Sons and Daughters

by Mary Jane Staples

  In came customers.

  Jenny dug into her handbag, extracted a beach snapshot of herself in her shirt and shorts, and gave it to Jimmy. Her address and phone number were on the back.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. She glanced at the new customers. ‘I’ll have to push off now, I suppose, but Happy Christmas, Jimmy.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Jenny, and may all your days be sunny, as the dandelion said to the daffodil. “Look who’s talking,” said the daffodil.’

  Jenny was laughing on her way out.

  A little later, Freddy asked Jimmy if he’d let a customer escape without buying anything.

  ‘Which customer?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘The peachy young lady,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Oh, she just wanted to tell me the time,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘The time?’ said Ruby.

  ‘Yes, seven o’clock on the second Saturday in January,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Sounds promising,’ said Freddy, whose happy-go-lucky nature had taken a savage beating during the Burma campaign against the insufferable and inhuman Japs. His return home to Cassie and his children had restored a large amount of his cheerful appreciation of life. ‘Ought to be an entertaining evening, Jimmy, considering her high-class looks.’

  ‘Yes, where’d you find her?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘On a beach,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Have I seen her before?’ asked Ruby. ‘She seems familiar.’

  ‘Not with me,’ said Jimmy, ‘she’s a well brought up girl.’

  ‘Gertcha,’ said Ruby.

  Jimmy smiled. He was on a high.

  * * *

  Later that day, with the art college students on vacation, Jenny met her friend Fiona.

  ‘Did you see him?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘Yes, I saw him.’

  ‘What a sweetie,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Yes, isn’t he?’

  ‘I could eat him,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Well, hard luck, Fiona ducky, you’re not eating Jimmy,’ said Jenny, ‘he’s reserved.’

  ‘He’s got a girlfriend?’ said Fiona.

  ‘Yes, me,’ said Jenny.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Matthew and Jonathan set a trap that night, a cold and crisp night, very much like that which, according to legend, King Wenceslaus and his page had endured about a thousand years ago. The trap was formed by a large spread of stout rope netting, fixed very lightly halfway up the hedge and fanning out from there to the ground. When the foxes frisked through, they’d bring the netting down on top of them the moment they nosed into it.

  Well, that was the idea, and it had its humanitarian aspect in that it would inflict no pain. Trapped, the foxes could be cleanly shot.

  ‘Think they’ll fall for it?’ Jonathan had said.

  ‘We’ll tempt the perishers,’ said Matthew, ‘we’ll rub meat grease all over the netting. The smell of that will reach their noses far quicker than our smell.’

  The banshee had been switched off during recent days on account of a bellowing phone call from Major Gorringe to the effect that the blankety-blank contraption had caused Mildred to fall out of bed again and bruise her rear end. The consequent silence of the banshee had resulted in the foxes getting to the wire fence and taking no notice when the floodlight came on. They’d dug deep. Jonathan had filled in the hole, but he knew that next time they’d dig deeper and be in among the hundreds of roosting hens.

  Now, Matthew and Jonathan were waiting not far from the netting. They themselves could smell the meaty odour. It was strong enough to kill their human smell, for sure.

  At about eight o’clock, the hedge lightly rustled to the influx of furry bodies. Matthew and Jonathan tensed. The rustles were just audible, and so was the swish of the netting as it fell. Matthew was up and rushing, Jonathan following. Matthew had a torch, and they each had a rifle. The netting was emitting frantic little scuffles. On went the torch to illuminate the captives.

  ‘Well, blast my damned braces,’ breathed Matthew. ‘Look what we’ve caught, Jonathan.’

  Jonathan, arriving, looked at what was showing in the bright light of the torch.

  ‘Bloody rabbits,’ he said.

  ‘Six of ’em,’ said Matthew, ‘two old bucks and four plump does.’

  ‘When did rabbits start liking meat?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘About five minutes ago, so it seems,’ said Matthew.

  ‘D’you fancy rabbit pie?’ asked Jonathan.

  ‘It’ll make a change from scrambled eggs and roast chicken,’ said Matthew. ‘But not for six days in a row. We’ll skin a couple for Mildred Gorringe, as recompense for her bruised bum. And we’ll rig the netting up again, for the foxes.’

