‘It’s a lending library for instruments I am now, is it? You would take advantage of an old man, a fine young girl like you, from a good home? Am I not poor enough that I live on Bismark Herrings morning, noon and night? Worn out with too much work and this endless war. Do I not deserve a rest already?’
Jess giggled. It wasn’t quite polite to do so in the circumstances, but she couldn’t help herself. Even as the old man was bitterly complaining and flourishing his hands about with an air of outraged disbelief, the eyes behind the spectacles were glimmering with laughter and mischief as if they were saying, I’ll have some fun with these two girls before I give them what they want.
‘I would take good care of it,’ Jess promised in the smallest of voices.
Mr Yoffey frowned. He liked Jess Delaney although he didn’t much care for the rest of the breed. And he had no quarrel at all with the Salvation Army. Sadly though, on this occasion he was unable to help. He carefully explained how he’d refused to accept the trumpet from her uncle, not believing his reassurance that it was honestly come by. ‘Is it my fault that people underestimate my intelligence? I told him to put it back where he found it. He was not pleased.’
‘No, he wouldn’t be.’
Mr Yoffey saw the bleak expression of pain come into the soft brown eyes and almost wished that on this occasion he’d been less particular. There was something about the way she tipped down her head and allowed that wild mane of shining hair to shield her disappointment from pity that cut to the heart of him. He knew instinctively that she had suffered, could sense her courage in every line of her too slender, young body. ‘I suppose it’s a musician you think you are?’
Jess gave a little shrug, still not meeting his gaze as she addressed the tattered linoleum beneath her feet. ‘I’m trying to learn, but it isn’t easy.’
‘Play for him,’ Leah suggested, suddenly seeing a way of winning the old man over. ‘Go on, give him a tune.’
‘He’s just told us, Leah. He doesn’t have the trumpet. Weren’t you listening?’
Leah put her arm about her friend’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze as if telling her to have faith, before rewarding the old pawnbroker with her most dazzling, blue eyed smile. ‘I’ll bet he doesn’t know half what he’s got in that cavern behind his shop. There could well be any number of trumpets back there, if he looked hard enough.’
Mr Yoffey returned their conjoined gaze for several long seconds without saying a word, then turning on his heel, he disappeared into the dark recesses of his shop. He was gone for some time, so long that the two girls grew curious and edged further into its depths, examining the weird and wonderful treasures within: a moth-eaten stuffed fox, a tarnished silver tea pot, a Victorian pianoforte complete with candelabra, a bridal wreath beneath a glass bell jar. There were the usual collection of clogs, boots and shoes; hats, coats and dresses by the score and any number of boxes all bearing carefully printed labels to identify their contents.
Finally, he emerged out of the gloom, trumpet in hand: a shiny, graceful instrument which had clearly been properly cared for over the years, and well loved by its previous owner. Jess wondered if it had hurt very much to be forced to pawn such a wonderful item, but then forgot to worry about this unknown stranger, whoever he might be, as the pawn shop owner put the instrument in her hands. The reverence in this simple act seemed to indicate he’d been anxious to hear her play all along, if only she could be persuaded.
Jess gave the trumpet a quick glance over, checking all its working parts, the valves, the mouth piece, testing the feel of it in her hands. When she felt comfortable with it, she put it to her lips and began to play. She chose Goodnight Sweetheart and she could hear Leah humming softly beside her, see Mr Yoffey nodding his head in time to the beat. Jess herself simply lost herself in the music.
When she was done, the old man took off his spectacles and dabbed at his eyes with his polishing cloth, before giving his spectacles a furious wipe and setting them back on the bridge of his nose.
‘So I am a fool to myself. It has cluttered up my shop for long enough. You take it, and do what you can with it.’
Jess stared at the instrument in her hand in a daze of disbelief. ‘But I honestly don’t have any money to pay for it.’
He lifted his two hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘I live till I’m ninety, you pay me then. I’ll be hearing plenty trumpets soon enough after that anyway. But see you make good music, and don’t let that uncle of yours anywhere near it.’ Then he flapped his hand for her to take it away quickly before he changed his mind.
