Paradise Court Read online

  Amy was gratified. It had been worth the effort of dashing into the Duke on her way home to borrow one of Hettie’s best blouses. At seventeen, Amy’s own wardrobe was practically non-existent. What she had, her mother pawned anyway. As she sat beside Teddy in the taxi, smelling the brown leather seats, she saw the familiar streets whirl by and almost pinched herself to believe her luck.

  The unreality of her evening was reinforced by the incredible magic of the moving picture show. If Teddy was bored by this part of the outing, he managed not to show it, sitting at ease with his arm draped around Amy’s soft, round shoulder. The flickering light fell on her upturned face and across the creamy lace on her breasts. She held his hand tight as a train appeared to rush straight at them on the screen, and she marvelled at the actualities that showed the suffragettes rallying at Hyde Park and going on to attack the Houses of Parliament, ‘What’s it say, Teddy?’ she leaned over and whispered. The screen writing was moving on too quickly for her to follow.

  ‘It says, “The fooligans were repulsed by the police with heavy loss of dignity, drapery and millinery!”’ he read out in a voice loud enough for others to overhear.

  They laughed out loud at the pictures of small, well-dressed women being picked up lock, stock and barrel by burly policemen and carted off to prison. Then the piano struck up the first dramatic chords for the main feature. It began with a frying machine accident and a thrilling rescue from the spars of its flimsy wings. Amy held her breath. Sometimes she had to close her eyes and let Teddy hug her close. These were the thrills of a lifetime, sitting there watching the flickering black and white pictures, casting off dull care.

  ‘Oh, Teddy, that was wonderful!’ Amy sat glued to her seat until the last piano chord had died away. She sighed happily and let him raise her and lead her into the aisle. On his arm, being led out of the cinema, she felt very grand to be introduced to a friend of Teddy’s as ‘Miss Amy Ogden’. Teddy said the man’s name was Maurice Leigh.

  The man nodded. ‘Did you enjoy the picture, Miss Ogden?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ She cast an animated glance at Teddy.

  ‘Enjoy it? She missed half of it!’ Teddy laughed. ‘Half the time she had her head buried inside my jacket!’

  ‘Oh, Teddy, I never!’

  ‘Oh, Teddy, she did! You’d better tell your manager this picture’s too strong for the weaker sex, Maurice. It’ll have them fainting in the aisles in the more thrilling bits if he’s not careful!’

  The man grinned back without much amusement. He’d recently transferred to working at the Empire from being deputy manager at the Southwark Palace under Fred Mills. That was where he’d regularly come across Teddy Cooper before; it was one of his man-about-town haunts. Maurice saw moving pictures as the new thing, bound to supersede the old music halls before the decade was out. He first fell under their spell during the short bioscope sequences grudgingly added to the bill by Mr Mills, to follow the novelty acts he booked each week. Wanting to keep up with the times, Maurice moved on to the Balham Empire. ‘I’ll tell Mr Phillips what you say,’ he told Teddy. Too much excitement isn’t good for the ladies, eh?’

  ‘That’s the ticket.’ Teddy drew Amy quickly on, out through the glittering foyer. In the street he hailed another taxi. ‘Time for a little drink,’ he said.

  Amy was surprised when he stopped the taxi outside Coopers’. ‘I thought you said we was going for a drink?’ she queried. A few hundred yards up the street the Duke’s bright lights beckoned.

  Teddy paid the driver and the cab drove off. He pulled Amy along by the side of the store, past windows full of tan shoes, kid gloves, walking canes with silver handles. ‘So I did. A quiet little drink, not a nasty noisy one up at the pub.’ He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a tradesmen’s door at the back of the shop. ‘Courtesy of my old man. He keeps a good drinks cabinet in the office.’ He grinned.

  Amy grinned back. Teddy had a cheek, taking her up to his old man’s office on the first floor, getting out his whisky. She followed, dragging at his coat sleeve as they passed through the department which sold women’s costumes. He stopped and let her finger the trimmings on a black velvet costume which would cost weeks of wages to Amy. He fiddled with the change machines as she went and touched costume after costume with her fingertips, sending the small canisters flying along the overhead system of pulleys and fine, taut steel wires. Amy heard their ghostly whir and ping in the dark, empty store.

