by Kitty Neale
Pearl smiled, unused to praise, and was still smiling as she returned to the dining room.
‘Blimey, Dolly, what’s come over you?’ Gertie asked.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘If I’m not mistaken, you actually praised the new waitress.’
‘Yeah, well, this one’s a bit different. She shows me some respect, which is more than I could say for Rita.’
‘Things ’ave certainly changed since the war,’ Mo said as she came over to take a cup from the tray. ‘Kids ain’t got any respect nowadays. My Emma came down this morning dressed in something she called Capri pants. They looked daft, if you ask me, and I told her they were too short, but she just laughed. She said it’s the Brigitte Bardot look. I ask you, who’s Brigitte Bardot? She’s got herself a bleedin’ record player too, a Dansette, and it cost twelve quid. Now all I hear day and night is flaming rock-and-roll music.’
‘Twelve quid! Where did she get that sort of money?’
‘She got it off the club, and I just hope she keeps up the payments. Gawd, I wish her father was still alive. He’d ’ave sorted her out.’
‘Yeah,’ Gertie agreed. ‘And as for that Brigitte Bardot, she’s a French actress, and from what I’ve heard she’s a right sexy piece.’
‘It’s disgusting, that’s what it is,’ Dolly said. ‘The way young girls flaunt themselves nowadays they’re just asking for trouble. Still, as I said, Pearl seems different, and she doesn’t wear make-up plastered all over her face.’
‘She seems a nice enough kid,’ Gertie agreed.
‘Right,’ Dolly said, putting her cup back on the tray, ‘let’s get finished up. I don’t know about you two, but I’m fair worn out.’
The back door opened and Kevin appeared, his look furtive as he clutched a bag behind his back.
‘Hello, love. What have you been up to today?’
‘Not now, Mum,’ he said, hurrying through the kitchen without stopping.
Dolly frowned, wondering what was wrong with the boy. She went back to her tasks, rushing to get them finished so she could go upstairs to their flat. Kevin looked upset, and she wanted to know why.
As she walked along the market, Pearl’s eyes were peeled for Derek Lewis. When he saw her approaching him he quickly finished a sale, moving to the front of his stall.
‘Are you feeling better now?’
‘I’m fine and wanted to thank you for helping me.’
‘Leave it out. It’s the first time I’ve had a girl swooning at me feet and it won’t do me reputation any harm.’
‘Here, Derek, got yourself a bit of stuff, ’ave you?’ a voice called from the next stall. ‘Hang on, ain’t that the little mouse from the café? Well, at least you’ll only ’ave to leave her out a bit of cheese.’
Derek laughed, shouting back to the stallholder, ‘Shut up, Frank! You’re just jealous.’
‘Not me, mate. I like a bit of meat to get hold of, and you’ve seen the size of my wife.’
‘Yeah, nobody could miss Lucy when she’s in full sail.’
‘You cheeky bugger,’ Frank Hanwell called, but then had to serve a customer. ‘What’s that, missus? Of course me lettuce is fresh. Hand-picked from Covent Garden this morning.’
Derek chuckled and then turned his attention back to Pearl. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when you passed out. What brought it on?’
‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just that I hadn’t eaten.’
She saw Derek frown, his soft voice at odds with his build as he said, ‘Are you all right for money, love?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, but I must go now. Thank you again for your help.’
As Pearl walked away she kept her head low, but as she passed Frank’s stall he started to sing again. ‘“Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been up to London to visit the Queen. Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under her chair.”’
She picked up her pace, and with the raucous voices of the other traders calling their wares, she didn’t see or hear Derek Lewis approaching Frank Hanwell, his fists clenched threateningly.
When Pearl walked into her bedsit she sighed with appreciation. The room was small, with just a built-in cupboard and chest of drawers, but to her it was heaven, a place of her own.
In one corner there was a curtained-off area, behind which was a sink and a single gas ring. In a tiny cupboard there were a few pieces of crockery, a small saucepan and a frying pan.
After kicking off her shoes, Pearl went to the tiny kitchen, placing the kettle on the gas ring. She wasn’t hungry after that wonderful meal in the café and was counting her blessings, especially as she was down to her last tin of soup.
Who’d have thought she’d get a job with a meal thrown in? She turned on the gas tap, frowning when she realised she’d have to feed the meter. Her precious few tips were just enough to cover the shilling needed, so feeding the coin into the slot, she hoped there would be more tips forthcoming in the morning.
There were used tea leaves in her small strainer and, carefully pouring boiling water over them, she frowned at the weak brew. Still, things were looking up and soon she’d be able to get a bit of shopping. Not only that, now that she was earning again her dream of taking art classes felt a little bit closer.
After drinking the tea, Pearl had a strip wash, carefully hung up her one and only decent dress, then threw on an old pair of pyjamas. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she picked up her sketch pad and pencil.
Everything had looked dire that morning, and she had been in despair when she’d seen the advert for a waitress. Her elfin face lit up with a smile and she began to draw a face from memory. Dolly Dolby slowly emerged on the page, but when the sketch was finished Pearl flung it aside, wishing she could afford paint and brushes.
Painting was all Pearl lived for, and never a day went by when she didn’t try to create something. With no money for paint she would sketch, burying herself in the task of perfecting whatever she was drawing. In the orphanage it had been her refuge, a way of blanking out all that went on around her.
