War Babies (3 page)

When she found Peggy that morning, her mother – on her own as usual, not joining in the banter – was setting out the new clothing she had brought that week. Peggy was still not very
well, troubled by her cough. But Rachel knew her mother always gave off this aura of self-contained isolation, almost as if there was a line drawn around her. I am not really here. I am above all
this. Head down, under her sporty hat with the feather in it, she was laying out the sheets from her bundle on the ground to keep the clothing off the floor and arranging things folded to look as
neat and attractive as possible.

‘It’s no good throwing them down any old how,’ she’d remark sometimes. ‘That’s what Harold would say, I know he would.’

These were rare moments when she spoke of her dead husband with respect. Harold Mills’s photographic business in Sparkhill had had a marvellous display window, full of his best portraits
artistically arranged. ‘Oh, Harold was very good at
appearances
,’ Peggy would say in more bitter moods. The debts she had inherited were a worse shock than the loss of her
husband itself. People understood grief – they gave sympathy. A body in the cut, as the canal was known locally, and a legacy of debt was another matter altogether. Harold took with him to
his grave her trust and respect, buried them forever and left her with fear, bitterness and penury. She had left the neat villa where they had lived and the neighbours she could not look in the
eye, found the cheapest place she could bear to rent and set out to earn her own living.

Peggy was laying out the clothes from the lady in Edgbaston, giving them pride of place. Rachel had wondered if her mother would keep the blouse. It was so pretty and she could see she was
tempted. But no. There it was, carefully folded to show off the lace collar. The peach-coloured garment had turned out to be a beautiful, expertly tailored dress. Usually Peggy spent a long time
with any clothes she bought, washing and pressing them so that they would look their best, in addition to the other washing and sewing she took in to keep afloat. But these clothes needed no
improvement – they were new and of good quality.

‘Why did ’er give ’em yer, Mom?’ Rachel had asked as they went home that night, clutching their chips.

‘She, not
’er
,’ Peggy said sharply. ‘
She
. For the love of God speak properly, not like those urchins at school.
She
said they were her
sister’s. I never asked any more. P’raps they’d had a death in the family. It wasn’t as if she’d tell
me
, was it?’

As they went to set up their pitch that morning – the day of Danny – in the middle of the market, Rachel saw, to her consternation, that another woman was with her mother and that an
argument was brewing. She had seen the lady before and she was rather fascinating – tall and voluptuous and wearing a dress with rusty-coloured flowers all over it. Her broad, big-boned face
was heavily powdered, the lips bright scarlet, and her thick blonde hair topped by a wide-brimmed hat.

‘You just move over!’ the woman boomed at Peggy. Beside her were bundles of clothes in disorderly heaps. ‘You’re on my pitch – look, you’ve pinched nearly a
yard – I’m paying for this. You just clear off!’

Peggy had her hands on her waist and was standing tall, looking proud and disdainful. ‘You just stop shouting at me,’ she was saying. ‘You only need to ask. There’s no
call to be so unpleasant.’

‘Eh, eh, now, ladies . . .’ a deep, tobacco-laden voice interrupted. Rachel saw the person they called the Toby Man, with his pouch at his waist, striding over towards them. He was a
solidly built man with a bottle-green neckerchief tied in the opening of his shirt, and a cap resting at a sideways angle on his head, from under which looked out a fleshy face with brown,
twinkling eyes. His manner was relaxed, as if dealing with squabbling women was a completely familiar part of the job. But he knew he was in charge. ‘What’s going on ’ere
then?’

‘’Er’s pushing onto my pitch . . .’ the red-lipped woman began again. ‘These casuals don’t know how to go on. This is mine – up to ’ere,
see?’ Rachel could see her mother seething but she was holding her anger in. It would do her no good to get into a fight. ‘Tell ’er to move over. I ain’t paid for my patch
to ’ave ’er moving in on it.’

The Toby Man eyed Peggy up and down. He stroked his stubbly chin for a moment, and considered the wares the two women were setting out.

‘So far as I know,’ the Toby Man retorted, ‘you ain’t paid for nowt yet today, Aggie, so yer’d best button it ’til you ’ave.’

‘’Ere’s my money –’ The woman rummaged about in her cleavage and slammed some coins into the man’s outstretched hand. The Toby Man made a comical face.

‘Flamin’ ’ell, Aggie – where’s this lot been?’

