Hot Pies on the Tram Car

by Sheila Newberry

  When the table was cleared, it was time for the adults to move into the sitting-room for a while and for Josefina to go to bed.

  Florence hesitated, then indicated it was time for the men to retire downstairs. ‘Early to bed for us too. Busy day tomorrow. Goodnight.’

  ‘Like old times,’ Buck told her. ‘Goodnight, Florence.’

  ‘I’ll see you before you leave,’ she said. She hoped he would take the hint. She was wary of any disruption to her ordered life.

  THREE

  AFTER she’d waved Josefina and Yvette off to school, a few minutes’ walk past a further row of shops round Paradise Corner, Florence went into the shop, while Manny fetched the first batch of pies. She inspected the floor, the tiled surrounds, counter, oven and deep sink.

  He came in with the loaded, covered basket as she placed the clean cotton squares in a neat pile under the counter. She looked up. ‘Buck awake yet?’

  ‘Yes. He’s dressed and ready to go. Waiting to say goodbye to you.’

  She tapped her apron pocket. ‘He didn’t ask, but I’m giving him something anyway. I packed a bag with some necessities; spare clothes, food and a bottle of tea. He never had much in the old days, he came to us from the foundling hospital, you see, but it’s obvious he called here after all this time, because he’s on his uppers.’

  ‘Well, you helped me out when I needed it most, so who am I to say you ought to be wary, though he might come back for more.’

  ‘That’s a chance I’m prepared to take, Manny, all right?’

  Florence advised Buck, ‘Put this in your inside pocket.’ She handed him an old purse, heavy with coins. ‘Copper mainly, but I hope it tides you over until you get a job.’

  ‘More chance of that now I’m tidied up. Thanks,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I’ve already had that, seeing you,’ he said, as she saw him out.

  Florence went upstairs to her flat. Should I have said something more, she wondered. But what was the point, raking up old hurts? She dabbed her eyes fiercely. There was still the past week’s laundry to parcel up to await collection, but Buck’s cast-offs could be consigned to the dustbin.

  *

  ‘Miss Short’s new gown is ready; she telephoned earlier to request it be delivered to her at the theatre. I wondered if you might enjoy a jaunt on such a pleasant afternoon?’ Mrs Belling, the proprietress of the dress shop, asked Rose Marie. ‘You should take your folder of pins, needles and thread, in case a minor alteration is needed . . . do I take that smile as a yes?’

  ‘Yes please!’

  ‘Then collect the dress box from the office in about fifteen minutes. The taxi will be here by then. Good afternoon, everyone.’ Mrs Belling swept out of the workroom.

  The other girls were excited for her. ‘Lucky you! You might even get home early.’

  ‘I intend to make the most of being out and about up west!’ It was fortunate, Rose Marie thought, that Florence had recently decided to have the telephone installed, because she could ring her sister and tell her not to worry if she was late.

  ‘Making a delivery?’ the taxi driver asked, as he saw her settled in the back seat of the square black cab. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been told where to go.’

  Rose Marie nodded. She clutched the box on her lap. MISS SADIE SHORT, CRITERION. BY HAND. The label read.

  She looked down at her own capable small hands, thinking she should have worn her gloves, not the rather dented silver thimble which she’d forgotten to remove. She slipped it into her pocket. It might yet come in useful.

  This was one of the modern variety theatres, with twice nightly performances. Here you could be entertained by the top names of the legitimate stage, appearing in melodramatic sketches or classic excerpts; sometimes by a foreign corps de ballet; an opera singer or two, as well as popular comedians, magic acts, dancers and speciality turns.

  ‘Take a seat in the stalls, miss,’ the commissionaire advised. ‘Miss Short is about to rehearse a new number for tonight. I’ll tell her you’re here when she comes off.’

  It was an eerie experience for Rose Marie, sitting in the front row, with all the empty seats around her; the silence from the circle above and the curtained boxes. The house lights were dimmed, the curtains opened, but the orchestra pit was deserted. At the side of the stage, an elderly man removed his jacket, slung it on the back of his chair, rolled up his shirt-sleeves and puffed on a bent cheroot. After shuffling some sheet music, he began to play. A spotlight began to dance about the stage, ready to focus on the dancers. There were two of them: Miss Short, not clad in one of her shimmering gowns but in a crumpled tunic over footless white tights, rather incongruous with silver dancing shoes; her partner, a lithe young man with a disdainful expression, casually attired in jumper and slacks.

