by Beezy Marsh
The following Friday it was all arranged. Instead of going home to Howley Terrace after work, Peggy went home with Susan, picking up a fish-and-chip supper on the way. Susan’s house in Clerkenwell was bigger than Peggy’s but was divided, so that there was a family upstairs and Susan’s lived downstairs. They shared the yard and the lavatory, so the neighbours had to walk through their kitchen when they wanted to go. It all seemed cheerful enough, with the kids running up and down the stairs. There were loads of them – Susan was one of four and there were five upstairs. Her mother was a char lady and her dad worked down the docks. He was balding, smoked a pipe and beamed at his eldest daughter with pride as she stood in the living room, twirling around in her new skirt and blouse. ‘Ain’t she pretty?’ When his wife stuck her head around the living-room door, he added, ‘Almost as pretty as you, my angel’ which made everyone laugh.
‘Back by ten,’ he told Susan, pressing some coins into her hand and giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Will you be all right getting home, Peggy?’
‘Yes, I’ll manage,’ she said, hoping the ground wouldn’t swallow her up for fibbing about going out with Susan for the night.
‘I expect your folks will wait up, won’t they?’
‘Well, my dad’s got to be up but I expect my mother will,’ she said, buttoning up her cardigan to disguise her discomfort at telling lies.
They took the bus down into Holborn and hopped off to walk through theatreland at Shaftesbury Avenue. The whole area was alive with surging crowds; women done up to the nines and men all flush with cash, in their best suits and hats, out for a night on the town. The noise and sheer number of people was incredible and Peggy saw more cars nudging their way through the narrow streets in the dark than she had ever seen before in her whole life. It was as if the whole of London had come here to let its hair down on a warm summer’s evening. There were street entertainers busking for pennies and raggedy kids offering to go and buy smokes for a penny or shine shoes.
The Odeon cinema loomed large over Leicester Square and Bert was already queuing for tickets, his hands thrust into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his toes as he waited.
He looked askance when he spotted Peggy and jangled some loose change in his pocket. ‘You’re late and I ain’t paying for both of you.’ His hair was greased back under his trilby and his jacket was done up to make him look smart. He reminded Peggy of her father.
‘It’s all right,’ said Peggy. ‘I’ve just come this far to keep Susan company. I’m off home now.’ She gave Susan a little hug and whispered, ‘Have a great night!’ in her ear.
Susan gave Peggy’s arm a little squeeze. ‘Thanks. Will you be all right getting home?’ She didn’t wait to hear Peggy’s reply because the next second she had turned to give Bert her full attention.
Peggy was suddenly alone. She wasn’t scared, just out of place. She didn’t want to go home too soon because she was supposed to be out with Susan, so she went to a coffee bar and ordered a glass of milk, which she lingered over for an hour. Eventually, she decided to make her way home. As she ambled back over Waterloo Bridge, she couldn’t help wondering what her life would have been like if she had been born on the other side of the water. It was a matter of half a mile or so – a mile into Mayfair. She could have been rich and lived in a big house and had servants; instead she lived in a little terrace by the river, overshadowed by the rattle and hum of the railway. The rich people lived in big houses and had drinks parties; she had to make do with a massive advert for Lemon Hart rum on a hoarding overlooking her street from the Waterloo Road.
Peggy couldn’t wait for Monday morning to come for once. Sundays had become more important to her now she was working, just to get a bit of a rest and see her family, but she was dying to catch up with Susan and find out all about the exciting date night with Bert. But Susan arrived late at work, sporting a black eye and a bruised lip. She scurried over to her desk and kept her head down all morning. Eventually, Peggy caught up with her in the works canteen at lunchtime.
‘Whatever happened to you?’ said Peggy.
‘Walked into a door, didn’t I?’ said Susan with a weak laugh.
Peggy nodded. She’d heard that excuse before. ‘Was the film good?’
‘Not bad,’ said Susan. ‘Look, can we talk about something else? It’s just, I broke up with Bert. I found out he wasn’t everything he said he was.’ She was talking in a whisper now. ‘I can’t talk about it at work in case people overhear. Meet me around the back when we get out and I’ll explain.’
