by Pam Weaver
The man she had spotted doing the washing up in the back kitchen the day she had come for interview was Ken. Injured during the war, he was delighted to have the work, so much so that he never stopped whistling. Izzie’s fellow waitresses, Lucy, Helen and Carol, were easy to work with although their days were split into shifts. Mr Semadini made it clear that he didn’t want his staff stressed or over stretched, which meant that Izzie wasn’t always working with the same girl. She enjoyed being with them all and they often went to the pictures together.
‘You coming to the dance, Izzie?’ Helen asked.
‘I can’t,’ said Izzie. ‘I already have a date.’
She didn’t mention it was with the Bex Bissell and a duster. She’d have to finish off the housework on New Year’s Eve because she was seeing Mum again on New Year’s Day.
*
Linda would never have known the coffee bar they called The Cave was there if she had passed the door in the day time. It was New Year’s Eve and she had heard on the grapevine that this was the place where all the young people came to hang out. Just around the corner from the National Provincial Bank and within sight of the Old Town Hall, it was behind a battered brown door and down some steep steps. There was no hand-rail and the stair wasn’t well lit so as soon as she went through the door it felt creepy and exciting. She could feel the heat from sweaty bodies coming up to meet them as she and John walked down.
At the bottom of the stairs she was met by a wall of sound. Loads of people were crammed into the relatively small space and because of the dim lighting it took her a moment to focus her eyes. John led her across the room through the mass of gyrating dancers to a table right at the back. As soon as she sat down, he went to the bar to buy her a coffee. She could tell he didn’t really want to be here but she was bored with the church youth club. There were only so many games of table tennis a body could stand. This was more like it. She wanted to rest her arms on the top of the table but it was sticky. Clearly something had been spilled on it and it hadn’t been washed.
Linda looked around with mounting elation. In one corner a skiffle band played some indeterminate music on a guitar, a drum made out of an old tea chest with a piece of string attached to a broom handle, and a washboard strummed by a lad wearing thimbles on each finger. Another chap who stood in front of the instrumentalists was the singer. Their efforts were mostly drowned out by the level of chatter in the room and a blue haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Most of the boys in the room, and Linda was only interested in the boys, wore long jackets, white shirts and bootlace ties. Some, like John, only had part of the new Edwardian look, probably saving up for the rest of the gear. It wasn’t cheap. A complete suit could set a boy back a whole month’s wages.
There were a few girls in the coffee bar as well. They had their own unique style of dress; drape jackets, tight sweaters, pencil skirts and flat shoes. Linda felt a little out of place in her flowery skirt and white blouse.
‘First time here?’ asked the girl sitting at the other side of the table.
Linda nodded.
‘Thought so,’ said the girl. ‘My name is Maureen but everybody calls me Mo.’
‘Linda,’ said Linda.
‘I’m Ray’s Judy,’ said Mo, opening her compact and studying the wild curls at the front of her hair. She tugged at one or two so that they sprang back. The rest of her hair was scraped back into an elastic band like a pony tail. Linda wondered what a Judy was, but she didn’t dare ask. Mo snapped her compact shut and stared directly at Linda. ‘So keep off him, okay?’
Linda blinked.
‘Hey, Doll.’
They both looked in the direction of the male voice. A boy on the other side of the room was beckoning. Mo rose to her feet and threaded her way through the crowd immediately. Linda stared after her, admiring her wiggle. When Mo stopped by a boy with the biggest quiff she had ever seen, Linda’s heart skipped a beat … or maybe three. He was easily the dishiest looking boy in the room; medium height, dark-haired and with a gorgeous smile. As Mo approached, the boy took her handbag and turning his back on her, began rummaging through it until her found her purse. Mo was tugging at his arm trying to get it back from him but he elbowed her aside roughly and only gave her purse back to her after he’d helped himself to some money.
‘There you are,’ said John, suddenly appearing and placing two glass Pyrex cups of coffee onto the table. Linda jumped. They were the smallest cups she had ever seen and half the content was in the saucer.