  ‘C’mon.’ Teddy went and pulled her along. ‘I need a drink.’ He pointed through an archway into the next department. ‘See, that’s ladies’ millinery.’

  She had a glimpse of magnificent hats the size of large dinner plates, swathed in net, edged with lace, resplendent with feathers and bows. ‘Is that where I’ll work, after Christmas, Teddy?’ She went close to him and nestled inside his arm against his chest. ‘After you’ve asked your old man?’

  He wouldn’t have believed her simplicity if he hadn’t seen it so often before. He nodded, made more promises and drew her on.

  Teddy Cooper didn’t expect to expend much more energy on words at this stage of the seduction. He’d offer the girl a strong drink. She’d take it. There’d be surrender in her eyes as he backed her up against the big, flat expanse of his father’s desk.

  At the last minute Amy struggled, being young and ignorant. It wasn’t out of self-respect that she tried to push him off, nor any vestige of honour, but out of sheer panic. She felt Teddy’s strong body close against her. It pressed her down and back. There was some rumbling and breathlessness. She tried to scream, but he put one hand over her mouth. Afterwards, she opened her eyes in time to see his face backing off into the dim room, hard and expressionless.

  ‘Get dressed quickly,’ he said. He went and wiped the two whisky glasses and placed them back in the cupboard along with the bottle, which he put to the back of the shelf.

  Dazed and confused, Amy did as she was told. Sobs rose and racked her throat as she struggled to fasten her blouse. She felt him take her roughly by the arm and send her out of the office. She heard doors lock as they passed from department to department and down the stairs. The magnificent hats taunted her from their stands. Even she now knew they mocked her with Teddy’s empty promises.

  Only once she dared to glance up at him as he locked the last door and they stood out on the dark, cold street. His face showed nothing at all. Next day in the workshop he wouldn’t even bother to acknowledge her.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day came without blurring Amy’s razor-sharp awareness of the horrible scene in Mr Cooper’s office. But her sleepless night did allow her to make private adjustments to her hopes and dreams. When Teddy cut her dead at work, she knew for a certainty that she’d never set foot in the hatshop again. Still shocked, she felt a hot surge of anger. Bleeding idiot! she told herself. Bleeding little fool! But Dora’s told-you-so looks gradually eased and the women grew kinder as they saw how far she’d fallen off her little pedestal of vanity. They promised not to breathe a word of the affair to Amy’s mother, Dolly, when they sported her trudging up out of the depths of the basement after a hard day’s work, and Amy herself decided that her family would never know. If they all kept quiet, at least she would be able to hang on to her job. But if a breath of it got through to old man Cooper, Amy would be out on the street and begging Annie Wiggin for her old job back, for it would be Amy not Teddy who got the blame.

  There was one blessing, she told herself; at least she could be sure she hadn’t gone and got herself pregnant like Jess Parsons. Everyone knew Jess had been forced to leave her place in Hackney and was hanging around waiting for the nine months to be up. Dress it up how you like, Jess had landed herself in more of a mess than Amy. Frances Parsons might be forbidding anyone in the family to talk about it, but the gossip was up and down the court, and all along the neighbouring streets.

  Christmas came and went at the Duke with plenty of eating and drinking upstairs, and the usual neighbourhood
gatherings in the bar below. Jess settled well into the family routine. Her greatest surprise in coming home under these circumstances was her sister Frances’s reaction to it all. Frances, whom she considered so proper, talked most matter-of-factly about the possibilities concerning the baby. Would Jess want to go through with the pregnancy, or did she want Frances to talk to the women she knew at the Workers’ Education institute who would have respectable connections in the medical profession? If Jess wanted to go ahead and have the baby, would she then put it up for adoption? There were many middle-class women, childless and pining for a baby, who would give it a good home. All this Frances considered over her pile of mending, or sitting in rare moments with her feet up after a long day in the pharmacy. ‘Let’s do what we think is best, Jess,’ she insisted. ‘Let’s not get bogged down by all that nonsense about who’s to blame and your life being ruined. It’s so old hat.’ ‘Does Pa think I’m ruined, then?’ Jess had taken over the cooking since she came back. She was busy peeling enough potatoes to feed a battalion, sleeves rolled back, sharp knife in hand.

