Pride of Walworth

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Sit there,’ she said, pointing to one of the fireside armchairs.

  ‘Pleasure, Dumpling,’ said Danny, seating himself.

  ‘And I’ll sit ’ere,’ said Dumpling, and sat down on the sofa. What a mistake that was, because Danny undermined her immediately by presenting her with a collection of pristine cigarette cards of famous footballers. Dumpling went swoony over them. ‘Oh, yer couldn’t ’ave pleased me more, Danny,’ she said in a sort of fainting voice.

  ‘I bet yer’ll like the one of Jimmy Dimmock of Spurs,’ said Danny, moving to sit beside her.

  ‘Oh, me rapture, it’s overcomin’ me,’ sighed Dumpling, so seeing just how overcome she was, Danny put an arm around her waist and kissed her. When Dumpling came up for air, she gasped, ‘’Ere, what d’you think you’re doin’ of?’

  ‘’Ave yer seen the one of Billy McCracken of Newcastle United?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Oh, me ’appy ’eart,’ moaned Dumpling, so seeing she was in no condition to break his leg or damage his hooter, Danny kissed her again. From then on, Dumpling endured another terrible time.

  The kids, playing in the kitchen, informed their mum they could hear Dumpling yelling for help. Mrs Evans said no-one was to worry, Danny was with her and giving her all the help she needed.

  ‘I’ll go in a bit later and see if the fire’s all right,’ said Mr Evans.

  ‘That’s it, a bit later,’ said Mrs Evans.

  So a bit later, Mr Evans went in, by which time the cigarette cards were all over the rug, and Dumpling’s skirt and jumper were all over the place.

  ‘’Ere, what’s goin’ on?’ asked Mr Evans, looking like a father in shock. ‘Or what’s comin’ off would be more like it.’

  ‘Oh, me blushes,’ gasped Dumpling, ‘thank gawd you’re ’ere, Dad. Get ’im off me.’

  ‘Is that you there, Danny?’ demanded Mr Evans sternly.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Mr Evans,’ said Danny.

  ‘Blowed if I ever saw the like,’ said Mr Evans, ‘you’re compromisin’ me own daughter. I’m afraid I’ll ’ave to ask you to do what’s right and honourable.’

  ‘I’ll be pleasured to, Mr Evans,’ said Danny fervently, ‘it’s me life’s wish to do what’s right and honourable by Dumpling.’

  ‘Well, though I’m shocked to me core at seein’ me own daughter ’alf-undressed,’ said Mr Evans, ‘yer a gent, Danny, at acceptin’ responsibility for ’er condition. Easter weddin’ suit yer?’

  ‘Not ’alf,’ said Danny, ‘and I’ve got a bit of money saved up.’

  ‘’Ere, wait a minute,’ panted Dumpling, ‘I ain’t—’

  ‘Easter Saturday, I reckon,’ said Mr Evans.

  ‘Fine,’ said Danny.

  ‘But, Dad,’ gasped Dumpling, ‘what about me football?’

  ‘That’s a point,’ mused Mr Evans. ‘Tell yer what, Dumpling lovey, Danny’ll let you out of the kitchen on Wednesday evenings for yer committee meetings, and on Saturday afternoons for the matches. I’ll ask ’im to play fair with yer on that.’

  ‘But, Dad, what about all that daft married stuff in between?’ asked Dumpling faintly.

  ‘Oh, I reckon we can both rely on Danny to see that you get to like it,’ said Mr Evans. ‘’E was doin’ fine when I come in. There y’ar, Dumpling, you’re fixed up fair and square now for bein’ wed and still keepin’ yer football goin’. All right, Danny, you can get off her now.’

  * * *

  ‘It’s not actually hurting, is it?’ said Rosie. She was with Annabelle in the latter’s bedroom.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘All over?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Annabelle, ‘it’s just my pride, that’s all. I never felt so small in all my life.’

  ‘You’re not madly gone on him, then?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Madly gone?’ said Annabelle. ‘Rosie, be your age, I’m not a twelve-year-old schoolgirl, I’m a working woman.’

  ‘Working woman, oh, yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Sorry, ducky. I see now, you just wanted him as a good friend. You know, there’s nothing going on between us, we’re just good friends, just two workers of the world.’

