Just Around the Corner

by Gilda O'Neill

  Stephen patted his new friend on the shoulder. ‘We’re all right,’ he grinned. ‘My little girl, Katie, wouldn’t turn a man and his pal away, now would yer, darling?’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ she said. Well, that’s just where you’re wrong.’ And, with that, Katie stepped inside number twelve and, just like her mother, she slammed the street door shut behind her.

  12

  THE FINE SPRING weather continued with hardly a break and, by the middle of May, there was the makings of what looked like being a hot, dry summer. But while the sky was clear blue, the weather pleasantly warm and full of promise of even better things to come, the atmosphere in number twelve Plumley Street was very far from unclouded.

  It was Monday afternoon and Katie was in the kitchen doing the ironing; there was a mountain of it and no one to give her a hand. Before Stephen had shown up out of the blue in the pub at Christmas, almost six months ago now, Nora would have been there in the kitchen with her, helping her daughter with all the work that it took to keep the family clean, clothed and fed. But she was too busy for all that now, what with all the time Stephen expected her to spend with him.

  Katie didn’t mean to be selfish, that wasn’t her way, she just wished that the rest of the family would do something to make her load a little easier. She didn’t even want them to do very much – just find a few minutes to sit down and talk to her, to reassure her that her fears about what was happening to them all were just silly, groundless worries, made worse by her being so tired lately; at least that would have made her feel she wasn’t losing touch with them.

  But, of course, like Nora, they were all too busy with their own lives to bother about Katie; she had always coped and they all just seemed to expect that she would carry on doing so.

  It had been so much easier when the kids were little. The worst thing that happened to any of them then was a scraped knee or a lost football. But even Timmy, at nine years old, was no longer her baby. And that was another worry to add to the pile: the boys hadn’t stopped growing just because there was less money in the house; new boots and trousers still had to be found from somewhere. The idea of getting a job seemed more and more sensible to Katie, but she knew that that was the last thing even to try to bring up with Pat. At least she was bumping along reasonably enough without too many rows with him, so why add extra needle to what was already a tough enough situation for a woman to handle?

  While Katie fretted to herself in the kitchen of number twelve, as she ironed and pressed and thought about how she’d have to get a move on if she was ever going to get the tea ready, things next door were very different. In number ten, life seemed to be going along very nicely for all concerned, particularly Stephen. He had not only ingratiated himself with his wife but, with all his tales and jokes – not to mention his Blarney – his grandchildren had completely fallen for him. Every one of them loved having him there.

  It was, as Katie had fruitlessly tried to point out to her mother on more than one occasion, as though Stephen Brady, the totally self-centred young villain who had abandoned his pregnant wife, had been totally forgotten, and had been replaced by Farvee, a lovable old scoundrel who could apparently do no wrong in anyone’s but Katie’s eyes. She had pleaded with her mother to take care and watch him like a hawk if she didn’t want to be taken for a ride again, but Nora had dismissed her daughter’s concerns and told her she should be more forgiving. And, every time, out came the same excuses: Stephen had been just a boy and had known no better, but he was a man now, and Nora was glad of it.

  Nothing could convince Katie. She still thought he was a waste of space and wouldn’t, even for her mum’s sake, make the effort to call him Dad. But then Stephen did something that made even Katie grudgingly admit that she supposed there was a bit of good in everyone.

  It started one evening in the Queen’s when Stephen was sitting up at the bar, listening to Pat and Harold discussing how the so-called Great War was still affecting people, and relatively young ones at that – men like Bert Johnson, for instance, who was only in his early forties.

  ‘When I went over to Edie’s for me fag papers the other morning,’ Pat said, setting down his half-empty glass on the counter, ‘looked right upset she did. Reckons Bert’s in such a bad way with that leg of his, he can’t even stand on it no more.’

  Harold, who was propping up the other side of the counter, gave a distressed shake of his head. ‘She was telling my Mags how it’s all swollen and infected again. Terrible it sounds. Poor sod.’

  ‘It must get to him,’ Pat went on, ‘knowing his old woman’s gotta do everything in that shop. And all he can do is sit there.’

