Onion Johnny
Part 1
Anne-Marie was coming down the steps of the NatWest on Haverstock Hill when she caught sight of the bicycle.
It was propped up against a bench, garlanded with strings of shell-pink onions, and heads of purple and white garlic. Already visualising the raffia-knotted strings in her sunny kitchen and the effect it would have on her “foody” friends, she approached the bicycle.
A man with dark, tousled hair sat on the bench facing the busy road. A jolt of recognition shook her. There was something uncannily familiar in the way he sat and held his head.
He was drinking coffee from a cardboard cup and the remains of a sandwich lay beside him on the bench. Sensing her presence, he jumped up, and turned around to face her, still holding his cup of coffee and wiping the crumbs from the side of his mouth. She was wrong. She had never seen him before.
“Bonjour,” he said. She asked him how much the onions were although she had already made up her mind to buy them whatever the price. He was in his thirties, tall, rugged-looking with a smile and an accent that turned her insides to melted chocolate. She mentally slapped her hand.
“They're very sweet,” he said. “They'll keep for months.” “Really?” she replied. “They won't last long in my kitchen. I adore cooking.” “Then, you'll have to find me and buy some more,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. Was he flirting? She couldn't tell. She was a little out of practice.
She gave him the money. They stood there for several seconds,as if held bysome inexplicable force. She wanted to stay but she couldn't for the life of her think of anything else to say.
“Bye. Thanks. Have a successful day,” she uttered lamely. “Merci, mademoiselle. Au revoir.” Was there a touch of regret in his voice? A desire for her to remain. No, she was imagining it. It was just wishful thinking. She mentally slapped her hand again and walked down the hill towards her flat.
Later, as she was admiring the pink-green surface of the onions, and their papery golden skins on the kitchen table, she thought again about the onion seller. What on earth made him come all the way from France to sell onions? It couldn't possibly be economical any more. She remembered the onion sellers from her childhood, with their berets, Breton jerseys and bicycles. Onion Johnnies they were called because their names were invariably Jean.
That evening while checking her emails, she decided to google “Onion Johnnies.” She clicked on to the Wikipedia entry.
The onion sellers originated from an area around a small harbour town, called Roscoff, in Brittany. Finding a more profitable market in England than in France for their produce, the farmers had first started crossing the channel in 1828. They had come in small ships and steamers, storing their onions in rented barns and selling them door to door in towns as far apart as Cardiff and Newcastle. One freezing November night in 1905, the steamers SS Hilda on its journey from Southampton to St Malo sank with the loss of 128 lives. 75 of those were onion sellers from Brittany going home for Christmas.
As she registered this fact, an ice-cold shiver travelled up her spine and the hairs on her arms stood upright. She couldn't bear to think of the devastation the shipwreck must have caused to that small farming community in Brittany. Without knowing why, she felt strongly that some part of her own history was tied up with this disaster.
Appalled but fascinated, she followed the link to SS Hilda and read on. She found an article from the Southampton Daily Echo about the disaster.
The SS Hilda was an iron steam ship earning her keep on the tidal service from Southampton to St Malo, a journey of about twelve and a half hours. On that fateful November night as the ship neared the narrow passage between the cliffs that led to the mouth of the harbour, snow began to fall. Her Captain, William Gregory, an experienced seaman, could not have anticipated the heavy and vicious blizzard that suddenly hit the ship and hurled her onto the jagged rocks, ripping two huge holes in her bottom. The impact caused the boiler to explode and one of the masts to collapse, crushing some of the passengers and crew to death. The waves swept over the decks, washing the rest into the icy sea. The only survivors were seaman James Grinty and five onion sellers, found clinging to the freezing rigging the following day.
She looked at the black and white photos of the stricken ship and the portrait of the much loved and respected Captain. Tears filled her eyes. She switched off the computer and went to bed. But the images of the wrecked ship and the cries of drowning men, women and children kept her awake until the early hours.
Part 2
The knocking startled her out of her daydream. Jessie took her hands out of the soapy suds in the large porcelain sink and wiped them carefully on the under side of her white apron. Walking slowly down the flagstones of the scullery to the door, she repositioned her cap and tucked a stray dark hair into its creamy folds. She wasn't vain but she couldn't resist a quick look at the little mirror that hung on the whitewashed wall.
The knocking continued. She paused for a moment, then opened the scullery door. Standing on the steps that led to street level was a young man, a year or two older than her. Her eyes widened. He was the most exotic creature she had ever seen.