‘Two bloody bob they cost me,’ said John, crashing into the seat beside her. He picked up his cup and sipped the coffee. ‘Ugh, it’s cold.’
Linda looked away, irritated. Why did he always have to put the dampener on everything?
The skiffle band began to play a tune she recognised from the radio. Linda smiled. This was great. She loved it here. She looked around and spotted Mo and the good looking boy again. They had linked their fingers together and were dancing The Creep. Her other hand was on his shoulder but his other hand was kneading her bottom. Linda felt both a frisson of excitement and a pang of jealousy.
‘Great in here, isn’t it?’ said John, bringing her back to earth.
Yes, she thought acidly, as she gave him a cursory nod, and it would be even better without you.
‘See that bloke over there,’ said John, jerking his head towards Ray. ‘He’s from London. They say he was in the Mile End fight.’
Linda gave an involuntary shiver. The papers had been full of it. Two rival gangs had met on a bomb site, which was being developed into a park, and a vicious fight broke out.
‘Was Ray in the gang then?’ Linda asked breathlessly.
‘Na,’ said John. ‘He’s all right. He’s come to Worthing to stay with his auntie.’
Linda was doing her best to look casual. ‘What does he do?’
‘Do?’ said John. ‘People like Ray don’t do anything.’
Twenty
Izzie and her mother strolled along the seafront. There was nothing much to do because it was cold and blustery. Izzie wondered why her mother didn’t invite her to her home. Was it because she lived in a poor area of town? Or maybe it was because she lived in a shared tenement. All the same, it was a bit odd that they were wandering around in the open rather than being indoors. Eventually she suggested they should find somewhere warmer and Doris suggested a pub near the seafront. They went into the Ladies Snug. Doris had a sherry and she bought Izzie a lemonade. They sat huddled by the fire.
‘Tell me about your life, Mum,’ said Izzie, ‘before you met Dad.’
Doris chuckled. ‘Not very exciting I’m afraid. I was born in Bethnal Green, near Weaver’s Fields. They’re pulling down all the old cottages to make way for a new park.’
‘Weaver’s Fields?’ Izzie queried. She’d never heard of it before.
‘It was where the Huguenot silk weavers lived,’ said Doris. ‘They were French refugees.’
Izzie nodded. ‘There’s a chapel belonging to them in the Lanes.’
‘My family were originally costermongers,’ Doris went on. ‘My father and his father before him.’
‘That’s what Dad did, wasn’t it?’
‘Your dad sold everything and anything,’ said Doris. ‘My family were famous for Polly’s meat pies.’
Izzie grinned. ‘Sounds delicious.’
‘They were.’ Her mother smiled. ‘Made to a secret recipe handed down from the eighteen hundreds.’
Izzie’s interest was kindled. ‘Have you ever made them?’
‘Of course.’
‘Will you share the recipe with me?’
Doris’ face clouded. ‘I haven’t done any since …’ She faltered and Izzie’s heart constricted. It always came back to what happened to Gary Sayers didn’t it. It hung over everything like a thick dark cloud.
When she got back to Worthing, Izzie spent the evening with Esther and her parents. They’d played silly games and eaten for England. All in all, Izzie had rea
lly enjoyed herself. Mr Jordan brought her home in his car and as she and Esther embraced to say goodbye, she somehow knew that 1952 was going to be a momentous year for both of them.
*
As he sat at Auntie Bren’s kitchen table flicking through the newspaper, Raymond Perryman was beginning to wish he’d never agreed to come to Worthing. He faced a long afternoon by himself and there wasn’t even anything decent on at the pictures. The Long Memory starring John Mills was showing at the Plaza. Apparently it was a smuggling story beginning with a charred body being found in a boat. Ray curled his lip. He could guess the plot already. His eye moved down the paper. House of Wax starring Vincent Price was on at the Odeon. Vincent Price was quite good but did he want to see the film? Ray turned the page with a sigh. He was sick of looking at wedding pictures and reports about children’s Christmas parties. Nothing ever happened here. The whole place was full of newly-weds and nearly dead’s and now that it was winter it was worse than ever. With the cold weather all the girls were bundled up in coats and scarves so he couldn’t eye-up any classy chassis on the prom. Even the dances in the Assembly Hall were a dead loss, full of middle-aged spinsters and old duffers in dress suits, which was hardly surprising when the music was so deadsville. The Cave was just about the only place that was hip but even that was losing its appeal.
