Orchard Street

by Gee, Maurice

  ‘Two moons,’ I whispered.

  ‘Io and Europa, I think. But if my calculations are right Ganymede should be out in about 10 minutes. Do you want to stay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I watched; then he watched; then I watched again.

  ‘Two or three minutes,’ he said.

  But we did not see Ganymede rise. Shouts came from down on Orchard Street: ‘Get the bugger’ and ‘There he goes’, followed by shouts of rage. Mr Redknapp ran a dozen steps towards his house, then realised the sounds were heading down the street towards the turning bay at Collymores’.

  ‘Burglars,’ I said, but I knew who it was. ‘Run, Les,’ I whispered to myself.

  In a moment we saw a torch bobbing towards us through the paddock. Mr Redknapp waited. At the last moment he switched on his torch. He caught Les like a possum in the glare.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Les said, crouching side on.

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘It’s my brother,’ I said.

  Les’s torch, shining back, lit my face.

  ‘Ossie,’ he said. He ran to us. ‘Bike’s after me. Jesus, he’s fast.’

  ‘What are you doing? Burglary?’ Mr Redknapp said.

  ‘Just painting slogans,’ Les panted. (He smoked too many cigarettes.) ‘I’ll lose my job if they catch me.’

  Wires twanged on a fence 30 yards way. Bike’s voice cried, ‘Over here, Dad.’

  ‘Switch your torch off,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  Les obeyed.

  ‘Do they know who you are?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Go back into your place. And take those stupid clothes off. We’ll tell them you went the other way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Les said. ‘Hey, thanks.’

  He sneaked off to the macrocarpa hedge and went through without making a sound. Bike ran up, with his father panting behind.

  ‘Did you see him?’ Bike said, peering hard at me. ‘Dinky, eh?’

  ‘See who?’

  ‘A thug—in a balaclava,’ Mr Pike wheezed. He was so out of breath he had to rest with his hands on his knees. ‘He was—painting a slogan—on my garage door.’

  ‘Someone ran past,’ Mr Redknapp said. ‘He saw us and went up through the convent.’

  ‘Who was he? Did you recognise him?’

  ‘He had his face covered.’

  ‘I ran into the fence or I’d have got him,’ Bike said. ‘I cut my hand.’

  We saw it dripping blood.

  ‘You’d better get a bandage on that,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  ‘Come on, Ian. We can still catch him,’ Mr Pike said.

  ‘No, he’s gone,’ Bike said.

  They argued while Mr Redknapp packed his telescope. ‘I don’t like lies,’ he said softly to me.

  ‘No,’ I said. Soft or not, I heard the unfriendliness in his voice. I hoped it was only for Les.

  ‘No Ganymede tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose we’ve lost him,’ Mr Pike said. ‘But, by God, we gave him a scare. He won’t come near my garage again.’

  ‘You can go home through my place,’ Mr Redknapp said. ‘As long as you’re quiet. My wife’s sleeping. Goodnight, Austin.’

  I said goodnight. The light was on in Les’ army hut. I went in and found him in his pyjamas. The black clothes and the balaclava were kicked under the bed.

  ‘You mucked up my night,’ I said.

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘You went up through the convent.’

  ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘King Kong. He’s got more brains than you.’

  ‘Watch it, Dinky. I can handle you.’

  ‘Like a shadow in the night,’ I sneered.

  ‘I was doing it for Dad.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ I said, and slammed the door as I went out. I walked on the lawn past the house, where Mum and Dad seemed to have heard nothing. I looked at Les’ work from our front gate. He’d finished $id, three feet high, and the vertical arm of the swastika—and had stood in the full glare of the street lamp to get it done.

  King Kong? I thought. He’s Donald Duck.

  Bike and his father crossed the road from the Redknapps’ gate. Mr Pike gave the garage door a kick. Bike saw me and came across.

  ‘I know who it was,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going to tell?’

  ‘I could have caught him, easy. I only pretended to wait for Dad.’

  ‘He’ll lose his job.’