‘Never you mind,’ Aggie said tartly, rearranging her upper storey by yanking at her clothes so that her mountainous breasts lurched about. ‘Now you tell that one –’
she nodded her head towards Peggy – ‘to pay up and shove over.’

‘Here you are,’ Peggy said quietly, holding out her own rent for the pitch. Her solemn face and neat, simple dress automatically gave her a dignified appearance.

‘Ta.’ The Toby Man looked intently down at the ground where the goods were laid out as if reading it in some way, then declared, with a wave of his hand, ‘Move yerself over a
foot this way, missis. Aggie’s right – you’re too far over.’

‘Told yer, didn’ I?’ Aggie crowed. ‘That’s it – you shift yerself.’

Aggie stood, arms folded, and was obviously not going to move until Peggy did as she commanded. Without responding or looking at her neighbour, Peggy tugged at the edge of her sheets, easing the
whole pile over.

‘You just stay there,’ Aggie said, with a self-righteous nod.

Rachel watched her mother’s face, but it was a blank. As the Toby Man moved away, he patted Rachel’s head. ‘That’s it, wench – you ’elp yer mother get
settled.’

‘Get the rest of the clothes out, Rachel,’ Peggy said, calmly ignoring Aggie.

‘’Er’s a proper snooty bit, that one,’ Rachel heard Aggie mutter behind her.

Together they lifted the bundle of clothes out of the wicker carriage and laid those out as well. There were some very large bloomers and camisoles, a pair of gent’s trousers which were on
the small size and which no one had wanted last time, and a misshapen man’s jacket with a paint stain on one sleeve. It smelt smoky and musty. Peggy folded it to make it look as good as she
could. There were several hats that they had bought at a church jumble sale and Rachel enjoyed arranging those. Peggy had also acquired a set of embroidered table mats.

The queue of shoppers was building up outside. Excitement mounted before the gates opened. At last as they swung back, a tight crowd in hats and coats poured in, the ones at the front jostling
good-naturedly, laughing and moving out all around the market. Some already had bags of meat from Jamaica Row or other goods they had bought; some were in deadly earnest looking for bargains, and
others were there just for a mooch around. Soon the place was buzzing with crowds and activity.

It was a cold, overcast day. Rachel looked around her, watching one lady haggling for a nesting trio of pudding basins, another comparing the feel of skirt lengths. Customers approached her
mother’s pitch and immediately took interest in the new things she had on display.

‘Ooh – look at that! How much is that?’ a woman asked, pointing at the peach creation with its silken ruffles along the neckline. Rachel thought that such an enormous lady
would never fit into the dress. Surely she didn’t want it for herself?

‘Three pounds,’ Peggy said. ‘It’s brand new – never been worn. Very good quality. Made in Paris.’

‘Three pound?’ The lady chortled incredulously. ‘I’ll give yer ten bob and that’s robbing myself.’ Peggy shook her head with disdain.

‘Huh!’ Rachel heard the woman say as she turned away. ‘She’ll be lucky – three quid! This ain’t Lewis’s, you know.’

As the market got into full swing Rachel wandered back and forth among the crowds, taking it all in. A man stood in a gap to one side of a crock stall juggling plates, letting out banter at the
same time. Rachel watched, smiling. Would he drop one? But he never did. One lady was selling cheap bottles of perfume and the sweet, heady smell filled the air. There were mouth-watering aromas
from all around of roasting chestnuts and potatoes and meat and frying onions from the cafe by the gates. From the edges of the market came a cacophony of shouting. Only those who were lucky enough
to have places along the walls were allowed to pitch their wares and they were almost always the regulars who had worked their way into the best pitches.

Gradually, as Rachel wandered back towards her mother, she became aware of a voice sailing upwards over the cries of other traders. It was high and strong and thrumming with energy.

‘Come and get yer comics ’ere – get yer
Champion,
the Tip-Top Story Weekly! Get yer
Triumph
, yer Buck Rogers . . . ! A farthing each – three for a
halfpenny! Never say I don’t give yer a bargain!’

Rachel realized that the voice was coming from somewhere across from them where a woman called Gladys Poulter regularly had a pitch against the back wall. Gladys was a handsome woman with
strong, high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose and piercing blue eyes. Rachel thought Gladys looked rather forbidding, with an air of strength and dignity which defied anyone to give her trouble.
She wore her dark brown hair plaited and coiled up into a bun and dressed her wide, curvaceous body in dark, old-fashioned clothes, a black skirt, high-necked blouse and, in the cold, a black
woollen shawl hugged round it.

