Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts (19 page)

When she announced she would be leaving, Sam got up naturally and offered to walk her home. They left the pub amid a chorus of ‘Night, love, Happy Christmas!’ from her fellow custard tarts. They emerged from the heat and fug into a still, crystalline night. Nellie shivered – even her ears were tingling and her breath formed a frosty plume in the air. She flung her boa around her neck and she and Sam set off side by side, back to Vauban Street. They chatted easily about the plans they each had for the following day and although Sam’s voice was tinged with sadness when he spoke about his mother, his face brightened as he told Nellie his plans to surprise Matty with a little doll and Charlie with a cricket bat, both of which he’d made himself from offcuts of wood he’d found in the yard. It made her laugh to hear about Matty’s bustling bossiness over the Christmas dinner. ‘She’s only nine, but I swear that child could organize an army, she’s already got me lined up to peel the spuds!’

But as they approached Nellie’s door, her laughter died. They hurried their steps as they approached Nellie’s house, for the front door was already open and Alice stood on the step with a policeman, her anxious face signalling that something was wrong. Thoughts of Ted sped through Nellie’s mind, but this time the law had nothing to say about Ted Bosher.

15

A Game Old Bird

‘Alice, what’s the matter?’ Nellie asked, taking her hand and looking from her to the policeman. The young girl burst into tears.

‘Oh, Nell, I’m so glad you’ve come home. It’s Dad.’

The policeman, having delivered his message, seemed glad to take his leave. Alice had all but collapsed on the doorstep and Nellie asked Sam to help her. They half carried her into the kitchen, sitting her in front of the range. Nellie knelt before her.

‘What’s happened, Al? For God’s sake, tell me.’

‘He’s been in a terrible accident…’ Alice sobbed, her voice thick with tears.

‘Where is he now?’ Sam asked her.

‘He’s in Guy’s Hospital, they took him straight there.’

‘Was he driving the cart?’ asked Sam.

Alice nodded and slowly, as the normally stoical twelve-year-old tried desperately to control her sobs, the story emerged. Their father, although stern and unyielding in matters of family discipline, had always tried to give his family a good Christmas. All year he saved into a Christmas club and on Christmas Eve, when the club paid out, he would take the cart down to ‘the Blue’ market. There he would spend the Christmas money on treats for the family. If it had been a bad year and he’d had to borrow out of the club for new shoes or clothes, then the treats would be few, but Nellie’s wage increase had made all the difference and this had been a good year. He’d told Nellie he’d buy a goose and vegetables for Christmas dinner and bring home oranges, nuts and a few sugar mice. There was no money left over for toys, but the young ones would each get a stocking filled with an orange, sugar mouse and a silver sixpence, which for them was a fortune. Her father’s morose temper had certainly softened and Nellie remembered, as he’d told her the plans for his Christmas shopping that morning, feeling a warmth towards him she hadn’t felt in years, not since those long-gone days when she would skip along beside him and swing from his strong hand, singing
oops a lala, oops a lala, lost the leg of her drawers!
The silly song came back to her now as she heard what had happened to the strong man with the firm hand who had ruled her childhood.

‘There was a cart in front of him, some kids were larking about, holding on to the back board and skidding along behind it.’ Nellie and Sam nodded. It was a common but dangerous game for the local children to grab the back board, scrunch down on their boots and let themselves be pulled along the cobbles. At times sparks would fly from their boot studs and often the driver would crack his whip behind him to dissuade them, and sometimes they tumbled to the ground. Alice explained that this was what had happened.

‘A kiddie fell off into the road right in front of Dad’s cart and he had to pull up sharp or old Thumper would have gone right over him. Thumper reared up and Dad’s cart tipped over and he got pinned underneath it. Old Thumper was still in the harness and thrashing about. Oh, Nell…’ Here Alice broke down again and they waited for her sobs to subside. ‘The policeman says Thumper caught him in the head and his skull is broken and his legs got smashed under the cart.’

‘Alice, he’s still alive, isn’t he?’ Nellie’s voice sounded to her like a croak; her lips were dry and her throat constricted.

Alice put her hands to her tear-stained face. She nodded. ‘Yes, but, Nell, they’ve had to take his legs off!’

