Constance Street: The true story of one family and one street in London’s East End. Charlie Connelly

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      On her father’s death Nell’s immediate future was both erased and confirmed. She was always going to have to leave school at the first opportunity, but now, with no money coming in, it was a matter of urgency. She was 12 years old and barely had time to grieve. Elder brother Christopher was already apprenticed to a plumber but that brought little in. There was no time for the family to ponder upon their loss: there were bills to be met and three young mouths to be fed. She was growing into a young woman already wise beyond her years, a serious expression set on a strong jaw line, her brown hair tumbling down her shoulders and deep brown eyes that reflected deep thought beyond; eyes whose corners dropped slightly towards her cheeks and gave her a faintly melancholic countenance.

      The Painters left the house on Norman Road and moved half a mile east to a couple of rooms in a house in David Street, Forest Gate, a poorer area, a hotchpotch of back lanes and alleyways. Harriet took whatever domestic cleaning jobs she could, sometimes walking as far as Stepney to the big old merchants’ houses where the pay was better but the days very long.

      A neighbour worked in a butcher’s shop and it was arranged that Nell would work five mornings a week and twelve hours on a Saturday, going to school in the afternoons until she could leave and go full-time. The butcher’s shop was on Stratford High Street and Nell was put to work sweeping, mopping, running errands and occasionally taking orders. The regular customers soon took to her ready smile and immaculate appearance and Nell enjoyed the work up to a point, but she was always happy to get back to school in the afternoons. One morning at the butcher’s she accidentally gave a woman far too much change. Fortunately the woman noticed and handed it back, chuckling and saying, ‘You’ll have the place bankrupted, Nellie.’

      The butcher saw the exchange, thought for a moment, called Nell over, took a piece of paper, wrote something on it, folded it three times and handed it to her, telling her to take it to another butcher at the other end of Stratford High Street. Used to similar errands, she nodded, reached up and took her hat from the peg and walked out of the door.

      It was a Saturday so the street was busy and filled with the noise of commerce. Horses clopped along the cobbles, men manoeuvred hand carts laden with crates and boxes of vegetables, telling her, ‘Mind out there, you’ll lose your ankles.’ Shoppers strode with determined gaits and Nell was forced to sidestep and check herself, hopping off the pavement into the kerb among the dirty cabbage leaves and horse dung as she negotiated the crowds. Finally she reached the butcher’s, told him where she’d come from and handed him the note. He read it, looked at her, read it again, folded it up and handed it back to her.

      ‘It’s not me you want,’ he said. ‘You want Randall’s on Leyton High Road. You’d better look lively about it, too.’

      Nell left the shop and turned north towards Leyton. It was a good twenty minutes’ walk to Randall’s, she thought. Plus coming back. The crowds thinned slightly but the High Road was still busy and it took longer than she expected. It was a warm day and she felt the sweat prickling against her hatband and she reached Randall’s a little out of breath. She presented the note and once again the butcher took it, read it, read it again, folded it up and handed it back to her.

      ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid, love,’ said Randall. ‘I know someone who can, though. Christopher’s in Walthamstow. Do you know it?’

      Nell shook her head.

      ‘Left out of the shop and just keep going up the street. About fifteen minutes for a strong girl like you, on the right. Christopher’s.’

      Nell nodded, getting worried now that Mr Peacock would be wondering where she was. This was supposed to be just a quick errand, but now she was going to be away most of the afternoon.

      She set off again, a little uneasily as she was now in an area she didn’t know at all. She peered at the shop signs, darting her eyes between both sides of the road for fear of missing Christopher’s. Finally, there it was, with a man she presumed to be Christopher himself sitting outside in a chair, straw boater on, white coat, apron, bushy moustache, cleaning beneath his fingernails with a knife.

      As Nell panted towards him, he looked up and smiled. She explained between short breaths who she was and where she’d come from – that he was the third shop she had tried, so she really hoped he could help her as she was getting worried about how long she’d been away from Peacock’s – and handed him the note.

      He had a red face with lines by his eyes that suggested he was quick to laugh, thought Nell, a kind face, and as he opened the note and read it a smile spread beneath the moustache, confirming her impression.

      ‘So you’ve come all the way from Peacock’s in Stratford with this?’ said Mr Christopher.

      Nell worried that this meant he couldn’t help with whatever it was Peacock needed, and nodded.

      ‘And I’m the third place you’ve tried?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

      Mr Christopher let his hands drop into his lap, glanced down at the note and smiled again. He looked sideways at her, opened out the note, and held it up so she could see.

      It was a Peacock’s butcher’s receipt, and on it, in Mr Peacock’s familiar scrawly handwriting, was the phrase, ‘Send the silly cow further.’

      Her cheeks flushed.

      ‘What did you do to deserve that?’ asked Christopher.

      ‘I … I gave a lady the wrong change,’ she stammered.

      ‘Ha, did you? Too much or too little?’

      ‘Too much, sir.’

      ‘Well, if you’re going to give someone the wrong change, always make sure it’s too little.’

      ‘I will, sir.’

      ‘Have you learned a lesson today?’

      ‘I have, sir, yes.’

      He leaned back and thrust a hand into the pocket of his apron and pulled out a sixpence.

      ‘Now, take this and use it to take the tram back to Stratford.’

      ‘Are you sure, sir? Thank you, sir. I shall return next week and repay you.’

      ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he laughed. ‘It was worth sixpence of anyone’s money to be a part of this caper after the day I’ve had.’

      ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Nell, giving a small curtsy. ‘Good day to you.’

      ‘Good day to you, young lady. By the way, what’s your name?’

      ‘Nellie, sir. Nellie Painter.’

      ‘Very pleased to meet you, Nellie Painter,’ he smiled. ‘You watch that change, now.’

      ‘I will sir, thank you sir.’

Chapter Twelve

      When she left school Nell worked full-time at Peacock’s for a couple of years. She hated it. It wasn’t as if she could become a butcher even if she wanted to – whoever heard of a female butcher? But it was bringing in money, and the welfare СКАЧАТЬ