  ‘I won’t tell. Les and me are friends. Sort of.’ Blood still dripped from his torn hand.

  ‘Thanks, Ian.’

  He looked at me sadly. ‘I know you don’t like me. I know everyone laughs.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘She does too.’

  ‘Who? Eileen?’

  ‘But one day she won’t. If I wait long enough.’

  ‘Ian,’ Mr Pike called, ‘get some paint and paint this obscenity out.’

  ‘I know Les is making her do bad things. I’m going to order him to stop. Goodnight, Dinky.’

  I did not wait to see him paint the slogan out. Order Les? Even Mum couldn’t do that. Someone would have to tie him up. And maybe they should tie up Bike as well.

  Chapter 11

  Poetry

  I dreamed of Jupiter that night, and Teresa was somehow the moon that wouldn’t come out. Bike Pike ran and ran, banging into fences. I was burning with a fever in the morning and Mum told me grimly that I had the flu. She blamed Mr Redknapp for keeping me out in the cold. All the same, when he rang up, she wrapped me in a blanket and let me go to the phone.

  ‘Austin,’ Mr Redknapp said, ‘I thought you should know, Mr Worley died last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Was it—you know—easy?’

  ‘Yes. He was unconscious. He never woke up.’

  ‘I liked him,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t beat him at draughts.’

  Mr Redknapp laughed. ‘No one could. The funeral will be in the paper Austin, but I don’t think you should …’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the flu anyway.’

  He wished me a quick recovery and we said goodbye. I went back to bed, where I’m afraid my chief thought was, No more Zane Greys. I would have liked one to read while I was sick. Mum was sadder about him (Mr Worley) than I was. All I could think was, He was old. I was glad that Jimpy had kept him company.

  My flu was not as bad as Teresa’s. She was up on Friday and I on Saturday, but going to the pictures was out of the question. She came along to visit me on Sunday. We found a warm place by the sittingroom windows and held hands when Mum was out of the room. I told her about Les nearly getting caught by Bike Pike. She had heard people running past her window that night but hadn’t been quick enough to see who they were.

  I told her Eileen came to visit Les in the army hut. She already knew. Eileen was so dumb, she said, sneaking out. Only Frank Collymore being half drunk most of the time stopped him from hearing. Mike and Jimmy knew, and had scared her once pretending to be ghosts in the paddock.

  ‘What I can’t work out is why your mum doesn’t know. She seems to have her nose in everything else.’

  ‘She thinks Les is a good boy, only stupid,’ I said.

  ‘She’s right about the second part.’

  ‘That makes two of them,’ I said, a little sharp. ‘They’ll probably have geniuses for kids.’

  The Gestetner started turning under our feet. Mum came in and said, ‘It’s time you went home, Teresa.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, although she didn’t like being ordered out. I told Mum not to be so bossy. I was 14, I said, and could have my friends visiting as long as I liked.

  ‘Hoity-toity,’ Mum said.

  Teresa giggled.

  When she had gone I worked on a limerick I was writing for her:

  A pretty young girl called Teresa

  Had brothers who wanted to tease her,

  But a fellow called Dye
/>   Was a sensible guy

  And spent his time trying to please her.

  That was as close as I ever got. I needed a more heroic role. But I was pleased to have rhymed her name.

  I went back to school on Wednesday, and realised what a final thing dying was when I walked past Mr Worley’s house in the afternoon and saw two men lifting a wardrobe into a furniture van. Mr Redknapp was on the porch. I gave him a wave, half salute, but he didn’t see.

  ‘I stopped and had a talk with him,’ Mum said. ‘Mr Worley’s house is for sale. So’s Mr Redknapp’s. They’re selling up.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Straight away. His furniture will be going on Monday. Apparently she refuses to come back. He’s over there all by himself.’

  Just as I had thought, No more Zane Greys, now I thought, No more astronomy. I would have to buy a telescope of my own.

