Paradise Court

by Jenny Oldfield

  Maurice thanked him and went quickly out. He smiled and lifted his hat to Jess in the hallway, ready to hold the door for her to slip out on her last errand of the day.

  She dipped her head and thanked him before picking up her skirts and sailing off. Maurice watched her go, half absent, half appreciative. Then he went straight off down the court to knock at Dolly Ogden’s door.

  It was a godsend. He was a clean young man with a proper job. His manners were perfect. Dolly went into raptures over her new lodger. He’d gone up and looked the room over, and decided there and then that he’d take it. Charlie would have to move his things out double quick to make room for Mr Leigh, and never mind pulling a face about it. Needs must. She bustled about in high excitement, threatening to dust and polish Arthur unless he moved himself out of the way. ‘His rent’s set at seven and sixpence and he seems quite happy,’ she told him. She knew how persuasive the sound of money coming in was to her husband. ‘Amy’s our looking for work this minute, poor girl, and Charlie boy himself should be earning before the next twelve months is up. By then I’ll have got myself another job and all.’ Her calculations put her into good heart. ‘So just you behave yourself, Arthur. With a bit of luck well pull through this bad patch.’

  Charlie cleared the set of drawers in his attic room, and swept his school books from the little work-table into an orange-box. He was furious. The indignity of sleeping in Amy’s room, with an old curtain slung across the middle for privacy caused a burning sensation in his throat, but he bit back the words of angry protest and followed his mother’s instructions. What could he do? At least until he finished school, he must live here under her terms and conditions. As he stacked his books on the window ledge in Amy’s room, he stored up the confidences he would share with Sadie during their precious bike ride next day; his feelings of being born in the wrong place at the wrong rime, prince by nature, pauper by birth. It didn’t make him feel any better when Maurice Leigh returned with his two suitcases, dumped them in Charlie’s room, took his hat off to Amy and started to flatter her shallow vanity with his polite attention.

  ‘Ain’t I seen you before?’ Maurice asked, curiosity roused. He recognized her soft features and fair colouring, probably on the arm of someone he knew. He racked his brains.

  Amy blushed. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Leigh.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it. At the Empire, a few weeks back!’ Maurice saw being polite to the landlady’s daughter as a price he had to pay for cheap lodging near to his place of work.

  By now Amy was brick red and beginning to chew the corner of her lip. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘With Teddy Cooper, wasn’t it?’ His memory for faces was sharp. He rarely got it wrong.

  ‘No!’ Amy couldn’t bear to be reminded of the worst mistake in her life. Neither did she want her mother to know that Teddy Cooper had since been in touch with a mixture of threats and promises. ‘If you keep quiet,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you find a new job. If you go gabbing to the police, I’ll tell them you made it all up and demand your proof.’ Unwisely, she’d accepted a present of ten shillings to tide her over. She regretted it at the time, but told herself that Teddy could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. And in a way she was pulling one over on him, she thought, since he’d absolutely no idea that her ma now had no intention of going to the police. Perhaps she could string him along for a few more weeks and make something out of the whole sorry business. Amy was a dangerous mixture of naïvety and manipulativeness, bound together by the glue of dishonesty. So, ‘No!’ she said to Maurice Leigh, recognizing him at once as the young under manager at the Balham Empire. ‘We never met!’

  Maurice merely nodded, and after a little more small-talk he went up to his new room. The sun had gone down over the slate roofs of Paradise Court, and deep shadows filled the alleyways. A narrow dormer window gave a bird’s eye view of the place. From here you could squint down and see the kids playing at pitch and toss, hear the clang and clatter of their metal horseshoes. The women stood at their doors and gossiped as their men came home from the match. A street like any other.

  Part Two

  Long Shadows

  Chapter Twelve

  Robert had given the first match of the season a miss that afternoon for the sake of a good work-out with Walter down at Milo’s gym. It was September. News of the brave boys out in France filtered through, but, for Rob, life went on much as before.

