All Fall Down

by Jenny Oldfield

  When at last she came to Bernhardt Court, she found it to be a narrow side street which cut along the side of one of the grandest theatres; an alley where the sun never shone. Yet the throng never subsided as people wove through on bicycles, news vendors called and hoardings advertised the night’s performance.

  Meggie stared up at the tall, dark buildings. The theatre wall ran almost the length of the court, mostly blank brick, with a small stage-door at the far end. On the opposite side of the street was a hotch-potch row of buildings – mostly restaurants and pubs – adapted for the blackout but still open for trade. She counted one, two, three, four pubs down the length of the alley. For a moment she hesitated, uncertain of her course.

  ‘You lost?’ A voice enquired from behind a high barrow of cockles and oysters.

  Meggie squared her shoulders. ‘No, ta. I’m looking for a pub.’

  ‘Bit young for drowning your sorrows, ain’t you?’ The voice belonged to one Shankley, seller of seafood up and down Bernhardt Court for fifty years. Known only by his last name, time seemed to have pickled his skin in brine; his face was puckered, his eyes pale. He wore a long white apron down to his polished shoes and a walrus moustache. As he stepped out from behind his barrow, he came just as high as Meggie’s shoulder.

  ‘Not to drink in,’ she protested, then realized she was being got at. She took off her straw hat and sighed. ‘Hot, ain’t it?’

  ‘Not partickly.’

  ‘It is if you’ve walked as far as I have.’ She took a breather, grateful for someone to talk to.

  ‘I bet I’ve walked further than you with this barrow.’ He eyed her quickly. ‘Keep an eye on it for me, will you, while I slip off for a quiet pint?’

  She had no time to argue. Anyway, she didn’t mind. Shankley, if that was who he was, and his barrow proclaimed it in red and white fairground lettering, could take as long as he liked provided she could rest her poor feet and work out what to do next. She even managed to sell half a dozen oysters and was struggling to find the change when the comical little man returned.

  ‘You trying to ruin me?’ He elbowed her to one side and dipped into his deep apron pocket. ‘Good job I ain’t offering you a job.’

  ‘I already got one, ta.’

  He teased her again when he heard she was a telephonist. ‘La-di-dah. You should get on the wireless with a voice like that. That’s it, that’s the job for you.’

  ‘No ta.’ But she was flattered. She turned back to the barrowman from looking up and down the length of the Court. ‘Mr Shankley, to tell you the honest truth I’m here looking for someone.’

  He winked. ‘Not a young man by any chance?’

  ‘No, worse luck.’

  ‘I was gonna say, what’s he thinking of, letting a lovely young girl like you out of his sight.’

  Encouraged, she took the plunge. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s a down-and-out. Have you seen one?’

  He pitied her naivety. ‘One? If I seen one I seen a hundred. What particular size and shape you looking for?’

  ‘I’m serious. This one don’t hang round here all the time; he only comes when he’s in a real bad way. There’s a landlady in one of these pubs keeps an eye on him.’

  ‘Who told you this cock and bull story?’ He tried to put her off. In Shankley’s long experience it wasn’t healthy for a young girl to go poking around in the gutter.

  ‘I heard it off my uncle.’ She looked at him with big, pleading eyes.

  ‘And does your uncle know you’re out?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s private. I take it you ain’t seen this tramp? He’s about this high.’ She raised her hand just above her head. ‘He’s got dark hair and brown eyes.’ She went by her memory of the man on the platform at Tottenham Court Road. ‘They call him Richie Palmer.’

  By the look in Shankley’s eyes she knew he knew him.

  ‘You’ve seen him, ain’t you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night, after chucking-out rime. Did he come?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘But you do know him?’

  ‘Why, who’s asking?’

  ‘Look, Mr Shankley, if you don’t want to help I can just go up and down the street asking at all the pubs; I don’t mind.’

  ‘No need.’ He saw that she was determined. ‘If you take my advice, you’ll steer clear of his sort, or you’ll get your uncle to come and look after you. Ain’t you got no pa?’

