paddington Street. Tilly and Jack took up position either side of Fran and, linking arms, they started off home.

Twitch made to follow Franks who’d also moved away, impatient to get back to the comfort of the station. He hesitated and stooped to take a look at Nellie, who was still huddled on the pavement. Not a soul had come to her aid, even to get her to her feet. The worthless scumbag who’d caused the trouble had been the first to skedaddle.

Sidney Bickerstaff had been pounding this beat for very many years. He knew the people round here. He knew Wild. He was a womanising thug who had once put his wife in hospital because he couldn’t control his temper or his fists. Yet the policeman had seen the weasel turn and flee rather than stand his ground when an irate fellow accused him of touching up his wife. Sidney came across many Jimmy Wilds in his line of work. Every one was a charming fellow on the surface. But underneath was a despicable coward who enjoyed beating up women because a fair fight with another man terrified him.

Sidney had guessed at once what had gone on. He took another look at the grizzling tart. Presently she was trying to keep her tangled blonde hair from sticking to the blood on her face. A clump of it was on the road beside her.

‘Need a hand, love?’ Sidney Bickerstaff stooped to proffer an arm.

‘Fuck off, copper,’ she replied and, clearing her throat of congealed blood and mucus, spat it onto the ground by his feet.

Twitch looked at the mess an inch from his polished shoes. ‘Lucky you missed, or you’d be licking them clean,’ he threatened softly.

‘If it ain’t yer shoes you mean it’d cost you a lot more’n you could afford, mate.’ Nellie managed a coarse laugh but it hurt, so she stopped. ‘Fuck off, copper,’ she repeated more quietly.

‘Mum! Mum, come and see, quick!’

It was a Saturday in spring and some balmy sunshine had drawn Tilly’s three oldest daughters out into the air to sit on the pavement with their cousins. Now Alice bolted upright from her squatting position on the kerb and hared into the house. She met her mother flying down the stairs when she was halfway up.

Tilly had immediately responded to her daughter’s urgent summons. ‘What the bleedin’ hell you bawlin’ out fer? What’s up?’

‘There’s a little crowd comin’ up the road! Come ‘n’ see. The man shouted at us asking if we know where he can get rooms.’ The information had streamed out of Alice, leaving her gasping for breath. It was not only the thought of a bit of entertainment to liven the humdrum routine of the day that had propelled her inside. Her mum rented out rooms for Mr Keane, so the prospect of work and money was in the offing too. Alice was very conscious of how precious was that opportunity to her family.

Mother and daughter emerged from the hallway of the tenement house into the sunshine. The sight that met Tilly’s squinting gaze caused her to blow out her lips in astonishment and mutter to herself, ‘Well, what in Gawd’s name have we got here now?’

A small, wiry man was pushing a pram, hobbling with the effort as he clearly had an injured foot. His wife, for Tilly guessed that was who the poor ragbag was, trailed behind him, holding the hands of two children. They dragged either side of her like lead weights. Behind that sorry trio slouched two bigger kids, both boys, who looked to be teenagers, carrying between them a sack. It doubtless held the family’s possessions.

As they came to a stop by her, Tilly peered into the pram. Two more children were in it, one each end, with a bag squashed between them.

‘We’ve been tramping fer days. D’you know where we can get a room or two? Cheap it’ll need to be,’ the man announced without preamble.

Tilly had been busy doing Fran’s washing. Her sister was in no fit state to lift wet sheets. Weeks had passed since Jimmy’s attack but Fran’s arms were still weak from the sprains her husband had given her. Now Tilly plonked her soap-chapped hands on her hips. Her expression betrayed her amazement. The Bunk was known to take in stragglers with nowhere else to go yet even for this depressed area of Islington this family was a very sorry sight. ‘Where’ve you lot travelled from?’

‘Essex,’ the man answered and leaned on the pram handle to ease his bad foot off the ground.

‘You walked from Essex?’ Tilly squeaked in astonishment.

The man nodded and took a glance at his listless wife. She seemed exhausted beyond speech or expression. ‘When we got to Highgate some people knew about this place and directed us here.’

For a moment longer Tilly roved a sympathetic eye over them. Then she got to business. ‘Well, you can have a couple of rooms next door. Front and back middle.’ She tipped her head to indicate the tenement house.

‘You own houses?’ the man said, fixing an interested look on her.

‘Nah!’ Tilly barked a laugh. ‘I manage ’em for me guvnor. I’ve got these two here and a few others for Mr Keane. He owns a lot of property roundabouts.’

