Hot Pies on the Tram Car

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Hot Pies on the Tram Car Page 13

by Sheila Newberry


  ‘I’m glad you did. You made me realize I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life on my own.’ It was quite a speech from him.

  ‘Manny, I have come into some money now we are married. My father left it in trust for me until that day, or if I remained single, I would have had to wait until I was forty.’

  ‘I don’t understand; why should he have made those conditions?’

  ‘He was a hard man, Manny. I . . . I disappointed him when I was younger, you see. There was more to it than that, though. The real condition was that I should bring up my sisters, and keep the business in the family.’

  ‘You’ve done that, all right.’

  ‘Would you have changed your mind about marrying me if you’d known before?’

  ‘No,’ he said positively. ‘But, maybe it could have seemed to the family I was marrying you for your money, Florence. I’m not that sort.’

  ‘I know that,’ she patted the seat beside her. ‘Come over here . . .’

  Later, she said, as she straightened her hat, and then his tie, ‘Manny, I hope you don’t mind, but I am dividing the money – £2,000 – between Stella, Rose Marie and myself. You and I can manage comfortably on our share, can’t we?’

  ‘It still seems a fortune to me. You’re very generous, Florence.’

  ‘Well, now I think we can call this our honeymoon, can’t we?’

  It was a start, she thought. One secret revealed, but more to come, in due course. Would it be the same for Manny, too?

  *

  They were in Sussex, Hastings, staying in one of the many tall white stucco hotels along the front. Their room was on the top storey, so they could view the beach and the sea from their window. They were not far from the pier, almost deserted now the summer season was over.

  ‘Looks wild out there this afternoon,’ Florence observed, seeing the grey skies and rolling sea, with spray dashing on the shingle. She spotted a lone fisherman, hunched against the wind, and a woman and two children walking with a large, lolloping dog.

  She removed her hat, laid it on the bed. ‘Time to get changed for tea, I think.’

  Manny remained tactfully at the window while she unhooked her skirt and stepped out of it, and hung it with her jacket in the wardrobe. This was hardly the bridal suite, she thought ruefully, as pictured in the hotel brochure, but old habits die hard, and she had booked a modest double room ‘up top’. The bathroom was on the floor below.

  ‘We’ll be glad of that eiderdown tonight, I reckon,’ she said. ‘It’s cold near the sea.’

  They were only sixty miles from London, but the hotel was still solidly within the late Victorian era. The dining-room, to which they had descended three flights of turkey-red carpeted stairs, was rather gloomy, with dark oak sideboards, tables and chairs. The royal portrait over the fireplace had not been updated. Edward VII, that genial, stout monarch weighed down, it appeared, with his regalia, stood alongside his Queen consort, the beautiful, seemingly ageless Alexandra, who was now approaching the end of her life.

  They were shown to a table for two; a waiter switched on the lights, and the room instantly appeared more cheerful. The fire was lit, and a modest blaze encouraged. Other guests came in, settled at their tables, and muted conversation began.

  A pretty young waitress came up to their table, smiling, and took their teatime order.

  ‘Would you like sandwiches? Or scones, jam and cream? A selection of cakes?’

  Manny looked at Florence. They suddenly realized they were hungry. They hadn’t eaten since the wedding breakfast. Dinner wasn’t until half past seven; it was now just after four.

  ‘All of those, if we may!’ she told the girl. ‘With a large pot of tea, please.’

  A little later, they unfurled pristine white damask napkins and enjoyed their feast. They said as much to their waitress, when she came to clear their table.

  Encouraged by their friendly conversation, she suggested, ‘You ought to have a stroll before dinner, else you won’t be able to manage another morsel!’

  They climbed the stairs again to their room, intending to collect their coats and hats.

  ‘Phew!’ Florence exclaimed. ‘I feel more like a snooze, after all that food.’

  ‘So do I,’ Manny agreed.

  ‘Let’s take our shoes off, then, and our top clothes, and plump down on the bed.’ Florence, in her petticoat, did just that, and closed her eyes.

