by Pip Granger
I was lost in that particular thought when I felt Tony’s bony elbow in my ribs, reminding me it was time to go. We said our goodbyes and spent a quiet hour on the bus heading towards home, both lost in our own thoughts.
27
Sunday dinner passed, for once, with no family dingdong.
Even Tony managed to stay out of scrapes – well, scrapes that anyone knew about, anyway. Doris, Reggie and the twins were in good form. Doris had heard from her Ernie a few days before. He’d written that he expected to be home in a couple of months. There was a glow on Doris’s cheek that hadn’t been there for a good while and it was cheering to see. There even seemed to be a special sparkle around Reggie’s glasses and a twinkle of merriment in his eye. He was usually quite a serious lad. The twins, well, they didn’t really know what was going on, but they had caught the mood and were being high spirited and jolly. Even Dad was full of the pale ale of human kindness, his usual brown having temporarily run out at the King’s Head. Mum, bless her, was smiling because she felt the excuse for another party coming on and Gran was full of gossip from her cronies at church.
Only poor Vi had trouble getting into the spirit of the day, and nobody could really blame the poor dear for that. Fred must have been on her mind a good deal around that time, because everywhere she went – the shops, work, bus queues or the pub – there was talk of the men returning at last. All those sons, boyfriends and husbands coming home, but not hers. I mean, it’d make anybody down in the dumps.
I wasn’t in the mood to join her, even though thoughts of Charlie were enough to send me dump-wards at any time, because I had made up my mind to try to enjoy my day off as much as possible. If Mrs Dunmore’s mood of the previous week and the alarums and scarums round at Zinnia’s were anything to go by, I was going to need the recovery time to cope with the coming week. So I started my day in the way I liked the best. I had a long, hot bath with an elderly lavender bag thrown in to make use of the very last hint of pong.
I dressed carefully in my Sunday best, then dropped boiled egg down the bodice of my frock and had to change it for the second best. But I didn’t spit or grumble about it, simply dabbed at it carefully until it looked clean and left it to dry up on the airer hanging from the kitchen ceiling.
I was feeling sunny because I’d had a decent night’s sleep for a change. Just as suddenly as the dreams and strange trance-like goings-on had started, so they had stopped dead again on Saturday night. It was as if I’d shot my final bolt for a while when I’d read Maggie’s leaves; I had slept like a baby that night. All my lumps, bumps, bruises and grazes were fading away at various rates, depending on when I got them, but the main thing was, I was on the mend. I was almost tickety-boo once again. The only flies in my particular ointment, apart from Charlie, were Mrs Dunmore, driving her slaves with much more than her usual determination, and my worries about Zinnia.
Practical jokes were one thing, but the fire and the shooting of her cat were downright frightening. PC Grubb had been informed, and was on the case, but nobody suspended their breathing: they’d certainly have snuffed it before George ‘Nosher’ Grubb got even the hint of a culprit. He was not the brightest candle in the box, although he was steady and thorough.
When we got to the afters, baked apples and custard, talk turned to Tony’s lessons. ‘What’s “phrasing” when it’s at home?’ demanded Gran through a red-hot mouthful of the dried fruit Mum had stuffed into the hole where the cores used to be, before putting the apples in the oven.
‘Well, you sort of have to take a breath then let it out really carefully so that when you’re singing, you don’t have to breathe in in the middle of a melody, or a word or even a sentence, when it would sound daft and ruin it.’
‘So what sort of exercises do you have to do?’ asked Reggie. That boy was interested in everything.
‘I dunno yet, do I? We’re doing it next week.’ Tony turned his back on his cousin abruptly and looked at me and then his mother. ‘I’ve been thinking about what instrument to try and learn, like Mr Burlap said, and I thought the piano would be best, because we’ve got one and I can practise on that.’
I felt pleased. It was good to see the lad using his head for once. There was still the question of lessons, though. I just hoped Mr Burlap would include a bit of joanna in the hour, because I couldn’t see us finding any extra money for proper lessons. I played a bit, but I’d learned to play the tunes by ear. I didn’t know anything at all about technique and I certainly couldn’t teach Tony much.
