‘He was and looking grand but he’s gone back now,’ said Queenie. ‘And Mattie and Cathy are still fighting like pixies in a cage.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, now, is it?’
‘I suppose not, given all and everything that’s between them,’ Queenie agreed. ‘But now Jo and Mattie are at odds about something too.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I suppose that’s the way of it with a houseful of girls, Father.’
‘You speak the very truth there, Queenie, you do,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember a time as a boy when one of my five sisters hadn’t fallen out with one of the others.’
He paused then asked, ‘Has Mattie heard from Daniel?’
‘Not since she had a postcard last month from his commander,’ said Queenie.
‘Praise the saints,’ said the old priest. ‘He’s in my every prayer. What about that son of yours?’
A warm glow spread through Queenie. ‘Sure, he’s the joy of old years and so like his father it makes my heart swell each time my eyes rest on him.’
Father Mahon chuckled. ‘You know, it must be a wife’s eyes because, try as I might, I can see nothing of your Fergus in him.’
Queenie said nothing.
The clock in the tower above them chimed.
‘Three thirty,’ said Father Mahon. ‘Mrs Dunn will be serving tea. It’s seedy cake this afternoon, I believe.’
‘Well, you be sure and eat it,’ said Queenie.
He smiled at her, then turned and headed for the vestry.
As she watched the hem of his cassock skimming over the tiles of the nave a fond smile lifted Queenie’s lips. She’d first laid eyes on him when sitting at her mother’s side in St John the Baptist’s in Kinsale. She was no more than four years old and he was one of the altar boys serving in the sanctuary.
He’d grown into a lanky youth with a full head of springy black hair, just like Jerimiah’s, and a good head taller than her, but time had taken its toll so now she only had to raise her head a notch to look into Patrick’s eyes. His lovely coal-black eyes that warmed her heart even now.
Chapter Seventeen
JABBING FORWARD, TOMMY’S right-hand fist landed squarely in the middle of the punchbag then dancing back he did the same with his left, sending the leather cylinder rocking on its anchor ropes.
‘Cor, I’m glad that ain’t my jaw,’ said a voice behind him.
Relaxing his stance, Tommy grabbed the punchbag in his gloved hands to stop its motion and grinned at Ruben ‘Vitch’ Marcovitch, standing behind it.
It was late afternoon on the Monday after he’d called at Jo’s house and then dashed to the canteen to see her. The blackout had been in force since three o’clock but this didn’t bother those running Arbour Amateur Boxing Club as they’d boarded up the windows at the outbreak of war.
No doubt the Luftwaffe would be dropping by soon to pay their nightly call but until the sirens went off, members of the boxing club were whiling away the time by jabbing at punchbags or improving their footwork by skipping in front of long mirrors. In the central ring, a couple of spindly lads sparred together while Spud Murphy, the club’s youth coach, hung over the ropes and bellowed instructions.
Behind him, in pride of place on the wall, was the glass-fronted cabinet displaying the various cups and title belts won by the Arbour Boys. There were a couple of Tommy’s trophies in amongst them from his time in the boys’ team.
Reggie had brought him here some ten years before to ‘toughen him up’ and the deco, if that’s what you could call the mud-coloured walls and peeling paint, was much the same as it had been when he’d first stepped into the central ring.
Barely reaching Tommy’s shoulder, with arms and legs like twisted pipe cleaners and a nose so broken it had practically merged with his cheekbones, Vitch had been a fixture in the boxing club for as long as Tommy could remember. He had a flat above a baker’s in Middlesex Street but he clearly only slept there because he could be found at the boxing club from dawn to dusk seven days a week.
Vitch waddled away and, thumping his gloves together, Tommy tucked his head in and flexed his arms. Focusing on the band around the cylindrical punchbag, situated roughly where an opponent’s head would be, he smacked his right fist into the centre. Enjoying the blow as it reverberated down his arm, Tommy clouted it with a left hook and followed up with a sidecut, sending the horsehair-padded leather tube bouncing back and forth.
He had said that he’d drop by the Admiral before going on duty, but Reggie’s lover boy jokes were beginning to wear a bit thin plus he suspected his brother was encouraging Lou as she didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer.