  Harold leant forward on the bar and said quietly, ‘Edie told Mags she tried to get him to sit in the shop with her – at least he’d see a bit of life that way – but he wouldn’t have it. Said he’d only be in the way.’ Harold straightened up and moved along the counter to serve a stall holder who’d just come in for a quiet drink after packing up for the day. ‘Know what he’s doing?’ he asked Pat and Stephen as he pulled the man a pint.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Stephen, speaking for the first time since the topic of Bert Johnson had come up.

  ‘He’s got himself stuck away in a corner of that little storeroom out the back of the shop, that’s what. Sitting there by himself all day, he is.’ Harold handed the stall holder his drink and took his money before rejoining Pat and Stephen.

  ‘Sure, that’d drive a feller mad.’

  ‘Yer right there, Stephen,’ Harold agreed. ‘It would. But he says at least he’s out of her way. And if he hadn’t had to drag himself out to the lavatory in the back yard, he reckons he would stay upstairs in the bedroom.’

  The terrible thought of spending all that time alone, with no one to have a laugh and a joke with, made Stephen decide that he would do something to cheer up Bert Johnson.

  So over the weeks, Bert and Stephen became like old pals. They’d sit in the shop’s back room, day in, day out, playing hand after hand of cards, drinking bottles of the warm pale ale supplied by Edie, and smoking smelly roll-ups that clouded the room with a sickly fog. But as far as Edie was concerned, and despite her being a stickler for cleanliness, the two of them could have been smoking old tarry barge ropes; no matter what sort of stink they caused, she would never have complained. She was just grateful that her Bert had a bit of company to help him through his pain.

  The sounds coming from the storeroom, of roaring laughter or of the two men discussing what they’d read in their morning papers, were as much a tonic for Edie as they were for Bert, and she found that she could get on with her job, serving her customers, stocking the shelves, slicing and wrapping slabs of this and that, with almost the same enthusiasm and energy as she had before Bert had finally succumbed to his injury.

  A lot of the other neighbours were only too willing to help out the Johnsons, of course. Aggie Palmer, for one, had proved to be a real friend to Edie. Not only was she doing more hours in the shop than usual, but she had also persuaded her husband, Joe, that he should let her and young Danny Mehan take his truck to Pledger’s the wholesaler to collect Edie’s stock of a morning, before Joe and Danny started their regular day’s haulage work.

  Danny was a bit put out when Joe had told him about going with Aggie, and had made sure he let her and Joe know that he was only doing it for Edie and Bert. But even Danny had not been able to resist cracking a smile when, as he was carrying a carton of tinned peas into the shop one morning, he watched Edie Johnson telling his stern-faced mum that she must be really proud that her son had turned out so much like Stephen, his saint of a grandfather.

  But as much as Bert appreciated Stephen’s company, really enjoyed it even, after nearly a month of being stuck out the back and feeling more like a spare part than ever, it was with real excitement that he announced he wouldn’t be needing Stephen to call on him for a couple of weeks, as he was hoping to go into hospital for treatment at last. Edie had heard from a customer a
bout a doctor who had treated the woman’s brother with some new surgical technique that might be of help to Bert. As soon as the woman had left, Edie had shut the shop, gone to the hospital, and had fought like a lioness protecting her cubs to get her husband an appointment to see the consultant.

  When she had come home and told Bert what she had done, all he could say was, could they afford it? Even with the money he had got for his gold hunter watch from Arthur Lane, he was still worried about the cost of it all. But Edie wouldn’t even let him talk about money. Whatever they had was his, whether it meant selling the shop and every stitch that Edie stood up in. All she wanted and prayed for was for him to be well again and free from his terrible pain.

  It was nearly half past eight, on the first Friday morning in June, the morning that Edie was going with Bert to the hospital, and Aggie Palmer was banging on the door of the corner shop. She couldn’t understand why it was still locked. She looked over her shoulder, across the street to where Danny was sitting in the truck that he had just backed out of the yard ready to go and fetch Edie’s order from the wholesaler’s.

  ‘Dan, come over here a minute will yer, love?’ Aggie called to him.