  The music was staccato and lively, the dancing nothing like Rose Marie had imagined. The dancers did not swirl romantically around the stage, but performed their steps side by side; now and again Miss Short’s partner circled her, seized her round the waist, lifted then launched her into space. She landed on her feet, still dancing. Her high kicks were audacious, amazing; Rose Marie gasped, thinking, no wonder she rips her skirts!

  ‘Makes you tap your feet, don’t it, all that jazz,’ a male voice observed.

  Startled, Rose Marie turned to discover that the seat behind was now occupied.

  ‘Mind if I join you? We might as well enjoy this together.’ Without waiting for an answer the man vaulted over the top into the seat beside her. He glanced at her face, her flustered expression, and grinned. ‘I see I’d better introduce myself! I’m Sadie’s brother Russell. I had an appointment in London this morning, so thought I’d make a day of it, pay my sister an unexpected visit. Her landlady said she’d be here. Now, may I ask who you are?’

  ‘I’m . . . Rose Marie Flinders. I have a parcel for Miss Short.’

  ‘You are also a dancer?’ he asked. He had what she thought of as a posh voice.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m a dressmaker.’

  ‘You make frocks for Sadie, is that it?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She hesitated, then: ‘I’m still an apprentice, but when I get a chance . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’ll get that, I’m sure.’

  The music stopped abruptly, and the male dancer came to the front of the stage. ‘Who’s out there?’ he called. ‘You’re putting us off, with your chatter.’

  ‘Russ, and a young lady with the delightful name of Rose Marie, with a parcel for Sadie. We ought to applaud, you were awfully good. Finished your rehearsing, Stan?’

  ‘Well, we can take a break for half an hour. More practice definitely required.’

  ‘Come up on stage both of you,’ Sadie beckoned. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea in my dressing room. I have a new dress to try on, Stan, which may need a stitch or two.’

  It was a small room, with a long shelf the length of a mirrored wall, illuminated by a naked electric light bulb. On the shelf was a huge pot of cold cream, a bottle of witch hazel, sticks of greasepaint, a box of powder with a swansdown puff, bottles of scent and wodges of cleansing cotton. There was a screen in one corner, which Sadie retreated behind with the dress box, after offering the single armchair to Rose Marie. Stan had not accompanied them.

  ‘You can boil the kettle and make the tea, Russ. There’s milk or lemon in the cold box. You’ll have to take it unsugared, I never indulge, I watch my figure.’

  She was a quick-change artiste, emerging from behind the screen with a triumphant ‘Ta-ra!’ and twirling round for effect. ‘There! What d’you think?’

  ‘You forgot to remove the tights - otherwise, fabulous, dear Sis,’ Russ said.

  Fabulous. Rose Marie hadn’t heard that description before. Regarding the vibrant young woman in the misty blue organza dress with the dipping handkerchief hem, low waist, shoestring shoulder straps with diamanté clips, she thought, that’s just the word.

  ‘Comin
g to the show tonight?’ Sadie asked Russ, while twisting her supple body this way and that, so that Rose Marie could make sure the dress was a perfect fit.

  ‘Free tickets?’ Russ placed the tea-tray on the shelf. ‘Should there be a couple, I’ll invite Rose Marie here to join me.’

  ‘Oh, please, you don’t need to do that.’ Rose Marie straightened up. ‘No tucks needed,’ she assured Sadie.

  ‘Thank you so much. I’d be delighted for you to accompany my unruly young brother. He’s inclined to leap to his feet and cheer on occasion, especially at the bright young things in the chorus; I have to remind him that the variety theatre is not as vulgar as the music hall!’

  Rose Marie blushed. This wasn’t the moment to tell them about Stella.

  ‘That’s settled then. Shall I call for you at home?’ Russ asked. ‘The first performance is at seven.’

  ‘Where’s home?’ Sadie enquired, re-emerging from behind the screen in her practice clothes.

  ‘South London . . .’ What would they think if they knew she lived over a pie shop?