‘By the way you lay into that bag I’d say you’re right riled at some poor soul.’
Tommy looked up to see Jerimiah Brogan standing behind him.
Although he was wearing his Home Guard uniform, instead of a standard service cap, Jo’s father had a leather cap set backwards on his head. Round his throat was a red Kingman neckerchief and instead of the army-issue belt his trousers were held up by a black leather two-inch strap secured by an ornate polished buckle and looped back on itself. With a mass of curly black hair and weather-beaten unshaved complexion, he looked more like a partisan bandit come down from the hills than a man who gathered household cast-offs for a living.
Tommy knew Jo’s father by sight but he had never had occasion to speak to him. However, like everyone else in the area, he knew the big-boned Irishman’s reputation.
‘Mr Brogan,’ said Tommy, having to raise his head to look him in the eye.
‘You’ve got quite a punch on you there, boy, and your foot work’s good.’ He gave Tommy a sneering look. ‘I expect it stood you in good stead when you were in borstal.’
‘Once or twice,’ said Tommy.
Strolling over, Jerimiah caught the swinging punchbag. ‘I used to be one for the boxing myself in my younger years,’ he said, gazing fondly up at the battered punchbag between his ape-like hands.
‘Were you?’
Jo’s father pressed his oft-broken nose to one side. ‘Sure, doesn’t me twisted snout testify to it?’
Tommy didn’t reply.
Patting the tatty leather cylinder, Jerimiah shifted his attention to Tommy.
‘Father Gillespie who was at St B and B when I was a lad had been the County Mayo junior champion before he was called to the priesthood.’ The big Irishman brought his fists up. ‘Taught me the old one-two, he did.’
He jabbed his fists but Tommy didn’t flinch as the air from the move brushed past his face.
‘I tell you, boy,’ continued Jerimiah, ‘there wasn’t one of us lads who didn’t have a bloody nose after sparring with that old bugger but it taught me to keep my guard up.’
‘I’ve learned much the same,’ said Tommy.
Jerimiah regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment then spoke again. ‘Me ma tells me you popped by home a few days back, enquiring after my Jo.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Tommy, holding the other man’s gaze. ‘She was blown off her feet the Saturday before last and as I hadn’t seen her I was afraid she might have taken a turn for the worse.’
The big Irishman gave him an ingenuous smile. ‘That’s very kind of you, boy, but me darling girl’s fine as she ever was.’
‘I know,’ said Tommy. ‘She told me as much when we spoke in the Town Hall canteen later that day.’
Jerimiah’s jovial expression slipped a little. ‘Talk to her a lot, do you?’
‘In passing at Post 7.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Jerimiah. ‘I heard the Sweete brothers were doing their bit for the war effort.’
‘Just helping out.’
‘Helping themselves to things that don’t belong to them, don’t you mean?’ Jerimiah replied.
Tommy’s mouth pulled into a hard line. ‘That is a lie.’
‘Don’t try and play the innocent,’ said Jerimiah, all trace of civility gone from his face. ‘Everyone knows what the Sweete boys are.’
>
‘And what would that be, then?’ snapped Tommy, holding tight to his rising temper.
‘Thieves.’ Taking a step forward, Jo’s father thrust his face into Tommy’s. ‘In fact, by all accounts, you and your brother are worse than thieves: you’re looters. So I’m giving you fair warning, boy.’ He jabbed his index finger in Tommy’s face. ‘Stay away from Jo or I’ll break every fecking bone in your body.’
They stood eyeball to eyeball, nose to nose for a moment then, with a lightning move, Jerimiah punched past Tommy’s right ear and set the bag behind him crashing into the wall.
He poked his finger at Tommy again. ‘Every fecking bone.’
Leaving the scruffy leather cylinder bouncing on its chain, Jo’s father turned and marched out of the hall.
Tommy watched the man he hoped one day would be his father-in-law storm out between opened-mouthed club members. A feeling of hopelessness started to wash over him but he pushed it away. Shoving his hands back in his gloves and using his teeth to tighten the laces, he turned back to the punchbag Jerimiah had sent reeling and, with fury raging in his chest, smacked his fist into it.
