Gladys sat within sight of the shop door and amongst the second-hand furniture, her bulky figure close to filling a two-seater sofa.

  Jenny felt the force of one eye scrutinising her like a fly beneath a microscope. The other eye was screwed up against smoke winding up from a bowl of W. D. & H. O. Wills Navy Shag, a tobacco as black and pungent as tar and much favoured by seafarers.

  Jenny perceived intelligence in eyes of liquid mud peering from between the folds of fleshy eyelids above a bulbous nose and flaccid cheeks.

  ‘Well, if it ain’t Jenny Crawford. You didn’t come back for that bed the other day.’

  ‘I had to think about it.’

  ‘Course you did. I ’eard you bought one from Sam Fowler.’

  Jenny felt her face warming. Gladys was one of those people who seemed to know everything that happened hereabouts.

  ‘It was all I could afford.’

  Gladys nodded sagely. ‘So, what now?’

  ‘A mattress,’ Jenny said breathlessly, rushing to get the words out whilst she still had the courage. ‘I need a single mattress.’

  ‘Do you now.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  Jenny took a deep breath. ‘The bedframe I bought is fine, but the mattress… it was… well…’

  ‘Lousy,’ Gladys exclaimed. ‘That’s Sam Fowler for you. Crummy bloke, crummy bed.’

  Jenny looked down at her shoes. Gladys was indeed the font of all knowledge but being scrutinised by someone who knew so much was unsettling. Gladys Hubert had lived a long time, long enough to observe the best and worst of human nature. One look, often with only one eye, and she sized people up, knew what they wanted and what they were likely to get – from her anyway.

  From somewhere, certainly not from her shoes, Jenny found the courage to continue. ‘As I said, the bedstead is fine. I’ve given it a good scrub. I just need a mattress.’ Raising her head, she looked Gladys direct in the eye. ‘Do you have one?’

  The scrutiny continued, almost as though Gladys was trying to recall who she was and what she knew about her. Finally, she said, ‘You used to go to school with my Robin, didn’t you?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knows he was sweet on you, don’t you?’

  Jenny’s face reddened. ‘We were friends.’

  ‘Childhood sweethearts?’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said with a light laugh. ‘He pulled my pigtails and made fun of the way I used to speak. My mother insisted.’

  ‘Yer mother would. Wanted to be a nob, she did. But there you are, just because you work for the nobs in a big ’ouse, don’t make you one.’

  Jenny thought of her mother. She’d worked with Gladys in a posh house up in Clifton, an upmarket area of grand houses. The one they’d worked in overlooked the Clifton Suspension Bridge spanning the Avon Gorge, connecting Clifton with Leigh Woods on the other side. Her mother had been besotted with those people, their lifestyle, their houses and the way they spoke.

  ‘He didn’t bother you once he was grown,’ Gladys continued.

  ‘No.’ Jenny found herself feeling embarrassed by the memory. ‘He didn’t.’

  Robin had been the bad boy in the class, even a bit of a bully, but never to her – not once he’d got over the pigtail pulling, that is. Her mother had advised her to marry him, but by then she’d become besotted with Roy Crawford. Against her mother’s wishes and despite his frequent moods, she’d been in love with him, was sure she could make him happy and nagged her mother until she’d relented.

  It came as a shock when only two weeks following her wedding, her mother had died suddenly. Her heart had stopped, the doctor had said.

  Once the funeral costs were paid, there wasn’t much left.

  For a time, things had gone well enough, Jenny and Roy clinging together, both orphans with no surviving family, but in 1926 the General Strike and the uncertain times had undermined their brittle happiness. Tilly had been born and Roy had almost to beg for work. That was when things had taken a downward turn.

  Gladys tapped the stem of her pipe on the furniture arm. ‘Always surprised me that you married Roy Crawford.’ Her look seemed to turn inwards as though rummaging through her vast store of memories to find the reason she thought that.

  ‘Well. That’s life. I hear you’ve got two grandchildren.’

  Gladys kept one eye closed, head cocked to one side. She nodded. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘Trouble with princes, and princesses for that matter, is they likely as not turn into frogs …’

  There was something in the way her voice trailed off that made Jenny think that Robin’s marriage was far from being a bed of roses.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘But there. Love is blind, ain’t it, chick?’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘We were young. I was young.’