He wore a dark blue woollen beret perched jauntily on his thatch of brown-black hair. His complexion was ruddy, his eyes a brilliant sea green. In his right hand, he held a string of the strangest looking onions. They were round and pink, bound together in a raffia plait. Looking up at the street, Jessie saw a butcher's bicycle resting against the iron railings with yet more strings of onions dangling from its bars. She returned her gaze to his mesmerising eyes and felt a rosy blush spread across her face.
“It's a beautiful day, mademoiselle,” he said, grinning and looking upwards at the cloudless blue sky. “Would you like to try my onions? They taste very sweet. And they melt like butter when you cook them.” “Why are they pink?” she asked, stretching her hand out to touch their translucent skins and feel the hardness beneath. “It's the sea,” he replied. “The seaweed in the soil. That's what makes them pink and gives them their flavour.” “I don't know if my employer will like them,” she said doubtfully. He smiled. “Try them. Buy some for me.”
“Wait,” she said and she half-walked half-ran down the scullery passage to the kitchen. In one of the drawers of the oak dresser where the household crockery was kept she found some coins that were used to pay occasional tradesmen whose wares were not on account. When she had handed over the money, he said: “I shall come back mademoiselle. To see if the lady of the house likes them.”
She waited eagerly for his return, every knock at the scullery door causing her heart to skip a beat. It was three weeks before he came back. He had been very successful, he told her, selling his onions all over London.
She learned that he rented a room near the station at King's Cross. He had been making the annual trip to England with his father since he was ten years old. He loved his divided life, half a year in England and half a year in his village near Roscoff in Brittany. But in Brittany he was a nobody. In London, he was someone. He was noticed on the streets. He knew all the famous chefs in the smart restaurants and grand hotels. She listened, leaning against the scullery door, while he sat on the steps, captivated by his stories, his accent, his blue-green
eyes.
Aware that she was lingering too long outside, she wasn't surprised when the shrill voice of the cook called out: “Jessie, what are you doing idling about. Get back in here. We have the dishes from lunch to wash and pastries to make for afternoon tea.”
Regretfully, she turned to go into the house. He caught her hand. “Jessie, when is your half day? Shall we go for a walk?” She nodded shyly and they agreed to meet by the post box the following Wednesday afternoon. As he walked away, pushing his bike, she called out. “I don't know your name,” she called out. “My name is Jean,” he replied.
Over the next few weeks, they saw each other whenever they could. They walked along the canal, through Regents Park, on Primrose Hill. Sometimes they had a drink in the Albert Arms or took a tram to Covent Garden and had tea in the Lyons Corner House in Piccadilly. They loved the bustle of the busy West End Streets, crowded with horse drawn carriages, cars, electric omnibuses and trams, the shop fronts full of luxury goods they couldn't afford to buy.
She learned about onions. He called them the poor man's truffle. They were like life, he said. You peel the layers off, one at a time, and they always make you cry. For the Egyptians they were a symbol of eternity. Egyptian mummies, he told her, set out for the afterlife with a stock of onions wrapped in bandages. She knew what mummies were. The recent archaeological discoveries in Egypt had filled the newspapers and were the talk of every Edwardian household.
The curative powers of onions were endless. Put one under your pillow and it would cure insomnia. Chewing a raw one would ward of colds and chills. No captain would attempt a long voyage without them. She drank in every word. She never dreamed how fascinating the humble onion could be.
One chilly evening in early November, as they stood at the end of her street after one of their strolls, he told her he would have to return to France. His family needed the money he had earned and he wanted to spend Christmas with them. He promised he would come back in the New Year.
She bent her head, trying to hide her tears. He put his arm around her and kissed her hair. “I will come back,” he promised again. Wanting to cheer her up, he said: “Before, I leave, we'll go to a show, in the West End. At the Apollo or the Gaiety.” She looked up and smiled, her sadness mixed with excitement. She had never been to a theatre before.
They stood in the queue, pressed to each other, waiting to buy the tickets. The night was cold and snowflakes had begun to fall. She breathed in the sweet smell of onions that emanated from his skin and his clothing. When the doors finally opened, there was a rush for the unreserved seating in the pit. Jean had bought tickets high up in the gallery for a shilling so they could look down on the richer theatregoers in the balcony and circle with their jewels and finery.
The curtain went up and instantly they were transported to another world. At the interval they fought their way into the crush bar and bought two pints of brown ale, downing them rapidly, while they pored over their programme and discussed the play.
When the drama was over, they emerged into thronging street, their ears still ringing with the speeches, the music and the laughter. He pulled her close to him and kissed her hard on the mouth.
By now the snow was falling heavily. Carried away by the excitement of the evening and, dreading the lonely journey back to Camden, she agreed to go with him to his lodgings in King's Cross.
