Too late, Frank realises this detour was a very bad idea – that he’s alone in a narrow alley with his whole week’s money in his pocket. If these two were to start something, the odds would be against him.
He continues walking, aware that retreating might only entice trouble. Their torch beams flicker over him. ‘Evenin’,’ the shorter one says before he spits again. They draw nearer and the bloke lifts his hat in an exaggerated gesture like you might greet a vicar.
Frank touches his cap’s peak and mutters a greeting back. At the same time, he tightens his grip on his hefty torch.
With no further ado, they pass on by. Just as he’s letting out a relieved sigh, their echoing footsteps stop. ‘Here, don’t I know you from somewhere?’ one of them shouts, the tone anything but friendly. ‘I never could forget a face.’
Frank considers his choices. He could keep on walking and pretend he hasn’t heard the man’s question; then again, if he does that, they’ll be able to take him more easily from behind. Unfortunately, his only alternative is to turn and face whatever danger these two might pose.
As casually as he can, Frank swivels on his heels. Already, they’ve closed the gap and are standing just a yard or so in front of him – a fraction beyond arm’s length.
The short man shines his torch up into Frank’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. He puts his hand up for shade, angling his face away. The light lingers before it runs down the rest of him and back up to dazzle him again. ‘Well if it isn’t Frank Walton,’ Shorty’s cocksure voice declares. A streak of phlegm is aimed at Frank’s shoes. ‘What a turn up for the books – I haven’t set eyes on you in a very long while; Thought you must have scarpered for good.’
‘Sorry, pal, but you’re mistaken,’ Frank assures him, ‘Whoever this Wilton fellow is, it’s not me.’
Keeping his own torch beam low, he takes a half step towards the two men. ‘Though I reckon it’s an easy enough blunder to make in the dark; wouldn’t you agree?’ His heart racing, he transfers the heavy torch into his left hand. Though their features are half hidden by the shadow cast from their hats, he detects a slight movement of both men’s heads that they’ve clocked what he’s holding, how he’s ready to confront them. Though he’s outnumbered, he has the advantage of the higher ground.
‘Well let’s see now,’ the taller one keeps his voice low, ‘my young friend here was never very good at seeing things in bad light. Come to think of it, he’s no better at seeing things in a good light – if you get my meaning?’ A brief mirthless chortle. ‘’Praps things looks different from his level.’
‘You taking the piss?’ Another gob of spit hits the ground.
Lofty calms him with a raised hand. ‘Look – it’s late. This chap might bear a passing resemblance to this Wilton bloke you used to know.’ He shrugs. ‘What say we leave it at that, eh?’
‘Walton, dammit – his name’s Frank Walton like I–’
‘We’ll wish you goodnight, mate, whatever your ruddy name is.’ Lofty grabs his companion’s elbow and steers him on his way. ‘Have a safe journey home now,’ he calls over his shoulder.
Their footsteps continue down the alley. Frank hears a throaty voice mumble, ‘For Christ’s sake, Lenny, it’s not like we’ve got time to waste on some pointless argy-bargy in an alley. Let it go, will ya?’
Frank turns to continue his walk. So, Lenny Murray is down from Manchester and seemingly operating in this part of town. In future, he’ll know to avoid this particular route home.
Saturday 21st June
Frank’s woken by heavy thumps on his bedroom door. ‘I know you’re in there, Danby, so you’d better open up.’
He rubs at his eyes.
‘I’m not budging an inch – d’you hear me?’ The person making all the noise sounds like a youngish chap. ‘You’re to open this flaming door right now. This minute or I’ll –’
‘Or you’ll what?’ Frank leaps out of his bed as the pounding starts to shake the dust from between the planks.
The thudding stops again. ‘I want the back rent you owe my mum and I want – no, I bloody well demand you give it to me right this minute. She might be a soft touch, but you’ll find I’m not.’
‘Will you hold your horses for a bit, lad? Give a man a chance to get washed up and dressed, for pity’s sake. I’ll be more than happy to pay your ma what she’s owed, in full, once I’m half decent.’
