‘We bring money into the house, a deal of money, if you want to know.’
‘And how did you come by it? Not honestly, I’ll warrant.’
‘Hey, who you calling dishonest?’
Jess would make her escape, leaving the brothers to their bickering, which seemed to be a sad fact of life in Cumberland Street.
Harry and Bert weren’t the only ones making her life a misery, Sandra too was becoming increasingly peevish and fretful, often sniping at her, resentful of anything Jess did which, in her opinion, deprived her of Cora or Bernie’s attention for even a second.
‘Why should our Mam wait on you, hand, foot and finger? She gave you boiled ham for your tea yesterday, and only Spam for me and the twins. What makes you think you can have the best of everything?’
‘I don’t. I pay my whack, and bring home treats from the shop. You can have the ham next time.’
‘You never fetch me anything.’
‘Oh, Sandra. I brought you two scones just last week.’
Sandra snorted. ‘They were both stale.’
‘That’s why I got them cheap. Mr Simmons doesn’t give stuff away.’
‘Think your someone, you do, just because you play that flipping trumpet.’
Jess would walk away with a sigh. Her chief concern was that she didn’t have anywhere near enough time to keep an eye on Lizzie. Goodness knows what her mother got up to during the day while she was at work. But what could she do about it? It was vitally important that she keep her job, to save every penny, because with or without her uncle’s help she meant to get them a place of their own and gain their independence once and for all.
It was one day in the autumn of 1941 that Mr Simmons called Jess into his office and told her that he’d decided to give her a try as a waitress in the tea room. Jess was thrilled. Not only could she now work directly alongside Leah, but it was better pay and with the possibility of tips, which would top up her savings nicely.
Leah was thrilled too. The two friends hadn’t seen quite so much of each other lately as they would have liked. Even their trips out dancing had been curtailed somewhat. Jess had been too busy with the mobile canteen and her trumpet practise, while Leah’s social life seemed to be more closely regulated than ever.
There was always some function or other that Mrs Simmons had arranged, a seemingly endless parade of coffee mornings and rummage sales, a Weapons Week Fundraising Dance where Leah spent most of the evening in the cloakroom rather than on the dance floor; not to mention collecting newspapers, jam jars, old woollens, and all manner of other goods in need of recycling.
Leah would wrinkle her nose in protest and Jess would suggest that she make an excuse to get out of it next time. Or perhaps one of Muriel’s friends might be persuaded to go along instead, although this never quite seemed to work for some unknown reason. If Muriel ever found anyone, they always mysteriously backed out at the last moment, leaving Leah again as the only available option to accompany her.
Apart, that is, from Mrs Gartside, and her stalwart son, who were always present.
Leah would stubbornly refuse to be involved but at the last minute she’d feel sorry for her mother and succumb. ‘Ma likes to do her bit for the war effort. If she needs help, how can I refuse? I can’t leave her to struggle alone, can I?’
Afterwards, she would roll her eyes and admit that Ambrose Gartside had again been there and, as suspected, her mother could have managed perfectly well without her. ‘It was clearly a ploy for us to get together. It won’t work, no matter what she does. I can’t stand him.’
Jess would merely smile, knowing that much as Leah might object to her mother’s match-making and being dragged along to her charity functions, in reality she adored and admired her. Who wouldn’t? She was, in Jess’s opinion, an ideal mother; the kind anyone would be pleased to have. She would happily have volunteered to help Mrs Simmons, were she not so busy with the Sally Army.
‘One day you’ll agree to marry him just to please her, or because it’s the most sensible, practical thing to do.’
‘Never! Even I’m not so soft. I’d elope with the milkman’s horse before I’d do that.’
Leah continued to rant and rave while Jess simply giggled at her loud protestations. It was really up to her friend, after all, to stand up to her parents or not, as she thought best. But in one respect at least she did agree with Leah. Jess couldn’t imagine a situation which would induce anyone with sense, herself included, to marry someone they didn’t love. Leah was so full of bounce and confidence she deserved the best.
