The Bells of Bow

by Gilda O'Neill

  ‘Kids? Bloody liberty!’ Babs nearly exploded. ‘We’re gonna be eighteen in May.’

  Blanche pinched Babs’s cheek. ‘Yeah, but yer still young’uns to an old married lady of thirty-two like me.’ Blanche’s gaze was drawn to the end of the turning. She put her hand up to shade her eyes from the still bright evening sun. ‘Talking about marriage, here comes your feller in his motor car, Eve.’

  ‘Marriage?’ Evie got up from the step and brushed the dust off the back of her pale blue crepe dress. ‘Yer’ve gotta be kidding, ain’t yer? I’m only out for a good time.’

  Blanche grinned. ‘It gets us all in the end, girl.’

  Babs said nothing, she just sat there as the gleaming black Riley drew to a smooth halt at the kerb beside them, knowing that all eyes in the street were directed at number six.

  ‘Well, I’ll love yer and leave yer,’ said Evie, bending down to plant a kiss on her sister’s forehead. ‘And—’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Babs interrupted her. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  Evie winked and clicked her tongue. ‘Got it!’

  Babs looked up into her sister’s face, seeing herself in the familiar mirror image of her twin but also seeing something new in Evie’s expression, something she hadn’t seen before. It was a sort of toughness, and it excluded her because she didn’t understand it. ‘Yer will be careful, Eve, won’t yer?’

  ‘It’s all right, Babs,’ said Evie, rolling her eyes at Blanche. ‘I’ve got me gas mask with me.’ She held out the stiff card box that was slung on a cord across her shoulder. ‘It’s a new one, right pukkah and all. Albie got it for me.’

  ‘It wasn’t gas attacks I was worried about.’ Babs’s face was grim.

  ‘I thought we’d sorted all this out,’ said Evie wearily.

  ‘I know, and I don’t mean to go on again, but be careful. For me. I’m serious.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’ Evie poked out her tongue and sashayed over to the Riley where Albie was sitting waiting, her high heels clicking on the paving stones. ‘Fusspot,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Blanche leant back with her arms folded and watched Evie climb into the luxurious interior of the car. ‘What would yer give to go for a ride in something like that?’ she said wistfully.

  ‘She’s giving more than enough, I reckon,’ Babs muttered under her breath. ‘And it’s changing her.’

  ‘What did yer say?’ asked Blanche, enthusiastically returning Evie’s wave of farewell.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Blanche laughed as the younger children gathered in a huddle on the pavement to watch Albie turn the car round.

  ‘Look at them,’ she said fondly. ‘They all love motors, don’t they?’

  Babs didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  Babs shrugged.

  Blanche patted her knee. ‘Yer wanna get yerself a new bloke, Babs. That’s your trouble. I ain’t seen yer out with no one regular for quite a while now, have I?’

  Babs shook her head as she watched Albie steer the car out of the turning and off into Grove Road. ‘No, no one regular.’

  ‘I thought yer was keen on that Percy Bennett from round Haverfield Road, wasn’t yer?’

  ‘He’s all right. I go out with him now and again.’

  ‘Nothing more? Nothing gonna come of it?’

  Babs sat up very straight, staring after the Riley as it pulled out of the turning. ‘He always wants to see me again,’ she said flatly, ‘but I think of him as more of a mate. It was going to school with him, I suppose.’

  ‘He’s nice though, ain’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Babs’s voice was clipped. ‘Really nice feller, but …’ she paused, trying to find the words to express what she felt. ‘There ain’t nothing special, nothing that makes me … I dunno. Just ain’t my type maybe.’

  Blanche glanced sideways at Babs, noting the tension that was making her lovely face as rigid as a mask. ‘Evie went out with his mate Joe for a while, didn’t she?’ she asked casually. ‘Like, yer know, the four of yer together?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s right.’ Babs stood up and made much of stretching and yawning. ‘We always used to go out in foursomes.’

  ‘Before Albie Denham come along.’

  Babs looked down at Blanche. ‘I’d better be getting on,’ she said with a tight-lipped smile. ‘I bet Evie’s left a right mess in there.’

  Blanche stood up and sank her hands into the deep pockets of her apron. ‘I’ll be over to see yer before we leave, to say goodbye properly.’