  ‘Look, I’ll be finished here by five, I hope; why don’t you both come back with me to my rooms and wait with me until it’s time to come back here, eh? Though I’m afraid I always eat out late after the show, so have nothing to offer in the grub stakes.’

  ‘I’m expected home for supper, and I also need to get changed.’

  ‘Can you telephone your folks? I have use of the landlady’s instrument.’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘You can borrow something from my wardrobe, too. I must go,’ Sadie drained her cup. ‘Come back to the stalls, when you’re ready.’

  ‘Lucky you were here,’ Russ told Rose Marie, when his sister had gone. ‘I didn’t have to tell her I wasn’t offered the job I went for today. They said I needed a haircut.’

  She couldn’t help smiling at his comical expression. He was probably a couple of years her senior, she thought; fresh complexioned with floppy, sandy-coloured hair and clear blue eyes. ‘Don’t get the wrong impression,’ he advised. ‘I need to work, like Sadie. She’s fortunate enough to have found a career which suits her. I haven’t yet discovered my forte. Our esteemed father gambled away a small fortune. He shot himself.’

  ‘How awful!’ Rose Marie exclaimed, shocked.

  ‘It was years ago. We’re over it, as far as one can be. Sadie supports our mother and me. I want to do my bit. Don’t be fooled by my accent,’ he added. ‘I went to a private school, so private that no one’s heard of it; my mother lives in a little rented house in Norwood.’

  ‘You didn’t need to tell me that.’ She rinsed the cups in the hand basin.

  ‘I believe in being honest from the start. How about you?’

  ‘I told you: I work in a dress shop. I live with my sister. Over the family pie shop,’ she stated baldly.

  ‘Well, I’ll be all right for supper I imagine, when I take you home! You see, I can’t afford to treat you. All I possess is my return train ticket home.’

  I’m not sure Florence will approve of him, she thought, but I do.

  *

  ‘I’ll be back around ten o’clock,’ Rose Marie told Florence over the telephone. ‘Miss Short’s brother will see me safely home. Can you keep my supper in the warming oven please? Oh, and can you save a pie for Mr Short? He says he’d appreciate that on the way back to Norwood tonight. Thanks!’

  Florence swallowed hard. She wanted to say, ‘Be careful! Don’t give this young man any ideas.’ Instead she managed a mere, ‘Be good! Enjoy the show.’

  She knew she would spend a tense evening until Rose Marie returned.

  ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ Josefina was, of course, eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘I used to watch Mummy and Daddy from the wings when they were on stage. They thought I was asleep in their dressing room, but I didn’t like being shut away from them, so I crept out and people went “shush!” and they’d find me a stool and tell me to sit very still.’

  ‘You’ll see your parents soon, I hope. Sit on my lap and tell me some more,’ Florence invited. She was fortunate to have little Josefina to love and care for, she thought.

  *

  Rose Marie was starry-eyed by the final curtain. Then she and Russ hurried to Sadie’s dressing room. She changed quickly back into her ordinary clothes and hung up the borrowed stylish velvet jacket and skirt behind the door. She’d attracted admiring glances in the circle.

  Sadie met them in the corridor outside. She would be on stage again in an hour.

  ‘Thank you, I had a lovely time.’ Rose Marie beamed.

  ‘I’m glad. Well, I’ll see you again soon, at Belling’s. Give Mother my love, Russ.’

  ‘I will. Thanks, Sadie. We’d better dash, I think.’

  ‘Here, take a cab.’ Sadie loosened the strings of her dolly bag, passed him some coins. ‘I expect your sister will be anxiously awaiting your return, Rose Marie, eh?’

  Rose Marie nodded. They’re both so nice, she thought, not toffee-nosed at all.

  The taxi drew up outside Paradise Buildings just as Manny arrived at the basement steps after his visit to the pub. He paused, wondering who would alight, then saw Rose Marie. She waved at Manny, then turned to her escort. ‘This way. I live at number one.’

  As they closed the front door behind them, Manny glanced up. He saw Florence’s face at the window, then she pulled the curtains together.

  Oh well, he thought ruefully, it had to happen sometime soon, and now it has. Rose Marie has been out on the town this evening, with a toff no doubt, coming home by cab. I guess Florence will find that hard to accept; I have no right, of course, but I certainly do.

