Trouble In Paradise

by Pip Granger

In the end, Zinnia became businesslike. ‘Aye, well, here’s a hanky, have a good blow.’ She gave me a little shove towards the sink. ‘Wash your face – you look like a tabby cat with all those black streaks. Let’s get away to that party before all the whisky I know your dad’s been hoarding is drunk. Just remember what I say, lassie, you’ve a home here if you’ve a mind. Any time.’ She collected up our cups and saucers, ran them under the tap, absentmindedly dried them and put them away in the cupboard before turning back to me, smiling.

  ‘Now, where’s that wee dram I was promised? I’ll not get it standing here blethering with you, that’s for sure.’

  As we walked back to Arcadia Buildings arm in arm, I wondered, not for the first time – nor the last – how Zinnia and my mum seemed to know everything.

  4

  The piano was going like the clappers and voices were raised in song, telling us how Hitler only had one ball, to the tune of ‘Colonel Bogey’. A good time was being had by all. Mum and Dad were by the bonfire fishing out hot spuds from the cinders with long toasting forks. Their faces glowed with happiness, booze and firelight as Zinnia and I wound our way through the crowd to join them.

  I had two choices that night. I could worry myself to death about what life was going to be like in the future or I could let my hair down and enjoy the moment that every person I knew had been waiting for for six long years. It took just an instant to make up my mind. I was going to enjoy the moment, because it was one that would never come again.

  The whole thing was a blur of singing, dancing and drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. God knows where all the drink came from. It’d been so long since spirits had been freely available, us younger ones thought they were something to do with ghosts. We knew little about the sort that came in bottles. Things had been very tight for the previous six years. What little there was around certainly wasn’t wasted too freely on the young, who hadn’t had the chance to develop a taste for it. So, inexperience might explain why, for only the third time in my life, I got myself stupid giggling drunk.

  The very first time I was the worse for wear, the giggling had stopped abruptly on that grave in St Mary’s churchyard. I remember looking, when Charlie’d finished, at that grave, to see who had been my silent witness. Her name was Emily Alice Davies, 1821–1838, Beloved Daughter of Ezekiel and Eliza. She was seventeen, the same age as me at the time. It seemed important, that, to hang on to the fact that poor Emily Alice had died, which was a fate worse than a fate worse than death, in my opinion. I often took flowers and chatted to Emily Alice. I still do now and then.

  The second time was a lot more fun; the bits I can remember were, at least. I was up West with a whole load of pals. Charlie was already at Catterick, so wasn’t there to spoil everything like he always did when he’d had a few. This third time, the night war ended, was the very best time of all. I danced with Terry Rainbird, Ronnie Rigby and Lenny Hobbs in the flickering light of the bonfire until I thought my feet would drop off, closely followed by my legs.

  I went into the house to rest and collapsed at last next to my gran, who was three sheets to the wind, singing ‘Danny Boy’ in a quavering soprano and waving a large glass of stout about in the most alarming fashion, stopping just short of slopping it on the lino. Every now and then she’d break off singing, cackle, tap her feet as if she was dancing and chant, ‘We won the war! We won the war!’ at the top of her lungs.

  She was having a fine old time until Ma Hole, Bung’ole’s mum, stumped into the kitchen. ‘Bleeding ’ell, Ida Smallbone,’ she said, ‘why don’t you shut your tuneless trap and offer a body a drink?’

  Gran stopped abruptly and eyed Ma Hole as if she’d come in on someone’s shoe. ‘Because, Gladys Hole, I normally choose only to drink with my friends, and you ain’t no friend of mine. However’ – she paused as she gathered herself up for a big effort – ‘as it is such a wonderful occasion, I’ll overlook past trouble between our families and give you a convivial glass of stout. Zelda, pour the woman a drink.’ So I did. Then I went outdoors again to carry on dancing.

  The last thing I remember of that night was my nephew Tony, standing in the dying light of the bonfire as dawn was just beginning to glow red in the east, looking like a fallen angel, but sounding like one that was soaring to the sky, as he sang ‘Oh for the wings, for the wings of a dove’ in a voice so pure it broke every heart within hearing distance.

  The next thing I knew, I was being gently woken by Gran. I had been put to bed in my old room in Arcadia Buildings sometime after dawn.

