by Ruth Hogan
‘Do I look pretty?’ she had asked Tilly, when she was ready. Tilly thought that the honest answer would be ‘no’, and the kind but untrue answer would be ‘yes’, so she chose one in the middle, hoping to avoid both Cecily’s disappointment and God sending her to Bermondsey for lying.
‘You look much prettier than you normally do. And you smell lovely.’
The promenade was crawling with holidaymakers buying buckets and spades for their sandcastles, and postcards, and cheap and cheerful souvenirs for the neighbours who were minding their goldfish and budgerigars. The man with the funny accent was mending his fishing nets as usual, with his permanent cigarette fluttering up and down between his lips as he greeted them. Tilly waved at him and smiled.
‘You should get him to teach you how to smoke. He’s really good at it,’ she said.
‘Who?’ said Cecily with a distracted frown that struggled to wrinkle her ponytail-stretched forehead. Walter’s fish stall was doing a brisk trade selling cockles and winkles in little cardboard punnets, and the sharp smell of vinegar cutting through the air made Tilly’s mouth water. She would rather have had some cockles doused in vinegar than a doughnut any day, but Cecily said they looked like dead baby birds and made her heave. And, more importantly, Walter wasn’t Sidney. Outside Madame Petulengro’s velvet-curtained kiosk, a snake of people wriggled and fidgeted in the hot sun, anxious to know if a big win on the football pools was reflected in the crystal ball, or if a tall, dark, handsome stranger was on the tarot cards. Tilly had brought some pennies with her from her money box to buy yet another windmill for the small area in the garden that Queenie had given her to plant whatever she liked. At the moment, Tilly was planting windmills. Ena saw them coming.
‘Let me guess. Is it another windmill you’re after?’
She and Ralph sold buckets and spades, sticks of rock, postcards and all sorts of little toys, ornaments and tea towels proudly proclaiming their seaside origins. And, of course, windmills.
‘Well, Cecily, you’re looking very la-di-dah today. Are you two off anywhere special?’
Cecily was already too red in the face from the afternoon sun and Marlene’s rouge for her blush to show, but nerves made her throat tell-tale dry and her answer was brief and mumbled.
‘Just going for a walk.’
Tilly chose a red and yellow windmill and handed her money to Ena.
‘And to see Sidney at the doughnut stall,’ she added helpfully.
Cecily’s grip on Tilly’s hand was a little firmer than was friendly as she dragged Tilly away. Tilly liked that she knew the names of the people in the little shops and stalls along the promenade and that they knew her back. It made her feel as though she belonged, and it made her feel safe. But there was one man whose name she still didn’t know. He was the man she had seen on the first night when she was on the galloping horses with her mother; the handsome man with the moustache. He always had the same clothes on, whatever the weather: a dark suit, a gabardine mac and his hat. She didn’t think that he was following her, and he never came very near, but he always seemed to be around whenever Tilly was on the promenade or pier. It was as though he were watching out for her. Today he was standing on the pavement of the street above them, leaning over the turquoise wrought-iron railings. He tipped his hat at Tilly and smiled, and she waved back at him. Eli lifted his head, following Tilly’s gaze and hesitating slightly before continuing his loping trot at her side.
‘Who were you waving at?’ Cecily asked, shading her eyes with one hand and looking across the road.
‘That man in the hat.’
‘Do you know him?’ said Cecily, still searching.
‘Well, not really. But sort of.’
‘Well,’ said Cecily, turning her attention back to Tilly and adopting a superior tone of voice, ‘I don’t think that you should be waving to strange men. It’s not safe. He might be a pervert or something.’
‘What’s a pervert?’
Cecily floundered, suddenly out of her depth.
‘It’s a man with peculiar interests.’
‘What, like stamp collecting?’
Tilly’s question went unanswered, as they had now arrived dangerously close to Sidney’s doughnut stall. There was a small queue, but Cecily hung back. Tilly peered round the people waiting in line to get a good look at Sidney and saw a short, stocky youth with pale skin splattered with freckles and a fiercely ginger frizz of curls. She tugged at Cecily’s hand.
‘Come on!’