  ‘Leave a card inside it, wishing ’em a merry Christmas,’ said Jonathan.

  The rigging stayed up all night, but it didn’t catch anything. However, there were hordes of ants digging into the smeared meat grease and carrying it off.

  Bess received an American Christmas card from Jeremy, airmailed from Chicago. He had penned the following greeting.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Bess, many regrets that I’m two thousand miles-plus from you, but my father has died and I’ve problems to solve. All the same, I intend to keep my promise to see you, so don’t go away. Jeremy.’

  Christmas Eve, and the afternoon atmosphere at the Labour Party’s Walworth headquarters was festive. No-one could say that since the victorious election in 1945, Prime Minister Attlee’s government had failed the people with its measures. There were still problems, mainly with the economy, but the headquarters’ workers felt entitled to enjoy some Christmas cheer.

  Lulu, however, had her head down. She’d finished typing letters and was now engaged in what had become her favourite occupation, the devising of catchy slogans. Her spectacles were on the end of her nose, her rich black hair hanging, her lips pursed, and her legs a visual brightness below the hem of her skirt. Her concentration represented an earnest disregard of the noises of partying in the building.

  Paul came in, a glass of beer in one hand, and a bottle of cider in the other.

  ‘Lulu,’ he said, ‘what’re you doing?’

  ‘Working,’ said Lulu.

  ‘Go easy,’ said Paul, ‘it’s Christmas Eve. There’s free food and drink in the main office, as well as a large amount of mistletoe.’

  ‘All that’s for adolescents,’ said Lulu. ‘I’m a woman of serious application. To my career.’

  ‘I’ve told you, you’re still a girl,’ said Paul, ‘and serious application at your age will make your hair fall out. Now, would you like a glass of cider? Or a cupful if we can’t find a glass?’

  ‘Thank you, but not yet,’ said Lulu. ‘Listen. How’s this for a New Year slogan? “Workers! Rise up! Make sure we are still the masters!”’

  ‘Where’d you get that from?’ asked Paul.

  Lulu reminded him that Sir Hartley Shawcross, a member of Britain’s prosecution team at the original Nuremberg trials, and now the Labour government’s Attorney-General, had made a famous declaration about the victorious Socialists in 1946. He’d said, ‘We are the masters at the moment, and not only at the moment, but for a very long time to come.’

  Paul said he wasn’t sure he liked that kind of declaration. It sounded as if the Labour Party had the power and inclination to flog anybody who upset it. Like Winston Churchill, for instance. As leader of the opposition, he was always tearing strips off Labour’s ministers.

  ‘It wouldn’t be very popular, Lulu, even with a whole lot of Labour voters, flogging Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Are you drunk?’ asked Lulu.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Paul. ‘Now look here, we were elected to set up free health care, to nationalize public services and the means of productivity in certain industries, like coal-mining, and to provide social welfare benefits for the poor. We’ve done all that without flogging anybody. That slogan about being the masters won’t do. It’s not appropriate for our kind. This is the time for thinking up words o
f goodwill to all.’

  ‘Blow that,’ said Lulu. ‘Goodwill to the Tories? Their industrialists have still got their boots on the necks of the workers. Time we executed the lot of them.’

  ‘Lulu, you terror, I’ll flog you if you don’t get a bit of the Christmas spirit inside you,’ said Paul, plonking the bottle of cider on her desk.

  ‘Oh, very funny,’ said Lulu.

  At that moment in walked her father, the constituency’s MP, a happy smile on his face, a glass of whisky keeping him company.

  ‘What’s going on, eh?’ he said.

  ‘Lulu’s still working,’ said Paul.

  ‘So I see. Time you started to celebrate, Lulu. Come on.’

  Lulu declared herself too busy. So her father took over in the hearty fashion of a man who didn’t allow his politics to interfere with old-fashioned tradition. Five minutes later Lulu found herself in the main office, crowded with workers soaking up the party atmosphere and the free drinks. Her father gave her a glass of tonic, mildly infiltrated by gin. Paul, a grin on his face, watched as she was drawn into a celebration of Christmas. Such annual festivity she regarded as a capitalist ploy to make the country’s workers feel they were being treated handsomely. She tried to say that what everyone should be celebrating was one more year of a Labour government. No-one listened. People insisted on refilling her glass.