‘At least now we’ll both be working together and can chat during the day.’
‘Ooh goody, in between serving tea and scones to fat old ladies who shouldn’t be eating them at all,’ Leah irreverently added. ‘I do wish something exciting would happen, don’t you?’
So far as Jess was concerned, it already had. If she worked in the tea rooms she might get tips, and if she added these to the savings in the tin box she kept under her mattress, she might all the sooner have enough to get her and Lizzie a place of their own.
Jess had become a great favourite with the Salvation Army band. She loved everything about it, not simply the performances, sometimes held at the citadel for a service, or at the Mission, as well as on street corners where they hoped to collect a crowd and attract donations. But also she enjoyed the comradeship, the easy laughter and happy teasing, the feeling of being part of a group and doing something worthwhile, a sensation she’d never experienced before. Nor did she mind the rehearsals, or the endless hours of practise. She didn’t even object when Sergeant Ted shouted at her for playing a wrong note. She only practised all the harder to get it right.
However much fun performing for a lively crowd might be, what she really loved most of all was the feel of the instrument in her hands. She loved the pressure of the valves beneath her fingers, the wonderful sensation that flowed through her veins like liquid gold whenever she put her lips against the mouth piece and the most marvellous sounds came out. Ted told her that she played the bugle like a dream and the trumpet with a warm, mellow sound. Jess could hear only her own imperfections and glaring mistakes. Oh, but she meant to play better one day, she really did. She must just keep practising.
Sergeant Ted insisted that she do at least an hour every day, preferably two. She must warm up by going through the fundamentals, starting with the middle register and working through to the higher. Then some long low tones followed by running through the scales and practising chord changes. And all the time Jess would be trying to improve the flexibility of her lips, making sure she blew straight out and not down, achieved the right degree of tension, worked on the exercises and pieces of music set for her. Only when she’d spent at least an hour on these would Jess allow herself to play whatever she liked, attempting to improvise, since she possessed no written music of her own.
No matter what hurdles Uncle Bernie might put in her path, however much he might shout and complain about ‘having that din in my house’ which often meant that she was forced to practise in the back yard, or out on a stretch of waste land down by the River Irwell, she would never give up. To Jess, it didn’t matter where she was, nothing and no one would prevent her from doing what she loved most: playing the trumpet. Even if he clouted her or beat her black and blue all over as he had Lizzie, it wouldn’t make any difference, she’d keep on playing.
Ted declared himself pleased with the result, was proud of his success in teaching her to play so well, and said she should be even more proud to be blessed with such a rare talent. ‘The Good Lord doesn’t give these gifts out lightly. Make proper use of it and prove His faith in you.’
Sometimes she was allowed to play for the bombed-out victims fed on tea and sympathy at the mobile canteen. She would regale them with We’ll Meet Again, Mareseatoats, and her current favourite: A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.
Ted said that folk often made out they were in trouble when really they just want
ed to listen to the liquid notes of her music. People round about only had to hear the trumpet start up and the canteen would be full in minutes. ‘We’ll have to start charging,’ he joked, ‘or we’ll have nothing left for the genuine needy.’
‘They’re all genuinely needy,’ Jess would protest. ‘Look at the state of their lives, screwed up by the war.’
‘Aye well, whether they are or not, you pull your weight in other ways, lass.’
It was certainly true that whenever Harriet or Ted went out selling The War Cry, or taking round their collecting boxes to get donations to fund the work they did, they’d ask her to go along with them, just to play. That way they made twice as much money. Jess enjoyed going, not only because she loved playing her trumpet but because it got her out and about, escaping the misery of Cumberland Street for yet another evening. And she met a good many interesting characters along the way.
There was Molly. If she’d ever had a surname everyone had long forgotten it, as she was generally called Molly Gaum after the British Gaumont News, because she was such an old gossip. Pat, who was a female bare-knuckle fighter and could take down a grown man with a single punch. People were immensely polite to Pat and she always put a shilling in the collecting tin. ‘Just as insurance, in case I ever get knocked senseless and need carrying home.’