‘How much?’ He automatically rocked the pram up and down as one of the babies let out a piercing wail.

‘Can let you have it fer a shillin’ a night. Or five shillin’ a week paid up front, however you want to do it.’

‘Ain’t got five shillin’ but that’s the way I want to do it.’

Tilly fixed her canny gaze on him. ‘Well now, might be able to help you on that score ‘n’ all. I can let you have somethin’ to pawn at a cheap rate so that’s all right.’

The man stared at his brood of silent children huddled about his wife. ‘Any work hereabouts?’ A pessimistic look met his question and made his mouth droop.

‘Some . . . but nothing much good,’ Tilly told him straight. ‘Looks like you’ll need a tidy bit more’n what half-profits down the market pays to keep this lot.’ Tilly cocked her head to look at the woman. An idea came to mind. ‘Your wife after work?’

‘’Course,’ the man roundly answered for his silent spouse.

His wife sent him a sullen stare from beneath low lids.

‘What’s your names, then?’ Tilly asked whilst giving Bethany a cuff, as she’d started to whine for a penny for the shop. ‘Get off up the road a while,’ Tilly snapped at her daughters. ‘I’m doing business here.’

The two older girls, who had been interestedly watching and listening to the exchange, each took one of Bethany’s hands and began swinging her between them as they strolled off up the street.

‘What’s yer name again?’ Tilly raised her voice to make herself heard over the screaming child in the pram.

In exasperation the fellow snatched up the fractious infant then introduced himself. ‘Bert Lovat is me name and this here’s me wife, Margaret. Be obliged if you’d show me these rooms. Won’t go through all the kids’ names. If we stay here long enough you’ll come to know ’em, I expect.’

‘I’m Tilly Keiver. I live here with me husband Jack ‘n’ our girls.’ She flicked her head to indicate the house next door. ‘Wait here and I’ll just nip indoors to fetch the key.’

Within a few minutes they were climbing up a dilapidated staircase in silence. By the time they reached the first-floor landing Bert could no longer conceal his dejection.

Despite the bright and sunny day the interior was so dismal it was hard to discern where doors were set in the drab-coloured walls. A stained sink was set against a wall on the landing and for a few moments the only sounds were a dripping tap and Tilly’s efforts to turn a key in an awkward lock.

‘What a shit hole,’ Bert bluntly commented as he and his wife drearily looked around.

‘Yeah,’ Tilly agreed over a shoulder. ‘But beggars can’t be choosers, right?’

‘Yeah . . . I ain’t choosy,’ Bert sourly agreed.

Tilly led the way into the room’s grimy interior. A few sticks of ancient, battered furniture were pushed against the walls. A fiddle-backed chair that once might have belonged to a nice set now had stuffing leaking from a corner. A wardrobe that had only one door of its pair remaining had been shoved aside to allow an iron bedstead to dominate the centre space. Beneath its springs, resting on bare boards, was an additional flock mattress. A square table with a dirty, fissured top took up the rest of the wall space.

‘Let’s see the other,’ Bert muttered in a resigned tone.

They trooped in single file into the back room. Again the man’s eyes pounced at once on the sleeping quarters: a double bed with a smaller mattress pushed underneath. ‘Big enough for the four old’uns, I suppose.’ He came back into the front room and looked at the hob grate powdered with grey ash. ‘Where’s the water?’ He swung his eyes to and fro.

‘Didn’t you see the sink on the landing? You’ve got to share with other people.’ Tilly could tell he was bitterly disappointed at the accommodation. ‘That’s why it’s cheap,’ she said with a sympathetic grimace. ‘Got another of Mr Keane’s houses up the better end o’ the road. But that’d cost more. Got a ground floor front and back. It’s a bit bigger and better furniture and a few sheets ‘n’ blankets to go with it. I could do that at seven bob fer the week . . .’

‘Nah!’ Bert harshly interrupted, shaking his head and slipping a sideways glance to his wife, for she had sunk to sit on the bed edge. ‘This’ll do. It’ll have to do.’ He shifted the baby in his arms, still rocking it to and fro although it had quietened.

‘One thing I won’t do is get meself in trouble with me guvnor,’ Tilly said firmly. ‘I collect his rent and I ain’t losing me job. So you’ve gotta pay me what’s due when it’s due or it’s trouble for everyone. That clear?’

