The Lights of London (11 page)

Artistes
! How could he have been so conceited as to expect that he, a lad from a pit village, could set up a theatre? What a fool he’d been even to think it. And what a fool he’d been to drink all that booze.

The hangover had first hit him when he’d tried, and failed, to raise his head from the pillow. Jack didn’t have much experience to go on – in fact, this was only the second hangover he’d ever had – but he was sure it wouldn’t have been possible to have one much worse than this. It was like a steam fairground had set up in his skull and all the rides and organs and side-shows were going full pelt. It was so bad that at this very moment the idea of going to sleep and never waking up again seemed a very reasonable option. If he just closed his eyes …

But no. He had to get up. There was something he had to do. What was it? For some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Not at the moment. But there was something.

Maybe he should have a bit of a nap and it would come back to him – whatever it was – and he would wake up refreshed and ready to start another day and face whatever it was he had to do?

He would have liked to remember. It was niggling away in the back of his mind – not like the steam gallopers and the swing boats, but small and insidious, like a worm in the core of an apple. If only he could just reach out and grasp it.

He was sure it wasn’t just his usual problems rearing and bucking in his brain. He’d done something. Something other than drinking a whole bottle of rum and the Lord alone knew how many porter chasers to keep it company. And he was sure it was important.

He groaned and screwed his eyes shut.

Not for the first time in the last few weeks Jack Fisher wondered why he had ever thought he was different from any other lad back home. Why he hadn’t stayed in his place, where he belonged, and settled down with a nice lass from the village. And there were plenty of those after him, not to mention sturdy, sensible Tess and their ‘understanding’. Then he would have gone down the mine like his dad and worked himself to the bone for a rich bastard who couldn’t give a shit about anything but profit. And that was why he’d had these ‘ideas above his station’ as his mother had called them.

No matter how she’d begged him to stay, as she’d wrung her sacking apron between her gnarled, arthritic fingers and had wept when he had refused her, Jack had tried to explain that he’d rather die than go down that place. That he had a dream and was going off to the bright lights to make it come true. And that was that. She hadn’t understood, but he’d still left her. Just as he’d left his father’s grave, the girl he’d made promises to
and the village, the only home he’d ever known, far behind him.

Uncomfortable with his memories, he shifted in his bed, as though he could move away from the pain of the image of seeing his mother for what she was: an old woman standing at the door of their mean little cottage, weeping for the son who was leaving her, to finish up who knew where, doing who knew what. Weeping for only the second time he could ever recall.

Compared with that pain, the one in his head now seemed of far less consequence. But there was still the aggravating feeling, that would not leave him, that he had done something – planned something? – last night.

What
was
it? It was definitely connected with this morning in some way or other. He was sure of that. But how? If only he could concentrate.

As he rolled himself cautiously on to his side, keeping his throbbing brain as still and undisturbed as possible, the sudden, head-rattling, teeth-jangling squeal of furniture being dragged heavily across wooden floor-boards came screeching at him from the auditorium next door.

Archie, clearing up from the night before.

Jack Fisher groaned in self-pity, closed his eyes tight and pulled the thin blanket up over his head. He’d worry about everything later. After he’d had a little sleep.

‘See, I knew you’d eat something.’ Tibs was triumphant as she wiped her greasy chops with the rough woollen sleeve of her jacket and reached across for another spoon of sugar for her big mug of tea. Why stint yourself when it was there for the taking on the counter? Even if the stall holder was giving you a slit-eyed stare, just daring you to pick up the spoon one more time.
‘Hard to resist a bacon sandwich, eh, girl?’

Kitty nodded sheepishly. When Tibs had simply refused to let her say goodbye without at least having a cup of tea with her, Kitty had finally surrendered and had allowed herself to be dragged along to one of the dockside coffee stalls. The moment she’d caught the whiff of freshly baked bread and of salt bacon frying to a crisp in piping-hot fat, she’d been done for. But knowing that she was soon never going to be hungry again made Kitty feel so guilty about letting Tibs spend her money – and about taking advantage of her kindness – that she felt she had to explain herself.

‘Hunger’s a strange thing, Tibs,’ she said in her soft country voice. ‘Makes you do things. Even though you know you shouldn’t. Makes you act in ways that are not quite nice. Not quite right. No matter that you know better, you still goes and does them.’