  On Friday when I came in Mum was on the phone. I heard her say, ‘I wondered if you’d like to have dinner with us tonight?’ ‘Dinner’ instead of ‘tea’ was putting on the side. Her voice had gone high-falutin’ too.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Quiet, Austin.—Yes, seven o’clock. We’ll expect you.’ Seven instead of six was another bit of side. She put down the phone.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Redknapp. Get out your good trousers.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

  ‘When did I ever say that? I don’t like his wife.’

  ‘Where’s she?’

  ‘Having a holiday. As if she needs one.’

  Les came in and changed his clothes and left for the billiard rooms. He told Mum he’d buy fish and chips in town. Normally she would have made a fuss, but not that night. She made Dad and me put on our ties.

  Mr Redknapp knocked at the back door. I think Mum was put out that he chose it instead of the front. He came in wheezing, looking grey. The box he was carrying seemed to make his backbone creak.

  ‘Here, Austin. Mr Worley left you these.’

  We put the box—a butter box—on the sofa. I opened it, thinking, books, Zane Grey. But when I saw the names printed on the spines, and opened one and found the print swarming on the page, I sighed almost as heavily as the box had weighed.

  ‘Dickens,’ I said.

  ‘He said you might like them in a couple of years. He said Zane Grey was kid stuff, you know.’

  I shot a look at Dad. He was a Zane Grey fan, like me.

  ‘Say thank you, Austin,’ Mum said.

  ‘Thank you.’ I lugged the box of Dickens to my bedroom, where I shoved it under the bed. It could stay there forever, as far as I was concerned. (But I’ll say now, that several years later I pulled it out and started reading, and understood the value of Mr Worley’s gift. It was almost as wonderful as Mr Redknapp’s Jupiter.)

  Mum had made a lamb casserole. We sat down after seven, Dad’s stomach rumbling with shock, and Mum said, ‘We don’t say grace. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  ‘We think that enjoying food is thanks enough,’ she said.

  ‘So who are you thanking?’ Mr Redknapp asked. He had a small grin on his face.

  Mum blinked. None of us had ever trapped her as neatly as that. But she was equal to the challenge. ‘The farmers who grow it. And the workmen who bring it home for their families.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  I could see Dad thinking, No religion, please Lil. No politics.

  She said, ‘I don’t see why these church people should push their god in everywhere. I always cross my fingers when they say grace.’

  Mr Redknapp laughed.

  ‘You’re not a churchgoer, are you?’ she said. I don’t think she had meant to have this sort of conversation, but once she was in there was no getting her out.

  ‘Not in a regular way,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  ‘Jesus was a good man, but mistaken,’ Mum said.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘He’d hate all these churches, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.’

  ‘Lil, please,’ Dad said.

  Her head was back and her nostrils flaring. We were terrified of these transformations—of her excitement and her vehemence. Dad had not discovered any way of stopping her.

  ‘I wonder,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  ‘The way they tortured people and burned them at the stake. In the name of someone good. I won’t forgive them that.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Not so long. And what about teaching children hell is real today? Innocent minds. I won’t forgive that either. When no such place exists.’

  ‘Oh, it exists,’ Mr Redknapp said. ‘It’s just not where the preachers say.’

  ‘Aha,’ Mum said.

  ‘But somehow religion doesn’t go with mutton chops.’

  She blinked. Ordinarily she would have been offended—her lamb called mutton. Not tonight.

  ‘I so rarely get the chance to talk,’ she said—which made Dad droop his head. ‘Imagine living over the hedge for 20 years and never discovering what the other person thinks.’

  ‘Wonders never cease,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  Dad coughed. ‘Where are you heading to, Lionel?’ he said.

  ‘Somewhere up north. My wife’s up there already, with friends. We’ll live on a beach. And maybe Winnie will get well.’

  ‘In the sun,’ Mum said.

  ‘I’ll catch fish. And we’ll grow a garden. And grow old.’

  ‘The last of life for which the first was made,’ she said.

  Mr Redknapp smiled at her. ‘I never thought I’d hear Robert Browning in Orchard Street.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Oh, I do.’