  *

  Florence found the young man charming and disarming. He apologized for having to rush off, but the cab was waiting to take him to the station. He accepted the hot pie, wrapped in its cloth, gratefully. ‘I’m starving! Had nothing since the sandwich my mother made me for my lunch. Thank you, Miss Flinders. I hope to see you both again. Well, goodbye.’

  When the cab drew away from the kerb, Rose Marie came away from the window.

  ‘Your supper’s on the table,’ Florence said. Wisely, she did not comment on the fact that Rose Marie’s escort had not provided her with any refreshment before or after the show. It was obvious, she thought, that Mr Short was short of a bob or two. Was Rose Marie, in her turn, attracting lame ducks? She gave a little sigh. ‘Eat up, dearie.’

  FOUR

  ‘DO stand still, Josefina,’ Florence admonished her niece, yanking back her shoulder-length hair into a tight, stubby plait. She secured the end with a rubber band from her odds and ends drawer under the sink. ‘That’ll hold it in place.’

  Yvette kept a safe distance away. She was aware that Miss Flinders disapproved of her own artificial curls, but her mother had made a special effort with the rags last night, because this was the day appointed for the school photographer. Poor Josefina, she thought: she looks awful with her hair like that.

  ‘Time you were going.’ Florence glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘Here you are,’ she handed the girls a halfpenny each, and a scribbled list to Josefina. ‘For the greengrocer. This afternoon will do, tell Mrs Snelgrove. Come on, then. Manny will be wondering where I am.’

  The children walked sedately round the corner, then, when they were out of Florence’s view, the usual morning fun commenced. They performed a sort of nimble hopscotch along the paving stones, avoiding the cracks. Sweets were not allowed in school, but they paused to look at the tempting array of colourful jars in the little sweet shop, just before the ironmonger’s and the greengrocer’s. These establishments had wares overflowing on the pavement, which was inconvenient for mothers hurrying along with a pram and toddlers in tow.

  The ironmonger was lugging out a basket of cheap china, packed in straw. As if delving into a bran tub, he came up with a single cup and saucer and displayed them on top. There were zinc buckets, broom handles and soft brushes tied together by string; stac
ks of paint and putty tins; a pair of steps leaning against and keeping the door open. He eyed the children suspiciously. ‘Watch where yer treadin’.’ They skirted the muddle obediently.

  Snelgrove & Sons was misnamed, like the pie shop. Mother and daughters was more like it. They were an awesome trio, over six feet in height and of Amazon build. Mrs Snelgrove had rammed an ancient trilby on her head; she wore a long brown drill overall and a money-bag strapped around her waist, leaving her hands free to weigh vegetables and fruit in the scales, placed on an orange box. Her daughters wore sacking aprons and had cropped hair, as if masquerading as the long-gone sons.

  ‘Lorst your tongues?’ Mrs Snelgrove enquired cheerfully. ‘A nice rosy apple each?’ Her hands, already grubby from the root vegetables, hovered over the tray of polished apples.

  ‘Yes please,’ Josefina said. They handed over their halfpennies and the list. Mrs Snelgrove patted their heads and wished them a good day at their lessons.

  The school bell was ringing. Now they had to hurry.

  ‘I pinched a couple of cherries,’ Yvette confessed. The stones were in her pocket.

  ‘You didn’t! You’d better take ’em back!’ Her friend was shocked.

  ‘I can’t. I ate them while Mrs Snelgrove looked at the list, but I think she knew . . . You won’t tell my maman, will you?’

  ‘You needn’t worry, I never tell tales.’

  They entered the school gates. The pupils were already lined up so they sidled to the end of the queue.

  ‘All neat and tidy for the photographer, children?’ the head teacher, Miss Darch, enquired with a smile. Her nickname, Miss Starch, was not deserved, but accepted with good humour.

  ‘I’ll undo your hair at breaktime, and comb it out,’ Yvette whispered.

  ‘Oh, Aunty won’t like that!’

  ‘You can say Miss Starch did it!’

  Josefina was shocked, but silent. She was discovering a new side to Yvette today.

  *

  ‘Here you are, my love.’ Mrs Snelgrove put down the heavy box on the table with a sigh; glanced expectantly at the teapot on the hob. ‘Make it strong; I need it this afternoon.’