The Street

‘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.’