Tibs nearly choked on her tea. ‘Blimey, you’ve turned into a proper little chatterbox, ain’t you, girl? First I can hardly get a dicky-bird outta you, then you go carrying on like that.’ She drained her cup and put it down on the counter. ‘Here, you ain’t caught the talking bug off of me, have you, Kit? That’s all we need, two of us rabbiting away. We wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways with one another, would we?’ Seeing the flush of embarrassment creep up Kitty’s throat and across her cheeks, Tibs shook her head and stuck her fists into her waist. ‘Now don’t go getting all sulky on me. I never meant nothing, did I? I was just surprised you had so much to say about … Well, whatever it was you was going on about.’

‘I know I don’t usually talk much,’ Kitty said apologetically. ‘But it’s not that I don’t have things I want to say, it’s just that I’ve never had anyone to say them to before. Or I’ve been too tired. It can be a
hard, lonely way of life in the countryside.’

Tibs sniffed loudly. ‘It ain’t much better in the East End, love. But you take things too serious, that’s your trouble. Now finish your cuppa and we can be on our way.’

Kitty did finish her tea, but when Tibs tried to link her arm through hers to lead her away she stepped out of her reach and began stumbling backwards away from her. ‘I’ve … I’ve got to go,’ she stammered. With that, she ducked around the corner into Nightingale Lane, a narrow road that separated the St Katherine’s and London Docks.

Tibs took no more than a split second to hurry after her. ‘Oi! Kit!’ she bellowed in her brash cockney growl. ‘Wait for me.’

‘I’m sorry, Tibs,’ Kitty called over her shoulder, her lip trembling and her eyes brimming, ‘I know I owe you a lot, and I let you spend all your money on my breakfast and everything, but I meant what I said about saying goodbye.’

‘Course you don’t.’ Tibs tutted kindly and, still giving chase, held out her arm. ‘Come on. Come with me, you big dope.’

‘I do mean it.’ Kitty began moving faster. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere. Urgent like.’

Tibs wouldn’t have it. She narrowed her eyes and lunged forward, determined to make a grab for her. ‘Nobody who gets themselves in the state you was in last night has got anywhere
urgent
to go to.’

‘I have.’ Kitty turned round to face her. ‘I have to …’ Before she could finish, or Tibs could catch her, Kit was suddenly shoved to one side as though she were no more than a troublesome fly. She tumbled to the ground and, looking up to see what had hit her, she saw a swarthy, sallow-skinned man looming over her.

He was dressed in a dark, wide-brimmed hat, a long, black, narrow-waisted, old-fashioned sort of overcoat and had a jagged scar running all the way from his left eye right across his full mouth to his bottom lip, which lent a sinister edge to his otherwise almost handsome face. He was glowering at Tibs with so much hatred that Kitty could practically smell it.

‘Albert,’ Tibs gasped, pressing herself flat against the rough dock wall. ‘What’re you doing …’

‘Shut your gob, you little trollop.’ Albert raised his hand and she flinched like a beaten dog; all signs of the feisty little thing who wouldn’t take no for an answer had disappeared like so much Thames ice melting in the first heat of spring. ‘You know what I think about brides setting up and working for themselves.’

Tibs shook her head, willing herself not to tremble; she mustn’t let him see she was scared. That would only make him worse. ‘No, Albert, I swear …’

He grabbed her by the collar, twisting the cloth so tight to her throat that she could hardly breathe. ‘Well, I hear different.’

Tibs tried to swallow, but couldn’t. ‘No, Albert,’ she croaked. ‘Whoever told you that, they was making it up.’ She knew full well who’d been bad-mouthing her, the only tart who’d let down one of her own, and when Tibs got hold of Lily Perkins and her big, lying trap, she’d skin her fat, fleshy arse for her.

Albert pulled Tibs closer to him, hurting her, a helpless fish being slowly reeled in. There was no point in objecting. ‘I’m telling you, Tibs, if I catch you I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand me?’

‘Please, Albert.’ She was beginning to feel faint. Had to breathe.

‘I said,
do you understand me
?’

She managed a nod.

Kitty, terrified, struggled to her feet. ‘Leave her alone,’ she pleaded. ‘Can’t you see she’s going to pass out? Look at her. Just look at her.’

But he wouldn’t. Instead, he turned to look at this person – this stupid, whining-voiced yokel – who dared to interfere with him. Him, Albert Symes!

