Pride of Walworth

by Mary Jane Staples

  A few minutes before the match began, the captain of the East Street lot raised an objection to having Dumpling as one of the linesmen.

  ‘Get ’er orf,’ he said, ‘we ain’t in favour of no female.’

  ‘Why, you’re not shy, are you?’ said Nick.

  ‘What d’yer mean, shy? Course we’re not shy. We ain’t ’aving a fat female linesman, that’s all.’

  Dumpling, warmly clad in a woollen hat, outsize jumper, skirt and sheepskin waistcoat from Petticoat Lane, showed the objector a plump fist and asked him if he wanted his hooter turned into mashed potato. He took a good look at her fist, blinked at it, then grinned.

  ‘All right, Fatty, keep yer shirt on,’ he said.

  ‘Watch your cakehole,’ said Dumpling, and her dad gave Nick a wink.

  The game opened with East Street Albion kicking off. The Rovers at once set about them amid vociferous encouragement from their supporters. The girls had each received a chocolate bar, a treat in these days of low wages and limited pocket money, and accordingly had elected not to ask for more, although not because of any threat to tan them. They were all old enough to dismiss that as hot air, and spirited enough to half-murder any bloke who tried it. In any case, Dumpling had refused to enter it in the minutes. She always wrote the minutes for Nick, and reckoned that any non-entry made a proposal illegal.

  Up and down the touchline she galloped, flag in her hand. Danny, quite a nice bloke, with a down-to-earth cockney honesty, watched her bouncing movements with fondness and admiration.

  ‘Go it, Freddy!’ shouted Cassie. Her dreamy nature never toned down her exuberant tonsils whenever Freddy was in full cry on a football pitch. He was in full cry now, the ball at his feet. He beat an opponent with ease and then hit a rattling good pass to Nick. Nick collected it, made rings round the East Street centre half, and slipped the ball through to his left winger. Up went Dumpling’s flag.

  ‘Offside!’ she yelled, and her dad blew his whistle for a free kick to the East Street lot.

  ‘Who said offside?’ bawled the culprit, Starving Crow.

  ‘I did!’ shouted Dumpling.

  ‘My life, can I believe it?’ said Starving Crow. It was all right for Dumpling to be an impartial linesman, but not as impartial as that.

  Not that the free kick did much for East Street Albion. The Rovers went at them again. Nick had ordered his team to win the match by four clear goals. Dumpling had seconded it. In a kind way, Danny said he didn’t think she could second that. Well, I have, said Dumpling, so you’d all better get on with it. The Rovers did just that, Nick playing an attacking game with gusto and a lot of natural flair.

  They were two goals up after half an hour, and five minutes later Nick scored their third with a cracking shot from the edge of the penalty area. Dumpling beamed in temporary forgetfulness of her impartial role. Coming back to the centre line with her flag, she said to Cassie, ‘Did yer see that goal of Nick’s? What a beauty.’

  ‘Yes, Nick and Freddy are the best players in the team,’ said Cassie, and Dumpling bounced back to her duties.

  ‘Cassie, I ’eard that,’ said Meg Miles. Meg was special to Charlie Cope, the Rovers’ goalkeeper. Charlie had what every goalkeeper needed, a safe pair of hands, although Meg told her mum once that they didn’t make her feel safe herself. Well, you’d better stop sitting in the parlour with him on Sunday afternoons, then, said her mum, which was typical of the protective mums of Walworth. Still, Charlie always assured Meg he’d respect her honour, so she said loyally to Cassie, ‘Don’t forget Charlie’s easy the best goalie in Walworth.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more, Meg,’ said Cassie, ‘Nick and Freddy are always sayin’ the team feel safe in Charlie’s ’ands.’

  Meg giggled.

  ‘Meg’s gigglin’,’ said young Fanny.

  ‘Well, she knows her Charlie,’ said Cassie. Fanny said it was funny that the Rovers were the only team with a lot of girl supporters. Julie Hurst, Ronnie Smith’s girlfriend, said that was because the Rovers were the best-looking blokes with the best-looking knees. Freddy had lovely knees, she said, any girl could fancy them. Cassie trod on her foot.

  ‘Here, Cassie, mind what y’er doin’,’ said Julie.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Cassie sweetly.

  Alice smiled.

  With the Rovers swarming all over the Albion, Fanny said, ‘Cassie’s Freddy’s best friend.’

  ‘Well, I can’t begrudge ’im his good luck, even if he ’as got some funny ways,’ said Cassie. ‘Well, you ’ave to resign yourself to most boys not bein’ all there. An aunt of mine told me once that it’s their growing-up pains, that you ’ave to take them in hand. She said you ’ave to rattle their brains a bit. Everyone knows I’ve done my best to take Freddy in hand for years, but ’e’s still got funny ways. D’you ’ave anyone like Freddy that you’re takin’ in hand, Alice – hi, foul, ref!’

