have to work for it. Righty-ho, name four ships, says Frenchie.
Patonga, Port Vindex … The words roll around the children’s mouths.
His Majesty’s, says John.
Uruguay Star, Leeds City …
Frenchie fetches the stub of a cigarette from behind his ear, lights it and leans back luxuriantly, the smoke playing in curls around his face, while his children throw anxious glances at one another, the fruit box table, their mother.
I don’t know why you have to put them through it, says Sarah.
If you don’t know the names of things, how you gonna call on nothing? Frenchie says.
Sarah stares at him and shrugs, returning to her mending while the children sit bolt upright on the bed, imagining the feel of the toffee, the smell, the long, sensuous melt. Their father draws again on his stub.
What kind of name is His Majesty’s anyway?
It ain’t a name at all, says Rosie.
Correct, says Frenchie reaching for the twist of brown paper in his pocket.
And what do they make from tin, Janey?
Tins? says Jane.
Voila! says Frenchie. Now, who’ll be having a bit … ?
Just after Jane turns eleven, a dirty-skinned, yellow-haired girl appears in Miss Whiting’s class. In itself, this isn’t much of an event. Children come and go. A bitter winter is enough to take off one or two. All the same, there is something about this particular girl which attracts Jane. Perhaps it is her confidence, the sure set of her jaw. Perhaps it is the faint smell of violets she gives off, recalling violet crèmes and violet dragees and violet lozenges. Perhaps it is the vague sense of familiarity. Perhaps it is a thousand things. All Jane knows is that it is.
The yellow-haired girl senses this too and at the end of the second day she is waiting for Jane at the school gates.
Who’s this then? Rosie asks.
Guess, says the yellow-haired girl.
Can’t, won’t and shan’t, says Rosie, pulling her sister out into the street.
The yellow-haired girl follows them across Bright Street and out into St Leonard’s Road, singing in a jangly voice: Poplar is popular but Wapping is topping.
At the crossroads Jane turns and says, So, why pick on us to tell?
Pretty soon the party reaches Ullin Street and there, ahead of them, standing beside the alley that runs along the church, are Matty and Tom, gazing at something lying in the mud.
What you got then? asks the yellow-haired girl.
The matted body of a black and white cat looms from the shadows, still alive but with the legs splayed at unnatural angles. The eyes are out and its mouth oozes blood mixed with an ill-looking foam.
We din do the eyes, says Tom. They was done already.
There is a moment’s pause while all parties take this in.
Wanna look? asks Tom. At that moment the creature lifts its head and slowly begins to drag itself towards the deepness of the alley.
That’s disgusting, says the yellow-haired girl.
Gis a penny or we’ll stamp on it, says Matty.
Drop dead, says the yellow-haired girl. Matty Jorrocks raises his boot and grins.
The poor thing, says the yellow-haired girl and, reaching for a broken piece of brick on the pavement, she darts in front of the Jorrocks boys and brings the brick down hard on the creature’s head.
There, she says, brushing the brick dust from her hands as Tom and Matty tumble down the street. Jane and the yellow-haired girl find themselves alone above the body of the cat, each taking the measure of the other.
How’s about we play ginger? says the girl.
In ginger you tie the one doorknob to its neighbour, ring the doorbells and speed off to the nearest vantage.
My mum says ginger is common, says Jane, sensing a surge of bad feeling running through her belly.
Please yerself, says the girl, drawing herself up, the yellow hair falling across her face like sunlight. I don’t care anyway.
And that, over the years, is what Jane Fulcher finds most thrilling about her friend Dora Trelling. Dora Trelling really doesn’t care.
Jane begins meeting Dora after school. They walk together to Mrs Folkman’s emporium on Zetland Street and discuss the relative merits of sweets they have never tasted.
Cough candy, now, there’s a nice little tablet, says Jane.
They fall silent for a moment, imagining the crust of sugar on the outside, the damp, welcoming interior.
Dor, wha’s your all-time favourite sweet?
They scan the rainbow piles in the shop window.
I ain’t never had none of ’em. Wha’s yours?
Lemme see, says Jane, running her mind across imaginary tastes. Liquorice comfits or montelimar? Fruit gems or marshmallow? Tell the truth, Dor, I’m a little bit partial to the lot but all considered, I think montelimar gets it.
Liar, liar, says Dora. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
On a hot June day, just before the war, and sensing their lives are about to change, the Fulchers take a trip, their first, to the Royal Victoria Gardens on the riverbank between Silvertown and North Woolwich. Dressed in their Sunday best (which is also their Sunday worst and their Monday best), they make their way across the Lea Bridge where they stop for a while to admire Frenchie’s boats at Orchard Place. They are not technically Frenchie’s boats, of course, but it was Frenchie who laid their decks and Frenchie who panelled their cockpits and Frenchie has names for all of them.
There’s the Rosetta, nippers, ain’t she a beauty? And the Edie down there, a lovely slender little ship. Beyond it in the grey coat, the Maudie. Ah me boats, me boats.
Where’s the Janey, Da?
Oh the Janey. Frenchie rubs a hand over his hair and shakes his head. Well, I don’t know as there is a Janey yet, poppet. Not yet.
They wander over the bridge into Canning Town. The younger children, Artie and Edie, are joyful and pestering. Can they have an ice cream, a gobstopper, a penny bag of Indian toffee? The elder four, Rosie, Frances Maud, John and Jane, drag their heels a little, as if by walking more slowly they might keep the day going on for ever.
Opened in 1851 for those who could not afford the Great Exhibition, the Gardens are one of the few spots of green between the docks