  Football was only the second love in his life to boxing, a sport in which his sturdy physique gave him a good advantage over many of the scrawnier, less athletic East-Enders. Whether it was taking swings at the huge leather punch-bags, lifting weights, or sparring in the ring, Robert seemed to excel. His balance was good, the co-ordination between eye, hand and feet very precise. He took pride in his reputation as one of the best young boxers in the neighbourhood. So far, none of his opponents had been able to mark or mar his handsome dark features.

  He stood now at the ringside, towel slung around his neck, watching Walter train against one of the merchant seamen who came off the docks to lodgings in Southwark; a Norwegian, with limbs as strong and solid as the pine trees of his native country. Walter stood up to him though, and the thud of padded leather against muscle went on apace. Robert observed the technique of the two men, looking for pointers to pass on to Walter when the bout was over.

  He felt rather than saw a presence behind him. Something warned him not to look round; this wasn’t a friendly arrival. It was only when the sneering remarks began, under the breath and hostile, that he gave way to provocation and looked round.

  ‘Bleeding cart-horses, both of them. Too slow to catch cold,’ came the first comment.

  In the ring, Walter hesitated mid-stride, while the Norwegian, oblivious to the insult, swung a hefty right to his head. Sweat sprayed over the canvas, the hostile onlookers guffawed.

  Robert, who’d felt the sweat cool on his own skin after his training bout, now fell himself heat up again. He’d recognized Chalky White’s scoffing tone. His jaw muscles jumped. Chalky was difficult to ignore, but retaliation was unwise. The pair in the ring side-stepped and swiped at one another, evenly matched.

  ‘You put my old lady up in there and she’d knock ‘em both dead in ten seconds flat,’ Chalky pressed on.

  Against his better judgement, Robert spun round. ‘Know what,’ he said to Chalky loud and clear, ‘you got a mouth on you as big as a bleeding railway tunnel, you have, and I’m gonna close it for you if you don’t watch out!’

  The punch-bags all around the gym fell silent, weights sagged to the floor. Men stopped their training to listen. Only the ones in the ring continued their bout, Walter still having to defend himself hotly against the foreigner.

  The smile never wavered on Chalky’s mouth. He felt big and confident in front of his mares. Robert Parsons was a cocky lad with a pea-sized brain and a bad temper to match; just the sort he liked to wind up. ‘You and whose army?’ He grinned. Syd and Whitey Lewis were there to back him up if necessary.

  ‘Me and nobody’s army!’ Robert turned and motioned to Walter and the big Norwegian to stop their bout. ‘But we’ll have this out here and now,’ he challenged. ‘You been wanting to have a go at me, Chalky, and now’s your chance.’ He hopped into the ring while Walter explained the tense situation to the sailor. They withdrew to the floor, breathing hard. ‘C’mon, what you waiting for?’ Robert insisted. ‘Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is.’

  Chalky White had a code of his own, as Robert well knew, and it was a point of honour not to lose face in front of his mates. He was taller than Robert, with a longer reach. Though he’d not expected the hot-headed publican’s son to jump the gun like this, and if anything had planned a dark meeting with him down a side alley late at night, he calculated he could probably step into the ring with him and settle things now. The kid was getting on his nerves, the way he bristled up and stared in undisguised loathing. Well, Chalky would teach him a public les
son. Slowly, and with great bravado, he climbed into the ring.

  They began circling each other with raised fists. Daylight poured into the gym through long windows, casting dramatic strips of light and shade across the room. Dust motes whirled in upward blasts of air as each man danced and began to place his shot. All was silent, except for their hard breathing and the scuff of their shoes on the sprung boards.

  Even to the hard-bitten men and boys of Milo’s gym, there was tension in the air. With their short-cropped hair, bull necks and calloused hands, they gathered to watch Robert Parsons spar with Chalky White. As they saw it, there wasn’t much in it for the victor; no glory or reward, but there was a lot to lose. This was a needle match and respect was at stake. Whoever ended up on the canvas was a man without his reputation. The spectators looked on with sharpened appetite, as Robert moved in under Chalky’s guard and landed two or three heavy blows.

  Chalky staggered as he took the punches to his ribcage, and saw the look of concentrated anger in Robert’s eyes. He pushed him off and recovered his guard; upright, backing off, ready to side-step.