Auntie Bren was okay. She might be a widow but she was no soft touch. She was quite capable of giving her nephew a clip around the ear if necessary. There were times when his blood ran cold at the thought of his mates seeing him bringing in the coal or putting the dustbins out but he knew better than to go against her. He was supposed to be looking around for another job but so far he’d managed to keep one step ahead of that one; any lifting involved and he had a bad back, he was no good at sums so he couldn’t work in a shop, and if deliveries were involved, he hadn’t got a driving licence yet. He was determined to keep off the radar because the one thing he really wanted to avoid was getting his call-up papers for National Service. He turned the page of the newspaper. The Cruel Sea was showing at the Odeon cinema and Cosh Boy at the Rivoli. Now, that was more like it, but a quick feel in his trouser pocket told him he didn’t even have enough for even the cheapest seat in the house. It looked like he’d have to help himself to a bob or two from his auntie’s purse again.
He didn’t like taking money from Auntie. He’d found himself a nice little gold mine in Mo and she was only too willing to do anything he wanted. Now that she was his Judy he’d taught her a thing or two and she was so keen she’d given him a golden opportunity to have her in comfort tonight. She’d invited him over to her place because her mum and dad were going out.
‘Come at eight,’ she’d told him. ‘They’re going to the Connaught Theatre so they won’t be back until after ten.’
He was looking forward to it. Anything was better than doing it in some draughty doorway with the ever present risk of being caught by some passing copper, or having her on the beach where the shingle rubbed the skin off his knees. The only trouble was, from the moment he’d got her knickers off, she’d started talking about wedding bells and marriage.
‘Cut the gas,’ he’d told her impatiently, but her constant chatter drove him crazy. He wasn’t ready to get circled yet. He wanted to make a name for himself first.
Ray made his way to the sitting room, to where Auntie Brenda had left her handbag beside her chair, but just as he was about to slip his hand inside, she came along the corridor. ‘Oh Raymond, would you do me a favour? Could you get the big red case down from the loft? I’ve got some curtains in it. They’d be much nicer for the summer months than the ones already hanging up but I have to do some repairs first.’
Ray sprang to attention. When he’d known he was coming to Worthing, Ray’s brother Lennie had asked him to hide some stash. ‘It’ll be safe as houses at Auntie Bren’s,’ he’d said, handing him something wrapped in an old vest.
Ray must have looked puzzled but when Lennie said the cops were watching him he understood. ‘One false move,’ said Lennie, ‘and I’ll be back in Borstal quicker than you could say flick knife.’ So Ray had agreed.
It was handy that Auntie Bren had asked him to go into the loft. It gave him the ideal opportunity to hide Lennie’s stuff somewhere he knew she wouldn’t be snooping around. At the moment, he had it at the back of his wardrobe so there was always the risk that Auntie might find it. She couldn’t climb the ladder to the loft anymore so it would be safe from her prying eyes up there.
As soon as he’d arrived in Worthing he had unwrapped Lennie’s parcel. It was a little disappointing at first, just some bits of old jewellery and a watch, but there was also a flick knife. The blade had been wiped clean but where it met the hilt he could see a small stain. Ray guessed it was blood. As he turned it over in his hands, Ray wondered why his brother hadn’t chucked it into the Thames. But even as he posed the question, he knew the answer. It was obviously some sort of a trophy.
