Pride of Walworth

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Well, mind your giggles don’t get hysterical,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t want to tell Ma you had an accident in Brockwell Park.’

  ‘Here, d’you mind?’ said Amy.

  In the quarry on Saturday morning, a whisper arrived at Pa’s shoulder. That was the usual arrival point for whispers, the shoulder, from where they travelled up to the ear in quick time.

  ‘Bein’ a good boy now, are yer, Knocker?’

  ‘I pride myself on not being an aggravating man,’ said Pa, swinging his pickaxe.

  ‘Yer bleedin’ pretty as well, ain’t yer? But Tiny Angel ain’t goin’ to spoil yer looks pervidin’ you stay a good boy. Thought I’d tell yer.’

  ‘Very obliging of you,’ said Pa, who had stopped passing complaints through the grapevine about the reductions in Ma’s allowance.

  ‘Yer a ponce, Knocker.’

  And sod you too, thought Pa.

  The Rovers had accepted Dumpling as centre forward for the critical match against Rodney Road United, as well as the dread fact that she was going to play in her jersey and shorts. And it came to pass. She took off her coat, and in her jersey, shorts and football boots, she joined in the pre-match kickabout. She looked exactly like a sporting edition of Billy Bunter’s sister.

  Amy fell about. The other girl supporters held themselves in check. The Rodney Road team rolled in the aisles like ruddy hooligans. Their captain bawled for Nick, and Nick arrived ready for the confrontation.

  ‘What’s that plum puddin’ doin’ on the pitch?’ asked the Rodney Road captain.

  ‘Watch your manners,’ said Nick, ‘that’s our centre forward.’

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘You heard, Claud.’

  ‘I ’eard all right,’ said Claud, whose name wasn’t his own fault, ‘but I ain’t believin’ it. Eleven Browning Street cissies, well, that can’t be ’elped, but a fat girl centre forward and ten cissies ain’t what we’ve come to play. Nor ain’t it allowed.’

  ‘Who said?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Me,’ said Claud, with his team looking as if they were all wetting themselves. ‘I said it, Nick.’

  ‘Well, strike a light,’ said Nick, ‘you’re scared. I don’t mind you all feeling a bit nervous, but scared, well, who’s going to tell your mums?’

  ‘Scared? ’Ere, do us a favour,’ said Claud, ‘put your bonce in a sack, eh? You ain’t seriously expectin’ us to play against Fat Floradora, are yer?’

  ‘You better had,’ said Nick, ‘or you’ll get known as the Rodney Road dummy-suckers.’

  ‘That’s done it,’ said Claud, ‘we’ll play all right, but she ain’t goin’ to get no quarter, she’ll get tripped, barged and bleedin’ murdered same as if she was a bloke. Fair?’

  ‘It’s your funeral,’ said Nick, sounding a lot more confident than he felt.

  When the teams began to line up, Freddy said to Nick, ‘Regardin’ Dumpling, I’ve got to tell yer I’ve never seen as much as that in a football jersey before.’

  ‘Nor have Rodney Road United,’ said Nick, ‘so cheer up, Freddy, we couldn’t have let her flap about in her dad’s overcoat this time.’

  Dumpling kicked off for the Rovers, wobbled about a bit, then charged forward in the hope of the ball coming back to her. She cannoned into an opponent and he bounced on his back. The ref blew for a foul. Dumpling gave him a hurt look.

  ‘Wasn’t my fault ’e fell over,’ she said, ‘ain’t ’e got any muscles in ’is legs?’

  ‘No arguin’.’

  The free kick was taken. Nick met the flying ball with his head and it soared back into the United’s half. Dumpling bounded in pursuit. What a performance she gave. Cheered on by Alice, Cassie and the rest of the Rovers’ supporters, she rushed about here, there and everywhere. Claud ordered his men to flatten her. Flatten Dumpling? Some hopes. They just bounced off her. Periodically, she fell over, either because she was overweight or over-enthusiastic.

  To Dumpling, the ball was there to be booted, and she aimed ferocious kicks at it whenever she was near the opposing goal, and generally threw the Rovers’ dangerous rivals into confusion. They didn’t seem to know what to do when she came bearing down on them, robust chest to the fore, curly hair dancing. Her energy was inexhaustible. From his position at right back, Danny watched her with fond admiration, and took silent umbrage when he heard an opposing supporter say he’d never seen a balloon playing football before.