  ‘And now you’re married and the romance flew out of the window a long while ago.’

  ‘Well, that’s marriage for you,’ she said, tossing her head as though she accepted her lot. She had done, but now? She wasn’t so sure, though wouldn’t admit to it. She shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is.’

  One eye narrowed and incisive, the other squinting almost shut, Gladys nodded in that wise old woman way of hers. ‘For better or for worse. Till death do you part. Only sometimes marriage can be a living death.’

  Jenny resisted the urge to squirm. She didn’t want to be asked anything more about her marriage. She decided to treat it lightly and said, in a jokey manner, ‘I heard a rumour you were getting married again. Could that be true?’

  Now it was Gladys who was under the spotlight.

  She responded by throwing back her head and cackling as witches are supposed to do. Jenny wouldn’t have been at all surprised that she might be the real thing. She looked the part. Three wiry hairs sprouted from the wart on her nose. In the process of throwing back her head, gaps between yellow teeth in pink gums were clearly visible.

  The searching look descended again. ‘Let me tell you this, me dear. I wouldn’t marry another bloke if ’is rear was ’anging in diamonds or ’is mouth was full of gold teeth. Money made a bloody big ’ole in my old man’s pocket. Georges’ Brewery got the biggest share. I got the bloody work!’

  Jenny smiled and rubbed her cold fingers together. She knew the history. It was common knowledge that Herbert Hubert had shaken off his earthly coil when staggering out in front of a brewery dray. The accident had occurred after a lengthy session at the Greyhound, an ancient coaching inn in the heart of the city. An ongoing joke had passed into local legend that Georges’ Brewery much regretted the fact that one of their own drays had run over and killed one of their best customers.

  With her son Robin’s help, Gladys had carried on with the business and due to not having a husband spending all the profits was doing all right. If anyone wanted anything Gladys could get it – for a price of course.

  Though the old girl had done very well for herself, you wouldn’t think it looking at her. Thick black stockings lay in folds around her ankles covering up varicose veins which ran like threads of purple silk over her legs. Her belly wobbled. Her clothes were ancient. All the same, she was regarded as the heart of a community where money was scarce and women’s purses were kept even lighter by feckless husbands or their own unpleasant habits – mostly cigarettes and gin.

  ‘As I’ve already said, all I want is a mattress. A single. I’ve got the bedstead.’

  Gladys regarded her thoughtfully and at length. The searching look and silence made Jenny ill at ease. ‘You should ’ave married Robin.’

  Jenny felt her face warming. ‘Look, Gladys, have you got a mattress or what?’

  Gladys carried on regardless. ‘He would ’ave made sure you ’ad somewhere decent to live, not that filthy place in Blue Bowl Alley. Full of rats, mice and cockroaches. It’s no place to bring up kids.’

  ‘He’s got a wife and children.’

  ‘Hmm,’ growled Gladys. ‘Met ’er at the seaside. I’d throw ’er into the sea if I ’ad my way.’

  Jenny headed for the shop door. ‘It seems I’m wasting my time.’

  ‘I’ve got a single mattress.’ Her voice rang out.

  Jenny stopped. Fingers touching the door handle, she braced herself to calm down. After all, she was here for her children’s sake. She walked back to where Gladys was sitting.

  ‘You do?’

  Gladys waved one hand in a dismissive manner. ‘Problem is I only got one and that’s spoken for.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hope plummeted.

  ‘Customer concerned needs a single bedstead. Mattress ain’t no good without a set of springs to put it on.’

  Jenny gritted her teeth. Gladys was playing with her, raising her hopes then crashing them. Her resolve stiffened. ‘Do you have a mattress or don’t you?’

  Smoke no longer rose from the clay pipe, but it remained gripped between the shop owner’s teeth – few as they were.

  ‘Are your kids sharing a bed or ’ave they got one each?’

  ‘The room’s too small for them to have a bed each.’

  Though it was hardly a rare occurrence, Jenny found it hard admitting that her daughters were sleeping top to tail.