Nineteen forty-one ended in a mood of bleak austerity and the first months of nineteen forty-two seemed little better. Rationing, queues, make-do-and-mend became common practice. Cora sorted salvage into four different buckets which she kept out in the back yard: scrap metal, paper, waste food, though there was never much of that left, and one for old bones to make glue, of all things. She seemed to imagine she could build a war plane single handed with the stuff, and constantly nagged her family to switch off the light. She also spent a lot of time listening to The Radio Doctor, learning which foods were good for them, and how to cook lentil roast and the dreaded Woolton Pie. Those who have the will to win, Cook potatoes in their skin.
Bernie reckoned nothing to such tasteless fare. He liked his meat, his bacon and eggs, and his potatoes fried, and made sure he had the wherewithal in the way of extra points, to provide these necessities for his comfort.
Nor did he subscribe to the theory that folk should be limited to one complete set of new clothing a year. The government could devise whatever schemes they liked, using poorer materials, cutting down on turn-ups and pockets, telling folk to buy a size larger so it’ll last longer. Utility they called it. Bernie didn’t care for that scheme either. He agreed with Churchill for once, that ‘stripping the people to the buff’ was not a good thing to do. A man of substance, such as himself, deserved a bit of style. He was going up in the world, come what may, war or no war, points or no points.
Even petrol coupons were losing their value. The government insisted you couldn’t use a car unless it was for essential war purposes. With a tin box stuffed full of petrol coupons, Bernie’s profits had consequently taken a nose-dive. Yet another blow to his economy. Some folk cheated, of course, and pretended to be on essential business when they weren’t but most abided by the rules, much to his disgust. It was downright inconsiderate of them to be so honest, and for the powers-that-be to keep changing the rules. How could a chap hope to make a decent living under such conditions?
Fortunately it wasn’t Bernie’s policy to follow orders, keep to rules or meekly do as the government ordered. Nor did he feel inclined to stand by and do nothing while his sons took over, or else in no time at all they’d be the ones ruling the roost.
Even that niece of his was puffing herself up, quite above her station, earning more money than any young woman had a right to, off dancing twice a week and even doing her bit with the Sally Army. He thought he’d spiked her guns over that flipping trumpet but damned if she hadn’t got herself another which she kept hidden some place he couldn’t fathom.
And she still hadn’t brought him any cash home from that blasted tea room.
The girl needed bringing into line, that was for sure. But first he had to get his hands on a bit more brass, not just a few trinkets here and there or the odd ration book but something more substantial, enough to turn his life around completely. He had to hand it to them lads of his for sowing the seeds of the idea, but he reckoned he could do better. Bernie carefully made his plans then waited for an opportunity to put them into effect. He’d show them who was top dog. And once he was nicely placed with a little nest-egg stowed away, then he’d tackle that little madam once and for all.
Jess called again on Mr Yoffey and the old man was delighted to see her. ‘Ah, so you like coming to my shop? Ay, ay, ay, normally I have to do a lot of shlepping, which is how we Jews explain coaxing people in off
the street by dragging them in by the scruffs of their collar.’
Jess giggled. ‘I don’t believe you have to do that at all.’
He gave one of his expressive shrugs and chuckled. ‘Folk come to me because they must. They need to eat more than they need fancy suits, as do we all.’
‘I wanted to tell you how I was getting along with the trumpet you lent me. I’m taking great care of it, and keeping it in good condition.’ Pushing back a tangle of blond hair she cast him a sidelong glance. ‘I wondered if perhaps I could pay you a little each week. I think I can manage that, now I’m making good money in tips. Then it truly would be mine one day.’ Her big brown eyes looked so beseeching that, utterly captivated by her charm, he instantly agreed.
‘How can I resist such limpid beauty when you use such powerful blackmail?’