‘We’re the Salvation Army not the St John Ambulance,’ Jess laughed.
‘For my old age then, or if I should cop it sudden like. Someone has to see I get a decent send off.’
‘You’re not ready for promotion to glory yet.’
Playing Lili Marlene in the pubs would be sure to bring a rattle of coins into the collecting tin and Harriet had been known to sell out of The War Cry if Jess should play Danny Boy, there not being a dry eye in the house.
Jess started to attend the citadel on a regular basis, though to her shame it was again more as a means of escape than genuine belief, at least initially. But to her surprise she found that she enjoyed it. The people were warm and friendly and made her welcome, and she particularly liked the way music was a major part of the service.
‘I wouldn’t have thought the Sally Army would approve of such music,’ but Harriet disagreed.
‘Very early on, General William Booth who founded the movement said, “Why should the devil have all the best tunes?” and so new words were written to popular numbers. People love a good sing and why shouldn’t we worship in a cheerful, happy way?’
They’d sing Bless His name, He set me free to the tune of Champagne Charlie with so much joy and vigour that Jess would sing at the top of her voice before finally accompanying them on her trusty trumpet while Harriet would bash her tambourine.
But then it wasn’t really her trumpet at all. It didn’t belong to her. It belonged to the Sally Army Bugle Band. Now, more than anything, Jess longed for an instrument of her own. But how to get one, that was the problem? She certainly didn’t have any money to spare at the moment. Every penny she earned went towards paying for their keep, both for herself and Lizzie, and saving towards a better future for them both. If there ever was anything left over, which was rare as Bernie was always claiming extra expenses for this, that and the other, it went into the savings tin which she kept tucked under her mattress. This represented her one hope of escape from Cumberland Street and the tyranny of her uncle.
Chapter Ten
Over supper one evening, Jess happened to casually mention how Mr Simmons had put new locks on his doors since the break-in, and bought a new till which he believed would be safer than the old cash box.
‘It feels odd, really strange having to ring things up. It gives receipts and everything but we had a queue a mile long at dinner time because we kept getting in a muddle over it. People were shouting that they’d die of starvation if we didn’t hurry up,’ Jess related with a giggle.
It had been meant simply as an amusing story but proved to be a bad mistake. Bernie lowered his paper to listen, showing an unhealthy interest in the tale, wanting to know how the till operated, where it was kept and who locked it up. It suddenly dawned upon Jess that he was asking far too many pertinent questions and she quickly changed the subject, talking instead about a new bread recipe the shop was trying out, which didn’t use quite so much yeast.
‘You use some of the old dough to get the new batch going. It’s quite clever really, and very economical.’ But Bernie wasn’t interested in making bread rise. Folding up his paper he quietly slipped out, presumably in search of his usual evening pint.
A day or two later, hurrying to get ready to go to the mobile canteen, as she usually did after work, Jess couldn’t find her trumpet anywhere.
Sometimes she went for a walk during her dinner break so she could practise down a back street or by the railway sidings, any opportunity she could find since Bernie made such a fuss of her practising in the house. Nor did she like to trespass too much on Mrs Simmons generosity. As she grew ever more frantic, Jess became aware that Bernie was watching her closely, almost smiling with satisfaction as he sat in his chair by the fire, smoking his Craven A cigarettes. From time to time Cora would cast an anxious glance in her direction as she ran up and down stairs, pointedly saying nothing as Jess dragged open drawers and cupboards, and banging them shut again.
Lizzie, prostrate in the chair opposite, with her eyes half closed was taking no interest. At her wits’ end, Jess said, ‘I give up, where did I put that trumpet, Cora? Did I take it to the shop with me this morning? Have I left it at work?’
But it was Bernie who answered. ‘No, I’ve pawned it.’
Jess stared at her uncle in stunned disbelief. ‘You’ve what?’
‘We’ve suffered enough of that row night after night. It’s doing my head in. I’ve put it in hock where it’ll do nobody’s nerves any harm.’