Bert nodded and cast a wary eye at the war-like woman confronting him. He reckoned she looked like that Boadicea in a chariot who’d fought the Romans. He remembered his oldest, Danny, had brought home a book when he’d been learning about history at school. Tilly had leaned forward slightly, fists on hips, whilst awaiting his agreement. ‘Bring the stuff up,’ Bert ordered one of his sons who’d been hovering by the open door. The youth stared sulkily at his father before turning about and doing as he was told.

Bert put the baby down on the bed next to Margaret. ‘I’m off to try ‘n’ find some work,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’ll take a job clearin’ pots in a pub if it comes to it.’

‘That’s what it always comes to,’ his wife muttered acidly at his back as he limped out of the room.

‘You want any work, duck?’ Tilly settled herself on the bed next to Margaret Lovat. ‘Might be able to help, y’know.’

‘What’s goin’?’ The woman raised her eyes and pushed a stand of lank brown hair behind her ears.

‘Might be able to find you something this afternoon if you like. It’s graft but better’n nothing if you need a few bob urgent.’

‘Washing?’ the woman guessed with a dead-eyed look.

Tilly nodded. ‘Me sister Fran’s work but she ain’t fit and her client wants this back by seven tonight. Well-to-do lady she is, out Tufnell Park. Might lead somewhere.’

Margaret Lovat turned a jaundiced eye on Tilly. ‘You reckon I’m daft enough to believe I’ve got a chance of taking yer sister’s best touch?’

Tilly crossed her arms and gave Margaret a keener appraisal. So she wasn’t the mouse she’d seemed. She’d come back with that quick enough. ‘Take it or leave it.’ Tilly stood up. ‘No skin off my nose either way. Ain’t my client.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Come next door when yer ready. I’ll show you what’s gotta be done.’

Margaret Lovat followed her to the door. ‘Where’s the privy?’

‘Out back. Go down the stairs and do a left till you come to a door; that’ll take you out to the courtyard.’ She made to go then hesitated and said with a hint of apology, ‘I’ll prepare you fer the state of it. It’s full of Mr Brown. I’ve been on at Mr Keane fer weeks to get a plumber to fix it.’ She nodded to the landing. ‘There’s the sink. Shared with a couple called Johnson. You won’t have no trouble off them. He’s got reg’lar work on the dust and she hardly comes out the room. Got bad arthritis,’ she added by way of explanation. ‘Back slip room’s just been took by a single lady. Don’t see nuthin’ of her. Think she’s a waitress up west and that’s why she comes in all hours of the night.’ Tilly raised her eyebrows at Margaret in a way that fully exhibited her suspicions.

‘How nice,’ Margaret sighed with weary sarcasm. ‘Stuck between a totter and a prossy.’

‘She’s a looker too, is Miss Kerr, so keep an eye on yer old man.’ Tilly issued the warning with a grin.

‘Ain’t worried about him!’ Margaret snorted derisively. ‘She’s welcome to him. Give me a break at least.’

‘Yeah . . . I noticed he don’t hang about,’ Tilly said, amused. ‘Not much of a gap between your two youngest, I’d say.’

‘Thirteen months,’ Margaret sighed. ‘Little Lizzie’s just three months. I’m bleedin’ knackered, I can tell yer.’

The two women exchanged a look of cautious camaraderie.

‘It’s me eldest, Danny, I’m thinkin’ of. He’s fifteen next birthday ‘n’ comin’ of age, alright. The boy’s always got his hand stuck down the front of his trousers.’

Tilly cackled a laugh. ‘I noticed he’s a strapping lad.’

‘He is,’ Margaret said, her face softening with pride. ‘Nothing like his old man. Takes after my side. Me dad was six foot and built like a brick shit house. Danny’s bright too and was doing well in school till . . .’ She shrugged and turned away.

‘All gone sour for yers in Essex?’

‘Yeah . . . won’t be going back there no more.’

Tilly looked at Margaret’s averted face and felt sorry for the woman. Obviously there was a tale of woe to be told. But then everyone in Campbell Road had one of those. Tilly felt sorry for every poor sod that turned up in The Bunk looking for somewhere cheap to stay and a job of sorts to keep the kids fed. Sympathy was of no bloody use when what was needed was hard cash and a bit of luck for a change.

‘Yeah . . . well . . . anythin’ else you need to know, I’m just next door.’ She wiped her hands on her pinafore. ‘See yer downstairs in a bit, alright?’