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trick. One good thrashing with one of these little beauties should be enough, he ventured to himself.
    The expression on the oilshop owner’s face as he thought about his new merchandise would have shocked the streetfolk. No one had ever seen him smile – except for Mrs Walker. When she walked into his dingy shop one day for some nails.
    Misery adopted his usual weary tone. ‘What size?’
    ‘Two inch,’ Mrs Walker said, changing her weight from one foot to the other.
    Misery shook his head. ‘I ain’t got two inch. I’ve got inch an’ ’alfs, an’ I’ve got two an’ ’alfs, but no two inch.’
    Mrs Walker puffed out her cheeks and bit on her bottom lip in consternation. ‘My ole man will be pleased,’ she groaned.
    ‘What’s ’e want the nails for?’ Misery asked.
    ‘’E’s puttin’ a shelf up in me scullery. I bin askin’ ’im fer weeks ter put me one up but . . .’
    ‘What size is the wood?’ Misery cut in, not wishing to hear Mrs Walker’s matrimonial problems.
    ‘’Bout this size,’ the lady said, spreading her thumb and forefinger.
    ‘Inch an’ ’alfs will do. ’Ow many d’yer want?’
    ‘I dunno. Enough ter put a shelf up I s’pose.’
    Misery reached down below the counter and scooped up a handful of nails and threw them into the scale pan with a vengeance. ‘That’ll be tuppence,’ he said, glaring at his customer out of his narrow-set brown eyes.
    Mrs Walker thought for a moment, frowning. Misery scratched his wiry grey hair as he stared at the lady. ‘D’yer wan ’em or not, muvver?’ he rasped.
    ‘I’d better see me ole man first. If I get it wrong ’e’ll be in a right ole mood.’
    ‘Please yerself,’ Misery muttered as he tipped the nails back into the box under the counter.
    Mrs Walker turned on her heel and started for the door. She caught her foot in the doormat on the threshold, slipped down the step and stumbled out into the street. When she had straightened her hat and regained her composure she looked around into the open doorway. She was about to give Misery Martin a piece of her mind about the maintenance of his shop when she saw his face. A huge grin had spread over his features. He reminded her of one of those evil-looking door knockers down Tanner’s Alley that she had always hurried past. Mrs Walker turned smartly without making any comment and walked back to the Dwellings.
    ‘Bloody ole goat,’ she grumbled aloud with a shiver. ‘’E should be struck like that! Larffin’ at people’s mis’aps. It’s the only time ’e’s ’appy.’
     
    The long summer times were balmy and days of blue skies were followed by starlit nights. The winters were severe, with poisonous fogs and winds that chilled the bones. In the dockland slums, beyond the whitened front doorsteps and crisp lace curtains, the houses were infested with bugs. Wax tapers were lit and applied to the bedsprings and soft green soap was packed between woodwork and plaster in the constant battle against infestation. The local people frantically kept themselves clean with carbolic soap and Lysol and, as money was short, they would use homemade medicines and applications for their ailments: bread poultices, soap and sugar applications for boils and abscesses, and vinegar-soaked towels for septic throats. Steam kettles were used to ease bronchitis in children and horse hairs were tied around warts.
    During the ’twenties, as Connie Morgan and Molly Bartlett grew up in the little backstreet behind the Tower Bridge Road, the street became used to the sight of the two cousins toddling around together, inseparable. Connie was becoming tall and leggy whilst Molly’s growth was slow and painful. Her flat round face was set upon a short neck, but her large dark eyes shone out like defiant beacons, and her laugh was infectious. She waddled along, swaying from side to side beside the pretty fair-haired girl whose pale blue eyes were set in a finely moulded face. Connie’s placid character