‘Wot, an’ let you sneak out of the house while my back’s turned – I don’t think so, mate. I wasn’t born yesterday.’ A short pause. ‘If you’ve got the rent money, you can pay me right now. And don’t bother to dress first – I seen plenty of naked men during my National Service.’
Frank unlocks the door and flings it wide open. The boy immediately takes a step backwards, his pinched-in face not quite able to hide a flicker of timidity. By the look of him he’s no more than twenty; still has a touch of acne he’s trying to hide with a sparse, gingery beard. All that ruddy shouting was bravado.
‘Boo!’ When the boy jumps, Frank laughs in his face. ‘I’m guessing you must be young Malcolm. Heard a lot about you. You’ve a proud ma in Mrs Harris an’ no mistake. Stay right there. I’ll fetch your ma’s money – though I’d rather hand it to her in person.’ When he touches his elbow, the lad withdraws as if stung. ‘You can tell her from me there was no need for all this ruddy fuss – she must know by now I always pay my debts.’
Frank slams the door in the boy’s face. The hammering continues while he’s retrieving the cash from under the floorboard beneath his bed.
‘I’ll have you know I’m authorised to collect the tenants’ rents on my mother’s behalf,’ the boy shouts through the door.
Frank pulls on his trousers. ‘Then I’ll need you to sign the rent book,’ he says, opening up again. He counts the money out into the lad’s unsteady hand. ‘Hang on a sec.’ He produces the book and a pen. Watching the boy sign, he’s tempted to suggest he practice that signature so it’s less easy to forge.
Slipping the money into his back pocket, Malcolm regroups. ‘Right, well I’m glad that’s all settled then.’ He retreats a few steps along the landing. ‘We’re not running a charity here; just you make sure you’re on time with it from now on.’
‘And a good morning to you too,’ he shouts after the boy’s back. Frank’s bare feet are sticking to the oilcloth. Closing the door, he mutters, ‘I’ll remember this when the time comes.’
Chapter Eight
With it being a Saturday, her friend Dot won’t be working. Grace could call round, maybe suggest a trip to the pictures later on – ’praps the new one at the Empire. No, she’s determined to keep her promise; in her best summer dress, she sets out to visit to her Aunty Dora, though she’d much rather be doing just about anything else on such a fine day.
The tunnels in the Underground are airless and crowded and her packed carriage reeks of other people’s bodies. With not a seat to be had, Grace is squashed against sweaty armpits at every turn. She fans her face with her best hat. Why on earth didn’t she think to take the bus instead?
They’re held up for ages at a signal, which means her journey to Mile End takes far longer than it should. And then, at the exit, she has to wait in a snaking queue for the ticket inspector.
Glad to be out in the open at last, she makes her way through crowded pavements towards the Roman Road. She passes the sorry site of the derelict bathhouse, its once grand façade boarded up and left to become a home for weeds and moss. Nothing much has altered. The bombsite – or bombies as all the kids used to call them – are engulfed in a sea of purple buddleias that are just coming into flower. These and the endless swathes of pink-spiked rosebay make for quite a cheery sight.
This being Saturday, the street market is in full swing. She stops to watch a pack of over-excited children dancing about to the tinny band music that’s coming from a wind-up gramophone. Walking on, the jolliness of the tune fades and is finally drowned out when a screaming baby is wheeled past.
The younger women have shed their working clothes and are dressed in summer skirts and blouses. The more solid older ladies – some still in wraparound aprons – are sticking to their cardigans or even coats; their hair covered by headscarves. Cyclists weave in and out, ringing their bells to little effect. A knot of little girls are skipping inside a long, turning rope. Grace can still recite the nonsense rhyme they’re chanting. At the height of the arc, she’s almost tempted to jump in.
A couple of grimy sweeps walk past and then wolf whistle at her back. Stallholders and spivs call out to attract her attention; following this up with their ‘’ello, darlin’’ or ‘Two for five bob, I can’t say fairer’. Other men seem to be mooching around in doorways, smoking and looking on in an aimless sort of way.
