Constance Street: The true story of one family and one street in London’s East End. Charlie Connelly
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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.’
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 of her mother and siblings was the most important thing. Harriet was a different person since Billy’s death. She never sang any more. She barely smiled. The spark had gone from her eyes. After long, backbreaking hours cleaning other people’s houses the last thing she could face was tackling her own. There was no plaster dust any more. She longed to come home and find plaster dust again. So Nell took on more of the housework, uncomplaining, unquestioning, becoming a second mother to the Painter siblings while Harriet sat by the fire most nights staring into the flames.
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