Paradise Court by Jenny Oldfield

pressing against Daisy, one arm over her shoulder, the other roaming over her body. He kissed her long and hard. Hettie stared at Syd. ‘Don’t you try nothing!’ she warned, and marched firmly ahead of him up the alley, past the spooning pair.
    At least Daisy had the sense to keep up. Two minutes later, Hettie heard rapid footsteps. Chalky passed by, linked up with Daisy. He sang a cocky little song about taxi-cabs:
    â€˜To newly wedded couples, it’s the best thing that is out,
    It fairly beats the hansom cab, without the slightest
doubt.’
    Daisy laughed and ran ahead, like a little flirt. Her laugh showed her even, white teeth and she poked out her pink tongue at Chalky. Hettie looked on as he swung Daisy in the air and landed her again with both hands round her waist.
    â€˜When driving to the station to go on honeymoon,
    The driver can’t look through the top to watch you
kiss and spoon.’
    He sang in a raw voice but Daisy laughed on delightedly. They had to walk all the way home in the drizzling rain through the still crowded streets. ‘One last drink,’ Chalky said, as the Duke came into view. ‘Come on, girls, one last drink never hurt no one.’
    Daisy looked doubtful. She glanced down Paradise Court to her black tenement at the bottom. Inside the Duke, the pianola thumped out a tune. Lights glittered through the fancy scrolls and lettering of the etched glass doors.
    â€˜I never ask twice,’ Chalky said, one hand on the giant brass handle.
    â€˜Right you are,’ Daisy agreed. She swept in ahead of the rest. ‘One last drink!’
    She enjoyed all the eyes on her as she flounced up to the bar with Chalky White.

Chapter Five
    The pub was crowded out with dockers, carters and market traders all having a fling after a hard week. If you had a few coppers to enjoy yourself you came out. Back home, your old woman would moan on about the cost of this and that, with a long face and a surefire tendency to make it look like your fault if bread had gone up by a farthing a loaf that week. Here at the Duke there was music, a decent place to sit, or the chance to have a knees-up if you felt in the mood. Besides, coming out with your mates was a sign you were getting work, holding your own. It was a bad week if you didn’t make it down the Duke on a Saturday night.
    The men crowded round the bar. They’d come through another bad year, with more strikes on the docks and down the markets. Nothing had moved through the East End for months as the fruit and veg lay rotting in great piles in the warehouses. You had to live hand to mouth then and your family nearly starved. During August they’d even cut off the water and gas, and then there were hundreds of rats running through the uncollected rubbish.
    Now, at the onset of winter, things were better, though union pressure rumbled on and the bosses still didn’t give an inch if they could help it. You still queued on the waterfront for your day’s work, slipping someone a backhander for a better chance. But at least the food moved out of the docks now and on to the markets. The dockers, the carters, the stall-holders had backed off from the threatened riots. The system creaked on.
    Duke poured pints steadily all night long, with Robert on hand. He relied on this extra help on busy nights; Robert was good for keeping an eye on the barrels and clearing off the empties. He waspopular with the customers, many of whom he knew from his dock work. Duke watched him now, mingling with his mates. He shared a joke, throwing his head back to lead the laughter. He was a strong, handsome lad, his foot just on the first rung of life’s ladder.
    Robert brought two fistfuls of empty glasses to the bar. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, one eye dosed against the drifting smoke. ‘Watch out, Pa,’ he warned. ‘Here comes trouble.’
    Annie Wiggin had just put in another appearance with some of