  The Rovers scored twice in the first half, Rodney Road once. Sucking her slice of lemon at half-time, Dumpling let it be known she was heartbroken that she hadn’t scored herself.

  ‘Never mind, Chrissie,’ skid Alice, ’everyone’s got their eyes on you.’

  ‘Crikey, ’ave they really?’ said Dumpling, her football shirt rising and falling from her exertions. ‘Well, I don’t ’alf feel proud, then. I just ’ope we win and that I don’t let me beloved Rovers down.’

  ‘All the blokes are praying for you,’ said Nick.

  ‘Ain’t that nice of them?’ said Dumpling.

  ‘I’m greatly admirin’ of yer, Dumpling,’ said Danny, ‘and willing to sit in yer parlour with yer tomorrow, if it’s foggy.’

  ‘No, it’s forbidden,’ said Dumpling.

  ‘Only on Saturdays,’ said Danny.

  ‘True,’ said Nick.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Oh, me gawd,’ gasped Dumpling, ‘I forgot about Sundays.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Danny.

  ‘Time’s up,’ said Nick, ‘back to the battle, blokes.’

  Dumpling swelled with pride at being included as one of the blokes, and her football jersey took the strain manfully. She was soon in the thick of things again, bursting with a heartfelt desire to score a goal. But midway through the second half, the Rodney Road idiots levelled the score at two-all, not realizing how much pain and anguish this caused Dumpling. It upset her as well, and she committed a bit of mayhem among the opposition.

  ‘Ruddy ’ell,’ said Claud, ‘can’t someone tie ’er to a railway line?’

  It was ding-dong all the way during the final minutes, and still Dumpling never stopped bouncing, charging and ballooning about. While she wasn’t the best footballer in the world, she could boot a ball and she never gave up.

  A miracle happened. She scored the winning goal three minutes from the end. Never for a moment had Nick thought they were going to be able to record anything like that for posterity. The whole team wanted it to happen, so that Dumpling could pass away blissfully when her time came, but everyone reckoned it was asking too much of the Almighty.

  But it did happen, and it came about like this. Starving Crow, the team’s long and bony left winger, who received special family dispensation for playing on their Sabbath, did one of his fast runs and dribbles, then performed his favourite trick of cutting in. Dumpling, joggling about in front of Rodney Road’s goal, yelled at him to pass to her. But Starving Crow tried a shot. The ball hit the crossbar and rebounded. It sailed down towards Dumpling’s robust chest.

  ‘Oh, ’elp!’ she gasped, and her chest arched in defence. Smack. The ball hit it, bounced off and flew at speed past the gaping goalkeeper. Browning Street Rovers whooped. Their supporters shrieked. Rodney Road United sagged. Their captain, Claud, made a fast recovery and bawled an appeal.

  ‘’Andball, ref!’

  ‘’Andball me foot,’ yelled delirious Dumpling, ‘where’s he think I keep me ’ands, then, up me jersey?’

  ‘Goal,’ said the ref, and pointed to the centre spot. Dumpling fell over in ecstasy. The supporters did a touchline knees-up. Starving Crow and Herbert Briggs brought Dumpling to her feet and took her back to the centre circle, where Nick slapped her on her shoulder and told her she was a corblimey ruddy hero, the kind of complimentary language she understood.

  ‘I can die ’appy now,’ she said breathlessly, ‘and wasn’t it lucky I’d got new whalebones in me stays? They make me chest even more r
obust, yer know.’

  ‘I’ll get the team to autograph them,’ said Nick, as the flummoxed opposition began to line up again.

  ‘Would yer really?’ Dumpling glowed. ‘’Ere, what’m I talkin’ about? Me stays are private.’

  Rodney Road put the ball into desperate play, but their cause was lost. The ref blew for time not long after, and the Rovers smothered Dumpling with kisses and cuddles. She said she didn’t mind as long as no-one was actually being barmy.

  ‘Well, I can’t tell a porkie, Dumpling, not right now I can’t,’ said Danny, ‘I’m barmy all over for yer.’

  ‘Yes, ain’t I ’eroic?’ said Dumpling, and in her rapture was reckless enough to tell Danny he could join her in her mum’s parlour tomorrow afternoon. Mind, on the tram going home, she did add a rider, saying they could have a lovely football talk about how she scored the winning goal.