Auntie’s loft was packed to the rafters with all sorts of junk but in between the battered old chairs, rolled bits of old carpet, and even half a bike, he spotted the red suitcase. It weighed a ton and as he manhandled it towards the loft opening, he knocked an old tennis racquet down, which in turn sent a small package wrapped in sacking and perched on a rafter, flying.
‘Whatever was that?’ His aunt was standing at the bottom of the ladder looking up.
‘I knocked some things over,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go back and tidy up.’
Once the case was downstairs and his aunt was fiddling about with the curtains, Ray slipped back into the loft with Lennie’s stuff. Picking up the package he’d knocked over, he pulled the sacking away to reveal a gun. A gun! He searched the loft for bullets and found a box on one of the overhead beams. The gun looked very old and he guessed it was a relic from the First World War, but all the same, it was still a gun!
There was an old mirror in the corner propped against a trunk. The glass was foxed but Ray spent the next twenty minutes waving the gun around and pretending to be James Cagney. The last time he’d gone to the pictures in London was to see his gangster film Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye. With a gun like this, Ray could be a real gangster. He couldn’t wait to show Mo.
Eventually his aunt called to the ladder. ‘You all right up there, Ray?’
‘Yes, Auntie,’ he called back. ‘Just coming.’
*
Despite the fact that spring was just around the corner, it looked like snow. Thick iron coloured clouds hung in the sky like a lead ceiling. A chill wind from the sea made Izzie hunch her shoulders and sink her chin deep into her woolly scarf as she dashed to the offices of the Worthing Herald.
‘Oh, it’s freezing out there!’ She turned and the receptionist, a plump woman dressed in a grey skirt and a grey knitted jumper gave her a warm cherubic smile. She wore round rimmed glasses and her grey hair was piled untidily on the top of her head in a chaotic yet oddly attractive way. The only relief from a sea of grey was a cream coloured cameo brooch at her neck. Izzie guessed she was a woman in her fifties.
The reception itself was neat and tidy but a tad old fashioned. A paraffin stove made a noble but failing effort to warm the premises and its dark walls were covered with framed and faded back-dated front pages from the paper.
‘Can I help you?’
Izzie stepped towards the desk hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure. I hope so.’ She opened her handbag and drew out the cutting. ‘I want to find out a little more about this.’
The older woman peered at the cutting. ‘It’s definitely from one of our papers.’
Izzie was surprised. ‘It is? How do you know?’
The woman chuckled. ‘Believe me, I’ve worked here for nearly thirty years and I’d recognise our style anywhere.’ She paused, frowning. ‘I remember this. Terrible business. The whole country was up in arms. I believe the man in question went to prison.’
Izzie sucked in her lips lest she showed any emotion. If everyone in
the country was up in arms, this woman might have strong feelings herself.
‘I think it was 1941 or maybe 1942,’ said the woman. ‘Would you like to look at some back copies?’
‘Yes please,’ said Izzie, not realising she could do that.
The woman went through a door, leaving her alone in reception. Izzie looked around, studying the pictures on the walls, anything to help her keep control of her feelings. There was one from a 1921 issue when the war memorial outside the new Town Hall was unveiled in April. The front page photograph showed a large crowd of sombre townspeople standing with heads bowed as the drapes were being pulled away from a statue of an English Tommy with his rifle pointing down and his helmet held high in a victory salute. Nearby there was a more recent one, taken in 1945 when the crowds gathered on the steps of the Old Town Hall to cheer and celebrate VE day. Izzie squinted to see if she recognised anybody, maybe her mother, but she didn’t.
The woman came back with two very large leather bound books. One was for 1941 and the other 1942, and to Izzie’s surprise she found that they contained every copy of the Worthing Herald for those years.
‘I think it happened around Christmas time,’ said the woman, ‘so perhaps if you look at January and February first, it might save a little time.’
She put the books on a shelf near the window and Izzie began to thumb the pages. She found the article in the February 20th edition 1941. It made headline news, of course, and in the issues which followed she found other references to the incident. It made grim reading.
‘I can probably find some old copies,’ the receptionist said. ‘You’ll have to pay for them, of course.’