  From Robert’s angle Chalky didn’t look so clever now. His reach meant nothing if the punch behind it lacked force, and Robert’s own well-coordinated movement was backed by real muscle. He wouldn’t jab to the face, but he would swing more upper-cuts to the body and jaw. That way he was sure he had his man. His eyes levelled on the target and he moved in, ducking, weaving to the left and right, displaying his skill.

  In the end they had to pull him off. He’d backed his opponent into a corner and hammered blows on him until he slumped, a dead weight at his feet. Milo moved in swiftly with a bucket of cold water and sharp orders to Robert to back off. Walter Davidson rushed into the ring and seized him under the arms from behind, while Syd and Whitey moved in to rescue their leader. For several seconds Chalky was dead to the world, then the icy rush of water revived him. His head jerked, his eyes opened in time to see the back-slapping crowd follow Robert towards the changing room.

  ‘What got into you?’ Walter urged, as they stripped, towelled and climbed into their clothes. ‘Ain’t you got eyes in your head? Your man was already down, for gawd’s sake! Why go that far?’

  Robert nodded, only now returning fully to his senses. ‘He had it coming to him,’ he said, buckling his belt and reaching for his cap.

  ‘That’s all well and good, but Chalky White ain’t the right man to pick a quarrel with.’ Walter had to run alongside Robert to keep up as he swung through the door out into the street.

  ‘I didn’t; he did.’

  ‘But did you have to beat his brains out?’ Walter caught his friend by the arm. ‘This ain’t the end of it, you know. From now on, Chalky’s got you down as a marked man. Ain’t no way he’ll live down a thrashing like that without getting his own back, and some more!’

  Robert pulled himself free. He walked on savagely into the subsiding evening traffic. ‘Think I don’t know that?’ Without waiting at the kerb, he nipped smartly between cabs and trams, caught up in their roar. ‘Anyhow, it don’t make no difference to me now.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Robert glanced sideways. He’d got himself into a tight corner over Chalky, all right. The man’s pride had taken a bad battering. ‘I ain’t planning on hanging around waiting for Chalky to get even,’ he said.

  They entered the railway arch at the top of Duke Street, their footsteps echoing, its damp stench filling their nostrils. They emerged into the setting sun. ‘I’m thinking of joining up, Walt,’ he said in casual, throwaway style.

  Walter stopped short in sudden, stunned silence.

  ‘What you looking at me like that for?’

  ‘This is the first I ever heard of it, Rob!’

  ‘So? I don’t have to tell you every bleeding thing, do I?’ He bridled at the shock which registered on his friend’s face. ‘There’s a war on, Walt, in case you hadn’t heard!’ He reached into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pulled it out and lit one in the shelter of the railway arch. Flicking the spent match into the gutter, he hunched his shoulders and strode off.

  This was the first time Robert had broken the news to anyone. The war was less than a month old, but already the post-boxes sported posters inviting men to enlist. Queues were a familiar sight around the Town Hall; hundreds of smiling feces clutched papers and crowded in on the impromptu recruiting office. Hope was high that the Schlieffen Plan would be defeated by Christmas and the enemy attack on Paris would be over. Robert himself was sick of queuing for work or hanging around the pub until something better came along. Though he’d warned his father he wouldn’t be rushing to risk his neck for king and country if the war broke out, he didn’t see any real danger in joining up now and being treated as a war hero when he came back. At least it would get him off Chalky White’s turf for a time. That was it; if there was a deciding factor, it was the need to take the heat out of the rash row with Chalky and his gang.

  In the meantime, he’d jolly them up at home by taking Ernie off on one last trip to the Palace. That should be harmless enough, as long as he kept a weather eye out. He was pretty certain Chalky’s cuts and bruises wouldn’t allow him to venture far that evening. With a bit of luck, Robert would have himself enlisted, assigned to a regiment and be gone within the week.

  ‘What if Joxer don’t turn up?’ Duke grumbled his objection to Robert’s plan to take Ernie to the Palace. Rob had put in time setting full barrels on the gantry and adjusting half-empty ones on their wooden chocks, but the old man didn’t like being left without extra pairs of hands on a Saturday night. He wasn’t sure he approved of Ernie’s more frequent nights out to the music hall either. He twitched his moustache and scowled at Robert.

