‘Good question,’ said Polly, ‘considering we’ve never had an appointment in all the years we’ve known each other. Have you ever thought what that kind of ungenerous attitude can do to a woman like me?’
Boots, coming to his feet, said, ‘I think we’ve had an appointment or two, Polly old girl.’
‘Listen, you bounder, I’m speaking of appointments behind closed doors, and you know it.’
‘I had an idea there’d been one meeting of that kind, although not behind closed doors,’ said Boots.
Polly’s brittle smile came and went. She was a long-standing friend of Boots and his family, and his mother frequently invited her to Sunday tea. But over or after Sunday tea, what could a woman do with a man who was someone else’s husband? There had been just one occasion when, in a country hotel near Guildford a few years ago, he might have made love to her, but no, the guarded devil had turned the opportunity down, leaving her as frustrated as ever. She knew he cared for her, but when it came down to having him love her she might as well have been a doorpost. All she had ever had from him was friendship. For him to expect a woman like her to be merely a friend was maddening. She demanded to take a reasonable place in his life as his mistress. But Boots said no, he was not the kind of man to keep a mistress. Polly, heated, said he was the kind of man whose major role in life was to be a stuffed shirt. Only a stuffed shirt, she said, could say no to a woman who loved him. Well, said Boots, this stuffed shirt is also a husband and father. And a prig, said Polly. Boots said is that your temper showing, Polly? Bloody hell, said Polly, how would you like my fist in your eye? Not very much, said Boots. I’ll begin to hate you one day, said Polly. Well, you’re still a sweet woman, said Boots, damned if you aren’t.
What could a woman do with a man like that? Polly could only hope.
‘It’s something to know you care for me, I suppose,’ she said now.
‘Especially as it’s something we should push under the carpet,’ said Boots.
‘You’re an idiot if you think I can do that,’ said Polly.
‘What’s brought you up here, anyway?’ asked Boots.
‘You, of course,’ said Polly. ‘I was about to pass by. Then I thought I wonder if my darling old stuffed shirt is still in his office? If he is, perhaps he’ll make love to me under his desk. Or even on top of it, bless his eager heart. So here I am. You choose, I’ll get undressed.’
‘Same old Polly,’ smiled Boots, guarded as always.
‘Same old reluctant lover,’ said Polly, brittle as always. ‘How’s Emily, blow her.’
‘Trusting,’ said Boots.
‘How sweet,’ said Polly. ‘But isn’t it about time she settled for fair shares?’
‘What fair shares do you have in mind?’ asked Boots.
‘Well, old darling,’ said Polly, ‘if I’m willing to share you with her, she should be willing to share you with me. What’s fairer than that?’
‘Ask me another,’ said Boots.
‘Fat lot of good that would do me,’ said Polly. ‘You never give me the kind of answers I need and deserve.’
‘Have we got problems, Polly?’
‘I have,’ said Polly, ‘and you’re all of them. If I’ve got to wait until I’m ninety before you make love to me, I might as well join the French Foreign Legion and look after their camels.’
‘Lucky old camels,’ said Boots.
‘Camels bite,’ said Polly, ‘and so do I. See my teeth?’
‘Yes, very nice,’ said Boots. ‘Regular brushing, I presume, Miss Simms?’
‘We are not amused,’ said Polly, but she laughed all the same. ‘No, listen, dearly beloved, come down the chimney into my bedroom on Christmas Eve, and I’ll play Sleeping Beauty to your Santa Claus. D’you like the idea?’
‘I’ll think about it, naturally,’ said Boots.
‘That’ll be the day,’ said Polly. ‘By the way, my father would like to see you some time, to talk to you about Hitler and his Stormtroopers. You know about his Stormtroopers, don’t you?’
‘I know they’ll be his battering ram in the event of a war,’ said Boots.
‘What a frightful curse,’ said Polly, ‘the madman of Munich now the Chancellor of Germany. On top of that horrendous appointment, when Hindenburg snuffs it, old chum, as my father says he will soon, Hitler will take over the Presidency as well. He’ll become the dictator of Germany. What does that thought do to you?’
‘It gives me a headache,’ said Boots, ‘and will probably make me forget to come down your chimney on Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh, I’ll phone you just before I get into bed,’ said Polly. ‘How’s Rosie, and how’s Annabelle?’
‘Rosie’s doing some reading before going up to Oxford,’ said Boots, ‘and Annabelle is collecting boyfriends by the dozen and turning them all into slaves.’
