by Pip Granger
‘No, Zeld, that’s not all. According to Chester, us being married would go down better in New York and some other northern places, like Chicago and Detroit. Or we could go to another country altogether, like Canada if they’ll have us, or somewhere in Europe when things settle down a bit. He says Paris had a lot of American jazz musicians living there before the war and he thinks a lot of them’ll drift back once the dust settles. Some of his mates in his regiment are talking about going. They’re mostly musicians, but there’s an artist and a writer too. So what we’ve decided is not to decide yet, but to muddle along as we are until a decision has to be made, then see what seems the best option. I quite fancy Paris,’ she said. ‘It’s ever so romantic.’
It all seemed very hard to me. So I made things worse, by telling her about her nephew and his trouble. I had to, because I had to explain why I wanted to nip round to the Gardens to see how he was right in the middle of her visit. I had a niggling worry about him in the parts of my brain left over from taking in her news and the awful guilt at blowing my top at Mrs Dunmore. Dilly’s hand flew to her face and she swore, which was most unlike her. I put it down to strain. I knew the feeling all too well.
‘Those bloody Holes!’ she said. ‘They ruin everyone they touch.’ For Dilly, this was dead strong language. ‘He’ll have to tell the Vicar. It’s the only thing he can do.’
I explained to her that it had been done already, and the outcome.
‘Well, that’s OK then. Still, it’s a good idea to get round there just the same, to make sure the poor boy survived his day at school. I suppose there are plenty of people about in a school. That’s something to be grateful for.’
Vi was home when we got there and so was Tony. It had been agreed that it’d be easier with his ration book if he ate at home as usual. It was such a palaver to swap and change when it came to shopping. This meant he’d sleep at the vicarage on school nights and work off his lessons at the weekends. He only lived around the corner, after all, so nipping home for meals wasn’t too difficult, as long as Brian didn’t catch him on his own in the streets.
We spent a pleasant enough half-hour talking over the dance, which seemed months ago, and drinking tea. Vi was jittery but bearing up. I noticed she was smoking more than usual and that her hand trembled slightly, but she kept shooting Tony fond and bracing looks, so she was trying. Dilly was amazed at the change in her and frankly, so was I, but grateful too. Tony really needed his mum.
36
Sadly, Mrs Dunmore hadn’t had a bang on the head and a handy attack of amnesia. She remembered me swearing at her all too well. I’d slunk into her office the next morning, tail between my legs, to apologize for my terrible outburst of the day before. I just hoped like mad I could plead mitigation, as they say in the courts, and hang on to my job.
The interview was grim. She was working at her desk and her crisp, sharp voice cut through the woodwork as I knocked on the door. ‘Come in.’ I went in. She carried on with what she was doing, not troubling to look up. I waited and tried not to fidget. It wasn’t easy. I felt as if I was standing on hot coals and it was all I could do not to run out of the room. It was just like being back at school and in trouble with the headmistress, only worse, a lot worse. Nobody had paid me to go to school and I hadn’t had to pay my own rent then either.
At last she looked up. Her mouth was so pursed in disapproval it was wrinkled all round the edges, like a cat’s bum. I had a sudden urge to giggle hysterically, but clamped my mouth shut on it, so that two cats’ bums faced one another across the desk. Stalemate. Somebody had to say something. I tried to speak but the words got stuck. I coughed slightly and tried again. If Tony could face up to the Reverend Cattermole, I ought to be able face up to La Dunmore, I thought to myself. I stiffened my backbone and my resolve.
A faint breeze from the window was stirring the papers on her noticeboard so that they fluttered like giant butterflies. All of them were from the Ministry, telling her to save slops for pigs, that uncooked scraps were to go in a separate bin, and that waste paper, cardboard, tins and bottles had to be sorted and saved for collection for the war effort. Even though there was no more war, the effort was still required. I suppose that’s why she hadn’t taken them down – or got someone else to do it, more like – because the shortages continued and the same rules still applied. It was a depressing thought. Would the dreary round of rationing, mending and making do and saving every little scrap never end? It was hard to see when.