  What Gladys said next threw her off balance.

  ‘How about a three-quarter bed? Would that suit?’

  A vision of the box-like bedroom spun in Jenny’s mind. A single bed measured three feet. A three-quarter bed measured four feet. It would just about fit in. The girls wouldn’t need to sleep top to tail. There was just about enough room for them to lie next to each other.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenny, hardly daring to get too enthusiastic in case she couldn’t pay the price or the bed was rusty and far beyond its best. ‘It’s a very small box room but should just about take a three-quarter.’

  ‘In that case, I’ve got something you might be interested in.’ Gladys rocked in her chair as though about to get to her feet but didn’t. It was just a gesture preceding a casual wave pointing her to the far end of the shop.

  ‘It depends on the price,’ Jenny blurted.

  Her rocking ceased, Gladys eyed her quizzically with that one shrewd eye, the one not hidden in folds of loose skin that had once been an eyelid.

  ‘I could do a part-exchange. I could do you a deal on your single bedframe – if it’s in good nick, that is.’ The scrutiny continued. Thought furrowed her broad brow. ‘See that brass bed over thur?’ She pointed a sausage-like finger to the glint of brass resting against a walnut wardrobe off to her left. ‘Now that is a nice one and I can do you a fair price. As I said, it ain’t a single. Funny size. Foreign, I think. Falls between being a single but not quite three-quarter. Came from a posh ’ouse out Keynsham way. Woman I bought it from said it was French.’ She nodded in the general direction of the bed. ‘Go over and take a look.’

  Jenny threaded her way through a forest of gate-legged tables, hall stands and marble-topped washstands. Sight of the brass bedstead took her aback. The brass gleamed. A porcelain oval of pale pink roses and blue cornflowers inset into the brass headboard was matched by one in the footboard.

  Mesmerised by the sight of it, she reached out and ran her fingers around the largest oval. The delicately painted flowers reminded her of her mother’s garden. She’d always grown flowers, but then she’d had a garden – not much of one, but much more than the yard at Blue Bowl Lane where the sun never penetrated and most of the wetness came from the damp ground.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Jenny ran her fingers over the shiny brass. It was beautiful and meant that her two girls could sleep alongside each other – for a while at least – until they’d grown too big to do so. By then, she hoped they’d be living in a house with bigger bedrooms, perhaps even one where they no longer shared a room, let alone a bed. A dream, but one she clung onto.

  The bedstead was beautiful, like something from a fairy tale. If it was possible to love an inanimate object, this was it. The bed was the stuff of dreams, the brass bright and shiny, the mattress striped with ribbons of pink silk. She wanted it.

  Money. All hopes of buying plummeted at the thought of what it might cost. How much would Gladys want for this?

  Hidden behind a broad wardrobe, Jenny took her purse from her shopping bag and examined its contents. Eighteen shillings was the total of her housekeeping. There was also an extra two shillings she’d gained from sacks of worn-out woollens she’d taken to the Red Cow Yard on three consecutive Saturdays. The Red Cow rag-and-bone man had given her two shillings. It wasn’t much, but every little bit helped. However, she couldn’t afford to spend all that on a bed. She needed to buy food. Roy had passed on some of the extra he’d been earning but had told her to go carefully with it. There was no guarantee he would do it every week. She had to make up her mind about buying the bed quickly, do some shopping and get home. To avoid a row – and a cuff around the ear – she had to be back in Blue Bowl Alley whatever time he came home.

  The acrid smell of Navy Shag drifted over to her. Gladys had relit her pipe.

  After closing her purse, Jenny went back over to where clouds of tobacco smoke hung like a widow’s veil around Gladys’s head. Hoping the price would be within her means, she pasted on a friendly smile and gushed a comment.

  ‘I love it so very much, but…’ She heaved a huge sigh. ‘It’s a bit too good for Blue Bowl Alley.’

  She was speaking the truth. The brass bedstead with its porcelain decals was far too glamorous for the vermin infested five-hundred-year-old house with flaking plaster and a leaky roof, where the stink of drains remained a problem even in winter.

  She felt the full force of the old lady’s piercing squint, as though working out how much she could afford – and how much she could get away with.