  ‘Get one of the girls to lend a hand,’ came the flippant reply. Robert knew Duke didn’t like to get them involved in the serious Saturday night drinking. ‘Get Frances. She won’t mind.’ He winked, but the joke went down badly. His father and his strait-laced sister were still at odds, with Frances often on her high horse and Duke sulking. ‘Anyhow, Joxer’ll be here, you wait,’

  Good-hearted Jess came down when she realized, and gave the bar top a quick polish, while Sadie sorted out a clean collar for Ernie and spruced him up for his night out. Jess was still in the bar when the Ogdens’ new lodger called in on his way to work, smart and clean-cut as before. He was grateful to Duke for the recommendation, he said. Things had worked out well.

  He stayed to chat for a little longer than he’d intended, drawn by Jess’s quiet ease. He learned some details of his new neighbourhood from her and explained his job. She listened carefully and asked how they made the voices fit the pictures on screen in the new talkies. ‘I read about them, but I ain’t seen them yet.’ It seemed miraculous to her.

  Maurice caught her genuine interest and waxed enthusiastic about the new Chronophone method. It was early days and not much in demand yet, but he was sure it was the up-and-coming thing to have sound in the cinema. ‘I want the Gem to be the first picture house round here to have it. They’d queue up by the hundred and pay to see that,’ he said. ‘It looks really and truly like the words are coming from their mouths, only it’s a gramophone record played through loudspeakers. They synchronize it with the feces. Clever, ain’t it?’ He was proud of the word, ‘synchronize’, and told Jess she should come along to his new cinema. He’d look after her, see to it she got good seats and everything. ‘Bring a girl friend with you,’ he said. ‘Tell them at the desk that you know the manager.’

  Jess blushed. ‘I don’t know. I got a lot on here.’ Duke had come up from the cellar with Joxer, who’d recently arrived.

  So Maurice was put off his stride and backed off. He downed his pint and left the pub. She thought he was too brash and pushy, he reflected as he swung out through the decorated doors. Pity; there was something about her that caught his eye. Something different to the flighty, flirty shop and factory girls like Amy Ogden, he thought with a grimace. The w
oman behind the bar was an ocean to Amy’s paddling pool when it came to depth of character.

  Being a determined sort, he planned his next move as he strode up Duke Street, crossed into St Thomas Street and between the mock-classical pillars of the Southwark Gem.

  With Joxer installed behind the bar like some monumental carved beast, his features set in habitual glum expression, Jess went upstairs, the rhythm of her own evening fixed around her baby’s pattern of sleeping and waking. She saw Robert and Ernie off and gathered with her sisters by the open window to watch them down the street. Frances had one of her meetings and left soon after. Then Sadie vanished off to Maudie’s house. The room settled into its evening calm.

  The hum of noise from the pub below kept Jess company in her dainty stitching as she sewed Annie Wiggin’s lace into the smock she was making for Grace. At the back of her mind she planned how she might bring in some money to support herself and her baby by advertising on the board in the Henshaws’ shop as a seamstress and invisible mender. She could do alterations to women’s costumes, let out growing boys’ jackets. Better than taking in washing, she thought, and it was a solid notion based on the fact that so many-women were now out at work themselves. They had no time for complicated sewing work when they got home at night. Excited by her idea, she sat through the evening in peace and quiet.

  Raucous shouts and thunderous applause echoed through the ornate balconies at the Palace. It was a full house, as if war talk, which depressed people in their workaday world, sent them scurrying all the faster to the easy glamour and excitement of the music hall, set on enjoyment and forget-fulness. Despite their confidence in victory and the wave of patriotic fervour that had greeted the declaration, it was a sobering experience to see sons and husbands trickle off from Victoria Station, hanging out of the carriage windows in their khaki uniforms, waving their caps. Laughter, song and dance was a refuge from that, so the audience roared at Archie Small’s broad humour and they ogled the white limbs and bosoms of the chorus girls under the artificial glare.