‘There you are, Mum, tea and cake,’ said Jo, setting it in front of her mother who was wearing her newly acquired green WVS coat and felt beret.
‘Thanks, luv, I’m gasping,’ Ida said as Jo squeezed herself into the chair opposite. Kate’s Café, which sat in the middle of a line of shops just down from St George’s Church in the Highway, was packed.
It was Saturday and she had been on duty until five when a thick fog rolled up the Thames and cut short the Luftwaffe’s visit.
If the clock behind the counter was to be believed, it was a quarter past three and the blackout curtains on the windows and front door were already drawn. What with that and the low-power light bulbs, the café’s interior had an Olde Worlde feel about it.
A year ago, the ancient eating house that had fed dock labourers and the local population for over a century would have closed at midday, as it always had, after the rush of morning shoppers. However, since the introduction of rationing, it took the best part of the day just to find your basic necessities. One greengrocer might have potatoes but no carrots, so you’d have to go to another shop for those and possibly another for a cabbage. Having tracked down whatever it was you were after, you then had to queue with your fingers crossed they wouldn’t all sell out before you got to the front.
The result of all this searching and queueing was that the weekly family shop that used to be finished by late morning could take well into the afternoon and so Kate’s Café stayed open longer so that weary shoppers could still have their cup of tea and slice of cake before heading home.
‘Are we done?’ asked Jo, taking her slice of cake from the plate.
‘I think so, but I was up and down this market three times this morning before I got everything on me list.’ Ida took a slurp of her tea. ‘Queue for this and queue for that, it’s a bloody disgrace, that’s what it is. I spent half an hour lining up for a measly bar of carbolic then spent another forty minutes in Sainsbury’s but when I got to be served they’d run out of bacon so I had to take spam instead. God only knows what your father will say when I dish that up with his fried bread for breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Did you speak to the butcher about Christmas?’ Jo asked, cupping her hands around her drink and enjoying the warmth.
‘I did,’ her mother replied. ‘He said he couldn’t promise but if there was a bullock’s heart going he’d put it by for me. I managed to get a shin of beef while I was there for tomorrow’s dinner. Hopefully, there’ll be a bit of fat on it. That leg of lamb last week was all string and bone even though it cost a blooming fortune. I reckon the Ministry of Food’s sending all the best cuts up West for the nobs to nosh on and leaving the leftovers for our butchers.’
Jo winked. ‘Perhaps Gran will “find” something for Christmas dinner.’
‘Well, if she does, let’s hope it’s big enough to feed ten of us because Stella’s joining us this year and Cathy’s bringing that miserable mother-in-law of hers,’ said Ida. ‘It’s lucky we had a blow-out last Christmas as the way things are going there’s going to be very little in the shops by way of treats. Even with saving everyone’s sugar rations there’ll be no icing on the cake and no mince pies if I don’t get hold of some dried fruit soon. Still, never mind, as long as we’re all fit and well.’ Her mother sighed and took a bite of her cake. ‘It was good of you to come and find me in the market to give me a hand home. What time did you get up?’
‘Just after one,’ said Jo.
‘Did Mattie get up with you?’
Jo shook her head. ‘She was still fast asleep when I left.’
Her mother tutted. ‘It’s not right her running about the street in her condition.’ She gave Jo a sharp look. ‘And I wish you and her would sort out whatever it is you’re at odds about.’
Jo didn’t reply.
The woman behind her got up and Ida shifted her chair forward to let her get out.
‘I wonder if her husband will get leave to join us for Christmas?’ Jo said, taking a sip of her drink.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ her mother replied.
‘Not even with the baby—’
‘Will you just check the butter isn’t too close to the soap, luv,’ Ida cut in. ‘I don’t want to taste carbolic on me toast all week.’
Jo bent down and delved into her mother’s shopping bag.