‘Does that mean you’re going to be thumping and crashing about in our parlour, then?’ asked Dad, none too thrilled at the prospect of another learner let loose on his piano. When Tony nodded hopefully, Dad just grunted and said, ‘Well, either learn fast and get good at it, or do it when I’m out. I can’t abide hearing music mangled by bleeding amateurs. It grates on me lug’oles something ’orrible.’ For Dad, this passed as encouragement.
‘Mrs Cattermole learned the piano as well as the organ when she was a girl,’ chipped in Gran. ‘They’ve got one at the vicarage. I’m sure they’d let their favourite choirboy use it. I expect if you asked her right, she’d give you a few lessons as well. You could make yourself useful round the place. The Vicar, bless him, is all thumbs when it comes to handling tools or anything else – besides bibles, bees and Mrs Cattermole.’ Gran let out a faintly dirty chuckle that made Mum and Vi blush. I don’t think the kids got it; at least, I hoped they didn’t.
After dinner I strolled home, changed into my gardening togs and made my way to the allotments. It was time to earth up the first early spuds again. I’d been a bit tardy getting them in, and the flower buds were just forming. My mouth watered: new spuds straight from the earth and into the pot, via a brief stop to run them under a tap to get them clean. A sprig of mint in the water, then when cooked, a knob of butter, salt and pepper; there’s nothing like it.
I also had to water generally. I’d planted out the last of the runner beans. The plan was to stagger planting. Some went in really early, risking late frosts, and the rest went in when the danger of frosts was almost certainly past, but in England nothing like that’s ever certain. It’s not unheard of to get a rogue frost in late May and even into June, but meanwhile the good, early start with some of them meant that they’d be on our plates all the sooner and it would prolong the cropping season. A mad dash with some net curtains to sling over the vines could save beans from a late frost, so it was worth risking some of them. Beans were thirsty buggers, though, which meant much toing and froing with cans of water.
I eyed the onions critically. The ones I’d pulled previously were drying nicely and it was time to pull the rest, so I could fork over the soil and use it for some salad crops. The gentle hum of the Reverend Cattermole’s bees and the warmth of the afternoon sun on my back was really soothing as I worked away. I felt the tensions and worries of the previous weeks slacken still further, so that I was quite relaxed.
I should have known it couldn’t last and, sure enough, it didn’t. I became aware of a pair of scuffed black boots and long, grey knee socks that had slipped untidily from a pair of clean but grazed knees to a set of bony ankles – Reggie was waiting patiently for me to notice him. I sat back on my haunches and squinted up.
‘Wotcha, Reggie,’ I said.
Nephews coming for private chats with me were beginning to become a feature of my visits to the allotments. It hadn’t been long since Tony had turned up in much the same way.
‘Hello, Auntie Zelda.’ There was a long silence as I waited for him to tell me what he wanted, while he examined the toecaps of his boots and shuffled a bit. The silence stretched until we were both uncomfortable. I decided to help him out.
‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure? I don’t suppose you’re here to help with the watering, are you?’ I asked hopefully.
‘I’ll give you a hand, Auntie,’ Reggie answered, relieved at having something to do while he worked his way round to the point of hi
s visit.
I tried to give him the small watering can, but manfully, he grabbed the bigger of the two. Reggie’s dodgy chest had always made the poor little blighter even more determined to try to keep up with his more robust friends, and his cousin; on the occasions when he felt he had to, that is. He always gave it some thought first, naturally.
He managed to keep up for the most part, too, except when the smog or the pollen got to him. It depended on the time of year. June is pollen time and he was wheezing quite a bit, but we toiled away in amicable silence for a while. I nearly always enjoyed Reggie’s company. He had a stillness about him that was easy to be with.
Once the beans were thoroughly watered, we took a breather. I put the kettle on in Zinnia’s railway carriage and we sat under an apple tree to enjoy a well-earned cuppa. ‘So,’ I said, ‘did you come for anything special, Reggie? Or was it simply the pleasure of your old aunt’s company and humping water to the beans that drew you here?’
