Hot Pies on the Tram Car

by Sheila Newberry

  There was a tap on the door. It was Lilli, home from the cinema.

  ‘Care to join us?’ Florence didn’t wait for an answer, but took down another cup and saucer from the dresser. ‘Sit down, Lilli, do.’

  ‘Thanks! My back’s aching. Extra cleaning today. Good afternoon, Mrs Snelgrove.’

  ‘Same to you,’ the greengrocer returned.

  ‘Lovely onions,’ Florence said appreciatively. ‘Spanish, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. I sliced one for us to eat with our bread and cheese at elevenses. Cut up a Bramley, too. They’re getting past their best, but I can’t abide waste.’ She paused, looked at Lilli. ‘Seeing you gives me a chance to say, well, your daughter’s been at my cherries. Now, if she’d asked politely, I’d’ve given her and Josefina a couple to dangle from their lugs; I ’member my gals used to like that.’

  ‘Lugs?’ Lilli was puzzled.

  ‘Ears. What I mean is, she likes to help herself, Mrs Bower. She ain’t the only one, of course, but I’ll trust you to see to it. I wouldn’t like her to do it elsewhere; some’d come down hard on her, and you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Poor Lilli looked near to tears.

  Mrs Snelgrove patted her hand. ‘Sorry, love, but she’s done it before. Your gal didn’t see,’ she added to Florence. ‘Don’t worry, she’s not light-fingered.’

  When Mrs Snelgrove had departed, Lilli repeated, ‘Light-fingered – I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Talk to her, but don’t be too cross,’ said wise Florence. ‘She’s had a lot of upset in her young life lately. It shows up in different ways. Losing her father – how long ago was that? And you deciding to try your luck in London . . .’

  Lilli was instantly on her guard. She hadn’t wanted to lie to Florence, but when she’d told her initially that she and Yvette were on their own, Florence had assumed she was a widow. She’d had to tell her daughter it was best not to talk of their past life. Was this encouraging Yvette to be devious, in more ways than one?

  ‘What about Josefina?’ she countered. ‘She doesn’t even have her mother with her.’

  Florence winced. She took the empty cups to the sink. ‘Well, we’ve both got things to get on with, I’m sure. We must each do what we think is best, with our young ’uns.’

  *

  He was an elderly photographer, with old-fashioned equipment, which entailed him ducking his head under a cloth while he activated the flash and recorded each class of children with their teacher, in turn. The result would be amazingly clear in detail; the solemn faces of the children in their Sunday best; the girls in cotton frocks with hair ribbons; the boys wearing collared shirts, knee-length trousers and highly polished boots. Josefina and Yvette sat together in the front row. Their youthful teacher stood behind them, resting a hand on either shoulder. The caption on the photographs would read: Paradise Board School, 1925.

  ‘Your hair!’ Florence exclaimed, looking at the photograph in due course.

  ‘Miss Darch gave it a comb through,’ Josefina said defensively. This was true.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘She said, “Who did your hair like that?” This was also true. Now came the fib. ‘I said, “me, Miss, I just tried to tidy it up . . .” ’

  ‘Well, it’s recorded for posterity, that’s for sure.’

  *

  ‘Let’s all go down the Strand,’ Russ sang out rather than suggested. He tucked Rose Marie’s arm in his and they marched, giggling into Trafalgar Square.

  She’d been hoping he would contact her again after their evening at the theatre, but, in fact, it was another three weeks before his note arrived in the post.

  Dear Rose Marie,

  Much to my mother and sister’s relief, I have at last secured a place in the working world! A dusty little second-hand bookshop, one of many along the Charing Cross Road, but to me an Aladdin’s cave. Being less impecunious, I would like to take you out – how about this Saturday afternoon? (I shall be working in the morning.)

  We could enjoy the sights of London town, and then I would be delighted to treat you to tea.

  What do you say?

  If it’s ‘yes’, I will call for you at 2.30.

  Yours, Russell Short.

  As they stood by Nelson’s Column, Rose Marie observed, ‘You didn’t get your hair cut!’

  ‘You should see my new employer! With a name like Elmo Turbot-Watts, you’d expect him to be eccentric, and he is.’