  After an hour her glasses were slightly askew, her face flushed, and the party was breaking up to allow the staff to go home early. Kisses were being given and received under hanging sprigs of mistletoe. Lulu, tipsy, was nevertheless sufficiently compos mentis to escape this kind of silly behaviour. Paul, still keeping an eye on her, followed her back to their office.

  Lulu, standing at her desk and regarding it as if not sure what it was or why it was there, was swaying a bit.

  ‘How d’you feel?’ he asked.

  She looked at him while pushing her specs back from the tip of her nose.

  ‘I know you,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ said Paul. ‘You can go home now.’

  Her father put his head in.

  ‘Pick you up in five minutes, Lulu, and drive you home,’ he said with an understanding smile, and his head went away again.

  ‘That’ll make sure you get there,’ said Paul.

  ‘Is it Christmas?’ asked Lulu.

  ‘Christmas Eve,’ said Paul.

  ‘Invented by capitalists,’ said Lulu, stumbling a little over the latter word.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Paul, ‘have a happy time.’

  Lulu’s spectacles blinked.

  ‘You’re going to give me a silly kiss,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no mistletoe in here,’ said Paul, ‘but perhaps a kiss is called for.’

  ‘I – oops –’ Lulu emitted a hiccup. ‘I wouldn’t advise it.’

  Paul kissed her, anyway, to show goodwill. Lulu quivered.

  ‘There, that didn’t hurt, did it?’ he said.

  ‘What a liberty,’ said Lulu. Putting her arms around his neck, she kissed him back, her lips laden with gin and tonic. Her glasses fell off.

  What a kiss, thought Paul. She’s got hidden talent.

  Her father walked in.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ he said heartily, ‘is this a Christmas special?’

  Lulu, her arms still around Paul’s neck, said vaguely, ‘Where’s my specs?’

  ‘On the floor,’ said Mr Saunders.

  ‘I think the swine kissed me,’ said Lulu, slowly unwinding herself. She swayed. ‘Someone hit him.’

  Her father laughed. Paul picked up her spectacles. He gave them to her, and she put them on. They peered at him.

  ‘Well?’ said Paul.

  ‘Some Christmas,’ she said.

  Her father took her home then.

  Boots and Polly entertained a gathering of the clan on Christmas Day evening, at their large house close to Dulwich Village. One could have said it was as much a multitude as a gathering. Widowed Aunt Victoria was present, and so were Polly’s father and stepmother. And so was Rachel, who, since coming to know the family, had never felt she needed to dissociate herself from Christian customs. She was, in any case, regarded as one of the family now that her daughter Leah was married to Lizzy and Ned’s son Edward.

  The old-fashioned party games were riotous.

  Lizzy said to her daughter-in-law Leah, ‘Is it too much for you?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Leah, ‘I love it.’

  Polly said to Susie, ‘It’ll never change.’

  ‘Well, do we want it to?’ said Susie.

  ‘Boots doesn’t,’ said Polly. ‘He’s convinced there are too many other changes happening already.’

  ‘Sammy says he hopes they’ll be good for business.’

  ‘That’s Sammy, the old sport,’ said Polly.

  Rosie said to Boots, ‘Same old games.’

  ‘Same old world, Rosie.’

  ‘Our old world?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Yes, ours,’ said Boots.

  Patsy said to Daniel, ‘I used to think I’d never survive English Christmases.’

  ‘I sure am chuffed you did, honey chile,’ said Daniel, ‘I sure am.’

  ‘Some cowboy,’ said Patsy. ‘Daniel, you’re cute.’

  That, she knew, would rouse him. It did.

  ‘Wait till I get you home,’ he said.

  ‘Promise?’ said Patsy.

  ‘You bet,’ said Daniel.

  Bobby said to Helene, ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helene, ‘I’m thinking all the English are crazy, especially at Christmas.’

  ‘Are we?’ said Bobby.

  ‘Yes, chéri, and so am I,’ said Helene.

  Rachel said to Jimmy, ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘To be honest, Aunt Rachel, the second Saturday in January.’