  Manny took his time about joining her. Eventually, when he thought she was asleep, he gently eased the eiderdown from under her and arranged it carefully over her legs, avoiding touching the seductive silk stockings. Then he laid down beside her. She stirred, turned on her side towards him.

  He felt a mixture of emotions; uncertainty because he wasn’t sure what she expected, unlike the other night, when she had made the first move. He’d been relieved then when Rose Marie arrived home unexpectedly, he admitted to himself.

  ‘Manny,’ she whispered, shifting closer.

  He had to tell her. ‘Florence, maybe it didn’t seem like it, when, you know, we were about to—’ he floundered.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ He sensed that she had tensed up now, too.

  ‘I haven’t had any experience. I suppose you could say I was rather a mother’s boy; I wasn’t at all wayward in my youth. Then there was the war, but I didn’t seek, well, comforts in the way some of the other soldiers did, when we had spells away from the front line.’

  ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see,’ she comforted him. ‘It’ll just happen.’

  ‘How do you know that? We’re both as green as grass . . .’

  She hugged him tight, her face pressed against his chest, so that he wouldn’t discern her disappointment.

  *

  They had a good holiday, anyway, happy and comfortable with each other like the old friends they were. The sea breezes, the long walks, the history trails by bus to Battle, and to Lewes where they saw the ruins of the castle and became breathless as they tackled the steep gradient of many of the streets. They marvelled at the vast chalk outline on the downs of the Long Man of Wilmington. At Alfriston, they had lunch one day at The Star, the smugglers’ inn, and another day they spent in Brighton, choosing bright pink rock to add to the collection they were taking home for the girls. The last two days they stayed put in Hastings. They bought delicious ice cream from the little parlours on every street corner, and walked out to sea along the pier.

  They packed their bags reluctantly on Friday evening. They had slept well all week, but on their last night in the hotel they were both restless. They talked for a while, then determined to get off to sleep.

  Florence drifted into a delightful dream where she was floating in sun-warmed water under cloudless blue skies, calling out to Manny to join her. She was jerked awake by Manny shouting and thrashing about in the bed. He was all too obviously having a nightmare.

  When she had calmed him down and wiped the sweat from his face and chest, after helping him out of his wringing wet pyjama jacket, she turned the light low and cradled him in her arms. ‘There, there, it’s over, Manny. Do you feel like telling me about it?’ she whispered soothingly, as she had when her girls were young.

  It was a jumbled account, but she gathered that it related to the night of terror and mayhem he had endured, when his platoon were ambushed as they pushed forward to gain ground; when his best pal was killed at his side; when Manny turned and ran for his life; when he was brought down by a single shot by one of his comrades for his cowardice. He lay where he was until first light, when the ambulance picked up the survivors.

  ‘Only one person knew that I was running away, deserting – though it wasn’t planned, I swear – and that was the man who shot me. He kept quiet, because there were things I could have told about him . . . He disappeared himself while I was in hospital.’

  ‘I said it’s over, and it is. You were just a young lad, Manny. You have to forgive yourself.’ I know that she said silently
to herself.

  ‘You don’t think badly of me for it, then?’

  ‘No. We’ve all done things on the spur of the moment which we are ashamed of.’

  ‘Not you, Florence!’ He kissed her then, in relief at having confessed to her, and his ardour was kindled by her passionate response.

  It wasn’t the bridal suite, but it was certainly a honeymoon night.

  Early next morning, she still lay contentedly within the circle of his arms, waiting for him to wake. His eyelids flickered, he stroked her bare skin, reassuring himself that he wasn’t dreaming.

  ‘Green as grass,’ she murmured fondly. ‘Not any more, dear Manny . . .’