  Frances put her head to one side. ‘Most likely. He was brought up strict, remember, and he’s seen some terrible things. Girls being driven out on to the street, men setting out to get drunk and go and ruin a girl’s good name. He’s lived too long round here to take it well.’

  ‘If it’s that bad for him having me round, I can pack my things and go, y’know.’ Jess’s condition still made her hypersensitive as far as Duke was concerned.

  ‘Don’t be soft. We managed to have a good Christmas together, didn’t we? Does it look as if he’s dying to get rid of you? No, you’ve got to stay and see it through, whatever you decide.’

  ‘I’ve already decided.’ Jess came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on the apron. She knelt beside the fire and leaned back against her sister’s lap. ‘I want to keep this baby, Frances.’ She said it quietly, with complete conviction.

  Frances listened to the tick of the clock and watched the flames flicker in the background.

  ‘I’ve thought it through a thousand times. I never wanted this baby, and I’d give hundreds of pounds for it never to have happened in the first place.’ She paused. When she continued, her rich voice was deliberately flattened out and quiet. ‘And before you ask, Frances, I ain’t never going to talk about exactly how it happened. Only to say I never did nothing to make it happen, and when it did I fought it like mad, only it didn’t make no difference.’ She looked up quickly. ‘Don’t you tell Pa! It wouldn’t do any good telling him. That’s that. That’s all there is to it.’

  Frances kept quiet about having told Duke as much, right at the start, ‘Why? Why is that all, Jess? There should be a price for him to pay, that’s what I think. As it is, he gets away scot-free.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Jess’s voice rose a little in scorn. ‘Maybe he does. But what do I do about it? Where do I turn? To his ma and pa? You seen them, Frances. All the years I worked for them in that big house, scrubbing and polishing, fetching and carrying. Well, it counted for nothing when it came to protecting their precious little boy!’

  Frances had to concede the point. ‘It’s a crying shame,’ she said softly.

  Jess took her hand. ‘You’re right there. Any rate, I’ll keep the child, but I still ain’t happy about what Pa thinks.’ She could take the blame, deal with gossip from people on the fringes of her life, the neighbours up and down Duke Street, but she didn’t know if she could stand Duke’s anger and hurt. And she was past being able to sit in a corner to sulk.

  Frances stroked Jess’s bowed head. Her hair curled softly; the only one of the sisters whose hair lifted from her forehead in dark waves. Otherwise she was plainer; less pleasing at first glance according to general opinion. Her cheeks were thinner, her mouth less curved. Her straight brows tapered over deep-set, dark eyes which gave her the look of someone in retreat from the world. Jess’s natural look was one of suspicion and withdrawal. In figure she was too spare about the shoulders, and she never allowed her dress to emphasize her natural curves. ‘You don’t make the best of yourself,’ Hettie used to natter. ‘Anyone would think you was a proper ugly duckling!’ Jess would laugh self-consciously and go on to praise the copper highlights in Hettie’s luxurious hair.

  The day after their talk, Frances came back from work with some new information for Jess. She knew of a place out in the Kent countryside where Jess could go while her baby was born. Jess heard her race upstairs in unaccustomed haste. ‘Oh, Jess!’ she cried, flinging her hat down on the chair. ‘I got some good news for you. There’s a woman I know from night class. She came in the shop today, and guess what! Her sister lives our in the country in a small place, and she says she’d be glad to have you stay with them. They’re nice people. And the best of it is, Jess, this woman’s been a midwife all these years. Delivering babies is nothing to her!’

  Jess stood by the kitchen range, hands covered in flour. She was in the midst of an evening bread-baking session, with Ernie moulding scoops of dough into round shapes on a floured board. The room smelt of fermenting yeast and sugar.

  ‘D’you hear, Jess? I found a place for you to have the baby!’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ Jess replied. She ducked her head and carried on kneading dough.