  Danny reluctantly turned off the motor. He had been out a bit late the night before, seeing Bob Jarvis, and had a head on him that felt like he’d been bashing it against the yard wall. Having to turn off the engine and crank it back into life again in five minutes’ time was just about the last thing he felt like doing.

  He sighed loudly and dropped down on to the pavement from the cab. For about the fiftieth time that morning, Danny wished with all his heart that he could get another job and leave Joe Palmer and his bloody haulage business to rot. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the work, it was the thought of working for someone who was half gypsy, a stinking pikey as he thought of him, that Danny had learnt to detest.

  As he sauntered over to Aggie, hands stuck deep in his pockets, Danny had a look of total disdain on his face. He didn’t mind helping out Edie and Bert, he liked them, they were decent people, but this was what he resented – being called over by Joe’s wife to do her errands for her. Why should he do what the likes of her told him? What did she think he was, some sort of lackey?

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, insolently.

  ‘See if yer can get over the side gate and have a look round the back for us, would yer please, love?’ Aggie held her hand up to the glass window and peered through it, trying to make out if there was anyone in the dark interior of the shop. ‘I can’t be sure, but I reckon there’s something wrong in there. I thought Edie would’ve been up for hours, knowing they was going to the hospital this morning.’

  His resentment of Aggie Palmer temporarily forgotten, Danny grasped hold of the top of the gate and heaved himself up and over the fence. He landed lightly in the paved alley that ran between the shop and the Miltons’ next door, straightened up and made his way round the back.

  The back door, which led to the storeroom where Stephen and Bert had set up their impromptu card school, stood wide open but he knocked on the glass out of politeness.

  ‘Edie?’ he called. ‘You there? It’s me, Danny. Me and Aggie have come over to fetch yer order.’

  No reply.

  Danny stepped gingerly inside.

  After the bright morning sunshine it was difficult to make out where he was treading, so he waited a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. There was nobody in the room except the fat old tabby who feasted on any mice who were stupid enough to think they could come into the Johnsons’ yard. When he heard Danny come in, the cat awoke, stretched out in luxurious ease on its bed of sacks and licked contentedly at its fur.

  Danny frowned. Everyone in the street knew that Edie, with her obsession with ‘hygienics’, never let that cat put a paw inside the storeroom. If he wanted to go indoors he had to clamber up over the lavvy roof and miaow outside the upstairs window until either Bert or Edie heard him and let him in that way.

  Without another thought, Danny rushed along the passage and took the stairs two at a time up to where the Johnsons lived above the shop.

  As he reached the top, he skidded on the slip mat, and slid right across the polished landing. He came to a stumbling halt outside the front bedroom door.

  Like the back door, it too stood wide open.

  Inside, Edie was sitting on the floor with Bert’s head cradled in her lap; tears ran down her cheeks as she rocked back and forth.

  Danny was back down the stairs in a flash, shouting for Aggie to come and help. His hands trembled so badly it took him what felt like hours to undo the bolts and the lock on the shop door to let her in.

  ‘It’s Bert,’ he said, standing back to let Aggie dash past him. ‘They’re up in the front.’

  ‘You’d better come with me, Dan,’ Aggie called over her shoulder. ‘I might need some help.’

  Danny followed her back up the stairs, but he didn’t go into the bedroom; he stood there, in the doorway, his heart racing and his mouth dry, watching Aggie kneeling on the floor by Edie, gently wiping the tears from her face.

  ‘He was so sure this doctor was gonna do something for him, Agg,’ Edie whimpered. ‘Now there’s nothing no one can do. No one.’

  Aggie put her arm round her shoulders, trying to comfort her, but Edie’s suffering couldn’t be stilled so easily.

  ‘He fought in the war, in them sodding trenches. He was a hero. He never talked about it to no one, but he was. And is this all there is for him? Him dying like this? A cripple?’ A sob shuddered through Edie’s body. ‘What was it all for, eh? He’d get himself that worked up of an evening when we listened to the news on the wireless. “What did I fight for?” he’d say. “All this business in Germany – did all them poor sods die in the filth and mud for nothing? ’Cos it’s happening all over again.”’