  ‘I’ll hit you,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘Only trying to cheer you up, lovey,’ said Rosie. ‘What could he have meant when he said ask him again to Sunday tea in eighteen months?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? And I’m not interested. I wouldn’t have him for a friend now even if he went down on bended knees and said prayers.’

  ‘Oh, poor Nick,’ said Rosie.

  ‘What d’you mean, poor Nick?’

  ‘I liked him. He seemed such a healthy-looking young man. Listen, lovey, I think you ought to try to find out what the mention of eighteen months means.’

  ‘I know what it means,’ said Annabelle, ‘a lifetime. Eighteen months is nearly two years. The cheek of it, expecting me to wait nearly a lifetime for the pleasure of his company at Sunday tea. He’s got a hope.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Rosie.

  ‘What d’you mean, oh dear?’ demanded Annabelle.

  ‘You’re ever so flushed, ducky, for a working woman,’ said Rosie.

  Annabelle grabbed a pillow and went for her best friend. Rosie caught the pillow, cradled it and winked at Annabelle over the top of it.

  They burst into laughter.

  Nick spent most of his Sunday wondering if there was some way to let Annabelle know he hadn’t meant to put her off in such an unfriendly fashion. What would happen if he came clean with her, if he told her the truth about Pa? She just might say well, you’re not a convicted felon yourself, so let’s go to the pictures next Saturday. But would she? One thing was certain, her parents wouldn’t be in favour, nor want him to go to tea one Sunday. And if God ever got to know, his prospective new career would never get off the ground.

  Mr Lukavitch at least had a good Sunday, having recovered enough to go out with his bag during the morning and to share a pot of tea with the family in the evening. Back to his agreeable self, he expressed his gratitude to Ma for all she had done on his behalf while he was ill, and told her she was a corblimey tophole woman. How kind, said Ma. Don’t mention it, old dear, said Mr Lukavitch. Ma said she wasn’t old yet. No, not ruddy likely, beamed Mr Lukavitch, and went back up to his lodgings to do a little more work before going to bed.

  ‘He’s forgotten his fags,’ said Fanny a few minutes later.

  ‘Someone take them up to ’im,’ said Ma.

  ‘All right, I will,’ said Fanny. When she came down again she said the lodger had been ever so pleased to get his packet of fags back. He’d got a glass eye fixed and was working on some beads, which she didn’t think as attractive as coloured ones. They were little glass beads, she said. Ma said she supposed some people liked glass beads. Nick said if they were strung together, Pa could probably sell them as five-bob diamond necklaces. Ma said she’d be obliged if no-one talked that way about Pa, not when walls had several ears.

  Pa at this moment was looking forward to being released on parole, particularly as the Governor had told him there was an honest job waiting for him at Woolwich Arsenal. Pa hadn’t been too sure about that at first.

  ‘Well, Governor, I—’

  ‘You’ll take it, Harrison, for the sake of your family.’

  ‘Of course, Governor. Ah, in the stores?’

  ‘Not in the stores.’

  Pity, thought Pa, there were pickings in stores.

  ‘No, Governor, right, not in the stores.’

  ‘One step out of line, Harrison, and you’ll be back here.’

  Frankly, thought Pa, I’m not keen on that. It looks like I’ll have to go along with Ma’s ideas, and earn an honest living.

  ‘You can rely on me, Governor, not to let you down.’

  ‘That had better be true,’ said the Governor.

  When the day was drawing to its close, Rosie said to Boots, ‘Mum’s gone to bed with her Ethel M. Dell novel.’

  ‘Hope it won�
�t come between us,’ said Boots.

  ‘Oh, you’ll win,’ said Rosie. ‘Anyway, Daddy, about Annabelle, with all the brains you’re supposed to have and all your experience of what makes people tick and go off bang, you must have some idea of what eighteen months could mean.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong bloke,’ said Boots, raking the dying ashes of the living-room fire, ‘I’m still what they call an innocent abroad.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m Queen Elizabeth,’ said Rosie. ‘No, come on, think of some reason why Nick Harrison should have to wait eighteen months before he can accept an invitation to tea from Annabelle.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Boots, ‘he’s an insurance clerk, I believe, working for the company headed by Annabelle’s fearsome great-uncle.’