  ‘He’s got long hair, you mean?’

  ‘Well, hardly any on top, but a magnificent beard, which he combs through with his fingers when he’s cogitating. He wears a velvet waistcoat, with – shush! – a gravy stain or two on the front. He seems very vague, but he can locate any book a customer might ask for, even if it’s been tucked away at the back of a shelf for years. There’s one other assistant, who’s been there for the past twenty-odd years. “Jacob is a law unto himself,” Mr Turbot-Watts says, so he hopes I will actually sell some of the books, and make myself generally useful. There’s only one rule, as far as I can gather: I’m allowed to read in any slack moments, so long as I don’t eat sticky buns at the same time, or make rings on books with my teacup.’

  ‘Are you being trained? Is it a sort of apprenticeship?’ Rose Marie wondered.

  ‘I’m learning as I go along. If Mr Turbot-Watts approves of my progress, in time I’ll be taken on buying expeditions all over the country. Mr Turbot-Watts has a van; two seats in the front and boxes of books in the back.’

  ‘He needs someone young and energetic to crank up the engine I suppose?’

  ‘I believe I got the job because I can drive, Rose Marie! My grandfather taught me, I used to drive around his estate. My salary is modest, but I believe the prospects to be good.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘Now, let’s visit the National Gallery, shall we?’

  ‘Why not? Art was one of my favourite subjects at school. However, while you regard the pictures, I’ll enjoy looking at your pretty, expressive face!’

  She laughed out loud. ‘Florence told me to be careful, not to get carried away.’

  ‘I gather she doesn’t believe in love at first sight?’

  ‘Certainly not, and nor do I!’

  ‘But you like me, don’t you?’ he challenged her.

  ‘Oh, I do, Mr Short, I really do!’

  The statue of George Washington, outside the gallery, regarded them in a lofty fashion. He’d seen it all before. When they re-emerged into the bright sunshine, the girl in the cream tussore costume and round-brimmed natural straw hat was unselfconsciously holding hands with the young man in the striped blazer and rather crumpled baggy trousers.

  Unbeknown to her sister, Rose Marie was paying a small weekly amount for her summer outfit, an offer from her kindly employer she could not resist. She loved to wear smart clothes. Rose Marie surmised that Russ’s mother was no expert with the smoothing iron, and that nor was he.

  They’d looked at pictures both great and small, impressive and formal. Rose Marie had lingered by the Impressionists, where apparently simple brush strokes conveyed the story behind the picture.

  ‘It’s all to do with light, they were originally called open-air painters,’ she informed Ross solemnly. ‘Bright colours, shadows.’ She was still bemused by what she’d seen.

  ‘But nothing clearly defined,’ he observed.

  ‘You really liked the Turner pictures, you said you could almost smell the steam from the locomotive; well, I love the dreamy feel of Monet . . . see, my booklet says that in 1874 he painted a series called Cathedrals, including the one in Rouen several times, in changing light. Oh, and his views of London recall how it was here at the turn of the century.’

  Now, Ross observed, ‘Here we are at St Martin’s church in the Fields. The doors are never closed, they say, no one is ever turned away. The crypt is full of homeless folk at night.’

  Rose Marie gave a little shiver. ‘All those poor down-and-outs . .�
��. I don’t want to feel sad on such a lovely day.’ She glanced up at the wide black steps to the entrance.

  ‘Come on then. Let’s go on to St James’s Park for a while, and then we’ll have our tea!’

  ‘We mustn’t eat too many cakes; Florence will have supper ready for us at eight!’

  *

  Florence thought, as if I haven’t made enough pastry this week. She rolled the rough puff-pastry to fit the pie plate. Still, she had an eager assistant in Josefina, mixing breadcrumbs into warmed golden syrup, then adding a squeeze of lemon. Then she carefully scraped the mixture into the pastry case. Florence smiled to herself as Josefina sucked the spoon clean.

  ‘One less thing to wash up, Aunty,’ Josefina said hopefully.

  Florence prodded the jacket potatoes on the bottom shelf, and turned them over before she put the treacle tart in the oven.