  ‘Send ’im off!’ yelled Fanny. Nick had just been tripped and trodden on by a frustrated East Street opponent with no manners. The ref, Dumpling’s dad, gave him a talking-to. Nick took the free kick himself. He struck the ball hard and only the crossbar prevented another score.

  The ref blew for half-time, and up came the footballers for their slices of lemon, hair a bit wind-blown, jerseys breathing warmly around robust chests, knees muddy here and there. Fanny, who always brought the slices of lemon in a sealed jamjar, unscrewed the lid and the Rovers dipped their fingers in. Cockney chit-chat took place.

  ‘Bless yer, Fanny, and yer Monday washin’.’

  ‘Come up trumps ev’ry week, you do, Fanny.’

  ‘I’ll be knockin’ for yer in a few years, Fanny.’

  ‘Can’t wait, can I?’ said saucy young Fanny.

  ‘Cross me ’eart, Fanny, y’er me fav’rite bird already.’

  ‘My life, Fanny, ain’t you got meltin’ peepers?’ said Starving Crow, who had a loving Yiddish heart for football and his gentile team mates.

  ‘Crikey,’ said young Fanny, ‘you don’t all ’ave to go potty, not all of you.’

  Dumpling, her face and garments all wearing a beam, butted in. ‘Three goals up, you girls. Ain’t the blokes performin’ miraculous? We’re famous, us Rover supporters, yer know, bein’ all girls together. Mind, I’m like one of the blokes meself, bein’ a footballer like they are. When you’re a bit older, Fanny, you’ll ’ave to watch some of them at Christmas, they call round on the girls with mistletoe, and Julie told me that what can ’appen under the mistletoe with a Rover would make Santa Claus fall off ’is sleigh. Mind, I think that sort of thing’s a bit soppy meself.’

  ‘Crikey, what a bit of luck I’m not old enough for it,’ said Fanny.

  ‘Nick’s old enough,’ said Meg, ‘but he still doesn’t ’ave a girl.’

  ‘Well, he’s like me,’ said Dumpling, ‘he doesn’t go in for all that daft stuff. Football’s best, and Nick’s got a natural captain’s way of puttin’ it first. But no-one minds, you ’ave to ’ave a captain that don’t go in for bein’ soppy. I’m goin’ to listen to ’im now tellin’ the team ’ow to slaughter the East Street lot in the second ’alf.’

  ‘Tell Freddy to start scorin’ some goals,’ said Cassie.

  Five minutes into the second half, Freddy did his best mate proud by scoring the Rovers’ fourth goal.

  ‘Bless ’im,’ said Cassie.

  ‘And all his funny ways,’ said Alice.

  ‘Why doesn’t Nick go out with a girl?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘He’s waitin’,’ said Alice.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Someone special, I suppose,’ said Alice.

  ‘Well, I think we’re all special,’ said Julie.

  ‘I’m more special than anybody,’ said Cassie, ‘you can ask Freddy.’

  ‘Go it, Rovers!’ yelled Fanny, jumping about.

  The vigorous Rovers were running the East Street lot off their feet, the girl supporters on a high note of enthusiasm. Even so, Ronnie Smith, the Rovers’ centre
forward, with an open goal in front of him, ballooned the ball over the bar.

  ‘Rubbish!’ yelled Fanny.

  ‘’Ere, d’you mind?’ said Julie Hurst, Ronnie’s steady date.

  ‘Is it my fault he’s got two left feet?’ said Fanny.

  But the team polished off their opponents by running out winners six goals to one. Dumpling, her impartial role as a linesman over, bounced about in rapture and actually gave Danny a cuddle for his performance at right back.

  ‘Could yer manage a kiss as well?’ he asked. Dumpling’s rosebud lips were plump and dewy.

  ‘No, course I couldn’t,’ said Dumpling, ‘me life’s devoted to the team, not to daft kissin’.’

  ‘You could break a bloke’s ’eart, you could,’ said Danny.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Dumpling, ‘you can sit next to me on the tram goin’ ’ome.’

  ‘Bless yer,’ said Danny.

  ‘Now go and get changed,’ said Dumpling, and off he went with the rest of the team. ‘I don’t know,’ said Dumpling to the girls, ‘don’t blokes get barmy ideas about us? Fancy always wantin’ to kiss us.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit more than that, Chrissie,’ said Alice.

  ‘Yes, I’ve ’eard what a bit more is,’ said Dumpling, ‘but they ain’t gettin’ it from me.’

  The girls shrieked.