He rented the front room of a small terraced house in one of the back streets behind the station. When he opened the door for her and guided her in, her mouth fell open in amazement. There were onions everywhere, loose on the floor, in sacks stacked against the wall and ropes of them in tidy rows, waiting to be tied to his bicycle that stood leaning against a table. In the far corner was a narrow bed and there, in the sea of onions, she gave herself to him.
A few days later he was gone. The days dragged without him, bleak and colourless. Christmas came and went. In January her spirits lifted slightly, but he did not return. And now too there was a niggling fear. Her period didn't come, her breasts felt sore and tender and her once slim, flat stomach began to round.
As the weeks passed, her fear grew.
One cold morning in February she was in the dining room, cleaning the grate before lighting the fire. She reached over to the black metal box beside the fireplace where the old newspapers and kindling were kept. She took a page from the Times and crumpled it into a ball and as she reached for another page, she caught sight of a headline: SS Hilda Sinks with Terrible Loss of Life. 128 People Drowned. It was dated 22 November 1905. She froze. That was the ship he had planned to sail on. She grabbed the page, staring at the grainy photograph of the six survivors. She could see that Jean was not among them. And then she understood. He was never coming back.
Part 3
“Mum, I've been meaning to ask you for ages. What happened to my great grandmother Jessica? Wasn't there some sort of mystery about her?” “No mystery, really”, she replied. “She had an illegitimate baby. Not an issue these days, but in her time, it was a catastrophe. She was a kitchen maid. Her employers dismissed her when they found out. But a kindly middle-aged bachelor friend of theirs took pity on her. Married her and adopted the baby, my father, John.”
Anne-Marie put the cafetière and mugs on a tray and brought them to the table. “So who was the father of the baby?” “A Frenchman, apparently. Probably an Onion Johnny, come to think of it. There weren't many other Frenchmen around of her social class.” She poured the coffee. “Does anyone know what happened to him?” she asked. “He died. Nobody quite knows how. As you can imagine, Jessica was deeply ashamed of what had happened. She was grateful for being rescued. She never talked about him again. She wanted to keep the past to herself.” They sipped the hot bitter coffee. “So, somewhere we have some French relations?” “Yes, I suppose we do. The man presumably had a family but it would be impossible to track them down.”
It was a hot, late August afternoon and the sun was pouring through the open window. Ellen shifted in her chair to avoid the glare and as she did so she slumped slightly and tilted her head sideways. It was a strange mannerism. Anne-Marie stared at her in surprise. “What's wrong?” she asked. “You look as though you've seen a ghost.” “I think maybe I have, Mum,” she replied.
Afterwards, when Ellen had gone, she pondered over her great grandmother's sad story. Who had the young man been? What had happened to him? Did Jessica learn in time to love the elderly knight who had rescued her from poverty and degradation? Or was gratitude all she could feel? Did she sometimes alone in the silent nursery, rocking her baby to sleep, tell him of the man she had given her heart to and the sweet, rose-pink onions from Roscoff. Her thoughts then turned, as they had many times over the past few days, to the onion seller on Haverstock Hill. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that there was some kind of connection between them.
She decided to find him. Thinking he would remain in North London trying the small restaurants and delis in the area, she drove round Primrose Hill, Haverstock Hill, Hampstead and Highgate. But she couldn't see him anywhere. Perhaps he was doing the rounds of the West End hotels and restaurants or had returned to France. There would be no chance of finding him, if that were the case. Feeling cross and disappointed, she turned down East Heath Road.
She spotted him by the monument on the triangular island at South End Green. She recognised him immediately by the way he was sitting. His bicycle was leaning against the bench. He was staring into the middle distance, his mind a million miles away.
She turned into the nearest street and found a place to park. Running across the road, she was almost hit by a bus. She climbed the steps of the island and found herself facing him, out of breath and panting. Startled out of his reverie, he looked up at her flushed, pink face. She felt her face grow redder with embarrassment. Then recognising her, he began to laugh. “Did you like my onions so much? Have you come for more?” Her words poured out in a breathless jumble. “Yes, no, yes. I don't know what I'm saying. Jesus. Can I buy you a drink?” “Why not?” he replied, smiling. “Selling onions is thirsty work.”
He stood up and cupped his hand around her right elbow, gently nudging her forward. The familiarity of the action surprised her but it felt completely natural. She relaxed. It was if she had known him for years. They walked towards the Albert Arms. As she pushed open the door of the Saloon Bar, and caught sight of her reflection in the glittering mirror above the Edwardian bar, she was suddenly seized with a sense of déjà vu. This is not the first time, she thought. I have been here before.
Page(s) 26-32
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