  PART TWO

  FOURTEEN

  THE tram car picked up fewer passengers at the Paradise stop in the early, blustery days of March 1926. The employment situation was increasingly grim. The main news in January was that Allied troops were at last preparing to leave the Rhineland Territory, seven years after the end of the Great War. This event was not approved of by some politicians, in and out of government, who expressed their reservations as to the outcome. Other headlines this month shocked the nation: the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon was destroyed by fire, although thankfully, ancient relics were saved. There were calls for a national fund to build a new theatre. All were urged to contribute, but many would be unable to do so.

  Rose Marie had a travelling companion, Lilli, in the mornings. You didn’t discuss your private lives on the tram, she thought, but she knew how much Lilli missed her daughter. Yvette was settled with her father, but there was no likelihood yet of her mother being allowed to visit. Lilli was being punished for leaving Sam and running away with their daughter.

  Rose Marie received promotion in the new year. She joined the older women in their small workroom, dealing with alterations and delicate beadwork for the wealthiest clients. She was encouraged to try her hand at designing, and her aptitude was praised by her mentors. Yet she missed the camaraderie of her contemporaries in the workshop. There was a worrying rumour going round that if workers left Belling’s employ they would not be replaced.

  Florence and Manny had spent the months since their marriage making the changes to the pie shop. She was very proud of her gleaming new kitchen and the splendid New World gas cooker with the double oven. The eating area at the front was crowded most days, but prices had to remain at their lowest. They had delayed taking on extra help because of this.

  Florence worried sometimes whether she had been too impulsive in spending her windfall, if it was the right time to expand the business. Then she looked at Manny’s beaming face, and saw how he had grown in confidence and proved himself in the partnership.

  Although Florence missed Josefina, she knew it was for the best when Stella took a lease out on a house in Bayswater and set herself up as a singing teacher in the large front room. Josefina had to change schools, but now her mother looked after her in their own home.

  One Friday evening, when most of the clearing-up was done, Florence took off her rubber apron, wiped it clean and hung it on its peg.

  ‘Can you finish up, Manny?’ she requested. ‘Then I can get our supper on. It’s just the two of us, with Rose Marie spending the weekend at Russ’s. What d’you fancy?’

  ‘You look weary. Why don’t I get us some fish and chips, after I’m done?’ he asked.

  ‘Your night for the pub, remember – yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you!’

  She was bending to place the plates in the warming oven in the kitchen upstairs, when he arrived with their instant meal. ‘Give me the parcel; it might need hotting-up.’ she said. Then she turned her attention to cutting and buttering two thick slices of bread.

  He hugged her round the waist, from behind. ‘You’re filling out, but it suits you.’

  ‘Contentment, I reckon,’ she told him. She didn’t turn round right away, waiting for the telltale blushing to fade. ‘Right, you can dish up, Manny; make sure I get my share of the chips!’ His comment decided her: she mustn’t put off her visit to the doctor much longer.

  *

  Numbers had not decreased at the pub, but fewer pints were pulled. Manny made do with his single mug of bitter. A newcomer was seated at the piano tonight, thumping the keys, playing fragments of popular tunes. The stranger drained his glass, looked round hopefully, but there were no offers to replenish it. He banged down the piano lid and departed.

  ‘I’ll sit by you, Manny,’ the old cleaner from the bakery said. She still wore her apron and the kerchief round her head.

  He looked up, in surprise. ‘Don’t often see you in here, Nan.’

  ‘Got the push tonight. Can’t afford my services in these hard times, they said.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Nan. What’s your fancy? My treat.’

  ‘Gin, dear, ta. Need something stronger’n stout.’

  When he returned with her drink, she downed it in one gulp.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, dear, one’s enough! Now, what’s this I hear about your wife?’

  ‘Florence? What d’you mean?’

  ‘Being in the family way, like. Ain’t she said?’

  He couldn’t admit to that, Florence would be humiliated.

  ‘Not to all and sundry, no. Too early.’ He rose. ‘Well, better get on home.’

  ‘Well done!’ she called after him. ‘Don’t say I said anyfing!’