  On their home-going tram, the Rovers were in high spirits, with Dumpling receiving praise from her hearty dad for her good work as a linesman.

  ‘Oh, I never like to let meself down on a football pitch, Dad,’ she said. ‘And what a team we’ve got, don’t yer think?’

  ‘Nippy,’ said Mr Evans, ‘and likewise slick.’

  ‘I’m the reserve goalie, yer know,’ said Dumpling, ‘and a permanent member of the committee till me dyin’ day.’

  ‘I’m honoured to be sittin’ next to ’er, Mr Evans,’ said Danny.

  ‘I don’t mind you feelin’ honoured,’ said Dumpling, ‘but just watch that arm of yours, it’s tryin’ to cuddle me.’

  ‘’Elp yerself, Danny,’ grinned Mr Evans, who liked Danny and encouraged him in his pursuit of Dumpling.

  ‘Yer a born cuddle, Dumpling,’ said Charlie Cope.

  ‘I don’t tell a lie, Dumpling, Solomon would fancy yer ’imself,’ said Starving Crow.

  ‘Who’s ’e?’ asked Dumpling.

  ‘My life,’ said Starving Crow, ’ain’t I heard that the Queen of Sheba was a fav’rite cuddle of his?’

  ‘Well, soppy old Solomon, then,’ said Dumpling, ‘and I don’t think much of ’er, either. Fancy all that daft cuddlin’ when they could’ve been playin’ football.’

  On the upper deck of the tram, the victorious Rovers fell about.

  Chapter Eight

  THE POLISH GENT, Mr Toby Lukavitch, arrived at ten the next morning, with a large trunk. A bloke with an old-fashioned look, driving a pony and cart of East End vintage, delivered passenger and trunk to Ma’s door. When she heard the knock, she took Nick with her to answer it, feeling sure the expected lodger was on her doorstep. Being uncertain of Polish gents, she felt safer having Nick beside her.

  Opening the door, she saw a lean gent of middling height, with a five o’clock shadow and neat black eyebrows. He wore a grey trilby hat, an unbuttoned grey serge overcoat over a blue serge suit, and polished black shoes. A luggage trunk stood on the doorstep beside him.

  ‘Ah, good morning, madam,’ he said, raising his hat. His smile revealed slightly irregular white teeth.

  ‘Good mornin’,’ said Ma, ‘are you Mr Loovakish?’

  ‘Lukavitch, madam, Lukavitch.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Ma in her perky way. ‘I’m Mrs ’Arrison and this is my son Nick.’

  ‘’Arrison?’

  ‘Harrison,’ said Nick.

  ‘Ah, pleased to meet you, Mrs Harrison,’ said the Polish gent. ‘And your son Nick.’

  Nick shook hands with him.

  ‘Come in,’ said Ma, and Nick helped him deposit the heavy trunk in the passage. Mr Lukavitch looked around and smiled happily.

  ‘You know it’s three rooms on the upstairs top at ten bob a week?’ said Nick.

  ‘Ah, yes, good, eh?’ said Mr Lukavitch.

  ‘It’s all self-contained, like a nice little flat,’ said Ma, looking him over. Deciding he didn’t have the appearance of a lodger who’d get drunk and fall down the stairs, she said, ‘We’d best take you up and let you see for yourself.’

  ‘You bet, eh?’ he said.

  Ma led the way up the stairs, Nick and the Polish gent following, carrying the trunk between them. When they reached the top landing, Mr Lukavitch said he liked the look of the house, and that perhaps it was free of bugs and fleas. Ma let him know at once that she didn’t allow things of that kind to share her home, she never had and never would.

  ‘Ah, that is pleasing, don’t you think?’ he beamed, and he then made an inspection of what was on offer. The large front bedroom overlooked Browning Street, and the middle bedroom and the living-room both overlooked the backyard. The living-room had a compact range and a gas ring, and on the landing was the lav, with a handbasin. Mr Lukavitch gave everything a nod and a smile, and kept saying, ‘I like, madam, I like.’

  Ma asked Nick in a whisper why the gent kept calling her madam. It made her feel like a French madam, and she’d never been one of those. Heaven forbid, she whispered. Nick said Polish gents probably called all ladies madam.

  ‘Suit you, Mr Lukavitch?’ he said, when the inspection was over.

  Mr Lukavitch, smiling, said, ‘Bloody good, eh?’

  ‘Beg your pardon?’ said Ma, slightly shocked despite being broadminded.

