He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1)

by Barbara Arnold

  ‘Guess what? Fred and Lori are getting married,’ I told her as soon as Paula opened the door. ‘Angela’s going to be a bridesmaid and I’m going to be Fred’s best man.’ I waited for Paula’s usual enthusiasm, but all she said was, ‘That’s nice.’ Her voice was as flat as the hedgehog in the middle of the High Street.

  ‘And the wedding’s going to be …’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ And before I could finish my sentence, she darted back inside and closed the door.

  Paula wasn’t the only one who showed no interest in Fred and Lori’s wedding. Dennis and Herbie hadn’t seemed to care that I was being Fred’s best man and wearing a proper suit.

  ‘My cousin had a suit and he looked a right chump. I wouldn’t want one. I’ll tell you that for nothing. I’d rather have a cowboy jacket with fringes down the sleeves like the ones Roy Rogers wears. Anyway, your suit’ll only have short trousers. You’re not old enough for longs.’ Dennis finished by waving his arm about, as if he was dismissing the idea of a suit altogether. Herbie nodded in agreement, while I tried to force down a sensation as if a log had become jammed in my throat. I hadn’t expected Herbie and Dennis to be interested in the wedding itself, but I had thought they would think I was lucky to be getting a proper suit. Instead, all they did was laugh at Herbie’s silly jokes.

  I would never have believed a wedding of all things would bring Angela and me closer. With Paula drooping round like Sunday’s celery on Monday, and Dennis and Herbie continuing to make stupid comments, Angela and I began to talk to each other about things we would once have thought drippy.

  A few days after Fred and Lori announced their engagement, as she promised, Lori took Angela to choose the material for her bridesmaid dress.

  Afterwards Angela bounced into the kitchen as if she was on a pogo stick.

  ‘What d’you think of this,’ she asked me, untying the string from around a brown paper parcel, and carefully lifting a shimmering piece of material. ‘See, it changes colour. Pick it up and move it round,’ she invited me. ‘It’s called shot taffeta. We got it from Bon Marche, not that stall where Paula Dribble got the stuff for her ballet dress.’

  I knew how much it meant to Angela, and I took hold of the fabric as if it might dissolve in my hands. I held it towards the window and then away from it. One way it became pale pink, delicate, fragile. When I held it a different way, it darkened and almost sulked, becoming altogether more dramatic. It was like Angela’s personality, although I’d never before thought of her as having a fragile side.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ She exclaimed, taking it from me, twirling this way and that.

  ‘It’s pretty,’ I replied, noticing how the pale pink made her face look softer.

  ‘We bought a pattern as well. Look it’s got a frill round the neck and at the bottom and Lori’s going to buy me a headdress of silver leaves and silver shoes to go with it. What d’you think about silver shoes?’ Angela asked, willing my enthusiasm.

  ‘They’d be nice.’

  ‘And a silver basket with pink roses and that white stuff old Dribble’s got growing in his garden, but better than his.’ Angela folded the material back into the paper as if she was wrapping a baby into its shawl.

  ‘What colour suits are you and Fred having?’

  ‘Fred wants navy, but Lori says he’s to have a change, so we might choose grey ones.’

  ‘Grey’ll look smart and go a treat with my pink dress. We’ll match really well.’ Angela paused. ‘I was wondering if Dad might turn up to see me in my bridesmaid’s outfit.’

  ‘What would he do that for? He couldn’t give two hoots about us. Anyway, how would he know about the wedding?’

  ‘I was only wondering.’ Angela busied herself putting the material into a cupboard.

  ‘Good riddance to him. We’ve got Fred now.’

  Mr Bendle, the tailor, lifted bales of cloth off shelves from which cobwebs hung like the Dibbles’ lace curtains. Unwinding the material, he invited Fred to feel the quality.

  Taking his time over each roll, Fred rubbed the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, before dividing the material into two groups. ‘I don’t think these ones are quite suitable,’ he said, pushing one lot further along the workbench, and I watched as the shiny blue material I’d been eyeing slid out of reach.

  ‘We’re thinking of grey. This one looks good. What do you think?’ Fred pushed some material towards me, and I took the cloth between my thumb and finger and rubbed it as Fred had done. ‘It’s good.’