When the bell rang at 5 p.m. to signal the end of their shift, Susan and Peggy scurried outside and around to the side entrance of the building, where they took shelter from the rain in a little doorway.
Peggy had barely asked her what had really happened before Susan crumpled in her arms, sobbing. ‘It was awful, awful.’
The whole sorry saga came flooding out. Bert had only been after one thing and had spent the majority of the film trying to put his hand up her skirt. ‘And he was too tight to even buy me any popcorn, the nasty sod,’ said Susan. ‘I brushed him off but by the time the film was over he said we ought to go for a drink, a proper drink, to relax. Well, I couldn’t very well refuse so we went to the pub and he bought me a port and lemon, which my mum drinks so I thought I could handle that. But it was quite strong and then he bought me another . . .’ She faltered and started to cry. ‘We went outside and he made us go up these little alleyways. I didn’t have a clue where I was by then. And then he . . .’
‘You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much,’ said Peggy, who felt she had heard enough.
‘No, I want to tell you, Peggy. He made me do it and it hurt. We were standing up in the alleyway and I wanted to make him happy, to show him I was not just some young girl but when it came to it, it was scary . . . that thing of his. And it was all this grunting and stuff. It wasn’t a bit like the films. Afterwards he sort of said sorry, he couldn’t help himself because I was so pretty and he walked me home – well, to the next street from mine. But when I got in, my dad was waiting up for me and that is when it all went wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Peggy.
‘Turns out Bert isn’t a widower. He has a wife and kids living in Bermondsey. Someone in the sorting office lives around the corner from my parents and was worried about what Bert was up to so they tipped my dad the wink. Well, of course I never told my dad what happened but he knew I’d lied to him and so he walloped me one and gave me this.’
She touched the bruise around her eye, which was now purple at the edge.
‘I feel such a fool,’ she said.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Peggy. ‘You weren’t to know, were you?’
In some ways it was a relief to know that other people’s fathers belted them too. She couldn’t say that to Susan, of course she couldn’t. But for a moment, she was less alone.
‘We can always go out to the cinema together, you know. I’m sure your dad won’t mind that,’ said Peggy.
Susan started to cry again. ‘Oh, Peg. You are the best friend I have got in the whole wide world. I don’t deserve you, really I don’t.’
Peggy hugged her. It was awful of her to think it, but the fact that Susan had broken up with Bert and had such a rough time of it at home made her feel a bit happier inside. She wasn’t alone any more.
12
Kathleen, October 1934
Kathleen hadn’t sung a note since Billy died last year. Nanny Day did her best to gee her up into a song, tapping her feet around the scullery at Cornwall Road in an enforced show of jollity, humming all the old music hall songs she could think of.
‘The Cake Walk’ was one of Nanny’s favourites, and Old Uncle Dennis got up and joined in as she waved her dishcloth and sang, ‘I know a nice walk, just like the cake walk, come along my honey . . .’ Uncle Dennis rolled up his trouser legs, thrust his jacket back over his shoulders and swaggered forwards, making Kathleen laugh, but still she wouldn�
��t join in, even when his exertions made him cough and splutter.
‘Ooh, cough up, chicken,’ said Nanny Day, slapping him on the back. ‘Why won’t you join in no more, Kathleen? You sing like a little bird.’
‘Don’t fancy it,’ she said, folding her arms and sitting down on Nanny’s favourite rocking chair.
‘Oi!’ said Nanny. ‘Sling yer hook! That’s my seat.’ Even that was done in a jokey way, just to try to make Kathleen laugh, because Nanny didn’t really mind one bit if Kathleen sat there while she went about her chores and she never usually spoke in that gorblimey way, like one of the costermongers from down the road.
Kathleen wanted to speak up, to say something about why she wouldn’t sing any more, but the words got stuck in her throat. How could she tell them that it was all her fault, Billy dying like that? Sometimes she dreamed about him, lying there in his pram, not wanting to get out and walk. In her dreams, she did things differently; she felt his forehead and rushed straight to get the doctor, who gave him some medicine from a big brown bottle and it made him all better. Except, when she woke with the thin light of the day coming through the curtains, Billy was dead and cold in his grave and she hadn’t done enough to save him.