  ‘My life,’ said Rachel, ‘is that going to be special?’

  ‘That, Aunt Rachel, is what you call in the hands of fate,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘There’s a girl, is there?’ said Rachel.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jimmy, ‘and she’s special, I can tell you that.’

  Chinese Lady, sitting with Edwin, Aunt Victoria, and Sir Henry and Lady Simms, said to her husband, ‘Edwin, I can’t remember Christmas being as noisy as this.’

  ‘Maisie, my dear, there are quite a few more of us now,’ smiled Mr Finch.

  ‘Well, I just hope the few more don’t bring the house down,’ said Chinese Lady.

  At the chicken farm, the dog fox and its vixen, trapped at last by the rope netting, were biting their way through it, and hoping to run free by the time Boxing Day dawned.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  New Year, 1950.

  Early January.

  ‘Back off,’ said Lulu. Paul was leaning over her desk, offering her a sheet of notepaper.

  ‘Something bothering you?’ said Paul. Well into his twentieth year, he could not claim to be as handsome as his father, but he was still personable enough to please many a fair maiden looking for a steady.

  ‘I’m not forgetting Christmas Eve,’ said Lulu, in her nineteenth year and not looking for anything but a career in politics. ‘Nor that sloppy drunken kiss you gave me.’

  ‘Oh, you remember that, do you?’ said Paul. ‘I thought you were too foggy with gin and tonic to remember anything.’

  ‘Some swine laced my glass of lemonade,’ said Lulu, specs glowering.

  ‘That lemonade started off as a gin and tonic,’ said Paul.

  ‘I don’t drink that stuff,’ said Lulu. ‘It’s for the snooty wives of capitalists and Conservatives. And if you don’t take that silly grin off your face, I’ll do you an injury.’

  ‘Forget going off your chump,’ said Paul, ‘and type this out for me, there’s a good girl.’ He placed the sheet of notepaper in front of her.

  ‘I’m busy,’ said Lulu.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Typing letters.’

  ‘You’ve just finishe
d them,’ said Paul.

  ‘Have I? So I have. So you’re lucky, then.’ Lulu was always on her guard during their many dialogues, much as if she suspected her person was going to be taken apart and refitted. She picked up the sheet. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Agenda for the AGM of the Young Socialists’ committee,’ said Paul. ‘When you’ve typed it, run off a dozen copies on the Roneo, and we’ll get them posted tomorrow.’

  ‘Your writing’s grim,’ said Lulu.

  ‘So am I when I’m getting sauce,’ said Paul.

  ‘That’s it, scare me silly,’ said Lulu. ‘Listen. We need more outdoor meetings. The kind to draw crowds. To get the populace election-minded. Or they’ll forget to vote next month.’

  A General Election had been fixed for February, when Prime Minister Clement Attlee and his Labour Party were hoping for the victory that would entitle them to remain in office. However, some doubts existed, due to what looked like a swing to Winston Churchill’s Conservative Party. Although the promised Welfare State had been created, the economy was still shaky, and industry still lagging behind competitors. Lulu, very Left-wing, was all in favour of taxing the rich up to their eyebrows. Paul, although an opponent of capitalism, was wary of extremism. He didn’t think beggaring the rich would provide the country with untold wealth. It was more likely to put the rich on the dole.

  ‘More outdoor meetings?’ he said. ‘Good point, Lulu, but it’s January, and not many people of Walworth and Camberwell are going to stand about listening to Young Socialists on soapboxes. They’ve got their chilblains to think about. Better if we organized a doorstep canvass by as many volunteers as possible. What are you doing tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Studying,’ said Lulu.

  ‘Studying what, might I ask?’

  ‘The life of James Keir Hardie, the first Socialist ever to be an elected MP,’ said Lulu.

  ‘Lulu, not on a Saturday evening,’ said Paul.

  ‘When’s Saturday evening, then?’ asked Lulu.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Paul.

  ‘What’s today, then? Oh, yes, Friday. But it makes no difference. I’ll still be studying tomorrow.’

  ‘Now look here,’ said Paul, ‘you’ll get old before your time unless you go in for a bit of recreation. Haven’t you been to any of these dance halls specializing in that American-imported craze, the jitterbug?’