Grace jumps over the chalked squares of an abandoned hopscotch game, trying not to step on any of the lines. A row of hand-in-hand kids chant The big ship sales through the Alley Alley O as they bend to “thread the needle” beneath the stretched-out arm of the tallest boy.
She crosses over to take a side street that’s milling with shabbily dressed women and swarms of little children. It’s hard to dodge around all the parked-up prams. At the phone box she turns left, taking care to avoid a heap of dog mess.
This alleyway finally leads her into a small courtyard. Every building is festooned with lines of drying washing, some of it little better than rags. The smell of sewage and cooked cabbage hangs in the air. Her gaze travels up the soot-blackened bricks to the small window of the flat where her aunt and uncle have spent all their married life. She’s forgotten what a slog it is up to their flat. More drying clothes adorn each stairway like bunting.
It’s almost a year since her last visit but Dora’s greeting is as low key as usual. ‘Come on in then,’ she says, her tone more resignation than enthusiasm. The spreading grey in her hair makes her look much older. Not only that – close up, her whole face seems to have shrivelled in on itself. Over her baggy clothing she’s wearing the same old wraparound apron that’s been washed so many times you have to stare hard to pick out any of its original paisley pattern. Grace feels overdressed.
Nothing much has changed inside the flat; a stale, damp smell still hangs about the place. What else was she expecting?
Dora looks her up and down with a critical eye. ‘New dress then, is it?’
Taking off her hat, Grace bridles at the implications. ‘I should be so lucky, Aunty. No, I’ve had this one for ages – not often it’s warm enough to wear it though.’
She smoothes down the back of her skirt before sitting down in the one chair that’s not reserved. Brown stains are encroaching onto the wallpaper everywhere she looks. Though she’d never thought her aunty was much of a patriot, someone’s stuck a large, yellowing picture of the late King above the fireplace. Below that, there’s a smaller one of his black-veiled mother, widow and daughters. Clearly, these must have been cut from some newspaper report of the King’s funeral back in February. Below these, a sprig of dried heather sticking out of a vase completes the makeshift shrine.
Through the wall she can hear the couple next door having a blazing row. The woman scarcely stops to draw breath. Although a baby begins to scream for attention, the two of them keep at it hammer and tongs. Then finally it all goes suspiciously quiet.
The mantlepiece clock chimes the half hour. As if waiting for his cue, her Uncle Bill comes in, crowding the small room by planting himself in the middle of it.
He nods in her direction. ‘Grace,’ but doesn’t spare a smile to go with it. Despite the heat, a shiver runs through her.
His pink flesh is bulging out of the stained vest he’s wearing so that it’s hard to look at him and not think of a pig. Almost midday and the man’s not even bothered to put on a shirt.
‘How’s your mother?’ Dora asks. She interrupts her attempt at an answer to ask if she’d like a cup of tea. ‘There’s just about enough for a pot between us, but mind – we’ve not a grain of sugar to go in it.’
‘Water will do me fine on a day like this, thanks all the same.’
Bill scratches at his sparse hair. ‘I’m sick to death of this ruddy heat; there’s hardly a bit of air to be had, even with both the windows open. Be glad of a storm to break it up.’
The conversation continues in the same fashion. Grace knows she should feel some gratitude for the way they took her in when her mum went off with Gerry Blake, but being back in this place is beginning to give her the screaming habdabs. It’s as much as she can do to stay for further half hour. How could she ever have contemplated returning to this sort of life?
‘I’d best be off now,’ she tells them, looking down at her watch. ‘Dennis will be wanting his dinner. Then there’s the bottling up.’
Neither of them seems disappointed when she leaves.
Grace lets herself in the side door to the pub. Peering through as she passes, she can see the bar’s busy again. Frank seems to be in there by himself. Despite his solemn promise, her husband is nowhere to be seen.
There’s no sign of him in the kitchen either. The room smells of frying and there’s a pan soaking in the sink along with a plate and cup. The greasy scum on the water turns her stomach. She throws her keys on the table and calls out his name as she climbs the stairs to their bedroom.
