Fur Coat, No Knickers

by Anna King

  Patrick had taken their money with insolent impunity, and when in desperation one of the men had offered his house as collateral against Patrick’s entire winnings, the Irishman hadn’t hesitated. At the end of the game, Patrick had come away with a signed pledge for a manor house on the outskirts of Hackney, his heart and mind filled to bursting at his enormous achievement. But this time it was Patrick who had been the victim of duplicity. For on arrival to take possession of the deeds, Patrick had been shown by the sneering debtor not a grand manor house, as he had been led to believe, but a shambling wreck of a building that had been left to rot for many years.

  Yet even as Patrick had stared in dismay at his newly acquired property, something inside him had seen the beauty of the once grandiose house, and had resolved there and then to restore the Georgian manor to its former glory. He had never forgotten the look on the original owner’s face as he had grabbed the man’s hand and thanked him profusely before hurrying inside the ramshackle building to inspect his new home.

  That night he had bedded down on bare, rotten floorboards, with damp pervading the walls and a strong wind blowing through the smashed window-frames; his only company were the rats and mice that scurried into dark corners at his every move. But Patrick hadn’t cared. He had a home again. A real home that nobody could ever take away from him, and that cold, windy night, as he had lain awake among the littered rubbish on the creaking floor, he had made a vow to turn the crumbling heap of bricks into a house that would be the envy of all, but more importantly, to build a home that would be a testament to himself long after he had gone.

  It had taken five long, lonely years, but with the money he had won in Dublin, together with the winnings from his weekly visits to the gaming clubs in and around the East End, he had slowly restored the manor house to its original state. There were times, of course, when he had come up against someone equally dextrous with the cards and had lost, sometimes heavily, but he had always managed to recoup his winnings at a later date.

  In 1881, Patrick married Edith Bishop, a teacher from the local primary school. They had two sons, Samuel and Daniel, and when Patrick died two years after his wife, in 1930, the house passed to his eldest son, Samuel – who by that time had married and had three young daughters, all living in the large family home – with the proviso that, in the event of Samuel’s death, the house then be passed on to the surviving son Daniel, and/or any subsequent heirs.

  At the time of Patrick’s death, the council had already begun to build the new row of terraces in Lester Road, the land having previously been open fields. But number one – with its stone-pillared porch and double-fronted windows on all three storeys, and additional attic space at the back of the house, where two servants had lodged back when the house was owned by the gentry and was now occupied by Daniel Donnelly – continued to dominate the street.

  A sudden loud scream brought Grace rudely back to the present. Startled, she glanced up, then relaxed as she saw the source of the piercing yell. One of the small boys playing in the street had been knocked on his back by an equally small companion. A few fists were heatedly exchanged before the small figures resumed their game of marbles. It was a familiar scene, and not one that Grace felt obliged to meddle in.

  A sharp wind had sprung up in the rapidly cooling evening and Grace found herself suddenly shivering. She pulled her coat collar up around her ears and gave a small sigh, then she took a cautious look behind her to see if Stanley had followed her from the bus stop. Seeing no sign of his broad figure, she shook her head before slowly crossing the narrow, cobbled road and coming to a stop outside the corner shop. Plunging her hands into her coat pockets, Grace made a great play of staring into the grimy window, while waiting for Stanley to make an appearance; she did not imagine for a moment that her fiancé would have gone home without trying to make amends. That wasn’t Stanley’s way. He might well shout and rave when he believed himself to be slighted, but not once since Grace had known him had Stanley ever been able to leave her with bad feelings between them. Grace could, quite easily, but not Stanley. And knowing that, she would rather face him out in the street than put him through the ordeal of apologising in front of her inquisitive family.

  Keeping her eyes fixed steadily on the grimy shop window, Grace’s nose wrinkled in amiable disapproval at the usual haphazard display. Old Benji, as the shopkeeper was affectionately called, had always catered for all purposes and tastes, and this was reflected in the jumbled assortment of merchandise on show – ranging from a wide variety of foodstuffs and household items, such as brooms, buckets and mops, to a motley selection of second-hand clothes. It was well known that at Benji’s you could buy anything from a packet of fags to a three-piece suit. And if by some chance Benji didn’t have what you wanted that particular day, he would have it waiting the next. An added bonus of shopping at the corner shop was that you could buy goods on tick. This thriving custom was yet another example of how the Donnellys were set apart from their neighbours, for they had never been known to avail themselves of this well-used method of shopping.