Nobody blamed her, least of all Mary, who asked her to come over and sit with her sometimes, as she pulled the fur from rabbit skins in the scullery. But Kathleen felt, deep down, that Mary would be very angry if she knew the truth. Kathleen had noticed that Mary’s belly was getting bigger and she wondered if she had a secret to tell. Maybe that was why she was happier recently. Even that made Kathleen feel bad, because if another baby came along, Billy would just be forgotten about.
Kathleen had thought about trying to buy some flowers and taking those up to the cemetery, to lay them on his grave, but she didn’t have any money to do that. So she had made an extra special effort to say prayers for Billy in church, where she said her catechism with real fervour, hoping that Jesus was listening. She’d noticed that her big sister Peggy wasn’t so bothered about the church any more. She’d caught her just mouthing the words on more than one occasion. Kathleen thought this was probably what happened when girls left school and went out to work. Her head was probably full of numbers and figures and the like.
Peggy had been extra kind to Kathleen of late. In fact, she was planning to take her to the cinema later, which was a real treat. They were going to go to the Trocadero down at the Elephant. She’d heard all about the Troc, with its carpets so soft you sank into them and its huge Wurlitzer organ, but she couldn’t wait to see it for herself. Peggy and George Harwood had a regular thing going, where they’d go half price on a weekday evening, and see a show every couple of weeks. Kathleen couldn’t resist teasing Peg about that because she wouldn’t admit how much she liked George, who’d left school now and was training to be a mechanic at the bus depot. Dad had murmured his approval: ‘Good job for a young lad.’ He also didn’t mind Peggy going out with George to the cinema, given that George always brought his annoying little brother Harry along with him, so there was no question of any funny business. Kathleen didn’t much care for Harry, who was in the year below her at school. She made a mental note to kick him in the shins if he got on her nerves.
Later that afternoon there was a bit of a traffic jam down at the Elephant, as a tram had derailed and a policeman wearing white gloves had to direct all the cars and carts around it. Peggy waited while Kathleen pulled her socks up for the umpteenth time – it was her most annoying habit, according to her older sister – before she took her hand and walked her across the bustling junction to the Trocadero. George was already waiting outside, his hair neatly brushed and parted. He was wearing long trousers with turn-ups, just like his dad. Kathleen was struck by quite how grown-up he looked – and how handsome. She gave him a shy little wave. His brother, Harry, appeared by his side and stuck his tongue out at Kathleen. She’d pay him back for that later. Boys really were just horrid little worms.
Going into the cinema was an experience in itself. Kathleen really did almost sink into the carpets, they were so thick, and there were mirrors everywhere. Harry pulled funny faces at himself but Kathleen was trying to behave as if she came here every week, to keep up appearances, so she didn’t copy him. Once they had bought their tickets, they were shown to the stalls by an usherette wearing a neat little uniform with a pill-box hat at a jaunty angle, a black jacket with red piping over her blouse, a tight-fitting skirt and smart heels and lipstick. Once inside, Kathleen gazed at the vast balcony behind her, the curved ceiling with chandeliers and gold eagles everywhere. The last time she had seen anything this fancy was in the Italian church. The drapes were chocolate coloured and the ceiling was painted in a soft rose. The whole place was mouth-watering, good enough to eat.
Kathleen quite forgot to dislike Harry in the excitement of it all and started to chat to him about school until the lights went down and an usherette told her to shush. She obeyed immediately. There was no way she wanted to get chucked out. This was heaven. The main picture was called The Prince of Arcadia but first they had to sit through a newsreel. Kathleen thought this was about as exciting as watching paint dry but Peggy and George sat with looks of rapt attention etched on their faces. It was mostly to do with Germany. There were soldiers marching everywhere and piles of books on fire.