  ‘Yer definitely going then?’

  Blanche took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. ‘Yeah. Archie’s right, it’s for the best. And he’ll be all right with you keeping an eye on him.’ She gently brushed Babs’s hair away from her face with her hand. ‘Yer’ll find out one day. It’s like a lot o’ things when yer a mum, yer don’t have much choice. Yer do what’s best for yer kids and sod what you want.’

  Babs felt the tears prick at her eyes. Without another word she was over the step and striding angrily along the passage. But before she went into the kitchen she stopped and, without looking round, demanded in a loud, trembling voice, ‘What, like our mum always thought of us, yer mean?’

  At a few minutes before six on Tuesday morning, most of Darnfield Street was standing outside on the pavement, waiting to wave goodbye to Blanche and the kids as they left for Paddington all packed into Archie’s little market truck. Just like their neighbours, Babs and Evie were by their street door, yawning and shivering in the early morning chill even though they had their coats on over their night things.

  ‘Mind how yer go,’ called Clara tearfully.

  ‘Yeah, watch out for them country people, Mary,’ shouted Minnie. ‘I bet they can’t skip like we can.’

  ‘I’m too old for skipping,’ snapped Mary Simpkins and climbed sulkily onto the back of the truck.

  ‘Yer never too old,’ laughed Minnie. ‘Right, twins?’

  ‘Right,’ Babs said, trying to force herself to smile. But like Clara, she was close to tears. She had been over to see Blanche after what had happened on Sunday but things hadn’t been right between them since she’d shouted at Blanche like that about her mother. She wished she’d said sorry. Blanche had been good to her and Evie; she would really miss her. And the kids. She bit her lip trying to stem the tears. She hated the way everything was changing. Why couldn’t things just stay the same?

  ‘I wish I was more like you, Eve,’ Babs said suddenly, as the tears began flowing down her cheeks.

  ‘What?’ Evie shivered. ‘Blonde, yer mean?’

  ‘No, yer dopey sod,’ Babs sniffled. ‘Not taking things to heart so much and going out and having a good time with whoever comes along.’

  Evie scowled at her. ‘Thanks very much. Yer make me sound lovely, like a right old whatsit.’

  ‘Aw, you know what I meant. It just come out wrong.’

  ‘It’s too early for all this, Babs.’ Evie opened her mouth wide and yawned loudly. ‘Look, they’re pulling away, we nearly missed ’em with you and yer moaning.’ She grabbed her sister’s hand and waved it. ‘Come on, Babs, let’s say bye bye and then we can get back in and get our heads down for another hour. I dunno if I can face work. I’m bloody knackered. Wish I’d stayed in bed like Dad. He ain’t daft.’

  Before the truck was even out of Darnfield Street, Evie was halfway up the stairs, leaving Babs to close the street door.

  Babs threw her coat over the end of the banister. ‘I’m gonna make meself a cup o’ tea,’ she called. ‘Want one, Evie?’

  ‘No thanks, all I want’s me bed.’

  Babs sat at the kitchen table and stared into her cup. She had to pull herself together, she couldn’t keep blaming other people for making her miserable. She gulped down the hot tea and went into the front room. From the sideboard drawer she took a small cardboard case which held writing paper, envelopes and a fountain pen. It had been the first prize in a story writing compet
ition at school that she and Evie had won. She smiled wistfully to herself as she remembered how she and Evie had just accepted that because they were joint winners they should share the prize. That was all part of being a twin, she thought to herself, and something that she had once thought would never change.

  She settled herself down at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of tea and began writing a long rambling letter to Blanche, the gist of which was that she wished she hadn’t been so rude to her and that she hoped they could still be friends.

  The following Tuesday she was sitting at the table before she went to work having tea and toast for breakfast and reading Blanche’s reply:

  Dear Babs,

  It’s bloody lively down here. Terry’s moping, Mary’s sulking and young Janey’s got the hives from all the butter and cream she’s been eating. I ain’t had a wink of sleep with her scratching and fretting all night. The only one who’s happy is our Len and I don’t see him from the time he gets up to when it’s time for bed. He even likes the school here. Less than forty kids in the whole school there are, funny old turn out. Mind you, the whole bloody place is funny, to tell you the truth, Babs.