Reggie grinned. ‘Hardly.’
‘Well. Ta very much,’ I answered, grinning back. ‘How do you feel about the news from your dad?’ I went on, taking a flyer.
‘It’s great news, Auntie.’ He paused, brow creased above his specs. ‘But I feel sorry for Tony. His dad isn’t coming home and I know it … er …’ – he searched for the right words, soppy talk about feelings not being easy for any male over the age of seven – ‘upsets him.’
I felt my way carefully. I didn’t want Reggie to feel he had to betray any confidences. ‘Has he said anything?’ I remembered how Tony had virtually ignored his cousin at the dinner table.
‘No-o-o, not really. It’s more the way he isn’t saying it. I know he wishes it was his dad coming home, and he’s really spitting mad that it isn’t. But it’s not just that he’s being a bit off. He’ll get over it, he always does. He’s a moody bloke, Auntie, you know that. It doesn’t last. It’s more the way he’s carrying on.’
Reggie stopped abruptly and stared into the boughs of the apple tree. The glass in his specs reflected the light and made his eyes look blank. I waited for him to carry on, knowing there was no point in prompting him or trying to hurry him along; I’d only put the wind up him and he’d clam up. Talking about his cousin behind his back, and to a grown-up at that, didn’t come naturally. It must have been serious for him to even attempt it. Finally, he gave a very small shrug, took a deep breath and launched into what was troubling him.
‘You see, I think he’s being bullied, and because he’s cheesed off about his dad, he doesn’t seem to care what happens to himself that much.’
‘I thought his music lessons had perked him up a bit. He sounded quite interested in learning the piano at dinnertime,’ I said, because he had. He’d seemed in a much better frame of mind.
‘Yes, well, the lesson only really takes up a morning a week, dunnit? There’s the rest of his spare time to worry about.’ Poor Reggie looked far too serious for his age. He shouldn’t be the one worrying about his cousin, he should be looking forward to his dad coming home. And it didn’t sit easily with him to talk about ‘stuff’, as he called it.
‘It’s just that I think he’s being shoved into doing things he doesn’t want to do,’ Reggie said at last. He was busting to spit it out, but he didn’t want to commit the deadly sin of grassing. Reggie’s pinched and pointed face showed the struggle the poor lad was having with himself. To tell or not to tell, that was obviously the question. It was so ingrained in him not to breathe a word out of turn, when it came to family and friends, that Reggie was literally having trouble getting the air in and out. A wheeze rattled in his chest and he coughed a dry, nervous cough for a moment or two. I felt sorry for the boy, but it was probably better if he got it off his chest, so to speak.
‘What sort of things?’ I asked carefully.
It came out in a rush, as if the lad had closed his eyes and jumped. ‘I think that Ma Hole is training him up the same way she did Brian,’ Reggie gasped, his asthma getting worse from sheer tension. ‘You know, breaking into places and that sort of thing. He can shin up a drainpipe quicker than Bung’ole, I’ve seen him do it. He’s got this funny tool thing as well, that opens locks, and he knows how to use it. He opened the cash box Grandad keeps his money in to show me that he could.’
Reggie blinked worriedly and added hastily, ‘He didn’t steal nothing, he was just showing me. It’s just that I’m worried, Auntie Zelda, because he’s got so as he really doesn’t seem to care any more. I saw him running along the top of Keyworth’s roof the other night. If he’d slipped, he’d have been a goner.’
‘I see.’ It was all I could think of to say. I knew the feeling of well-being had been too good to last. It was a funny thing, but we’d had nothing but trouble and more trouble since peace had been declared.
I got up and poured myself another cup of tea. It may have been funny, but I certainly wasn’t bloody laughing.