She dragged Cecily to join the end of the queue and fussed and fidgeted in excitement whilst waiting to see what the two young lovers would do when they finally came face to face. At last it was their turn. Sidney barely looked up.
‘What would you like?’
‘She’d like to kiss you!’ The words trumpeted out in Tilly’s head, but fortunately didn’t get as far as her mouth.
‘Four please.’ Cecily kept her eyes firmly fixed on her purse.
‘Righto, luv.’
Cecily shoved some coins towards him, grabbed the bag of doughnuts and marched Tilly away, her ‘thank you very much’ trailing in her wake.
They sat on a bench eating their doughnuts, with a welcome breeze from the sea blowing in their faces. Tilly smiled at Cecily as she licked the sugar from her fingers.
‘You’ve still got a bit of sick on your dress.’
30
Tilly
‘He’s ginger,’ announced Tilly, while carefully dissecting her steak pie into equal pieces.
Queenie’s hand quickly closed over her mother’s.
‘Hair, dear, not Rogers.’
Marlene helped herself to a forkful of peas from Reg’s plate.
‘Never heard of her.’
They were all seated around the table eating dinner, and Tilly was eagerly updating them on the progress of the prospective lovebirds.
Lil was particularly keen to hear more about the object of Cecily’s affection.
‘And what did he say to her?’
For a moment, Tilly considered making the story more exciting, but ever mindful of the risk of Bermondsey, decided against it.
‘He said, “Righto, luv”.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Well, Cecily said, “Thank you very much” but I don’t think he heard it.’
‘Blimey,’ said Reg, ‘it’s not exactly Brief Encounter, is it?’ He was gallantly ignoring Marlene, who was stealing more of his peas.
‘It’s such a shame. She spent so long getting ready, and she seems really keen on him,’ said Tilly’s mother, pouring more orange squash into Tilly’s glass.
‘Maybe Effie could help her look more beautiful. She always looks lovely, and she’s coming this weekend.’
‘Now, Tilly, you’re not to go bothering the guests.’
‘But Effie said I was welcome to go and see her any time I liked.’
‘Yes, but she was probably just being polite.’
Tilly thought about this as she put the last piece of steak and onion pie, topped with three peas, into her mouth.
‘So, being polite is the same as lying then?’
‘Ha!’ said Reg, grinning. ‘She’s got you there, Gracelands!’
Gracie rolled her eyes and sighed.
‘It’s not always that simple, Tilly. Sometimes people say that you can do something because they’re being nice, but they don’t really expect you to do it.’
‘But that’s not very nice if they don’t mean it, is it? And it’s lying.’ Bermondsey was going to be very crowded.
‘Tell the truth and shame the devil,’ said Marlene, starting on her own peas now that Reg’s were all gone.
Lil was still thinking about Sidney.
‘Well, that girl’s never going to get anywhere with him if she doesn’t try a bit harder than that.’
‘I never had to try,’ said Marlene, sipping her gin and winking at Reg. ‘Men cluster to me like moths around a flame, and when their wings burn, I know I’ll
get the blame,’ she wavered like a harmonium short of air.
‘Quite right,’ said Reg, ‘but then Silly doesn’t possess your wealth of womanly charms.’
Marlene attempted a seductive smile for Reg’s benefit, but the effect was rather spoiled by the bits of pea caught amongst her dentures.
Lil shook her head and started gathering up the plates.
‘It’s like living in a bleedin’ madhouse, here,’ she said good-humouredly. ‘Who wants some pudding?’
Over plums and custard, Queenie entertained them with a story about one of the guests whose false teeth had fallen into the soup of the woman sitting opposite him when he bit into a particularly crusty roll.
‘What did he do?’ asked Tilly, giggling.
‘He fished them out, sucked them clean, and popped them back in his mouth again.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She ordered the prawn cocktail.’
Tilly lined up her plum stones around the edge of her dish. Her daddy had taught her a rhyme that began ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor’ and said that she could count stones using the rhyme, and that would tell her who she would marry. Tilly wasn’t sure if she wanted to get married, but if she did, it wouldn’t be to anyone like that. So she made up her own rhyme.