I searched again for my voice and finally found it hiding somewhere in the pit of my stomach, all trembly and feeble. ‘I’m sorry I was so rude yesterday, Mrs Dunmore. I don’t know what got into me.’ This wasn’t true, of course. I knew that the strain of all the troubles that had rained down on me and mine since the end of the official war had got into me, and had all built up such a head of steam, it was bursting to get out. But I wasn’t going to tell her that. It was none of her business.
‘I should dispense with your labours, Zelda. I can’t have my girls speaking to me in such an appalling fashion. It’s insubordination, that’s what it is.’ She sounded indignant all over again; her face was red with fury. But a lady did not rant and rave at her skivvies. It was coarse, and Mrs Dunmore wasn’t keen on coarse, naturally. ‘Nobody has ever spoken to me in that way before. Not ever!
‘However’ – she could hardly get the words out but she had to go on – ‘Cook and Beryl have said that if I let you go’ – plain sacking was too common for Mrs Dunmore – ‘they will leave also. Obviously, I cannot run this establishment by myself, so I have to give in – this time. But it must never happen again, do you hear me? Never!’ I heard her, and nodded. I felt so lucky to have hung on to my job I could have burst into loud cheers, but I didn’t.
‘Thank you, Mrs Dunmore,’ was all I could think of to say, although it was Cook and Beryl I should have been thanking. It was only once I’d got out of her office that I realized I hadn’t promised it would never happen again.
I worked extra hard that morning and it wasn’t until our tea break that I was able to thank my friends.
‘That’s our pleasure, love,’ Cook said comfortably. ‘We’ve all wanted to shove a boot up her jacksie more than once. It was nice that one of us managed to do it. We’ve got to stick up for our own, let’s face it. No other bugger will.’
‘Hear, hear,’ grinned Beryl. ‘So, tell us what happened exactly. La Dunmore only said you’d been rude and “insubordinate”. Anybody’d think she was a ruddy general and you was a private, the way she carries on.’
So I told them, and they ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ in admiration, which quite bucked me up, because when I’d walked in that morning, I could have got under a snake’s belly with a top hat on. Even so, I thought it best to keep my head down and work hard. So I did, not only that day, but for the rest of the week.
Mrs Dunmore, however, seemed to wilt as the week wore on. She still drove everybody hard, but her heart wasn’t in it, I could tell. There was an atmosphere too, one we couldn’t pin down but which made us uneasy. It was almost better when the woman was everywhere, poking her sharp nose into things and making waspish comments. The unholy quiet didn’t seem natural or right.
Away from work, things were pretty quiet, too, at least to begin with. Tony was managing to stay in one piece and so far, Hilda Handcuffs, in the form of PC Grubb, had not arrested him, or even questioned him. But the law had been seen poking around the Holes’ shed and, once, stopping and searching Brian and a few of his pals. All George Grubb and his colleagues had found so far was a strong and deeply suspicious smell of petrol, but there had been no jerry cans full of the stuff and no guns, bullets or hand grenades.
And as he told the Vicar, ‘You can’t arrest somebody for a pong. You can’t produce it as evidence in court, neither.’ Which was true of course.
On that front, all we could do was carry on and wait. It was frustrating, but Tony was getting his piano lessons and the vicarage was gettin
g a lick of paint, so it wasn’t time wasted by any means. Besides, Tony was keeping his nose so clean, it almost shone and glowed in the dark. Gran was impressed.
‘If Tony behaved any better, he’d be so clean he’d squeak when he walked. He only offered to carry the shopping for Mrs Whitelock yesterday. You wouldn’t know that only a week or so ago he was driving us all mental with worry about his wicked ways. Of course, it’s very early days, but I do believe we might have turned a corner with that boy. It was the gun that did it, of course, not us. He’s a funny bundle, that one.’ She grew sombre. ‘I s’pose with his dad and everything, he understands what death means and doesn’t fancy it much. Poor little bugger.’