  Next, Mr Bendle ran his tape measure along my arms and across my back and chest.

  ‘Now about the trousers for the young man?’ He asked.

  ‘Long ones,’ Fred smoothed the flat of his hand across the material.

  A quick scowl like one of Angela’s when she wasn’t happy about something, passed across the tailor’s face, before he let the tape measure drop the length of my leg. ‘Isn’t he ... the young man … a little young for long trousers?’

  ‘Long,’ Fred repeated, winking over the tailor’s bent form. I winked back. A grey suit with longs! A grey suit with long trousers!

  ‘And I’m having a grey suit with long trousers, the same as Fred,’ I told Paula the next morning, as she stooped to put a milk bottle outside. I would have stood with a loud hailer at the top of Blountmere Street and announced it to everyone if I could have. As it was, Paula would have to do. I was banking on a better reaction from her than I’d got from Dennis, who had said he hoped I didn’t look as ridiculous as his cousin had. But Paula was the same as she had been for the last couple of weeks, as if she hadn’t heard a thing I said.

  ‘Angela’s dress is really pretty as well. It’s going to be a swell wedding.’ I liked the word “swell” because they said it a lot in the films at Saturday picture club. ‘Afterwards, we’re going up West to Lyons Corner House. You and your Mum could come to the Registry Office, if you wanted to.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paula seemed as if she didn’t want to go. Then looking back over her shoulder into her passage, presumably to make sure her mother wasn’t around, she whispered, ‘You’re not to say anything to anyone, but Mum well, she’s ill.’ The back of her hand was wet where she’d rubbed it across her eyes. ‘You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Course I promise.’ I couldn’t think of one reason why I would want to tell anyone Mrs Dibble was ill. Lots of people had things wrong with them – Mum, for a start. She had bad legs, but we hardly mentioned it, and there was no way I’d cry about it, nor would Angela.

  ‘I’ve got to go. I don’t like leaving Mum on her own for too long, and I want to write to Damielle.’

  ‘Who’s Damielle?’

  ‘A girl I made friends with on holiday. You’d really like her.’

  I wouldn’t like anyone with such a daft name. I bet Paula hadn’t been so snotty with her as she was being with me. She would have toadied to her, like she did to the girls at school. There were times when I almost agreed with Angela that Paula Dibble had liquorice for guts.

  I made my way to the bombsite, shinning a broken-down wall and kicking stones into anything that would clatter or bang. It was a bombsite and it didn’t deserve any peace and quiet.

  When I got back to our flat, Mum had just finished fitting Lori for her wedding suit. At the sight of me, Lori hurriedly fastened her blouse and smoothed her hair a little flatter, while Mum took one pin after another and pushed them into the jacket she was making.

  ‘We’re going to look like dukes and duchesses,’ Lori laughed. ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a pity nobody else thinks so. You’d think your friends would try to be interested, instead of being so wrapped up in themselves.’

  ‘That’s the way it often is, I’m afraid. You’ll be back at school next week. Perhaps you could write an essay about it?’ Lori suggested

  I was doubtful about that. Essays weren’t something I liked writing, even if I did have a grey s
uit with long trousers to write about.

  ‘In the meantime, how about doing a little gardening for me? I’ve been so busy, what with everything that’s going on, my garden’s been quite neglected.’

  Even though I had difficulty telling the difference between weeds and flowers, Lori usually gave me sixpence when I’d finished. A tanner was good payment for one flowerbed under her kitchen window.

  ‘Come with me and I’ll give you a trowel. And while you’re gardening, I can put some washing out. It must be the first time we’ve seen the sun in a week.’

  When I got to Lori’s garden, Mrs Dibble was already at her clothesline next door.

  ‘How are you?’ Lori asked, scooping a handful of pegs from a tattered bag with EGS embroidered on the front.

  ‘Our holiday set us all up a treat.’ Mrs Dibble spoke through a mouthful of pegs. ‘How are your wedding plans going? I suppose you’re getting things ready at your place for the two of you.’