On impulse, Jess gave the old man a hug. ‘You are wonderful and it isn’t blackmail at all. I just want to do the right thing, to pay you what the trumpet is worth.’
‘It is worth nothing at the back of my shop. Besides, a shnorrer you are not.’
‘What on earth is a shnorrer?’
Abe waved his hands about and made a little poofing noise by blowing out his cheeks. ‘She does not know what is a shnorrer? It is a beggar, or as you Lancashire folk say, someone always on the scrounge. A cadger. I think you are not one of those, little one. You are pure gold, and when you play that trumpet it too turns from base metal into something magical. Besides, am I a selfish old man? I should be the one to deny the world the benefit of your talent?’
‘Then you’ll agree to let me pay for the trumpet?’
His eyes were twinkling. ‘I agree only because you will have to call in my shop every week to make the payment and I can enjoy your company. Perhaps you would do me the honour of taking tea with me sometimes.’
‘I would be delighted.’
He bowed in gratitude, like the gentleman he was. ‘I shall look forward to it with pleasure.’
Taking tea with Mr Yoffey became a regular feature of her week. Jess would call every Friday evening after she’d got paid and hand over a shilling, sometimes a florin or a half crown if her tips had been good ones, which he would enter with meticulous care into a large ledger. After that, he would brew a pot of tea and they would sit in the back of the shop. Mr Yoffey would have his cat on his knee, nodding wisely, interrupting only rarely as she told him about her week, about the kind of customers who came into the tea room.
‘There are the ones who send back the toasted tea cake because they say it is too dry or too cold when really it’s perfectly acceptable. Or they ask for a tea pot for two and extra hot water, so that it doesn’t cost quite so much, even though there are four persons. They eat several cakes off the stand and then expect these to be included in the price of the standard afternoon tea they’ve also consumed.’
How Mr Yoffey loved to listen to her gossip,
‘People are an endless source of entertainment, I think,’ he agreed.
When she finally stopped talking long enough to draw breath, she would accept the bagel he offered, and listen enthralled while the old man told his own tales.
One particular evening Mr Yoffey said to her, ‘Your trumpet practice, it is going well? You have the instrument with you? I know you wouldn’t think to play it for a weary old man?’
‘Of course I would.’ Jess slid it out of its case, put it to her lips and began to play Joy, freedom, peace and ceaseless blessing to the tune of Swanee River. It was a haunting melody and one she played often in the Citadel.
She’d barely played a couple of bars when the door burst open and a young man strode in. He stood stock still in the middle of the shop, glaring at her with red hot fury in his eyes.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing with my trumpet?’
Unable to believe her eyes, Jess stared at the intruder in dawning horror. It was Steve Wyman. After all this time, she’d found him at last! But before she could gather her thoughts, Mr Yoffey stepped in front of her, redirecting the intruder’s attention away from his young protégé.
‘Young man, you cannot charge into my shop like a bull in the proverbial china shop and claim ownership of my property.’
‘That trumpet is my property, and I’ve come to redeem it.’
‘Too late. Too late.’ Mr Yoffey said, tutting sadly and shaking his head. ‘More than a year it has sat collecting dust on my shelves. I am supposed to give it house room for ever, till you decide you might like it back?’
‘Yes, dammit, that’s the whole point of pawning something, isn’t it?’
The old man shook his head with vigour. ‘Ay, ay, ay, you think I run a charity? You take my money. You leave your trumpet. You come back within the time it states on the ticket and pay the full amount, plus interest, you understand? Then you get it back. You are showing me your ticket? You are telling me you are within the time permitted?’
Had he not been scowling quite so disagreeably, Jess might well have reminded him that they’d met before. But she dismissed this notion as dangerous folly. His mouth was compressed into a tight line of fury and the green eyes were blazing. Perhaps her memory had played tricks, or she’d been mistaken to think him attractive on that first occasion. It must have been the magical atmosphere of the ballroom that had gone to her head for she really couldn’t find anything to like about him at all now. The collar of his blue shirt was white and the necktie all askew. Neither matched the brown suit he wore which was shabby to the point of threadbare, although to be fair, whose wasn’t these days? When he’d first entered the shop he’d been carrying a small brown suitcase fastened with a leather strap, together with the sort of case which would hold a musical instrument, only something larger than a trumpet. Jess wondered what it might be. He’d placed them both on the floor and dropped a shabby trilby hat on top that had also seen better days.