  A hair of the dog, a cup of tea and two aspirin – Dad’s remedy for hangovers – was waiting for me on the bedside table. Along with the cure came instructions to proceed downstairs to Gran’s to calm Vi down. Dad had nipped round to the police station to pick up Tony and Mum had gone round to the baker’s before the bread ran out.

  I couldn’t get my brain working enough to instruct my mouth to ask what had happened before Gran disappeared as well. I was left wondering what on earth our Tony was doing at the nick. I was pretty sure the little bugger wasn’t signing up to join the police, on account of him being a good bit too young and far too short. That meant he was in trouble, but the last time I’d seen him, he’d been singing his heart out to a rapt audience.

  I tottered downstairs, clutching my cup of tea like it was the Holy Grail, and walked into a storm of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. When our Vi wasn’t staring out of windows, as if in another world, she could get into such a state and make such a bloody racket that you wished she was in another world, preferably one a good long way away from this one. Another universe would be nice, and you were half inclined to help her into it as well. It wasn’t hard to see where Tony had picked up a talent for being heard.

  It took me ages to get Vi to stop crying long enough to tell me what had happened. Tony’d been seen, apparently, loitering watchfully outside a warehouse just off Homerton High Street in the early hours when there was a break-in going on. The thief or thieves had got away with two pounds, seven and sixpence three-farthings from the petty cash, and three and a half feet of rubber hose.

  Neither money nor rubber goods had been found on Tony when he’d been picked up, which was why he hadn’t yet been accused of being involved. He was simply at the police station to answer some rather pointed questions. But according to PC George ‘Nosher’ Grubb, who’d come to pick him up only half an hour after the poor kid had finally got to bed, there were suspicions, serious suspicions. Just to add to the general joys, the lad had been found to be drunk when he was woken up and had put up a token struggle as he was marched away, which meant that he’d got a clip around the ear for being drunk and disorderly while he was at it.

  Maybe I was being unusually dim, being hungover and all, but I couldn’t work out when Tony’d had time to get himself into trouble. I asked Vi.

  ‘According to George Grubb,’ she said, ‘he was seen at least a couple of hours before he sang for us, and it’s true, I did lose sight of him for a while round about then. I thought he’d put himself to bed,’ Vi wailed, working up to a new storm of weeping. I was beginning to be afraid we’d both drown.

  I was just thinking that if Tony had been involved in some skulduggery, then he had to have some nerve to stand there singing like an innocent choirboy, when the door burst open. Ma Hole stumped into the room, face red with fury. There were times when I wished we locked our doors round our way, and this was one of them. Nobody in their right mind wanted Ma Hole cluttering up their kitchen, but there she was, standing in the middle of the room like a malevolent toad, all saggy, swarthy and warty.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you carrying on about?’ demanded Ma, glaring at the sodden Vi. I have to admit, it was a good question, and one I’d been thinking of asking myself. True, it was not good that Tony was suspected of a crime, but on the other hand, it looked as if nobody had proved anything, so shouldn’t we be giving him the benefit of any doubt there might be? And as for being drunk and
disorderly – well, it was far from ideal behaviour in one so young, but then, everybody had been the worse for wear ever since peace had broken out. And his family didn’t seem to have set much of an example.

  ‘Belt up, Vi Gunn, or I’ll make you,’ said Ma Hole, but the warning fell on deaf ears, so she stepped forward and slapped Vi’s face hard. ‘I said belt up, you stupid mare.’

  ‘Now,’ she demanded, ‘where’s your Tony?’ She rested her fat hands on her large hips. Her eyes bulged like organ stops and her mouth was set in a thin line. Poor Vi went white and seemed to be struck dumb; her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came.

  I stepped in and replied for her. ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘My Brian said he saw him being taken away by George Grubb this morning. What do the rozzers want with him?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was our business, Mrs Hole. What’s it got to do with you?’ At a guess, I’d say Brian was worried our Tony’d blab and drop him in it. Whatever her interest was, we never got to hear about it, because a commotion at the door told us that Dad and Tony were back, along with Gran and Mum. They’d met in the High Street and had come home mob-handed.

