Just Around the Corner

by Gilda O'Neill

  ‘Too late,’ said Liz.

  Molly nudged her hard in the ribs. ‘Lizzie Watts,’ she said threateningly.

  Liz knew when she was beaten. ‘Oi!’ she hollered. ‘Simon. Simon Blomstein. Over here.’

  As several disappointed young men turned away, Simon Blomstein stopped and looked round. He seemed puzzled. Tapping himself on the chest, he mouthed, ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah, you.’ Liz nodded and beckoned him over.

  Molly kept her eye on Simon Blomstein as he did his best to get safely across the busy junction. ‘Quick, tell me what yer know about him.’

  As he drew closer to them, Liz automatically patted her fair curls. ‘Not much really. I took in some printing what he delivered to the warehouse the other day and we got chatting. He ain’t got no mum or dad. He lives with his Uncle David’s family but used to live with his auntie somewhere – North London, I think it was – can’t remember now. And he works for him, his uncle, I mean, at his printing works off Cable Street. Aw yeah, they’re Jewish and they live up Whitechapel way and all. Him and his uncle’s family.’

  ‘What, don’t tell me you don’t know his collar size,’ Molly said, tearing her eyes away from Simon – who by now had almost made it to the pavement – and turning to stare at her friend. ‘How d’yer know all this?’

  Liz winked broadly and tapped the side of her nose with her finger. ‘Psychic, ain’t I, just like Nutty Lil.’

  ‘Liz!’

  ‘I told yer, he come into the warehouse the other day to deliver some printing, and we had a little chat.’

  Molly grinned and shoved Liz sideways. ‘Some little chat.’

  Liz signalled with her eyes for Molly to shut up as Simon Blomstein finally arrived beside them. His face lit up with a smile of recognition. ‘Terson’s Quality Teas,’ he said, snapping his fingers.

  Liz returned his smile. ‘That’s right. Lizzie Watts, remember?’

  ‘Of course.’ Simon held out his hand.

  Molly grabbed it before Liz had a chance. ‘Molly Katherine Mehan,’ she said, noticing the softness of his long pale fingers, so different from the big rough hands of the men in her family.

  ‘Hello, Molly,’ he said with a nod.

  There was a moment’s pause and then Molly opened her mouth and out it came. ‘We was thinking of going to the pictures. Fancy coming with us?’

  At first, Simon looked a bit taken aback and Molly was convinced that this time she and her big mouth really had gone too far, and that she had scared Simon off before she had even had a chance to get to know him. Despite her protests about what her nanna and Danny had said earlier, now she could have kicked herself for not being a bit more ladylike.

  But Molly was wrong. Simon hadn’t had very much to do with girls outside of his family, and the enthusiastic, fox-haired Molly Katherine Mehan seemed so exotic compared to his quiet dark-haired cousins that he couldn’t help but be charmed by her.

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said.

  Molly turned to Liz and raised her eyebrows with a surprisingly nervous grin. ‘He’s all right, ain’t he, this Simon Blomstein?’

  For want of something better to do, Liz grinned dumbly back. She didn’t like even to think what Bob Jarvis might have to say about this unexpected addition to their party.

  ‘But,’ Simon added with a shrug, ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t. Not tonight.’

  Molly echoed his shrug, swallowing down her disappointment before she spoke. ‘It’s all right. I just thought yer might like to, that’s all.’

  ‘I would, truly, but I’m meant to be somewhere else. I really have got to rush.’ He began walking quickly away, but then stopped and turned round. ‘Look, I’m sorry about tonight. Really. But it’s family. You know.’

  Molly did her best to sound uninterested. ‘Family, yeah, I know.’

  ‘But, how about,’ he continued, ‘if we meet up tomorrow?’

  Molly’s mask of unconcern slipped and she beamed like an electric light bulb. ‘Yeah, I’d like that. When?’

  ‘During the day sometime? Would that be all right? I have to get up early for work, you see.’

  ‘Me too.’ Molly was bubbling. ‘Tell yer what, I’ve got to go to church, then have me dinner, but after . . .’

  ‘Church?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ laughed Molly. ‘Same problem as you: family. Me mum’d kill me stone dead if I missed Mass, and then I wouldn’t be able to give you the pleasure of me company, now would I?’