  Lori was noticeably slower than Mrs Dibble and had only pegged two things to her line, by comparison with the load that was flapping in the Dibbles’ garden.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it but I don’t seem to have had much time lately, what with one thing and another.’ Lori pegged up a pair of pink knickers that, when the wind blew and filled them, looked like a cow’s udders. ‘It’s difficult imagining the two of us living in my flat. I’ve been on my own there such a long time.’

  Why hadn’t I thought about it before! I had been so taken up with the wedding and getting the suit, it hadn’t occurred to me that Fred would be moving out of our place and into Lori’s. I didn’t think Angela had thought about it either. Mum and Fred must have discussed it. At Lori’s he might only be next door, but he wouldn’t be there in his room to pop into and have a chat with whenever I felt like it. All at once a suit with long trousers seemed an unfair exchange.

  ‘Will Dolly take in another lodger?’ Mrs Dibble pushed the prongs of her clothes prop into the clothesline and her washing became a row of coloured flags.

  I crawled a foot or so further along to make it look as if I was doing something.

  ‘I think she’ll have to. I know a very nice woman in business in the City who’s looking for lodgings in this area.’ Lori replied.

  Mrs Dibble dropped her voice and exaggerated her pronunciation, at the same time casting a glance my way. ‘Those kids’ll miss Fred living with them, especially young Tony. I know you’ll both be next door, but I suppose things will change a bit.’

  ‘Nothing stays the same,’ Lori was speaking so softly I had difficulty hearing what she was saying. I looked across at her and she turned and met my gaze, before looking at the ground and quickly swivelling back to her washing basket. Lori, the most honest person I knew, couldn’t face me.

  With only the two of us, The Majestic seemed a good place to spend Fred’s stag night celebration. Fred had invited old Dibble, but he said he was too busy, although that morning I heard his razor blade voice rising from their flat shouting there was no way he was going to any stag night with bleedin’ Captain Cook, and that was flat.

  ‘The film was smashing. I like Gregory Peck,’ I said, after we’d watched the film and were strolling along the High Street. ‘I’ve never been to the pictures at night before. It was better than Saturday Picture Club.’

  ‘What about stopping at Issy’s for fish and chips?’ Fred suggested. ‘It would be a good way to finish a stag night, don’t you think?’

  We sauntered past David Greggs, the Bata Shoe Shop and Nivens, the shop where toffs bought their kids fancy clothes. Crossing the road, we looked in Wakeleys the sports shop window, before continuing on along the side of the bombsite towards Issy’s.

  Inside, Issy’s smelt of fish and dripping and security. If the world caught fire, you would be safe in Issy’s.

  ‘What will you have, young man?’ Fred asked.

  ‘Rock salmon and chips, please.’

  ‘Rock salmon. There’s nothing like it, is there?’

  ‘With plenty of salt and vinegar.’

  ‘Wrapped in newspaper, of course.’

  ‘It’s the best food in the whole world, I reckon,’ I said, saliva building up at the corners of my mouth.

  ‘No-one can fry fish like Issy. In all my travels I’ve never tasted anything as good.’ Fred gave our order to a rotund man with a glinting head. He beamed at us across the marble-topped counter. Then, without warning, Fred’s smile seemed to flicker away. ‘I’ll always remember Issy’s,’ he said.

  ‘Issy’s will always be here, so you won’t have to remember it.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ But a sadness had settled on Fred not even Issy’s rock salmon could lift.

  Chapter Eight

  The scent of roses filled the taxi, pink ones, tumbling from Angela’s basket and peeping from Lori’s small bouquet. Angela fidgeted, smoothing her dress, and Mum straightened the silver leaves around Angela’s head. Angela didn’t look like Angela at all. I would never have told a living soul, but she looked prettier than any girl I’d ever seen, including the ones who spoke with funny American accents on the films at Saturday Picture Club.

  ‘I feel very grand.’ Lori told us. And she looked it. She was wearing a suit in a colour she called wisteria or something like that. When Mum was making Lori’s outfit, I had thought it looked like the colour of the stuff in old Dibbles’ garden that their cat Betsy rubbed itself against. But now Lori was wearing it, it didn’t look too bad. You could see Fred thought Lori looked wonderful, because he kept telling her so and squeezing her hand. Lori wore a purple hat perched on her frizzy curls. It looked like a bird’s nest and reminded me of a picture at school of Elizabeth the First. Fred, using one of his favourite words, said it was “fetching”.