  All hell broke loose as soon as Gran spotted Ma Hole in her kitchen. She wouldn’t wait for an explanation, just launched straight into a tirade. ‘Oy, you. Out!’ Gran glared, grabbed her broom from the corner and made sweeping motions as if to brush her away. ‘I don’t recall asking you in and I’m damned sure my granddaughters didn’t. They’ve got more sense. So, out with you!’

  ‘I just came to …’ Ma began.

  ‘Save that for someone who cares. Me, I don’t give a tinker’s curse what you’re here for. We’re in the middle of private family business and you’re not family, so OUT!’ Gran turned to Dad. ‘Harry, sling her out if she won’t go voluntary,’ she ordered, puffing up to her full four foot eleven and three-quarter inches tall and three and a half feet wide. Her dander was well and truly up.

  It suddenly seemed to dawn on Ma Hole that she was all alone in extremely hostile territory. None of her ‘boys’ were around to provide muscle and she was far too fat to fight or to dodge or to stand her ground against determined opposition. She normally relied on an assortment of spivs to impose her will on the unwilling, but she must have charged over to us before she’d had time to think properly.

  Her eyes glittered as she headed for the door. ‘Just you keep your gob shut, Tony Gunn, if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Are you threatening my great-grandson, Mrs Hole?’ Fury shook Gran’s body as if it was jelly.

  ‘Just a word to the wise, Mrs Smallbone,’ Ma spat back, and was gone.

  We all heaved a sigh of relief. But we never did get young Tony to tell us what he was doing outside that warehouse, or who he was with, either, because in the kerfuffle of getting Ma Hole out of the basement door the little blighter had slipped out of the room, and we heard the front door slam upstairs.

  You didn’t need to be a genius to work it out, though. The appearance of Ma told us everything. Tony had been at the warehouse with Bung’ole, or Brian Dudley Hole, as the Clerk of the Court would address him each time the magistrates had the pleasure of telling him what an incorrigible little villain they thought he was, even if they couldn’t prove it.

  5

  There were three distinct physical types in our family. Doris and Vi were typical of the majority of Marriotts: mops of mid-brown hair, grey/blue eyes, sturdy figures on average-sized frames and rather round faces. There was no mistaking who they belonged to, because it had been the Marriott look for generations. You only had to scrutinize the family photographs to see it. Even in the olden days, when the poor souls had had to stand or sit for ages, holding the pose, and their faces had set in concrete, they were still obviously Marriott faces.

  The Smallbone element made itself obvious too. They were on the short side, with little pointed, pinched, pixie-like faces, fair, thin hair and pale blue, squinty eyes. Some were shortsighted as well and wore specs, like Reggie, who was a Smallbone down to his socks. Mum had the blue eyes and pixie face but had run to plump in middle age.

  Every now and then, though, a cuckoo would appear in the nest. I’m one, with my black hair, dark brown eyes, pale skin and pink cheeks. I can be half dead, yet my cheeks still have a healthy glow. It’s just the way they’re made. It can be a bloody nuisance, in fact; I have to be covered in spots or chucking my boots up before people believe I’m poorly.

  According to the photographs, Great-Aunt Zelda was another cuckoo, her flashing black eyes and dark ringlets sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of pudding faces at Great-Uncle Harry’s wedding. Because of the sepia, I couldn’t vouch for her cheeks, but I’d put a pound to a penny they were a cheery and healthy red. Which would have been ironic really, because she died of consumption at the age of twenty-one. I bet nobody believed her, either, until she coughed her last, poor girl.

  I was christened Enid Zelda, after my dad’s mum and his aunt. Everyone called me ‘Enie’ for the first fifteen years of my life, but when I left school and started work, I chose to be called Zelda. I hated the name Enie, and anyway, I had a soft spot for my namesake and a previous generation’s cuckoo and I wanted to remember her. It was something to do with her not having had a decent innings, as well as the fact that we looked so much alike. Only my dad and Charlie called me ‘Enie’ after that, and they only did it to annoy; they succeeded, too.

  Nephew Tony was yet another cuckoo. There were the huge dark soulful eyes – his fringed with black lashes about a yard long, I swear – the milky white skin and flaming cheeks. And like Great-Aunt Zelda and me, he’s a little on the small side, with narrow shoulders that make him look frailer and younger than he actually is. Unlike me and Great-Aunt Zelda, he’s not endowed with the large bosom that made us both look a tad top-heavy; which is just as well I suppose, him being a lad.

