Down lambeth way, p.1
Down Lambeth Way, page 1
About the Book
The Adams family of Walworth were poor, cheerful, and above all respectable – even though they sometimes had to seek a little help from the pawnbroker.
Mrs Adams – affectionately called Chinese Lady by her children – was a widow, her soldier husband having gone, rather carelessly, to a hero’s death on the Northwest Frontier. There was Boots, the bright one, and Tommy, the quiet one, and Sammy, the nine-year-old wheeler-dealer of the family. There was Mr Finch, the lodger, and dreadful Em’ly next door, and genteel Miss Chivers with the terrible old mother, but above all there was Lizzy.
Lizzy was one of the prettiest girls in Walworth. She was young, and always sounded her aitches, and she cared terribly about being clean and neat and proper . . . Lizzy was a peach of a girl.
When Lizzy fell in love it was 1914. Everyone was going to be affected, things were going to change. But whatever happened, the Adams family – gutsy, tough and cheeky – would come through.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
About the Author
Also by Mary Jane Staples
Copyright
Down Lambeth Way
Mary Jane Staples
TO THE FAMILY
CHAPTER ONE
Chinese Lady came to see me on Sunday afternoon in Guy’s Hospital, and brought my sister Lizzy with her. Chinese Lady was my mother, she having almond eyes and having taken in washing for a few years before getting a cleaning job at the town hall. She had been friendly with Mr Wong Fu of the Chinese Laundry off the Old Kent Road, and they still stopped for a chat if they met in the street, although that didn’t happen too often, because Mr Wong Fu was rarely seen outside clouds of steam.
‘Can Boots talk yet?’ asked thirteen-year-old Lizzy, as she and Chinese Lady sat down at my bedside.
‘I don’t know, you better ask him,’ said Chinese Lady, who didn’t mind being called that by her children. She thought the Chinese were the most polite and civilised of all peoples.
‘Can you talk?’ Lizzy asked me.
‘Of course I can talk,’ I said.
‘Pity,’ said Lizzy, ‘we was hopin’ you’d lost some of yer yap.’
‘Lizzy, Lizzy,’ said Chinese Lady, who was looking as she liked to look on Sundays, properly reverent in her black widow’s weeds, ‘don’t talk so unfeelin’ to your brother when he’s just been operated on.’
‘It’s only his tonsils,’ said Lizzy, ‘it’s not like they’ve took his leg off like they did with Mr Tiddle.’
‘Mr Tibble,’ said Chinese Lady with asperity. She rarely got cross, but she was often severe. ‘If you’re goin’ to be like that, you can go outside.’
‘When you get round to asking how I am,’ I said, ‘I’m still poorly.’
‘Can he eat yet?’ asked Lizzy.
‘I don’t know, what a question,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘Can you eat yet, Boots?’
Why everyone called me Boots would have been a downright mystery if Chinese Lady hadn’t told me that her cousin, our Aunt Victoria, had knitted me some blue bootees when I was an infant, and that she used to come and visit and say, ‘Who’s a ducky blue boots, then, who’s our pretty boots?’
‘What I’ve been able to partake of so far,’ I said, ‘is hardly keeping my body and soul together.’
‘Hark at him,’ said Lizzy, ‘can’t he yap? It’s that education of his what’s doin’ it. Boots, shall I tell yer what we brought yer? Apples.’
‘Apples? Apples?’
‘Do yer good,’ said Lizzy.
‘Stop it, Lizzy,’ said Chinese Lady, looking around to see if anyone was lying next door to death. Everyone in the surgical ward had visitors, who were all talking away over the heads of even the most parlous cases.
‘How am I going to eat apples, just tell me that, go on, tell me,’ I said. ‘When I swallow, it’s like I’m sawing my own head off.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ said Chinese Lady, giving my pillows a motherly beating. ‘You’re a bit wan, but that can’t be helped, and Matron said you bled very healthy.’
‘I brought it all up in the night,’ I said.
‘What, all yer blood?’ said Lizzy.