  Not that the Donnelly family were snobs, far from it. In fact they got on very well with the neighbours. But there was no popping in and out of the Donnellys’ house for cups of tea and a chat, as was the custom of the majority of the neighbours. But nobody had ever queried this reticence on their part. It was simply something that had never been done or even thought of. And it wasn’t just the grandeur of the red-bricked house that deterred the neighbours from becoming overfamiliar, but rather the quiet dignity of Sam and Hetty Donnelly – both teachers, both educated far beyond the rest of the street, as were their daughters – that served as a constant reminder that the people in the end house were, as the women of the street termed it, posh.

  Outside the dingy-looking shop stood a few old wooden crates filled with battered fruit and vegetables. On one of the crates containing some speckled apples sat a ginger tomcat busily cleaning himself with gusto. Grace looked from the cat to the fruit and shuddered. She wouldn’t be eating any apples bought from Benji’s for quite a while. And when the ginger cat yawned and jumped lazily on to an adjoining crate of cabbages to stretch out for a sleep, Grace mentally reminded herself to tell her nan not to buy any fruit or veg from the corner shop in future.

  Glancing up she caught sight of her reflection in the grimy window and imagined her nan’s reaction to the cleaning habits of Benji’s cat. As if the woman herself was standing beside her, Grace could hear the strident voice of Aggie Harper saying, ‘What the eye don’t see, the heart don’t grieve over. Now eat your dinner and belt up.’

  The sound of two women approaching the shop caused Grace to move away slightly from her position, but as she made to walk on she caught sight of a man’s reflection in the unwashed window and felt her heart lift. Well! He’d certainly taken his time. Turning to face him, Grace saw the guilty, contrite expression on Stanley’s troubled face and immediately softened towards him.

  She was about to cross the road to meet him halfway when a sharp burst of pain hit her in the ankle, causing her to cry out in alarm. Hearing Grace’s startled yelp of pain, Stan bounded forward, his face filled with concern.

  ‘You all right, Gracie? What happened… You hurt, love?’

  Bending down to rub her smarting ankle, Grace looked to where three scruffy children were standing wide-eyed, their faces stretched with guilt. Then a boy of about eight with untidy black hair sidled forward warily.

  ‘Coo, sorry, Grace. Did me marble hurt yer? I didn’t mean to hit yer, Gracie, honest I didn’t!’

  Still rubbing her ankle Grace bent down and picked up the blood-red marble. She was quick to notice the look of anxiety that crossed the three dirty faces, as the boys hopped from one mud-streaked leg to another in agitation.

  Grace smiled, then held out her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Billy, I’ll live. Here you are… And be more careful with it in future,’ she shouted after the grinning, running figures as they raced back down the
narrow cobbled road.

  Stanley stood to one side, unsure whether he should offer any further assistance or be on the safe side and wait for Grace to make the first move in making up their quarrel. And when she glanced up at him and said ruefully, ‘I wouldn’t say no to a strong arm to lean on. That blasted marble really caught me a wallop,’ Stanley eagerly moved closer, knowing that for the moment, at least, their argument was forgotten.

  They had barely gone a few steps when Stan, patting at his breast pocket, exclaimed, ‘Hang on a minute, Grace. I’m just popping into Benji’s for me fags. Won’t be long, all right?’ Propping Grace up against the wall, Stan gave a reassuring smile and a wink before disappearing into the murky depths of the corner shop.

  Left on her own, Grace gingerly tested her ankle by putting her weight on the still-throbbing joint. She was surprised to find she could put her foot to the ground without too much discomfort. Still… it wouldn’t hurt to play on it for a bit. Not for any sympathy her slight injury might elicit, but more to have something trivial to focus on for a while, a sort of barrier behind which they could both hide, and, in so doing, give them both a chance to get their earlier argument into perspective.

