Jam and Roses by Mary Gibson Read Free Book Online

till the last of the train’s trail of steam had completely disappeared. Then, heavy with a sudden loneliness, she turned her feet towards the house in Arnold’s Place, which, without her mother or her sisters, could never be called home.

4
Home Comforts
    September 1923
    ‘Where’s the soap?’ The old man’s growled question wasn’t entirely unexpected, but still it made Milly jump. She was in the kitchen, frying sausages on the range, and pretended not to hear him.
    ‘Where’s the soddin’ soap?’ he bellowed again from the scullery.
    Her father had come home from work and gone straight to the sink to scrub himself clean, as he usually did. She’d carried in the required kettle of water, making sure it was tepid rather than boiling hot as he normally liked it. Then she left him to it, while she cooked his tea. She’d hidden the soap earlier.
    ‘Comes to something a man can’t get a wash in his own house!’ She heard him banging around in the cupboard beneath the sink. She could imagine him, braces hanging down, long-john sleeves rolled up.
    ‘What have you done with the soap? For chrissake, gel, can’t you even make sure we’ve got a bit o’ soap?’ His voice was getting louder; she wasn’t sure how long to leave it.
    She poked her head into the scullery.
    ‘No soap? Oh, Mrs Knight come to borrow some. I’ll run and get it back. Tea’s on the table.’
    She lifted her coat from the peg in the passage and slipped out. She intended to be gone a while. Let him stew. She knew he would never eat until he’d scrubbed his hands. Let his dinner get cold. She couldn’t be held to blame for his fastidiousness.
    She’d been waging her own little war for almost three weeks now, ever since her mother and sisters had gone to Kent. It had occurred to her that she might as well make him regret his decision to keep her at home, and if she was persistent and brave enough, she might make his life so uncomfortable that he’d be forced to change his mind. She cooked him inedible meals, let the fire die down and hid the poker, made sure his long johns were left damp and his shirts unironed. One evening when he was late for the pub he’d grabbed the flat iron from the fire himself, brandishing the red-hot metal in her face. For a moment she feared he might brain her, but instead he’d spat on it and started smoothing his best shirt himself.
    ‘What’s that mother of yours thinking of, not teaching you how to use a flat iron! You’re worse than useless, yer dozy mare.’
    And this evening, she hoped the disappearing soap might tip him over the edge, perhaps even force him to concede that life would be much more pleasant without her around. With a small surge of satisfaction, she felt the bar of soap nestling inside her coat pocket. She decided to walk to Bermondsey Wall and back. By then he should have left for the pub and the inevitable consequences of her defiance would at least be postponed. Strolling to the end of Arnold’s Place, she turned back past the Swan and Sugarloaf and down the stiflingly narrow Hickman’s Folly, towards the river.
    It had been one of those balmy September days that could have been high summer; pure hopping weather, she’d thought wistfully, every time she’d looked out of the high factory windows. Now, as she approached Bermondsey Wall, the narrow streets threading their way towards the river ended, here and there, in breaches between high-walled warehouses. Suddenly she saw the Thames. At least here was some space and a view of the sky.
    By the time she reached the river wall, it felt as though she were struggling for breath. These last weeks with the old man had felt like a prison sentence and she longed to break out, to find some air. She went to the small wooden jetty, protruding between the wharves. Walking to the end of it, she leaned against the sturdy wooden railing, silvered with age. She had felt its sharp edge pressing into her back as Pat pinned her there, with the