Trouble In Paradise

by Pip Granger

  I also got to know the women pretty quickly. That was down to Maggie too. Almost as soon as they met me, she would tell them I could read the tea leaves and was ‘ever so good’. It wasn’t long before I had a steady stream of girls and boys from the local theatres coming to have their fortunes told.

  That was how I worked up a sideline in running up costumes: or altering them, to be more precise. There was rarely enough fancy fabric to make something completely new, but I was good at unpicking and resewing, mending and making do. So I made a little extra money doing just that. Money or sugar or chocolate, I wasn’t fussy. I’d outfit a cast of thousands for a whole large bar of chocolate all to myself. Well, a cast of several, anyway.

  Truth to tell, I liked hanging around with the theatrical types, and my working knowledge of Polari didn’t hurt in Theatreland either. I also found I had a whole host of people ready, willing, able and, indeed, eager to part with multi dinarly, in hard cash, for my clairvoyant skills with tea leaves, palms and eventually, once I’d boned up on them, astrology and Tarot cards too. Theatricals are very keen on the Tarot, in my experience. Packs of the special cards have travelled all over the globe with them for hundreds of years.

  Still, all that came later. Right then, though, when I first arrived, I worked for Maggie and Bert and I loved it. If I hadn’t had my lovely flat to go to, I wouldn’t have left the cafe at all, I’m sure. I didn’t even get the chance to miss my family Sunday dinners, because Maggie and Bert often entertained their friends on Sundays. Rations were pooled in just the same way, only without the added family fights, and black market nosh was also readily available.

  In Soho, you were just as likely to get an Italian Sunday dinner or a Maltese one, depending on who was doing the cooking and what was around. So I not only got to know a wide circle of people, but I experienced different sorts of food too. The whole thing was one big adventure.

  I’d been there just a couple of weeks when Sunday dinner was cooked by the Campaninis, my neighbours with the roof garden, geraniums and delicatessen. We’d eaten and drunk far more than was good for us and were all feeling bloated and sleepy. The Campaninis went home for an afternoon nap, leaving just Cassie, Maggie, Bert and me.

  Maggie and I were in the kitchen tackling a mountain of washing-up, just to make a change, when we heard a cry come from the cafe. We ignored it, thinking it was part of some story that Cassie was telling Bert. Then there was another cry, followed by an urgent, ‘Maggie, come here, quick,’ from Bert.

  We dropped what we were doing and rushed into the cafe to find poor Cassie groaning and doubled over in pain and Bert looking stricken.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘It’s Cassie,’ Bert said, unnecessarily as it happened, because we could see and hear that. There was a large puddle on the floor. When I noticed that, I was certain of what was going on. Years of trailing around after Zinnia had taught me a thing or two.

  ‘Her waters have broken. She’s in labour,’ I told them.

  ‘What do we do?’ Bert asked in a panic. It was amazing. Here was a man who would face down an armed spiv if the need arose, but he flew into a panic at the thought of childbirth – a far more natural event, in my opinion.

  ‘We should get her to hospital if we’ve got time, or call a doctor at least,’ I said. ‘How often are the contractions coming?’ I sounded as if I knew what I was talking about, which quelled some of the rising fear I could sense around – and inside – me.

  Maggie looked relieved. ‘I’ll go and find a phone and call an ambulance, shall I? Or would the local quack be better?’

  ‘No. You stay with me, Maggie. We’ll send Bert. Who do you think is likely to get here quicker, the doctor or the ambulance? I don’t think there’s going to be a lot of time to spare, judging by the way Cassie’s panting. I’ve got a feeling that this baby is the impatient type and not likely to wait around for too long.’ If I was any judge, the baby was well on its way.

  ‘Try Doc Goodbone first, Bert. He’s just round the corner. If he’s not there, call an ambulance. Sharky’s got the nearest telephone.’ Maggie’s initial panic was settling down to solid common sense. ‘Oh, and Bert, if all that fails, Miss Makepeace might be at Digby’s place. She’ll know what to do.’ Bert nodded at his wife and headed for the door, relief set in every line of his body.

  ‘Maggie, help me get Cassie to a more comfortable spot. We don’t want her giving birth in front of those windows. The poor girl deserves her privacy. Then, can you put some water on to boil, and plenty of it?’