  The bell over the shop tinkled as Stanley emerged, then stood to one side to hold the door open as another customer entered the shop.

  Breaking the seal on the cigarettes, Stanley flipped out a Woodbine and lit it before saying, ‘Here, put your arm round me shoulders and lean on me. Unless you’d rather I carried you to your front door.’ The words were spoken lightly, but Grace heard the peace offering in Stanley’s voice and smiled tiredly.

  ‘It’s all right, Stan. I’m as much to blame as you. I know it’s something we have to talk about seriously, but can we leave it until later? I’m really not up to dealing with it right now.’

  Eagerly taking the proffered olive branch, Stan nodded. ‘Yeah, course we can, love. After all, there’s no rush, is there?’

  Leaning her weight against Stanley’s side, Grace hobbled gamely up the street, grateful that at this time of the evening the neighbours were indoors having their evening meal, sparing her any unwanted solicitations that might arise at her injured state.

  As they neared the end house, Stanley experienced the same feeling he always did when approaching Grace’s home. It was a mixture of envy and awe that he, Stanley Slater, whose own home had been a run-down hovel in Stepney, could have ever ended up courting a girl from such salubrious origins. Not that the family was wealthy. Old man Donnelly had lived on the edge all of his life, One minute rolling in money, the next without a penny to his name. It was said that in later years, after the old man’s once nimble fingers had begun to stiffen with age, the fiery Irishman would bet on two flies crawling up a pub wall in order to win a few bob. But the one thing he had never gambled with was his home. And that in itself said a lot about the man as, being of the character he was, it must have been a grave temptation in his later years, for the house as it stood must have been worth two thousand pounds, or more.

  As Grace fumbled in her bag, Stanley’s eyes continued to roam the house, and as usual, the grandness of Grace’s home merely served to remind him of his own inadequacy. For he would never own such a home. He might well marry into it, but it would never be his, not even if he ended his days within its walls. Yet if he did marry Grace, what would he have to offer in its place? A cheap, one-bedroomed flat in a back street, similar to the place he now lived!

  ‘Are you stopping for tea, Stan?’ Grace had her key in the lock, her good foot resting on the red-ochre doorstep.

  Jerking out of his reverie, Stanley grinned warmly. ‘Yeah, ta, love. I was hoping you’d ask. Mind you, it’ll mean giving old Ma Grimes’s sardines on toast a miss, but I’m sure she’ll serve ’em up for me breakfast. She’s not one for wasting food is my landlady.’

  Pushing open the heavy door, Grace smiled over her shoulder at Stan, before stepping into the hallway. And Stanley, with a last appraising look at the exterior of the house and mentally comparing it with the grotty two-bedroomed house in nearby Bethnal Green where he rented a room, shrugged his shoulders and followed Grace into the spacious hallway.

  Chapter Three

  Taking off her coat and hat, Grace hung them on the hall stand, calling out, ‘Anyone home?’

  Almost immediately a loud, strident voice answered, ‘Nah, we’ve all gone up West for a night out on the town.’

  Grace grinned broadly and, gesturing for Stanley to follow, poked her head around the door of the sitting room, crying warmly, ‘Well, you might have waited for me. I could do with a night on the town.’ Walking into the large, spacious room, Grace leant down and kissed the wrinkled cheek of the small, plump woman sitting in a beige and yellow armchair. ‘Hello, Nan. Nobody else home yet?’

  Aggie Harper, a brisk, bustling woman in her early sixties, shook her head impatiently.

  ‘What d’yer think! The girls should’ve been home half an hour ago, an’ your mum and dad must be working late again, I mean to say…’ Twisting around in her seat to look up at Stan she added, ‘Oh, hello, lad. I didn’t see you standing there… Well, come in if you’re stopping.’ Leaning slightly towards him Aggie peered up, saying, ‘You are stopping for your tea, ain’t you, lad?’

  Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Stanley was momentarily disconcerted by the penetrating gaze in the still-bright blue eyes, and mumbled awkwardly, ‘Yeah, thanks… If it’s all right with you of course, Mrs Harper.’