‘Very right and proper,’ said Polly. ‘A girl as bewitching as Annabelle should have slaves by the dozen. Well, it’s been exciting seeing you, lover, even if you didn’t drag me under your desk. So long, old darling.’
She kissed him. She did not intend to depart without at least claiming that. She pushed her mouth moistly and dewily to his. Boots, guard dropped, returned the kiss. Polly’s slender body surged. Boots put his hands on her shoulders and held her off, shaking his head at her.
‘Hoppit,’ he said.
‘Sweetie, what a wonderful way you have of telling me you love me,’ said Polly.
‘All my own work,’ said Boots.
‘My God, don’t I know it?’ said Polly, and went out laughing. For all that he was the most frustrating devil in a world that abounded with all kinds, he was still the one she wanted all to herself.
Chapter Four
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
The day was still crisp and bright, and the Browning Street Rovers were travelling to Brockwell Park on the upper deck of a tram. Chrissie Dumpling, goalkeeper for the day and therefore one of the blokes, was up there with them. Nick’s three sisters were down below, together with Cassie Ford, Freddy Brown’s girlfriend and a living breathing example of how to send a feller off his chump without hardly trying. Cassie was nearly eighteen and very imaginative. She was also precocious, and as she owned long raven-black hair of a lustrous texture, wheedling brown eyes and a facile tongue, Freddy had little hope of ever asserting himself. He tried. In fact, he’d been trying for over seven years, but all to no avail. Cassie was always one too many for him, and Freddy sometimes wondered if he’d live to come of age. Not that Cassie didn’t have important feelings for him. She did, and if she ever had to go through fire and water, she’d make sure Freddy was with her.
Dumpling sat with Danny Thompson, much to his pleasure. He couldn’t help himself, he was gone on her. He accepted there was a lot of her, but he was fond of all of it. Skinny girls made his eyes water.
Dumpling was wearing her hefty dad’s overcoat, fully buttoned up by order of Nick. Dumpling, being what she was, a respecter of a football captain, wouldn’t have dreamed of not obeying him in regard to everything concerning a match, even if she did exercise her right in committee to argue the toss with him. She’d let everyone know that underneath her dad’s overcoat she was clad in her own football shorts and Charlie Cope’s goalkeeping jersey. On her head was his large-peaked goalie’s cap, her wayward hair tucked up inside it. On her feet were her footballing boots. To the team she still looked like Chrissie Dumpling of plump renown, and the Rovers could only hope that the Manor Place Rangers would see her differently, as a plump bloke. She could hardly wait to get to the park and for the match to begin. It was going to be her very first game for her beloved Rovers. General Petain’s stirring admonition to the French troops at Verdun during the Great War had been, ‘They shall not pass.’ He’d been referring to the attacking German forces. Dumpling was now thinking in the same terms about the attacking forwards of the Manor Place team.
The Rovers had accepted there was no option but to let their mascot keep goal. On the whole
, the blokes felt nature had been a bit unfair to her in shaping her like a balloon. Her mum said it was only puppy fat that was staying around a bit longer than it had a right to, but that she would lose it eventually. Her dad, however, confided to the team once that Dumpling would always be a jolly bouncing girl. Danny said as far as he was concerned, that was a happy prospect. Well, keep at it, Danny, said Mr Evans, she might come to see you’re worth your weight in football boots. Such encouragement from the right quarter was music to Danny’s ears.
The tram reached Loughborough Junction.
‘Crikey, ain’t you excited, Nick?’ asked Dumpling at that point. ‘I mean, it’s goin’ to be Manor Place Rangers.’
‘Yes,’ said Nick, ‘and I’m saying a few prayers for the team.’
Someone ought to say some for me, thought Freddy, seeing I’ve got a feeling that when Cassie gets to be what they call a full-blown woman, she’s going to be my full-time problem.
‘Nick, we don’t need no prayers, not for beatin’ Manor Place Rangers,’ said Dumpling. ‘Me Uncle Gus, who gave me me football, told me once you only need prayers if you accident’lly fall off an elephant and there’s a lot of other elephants comin’ up behind.’
‘I ain’t specially devoted to sayin’ prayers meself,’ said Frankie Hughes. His Adam’s apple had a sharp wintry edge to it. ‘I’m more devoted to me fretwork set.’