‘Nazis,’ whispered George to Kathleen. ‘That funny little fella with the moustache is Hitler, their leader. My dad says he looks like Charlie Chaplin but without the laughs.’ The usherette shone a light over at George and motioned for him to button his lip.
When the newsreel finished, the curtains came down over the screen and a huge white Wurlitzer organ rose up from just in front of the stage. Kathleen watched as the organist’s hands flew up and down the keyboard, the sound filling the whole cinema. He swayed a bit in his seat as he played and when he got to a loud bit, his whole body seemed to quake. When it was finished, he turned and gave an appreciative wave to the audience, who clapped loudly. Kathleen imagined herself playing that organ. Maybe she could, one day, if she practised really hard at school but she’d have to fit it in around her acting job as well. As the Wurlitzer sank beneath the stage, the usherette made another appearance at the foot of the stairs, with a tray around her neck and little cartons of popcorn in it.
George made a great show of pulling some coins out of his pocket to pay for two cartons – one for him and Peggy and one for his brother and Kathleen. Kathleen didn’t really want to get too close to Harry while they were eating it. He was known as Nitty for a reason.
The main film had lots of singing in it, which Kathleen liked, and the story was about a prince from a country called Ruritania, who was supposed to marry a wealthy actress but fell in love with someone else instead, even though she was quite poor. While Kathleen agonized over whether he was going to make the right choice, Peggy and George seemed to be more interested in whispering and giggling together. What’s more, Kathleen noticed that when the lights went up at the end of the film, George was holding Peggy’s hand.
‘Shall we stop off for sarsaparilla on the way home?’ asked George, casually putting his arm around Peggy’s shoulder. Kathleen smirked as she realized that Peggy hadn’t brushed it away. Her sister used to tower over George but now he had caught up with her. They did make a nice couple, if only Peggy would admit to it.
They wandered down the Cut in a little gang, past an accordion player with a sign saying ‘No Home, No Dole’ around his neck. A couple of down-and-outs were sitting on upturned crates selling little bags of tobacco for roll-ups. Everyone knew they had picked it out of the fag butts on street corners but it was all they could do to scrape a living.
‘What did you think of the film, George?’ said Peggy.
‘It was all right, I s’pose,’ he said. ‘Bit mushy romantic for me. More the sort of thing that you and Kathleen would enjoy, I bet.’
Peggy nudged him in the ribs and Kathleen rolled her eyes at him. She preferred to tag along wit
h Peggy and George, at the risk of feeling like a gooseberry, because Harry was really such a grubby little oik. He was kicking an empty bottle along in the gutter in front of them, making a bit of a nuisance of himself, as boys do.
They passed a second-hand clothes stall. Women were sifting through old dresses and skirts, holding them up and checking whether it was worth spending their hard-earned cash to remodel them into something more fashionable. Many a summer frock in their house had started life on someone else’s back, but their mother always told them, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Besides, there was nothing wrong with it; once the material had been washed, scrubbed and ironed, it was as good as new.
The man at the sarsaparilla stall was selling it hot, by the pint, mixed with blackcurrant. Kathleen slurped the hot black liquid and felt it warming her from the inside, listening to the sound of the accordion. Harry started tapping his feet.
‘Why don’t you give us a turn, Kathleen?’ said Peggy. Kathleen shook her head. There was so much music, she felt sad not to be joining in like she used to but, as part of her private mourning for little Billy, it had now become a mark of respect to refrain.
When they got back to Howley Terrace there was a big commotion at the top end of the street where there was a patch of waste-ground much loved by the kids for larking about, but which also served as an unofficial boxing ring when scores needed to be settled with fists. The parents didn’t like the kids going anywhere near it but of course, if there was a fight on, everyone got to hear about it. The local bookies would meander over from the pub and start taking bets – pennies, really, especially if it was kids. Peggy usually couldn’t be persuaded to go down there at all but because George wanted to see, she went along reluctantly. Kathleen and Harry had already pushed their way to the front of the crowd. To the girls’ horror there they saw their little brother, Frankie, in the middle, pummelling a huge kid to the ground, while Eva collected pennies for it.