There were some women at Peggy’s pitch leaning down to feel some of the clothes and Rachel could see her mother watching them carefully.

‘Those underclothes are brand new,’ Peggy was saying to them.

Feeling she was not needed, Rachel wandered away again through the milling shoppers, amid the smells of people’s coats, their sweat and perfume, towards Gladys’s pitch. That voice
was still coming through loud and clear. Through a gap she saw a young lad, about her own age, standing in front of Gladys’s cascades of clothing, belting out his patter. He held one hand out
like a seasoned professional. She smiled, impressed. The boy looked like a grown-up man who had shrunk. He too had striking blue eyes. He must be Gladys’s son, she thought.

‘Best comics!’ he bawled. ‘Come and get ’em –
Football Favourite
! Three for a halfpenny!’

The boy’s electric energy drew Rachel in. He had a selection of comics laid out on the ground in front of him and a tobacco tin in which to keep his takings. He was a thin, wiry boy, with
thick brown hair cropped very short, big blue eyes which looked out at the world very directly and a squarish face with a strong jawline.

‘There’s girls’ comics as well,’ he announced, pointing rather grandly, as soon as he saw she was interested. His patter did not include the girls’ comics.
Tiny
Tots
and
The Schoolgirl
were clearly not names he saw fit to be broadcast by someone as manly as himself.

‘You’ve got a
lot
,’ Rachel said, impressed. She loved comics, though Peggy could never spare the money for any. There were several piles of them, some of them looking
very dog-eared.

‘I’ve got a good supplier,’ the boy said, folding his arms.

‘You tell her!’ Gladys said, laughing with another woman. ‘Good supplier – what’ll he come out with next?’

The boy was a little taller than Rachel and had on threadbare grey shorts, one of the front pockets torn, a shirt which looked several sizes too big and a green V-necked jersey with frayed
cuffs. Rachel saw that he was wearing black
Mail
boots and that they were badly scuffed.

‘’E’s been off round the jumble sales,’ Gladys told her, coming round to speak to them. ‘Found himself a new line of business, ’ain’t yer, bab? Now you
give ’er a good bargain mind, Danny. You’ve got to learn to keep your customers happy!’

‘What d’yer want?’ the boy said gruffly. His blue eyes looked very directly at her.

Gladys Poulter cuffed his head affectionately. ‘
What d’yer want?
What kind of way is that to speak to your customers? You tell ’em what you’ve got, you ask if
there’s anything they like the look of – and then whether there is or not, you show ’em summat they can’t resist . . .’

The boy had such a compelling gaze that Rachel knew she could not just walk away. But she had only come to have a nose – she had not intended to buy anything.

‘I’ve got a farthing,’ she admitted.

‘Well – tell yer what,’ the boy said, folding his arms and considering carefully. ‘I’ll give you a special deal. Two for a farthing. How’s that?’

‘That’s more like it,’ Gladys chuckled.

Rachel felt herself become daring. At school she found boys were easier if you stood up to them. ‘Three.’ Eyes full of mischief she looked up at him. ‘Make it three.’

She heard Gladys let out a hoot of laughter. ‘What’s ’er saying? You driving a hard bargain, miss, are yer?’ She bent over and Rachel saw her dark lashes and the rough
ruddiness of her cheeks. ‘What’s your name, bab?’

‘Rachel Mills,’ she said. ‘My mother’s over there.’ She pointed in Peggy’s general direction. She saw Gladys Poulter sizing up her mother.

‘Oh ar – that new one,’ she said. ‘I’ve not seen much of ’er. Come on then, Danny. What’s it to be?’

Danny looked pained. ‘I’m crippling myself,’ he said. ‘I can’t go lower than a halfpenny.’

‘You’re a one, Danny!’ Gladys laughed. ‘You got the whole box for tuppence!’

‘I’ve only got a farthing,’ Rachel repeated.

Danny let out a theatrical sigh and shifted his weight onto one leg as if in resignation.

‘All right. Pick three.
Girls’
ones. And don’t go spreading it around or everyone’ll want the same.’

Rachel squatted down and went solemnly through the pile of comics. But she was more interested in Danny. She thought he was funny.

‘How old’re you?’ she asked.