  And me, I’d kill for pie and mash or a proper wing of skate and chips. All they have down here is pollock. Don’t laugh, honest, that’s what it’s called. Pollock. And the batter! Vile it is, don’t know what they cook it in but it tastes horrible. And they don’t even have a drop of onion vinegar to pour over it. There’s no Woolworth’s and it’s bloody miles to the nearest pictures. And the way they look at you when you open your mouth and they realise you’re a Londoner. They think that we’ve all got nits, that the kids are gonna piddle the bed every night and that we’re going to thieve everything out of their rotten little shop. Shop! I don’t know how they’ve got the cheek to call it that. It ain’t no bigger than someone’s front room. What a dump. And I know we’ve got an outside lav back home but down here you have to walk right down this really dark path, past all these horrible bushes. It’s right creepy here at night, I can tell you. Horrible. And Mary was going on about grey ladies hiding in the trees. I’d rather use a poe, honest I would.

  But to be fair, the people are doing their best, I suppose, and if Terry and Mary weren’t me own I wouldn’t put up with the pair of them. They ain’t stopped going on since the minute we got here. When we going home, Mum? When? Eh, Mum? I’m sick and tired of it, Babs, I really am. Still, don’t do moaning, does it, that don’t help no one. Only makes people fed up with you. By the way, how are you and your Evie getting on now? It must be hard for you, her getting close to someone else and you being twins and everything. And what with all the changes ’cos of the war.

  I’m surprised, you know, Babs, that the Jenners have stayed in the street with all their little brood. Thought they’d have got right away from London. Mind you, I never really got to-know Liz and Ted, they’ve always kept themselves to themselves, maybe they’ve got plans to go away soon and haven’t said nothing to no one. The way things are going according to my Archie, there won’t be no one left in the East End except a few old fellers and their old girls. Have any more of the young blokes from round our way joined up yet? You want to get a move on, girl, and find yourself a chap before they all bugger off! Are Rita and Bert still telling everyone about their Bill joining the Air Force every time they sell you a loaf of bread? They must be right proud of him, he’s done so well for himself. A kid from Darnfield Street. Rita always said he was too clever a boy to have been happy working in the baker’s with them.

  I’ve been putting this bit off so I don’t get myself all worked up. How’s my Archie doing? I don’t half miss him, Babs, specially at night when we used to lay in bed and chat about what had happened during the day and with the kids and everything. Even though he wrote and said he was all right, I bet he ain’t. He told me how you pop over there and check on him. I really appreciate how you’re making sure he’s had a bit of dinner and see his washing’s done and that. And your Evie and all. That surprised me. Wonder she’s had the time from what you said about her going out every night with Albie Denham. Still, she’s like you, Babs, good-hearted. I know how you both always like to see that other people are all right, and that they’re happy and that. You’re a good pair of girls and lucky to have one another. There’s a lot of people who haven’t got no one. Like that Miss Peters living all by herself in number seven. We should count our blessings, I say, make the best of life and be glad that other people are able to enjoy themselves.

  Give my best to Ringer and thanks, Babs, to you and your Evie for all what you’re doing. Keep well, darling. I remember you all every night when I pray that this is all over soon and I can get back to my Archie.

  With love from your friend, Blanche.

  Babs finished her tea and smiled to herself. Folding the letter and slipping it back into the envelope she said to herself, ‘Yer a clever one, Blanche Simpkins. It ain’t only dimples yer notice.’

  7

  Georgie sat up at the bar of the Drum, his expression morose, his pint glass nearly empty. ‘How long we been in this war now?’ He paused, not to wait for a reply but to drain the last of his beer. ‘And what’s happened, eh? That’s what I wanna know.’ He jabbed his nicotine-stained finger at the newspaper that Jim, the landlord, was reading on the other side of the bar. ‘Nothing, that’s what. All a bloody load of old rubbish. What we gonna do, tell me that if yer can? Nothing, that’s what. And do you know what we should be doing?’