‘Well, it wasn’t custard. How could it have been? I hadn’t had any custard, I hadn’t had anything except the operation. When your throat’s bleeding while you’re asleep, it all goes down into your stomach, and when your stomach’s full up—’
‘Benevolent hommeridge, that’s what it’s called,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘but don’t worry, I seen Matron before we come to your bedside, and she said you’ll be coming out Wednesday.’
‘If I don’t choke,’ I said. ‘Fancy bringing apples, with me in my condition.’
‘Sammy got ’em for yer down the Lane,’ said Lizzy. ‘Here y’ar.’ She handed me a brown paper bag. I opened it and saw a bunch of black grapes. Lizzy’s giggle was a silent one. Chinese Lady wouldn’t have stood for a loud giggle, not in a hospital, and especially not on a Sunday.
‘You Lizzy,’ I said, ‘I think I’ll tell me fellow patients how that dog ran off with your drawers in Aunt Victoria’s garden.’
Lizzy blushed crimson. In the bed on my left, Mr Clark, who’d broken both legs falling off his corporation water cart, gave her a wink. Lizzy went redder.
‘Boots, you shouldn’t say things like that,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘it’s downright vulgarising.’
‘Lucky they weren’t the ones she was wearing,’ I said, ‘or the dog would’ve run off with her as well.’
Mr Clark chortled. His placid wife, who was visiting him, smiled peaceably.
‘Oh, you an’ yer yap,’ muttered Lizzy.
‘Still, she looks nice on Sundays, our Lizzy,’ I said to Mr Clark.
‘Young peach, that’s what she is,’ said Mr Clark, who had a cradle over his legs.
Lizzy did look nice. Her dark brown hair, as glossy as a horse chestnut, was topped by her Sunday hat of yellow straw, banded by red ribbon, and her white Sunday frock was waisted by a red sash. In 1912, sashes and ribbons were all the thing, especially on Sundays. Lizzy, with her brunette colouring, had a picture postcard look most Sundays. She was a good cricketer too.
‘Boots, you get well now,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘then you’ll be home Wednesday and back to school Monday week. You don’t want to miss no more lessons than you can help.’
‘Have a grape,’ I said, and offered the bag. Chinese Lady and her one and only daughter accepted, and Mr Clark and his wife also took one each. Lizzy ate hers succulently. I ate one cautiously, and my throat went raw and fiery as I swallowed. ‘Where are Sammy and Tommy?’ I asked. Sammy was nine, Tommy was eleven, and they were my brothers.
‘Up the park,’ said Lizzy, taking another grape. A wicked look entered her eyes. ‘Em’ly’s been askin’ after you.’
‘Oh, not her,’ I said. ‘Tell her I passed away.’
‘Now don’t you say things like that,’ said Chinese Lady, shocked, ‘it’s provokin’ Providence. And don’t make faces or you’ll get struck.’
‘Might be an improvement,’ said Lizzy. ‘Em’ly was awful burdened the day you come here. Her mum didn’t like the look of her tea leaves.’
‘My throat hurts,’ I said, ‘I can’t talk any more, especially about Emily Castle.’
‘You ought to ’ave ’eard ’er,’ said Lizzy. There was a hole in one of her black stockings, camouflaged by a touch of Cherry Blossom boot polish. ‘“Oh, he won’t die, will he? Oh, he won’t die, will he?”’
‘Lizzy, stop that,’ said Chinese Lady.
‘But she kept saying it,’ said Lizzy. ‘“Oh, he won’t die, will he?” She’s a bit fanciful, ’aving an aunt who’s always under the doctor.’
‘I’d be under him myself,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘only I haven’t got time.’
‘What’ll I tell Em’ly?’ asked Lizzy.
‘Tell her I’m composing myself for a peaceful end,’ I said.
Mr Clark chuckled and said, ‘You’re a one, you are.’
‘Boots, didn’t I tell you not to say things like that?’ said Chinese Lady worriedly.
‘He can’t ’elp it, Mum,’ said Lizzy, ‘it’s ’is posh schooling.’
‘Everything all right?’ Nurse Wharton stopped to enquire. Chinese Lady smiled respectfully.
‘He’s comin’ on a treat,’ she said, ‘he’s enjoying some nice grapes.’
‘Lizzy is, you mean,’ I said
‘Are you Lizzy?’ asked Nurse Wharton of my skin and blister.