  They started quoting poetry, while Dad and I turned our heads like spectators at a tennis match. I realised, with consternation, that she was flirting. Or perhaps she was finding the young woman she had been. I could not look at Dad. It seemed that she might jump up from the table and run away with Mr Redknapp, like Mrs Cooper with the man who came to paint the roof. I had never seen her sparkle like this before.

  After a while, Mr Redknapp asked for a glass of water. He was, I saw, putting a stop to it. And Mum, at the water tap, gave a sigh. She was stopping too, although she smiled, bringing back the glass.

  ‘I never thought of drinks,’ she said. ‘Eddie’s got some beer.’

  ‘Would you like some?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Well, I would,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  Dad got a bottle from the fridge. Then they talked about the strike, and Mum corrected Mr Redknapp sharply: ‘Lockout,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all over. We’ve lost,’ Dad said.

  ‘I’m afraid you have,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  ‘The seamen are back. The miners are back. And Barnes is finished.’

  ‘You can stop printing pamphlets,’ Mr Redknapp said.

  Dad looked at him mildly. ‘Thanks for the tip about the blackout,’ he said.

  We had date roll for pudding. Then we went into the sittingroom and Dad lit the fire. He gave Mr Redknapp a glass of whisky. They talked, all three at first, then more and more the two, about everything under the sun, and it struck me that Mr Redknapp, free from his wife, was also turning into someone he had once been. They started on poetry again, then art and music and Nature (big N), and Mum wasn’t flirting any more, but opening a lid and letting out things she hadn’t known she still possessed. I saw her give a little start of wonder now and then.

  I sat and listened. I don’t know any time when I’ve been so pleased for her, or so sad.

  Mr Redknapp left at half past 10—by the front door, not the back. He wasn’t superstitious, he said. Dad shook hands with him. So did Mum.

  ‘It was nice to meet you at last,’ she said. When the door closed she turned back to the fire. She looked as if she’d just come in, not let someone out.

  ‘Well, Lil?’ Dad said.

  ‘Hello, old boy. How are you?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m all right.’

  She put her hand on his cheek. ‘It’s all right, Eddie. Everything’s all right. Come and help me with the dishes.’

  I went to bed and heard them washing up—heard them laughing after a while. The world seemed to have made a lurch, then settled down. I wondered about those things Mum kept in her head. I was glad that she had brought them out tonight, but saw it was unlikely that she’d get the chance again. It was probably for the best, for our family, for the Dyes, but I wondered what use she would make now, of all those things she knew and cared about.

  Chapter 12

  The raid in Orchard Street

  Life came back to normal in the morning, and stayed normal for an hour or two. I hoped that Dad would want some bets so I could walk along to Collymores’. He hadn’t had the chance to mark his race-book the night before.

  He went down to his hidey-hole after breakfast and we heard him banging around. Mum told us he was tidying up. The wharfies were beaten, the paper said. Common sense had prevailed and evil foreign doctrines had taken an honest British kick in the pants.

  ‘A belt on the head with a baton, more like,’ Mum said. That was a mild response. Although she would not say so, she was relieved that Dad did not have to print illegal leaflets any more.

  ‘I’m off,’ Les said. The billiard rooms opened at 10 o’clock.

  ‘We could do with some digging in the garden,’ Mum said.

  ‘Hey Mum, it’s winter. The garden’s having time off.’

  ‘Well, you could find something to do. Paint the back porch, I wouldn’t mind that. Saw some firewood and help your father.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t live here, I only come to eat,’ Les said. One of his friends tooted a horn at the gate. He lit a cigarette and sloped off.

  Mum sighed. ‘That boy.’

  At 10 o’clock she sent me down to fetch Dad for his morning tea. It was quiet in the printery. He was sitting at the bench writing out his list of bets.

  ‘Take these along, Ossie. Be quick. One of them’s in the first race.’

  I ran along and found the back door open, and Frank Collymore sitting at the table by the phone. His red hair was turning grey around his ears. The bit that flopped in front, over his brow, was yellowed by years of cigarette smoke curling up.

  ‘More nags with lead hooves,’ he said, reading Dad’s list.