I thought we were coasting gently towards Saturday and our weekly trip into Soho when things warmed up once again. Thursday morning I got a letter. I recognized the handwriting and the postmark immediately: it was from Charlie. He told me that he expected to be home in eight days’ time for a weekend leave, Friday night through to Sunday afternoon. ‘So this time, make sure you get some proper food in,’ he instructed.
I sank into a chair because my knees gave way. My heart hammered but, at the same time, seemed to want to plummet to the soles of my feet. I noticed that the hand holding his note trembled. I felt robbed. Then I thought about all those young widows who longed for their men to come home and I was stricken with a terrible sense of grief. For them, for me, for us all.
I could have wept. In fact, I think I did. I certainly had to mop up a bit before I went to work.
37
It was a relief to get on the bus on Saturday morning, and to make a change, Reggie came with us. It was time the boy had a treat. After all, he had never wilfully given anyone a minute’s trouble, although he couldn’t help scaring us half to death with his asthma from time to time. Mr Burlap had asked if he could hang on to Tony for a second hour that Saturday, as he wanted him to listen to another singer, and the extra time would give Reggie and me a bit of leeway to explore the area a little. So we were all in high spirits to be out and about and well away from home.
We dropped Tony off at Mr Burlap’s ‘studio’, as he called it, arranging to meet him at the cafe after his lesson, then set off to have a look around. Mr Burlap’s place was in Greek Street, a mere hop, skip and jump from Soho Square, so that was our first stop. I knew Reggie would be interested by the little old house in the middle. We were just on our third lap around the outside of it, when someone called to me.
‘Ah, the fascinating Zelda, gypsy palmist and interpreter of tea leaves. Hail, lady, and well met.’ It was the lawyer chappie, Mr Finn, Sharky to his pals.
I blushed. ‘Hello, Mr Finn,’ I said, then got stuck. I didn’t know what else to say to the bloke. Luckily, he had no such trouble.
‘How fortunate our paths should cross again, the better to become acquainted, and it just so happens that I have a tiny commission you could undertake for me.’ He smiled and, just for a moment, I could’ve sworn the sun dimmed.
I had no idea what he was talking about after the path crossing bit. I looked blank and then I felt a sharp elbow in my ribcage. What was it about our lot, I wondered, that they considered elbows an alternative to a polite ‘Excuse me’? I turned to Reggie, whose eyebrows had shot up into his hairline in enquiry, and shook my head very slightly. His curiosity would have to wait. I turned my attention back to Mr Finn. ‘Ah?’ I asked.
‘A small commission, a little favour; it’ll save me writing to her and she’ll get the message all the sooner. It’ll put her mind at rest,’ he answered, with another flash of those teeth.
Her? Whose mind? I was thoroughly bewildered. ‘Certainly,’ I said stiffly, hoping enlightenment would come.
‘Lovely. Tell her that Mrs Joe has told Joe to put one of his boys on to it as soon as he can. When I asked Joe himself, he said it was as good as done. He’s sending Frankie, you’ll have seen him around. I imagine her problems will be solved very soon. Can you remember all that?’
I was a bit huffy. ‘Of course I can remember it.’ I repeated the message back to him, word for word. ‘What I don’t know is, who is supposed to get it?’
Mr Finn slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand and laughed. ‘Of course! What a fool I am! Miss Makepeace, your neighbour, Digby’s good friend,’ he explained.
‘Right you are.’ It was all I could think of to say.
‘Fine. Cheerio then.’
‘Who was he?’ Reggie demanded as soon as Mr Finn was out of earshot. I told him.
‘He fancies you,’ said Reggie confidently.
Despite myself, I blushed again. ‘I’ve got a feeling that Mr Finn fancies a lot of ladies, Reggie. I think he makes a bit of a habit of it.’
The streets of Soho are narrow, and most of the buildings are several storeys high with flats above and shops below. Many of the shops were empty, driven out of business by not being able to get stock during the war years. The ones that clung on were often real specialists, like a shoe shop especially for ballet and tap dancers, or an outfitters for chefs, waiters and kitchen workers. Of course, their window displays were a bit thin, but they had held out. There would always be dancers and the same went for restaurants and the men and women who staffed them. I tried to imagine Cook’s round, merry face beneath a chef’s hat and fell about laughing. Cook was all woman, and I had the feeling those tall chimneys were the sort of thing only a bloke would wear. Cook seemed quite happy in her wraparound pinny, with a snood to keep her hair out of the soup.