  ‘Yes, poor bloke,’ said Rosie, ‘it takes an insurance clerk years to get to a really decent wage, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And probably makes him think twice about whether or not he can afford to get married,’ said Boots. He finished raking the ashes, sat down and filled his pipe. Rosie lit a taper from the glowing ashes and applied the flame to his tobacco. The familiar aroma pleasured her sense of smell. Eyes met through little spirals of blue smoke. Rosie smiled. There were no two people who were more compatible than Rosie and Boots. ‘Your works are ticking,’ she said.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ said Boots, ‘that perhaps young Mr Harrison is coming into money in eighteen months.’

  ‘Sorry, old darling, that’s a feeble thought.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Rosie. ‘Waiting to come into money wouldn’t be any reason at all for not accepting an invitation to tea.’

  ‘Unless at the moment he doesn’t have a Sunday suit,’ said Boots.

  ‘That’s even more feeble,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Well, perhaps he’s got a catching complaint,’ said Boots, ‘the kind that needs another eighteen months to be cured.’

  ‘That’s not even feeble, that’s a washout, a dud,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re letting me down. Can’t you have a flash of inspiration?’

  ‘Is this life or death stuff?’ asked Boots.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Rosie. ‘I mean, I don’t know if Annabelle’s really keen or if she’s just miffed that the young man hasn’t fallen at her feet. All her boyfriends have.’

  ‘Well, perhaps she’s suddenly met her match,’ said Boots. ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to let her work it all out for herself?’

  ‘Yes, I do think,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m just curious about the meaning of eighteen months.’

  ‘Count up to a hundred and see if that’ll help,’ said Boots.

  ‘That’s very inspirational, I don’t think,’ said Rosie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DUMPLING AND DANNY called on Monday evening. They wanted to talk to Nick, so Nick took them into the parlour. He noted that Danny looked highly pleased with himself, while Dumpling was having trouble with her expressions.

  ‘What’s on your minds?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got worries I never thought I’d ever ’ave durin’ me footballin’ career,’ said Dumpling.

  ‘What worries?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Dumpling, I keep tellin’ yer, they don’t ’ave to be worries,’ said Danny.

  ‘Never mind what you tell me,’ said Dumpling gloomily, ‘I got ’orrible feelings me footballing’s goin’ to be interfered with. Me dad’s done it on me, Nick.’

  ‘He’s pawned your football?’ said Nick.

  ‘Course not,’ said Dumpling, ‘me dad wouldn’t do that. No, he’s gone and arranged for me and Danny to get married. I ain’t ready for it.’

  ‘Well, I am, Dumpling, gawd bless yer,’ said Danny, ‘and I’ll look after all yer worries, which ain’t worries, really.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Nick.

  ‘I ain’t sayin’,’ said Dumpling, ‘except I was in me mum’s parlour with Danny yesterday when me dad came in. I was never more embarrassed.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Nick, keeping his face straight.

  ‘Well, it was accidental circumstances, like,’ said Danny. ‘I was showin’ Dumpling a set of cigarette cards of footballers, and ’aving a bit of a cuddle as well, and some’ow we fell over and Dumpling – well, um – Dumpling finished up underneath just as ’er dad walked in. Well, of course I ’ad to do what was honourable, and me and Dumpling’s goin’ to get churched on Easter Saturday. D’you mind keepin’ these details confidential, Nick?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Nick. ‘Congratulations, Dumpling, I’m tickled for you.’

  ‘Oh, me sad ’eart,’ said Dumpling mournfully. ‘I mean, me, one of the blokes, ’aving to live soppy ever after. But me dad’s mind is made up, ’e says it’s for the honour of the whole fam’ly, and me mum said that as long as Danny’s doin’ right by me, she’d forgive ’im for what ’e might ’ave done in the parlour. Mind, I don’t remember it ’appening while we was lookin’ at the cigarette cards.’

  ‘I’m a bit hazy meself now,’ said Danny. ‘I just remember that some’ow or other I fell on top of Dumpling accidental, like, just as ’er dad come in.’

  ‘Well, accidents can sometimes serve a good purpose,’ said Nick.

  ‘I don’t call livin’ soppy ever after a good purpose,’ said Dumpling, sighing at what it was all going to do to her football.