28
The following Tuesday, I was picking my way carefully along the edge of a bomb site on the way from my flat to the Gardens. I was impatient to show off my new finery for the dance and to borrow the finishing touches, like Vi’s blue glass necklace with the matching earrings and Mum’s ancient rabbit fur cape that just covered the shoulders. The short-cut over the bomb site was a tricky manoeuvre even in broad daylight, and virtually impossible when it was getting dark; the street lights on that stretch of road had been shattered for ages. Just to add to the general joys, I was wearing my brand new frock, run up on two frenzied nights when I sat chained to my trusty Singer, and was desperate not to ruin my outfit by making a single careless move. There was also the pair of revamped, suede, peep-toed high heels to consider. They had once been a scuffed white but were now a rather patchy royal blue, thanks to a bottle of ink and a soft cloth made from a pair of drawers recently retired from active duty. But I loved them – the shoes that is, not the drawers.
I was concentrating so hard I didn’t hear him coming. The first I knew that I had company was when a hand landed on my shouder. I almost fainted with the shock – my nerves were still jangling from rescuing the cats in the cellar – but self-preservation won, and I socked the bugger with my handbag. It was only as my assailant staggered backwards and landed knee deep in a hole filled with cold, muddy water that I realized that I knew him. It was Percy Robinson, the dockside Lothario and Charlie’s friend.
‘You stupid sod!’ I roared – at least, I tried to roar, but it came out more of a squeak.
It took him a good few moments to haul himself clear of the sucking, wet clay at the bottom of the puddle. He got no help from me – I was still shaking from the shock, and I was wearing my best outfit, after all – but he finally made it, and looked balefully down at his soaking, filthy shoes and trouser legs. Best to stay on the attack, under the circumstances. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, creeping up on a person like that? You scared the life out of me!’
Percy Robinson was bitter. ‘Apparently not!’ he said, glowering at me. He bent to pick up his hat, which had landed in the puddle beside him and was sinking steadily. A stream of yellowish water cascaded from it like a small waterfall. Percy tried to summon some dignity, while obviously struggling manfully not to clout me back. But he got his revenge accidentally as his hat splattered watery clay on to my newly blue, but sadly not waterproof, shoes. Ink ran all over my feet.
I looked down at them with horror. Not only had he given me a hell of a fright, he’d also ruined what were, in my mind, my best and what’s more, brand new shoes, even though they weren’t. I’d put a lot of effort into those shoes, so that I could attend the Yanks’ farewell dance with Dilly and our friends. It was an important occasion, a chance for me and Dilly to dress up and swank for a change. Poor Dilly still hadn’t managed to get any sense out of Chester. He point-blank refused to be drawn on the subject of the dance. Why he was so obstinate was a complete mystery, but Dilly couldn’t keep on and on about it without looking desperate. So it was even m
ore essential for us all to put our best foot forward, both for appearances’s sake and to help cheer her up.
Now look what Percy Robinson had done! Resentment and fury welled up in me and I bashed him again. ‘You swine! You’ve ruined my shoes.’
He staggered slightly. Even through the red mist, I could see I packed a fair old wallop when my dander was up. It must’ve been all that scrubbing and heaving around of stodgy dinners. It had built up my muscles nicely. ‘I asked you a question. What are you doing creeping about in the dark after me?’
He pulled himself upright – he was a tall bugger. ‘I was not creeping!’ he said. ‘I was just going to say wotcha and ask if you wanted to come for a drink. I want to talk to you about Sylvia – Mrs Dunmore – and anyway, I’ve been watching you in the canteen and I’ve come to like the cut of your jib.’ Then he lunged at me, taking me off guard. He was fumbling for my waist in an attempt to pull me towards him. ‘We can always have a little cuddle here, it’s nice and dark.’
I shoved him away, good and hard. No wonder Mrs D. had been in a mood; she must’ve got wind that her Percy was wandering again. The bloody man was insatiable! And where was the legendary Robinson charm? Not that it would cut any ice with me – but still, just grabbing like that. What sort of a girl did he think I was? Blind, deaf, stupid and easy? Well, he had another think coming.
‘Are you mad? My feet are wet through and covered in bloody ink and you’re giving me the right hump. You’re my husband’s mate and you’re walking out with Mrs Dunmore – or had you forgotten her along with your missus? Funny how your womenfolk just seem to slip your mind.’