‘Yes,’ said Lizzy, suddenly shy in the face of uniformed authority.
‘When we were at our Aunt Victoria’s last year,’ I said, ‘a dog ran off with her—’
Lizzy clapped her hand over my mouth.
‘He wants a clip,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘only what with his operation and not being able to swaller proper, he’ll have to wait.’
‘Oh, we can turn him over and smack his bottom,’ said Nurse Wharton cheerfully. ‘That won’t affect his operation. Shall I do it for you?’
Chinese Lady looked uncertain. Lizzy looked bucked.
‘Well, he’s a good boy most of the time,’ said Chinese Lady.
‘All right, Mrs Adams,’ said Nurse Wharton, ‘but call me if you change your mind.’
She swished away.
‘You ’aven’t said proper what I’m to tell Em’ly,’ said Lizzy.
Emily Castle was the girl next door. At thirteen, she was the same age as Lizzy, and her best friend. How Lizzy stood her, I didn’t know. She was a skinny-legged terror. Small boys ran indoors when they saw her coming, and she could hack splinters off big boys. Her mum called her a pet, and her dad was proud of her.
‘Why’d you have to tell her anything?’ I asked.
‘’Cos she’ll ask, that’s why,’ said Lizzy. ‘She’ll be on the doorstep as soon as me an’ Mum get back. “Oh, he’s not dead, is he?” That’s what she’ll say. “Oh, he’s not dead, is he?” What’ll I tell her?’
‘What she wants to hear, I suppose. That I’ve passed on.’
‘There you go again,’ said Chinese Lady agitatedly. ‘Yes, you can smirk, my lad, but saying things like that when you just been operated on, well, you could wake up smirkin’ on the other side of your face.’
‘Now, Mum, don’t go on,’ I said, ‘people are looking.’
Chinese Lady went a little pink and hid herself under the brim of her black straw hat. Of all things, people looking was the worst.
‘Mr Finch is comin’ to see yer tomorrer,’ said Lizzy.
Mr Finch was our lodger. Everyone in Walworth had a lodger, if possible. Lodgers helped with the rent. A lodger was like an uncle to some families, and a worry to others. Mr Finch had lodged with us for five years and wasn’t a worry to anyone. He was a river pilot operating out of London docks, after having worked in the naval dockyard at Portsmouth and been a merchant seaman before that. He had a very nice way of talking to people, sounding quite educated, and the ladies respected him very much. His hours of work were irregular, due to tides and so on, but he always looked spruce coming or going, and never failed to lift his hat or his peaked cap to any lady he knew, even including Mrs Percival. Mrs Percival was a great big drunk of a woman, who spent a lot of time being taken to court and being fined or getting seven days for brawling with men outside pubs at closing times. She was always nearly sending some man or other to hospital. I say nearly because all the men refused to go. They had their pride, the working men of Walworth, and weren’t going to let any hospital know it was a woman who’d done them over. It made Mrs Percival mad that they wouldn’t go, because her declared aim was to put every man in England in hospital. Her husband had run off to Australia with her sister years ago, and she’d had it in for men ever since.
‘I’ll be happy to see Mr Finch,’ I said. ‘Are we still hard up?’ I whispered.
‘Mum’s had to pawn Grandma’s tea service,’ said Lizzy.
‘I’ll have a relapse, I will,’ I said.
‘Why?’ said Lizzy. ‘Grandma left her tea service to Mum, not you.’
‘Anyway,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘it helped to buy you a nice pair of secondhand shoes good as new down the Lane.’ East Street market was always called the Lane. ‘They look nice, they’re for school and to make up for your operation. I’ll get the tea service redeemed soon as your monthly school grant comes through.’ Chinese Lady being a widow, I received a grant of ten shillings a month to help see me through secondary school. She had an Army widow’s pension herself, our dad having gone to a hero’s death on the Northwest Frontier in India in 1906. The Army had sent her his medals, and she’d written to ask if she could have two shillings a week more on her pension instead, as she had four children to find food for and they couldn’t eat medals. She received a very kind reply, which took four long paragraphs to say no. So she framed the medals with a photograph of our dad in his uniform, and kept it on the parlour mantelpiece, and neighbours said how proud she must have been of him. Chinese Lady said she’d have been a lot prouder if he’d had the sense not to get his head blown off. The pension wasn’t much, and she had to go out to work charring six mornings a week at the town hall, leaving home at a quarter to six and coming back about half-past nine. They paid her eleven shillings a week.