  Liz stood beside her friend, watching in awe, as though she were witnessing the theatrical skills of a great actress. It really was quite a performance. Molly wasn’t beautiful in any conventional way but she had a vivacity, combined with the cheek of the devil, that boys, a lot of them anyway, seemed to fall for, and she never ever seemed to notice what effect she was having on them. Well, up until now, she hadn’t, Liz checked herself. Now Molly looked all too aware of the effect she was having on Simon Blomstein.

  ‘I know what’d be a good idea,’ she said, flicking her thick auburn waves away from her eyes. ‘I can meet you at the top of Preston’s Road. Know it?’ She jerked her thumb back over her shoulder in the direction of the Isle of Dogs.

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Good. Then we can go on to the Island and through the foot tunnel to Greenwich. It’ll be smashing in this hot weather.’

  Simon hesitated for just a moment, then smiled and nodded. ‘That sounds nice. Half past two?’

  ‘Half past two,’ she agreed.

  Then, without another word or so much as a wave, Simon trotted off in the direction of Aldgate.

  He was still in view, dodging in and out of the increasingly boisterous Saturday evening crowds, when Molly felt someone grab her arms from behind, pinning them to her side. Furious, she twisted her head round to see who would dare take such a liberty. It was Bob Jarvis, his face pale with anger.

  ‘Good job we finished our business a bit earlier than I thought,’ he said through barely open teeth.

  Molly dragged herself away from him. ‘What the hell do you think yer doing?’ She stabbed a finger at Danny who was standing there beside Bob, looking as though he wished he wasn’t. ‘And what’s up with you, letting him grab at me like that?’

  Danny stared at the ground, nervously drawing designs in the dust with the toe of his boot.

  ‘Danny?’ she insisted. ‘Danny, I’m talking to you.’

  ‘And I’m talking to you.’ Bob said the words quietly but so menacingly that Molly, astonished by his presumption, shut up and listened. ‘I wanna know,’ he went on, ‘what yer thought yer was doing talking to the likes of him?’

  Molly frowned; she couldn’t figure out what Bob was going on about. ‘How d’yer mean “the likes of him”?’

  ‘Him.’ Bob’s jaw was rigid. ‘A Jew.’

  Molly was in two minds about what she should say: part of her wanted to shout at him, ask him who he thought he was, bossing her about, and that he could bugger off and mind his own business. But she didn’t. There was something about him, something about the way he was looking at her that stopped her. She was like a rabbit, mesmerised by a stoat. It wasn’t anything to do with his looks, although he was all right in that department, if not as handsome as Simon; no, it was to do with a way he had about him that both repelled and attracted her at the same time. She swallowed hard, as she admitted to herself that she was compelled by Bob Jarvis’s arrogant, domineering attitude; it made him seem superior somehow, gave him a confidence that other boys she knew just didn’t have.

  Molly flashed a look at Liz who was silently observing the bizarre scene. Could she really let him speak to her like that in front of her friend, not to mention Danny, who’d never let her hear the end of it? And why should anyone have the right to tell her, Molly Katherine Mehan, who she could or couldn’t speak to? But despite that, and despite the fact that she was going to meet Simon the next day, Molly didn’t want to spoil her chances of going to the pictures with
Bob – that was a price she wasn’t prepared to pay.

  ‘Well?’ Bob demanded. ‘Are you gonna explain yerself?’

  ‘He was lost,’ she said, sticking her chin defiantly in the air. ‘Wanted to know the way to Aldgate, didn’t he? So I told him. “Up there,” I said. “That’s the way”.’ She stuck her fists into her waist. ‘That all right with you, is it? Or is there a law against it or something?’

  Molly sneaked another quick look at Liz. Liz was saying nothing, she just looked straight ahead, wide-eyed and with a half-smile on her face: a convincing picture of pretty, if slightly daft, innocence.

  Bob also lifted his chin and stood very straight, looking along his nose at Molly, weighing her up. ‘So long as yer sure. ’Cos I don’t want no girl of mine being mates with no Jews.’

  ‘Bloody cheek. Who said I’m your girl, then?’

  ‘I did.’