Jess finally found her voice. ‘This is your trumpet? I thought. . .’
Ignoring her completely, he suddenly began searching his many pockets, pulling out a fistful of coins and notes and slamming them on the counter. ‘There you are and no, I don’t have your damned ticket. I haven’t a clue how long you allowed me to redeem it but here’s my cash. Every penny I possess. Take it. Take it all. Just give me my trumpet.’
‘It belongs to this young lady now. She has paid for it.’
He cast scarcely a glance in Jess’s direction. ‘Don’t talk rubbish. It’s mine and I want it back this minute.’
Jess was listening to all of this in stunned silence, uncertain what to say or do next. A part of her was thrilled to have found him again, while her heart was sinking over the circumstances which had brought them together. This was his trumpet? This precious instrument which she’d hoped would replace the one Bernie had stolen from her and disposed of she knew not how. She felt devastated, had never experienced such embarrassment in all her life. What on earth could she do? She certainly couldn’t keep it, not if it still rightfully belonged to Steve Wyman.
And yet she’d already made several payments on it, had endured a long and uncomfortable half hour explaining the whole sorry tale to Sergeant Ted who, finally, and very generously, had agreed to let the matter lie, saying it might well turn up one day, when her uncle was in a more generous mood. Was it any wonder if a part of her had no wish to meekly hand over the instrument, particularly since he was being so objectionable towards poor Mr Yoffey.
The old man was gathering up all the loose change, collecting and folding the notes. Putting them safely in an old brown envelope, he handed it solemnly back.
‘I am sorry but the trumpet is no longer available. You are too late. As I have already explained, this young lady here has made several payments against it, and is now legally the new owner.’
The young man swung around, at last fixing his penetrating green-eyed glare exclusively upon Jess. ‘I’m sure you think you’ve won,’ he growled, ‘but I’m damned if I’ll let you get away with it.’ And
upon these words he swung on his heel and strode out of the shop.
Jess found she was trembling so much that she had to sit down rather quickly. What did he mean by that? Won what, the trumpet? ‘Why did he say that, Mr Yoffey, about not allowing me to get away with it? I really don’t want any trouble or unpleasantness.’
‘Unpleasant that young man certainly is. Too big for his britches I think. He does not deserve so remarkable an instrument. Drink your tea, little one. Will we worry about him?’ And for once in his life Mr Yoffey answered his own question. ‘No, I do not think so.’
Chapter Twelve
After a long period of quiet the day finally dawned when the skies were again filled with enemy bombers and Bernie knew his chance had come. Cora scurried to sit in the tin bath under the stairs with Seb and Sam on her lap, Sandra squashed in beside her.
‘Why are you sitting there?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘Because it’s better, and safer, than sitting in the Anderson with Lizzie.’
‘Women!’ he muttered. ‘I’ll never understand them.’
Donning the bogus ARP Warden’s uniform he’d managed to acquire, he left them to it and went off trawling the streets, quite certain he’d find some likely pickings. There was the usual initial panic when people found they couldn’t get home because craters had suddenly appeared in roads previously unmarked. They ran about, frantically calling for their loved ones, desperately searching for another way to reach them.
‘Go to a shelter,’ he’d suggest, like the diligent warden he was making himself out to be. He caught one woman running right back into the line of fire towards a blazing warehouse. ‘Hold on, where you off to missus?’
‘I must go back for our insurance policies. My husband will kill me if I don’t take them with me.’
‘Not before Hitler’s bombs kill you first. You’ll be buried with them policies if you don’t watch out. Get along into the shelter now.’
Dancing on Deansgate Page 14