  Jim looked over the paper at Georgie but Nellie shook her head at her husband to silence him. She put the glass she had been polishing onto the mirror-backed shelf. ‘I dunno, Ringer,’ she said in her practised landlady’s voice that persuaded the listener that she was actually interested. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I will,’ said Georgie. ‘I will tell yer. I’ll tell you that we’ve been in this bloody war since …’ He paused, the alcohol befuddling his memory. ‘Since … well, what’s today?’

  Nellie checked the date on Jim’s newspaper. ‘November the twenty-seventh,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘So it’s over two months now.’

  ‘Right, November the … whatever. And I’m telling yer, what’s happened? Nothing, that’s what. Bloody Warsaw fell – wherever that is. And that other place is in trouble and … and what’re we doing? Nothing.’ He waved towards Jim’s newspaper. ‘No attacks from our lot, no support from the army. What was the point of all them geezers rushing to join up, eh? Bloody waste o’ time and money.’ Georgie slapped the flat of his hand down hard onto the polished wood of the bar. ‘Ouch.’ He blew on his smarting palm. ‘That bloody hurt.’

  ‘Yer gonna chuck a bit more coal on the fire, Ringer? It’s got really parky in here. And yer can collect a few more glasses when yer’ve done that. We’ll be opening up again soon and this place is still in a right old mess.’

  Nellie was trying to sound reasonable; she didn’t want to sack him for the girls’ sake, but he could try the patience of a better woman than she’d ever be and Jim was more than fed up with him. Nellie’s husband wasn’t such a soft touch as she was and Jim had been ready to give him the push months ago.

  ‘I’m warning you, Ringer,’ Jim said. He was speaking quietly but Nellie could see that he was working himself up into a temper. ‘You either buck your ideas up and do what Nellie tells yer or—’

  ‘No bombs, no fighting here, no nothing.’ Apparently oblivious of the fact that Jim was giving him a warning, or even talking at all for that matter, Georgie carried on along his line of alcohol befuddled thought. ‘What are we meant to be in this lot for, eh?’ He stared into his empty glass. ‘Why don’t we either get stuck in or pull our troops out and just let ’em all get on with it, eh? Let ’em all blow ’emselves to bloody bits.’

  ‘That’s it!’ yelled Jim.

  ‘Yeah, bombs, good idea,’ said Nellie wearily as Jim went storming round the other side of the bar, intending to tell Georgie his fortune good and proper this time. ‘Get rid of th
e lot of ’em. And all my bleed’n customers and all their dirty glasses with ’em, with a bit o’ luck.’

  Although it was bitterly cold out, the coldest winter that anyone could remember and with still more snow about to fall from the unnaturally yellow look of the sky, Albie parked the Riley on the corner of Stepney Way and, leaving Chas to keep an eye on the car, walked the final, freezing hundred yards to Dr Reider’s surgery. Albie wasn’t keen on anyone knowing he was there and the sound of the Riley’s powerful engine roaring along the slum streets of the East End made his now trademark gleaming car stand out like a cabaret singer in a church choir. Even in the gloom of the winter blackout he was cautious and checked over his shoulder that there was no one he knew in the street before ducking through the shabbily painted doorway that led into the even tattier waiting room of Reider’s rundown surgery. It had just gone four o’clock in the afternoon, at least an hour before the evening patients would be arriving and also early enough for Reider to still be hungover from his lunchtime session in the George. The whole situation suited Albie’s purpose very nicely.

  Albie shoved the consulting room door back on its hinges and strode into the cramped interior. Through the chaotic dinginess, Albie could make out the outline of Reider slumped forward in his battered leather chair, his head jammed up against a pile of books on his desk. ‘Hello, Doc. I’ve come to see yer on a bit of business.’

  Reider lifted his head, sending the books crashing to the floor. In the dull bluish light of his desk lamp he looked terrible. His red-rimmed eyes were out of focus and from the stubble on his chin it looked as though he hadn’t bothered to shave for at least a couple of days.

  Albie made no attempt to remove his hat, scarf or gloves. He picked up a rickety bentwood chair and stuck it down, facing the wrong way, by Reider’s desk. He lifted his leg across the seat and mounted it as though he were straddling a horse. ‘Yer don’t look like Lady Luck’s been treating yer very well, Doc.’ Albie gave a sad, slow shake of his head. ‘She can be a right bastard, can’t she?’