  It was best not to meet the glassy glint, shining like a cluster of raindrops between the folds of loose skin. Jenny kept her eyes lowered; purse clutched in one hand.

  Gladys’s method of pricing was well known. First, she would test the water, work out how much Jenny had to spend based on what she knew of her life. This was the moment she feared.

  In she came with her first move.

  ‘Bear in mind it must ’ave cost a bit new. It ain’t any old bed like the sort you’d buy from Sam Fowler. It’s a good ’un.’

  Wanting the bed at the right price, Jenny was willing to endure the praise and bidding game.

  ‘Fifteen shillings.’

  Jenny caught her breath. ‘I can’t.’ She shook her head vigorously. Paying that would take most of the contents of her purse.

  The price was daunting, but Gladys was a woman who liked to haggle. If she got top price right away, she would take it. However, when Jenny had run her fingers along the brass, they’d come back coated with dust. The bed had been here a while waiting for someone it suited or, more likely, someone who would pay the price. There had to be room for haggling if she was to take it back to Blue Bowl Alley.

  Jenny shrugged helplessly. ‘The price is beyond me.’

  Sucking in her bottom lip, she took a step towards the shop door, determined to look as forlorn as possible. Acting or pretending had never come easy, but for the sake of her children, she had to play the game.

  ‘I wish I could afford it, Mrs Hubert. If I paid you that, I’d have nothing left for a bit of liver and onions for our tea. On top of that, I’ve got to ditch the one I bought from Sam Fowler. Thanks anyway. If my mum was here, she’d be thanking you too, her being a friend of yours in the old days.’

  They’d been close, still in touch when they were first married and had children. Gladys had given birth to a boy. Jenny was her mother’s only offspring.

  As Jenny had guessed, mention of her mother brought a change in the shopkeeper’s manner. Gladys snorted. ‘Your mother would be turning in her grave if she knew you’d done a deal with ’im. You should never ’ave gone there in the first place. Dirty sod, ’e is.’ She leaned forward and tapped the side of her nose. ‘And in more ways than one. A nice woman like you should keep away from the likes of ’im. How much did ’e charge you for that filthy bed?’

  ‘Five shillings.’

  She said it hesitantly. The very fact that she’d bought something so scruffy embarrassed her. The truth was that all she’d had in her purse to give Sam Fowler was seven shillings and sixpence. Five shillings had seemed a snip but had turned out not to be. Put it down to experience, her mother would have said. She was only thankful she hadn’t paid the full seven shillings and sixpence.

  Gladys tutted. ‘Bloody disgusting. And only fit for burning.’ The narrowed eyes narrowed some more. ‘Did ’e try anything on while you were there?’

  Jenny felt her cheeks blazing. ‘I did have to step back a bit and keep my distance.’

  ‘Hmm!’ Gladys’s head shot forward at a surprising speed seeing as it sat on top of a bloated body. ‘So, you said no and ’e got ’is own back on you. Your poor little girl. But never mind. I’ll get Robin to bring the brass one round in the ’orse and cart later. I’ll do you a good price and take the single bedstead in part-exchange.’

  Jenny waited apprehensively for Gladys to name her price. Her expectation sent her pulse racing. She dearly wanted that bed. With growing apprehension, she searched Gladys’s crumpled face for any hint of what that price might be. At present, she had one eye closed. Jenny knew that once both Gladys’s eyes were open, though one little more than a squint, she’d have her price.

  Out it came. ‘Ten bob.’ Both eyes popped from deep wrinkles and then her brows furrowed. ‘No.’ She raised a finger, one eye closing again as she had a rethink.

  Jenny held her breath.

  A toothless grin ensued. ‘Seeing as I likes you and taking yer iron bedstead in part-exchange, we’ll call it seven and six.’

  The price she’d been willing to pay Sam Fowler! This bed was so much better.

  She almost clapped but settled to clasp her hands in front of her. She could afford to pay five shillings and sixpence from her housekeeping, plus the two shillings she’d received for the sack of moth-eaten woollens.

  ‘Yes. Yes!’

  She fumbled in her purse for the right amount and handed over two half-crowns, one florin and a sixpenny bit.

 

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