‘Pirate, gypsy, Father Christmas, Tarzan, magician, man-in-charge-of-the-galloping-horses.’ The last one had used to be Doctor Who, but she had changed it when she came to live here. Today it was Tarzan’s lucky day. She decided that she would make up a special rhyme for Cecily to use that might cheer her up. It would probably have a doughnut seller in it.
The next day was a Friday. Tilly knew this because Marlene Deeptrick had been replaced by Anita Iceberg. By now, Tilly had learned all the ladies Queenie’s mother was, and which days of the week they appeared on. The weekends, however, were more of a lucky dip, and usually one-off performances. They had recently included Carmen Miranda, Doris Day and Harvey the giant rabbit. Tilly only knew about the last one because she had asked Queenie why it was that the old lady hadn’t been out of her room all day, but places had been set and food put out at both the breakfast and dinner tables. Queenie said Harvey was invisible, which Tilly thought was a shame. This Friday was particularly exciting because Bert and Effie were coming and Reg was taking Tilly to the ballroom. Cecily arrived halfway through breakfast, bursting through the door like a jumble sale on legs. The sight of poor Cecily made Tilly determined to ask Effie’s advice on making her more beautiful. She might ask God for a bit of help too. She had found a nice new church to go to, just a couple of streets away. Lil went there sometimes, ‘just so that God doesn’t forget my face’, and was happy to take Tilly with her. But Lil didn’t go to confession. She said it would be too much like painting the Forth Bridge. Tilly wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but she was quite sure that God would always remember Lil. Hers wasn’t a face that was easy to forget. The church wasn’t quite as beautiful as Mrs O’Flaherty’s church, but Father Trevor had made her feel welcome and showed her where she could light candles for her daddy.
Just as Cecily sat down and began piling toast onto her plate there was an almighty crash in the kitchen followed by a furious torrent from Lil.
‘Bugger the bloody soddin’ thing! Shit, bugger, bastard! Bugger, bollocks, sod!’
‘Would anyone like more tea?’ Queenie asked, reaching for the teapot.
There was a further crash followed by the sound of something metal being thrown across the kitchen.
‘Bollocks! Shit, bugger, bollocks, bugger, buggery bollocky shit!’
Queenie replaced the teapot on its raffia mat.
‘Would you pass the marmalade please, Gracie?’
When Tilly had first heard Lil using so many swear words all joined together, she had been a bit surprised, but very impressed. But she had also expected Queenie to have a blue fit. The varnished wooden signs all over the house made Queenie’s rules very clear to the guests, and ‘No Swearing’ was definitely one of them. But the first time Tilly had heard Lil use ‘language’, as her mother called it, Queenie had turned to Gracie and said in a loud whisper, as though she was telling a secret, ‘She can’t help it. It’s her affliction.’
Tilly had been desperate to ask more about Lil’s ‘language’, but her mother’s warning look had silenced her. It was still on Tilly’s list of questions to ask Queenie when her mother wasn’t listening, along with whether or not swear words still counted if you said them very quietly when nobody else could hear, and how do bats wee when they’re hanging upside down? Tilly sometimes practised swearing when she was on her own, rolling the deliciously naughty sounds over her tongue like warm chocolate custard. She only knew five: bloody, sod, shit, bugger and basket, but she wasn’t sure if the last one was a real swear word. Another question for Queenie. She also needed to know who decided which words were swear ones. She had supposed that it was probably God, but then English was the Queen’s, according to her teacher, so maybe it was the Queen who decided.
Lil strode in from the kitchen, her boots clomping on the tiled floor, carrying a plate of fried eggs and a dish of steaming tinned tomatoes. She dumped them on the table and sat down. She grabbed a mug and poured herself some tea.
‘Ruddy handle’s fallen off the grill pan again,’ she said, helping herself to an egg.
Gina Anita wagged a crooked, veiny finger back and forth at Lil and tutted.
‘Language, language!’