  ‘It’ll work out, Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘so best of luck to both of you.’

  ‘Thanks, Nick,’ said Danny, ‘and might I ask yer to be me best man?’

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Nick.

  ‘Crikey, will yer really do that, Nick?’ said Dumpling, looking a bit happier. ‘We couldn’t be more complimented, our captain as our best man.’

  ‘I couldn’t be more complimented myself,’ said Nick.

  ‘Oh, I’ll bet you’ll make a smashin’ speech,’ said Dumpling.

  ‘I’ll work on it,’ said Nick, ‘and perhaps include a wish that all your troubles will be little footballers.’

  Dumpling blushed rosy red.

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it’s a thought,’ said Nick.

  ‘I ain’t against it meself,’ said Danny.

  ‘Oh, Lord ’elp me footballin’,’ said Dumpling.

  ‘Hello, Daddy love,’ said Rosie over the phone the next day, ‘could I speak to Annabelle?’

  ‘She’s working,’ said Boots.

  ‘Oh, yes, I know she’s a working woman, she told me,’ said Rosie, ‘but I’ve just thought you were right, after all, when you said eighteen months was probably the amount of time Annabelle’s Romeo felt he needed before he could afford to take up with a steady girlfriend. Weren’t you clever?’

  ‘Not specially,’ said Boots, ‘it was only a guess.’

  ‘Telepathy, more like,’ said Rosie. ‘I remembered it was what his sister Alice said when Annabelle and I met her at one of the football matches. I wondered if Annabelle has remembered too. Of course, I could phone her tonight instead of speaking to her now—’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Boots. A smile on his face, he called Annabelle from her office and put the phone in her hand. ‘Rosie wants to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I just hope she isn’t going to give me a hard time,’ said Annabelle, and Boots left her with the phone, knowing girls preferred not to have adults listening in. ‘Hello? Rosie?’

  ‘Good morning, working woman,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Good morning, layabout.’

  ‘Listen, lovey, it’s just a question of poverty between you and Nick,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Nick?’ said Annabelle. ‘Oh, him. What d’you mean, poverty?’

  ‘Don’t you remember his sister Alice telling us he didn’t think he’d be able to afford having a girlfriend for a couple of years?’ said Rosie. ‘Well, eighteen months is almost as good as two years. He’s too proud, it seems, to ask a girl out while his pockets are lined with poverty.’

  ‘But our mums and dads and aunts and uncles all
had to live with poverty, yet they weren’t too proud to take up with each other,’ said Annabelle. ‘What sort of a world is he living in, for goodness sake?’

  ‘You can ask him that when you go to the football committee meeting tomorrow evening,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Rosie.

  ‘If you don’t stop saying oh dear every time we have a conversation,’ said Annabelle, ‘I’ll fall out with you, Rosie Adams.’

  ‘Sorry, lovey, but you could still ask Nick—’

  ‘I’m not going to ask him anything,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Hate him, that’s why.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Rosie.

  ‘There you go again,’ said Annabelle, ‘and I’ve got work to do. Rosie, you don’t really think someone would be too proud of his poverty to come to Sunday tea, do you?’

  ‘He might be,’ said Rosie, ‘but as you hate him, we can drop the subject. Who wants to invite a hated young man to tea, anyway.’

  ‘I’m going to hate you as well in a minute,’ said Annabelle. ‘No, I must ring off now. I’ll see you some time. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Well, that’s rich,’ said Boots, and laughed. He was enjoying a light lunch with Annabelle in Lyons teashop, Camberwell Green, and his niece had been confiding in him.

  ‘I don’t think it’s at all funny,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘Not a little amusing even?’ said Boots.

  ‘No, certainly not,’ said Annabelle. ‘How would you like it, Uncle Boots, if you felt your life had been blighted?’

  ‘Blighted?’

  ‘Well, to suffer disappointment in someone is a bit blighting,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Boots, ‘you met him through lift gates, then three times in a City teashop, then by way of his football team. You then wangled yourself into the supporters’ club and onto his committee, turned him inside-out, I imagine—’

  ‘Uncle Boots,’ protested Annabelle.

  ‘And finished up hating him,’ said Boots.

  ‘Well, he’s a stinker,’ said Annabelle.