She’d been dying to ask Mattie about her husband but as no one in the family talked about him, not even Mattie, something had held her back. Thank goodness she had, with her in the family way. After all a shock could bring on the baby and as much as she would never speak to Mattie ever again she wouldn’t want to do anything to damage her baby. She’d had her suspicion after what Cathy said or more precisely didn’t say. Gran clammed up like a miser’s fist around a coin every time the subject of Mattie’s husband came up and Mum, who you could usually wheedle a secret out of eventually, was saying nothing. However, Jo could put two and two together and it was as plain as the nose on your face that this McCarthy chap who had got Mattie in the family way was one of the fascists Cathy’s other half had got mixed up with. Either he was serving his sentence in the army like Stan or he was one of the ringleaders and had been hanged, which would explain why his aunt was the one keeping in touch with Mattie.
No wonder no one mentioned him for fear of upsetting Mattie and bringing the baby on too early.
As she straightened up something caught her mother’s eye and she tutted. ‘Disgraceful.’
Jo followed her mother’s gaze and saw a woman leaning unsteadily against the wall outside the Three Feathers on the other side of the road. Her checked box-shoulder jacket hung off one shoulder revealing a grubby blouse beneath and although she was wearing a brown hat it sat precariously on the side of her head. The woman was about her mother’s age but whereas Ida had a rosy, matronly appearance, this woman, wobbling about on her downtrodden kitten heels, looked sallow and gaunt.
‘Who is it?’ asked Jo.
‘Ruby Sweete,’ Ida replied.
Jo looked across the busy road at Tommy’s mother as Ruby took out her compact and attempted to powder her nose.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before,’ said Jo.
‘It’s hardly surprising,’ said Ida sourly. ‘She’s propping up the bar in the Angel most of the time. It’s no surprise either that those boys of hers turned out as they did with her for a mother. It was only because Mary Wright, their gran, took Ruby and the boys to live with her when her old man hopped it that they didn’t end up in Barnardo’s. Although perhaps they’d have been better off. She was a good ’un was Mary Wright, fed and clothed them. Grafter too. It must have broken her ’eart to see how her daughter turned out. She died Christmas twenty-eight, leaving the two boys to more or less fend for themselves,’ her mother continued as Ruby’s handbag slid off her arm. ‘No one round here would see a kid go hung
ry so mothers gave the boys a hot meal each day but most families were already squashed in one or two rooms so couldn’t take them in. Reggie had left school by then anyway so he brought a bit of money home but it wasn’t long before both boys were up in front of the magistrate for pinching stuff.’
‘Is it any wonder?’ said Jo.
Her mother gave her a sharp look. ‘Right is right and wrong is wrong and both of them know better now.’
The bell above the shop door tinkled as another customer came in.
‘Oh, oh, Ida!’
Jo’s mother looked around. ‘’Ello, Lil, your May had her baby yet?’
‘Yes, last night,’ Lil called back. ‘Six-pound-three.’
Her mother got up. ‘Watch the bags, luv, I won’t be a minute.’
Leaving Jo drinking the last of her tea, and with the shopping stacked on the floor around her, Ida hurried over to hear all about her friend’s new grandchild.
Resting her elbows on the table and cradling her cup in both hands, Jo looked back through the window at Ruby Sweete, who had dropped her handbag on the pavement.
Although she’d never met his mother, from the way Tommy talked about her, Jo knew that he did his best to care for her, which judging by her inebriated and dishevelled state was a thankless task. Tommy never said much about his upbringing but it was noticeable that all his happy childhood memories were with his nan. Although he never said, Jo knew just by the look in his eye when he spoke of his time at home that after his grandmother died, Tommy’s life became very bleak indeed until Reggie took him in.
Watching Tommy’s mother’s clumsy efforts to pick up the spilled contents of her handbag scattered around her feet, Jo’s heart ached with sympathy. Well, truthfully, not just with sympathy, but with something she had to give up pretending wasn’t there any more. Love.
As the band struck up for the next artist, Reggie took a sip of whisky. Under the lacquered cocktail table he uncrossed and recrossed his legs then smoothed a wrinkle out of the sharply pressed trouser of his new suit.
When Isaac Stanislav, Maxi Cohen’s chief tailor, had urged him to choose the square-shouldered, American-style suit, he hadn’t been sure. Even when he handed over the seven guineas to the Aldgate tailor last week, he still wasn’t convinced he’d made the right choice, but now he had to agree with old Jew-boy. He looked the dog’s naggers.
A Ration Book Christmas Page 22