  ‘Now, wipe the table over and we’ll prepare the salad. I thought it best to keep the meal simple – I didn’t want to be all hot and bothered and dabbing my brow when our guest arrives.’

  ‘He’s not a guest, Aunty Florence; he’s Rose Marie’s beau.’

  ‘Wherever did you hear that old-fashioned expression? He’s just a friend, Josefina.’

  ‘Like Manny? He’s invited to supper, too. Why couldn’t I ask Yvette? She’s my friend.’

  ‘She practically lives with us as it is! She ought to spend more time with her mother.’

  As soon as she said that, Florence regretted it. It was over a year since Josefina had seen Stella, after all. She added quickly, ‘Remember you promised to get yourself off to bed after supper, my girl!’

  The three of them met at the front door.

  ‘This is Manny, who looks after the pie shop – Manny, meet Russell Short,’ said Rose Marie.

  ‘Russ for short, if you’ll forgive the pun,’ Russ said, shaking Manny’s hand.

  ‘Have you had a pleasant afternoon?’ Manny asked awkwardly.

  ‘Very nice,’ Rose Marie told him, as she opened the door. ‘We walked down the Strand, we went to the National Gallery, we looked at the church next door, St Martin’s in the Fields – d’you know it? Then we walked a while in Green Park till I started hobbling in these silly shoes – well, Florence did warn me, I would! – but we had to walk some more before we found a tea-shop and I could sit down thankfully and enjoy a muffin dripping with butter while a sad-faced man played a violin in the street outside.’

  They’d arrived at the door of the flat. From the stairwell above, Yvette, piqued at not being invited, peeped through the bannisters at them, and then went to report to her mother.

  Florence had seen Rose Marie and her escort arrive in the taxi. She’d sighed ruefully as she turned away from the window. The tram was due along shortly. Getting his first wage packet had obviously gone to young Mr Short’s head.

  Manny brought up the rear. Rose Marie plumped down in a chair, removed her shoes, and wriggled her toes. ‘You were right as usual, Florence, no blisters, but very tired feet.’

  ‘Ready for your supper?’ Florence asked. ‘I hope you like crab – may I call you Russ?’

  ‘Of course you may. And I do. You dressed the crab yourself?’ He was impressed.

  Florence nodded. It had been a slow process, if not a too arduous one, because she could sit at the table to prepare it. She’d scraped the meat carefully from the small claws into a bowl, mixed it with the left-over breadcrumbs and lemon juice; a nut of butter; salt and pepper, and the inside of the crab. Then she’d cleaned the shell, put it in the centre of a large serving plate, and spooned in the mixture. The white meat was flaked from the large claws; this was piled on either side of the shell. Josefina decorated it with chopped parsley.

  ‘You must try our grape punch,’ Josefina said, squeezing in between Rose Marie and Russ. ‘It’s ginger beer and grape juice. I’m allowed it, ’cause it won’t make me tiddly.’

  Florence motioned Manny to sit next to her. She could tell he felt out of it. ‘Help yourselves,’ she said. ‘Pass the bread and butter, Josefina, please, and remember what I said about bedtime, earlier.’

  *

  While Manny helped Florence with the washing up, Rose Marie and Russ took their cups of coffee into the sitting-room.

  ‘I must keep my eye on the time,’ he said, looking at his wrist-watch. ‘How often do I say that? My sister bought me the timepiece for my birthday because of it.’

  ‘Florence will make sure you don’t miss the last tram,’ Rose Marie told him. She winced. ‘I’ll have to soak my feet in salt and water, before I go to bed.’

  He reached down and gently rubbed one stockinged foot and then the other. ‘Easier?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. But – I don’t think Florence would approve,’ she told him.

  He straightened up. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But can’t you think of anything better to do?’ She leaned towards him expectantly. ‘You may kiss me, if you want to.’

  ‘I want to,’ he admitted. ‘It’s just that I’m not too experienced at that lark . . .’

  ‘Well, nor am I, but I’d like to be!’

  ‘How can I resist such an invitation?’

  ‘Quickly then – before Florence bursts in!’