  Manny walked back along the street in a daze. He felt a bit light-headed, but one beer wouldn’t have that result, he thought. He recalled squeezing Florence’s waist earlier and his teasing comment; she’d seemed a bit flustered after that. If Nan’s assumption was true, why hadn’t she told him?

  There was a figure standing outside the shop. As he approached, he saw who it was.

  ‘Knocked on your door; guessed where you’d gone. Thought I’d wait here,’ Buck said, just as if they had parted company only yesterday.

  ‘You didn’t disturb Florence, I hope?’ Manny said sharply, not greeting him either. He looked up at the first-floor windows. There was no light showing.

  ‘I haven’t been here long; place was in darkness then. What’s up?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I dunno. Just a feeling I got.’

  ‘Well, you might as well know. Florence and I were married a few months ago. We use my old place for storage.’

  ‘I didn’t expect that . . . neither of you seemed the marrying kind.’

  ‘Look,’ Manny said, key ring in hand, ‘We can’t talk out here. I suppose you’re after a place to sleep tonight?’ He dealt with the gate to the basement, they went down the steps, and he inserted the key in the lock. ‘Wait till I light the lamp.’

  There were still a few sticks of furniture, including Manny’s old bed.

  ‘Blankets and a pillow,’ Manny told Buck. ‘I’m not rousing Florence to fetch some linen. I don’t deal with that side of things. Anyway, it’s only for one night, eh?’

  ‘Can’t you be more helpful than that, old mate—’

  ‘I’m not your old mate!’

  ‘I been working ever since I last saw you, thanks to Florence helping me out. But the work’s dried up, and I’m on the look-out again.’ Buck sat down on the bed. He looked dejected; there was none of the old blustering.

  Manny’s innate kindness rose to the surface. ‘Hungry?’ he asked gruffly.

  ‘I should say so. Me old trouble flares up, if I don’t eat regular.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go now, but will come back a bit later with something for you to eat and drink.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Buck said, tussling with his boots. Then he stretched out under the blankets.

  Manny made his way upstairs. The kettle was simmering on the hotplate of the stove. He made a large tin mug of tea, stirring in plenty of sugar. He took the last two pies left over from the day’s baking from the larder. Then he carried a tray down to the basement. He was reminded of that night in the police cell, where he had been shown kindn
ess and given hope.

  Some time later he eased himself into bed beside his slumbering wife. Cautiously, he slid an arm round her waist. Yes, now he could detect the slight swell of her body and the fullness of her breasts.

  She stirred, murmured, ‘I do love you, Manny . . .’

  He experienced a sudden rush of tears to his eyes. It was a minute or two before he could manage a reply, he felt so choked. It was the first time she’d said that. He realized that she was awake now, awaiting his reply.

  ‘I love you, too, Florence. Goodnight, I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk, then?’

  ‘Not tonight, eh?’ Manny caressed the nape of her neck with his lips. ‘Tomorrow will do.’

  *

  Rose Marie and Russ spent the evening in the little Soho restaurant where you could linger over your coffee. The staff were in no hurry to clear the table and were discreet.

  ‘Better to arrive home after dark,’ Russ decided. ‘When the neighbours are not about.’

  Rose Marie hadn’t put up any resistance, when he told her his mother was staying with his aunt for a few days, and that they would have the house to themselves. It was their first chance to spend a night together since she’d decided against it on her birthday eve.

  ‘After all, we’re engaged,’ he’d reminded her, earlier in the week. ‘I’d get married tomorrow, if it was possible, you know that . . .’

  It was cold standing on the doorstep while Russ fumbled for his key.

  ‘Hurry, I’m shivering!’ Rose Marie hissed.

  ‘I’ll soon warm you up!’ he said audaciously, as he ushered her indoors.

  They crept about the house as if they thought it could tell tales, and turned the lights on and off in the kitchen and then the bathroom. It wasn’t long before they drew the curtains in Russ’s small bedroom, when Rose Marie noted the single bed.

  ‘How can we both sleep on that?’ she asked.

 

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