‘Well, I will say that if Dumpling reckons we don’t need prayers to beat the Rangers,’ remarked Danny, ‘I take that as a serious and informed comment.’
‘Well, blokes,’ said Nick, ‘sometimes we all need a bit of help from God. Like this afternoon. It might be appropriate for Dumpling to say a prayer herself, never mind what her Uncle Gus said about elephants.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Dumpling cheerfully, as the tram entered Milkwood Road. She began. ‘“Our Father, which art in ’eaven, hallowed be thy Name—’”
‘My life, what’s goin’ on up in front there?’ called Abel Goldsmith, a follower of Moses. The Rovers had nicknamed him Starving Crow because he looked all bones and flapped his arms about whenever he was excited. But he was a speedy left winger. ‘I should be ’earing prayers?’
‘Course yer should,’ said Dumpling, ‘Nick says so. “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, as it is in ’eaven—”’
‘Not out loud, you daft baggage,’ said Nick.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Dumpling blithely. ‘Only I was tryin’ to make sure the Lord ’eard me. Mum says she thinks he’s a bit deaf sometimes. Never mind, I’ll say it under me breath.’ She was quiet for all of twenty seconds before she spoke again, with the tram careering and clanging towards Herne Hill station. ‘There, I finished me prayer, Danny.’
‘Well, I like yer for it,’ said Danny.
‘Honoured, I’m sure,’ said Dumpling, patting her football, which was on her lap. ‘Nick, you ain’t remarked ’ow I look in Charlie’s cap.’
‘Point is, how’d you look under your dad’s overcoat?’ said Nick.
‘Oh, I’ll show yer,’ said Dumpling, and began to unbutton it.
‘No, leave it,’ said Nick, quite sure it was best for the yellow goalkeeping jersey to remain unseen. ‘Tell you what, Dumpling, keep the overcoat on all the time.’
‘What, all the time I’m keepin’ goal?’
‘Good idea,’ said Freddy, ‘best one you’ve had yet, Dumpling.’
‘Me?’ said Dumpling.
‘Well – er – it’s not a bad idea, Dumpling,’ said Danny. While he knew she’d look a joy to his own eyes in the yellow jersey, he was prepared to admit the opposition wouldn’t see her quite like that.
‘I’ll tell the Manor Place lot that you feel the cold,’ said Nick, as the tram stopped at Herne Hill station.
‘But ain’t I goin’ to show meself in me goalie’s jersey?’ asked Dumpling.
‘Not this afternoon,’ said Nick.
Despite her respect for his status as captain, Dumpling said, ‘Well, I can’t think why not.’
‘It’s an order,’ growled Nick, chucking his weight about.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Dumpling, cheerful again, ‘you’re the captain. You’re easy the best bloke for the job, bein’ naturally bossy and ’aving a clerkin’ job.’ The tram crossed the lines into Norwood Road. ‘Crikey, we’re nearly there. I can’t ’ardly wait for the kick-off.’
‘I can’t ’ardly wait to get back ’ome to me high tea,’ said Frankie, sure that Dumpling in goal was going to be a disaster.
‘All off, you lot,’ called Starving Crow, ‘and I should worry about who’s playin’ goalie and who ain’t? My life, I should.’
The tram pulled up opposite the park gate. The four girls down below were off first. The team followed. Everyone crossed the road and entered the park, taking the path to the hired football pitch. Dumpling bounced along in the van, bursting to get into the fray. Nick’s sisters and Cassie were with her. They were all warmly wrapped up, woollen hats cuddling their heads. Nick, bringing up the rear of the little procession, could hear Fanny giggling. And Cassie was in stitches, having been so since Freddy told her that Dumpling was playing in goal. Freddy was a lot of fun to her, even if she did boss him about. He had taken her on as his mate seven and a half years ago. They’d been through a thousand verbal carry-ons together, but he still looked on her as his mate, and called her that. It made Cassie tell him to stop sounding like a plumber. Only plumbers had mates, she said, and I’m your one and only girlfriend, don’t forget. I don’t want to forget it, said Freddy, I’m nearly getting fond of you.
‘It feels funny, walkin’ in me football boots,’ said Dumpling.
‘Well, it had better not feel funny while you’re in goal,’ said Alice, well up on the finer points of football.
‘Oh, in goal I’ll spring about like a tiger,’ said Dumpling. ‘They shall not pass,’ she added.
‘What?’ asked young Fanny.