At least he’s made the bed for a change. She crosses the room to open the sticking window on what’s left of the day. The curtains hardly stir. She takes off her hat. With the weather like it is, she really ought to make a start on the pile of dirty washing that’s built up in her absence.
Instead she retreats downstairs and switches on the wireless for a bit of cheer.
Bloody cricket again. After she’s turned it off, she sits there drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Her rumbling belly is telling her it’s time she had something to eat but right now she’s no real appetite for food.
It’s not long before she’s pacing the floor – not easy in such a small space. Why on earth had she come back here in the first place? What was the point if things are only going to carry on exactly the way they were before?
She goes through to the bar. The place is thinning out as the punters remember they’ve got families and homes to go to. Frank is busy pulling a pint and barely glances up when she walks in. ‘Morning; sorry, afternoon, Grace.’ He straightens up. ‘Another fine one today, though I’ve not seen a lot of it so far.’
She’s in no mood to be cheered up. ‘I see he’s gone and left you to it, then.’
Not meeting her eye, he hands the beer over to an eager hand. ‘Dennis was helping me earlier on – said he was just popping out for a bit. You’ve not long missed him.’
‘Popping out for a bet, more like.’ The words run out of her mouth before she can stop them.
‘That’ll be one and a penny,’ Frank tells a young man who looks to her like he might be underage. She’ll be having a word about that later.
Once he’s deposited the coins in the till, Frank gives her his full attention. ‘Reckon he’ll be back before long. Probably just nipped out to buy a paper or something?’ The barman’s wide smile shows up that near perfect set of teeth.
They both know he’s covering for the boss. Looking uncomfortable now, Frank begins to rub away at a scar running just below his hairline. From the way it’s faded it must be from an old accident – funny how she hadn’t noticed that before. And there’s something else, something that’s quite different about him this morning. She can’t quite put a finger on it.
Wilf sets his empty glass on the counter. ‘I’ll just have another half in there before I get off home.’ This is an old trick – most barmen put too much in a pint pot when they’re aiming for a half. To distract Frank, the old man adds: ‘Me missus’ll give me earache if me dinner’s gone cold again.’
Grace has to admit Frank’s guessed the level just about right, though Wilf still lifts the glass to take the measure of it. The old man looks from her to Frank and decides not t
o quibble. He raises his glass. ‘Here’s to my wife’s husband.’
After a few sips he puts down his glass. ‘So then, young Grace, how was Brighton?’
Grace keeps her sigh to herself. ‘I was busy with my mum, most of the time.’
‘Never ever been down there meself; I hear it’s quite the place for a bit of sea bathing?’
‘Yes, it is. As a matter of fact, I did take a dip once or twice last week. Although the beach down there is all pebbles so it’s a bit hard on your bare feet gettin' in. And the water was freezing at first; took your breath away, it did. But once you’re in, you soon get used to it.’
She looks up to find Frank’s listening. ‘There really is nothing better on a hot day than to just be floatin’ on your back in the sea, starin’ up into the sky. It feels so grand to be weightless. You know, like you could let yourself drift far away from everything and everyone.’
‘Mmm.’ Wilf shakes his head. ‘I heard – mind you this was during the war –there was some poor fella who fell asleep on a train heading down south, missed his bloomin’ stop and woke up at the end of the line in Brighton station. Course he wasn’t a resident, so he had no right to be down there on the coast – not back then. Poor bugger got arrested before he had chance to catch a train back home.’
Frank starts mopping up some spillage with a beer towel. To no one in particular, he says: ‘I’ve often thought I’d love to have a good cool down in that lake in the park.’
‘Well you wouldn’t catch me in no slimy lake,’ Fat Harry plonks his empty glass down on the counter. ‘Beats me why any bugger would choose to go swimmin’ just for the pleasure of it. Did I ever tell you about the time we were on convoy duty and –’
‘Another pint is it, Harry?’ Frank’s interruption puts paid to that particular saunter down memory lane. He aims a conspiratorial wink at Grace.
Too Many Heroes Page 6