  Maggie and I were only able to get Cassie as far as the counter before another huge contraction doubled her up again. Maggie ran upstairs and came back with some pillows, towels, sheets and a blanket. We made Cassie as comfortable as we could behind the counter, out of sight of the street.

  We were crouched down beside her, hanging on to a hand each, when there was a loud knocking at the cafe door. Maggie hurried to answer it. It was Mamma Campanini. Bert had banged on their door as he galloped past, rightly thinking that Mamma had lots of experience of childbirth.

  There was no doubt that the baby was well on the way. The chances of medical help before it was born were slim. We would have to manage between us. Mamma and I took up our stations each side of the screaming, panting and writhing Cassie, while Maggie boiled water, and while she was at it, sterilized a sharp kitchen knife and a set of scissors.

  Cassie didn’t think much of giving birth. You could tell by the wild-eyed screams and curses that accompanied every contraction. She used language that would have made a sailor colour up, if we’d had one handy. I was too busy to blush and Mamma showed no signs that she’d even heard the effing and blinding. I must admit, Anglo-Saxon screamed in a posh, plummy accent sounded a tad out of place. Maggie tried to moderate things a bit by telling Cassie that a lady didn’t swear like that.

  ‘On the contrary, Maggie, only a fucking lady can,’ was Cassie’s reply, yelled between earth-shattering screams. ‘Now for Christ’s sake, get this bloody thing out of me.’

  At last, after what seemed like days but was probably less than an hour, I saw the crown of a small and very hairy head appear between Cassie’s legs. ‘Right, love,’ I said. ‘Push now, push hard.’ A few moments and an eardrum-bursting scream later and a bloody, squirming little bundle entered the world.

  ‘It’s a girl!’ I cried and burst into tears of relief. Both mother and baby were still alive, despite my ministrations!

  ‘Congratulations, Cassie love, you have a beautiful baby girl,’ said Maggie, mopping up her tears on her pinny.

  Only Mamma, smiling from ear to ear, gold teeth flashing, seemed to be on top of the situation at that moment. She deftly wiped the baby down with a wet flannel and gave her a smack on her tiny little rump. Right on cue, the baby let out her first cry. Mamma laid the baby on Cassie’s belly and I got ready to cut the umbilical cord. I took a deep breath as I tried to decide between the kitchen knife and the scissors to do the job.

  I was shaking like a leaf. I’d never had to actually cut a cord before and I was very frightened that I’d hurt the baby or her mother. I’d just decided that the scissors were the thing to use, when I heard the bell of an ambulance and a screech of brakes. Thank God! I dropped the scissors and the knife. Bert had arrived with an ambulance in the nick of time. I was saved!

  There was a spontaneous party that night. Once we’d all been made to leave mother and baby in peace at the hospital, we’d hurried back to the cafe to find a party already in full swing. When I finally fell into bed, slightly drunk and almost numb with all the excitement and the praise heaped upon my undeserving head, it was well into the early hours of Monday morning. I don’t know if it was the drama, the booze or sheer high spirits, but despite my exhaustion, I tossed and turned all night, dreaming dreams that mostly made no sense – except for one.

  It was Christmas in my dream, and there was a party at the cafe. Everyone was there: the Campanin
is, Maltese Joe, Mrs Joe, Frankie and my friends and family from Paradise Gardens too. Gran was dancing with Papa Campanini and laughing so hard that I thought her teeth must fly out, while Zinnia and Digby Burlap were sitting quietly in a corner, talking about something I couldn’t quite hear, however hard I flapped my dream ears – and believe me, they were flapping; I’m nosy even in my sleep. Terry and Vi were at another table, listening to Tony singing, their faces rapt.

  There was a Christmas tree in the corner and a table groaning with the remains of a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Bits of home-made crackers littered the table, making bright splashes of colour against the white tablecloth. On the counter, several Christmas puddings and two large jugs of custard waited to be served, but Maggie and Bert were busy bending over what looked like a sideboard drawer placed on a table in the corner. In my dream, I sort of peered over their shoulders. There, waving her arms about, was Cassie’s baby.

  Maggie picked the little girl up and cradled her in her arms, rocking her gently and smiling tenderly. In the background, Tony’s voice soared above the now hushed crowd. ‘Silent night, holy night …’

  Maggie turned towards me, her face alight with joy. ‘Her name’s Rosie,’ she told me, as Bert stood close beside her, his large finger clutched in Rosie’s tiny hand, ‘and she’s ours.’

  THE END