  ‘I am in England many years,’ said Mr Lukavitch. ‘I come in 1919, after the bloody Bolsheviks killed many Polish people. Now I speak the London language well, eh? I know there is bloody good, ruddy good and bleedin’ good. Also how’s your father, how’s your canary, up the apples and pears, and corblimey, mate. I also speak London upper class language, like I say, old chap, tophole, bless my soul, how’d you do and dear me, have a banana. Also, who was that lady I saw you with last night? You see, not bad, eh?’ His smile asked for approval.

  ‘Well, I must say you’re a surprise to me,’ said Ma.

  ‘Ah, yes, bleedin’ good, eh?’

  ‘If I might mention it,’ said Ma, ‘I don’t want too much language. I’ve got three growin’ girls that can speak very nice, ’aving been taught by their dad not to sound common.’

  ‘Strike a light, there are three?’ said Mr Lukavitch, hat in his hand and a little bald patch showing on the crown of his head. Nick judged him to be about forty-five. ‘I am happy for you, madam.’

  ‘I don’t know about madam,’ said Ma cautiously. ‘Well, I’m not French, Mr Loovakish.’

  ‘Not French, no,’ said Mr Lukavitch. He gave it some thought, then smiled again. ‘Of course, yes, I know English like old girl, old lady, old biddy and how are you, old cock?’

  ‘Well, you’re up with us cockneys, Mr Lukavitch,’ said Nick, hiding a grin, ‘but it’ll be best if you call my mother Mrs Harrison or missus.’

  ‘Missus, yes, I know missus. Also Mrs Harrison.’ Mr Lukavitch beamed at Ma. ‘Pleased to meet you, missus, yes, good morning, eh?’

  ‘Mutual, I’m sure,’ said Ma.

  ‘Not ’alf,’ said Nick. ‘Where’ve you been living, Mr Lukavitch?’

  ‘Where it’s called Mile End. You know? Bleedin’ fleas and bugs.’ Mr Lukavitch gestured with his hat. ‘And bleedin’ kids, eh?’

  ‘And a lot of language, if I know anything about Mile End,’ said Ma. ‘Anyway, are the rooms all right, did you say?’

  ‘You bet. One for sleeping, one for living and one for working, all ruddy good.’

  ‘Workin’?’ said Ma. ‘What work?’

  ‘I make little things that shops sell as small gifts,’ said Mr Lukavitch cheerfully. ‘I am good at it, but not rich. Never mind, I’m at home in London very much. My other
lodgings were in a house falling down. Corblimey, mate, you should have seen.’

  ‘Well, we’re not fallin’ down, so you’ll be all right ’ere,’ said Ma. ‘Oh, by the way, me ’usband’s in the Royal Navy.’ She got that one in without batting an eyelid.

  ‘Royal Navy?’ Mr Lukavitch looked delighted. ‘Ah, the Royal Navy that goes where the sun never sets, I think, eh?’

  ‘Yes, and me ’usband’s in the China Seas just now,’ said Ma. ‘I don’t know about the sun never settin’ there, but I do know something ought to be done about the Chinese pirates ’e has to fight.’

  ‘I sympathize, missus, you bet,’ said Mr Lukavitch. ‘Now I will unpack, but first I must pay some rent. I know it must be in advance, and for a month this first time, eh?’ He fished around in his coat pocket and brought out two pound notes. Ma, looking extremely perky now, took the money and said it was very obliging of him. Nick said a rent book would have to be supplied, and Ma said she’d see to it, and then they left the lodger to his unpacking.

  Down in the kitchen, the girls wanted to know all about everything, and Ma told them Mr Loovakish had turned out to be quite a nice Polish gent. Mr Lukavitch, said Nick. Yes, said Ma, and he’s come from lodgings in the Mile End and picked up a bit of Mile End language. They’d all have to excuse him.

  ‘What kind of Mile End language has he picked up?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Bleedin’ good, ruddy carbolic, gorblimey O’Reilly and how’s your canary,’ said Nick.

  ‘What, when he’s Polish?’ said Amy.

  ‘Well, it’s something like that,’ said Ma.

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ said young Fanny. ‘’Ow’s yer canary, Ma?’

  ‘To show we’re ’ospitable, I think I’ll make ’im a cup of tea,’ said Ma.

  ‘Corblimey, ’ere we go,’ said Alice.

  In the afternoon, the family went to visit Pa in Marsham Gaol down in the wilds of Kent. They wore everyday clothes, not their Sunday best. They never did wear their Sunday best on any visit to Pa. Ma felt that if they did, they’d look a bit too posh, which might make the prison authorities think they’d dug up the missing sparklers from somewhere and were living a life of luxury. Actually, Ma had never asked questions about where the loot had finished up. No doubt Mister Horsemouth could have told her, but Ma didn’t want to know. She wanted to be able to look the law in the eye as the innocent and aggrieved wife of a man who’d been unfairly copped.