Tilly spent most of the morning hanging around the reception area playing hide-and-seek with Eli, hoping to bump into Bert and Effie. Eventually, Tilly’s patience was rewarded by a flurry of cases, perfume, kisses, hugs and brilliantine, as her two very favourite guests swept through the doors. Her ambush worked perfectly and five minutes later she was sitting at the dressing table in Bert and Effie’s room carefully inspecting Effie’s dazzling array of costume jewellery under the guise of helping Effie unpack. Effie held up what looked to Tilly like a big plastic bag attached to a coat hanger and began to unzip it. A froth of sparkle-encrusted lemon sherbet frills and ruffles burst out of the bag. It was the most beautiful dress Tilly had ever seen.
‘It’s for the competition,’ said Effie, fluffing and primping the yards of twinkling net and chiffon before hanging it up on the edge of the wardrobe. Do you like it?’
Tilly wasn’t often lost for words, but she just couldn’t think of any that were good enough. It was like trying to explain how far away the moon was. She nodded. As Effie lined up lipsticks, powders, perfumes and various little pots and bottles of creams, colours and potions on the dressing table, Tilly was wondering how she could ask Effie to help Cecily. As she stroked the head of a glass perfume bottle in the shape of a parakeet, she decided to go the long way round for a change, and turned to Bert.
‘What makes a boy want to kiss a girl?’
Bert laughed out loud.
‘What a question! Well, let’s see . . . A nice smile, sparkling eyes – preferably a matching pair – long, shiny hair, legs like a racehorse and a father who owns a pub.’
Tilly gave a heavy sigh. She didn’t know anything about Cecily’s father, but Cecily was more donkey than racehorse.
‘So, who’s the lucky chap?’
Tilly was horrified.
‘It’s not me! It’s Cecily.’
‘That’s a funny name for a boy.’
Effie clipped him playfully round the ear.
‘Stop teasing her, Bert. Now, Tilly, let’s get this straight and start from the beginning.’
‘Cecily loves Sidney and wants him to kiss her, but he’s not interested and she’s a donkey. I thought you might be able to help.’
Bert’s laughter was swiftly diverted into a cough by a stern look from Effie.
‘Who’s Cecily?’
‘She works for Queenie doing cleaning and things, and she’s really nice and funny, but a bit messy like a scarecrow, not very pretty and she can’t smoke.’
Touched by Tilly’s c
oncern for her friend and more than a little intrigued by the challenge, Effie agreed to give Cecily a few tips, but only if she wanted them. Tilly bounced off to tell Cecily the good news, and found her up to her elbows in washing-up. Cecily was thrilled, but told Tilly that she wouldn’t be doing it for Sidney, but for herself. Tilly thought that somebody should tell Cecily about Bermondsey. She was just off to find Reg when a thought struck her.
‘Cecily, what does your dad do?’
‘He’s a dustman.’
31
Tilda
Theirs was a joyless god if his house is anything to go by. Dreadstone Hill Baptist Church, where my mother’s parents wearied their knees in prayer, is the colour of dried blood and squats sullenly at the top of the hill, encircled by cruelly spiked railings. Its windows are small and high and plain. With no beauty of their own, their construction thwarts any glimmer of it sneaking in from the world outside. This was the church where my grandparents learned to judge and fear and now they are buried in its shadow and I have come to look at their grave. Eli is sitting on the other side of the railings. He refuses to come in.
I came across their home address inside the walnut box. Now that the little blue diary has disappeared I have been looking through some of the other notebooks, and in one of them was an old letter that my mother had written to her parents but never posted. She must have come close, for it was sealed in an envelope and bore a first-class stamp. The letter told them that she was pregnant; that they were to be grandparents. Dreadstone Hill Baptist Church is the closest church to the street where they lived so it seemed like a good place to start. A single phone call to the rather surly church secretary revealed that they had been devoted members of its congregation in life and had remained so in death, choosing to be buried inside the iron bars of its graveyard. I wonder if my mother came to their funerals? They died within six months of one another, while she was living at Queenie’s and I was away at boarding school. Did she take the bus from the other side of town in her best coat and sidle into the back of the church, or did she wait until they were buried and bring flowers to lay on the freshly heaped mound of earth? I wouldn’t blame her if she did neither. But then I’ll never know. They are buried in the same grave and for a moment, for the sake of my mother, I am tempted to stomp on it. Their headstone is a plain, granite rectangle the colour of coal.