  Molly folded her arms, then unfolded them. ‘I was only telling him the way, all right?’ She turned and looked sheepishly at Liz, but her friend hurriedly averted her eyes. Molly turned back to Bob; she folded her arms again. ‘If it’s anything to do with you.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I am glad,’ said Molly, with a cynical lift in her voice. Then she linked arms with Liz. ‘So, are we going to the flicks or what?’

  Bob relaxed. ‘Yeah, course. You girls walk on, I’ve just gotta finish a bit of business, private like, with Danny here.’

  Molly and Liz looked at each other and, relieved by the broken tension, they shrieked with laughter.

  ‘Private business!’ Liz spluttered.

  ‘Hark at them,’ Molly roared in response.

  For all their derision, they walked on ahead exactly as Bob had told them to, so that he and Danny could talk about whatever it was that they considered so important.

  Molly pulled Liz close to her. ‘Yer a good mate, Lizzie Watts. Thanks for not giving us away.’

  ‘Why should I give yer away?’ asked Liz, looking back over her shoulder at Danny and Bob, who were now deep in conversation. ‘Can’t have blokes thinking they own us, now can we?’ she added.

  Molly felt herself blush. Had she really acted that stupidly? She lifted her lips into a deliberate smile. ‘What, not even blokes like our Danny?’

  ‘No good you trying to torment me, Moll,’ Liz sniped straight back. ‘Least I’m only getting meself hiked up with one bloke at a time.’

  3

  WHILE HIS CHILDREN were all out having a good time at their various Saturday evening occupations – Danny and Molly going to the pictures with Liz and Bob; Timmy and Michael having a rowdy kick-about with the Milton kids; Sean supposedly in the charge of his big brother and sister – Pat Mehan had wandered along to the Queen’s, the pub at the blocked end of Plumley Street, for a pint of best. He was standing at the little bar, his elbows resting on the counter, staring into his glass. Although he had never been one to waste his time, or his money if he had any to spare, in the pub, Pat did like to have the occasional jar and the chance of a chat and a laugh with his friends and neighbours.

  The pub hadn’t begun to fill up yet. There were just Pat, Joe Palmer standing next to him at the counter, nursing the remains of a pint, and, in the corner, Jimmo Shay and Albert Tucker, two of the older residents of the street, who were playing crib as though their lives and reputations depended on it. The evening was still warm, but the four customers all had their caps jammed on their heads and pulled down well over their eyes, stocks tied tightly round their necks, and their waistcoats, all barring the bottom buttons, of course, neatly buttoned up, and, for the sake of their own notions of respectability and despite the heat of the evening, topped off with aged, threadbare jackets.

  Pat drained his glass and looked up at the brightly dressed, elaborately made-up middle-aged woman who was standing behind the bar.

  ‘Two more pints for me and Joe here, please, Mags,’ he said, with a flash of his eyebrows. ‘And send a couple of halves over to them two while yer at it and all, please, girl.’

  Instead of rewarding Pat with her usual broad smile and a whiff of her scent as she raised her arm to pull the pints, Mags Donovan dipped her chin and began to sniffle into a frothy lace handkerchief that she pulled from her sleeve. She flapped her hand distractedly in the direction of her portly husband. ‘Ask Harold, if yer don’t mind, Pat. I’ve gotta just . . .’ Her tears overcame her and, not wanting her customers to witness her sorrow, she dashed through to the back room.

  Pat, never able to cope with a woman’s tears, stretched his lips tightly across his teeth. ‘Here, Harold, I ain’t said nothing to upset her, have I?’

  The publican shook his head; he looked close to weeping himself, a real oddity in such a big, usually tough-acting man. ‘Don’t mind Mags, Pat,’ Harold said, raising an empty pint glass for Pat’s approval.

  Pat nodded and said, ‘Two pints and two halves, please, Harold.’

  Harold began to draw the beer, levering the wood and brass pump towards him in a strong, even pull. ‘She’s gone and got herself all worked up, ain’t she?’

  ‘How’s that then, mate?’