  ‘What if I have?’ Her defences shot up, like bolts through iron locks.

  ‘Well . . .’ He twitched his moustache. ‘Try the Bell on the corner, right. And don’t say I sent you.’

  She nodded. ‘Who’s the landlady? Who do I ask for?’ Excitement shone in her eyes. One tiny part of her heart still held the hope that they were all wrong about Richie Palmer; a family grudge, past-history that prevented them from seeing him clearly. She had a romantic idea that she would find him and reclaim him from the streets.

  ‘Ask for Gertie Elliot. And mind how you go.’

  ‘Ta!’ She ran, hat in hand. Since she was brought up in a family that kept a pub, they held no mystery. She was able to push easily through the etched glass door into the public bar of the Bell.

  Its walls were lined with photographs of the famous stars who’d drunk there. Dark wooden booths gave customers some privacy and the bar shone with copper, glass and bottles of spirits. A pianist tinkled at a piano by the window, a fug of cigarette smoke rose blue-grey in a shaft of sunlight over a few men sitting playing dominoes. They looked up at the bright figure of Meggie in her forget-me-not-blue dress.

  The landlady approached from the other end of the bar, ready to turn down any request for a job. Meggie looked too young by far. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks. I’m looking for someone.’ She was breathless from running.

  ‘And can you see “someone” here?’

  Meggie glanced round. ‘He ain’t a customer.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘This person. They say the landlady will know who I mean.’

  ‘I am she,’ Gertie Elliot said with a flourish. She could have stepped offstage herself, with her chestnut-coloured hair piled high, Rita Hayworth-style figure, daisy earrings, red nails, arched eyebrows. ‘Now tell me what’s up, and I’ll see if I can be of assistance.’

  A couple of men down the bar smirked. ‘She’s having you on.’ One winked at Meggie.

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Come on, spit it out.’ Gertie needed to get a move on. Back in the kitchen it was all hands on deck.

  Meggie leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. ‘The man I’m looking for is Richie Palmer. Do you know him?’

  There was a flicker of puzzlement on Gertie’s face, then a studied attempt to consider the question. ‘Palmer? No, there ain’t no one of that name here.’

  ‘He didn’t end up here last night? A tramp, worse the wear from drink. He nearly ended up under a cab. Someone sent him up here in a taxi.’

  ‘A taxi?’ She patted Meggie’s hand. ‘Now I know someone’s been leading you up the garden path.’

  ‘He didn’t come to you for help?’ Meggie’s heart sank. ‘Sure? His name might not be Palmer. Maybe he changed it.’

  ‘No one came.’ She looked long and hard. ‘What’s this to you?’

  ‘Nothing. My uncle used to hang around with him.’

  Meggie looked so cast down that Gertie hadn’t the heart to send her on her way. ‘Have a drink in any case. On the house. Strictly teetotal, mind.’

  ‘I’m old enough to drink,’ Meggie insisted. She sat dejectedly on a stool, her hat on the bar.

  ‘And I’m Queen Mary, the Queen Mother.’

  ‘No, honest I am.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘Across the water.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Southwark.’

  ‘That’s a long way to come looking, ain’t it?’ Gertie pried kindly as Meggie took up her glass
of orange juice. ‘Just on the off-chance.’

  ‘It weren’t on the off-chance, least I didn’t think it was.’

  ‘A proper little Agatha Christie.’ Gertie seemed sorry for Meggie. ‘Tell you what, I bet you could do with a bite to eat.’

  ‘No ta, I’m not hungry.’ This was a big let-down, and it hit her hard. She’d been certain she was on the right track, but now she must think again. Rob must have made a mistake. The man he’d nearly run over couldn’t have been Richie Palmer after all. It had probably been pitch dark in the blackout. How could he have been certain it was him all this long time later? After setting her whole heart on finding her father, Meggie was ready to give up.

  ‘This is a big day for us.’ Unperturbed, Gertie reached for a packet of crisps and shoved them towards her. ‘On the house.’

  ‘How come?’ Looking round, Meggie noticed for the first time the Union Jack bunting hung from the ceiling and a big welcome sign over the door.