  ‘All right, Dumpling, we’ll do that as well,’ said Danny.

  ‘What d’yer mean, as well?’ asked Dumpling in alarm.

  ‘Sort of in addition, like,’ said Danny.

  I’ll saw yer daft ’ead off,’ said Dumpling.

  When, on the morrow, Mrs Evans heard Danny had been invited, she made sure the parlour was left exclusive to him and Dumpling, and she also made sure Dumpling wore her best Sunday blouse and skirt.

  Some time during the afternoon, the kids, banned from the parlour, came pouring into the kitchen from their horseplay on the stairs.

  ‘Mum, Mum, Dumpling’s shoutin’.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ said Mrs Evans, sharing the kitchen fireside with her husband.

  ‘Yes, she is, Mum, she’s shoutin’ for ’elp.’

  ‘Well, me and your dad don’t want any of you tryin’ to rescue ’er,’ said Mrs Evans.

  ‘Not till teatime,’ said Mr Evans, who’d had the pleasure of seeing Dumpling score the winning goal yesterday.

  ‘That’s it, not till teatime,’ said Mrs Evans.

  That meant Dumpling endured the soppiest Sunday afternoon of her life.

  ‘Oh, me gawd,’ she gasped once, ‘if you don’t give over messin’ about, I’ll get me dad to bash yer brains out.’

  ‘I ain’t secondin’ that,’ said Danny, re-engaging.

  ‘Mum! ’Elp! Dad! ’Elp!’

  No answer was the parental reply.

  Ma nearly blew her top on Monday morning when her daily paper reported another big jewel robbery, this time at a house in St John’s Wood. What made it all the more aggravating was that an Inspector Clark of Scotland Yard admitted the police didn’t have a single clue about the identity of the miscreants.

  ‘They soon found clues that brought them after your Pa,’ she said. ‘They must’ve ’ad a real grudge against him considerin’ what a gentleman ’e was to everybody. Fancy comin’ after ’im on the very day ’e was daft enough to get above ’imself, and now lettin’ these real criminals go around ’elping themselves whenever they like. It’s just not lawful, allowing common burglars to get away with it. I’ve a good mind to write to Mr Pierpoint.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Pierpoint?’ asked Alice.

  ‘The public hangman,’ said Ma.

  ‘Who’d you want hanged, then?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Inspector Clark,’ said Ma.

  Inspector Clark, in fact, felt even more aggravated than Ma did, and he made his feelings clear to Detective-Sergeant Plunkett. Sergeant Plunkett said patience was a virtue, and that enough of it would help them cop the crooks. Inspector Clark told him to drop himself into the nearest lav and pull the chain. He didn’t have any patience, he’d used it all up, he said, especially as nothing had come of his hopeful theory that the missing loot of the first two burglaries might have landed in the lap of a Continental fence.

  * * *

  Mr Pollard coughed.

  ‘Ah – everything all right, Harrison?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no complaints, sir,’ said Nick.

  ‘Ah – um – quite so.’ Mr Pollard, of course, was hoping that an inviting mumble would bring forth some information from Nick concerning his relationship with the fourth floor. It brought forth nothing except a question.

  ‘Is that all, Mr Pollard?’

  ‘Yes – no – ah, I merely wished to say that since your rise your work has been excellent.’ Mr Pollard coughed again. ‘One might have thought the increment has given you the incentive to apply yourself most efficiently to your work.’

  ‘Well, half a crown extra a week can do wonders,’ said Nick. But not as much as five bob, he thought, especially as it’s December and Christmas is coming.

  ‘I see. Yes. Very well, Harrison, that’s all.’

  I’m no wiser than he is about the reason for what’s been happening, thought Nick as he went back to his desk. All I know for certain is that I’m a bit gone on God’s great-niece. That’s a fact, that is, and it’s something that shouldn’t have happened to me. Boring as it was, it all came back to Pa being the skeleton in the family cupboard. Now, if Annabelle didn’t happen to be related to God, but was just the girl next door and one of our football supporters, I could invite her into Ma’s parlour on a foggy Sunday afternoon and chance having her ask awkward questions about when did I last see my father.

  ‘Harrison, what are you doing with that piece of blotting paper?’ The voice of Mr Clewes, senior clerk, interrupted Nick’s musings.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Are you eating it?’