  He made his mind up; he slipped his arms around her, pulled her close. Their first kiss was rather a hit-and-miss affair, but both of them hoped it was the start of something very special.

  *

  ‘He’s got good manners, been nicely brought up.’ Florence handed Manny another plate to dry, then to slot in the wooden plate-rack on the wall.

  ‘They told me they’d enjoyed their London jaunt,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘It brought back memories, Florence, of you-know-when, Rose Marie mentioning St Martin’s in the Fields.’

  ‘Where that kind bobby found you that night? The one who sent you here?’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t suppose I told you all of it.’

  ‘I don’t reckon you did, my dear.’ She rinsed her hands, dried them on the towel hanging under the sink. ‘We’ll have our coffee in the kitchen, eh?’

  ‘I was on my beam-ends, I felt I couldn’t go home in that state.’ Manny took a gulp of his coffee. Florence had given him a decent-sized cup, not one of those small cups she kept for visitors. It was things like that which made him feel almost like one of the family.

  ‘Yes?’ she encouraged him. She passed him the plate with the last slice of treacle tart.

  ‘It was bitterly cold; I’d been sleeping rough for a month or so. The bobby took me back to the police station. The sergeant gave me some grub, a mug of tea, then allowed me to sleep in an empty cell, but they didn’t lock the door. He said he’d have a word with a colleague who might be able to help me find a job. It seems he’d heard you were looking for an assistant in the pie shop. He said he knew what war did to a man’s mind as well as his body.

  ‘In the morning, I was fitted with a decent pair of boots, a jacket and trousers. I was given a bowl of warm water, soap and a towel, the loan of a razor to shave and scissors to cut my nails. I began to feel like a human being again.’

  ‘Like Buck,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And like you, they gave me a shilling or two to carry me through. But I paid them back, as I promised I would.’ He sounded almost fierce.

  Florence rose, took their empty cups to the draining board. ‘I knew, of course, who sent you to me. I’m glad they did. One day, maybe you’ll tell me what happened before that.’

  He remained seated at the table. Sensing there was more to come, Florence sat down again too.

  However, he talked of more recent times. ‘We’ve all heard Dick Sheppard on the wireless, the parson at St Martin’s, eh? The one who preaches and prays for peace in the world? I went back there one Saturday night, I don’t know why. There was that very same bobby. He introduced me to the Reverend, who showed me how the down-and-outs were welcome now in the crypt of the church.r />
  ‘It was packed full. Folk lying on benches, covered with old coats. Some asleep. Some just sitting, leaning one against another, for warmth and support. The newcomers were given a bowl of hot soup and a thick slice of bread. The helpers didn’t ask why the folk were there. They’d seen it all before, but I must say it did me good to see what was being done . . .’

  After a long moment Florence said, ‘Well, we’d better join the others, and remind young Russell that he’ll need to leave in less than half an hour.’

  She was completely taken by surprise when Manny put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you, Florence,’ he said.

  Florence gave herself a little mental shake. She thought, I mustn’t read anything into that. I’m a good listener and he appreciated that.

  FIVE

  LEAVING the cinema each afternoon after work, Lilli had become increasingly nervous all week. She glanced over her shoulder involuntarily as she hurried home; she knew it was irrational, but she suspected that she was being followed.

  There were others walking the same way, of course, but none she could class as furtive. Once she’d swung around fearfully when there was a glancing blow to her back, but it was only the bulging shopping bag of an elderly woman, as she shifted it to her other arm.

  ‘Sorry dear,’ the woman apologized, with a wry smile.

  It was Friday before she convinced herself that she must be imagining things. On a sudden impulse, she stopped by the flower seller on the corner and bought two bunches of mimosa, one for herself, because it reminded her of France, and the other for Florence, who now had two small girls to look after in the school holidays.

  Yvette, she thought, I must buy her a little treat. There was a baker’s shop across the road. The proprietors were Polish; the cakes were more fancy than in the Paradise shop.

  Lilli stepped out into the road, wondering if there would be any Madeleines left. Yvette declared they were delicious, those little dome-shaped cakes brushed with jam and rolled in desiccated coconut, with a shiny glacé cherry on top.