Nellie didn’t know where the strength came from; she just knew that it would be down to her. Three children were depending on her decisions now and she focused on making the right ones.

‘Now, Al, you’ve got to be strong and grown up for me. All right?’

Her sister straightened her shoulders and wiped her wet face with the cuff of her sleeve.

‘You stay here and look after the boys, while I go up Guy’s. If they wake up you’ll have to tell them what’s happened, but you can’t cry in front of ’em, do you hear me?’

‘Nell, what about their Christmas stockings?’ Alice pointed to a bundle by the door. ‘The policeman brought it, said everything had tipped out over the road, that was all they could save.’

Sam picked up the sack and tipped the contents on to the table. Nellie felt an overwhelming sadness as she saw the battered remnants of her father’s Christmas cheer. The goose, covered in dust, tumbled out along with the oranges, some squashed to pulp. A few of the sugar mice had survived, but the nuts must have rolled all over the road and a few brazil nuts were all that was left. In an instant Nellie forgave all the past beatings and harsh words and remembered him at his best, when their mother had been alive. His heart simply hadn’t had enough room for all the grief at her loss and his children had suffered for it. She understood this for the first time and the sight of his renewed attempts to be a loving father broke her heart.

She lifted her pale sad face to Sam and before she could ask, he offered. ‘You can’t go up there on your own this time of night. I’ll take you up there.’

‘Thanks, Sam, but what about your mum, won’t she be worried?’

‘No, she knew I was out for the night, come on.’

They hurried to catch the bus to Guy’s Hospital, passing rowdy crowds of Christmas Eve revellers piling out of the closing pubs. Sam deftly weaved his way through an overly friendly crowd of dockers who wanted to include Nellie in a lively waltz they were enjoying among themselves. They might have been lumbering prancing giants from another world for Nellie. In her world now there was no Christmas, there was no dancing, there was no night or day; there was perhaps the shadow of Sam at her side, but everything else was half-formed. She was on the fringes of a nightmare and round every corner she seemed to see the vision of the old tramp with the crushed legs that she and Sam had befriended on their way back from the Tower. But the old tramp now had the face of her father, and the terror of the workhouse was hers alone. For even if her father survived, he might never work again and then it would be up to her to feed, clothe and house her family.

She felt herself being shaken.

‘Nellie, it’s our stop next.’

They were on the top deck of the bus and she followed Sam down the stairs. They hopped off at the end of Tooley Street and made their way across the colonnaded courtyard into Guy’s Hospital. Two nurses were crossing the black-and-white tiled entrance hall and Sam stopped one of them.

‘We’re looking for a man brought in from a cart accident today.’ He lowered his voice, Nellie thought, in a kind though futile attempt to protect her. ‘He’s had his legs amputated. Do you know which ward he might be in?’

Nellie had an aversion to nurses; when her mother was dying, the fierce old matron had guarded her like a fire-breathing dragon. Although it was probably unjustified, Nellie had always blamed the matron for robbing her of those precious last moments with her mother. She was ready for a fight now; nothing would keep her from her father.

But this young nurse turned round with a pleasant smile. She looked briefly at Nellie and then spoke softly to Sam. ‘If it only happened today, he probably won’t be in a fit state to see you.’

Nellie took a half step forward, a surge of adrenalin making her clench her fists, but the nurse went on. ‘Still, it
is
Christmas Eve, Matron might take pity on the young lady and let you see him.’

She gave them directions to the ward and with a sympathetic smile hurried off to catch up with her friend.

It took them what seemed like hours to find the ward. Long green and cream corridors smelling of carbolic all looked the same and Nellie found herself half running along them, her footsteps echoing on the tiles. Sam put a restraining hand on her arm as she dashed past the last staircase.

‘Hold up, Nell, it’s this way.’

She turned on her heel, Sam keeping pace with her as they sped up the flight of stairs. All her thoughts had narrowed to a single focus, a point of light that was her father’s survival.