  I thought we looked “fetching” too in the grey double-breasted suits Mr Bendle, the tailor, had made for us. We wore pink carnations in our buttonholes, the same colour as Angela’s roses.

  ‘It’s like being Princess Margaret.’ Angela waved a lace-gloved hand to a group gathered on the pavement outside our flat.

  ‘I think one or two people are a bit put out I’ve seen my bride before the ceremony. Folk are very superstitious like that,’ Fred said.

  ‘I’m certainly not worried about it,’ Lori replied. ‘It’s much more sensible that we all go together. Anyway, I think it’s wonderful to actually go to my wedding with my husband to be.’ She bent forward and kissed Fred’s cheek, while something in my stomach squelched.

  As the taxi drew away, Herbie and Dennis walked past, appearing not to be interested, although I saw them giving us a sideways sneak. I had not so much as set a foot on the running board of a car, let alone ridden in one, and never, ever, in a taxi. I wasn’t going to let anything spoil that, so I pretended not to notice them. I turned my Brylcreemed head to scan the group for Paula. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I’d been sure she would at least have watched from her doorstep. Fingering the crease on my trouser leg, I glanced at the Dibbles’ front window. There didn’t appear to be anyone watching from behind the fancy net curtains. I turned away and smiled at Fred. I wasn’t going to pull clouds over today’s sunshine.

  ‘Have you got the ring, son?’ Fred asked. I took the white box with ‘James Walker, Jewellers’ written on it from my jacket pocket and showed it to Fred, He patted me on the shoulder.

  “Son!” Fred had called me “son”! I fingered the creases in my trousers once again and looked from one face to another. Even though Fred wouldn’t actually be living in our flat anymore, he would only be next door, living with Lori. Things wouldn’t change too much. This was my family. I belonged with them. They belonged to me. Glue stuck us together. You couldn’t slip a thread between any of us.

  When we arrived at the Registry Office, Paula and her mother were waiting on the pavement outside like an official welcoming party. I suppose I should have known they wouldn’t forget about the wedding completely. But Mrs Dibble and even Paula, who was alway
s dressed in something posh, didn’t look a fig compared to us.

  ‘You look beautiful, Angela.’ Paula bent to smell the roses in Angela’s basket. ‘And I love your silver shoes.’

  ‘We got them in Pratts at Streatham.’ Angela pointed her silver toes at Paula in a boasting sort of way which, for once, I could understand.

  Creeping next to me, Paula whispered. ‘You look really smart … like a man.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been interested in the wedding,’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I mumbled. It wasn’t okay really. I thought she was my friend, yet she hadn’t wanted to share the best time of my life.

  ‘Come on, it’s time to go in.’ Mrs Dibble took hold of Paula’s arm, but Paula shook herself free, grumbling, ‘All right, I know. You don’t have to tell me what to do every minute of the day.’

  Mrs Dibble made a clicking sound at Paula to let her know she was being rude, but Paula just glared back.

  The ten minute ceremony didn’t seem worth all our dressing up. A poe-faced man said something about marriage being honourable, causing Angela to nudge me and whisper, ‘Did he say marriage was horrible?’ Mum, in turn, nudged Angela and put her finger to her lips. I was too busy keeping the creases in my trousers sharp, and thinking about leaving the Registry Office in yet another taxi, to listen to what else the bloke said. Then before I knew it, Fred had asked me for the ring, and I was fumbling for the box.

  When I pulled it from my pocket, lifted the lid and gave the ring to Fred, I had the same feeling I’d had when I put the bob Dad’s fancy woman had given us, into the dinner money tin.

  After that, Fred, Lori, Mum and Mrs Dibble walked to a table at the side of the room to sign their names in a big leather book.

  That was that, Fred and Lori were married.

  Outside, it was much more like a wedding, with a photographer who took pictures of us. He told us to think of something that tickled our fancies and to flash our pearlies. Paula and Mrs Dibble showered us all with confetti. Paula even stuffed some into my pockets, and poked it down the collar of my new shirt. Angela joined them, gathering it up from the pavement and throwing as much back over herself as she did over the rest of us.