‘We ought to hold Grandma’s tea service more dear than to put it in pawn,’ I said.
‘Crikey, listen to you,’ said Lizzy, ‘you sound like—’ She stopped. She blushed under her hat. A boy was eyeing her from a bedside opposite, where he sat with his mother visiting his father, who’d had his appendix out. He looked about seventeen, and as if he came from somewhere like Denmark Hill, where people had a bit more than we did in Walworth. There were some nice streets off Denmark Hill, except they were called roads or avenues, and the houses all had gardens. The boy wore a grey suit, with a collar and tie, and he had a frank smile for our Lizzy. Well, Lizzy really did look nice in her Sunday frock, which was a cast-off from Cousin Vi, Aunt Victoria’s only child.
The boy got up and strolled over. Lizzy went violently pink.
‘Hello,’ he said to me, ‘what’re you in for?’
‘Tonsils,’ I said.
‘Crippling,’ he said. He had a cheerful and vigorous look, well-brushed hair as darkly brown as Lizzy’s, and a lot of self-confidence. Our Lizzy had quite a bit of her own, but it seemed to have drained into her polished Sunday boots at the moment. ‘Hello,’ said the boy to Chinese Lady.
‘Good afternoon, pleased to meet you,’ said Chinese Lady.
‘Are you his sister?’ asked the boy of Lizzy’s hat. Her hat was all he could see of her, because she had her head bent. She gulped.
‘Yes, she’s my sister,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Eliza.’
Lizzy shot me a fierce look. She hated the name Eliza, and frequently took Chinese Lady to task for burdening her with it.
‘I’m Ned,’ said the boy. ‘Eliza’s pretty nice, don’t you think?’
Lizzy gave him a quick upward glance. He smiled at her. Her blush got worse.
‘Cheek,’ she muttered.
‘Pardon?’ said Ned.
‘She said how’d you do,’ I said.
‘No, I didn’t,’ breathed Lizzy.
‘Well, I’ve got to buzz now and meet some friends,’ said Ned. ‘I’ve seen my dad’s operation. Looks a treat. I’m bringing him some books tomorrow evening. He likes Rider Haggard. D’you fancy a book or two?’ he asked me.
‘Thanks, I’ve got books,’ I said, ‘what I’m after is something I can eat.’
‘Mr Finch, our lodger, is comin’ to see him tomorrer evening,’ said Chinese Lady. Being a motherly woman, she was engagingly irrelevant at times.
‘He’ll get Irish stew tomorrow,’ said Ned, ‘they always serve that on Mondays. I had my tonsils out here several years ago.’
‘Well, fancy that,’ muttered Lizzy to her feet.
‘Will they do dumplings with the stew?’ asked Chinese Lady. ‘Boots likes dumplings.’
‘Me too,’ said Ned. ‘Well, see you all again, I hope.’
‘Pleased to have met you, I’m sure,’ said Chinese Lady, and Ned smiled, gave Lizzy’s hat another glance, called goodbye to his mother and father, and left.
‘Cheek,’ said Lizzy again.
‘What’s got into you?’ asked Chinese Lady.
‘He was lookin’, that’s what,’ said Lizzy, who seemed irrationally pink.
‘Only at the hole in your stocking,’ I said.
‘Oh, it don’t show, do it?’ said Lizzy in dismay.
It did. The hole was out of true with the spot of blacking on her shin. Lizzy was plainly mortified.
‘Lizzy, you should of let me darn it before you put it on,’ said Chinese Lady.
‘No wonder he was standin’ there lookin’,’ said Lizzy furiously. ‘That’s what he was doin’, lookin’ an’ grinnin’.’ She essayed a glance at Ned’s parents. They gave her a smile. She blushed again. ‘Oh, all boys are grinnin’ lumps,’ she breathed. She seemed very put out.