  ‘It’s my boy, Ronnie, he’s due home on leave.’

  Meggie looked again at the landlady. She seemed too young to have a son serving his country.

  ‘He’s in the Royal Navy.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘He is. He just turned twenty-one. This is his big birthday knees-up. We have to celebrate today, better late than never.’ Pride lit up her face. ‘Hang around if you don’t believe me.’

  The bar had begun to fill up with girls and young men in uniform. An older woman came out from the back, her tray laden with sandwiches and sausage rolls. ‘What time’s he due?’ she asked.

  ‘Half twelve.’ Gertie studied her gold wristwatch.

  ‘What time is it now?’ The woman smacked the hand of a young squaddy about to help himself to a sandwich.

  ‘Nearly twenty-past.’ She stopped to look in the mirror behind the till, tweaking her hair into place and checking her make-up. By the time she was satisfied, she’d forgotten all about Meggie.

  But Meggie stayed put, caught up in the excitement and warmth. She realized how drab her life had become with the endless searching, the disappointments.

  Then it was too late to nip out. A cheer went up at the far side of the room, and a loud chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. The door swung open and a young man in a sailor’s tunic and collar, kitbag on his shoulder, hat tilted back on his wavy dark hair, stood grinning his head off. Ronnie Elliot had arrived.

  Chapter Nine

  A stream of piano notes swept through the bar of the Bell. The pianist launched into a swing number, heavy on the bass chords, rhythmical and upbeat. Gertie rushed to embrace her son.

  ‘Steady on, Ma.’ He staggered back, embarrassed.

  ‘Look at you!’ she crowed. ‘Blimey, just look at you!’ She released him and stood him back at arm’s length, straightening the collar that she’d skewed out of true. Her hands shook with gratitude that he was home in one piece. ‘Happy birthday, son. And ain’t we glad to see you.’

  ‘Put him down,’ a voice shouted from the bar.

  Ronnie grinned acknowledgements to friends from the street. He shook hands with a couple of the older men.

  ‘How about some service round here?’ Another call for Gertie’s attention rose above the piano tune. ‘Some of us are standing here parched!’

  ‘Hold your horses.’ It was hard for her to take her eyes off Ronnie. She wanted to drink in his presence, still smoothing the edge of his collar. Then she gave him a peck on the cheek and a wink. ‘Leave your stuff and come and have a nice cold pint of Guinness. We set it up for you ready and waiting.’

  She let him go and he was soon swallowed up in a crowd of well-wishers. When she took up her station behind the bar she was back to her normal self, pulling pints, full of banter, ready to flirt with whoever happened to be nearby.

  Meggie watched the homecoming from her corner of the bar. She picked up the fact that Ronnie Elliot had been conscripted into the Navy at the start of the year and had spent the last three months square-bashing down at Hayling Island. But he’d got a rating after completing his trade test in the dockyard. He was now a Leading Motor Mechanic, ready to be drafted onto his first ship; home on a two day leave before he joined a convoy for the war proper.

  ‘You’d think he’d won the whole blinking show single handed,’ a thirsty drinker complained.

  Girls crowded round Ronnie to cadge cigarettes and adore his filmstar-handsome face.

  ‘And he ain’t even seen action yet.’ A second man recalled the hard-lying money he’d earned on a sub at the end of the first war. ‘Mind you, when I say action, I mean day after day creeping along the seabed waiting for the bosun’s whistle and “Up Spirits!” That’s all that kept us going, I can tell you.’

  ‘What a hero.’ Gertie shoved a pint of bitter at him. ‘Don’t take the shine off it for him, Sparky, there’s a good chap.’ She glanced up, surprised to see Meggie still sitting there. ‘Here, love, you look as if you could do with something a bit stronger than that orange juice.’

  ‘No, I’d best be off, ta.’ She climbed down awkwardly from her stool and picked up her hat.