  Some said that the dark thread that ran through our generally mousy lot was due to gypsy blood way back. Others said it was Italians, from Naples. Dad favoured the Italian theory, despite them being foreigners, because according to him, anything was better than ‘gyppos’, but I secretly disagreed. I rather fancied a gypsy connection, though I have to admit our Tony looked like one of those angels in Italian paintings you get on jigsaw puzzles and posh cake tins. Funny thing, he sang like an angel, too, and I played the piano, but the rest of the clan could barely carry a tune in a bucket. Maybe the first cuckoo was a singing Italian gypsy pianist; that would explain everything.

  By the time we saw Tony again, some hours after he’d legged it, he looked anything but angelic. I eyed him as he sat there, still hungover but looking defiant despite the hint of green around the gills and a room full of angry relatives. He was a spunky little devil, I had to give him that. He didn’t look even remotely cowed, despite his mum’s hysteria and the formidable rage of his grandfather.

  He wouldn’t say where he’d disappeared to or who he’d been with at the warehouse the night before. In fact, he’d barely speak at all. He just sat there, looking scruffy and faintly grubby, until I thought Dad would blow a gasket. Dad always had a terrible temper, and didn’t believe in sparing the rod to spoil any brat who broke his rigid rules. Girl or boy, it made no difference. Off would come the belt and it wouldn’t go on again until the buttocks of the guilty party glowed in the dark and gave off enough warmth to heat a small room. Spittle had begun to form at the corners of Dad’s mouth and his red eyes bulged as he roared his questions at a silent Tony.

  Dad’s stubby, freckled fingers began to fumble with his belt buckle – a move that always made me cringe, even when I wasn’t the object of his wrath. Then the door flew open and Gran marched in. She took in the situation immediately but started to chatter as if she hadn’t noticed anything. ‘I’ve just seen Mabel Cattermole talking to Ruby Whitelock outside the church. You’ll never guess’ – she didn’t wait for us to try – ‘It’s about Ruby’s sister, Iris’s younges
t girl, Joan. Well, they just found out the poor girl was born without a womb. They’ve been waiting and waiting for her monthlies to show, poor little mite …’

  Her voice trailed away as Dad grabbed his cap from beside the door and left. All Gran had to do was start talking about ‘women’s troubles’ and Dad would almost break a leg in his haste to get away. She’d saved many a kid’s hide in much the same way over the years; it never failed!

  The look of relief that flashed across Tony’s face was the only sign of how scared he’d been. He might have been reprieved that time, but what worried me and the rest of the women in his family was what he was going to get up to next. I couldn’t help feeling that the boy was heading for big trouble, in bad company, unless we could find him something else to do. Beating him was all very well, but it didn’t seem to be working. Doses of Dad’s belt had become more and more frequent recently, and so had Tony’s spots of bother.

  I’d talked it over with Zinnia and my mum many times and we were all agreed: the lad needed a healthier direction to head in than Ma Hole’s boarding-house. The trouble was, the war and having little money limited the options.

  6

  It was Friday, just one day away from the kids’ street party, and there was a lot to do. Zinnia was going to make jelly from a stockpile Terry had hidden at the very back of his storeroom at the grocery, ready for just this occasion. I was helping her with the bulging oilcloth bags filled from Terry’s secret stock – elderly packets of Rowntrees Jelly, flour, marge, cocoa powder, two small tins of Carnation Milk, one large tin of sliced peaches and a whole packet of dried eggs – when we literally bumped into Bung’ole. We’d just turned into Paradise Row as he was leaving. Our Tony was close behind him.

  My voice could have cut bacon as I grabbed Tony by the scruff of the neck and demanded to know what he was doing hanging about with Brian when his mum and grandfather had expressly forbidden it. The trouble was, our Tony wasn’t a little kid any more, he was twelve and getting to be a strong lad despite his size. He’d soon wriggled out of my grasp and legged it to catch up with Brian. I could’ve sworn I heard him tell me to ‘Sod off’ under his breath, but he was gone before I could make his ear glow.