The young nurse was right; some Christmas spirit had invaded Matron’s regimen. The ward was dimly lit, but the stern-faced woman softened as she saw Nellie’s ashen face. She led them with a soft swish of her blue matron’s dress between two rows of sleeping patients to a curtained-off cubicle at the end of the ward. Through the tall, iron-framed window Nellie caught a sight of the moon and a single bright star. Flecks of newly falling snow were caught in the moonlight and by its silvery glow she saw her father’s bandaged head. She saw the rise and fall of the blanket that swaddled him and relief trembled through her. At least he was alive. She forced her gaze to move down to where his legs should have been: a cage had been placed under the blankets. She was glad – she could imagine that underneath his legs were still there; she could let herself believe he was still whole. The damage to his skull was another matter. Although he looked to her like a turbaned Indian with his head swathed in thick white bandages, even these could not disguise the terrible change to his features. His nose had been crushed and one cheek had sunk, and his face looked as though someone had smashed a flat iron into it. He didn’t look like her father at all, and that she wasn’t prepared for.

‘You can have five minutes with him, then you’ll have to leave,’ said Matron. She laid a hand on Nellie’s arm. ‘You’ve got to be a brave girl now.’ Nellie looked from the matron to Sam and saw, in both faces, pity and resignation.

‘He’s not going to die!’ she said, with a conviction she didn’t really feel, but saying it helped and her trembling limbs quieted themselves as she approached the bed.

‘Dad, can you hear me? It’s Nellie. What’ve you been doing to yourself?’

The great shattered frame of her father breathed on, but there was no flicker of recognition in his ruined face. She pulled the single chair closer to the bed. ‘The doctors are going to sort you out, don’t worry about the kids, I’ll make sure they’re all right. Dad?’ She took his hand. The fingers were coarse as an iron file and his palm the hardest leather, but she felt a twitch, a tap against her own palm. ‘Do you know me, Dad? It’s Nellie.’

Then came a series of weak taps, almost a rhythm, as though her father were keeping time to a tune. His lips formed a word and as Nellie leaned forward she heard ‘
oops a la la’
. She leaned forward over the bed with a great heaving sob. ‘Yes, I remember, Dad, I remember
oops a la la, oops a la la, lost the leg of ’er drawers
. We used to sing it when I was little, didn’t we?’ A ghost of a smile played on her father’s lips and he nodded.

‘My little Nellie.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Sorry, duck, sorry about Christmas and everything else, sorry.’

He gasped and let out a cry of pain. Nellie heard the swishing approach of Matron’s skirts and leaned forward, urgently. She felt as though she held in her hand the fragile, sweet, short time of her childhood, when she was beloved and life was still a dream.

‘Oh, Dad, don’t worry about that. I only want you to get better and come home to us.’

He mustered strength with a huge effort, which she felt in his trembling hand. Pulling her close, he whispered a few words into her ear and then fell back into the light of the moon that still shone across his pillow. She held fast to his hand, and it was only when she felt Sam uncurling her fingers that she realized the matron had come back. She heard her talking to Sam, but the voices came from far away and though she knew she must urge her limbs to motion, she found she could not walk.

‘Nellie, listen, I’m going to take you home now.’

‘What about Dad?’ she knew it was a stupid question, but her normally quick mind was focusing in all the wrong places.

‘Nellie, Matron says we have to go and there’s nothing we can do for your dad. They’ll look after him here tonight.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, it’s Christmas.’ She felt proud of herself, surely that was a sensible thing to say. Sam put his arm round her and led her gently out of the ward. They walked back the way they’d come, slowly now, out through the deserted black-and-white tiled colonnade and into St Thomas’s Street. With each step came the realization, firstly that her father had always loved her and secondly that she hoped she hadn’t found this out too late. She looked up at Sam.

‘What am I going to do if he...?’

‘Don’t think about that. He’s still here, isn’t he? What did he whisper to you?’ Sam must have seen the puzzling exchange and heard the little childhood song.

Nellie spoke softly. ‘He said he was sorry, and then he said, “Don’t let the goose go to waste.”’

‘Trust your dad,’ said Sam, shaking his head, and they smiled at each other through their tears.

They walked up to London Bridge Station where Sam insisted they get a hansom cab back to Spa Road.

‘Two bob for a cab! You don’t think I’m going to let you pay that, do you?’ Nellie objected.