  ‘Don’t take on, Ede,’ Aggie said softly. ‘Look, why don’t we—’

  ‘It ain’t right.’ It was as though Edie hadn’t heard her. ‘Men like my Bert – no, not men, they was boys when they was fighting – they got hurt, they lost their lives, just for it all to happen again. You wait and see. I used to kid him that I thought he was wrong. I tried to keep him from getting so worked up, but he was right.’ Edie bent forward and kissed Bert’s uncombed hair. ‘Weren’t yer, love? My Bert couldn’t stand the thought of it, could yer, darling? People listening to that Mosley and them Blackshirt bastards.’ Aggie stroked the cold, slightly damp flesh of her husband’s cheek. ‘When he got better he was gonna go and sort out the no-good cowsons before any of the kids round here got hiked up with ’em. He was talking about it only yesterday, God love him.’ Another sob shook through her body. ‘Soon as he was better he was gonna do something. Now he can’t do nothing. And if no one else takes his place, they’ll just be left to get on with it. That’s what Bert was scared of. If no one stops ’em, there’ll be another war. It’ll all happen all over again.’

  ‘You know the people round here, Ede,’ Aggie soothed her. ‘None of ’em’s stupid enough to get took in by the likes of that lot. It’ll all come to nothing, you’ll see. It’ll be a five-minute wonder, then they’ll get some other daft idea in their heads.’

  ‘No, Agg,’ Edie insisted. ‘This is different. Bert knew. He knew that these are wicked, terrible ideas, and they’re gonna cause real trouble.’ She began rocking backwards and forwards again, touching her lips to her husband’s lifeless forehead. ‘Aw, Agg, my poor Bert. My poor, poor Bert.’

  Aggie looked up at Danny. Now she was crying as well. ‘Go and fetch yer mum for us, eh Dan? There’s a good lad.’

  Danny was only too pleased to do as she asked. He hated to hear women crying, and as for having to look at a dead body, the thought sickened him. He had never seen anyone dead before, well, apart from the time when he was only a little kid, and the old parish priest had been laid out in the church in his open coffin. But, as they had all filed past, paying their last respects, Danny had had his eyes ha
lf closed and hadn’t really looked at him. It had still given him the willies though. Yes, he was more than glad to be out of it, there was nothing he wanted to see in there. And as for what Edie was saying, there was nothing he wanted to hear either.

  It was Friday, 8 June 1934, just a day after Bert Johnson had been laid to rest, and Plumley Street was still in a state of shocked mourning for their neighbour.

  Danny was standing alone in the kitchen of number twelve, shaving over the sink before he went out. Katie, Nora and Molly had gone over with Peggy and Liz to sit with Edie; Stephen and Pat were sitting out in the back yard of number ten keeping an eye on the youngsters, making sure that they didn’t go making too much noise and show disrespect for the dead; and Sean had taken himself off out somewhere straight after he had swallowed down his tea.

  Satisfied that he looked smart and respectable – just the way Bob Jarvis had told him to – Danny wiped his chin dry with the towel and then carefully oiled and combed his thick black hair away from his forehead. He peered out of the kitchen window to see if he needed to take a coat. The mourners at the funeral yesterday had witnessed the first sprinkling of rain since the drought had started all those weeks ago, but it looked like it had cleared up again.

  Danny looked at the clock on the overmantel for what must have been the twentieth time since he had come in from work. He felt nervous, excited, wound up like the spring of a clockwork toy; he was going to a British Union of Fascists rally with Bob Jarvis. Bob had promised him that he would never have seen anything like it in the whole of his life, and that it would change the way he thought for ever.

  Well before Danny Mehan was even within sight of the Olympia stadium, where the Blackshirts were holding their meeting, he was astonished to see just how many people were surging along the pavement heading towards the rally. The showery rain had started again, but it did nothing to discourage the people who were converging on the arena. There were thousands upon thousands of them. And, what was beginning to make Danny feel even more nervous was not only did a lot of the people not seem to be members or even supporters of the British Union of Fascists, but a lot of them, far too many for Danny’s liking, seemed to be involved in organising some kind of demonstration against the BUF. There were all sorts of people, mostly men, carrying banners and handing out leaflets denouncing Mosley and his supporters and jostling and heckling anyone they identified as a supporter of the fascist cause.