His face crumpled with contempt at the sight of her. ‘Fuck off,’ he sneered in disgust, his fist drawn ready to punch her if she dared move a single step closer. ‘I said,
fuck off
.’

Almost swooning with terror, Kitty hurried away.

Stopping at the bend in the lane, she hid herself in the long shadows of one of the high dock walls and watched, her eyes wide with fear and her heart racing.

She couldn’t hear what the man was saying as he towered over Tibs’s almost childishly tiny form, but she could see that he had at least let go of her throat.

She decided she should wait where she was until the man had gone, then go and see if Tibs was all right. And, if the worst came to the worst and he tried anything else, she’d …

What? What would she do? What
could
she do?

She thought frantically.

She would go and find a constable. That’s what she’d do.

Albert shoved his face up close to Tibs’s. ‘Money,’ he spat through gritted teeth. ‘Hand it over.’

‘I ain’t got none, Albert. Honest, I …’

‘Don’t gimme that old flannel. I said, hand it over.’

She shook her head in denial. ‘Albert, I swear …’

‘What? On your nipper’s life?’

Tibs shuddered. It was her worst nightmare that Albert might find out where Polly was staying. ‘You know I don’t see her no more,’ she said, repeating her well-rehearsed story. ‘You know they took her off me
after I got nicked last time. You can ask any …’

‘Poxy liar.’

‘Albert, on my life …’

‘Forget the kid, just give us the money.’

‘Honest, you’ve gotta believe me, Albert, I ain’t got a brass farthing to me name. I ain’t got nothing.’ She coughed dramatically, pressing her tiny hand to her chest. ‘I’ve been too sick to work, see. It’s all this fog, it must’ve got on me lungs. I ain’t even been able to afford a drop o’ jollop to …’

‘I’ll give you too sick.’ As he spoke those words he jabbed her, hard, in the ribs with the knuckles of his tightly balled fist. Jabbed her again, and again.

Kitty’s hand flew to her mouth and she gasped, wanting to stop him, but it was as though she’d been transfixed, a rabbit caught in the glare of the lamper’s flame. She couldn’t move, but she flinched as she saw the pain on her new friend’s face. She watched and felt ashamed.

Then, as suddenly as he’d arrived, Albert turned on his heel and strode off towards the river, his wide-skirted coat flapping about his tightly trousered legs. He paused at the bend in Nightingale Lane, wheeled round and stabbed his finger violently at Tibs. ‘Don’t you try giving me no more of that shit, girl. D’you hear me? Not if you know what’s good for you.’

Kitty ignored the gravel grinding into her knees as she worried and fussed around Tibs, who was sitting propped against the wall, hugging her sides and rocking back and forth, moaning softly to herself. ‘I’m so sorry, Tibs,’ she wailed. ‘Why didn’t I do something? Why didn’t I help? A great big thing like me …’

‘It don’t matter,’ Tibs said, wincing and gasping with every word. ‘It’s only me ribs and me stays have
stopped him doing any real damage. I’m just bruised by the feel of it. Always makes sure he never hits me on the face, the bastard. Don’t wanna spoil the goods, see.’

‘He’s done it before?’

Tibs nodded and even managed a thin, mournful smile. ‘Aw yeah, he’s done it before all right.’ She screwed her eyes tight as a shaft of pain shot through her. ‘Bugger!’

Kitty bit her lip. ‘Tell me what I can do. Please.’

‘There’s nothing you can do, thanks, love, but I’ll tell you what, there’s something I can do. I can swear I ain’t gonna work for that dirty whoreson ever again. I’ve had it with him. Had it. Giving him practically every penny I ever earn. Being scared he’s gonna do me over just ’cos he feels like it. Using the few bob I keep for me grub to pay off the coppers again, to keep him out of the jug every other sodding week. Well, he can go in there and rot for all I care, ’cos I’m never gonna let him do that, or anything else, to me ever again.’

She shook her head as though trying to clear away some dreadful image that had found its way into her mind. ‘D’you know something funny? I used to kid myself he loved me. Used to dream about how one day we’d settle down and get ourselves a proper little place to live in.’ She spat fiercely. ‘He’d treat a dog better than me.’

‘Let me help you up off this cold stone.’

Tibs took her arm and tried to stand up, but her face creased into pleats of pain. ‘Sorry, Kit, I’ll have to lay down for a bit, I’m still winded and he’s made me feel proper bilious, the rotten arsehole.