Down one dark little alleyway, too narrow to be called a street, we found a funny, crumpled-looking little shop, with low ceilings. Both its window and doorway showed a definite tendency to slant towards the middle, as if it had buckled under the weight of the building above. It sold model railways, and the reds, greens and gold of the various liveries glimmered in the gloom.
Next door was a hire shop, used by the theatres to supply costumes for their shows and plays. The window held a display of masks, some of them beautiful, with fake gems and winged shapes, while others were grotesque, with wounds, horns or hairy faces. There was an ass’s head snuggled up to an ape, a devil beside a bear. Reggie wanted to go in and have a poke around, but when we got to the door a large CLOSED sign barred our way.
Another little street had a small row of food shops. There was one window that sported a proud Star of David – Caplin’s it was called – and offered salt beef sandwiches, gefilte fish, pickles and latkes among other delicacies, but it too was closed, it being Saturday. I was partial to salt beef sandwiches. You could get ’em in the Whitechapel Road or Petticoat Lane, with a ‘glass tea’ for next to nothing, and they were absolutely delicious. There was a fishmonger and a butcher there, too. Both had small queues of women determined to stock up before the shops closed at one. A quick look in the windows told us that the meagre stocks were dwindling fast.
After many twists and turns, we arrived back in Soho Square with some time on our hands before we had to meet Tony. We made our way to Charing Cross Road, and began to poke about in the books left on the pavements outside many of the second-hand bookshops. It was there that I bumped into a second familiar face – and belly. Reggie had dived into a large box marked ‘6d’ and I was looking vaguely at the passing pedestrians as I waited, when out of the shop next door popped Cassie.
‘Oh hello,’ she said. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
I explained that we’d met at the cafe. ‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘How are you? And this young man is …?’
‘My nephew, Reggie,’ I answered. ‘How are you? How’s the, you know …’ I nodded towards her swollen middle. There was obviously no disguising it any more, she was well and truly preggers.
‘Oh well, you know,’ she answered vaguely, eyeing the book in Reggie’s grubby paw. Wartime printer’s ink could be filthy stuff. ‘I say, Reggie, if you want Swallows and Amazons, nip next door to my friend Mr Herbert and say I sent you and he’ll let you have a copy cheaper.’
Reggie looked shyly at me and I nodded slightly. He dropped the book back in the box and nipped into the shop next door, pennies clutched hopefully in his sweaty palm. Cassie and I chatted awkwardly for a few moments; it seemed neither of us knew how to wind up so we could go our separate ways.
I was feeling more and more peculiar, sort of away with the fairies and barely able to keep up my end of the chitchat, when I was saved by Reggie’s return. Cassie heaved a small sigh of relief and made her goodbyes, and Reggie’s look of triumph turned to one of concern.
‘Are you having a turn, Auntie Zelda?’ he asked. I nodded. I blamed that swine Charlie for upsetting me and starting them up again. ‘What is it?’ Reggie asked. ‘Something to do with the pretty lady?’ I nodded again. I really was feeling most peculiar, all swimmy. ‘Take my arm, Auntie, we’ll go next door. Mr Herbert will let you sit down, get you a glass of water.’
A few minutes later I was beginning to revive a bit and became aware of Father Christmas staring sympathetically down at me. ‘Feeling a bit better now?’ he asked in great concern.
‘Yes, thank you. What happened?’
‘You swooned, my dear, but Reginald here and I managed to catch you before you hit the floor. Would you care for a sip of water?’
I sipped, felt better and sat up. I had been stretched out in the aisle between towering bookcases and someone had put a rolled-up coat beneath my head. I sipped some more, and pretty soon I’d swigged the entire glass. Mr Herbert trotted off to refill it.
‘What’s the time, Reggie?’ I’d suddenly remembered Tony.