  ‘What do you mean? Think about it. It’ll be the middle of summer, it’d be like a holiday for you. Fresh air and sunshine. Jess, think about it, please!’ If she stayed here for the birth, if there were complications, Duke wouldn’t cope so easily. Besides the benefit of the baby being given a healthy start, there was her father to consider. Going away was easily the best plan, if only stubborn Jess would listen. ‘There’d be the hop picking, if you felt up to it. Remember what good fun that was when you was a little tiny kid, Jess, sitting high up on them carts down the narrow lanes.’

  ‘Stop going on about it, Frances, will you. I said thanks but no thanks.’ Clouds of flour rose from the board as Ernie passed her the soft round shapes and she kneaded them a second time. ‘And while we’re at it, Frances, you can stop looking around for work for me an’ all. I can do that myself when the time comes.’

  Frances stood stock-still in the middle of the room as if Jess had struck her across the face. A look of pain filled her eyes. She’d been making plans for all their sakes, determined to make the best of it. As the oldest sister, that was her responsibility. Besides, she had the right connections.

  As soon as Jess saw the impact of her words, she wiped her hands and went across. ‘Don’t take on. Look here, Frances, God knows what I’d’ve done without you, the way you stood up to the Holdens and made everything straight with Pa so I could come back home.’ Jess’s own dark eyes filled with tears. She put one arm round Frances’s shoulder. ‘But now I got to start thinking for myself. When the birth comes near, that’ll be time enough to think about midwives. Maybe then I’ll want to get away from it all for a bit, I don’t know.’

  Frances, drying her eyes on a handkerchief, glanced up with a glimmer of hope.

  ‘But maybe not. Like I say, Frances, I just don’t know yet. And maybe I will feel like working in the Post Office, or maybe I’ll take in work here and look after the baby all by myself.’

  ‘Take in work? You mean washing?’ Frances thought of Mary O’Hagan slaving away over her tub and board, day in, day out.

  ‘No need to look like you swallowed a lemon!’ Jess laughed. ‘I ain’t proud, Frances. I can’t afford to be now, can I?’ She went and resumed her work on the loaves of bread.

  ‘Well, that sort of talk makes me mad, I can tell you!’ At last Frances unbuttoned her coat and began to bustle about as normal. It’s not the fact of having a baby or a sister who’s a fallen woman that matters!’

  ‘Frances!’ Jess protested with a half laugh.

  ‘No, I said it’s not that. I bet I’ll love this little baby nearly as much as you, Jess. And in my opinion, it’s him who’s fallen from grace, as you very well know.’

  ‘So?’ J
ess pummelled away, handing finished loaves to Ernie to put them into the tins.

  ‘So it’s where it leaves you, having to take in washing, working tike a skivvy for the rest of your born days!’ Frances sounded really angry as she went and hung her coat on the peg.

  Jess went up to her again and hugged her. The flour came off her apron on to Frances’s tailored grey skirt. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll manage,’ she promised lust you wait and see. When the time comes, we’ll manage.’

  As Jess’s pregnancy continued, Frances learned to step aside and let her make her own plans. March came, and the short winter days began to lengthen, so she could walk up to work in the half-light and begin each long day in better spirits.

  Her life at the chemist’s shop was one round of filling shelves and making up prescriptions, in which she took great pride. In the shop with the brightly coloured carboys arranged along the high shelf in the front window, she began the day by replenishing empty sections in the great bank of tiny drawers behind the counter. Their contents were indicated by strange, abbreviated Latin labels. Then, as customers came in with prescriptions, it was Frances’s job to make up the pills, ointments, capsules and suppositories.

  All day she worked with mortar and pestle, mixing powders from the drawers with solidifying agents such as syrup of glucose or gum tragacanth. She would work the carefully measured ingredients into a smooth paste then roll this out on to a board with a hinged, ridged cutter attached. This divided the paste into semicircular scallops. These were further rounded by hand, pressed, pulled and pushed again on the cutting block, and finished off in a rounding machine which she had to work in a small figure-of-eight motion until each pill emerged. Then she varnished or silvered them with silver leaf, ready for the customer to come back and collect. As far as she knew, she had never made a mistake in the intricate process, and her pills were commended for their perfect roundness.

  Between times, she sold pick-me-ups such as Seidlitz Powders or Andrews Liver Salts, and Williams Pink Pills for anaemia. Her customers relied on her knowledge of the proprietary brands and often trusted her advice over any doctor’s.