  ‘Course it’s all right, you daft bugger…’ Then, without seeming to pause for breath, Aggie continued her former train of thought. ‘Like I was saying, what’s the point of having a job where you can finish at four o’clock in the afternoon if you’re gonna stay behind to do extra work? Don’t make sense to me. But then, what do I know, eh…?’ She smiled over at her granddaughter, now sitting snugly on the brown three-seater settee, and added wistfully, ‘All the brains in the family went to me daughter and grandchildren. Still, God gave me a good pair of hands an’—’

  Leaning forward, Grace interrupted the familiar banter by saying, ‘Yes, and we’ve all felt the back of them from time to time, haven’t we, Nan?’

  Aggie’s face fell in comical lines of disbelief as she appealed to the young, silent man by Grace’s side on the settee. ‘Did you ever hear anything like it, Stanley, me own flesh an’ blood cheeking me like that?’

  Never knowing quite how to take Aggie Harper, Stanley found himself smiling inanely as he answered, ‘Um, yeah, well, you know Gracie.’

  Aggie moved restlessly in the chair, the smile seeping from her face as she stared at the man by her Gracie’s side, wondering, not for the first time, what her granddaughter saw in him. He could be a right miserable git at times. Gawd blimey! It wasn’t as if he was a stranger in the house. To look at him sitting perched there on the edge of the settee, like he had a poker up his backside, you’d think he was trying to sell something from a suitcase. Only those cheeky buggers would make themselves more at home than Stanley ever did. She only hoped the lad had a bit more life in him when he was alone with Grace, else her granddaughter was in for a long and boring life.

  Clucking her tongue impatiently, Aggie turned, her head coming round to face the wall clock as she cried, ‘Look at the time. That shepherd’s pie’ll be done to a crisp if they don’t get a move on.’

  At her nan’s words, Grace’s face fell.

  ‘Nan,’ she spoke hesitantly, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. ‘Nan, it’s Friday. You know Dad won’t eat meat on a Friday.’ Sam Donnelly, although long since a lapsed Catholic, still refused to eat meat on a Friday, a custom he had never managed to shake off.

  And Aggie knew that perfectly well.

  ‘Now, don’t go getting your knickers in a twist, me girl.’ Aggie wagged a stubby finger under Grace’s nose. ‘I’ve done your dad and Danny a nice fish pie, though Danny’ll likely turn his nose up at it when he sees what the rest of us are having… An’
speaking of your uncle, I don’t know where the bloody hell he is either… Oh, they must’ve heard me…’ The sound of the front door opening and voices out in the hallway brought the irate woman half out of her chair. ‘About bloody time too!’ she called out as she attempted to push herself up out of the armchair.

  ‘Do you want a hand getting up, Nan?’ Grace asked, as Aggie seemed to be having trouble getting her large frame out of the snug confines of the chair.

  ‘What!’ A pair of blazing blue eyes swivelled to glare at Grace. ‘I ain’t in me dotage yet, me girl. The day I can’t get outta me chair without help is the day I’ll be pushing up the daisies.’ With much huffing and puffing Aggie hauled her heavy bulk upright just as Sam Donnelly popped his head around the door.

  ‘Hello, love… Hello, Stanley,’ he called out cheerfully.

  ‘An’ what am I then… The bleeding cat’s mother?’ Aggie bridled indignantly.

  With all the graceful charm of his Irish forebears, Sam beamed down on his mother-in-law.

  ‘And a beautiful cat’s mother, you’d make, Aggie.’

  Samuel Donnelly was a tall man with a lean build, red hair liberally sprinkled with grey and twinkling blue eyes. Behind him in the doorway his wife Hetty appeared.

  ‘Is he tormenting you again, Mum?’

  Hetty Donnelly was a small woman, who, like her mother, had put on a lot of weight since her young days and was, as her husband often referred to her, well padded. Her chin-length, soft brown curly hair had as yet no evidence of grey, though her husband often teased her about the benefits of the dye bottle. Now her laughing blue eyes were darting from one to another of her family, her gaze settling on her eldest daughter, who had inherited her looks, although, as yet, thankfully, not her build.