  ‘Never.’ Gertie poured her a generous glass of sweet sherry. ‘Down the hatch. It’s the weekend, ain’t it? What have you got to rush off for?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ Meggie didn’t expect her mother back from Lancashire before Sunday at the earliest. She had no work today, and no enthusiasm now to carry on looking for Richie Palmer. Besides, the warm atmosphere of the pub and Gertie’s brash cheerfulness drew her in. If she was straight with herself, so did Ronnie Elliot in his dashing uniform, with his clean-cut good looks.

  ‘Well then.’ Gertie watched her settle back down. ‘Why not wait for things to liven up here? They’ll be dancing in the aisles before too long, and you look like the sort to enjoy a good knees-up.’

  She was right. The pianist ploughed on through the hubbub of greetings, the jokes, the reminiscences. Soon someone had pushed back a couple of tables and two couples took to the floor; a boy in army uniform with a blonde-haired girl, and an older man in pinstripes, his trilby tilted forwards, arm around the elderly woman who’d been serving the sandwiches. When the music turned fast and furious to a jitterbugging number, she shrieked and protested, but her partner danced on.

  ‘Fancy a turn?’ One of the drinkers at the bar sacrificed his stool and came to draw Meggie onto the floor. He was young and quite good looking, so she said she’d give it a go. As luck would have it, he was an expert dancer. In the crowded space he was still able to twist and turn her, swaying to the beat and guiding them with tricky sidesteps and twirls. Meggie held her end up; she was naturally rhythmic and graceful, knowing not to fight against the pattern her partner set up. Their skill soon drew admiring looks.

  ‘You done this before?’ He held one arm aloft to let her spin by herself.

  She nodded. Her hair flew back then swung in against her cheek, a solid, shiny mass. She felt her skirt lift above her knees.

  ‘I’m Eddie.’ He held her waist and hunched his shoulders, sliding across the floor in a series of small rocking movements.

  ‘Meggie.’

  ‘I ain’t seen you down here before.’

  ‘I ain’t from round here, that’s why.’ The music, the movement exhilarated her.

  ‘You ain’t one of Ronnie’s girls, then?’

  ‘Why? Does he have lots?’

  ‘Lucky devil. Still, you can’t blame him.’ Eddie spun her round and round as the number came to a close. ‘These days you gotta make hay while the sun shines.’

  They stopped at the edge of the dance floor. ‘Ta, Eddie.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  That was only the start of it. She had more dances throughout the afternoon with her first partner, and many others with the boys queuing up to dance with her, some with two left feet it had to be admitted, some reasonable, none as good as Eddie. The versatile piano player, a man with a ready, flashing smile, happy to play so long as they ferried drinks to him from th
e bar, changed his tune from jitterbug to waltz, from music hall to jazz. Meggie loved every minute.

  She was at the bar with a crowd of girls, all recovering from a scrum at the end of the hokey-cokey, breathless and laughing, when Ronnie tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to dance. Her heart gave a sudden tilt; she’d been hoping and praying that he would notice her. She nodded and blushed, put down her glass of orange juice. He led her back onto the floor.

  They danced a quickstep, very sedate compared to the convulsions of the jitterbug and the hokey-cokey. Ronnie led well, but she hardly noticed what they were doing, so caught up was she in the thrill of being close to the most handsome man in the room. She thought he was wonderful, his skin smooth and fresh after the tough routine of drilling, his wavy hair very smart. He had light brown eyes – she thought you would call them hazel – and dark lashes which didn’t make him look feminine, for his brows were straight and thick, his jaw firm and square. He was taller than her by a good three inches, broad shouldered, her ideal man.

  ‘You just moved into the Court?’ He opened the conversation.

  ‘No. I was passing by.’

  ‘Glad you did?’ She nodded.

  ‘I bet you never knew what you were walking into.’

  The effort of finding something interesting to say to her was proving difficult. He cursed himself for sounding like a thickhead.

  ‘That’s true, I never.’ In a panic of her own, she began to babble. ‘Mind you, it was in my horoscope this morning. It said something unexpected would turn up.’ Now he would think she was the sort who never did anything without reading her stars.

  ‘In the Picture Post?’ They collided with a table. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. Yes, the Picture Post. Silly, ain’t it?’