‘Oh, I read it somewhere,’ said Dumpling.
They approached a netball pitch. Two teams of girls were playing. They all looked active, healthy and glowing, and Nick suddenly realized he was short of what most blokes of his age were enjoying, a steady girlfriend, a girl of fun and laughter. But while Pa was in clink, he couldn’t take up with a girl, any more than Alice could take up with a young man. Too many lies would have to be told. Well, he couldn’t see himself telling the truth to a steady girlfriend. My old man’s doing hard labour, d’you mind, Priscilla?
He went on with the team, and when they reached the football pitch, he told Dumpling to go straight to one of the goals. Off she went, dropping her football and booting it forward. Brimful of enthusiasm, she fell over. Up she bounced and on she went. Manor Place Rangers were already in the changing hut. The Rovers entered their own section, and trotted out several minutes later. The Rangers were having their kickabout. Dumpling, standing between the opposite goalposts, beckoned the Rovers on. Nick ordered Frankie and Danny, his backs, to guard her with their lives.
‘I’m prepared to lay mine on the line,’ he said.
‘Got yer, Nick,’ said Danny.
Dumpling kicked the ball to the team and they began to test her. As she’d promised, she sprang about like a tiger. She fell over.
‘Don’t do that!’ bawled Nick, putting thoughts of a steady date out of his mind for the sake of all that was at stake in this particular soccer match. ‘Get up and stay up!’
‘It’s me dad’s overcoat,’ said Dumpling, back on her feet. ‘Can’t I take it off?’
‘No,’ said Nick, well aware that his sisters and Cassie were waiting to split their sides, and that the Rangers would fall about. Up ran the referee, someone’s volunteer dad.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘your goalkeeper’s not playin’ in his overcoat, is ’e?’
‘Yes,’ said Nick, ‘he’s nearly got a dose of flu, so he needs to keep wrapped up.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said the ref, ‘rules of football say goalkeepers ’ave got
to wear a green or yellow jersey, yer know.’
‘But there’s got to be another rule for overcoated goalies trying to beat flu,’ said Nick, and the ref scratched his head.
‘I’ll see what the Rangers’ captain says.’ He ran back down the pitch to speak to the large and brawny centre half, while Freddy banged a shot at Dumpling. She punched it back to him with her gloved fist. Just like that. Freddy hit another shot. Dumpling caught it and fell over.
‘Top-’eavy, that’s ’er trouble,’ said Frankie gloomily.
‘Course she’s not, she’s built lovely all over,’ said Danny.
‘Oi, Rovers! Oi!’ The Rangers’ centre half was hollering. ‘Yer goalie can keep ’is coat on. Tell ’im me ’eart’s bleedin’ for ’im.’
‘Nick, d’you ’ear that?’ asked Dumpling, upright again.
‘Yes, best if they think you’re a bloke,’ said Nick, ‘otherwise they might have your coat off and your jersey as well.’
‘Like to see ’em try,’ said Dumpling, stopping a shot from Starving Crow with her overcoated knees, ‘I’ll show ’em something.’
Starving Crow and Freddy had coughing fits. Dumpling didn’t always realize what she was saying. The ref blew his whistle, and Nick ran down the field to shake hands with his opposite number, Bonzo Willis. The Rangers’ walloping centre half was twenty-two and well-known to the Rovers.
‘Watcher, Nick mate.’
‘Watcher, Bonzo. I’ll call heads.’
The ref spun the coin and it came down heads. Nick said the Rovers would stay as they were. Bonzo said it wouldn’t make any difference to the licking the Rovers were going to get, and the teams formed up.
‘Come on, Rovers!’ yelled young Fanny, an ardent supporter.
‘Doesn’t Freddy look nice in ’is shorts today?’ said Cassie. Nearby, Rangers’ supporters hooted. Cassie said things like that. She had no verbal inhibitions.
With two keen lads acting as linesmen, the ref blew his whistle and the Rangers kicked off. Deadly rivals went at each other. What a game. Nick thought he’d never forget it. His heart was in his mouth whenever the Rangers attacked. He liked to be on the attack himself, to get up with his forwards, as a good centre half was supposed to, but he had to stick around a lot more than usual between Danny and Frankie, knowing who was keeping goal. Dumpling. A ruddy girl and a round one at that. He liked Dumpling, the whole team liked her, but not as their goalkeeper.
Pride of Walworth Page 4