  ‘My mistake,’ said Nick, coming to, ‘I thought it was lunchtime.’

  ‘Off his rocker,’ said a saucy junior clerk.

  Well, I’m not myself, thought Nick, and that’s another fact. And will I see Annabelle again? A lot better if I don’t.

  The bell tolled for him that afternoon. That is, Mr Pollard called him in and in a hollow voice told him to go up to the fourth floor immediately. Up Nick went, remembering it was just four weeks since he had last seen Annabelle.

  God was in his usual heaven, seated at his desk. His mane of iron-grey hair made him look a bit like Lloyd George, except that his features were broader and craggier. He watched Nick’s advance in silence. Nick, coming to a stop, felt he was required to stand at attention and salute, but decided he’d be a right Charlie if he did. So he simply waited for God to speak.

  ‘I see you’ve survived, Harrison,’ said the awesome person.

  ‘Survived, sir?’

  ‘I presume you realize that since I last saw you, the world has witnessed the demise of thousands of people? Many thousands. Some by natural causes, some by violence, some by suicide and some by accident. You, I see, weren’t one of them. You’ve survived.’

  ‘Yes, sir, so have you.’

  The glint entered the searching eyes.

  ‘Is that a deliberate impertinence, you scoundrel?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Nick, ‘I just thought that as so many people have passed on since you last saw me, you and I could count ourselves lucky.’

  ‘Damn my soul,’ said God, ‘you are being impertinent. Business customs and practices being what they are, Harrison, pipsqueak clerks may exist, but not for the purpose of speaking out of turn. Or speaking at all. However, there are other people in the world, people of a worthy kind. One of them is my great-niece. Therefore, reluctant though I am to give you further time off, I am acceding to her request for you to meet her in the usual place. God knows what gets into the minds of worthy young ladies, but there it is. You will arrive at the Exchange Teashop in twenty minutes, at a quarter-to-four precisely. You will take no liberties, nor suppose yourself to be of any importance. You are merely to give her polite company and due respect.’

  ‘Sir, that might sound all very fine—’

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘Well, so it might, sir, but it’s labelling me as a nobody. If I’m to give Miss Somers company, I don’t want to arrive feeling I’ve just been let out of a box, and that I’m only to say yes or no.’

  ‘You young bugger,’ said God.

  ‘Is
that it, then, sir? Am I getting my cards?’

  ‘You’re more likely to get your infernal neck broken if you’re not out of this office and back at your work in ten seconds. Wait,’ he growled as Nick made for the door. ‘Damn it, very well, I accept you’re another human being no better and no worse than most of us, so go and meet my niece.’

  ‘Right, sir, I’m on my way.’

  ‘You’d better be,’ said Annabelle’s great-uncle.

  ‘My God,’ said Nick in apt fashion, as he slid into a chair at the corner table, ‘I don’t know what you say to your great-uncle about me, but he gives me a feeling I’m only six inches tall.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ said Annabelle, ‘how nice to see you again.’ Her smile curved her lips, showed her white teeth and found its way into her eyes. Her dark lashes fluttered. She’s a minx, thought Nick, she’s playing games, but who couldn’t like her? ‘What was that you said about my respected Uncle John?’ asked Annabelle, wondering just a little why her pulse rate felt jumpy. She simply never suffered from that kind of thing.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Nick, ‘it’s not your fault he was born of thunder and lightning.’ He looked around. The teashop was nearly full. The young waitress, catching his glance, smiled and nodded. Nick gave her a little wave.

  ‘Well, I’m blessed,’ said Annabelle, ‘what’s the idea?’

  ‘Friend of mine,’ said Nick. ‘Have you ordered?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annabelle, ‘I was sure you’d be on time, but I don’t know what Uncle John would think about you waving to waitresses as soon as you come in.’

  ‘Feed me brimstone, I expect,’ said Nick, and Annabelle let a little soft laugh escape. She had a brown velvet hat on today, its brim almost as low as an eye-shade, and she looked very much a fashionable young lady alive with amusement.

  ‘You do like sharing tea and crumpets with me, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a lot better than running to catch a tram,’ said Nick.

  ‘I should jolly well hope it is,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘You sent me a birthday card,’ said Nick.

  ‘I always send my friends birthday cards, and your birthday was your twenty-first,’ she said. Their waitress arrived and set out their order. The hot buttered crumpets gave off the usual welcome aroma.