  ‘Well, it’s our young Margaret, see. Mags can cope with the boys moving away like.’ He set a full, brimming glass on the counter in front of Pat, which in turn he slid along the polished wood towards Joe. ‘It’s only right that boys go and live near their wives’ families, no one’d disagree with that.’ Harold put the second glass in front of Pat before starting on filling the two half-pint mugs. ‘But, like I say, it’s our young Margaret.’ He slammed the first of the smaller drinks down on the bar, slopping the foaming liquid over the polished counter. ‘She’s really gone and broke my Mags’s heart.’

  Pat and Joe raised their glasses to each other in silent salute, then sipped at their beer, listening respectfully while Harold told them about his troubles – a reversal of what usually happened in the Queen’s Arms.

  ‘I suppose yer’ve heard all about it anyway, how she’s moved all the way to bloody Dagenham.’

  Pat and Joe nodded to show that they had indeed heard what had been the talk of the whole turning for weeks.

  ‘Don’t know what got into her.’ Harold whacked down the second of the smaller drinks. ‘What would anyone wanna go and live in a place like that for? Everyone knows it’s all kippers and curtains down there. And our Margaret’s always been such a down-to-earth girl. Well, before she married, she was.’ Harold paused, then, sneering over the words, he added: ‘Paul Monroe. I ask yer, what sort of a name’s that when it’s at home? Paul Monroe? Suppose he thinks they’re too good for the East End now they’ve got their bathroom and their inside lav.’ Harold spoke of his daughter’s new living arrangements as though they might be horribly contagious.

  Pat sorted through a handful of loose change that he’d taken from his trouser pocket. ‘Here, Harold, have one yerself, mate. Go on.’

  With his jaw set to stop himself from breaking down in tears, Harold did his best to smile his thanks. ‘Good luck, Pat.’ He rang up the total on the big brass till, and slung the change carelessly into the wooden money tray. ‘I will have a half with yer.’

  Harold pulled his drink and then sat himself down on the high stool behind the bar that usually stood unused, and stared into the foam as though it might hold the solution to all his problems.

  Pat took the two half-pint glasses over to the little round table in the corner where the elderly men were still concentrating on their cards. He put the drinks down in front of them, careful not to disturb their game.

  ‘Aaaah! Just the job,’ said Jimmo Shay, winking appreciatively. ‘Ta, son.’

  ‘My pleasure, Jimmo,’ said Pat, slapping him on the back. ‘And cheers, Albert.’

  Albert grudgingly lifted his gaze from his hand and repaid Pat’s generosity with a low growl.

  Pat didn’t take offence. Albert Tucker’s gloom was legendary, and, considering that for the last forty-odd years he’
d been married to Phoebe, a right old dragon who could turn milk sour with just one glance from her beady little eyes, no one in Plumley Street really expected anything else of the miserable old devil.

  As Pat settled himself back at the bar, Joe Palmer was chuckling to himself. ‘Look at them two, will yer, Pat? Yer know yer won’t get no drinks back off them crafty old sods. Got rubber weskits the pair of ’em. Put their hands in their pockets and they bounce right out again.’

  Pat shrugged. ‘Don’t matter, does it, treating ’em now and again. Don’t suppose they’ve got more’n a couple o’ coppers to bless ’emselves with, poor old buggers.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Pat. They’re doing all right. Since them two old goats retired from the market, my missus has fed the pair of ’em and their old girls. I’m telling yer, it’s a fact. You know what my Aggie’s like – feels sorry for every living creature, she does. If she sees a sparrow hurt she has to fetch it home and look after it, and she’s the same with that little mob. She’s over Phoebe’s or Sooky’s every five minutes with a bread pudden or a drop o’ stew. No, yer don’t wanna waste no sympathy on them, Pat. They do all right, you mark my words.’

  Joe took a long swallow from his pint. ‘Now, that poor bleeder Milton,’ he went on, ‘that’s a different story. He needs everything anyone’s got to give him, he does. Never seen a decent pair of boots on any one of them kids of his.’

  ‘Me and Katie was saying that when we was having our tea just now. He’s a poor bastard. I mean, it’s bad enough for me down the docks, worrying the life out of meself about how to get hold of a few bob when I miss the odd day – and there’s been more and more of them lately.’

  ‘Yer must miss the money with a family to bring up, Pat.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s obvious, innit? But it’s the other things and all. Seeing yer mates, having a laugh and that. I reckon it’d drive me mental; I dunno how he passes the days.’