Jess wanted to fly at him, to beat his brains out. Only the pained anxiety in her aunt’s face, and the tremor of her plump jowls held her back. Cora silently mee-mawed at Jess, making a pantomime of gestures with her eyes and mouth in an effort to indicate to her niece that she shouldn’t worry, that they’d get it back in due course. Bernie spotted the performance and lashing out one hand, gave his wife a clout across the back of her head. Curlers flew everywhere and Cora’s cheeks went bright red but she made scarcely a sound by way of protest.
Jess was instantly enraged on her aunt’s behalf and leapt in front of him, as if to protect her from further reprisals, hands clenched into tight little fists. ‘Don’t you dare hit my aunt, you big bully. I don’t care if you have nicked the trumpet, but don’t take it out on Cora.’
This only made him laugh all the more. ‘Oh aye, you do care about that trumpet. You never stop blasting us ear drums with it. Drove me crackers.’
‘Well then you can explain to the Sally Army where it’s gone, not me.’
Bernie got lazily to his feet, flexing and swelling out his ample flesh so that Jess was forced to take a quick step backwards or be knocked over as he moved threateningly towards her. ‘I don’t think so, girl, and if you bring it into this house again, I’ll hammer it flat so that it’ll be no more use to you than a squashed tin of beans.’
‘You can’t do that! You’ve no right. That trumpet belongs to the Salvation Army. What will Sergeant Ted say when I tell him? Oh, how can I ever repay them for losing one of their best instruments? How could you be so mean?’ Tears were blocking her throat, a swell of pain in her chest. She should never have brought it home, never. What had she been thinking of?
Even Lizzie was looking anxious now, her befuddled gaze flicking from one to other as if trying to understand what was going on. ‘Don’t you talk to our Bernie like that, madam. Show some gratitude for what he’s done for us.’
Determined not to dissolve into tears, Jess turned on her mother. ‘Gratitude? Huh! You must be joking! We owe him nothing. He’s ruined you already, and will do the same to me if I let him, the mean old . . .’
‘Shurrup Jess, you owe him everything, and d
on’t you forget it. Where would we be if he’d refused to put a roof over our heads?’
‘We wouldn’t have lost the roof we did have if he hadn’t taken you shop-lifting that Christmas.’
Lizzie was on her feet in a second, swaying slightly as if she’d been drinking, though she’d promised Jess faithfully that she’d never touch another drop as long as she lived. Some hope. Her eyes were flashing and her voice filled with spite. ‘If I’d never had you in the first place, I wouldn’t have needed to pinch stuff. I’d’ve been in clover with nothing to worry about at all.’
Jess felt as if she’d been punched in the face by her own mother. Why did Lizzie always have to turn nasty? Why couldn’t she take her side for once, defend her own daughter instead of her brother-in-law? But then Jess knew why, only too well. Her mother lacked that normal part of human nature known as nurturing, which parents were supposed to exhibit towards their young. She didn’t have it because Bernie had corrupted her with his own brand of greed and self interest. Instead, Lizzie was the one needing to be cared for, and protected from his evil influence.
Cora was wringing her hands, trying to put in the odd soothing word in a frantic attempt to cool growing tempers. ‘Don’t fret about it, love. Don’t worry. We’ll get that trumpet back somehow.’
But Jess was beyond comfort. She’d done her best not to be a nuisance, worked hard to pay for their keep while her mother lay about half the day, or prowled around shops running the risk of being arrested for shop lifting yet again. She was filled with guilt and remorse for having brought the instrument home in the first place, frightened of admitting to her new friends at the Sally Army what had happened to it. And most dreadful of all, how on earth could she ever afford to replace it when she was saving so hard for a place of their own. Would she never be free?
Jess felt such hatred for her uncle that she simply couldn’t contain her emotion. Tears were brimming over, rolling unchecked down her cheeks and it was just as if a great weight were pressing down on her chest, threatening to crush her.
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