She was constantly picked on by the other children, all laughing at her because she was never chosen for fostering or adoption. From the day she had been found on the steps until the day she left, the only home Pearl had known was the grey and forbidding orphanage, her bed one among twenty that lined the dormitory. She had plucked up courage once to ask why she couldn’t be put forward for a foster home, only to be told by grim-faced Miss Unsworth that she wasn’t suitable. When she dared to ask why, she had received a slap, Miss Unsworth telling her that she should count herself lucky that she had a home in the orphanage.
The face of Derek Lewis swam into her mind so, taking up her pad again, Pearl began to sketch. In the orphanage, picked on and helpless against the teasing, she had quickly realised that she needed someone to look out for her – someone to hide behind. She had chosen an older girl, one who, like her, was a loner, and it had worked.
Of course, eventually the girl went into foster care, and Pearl was left alone again. It was the first time she’d faced such a traumatic parting, but Pearl had leaned another hard lesson. To survive she couldn’t get attached to anyone. If she hardened her heart, she couldn’t get hurt.
From then on, through the years, she found other girls to hide behind, girls who would stand up for her, but though they didn’t know it, her feelings remained detached.
As Derek’s pug-nosed face took shape on her sketch pad, Pearl smiled. He had already offered her some sort of protection, volunteering to make sure that the other costermongers laid off the teasing. Of course she had protested, but a warm feeling now spread through her body. Yes, Derek Lewis was someone she could hide behind, and it would be a good idea to make him a friend.
Chapter Four
As he cashed up the till, Bernard Dolby’s mouth was set in a scowl, his thoughts on his son instead of the task at hand. Kevin had walked through the dining room earli
er, going upstairs without a word. The lazy git should get another job, but after leaving the engineering factory three months ago, wasting years of training, he wasn’t making much of an effort to find other employment.
The young tyke had avoided National Service by becoming an apprentice, deferring his call-up until he was twenty-one. Then he’d avoided it again by failing the medical, much to Dolly’s delight. Asthma. Huh, in Bernie’s opinion a bit of physical training would have sorted that out, turning Kevin into a man instead of a mummy’s boy.
Dolly wouldn’t hear a word against her precious son and had mollycoddled him from childhood. He’s your son too, a small voice said at the back of Bernie’s mind, and once again he scowled. Yes, Kevin was his son, but other than his conception, he’d had no hand in the boy’s upbringing since Kevin was a toddler. If he so much as raised his voice to Kevin, Dolly went mad.
Bernie hunched his shoulders. It was his own fault, he knew that, but for a quiet life he always gave in to Dolly. His wife had a temper, one that he feared, and he’d felt the lash of her hand from almost the first day of their marriage.
Yes, he’d married her, but she was three months gone with Kevin and he hadn’t been given a choice. When Dolly’s father had marched round from the house next door, his pregnant daughter in tow, Bernie’s own parents had forced him to the registry office.
It had been drink, of course – a party that got out of hand – and somehow, though he had no recollection of it, he’d taken Dolly amongst a pile of coats left by the guests in an upstairs bedroom.
‘Have you finished cashing up?’ Dolly asked as she came through from the kitchen.
‘Yeah,’ he said, entering part of the takings in the cash book.
‘Well,’ she said pointedly, holding out her hand.
Bernie gave her some notes and she clasped them avidly. ‘I’m going upstairs. I think Kevin is upset about something.’
‘I’ll wait for Nora to turn up and then I’m off to the bank to pay in the rest of the takings.’
Dolly hurried upstairs and, putting the bags of coins and notes into a small sack, Bernie waited impatiently for their cleaner. Nora was a nice woman, but slow-witted. She’d been cleaning the café for the past twelve months and was surprisingly good at the job, the best they’d had. He smiled now as she came in, a headscarf tied turban-style around her head as usual.
‘Hello, love.’
‘Hello, Mr Dolby,’ she said, her round face breaking into a smile.
‘I’m off to the bank. If you need anything, my wife is upstairs.’
‘Righto,’ and without preamble she went to fetch the broom, bucket and mop. Nora might be slow, but she was thorough, and Bernie knew that the floor and the kitchen would be sparkling by the time she’d finished.
As he stepped outside, Bernie took in a great gulp of air, feeling as though he’d been released from his chain. His eyes roamed the market. It was quiet, many of the stallholders packing up for the day, and he envied them, envied their camaraderie, and their freedom.
Shortly after Kevin was born, Dolly’s gran died, leaving her the café. Dolly had been working for her gran since she left school, and with her mother roped in to look after Kevin, she had carried on. Like a fool Bernie had agreed to work with her, but soon realised his mistake. She ruled absolutely, dismissing any suggestions he made and keeping a firm hand on the purse strings.
A few years later, when war had been declared, he’d gone eagerly to join up, only to be declared unfit with a heart murmur he didn’t know he had. He’d looked forward to getting away from Dolly, her violence and the café. Instead he’d seen his friends going off to fight, and several were killed in action. He’d eventually volunteered to be an air-raid warden, but in truth it wasn’t out of patriotism – it was for the same reason as he’d tried to enlist in the army: to get away from Dolly for a while.
Of course the bloody café had survived the air raids and, despite rationing, they had made a living. Nowadays the place was a little gold mine, but what did he see of it? Huh, just the pocket money that his wife gave him.
‘What’s up, Bernie? Has Dolly been giving you what for again?’
Yes, that’s how they saw him, Bernie thought: as a downtrodden and henpecked husband. He forced a smile, turning to face the costermonger.
‘Well, you know Dolly.’
‘Not as well as you, mate, thank God. Do you fancy a game of darts tonight?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ As he walked away, Bernie knew that as he threw each dart he would picture his wife’s face etched on the board.
‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’ Dolly asked when she saw her son slumped in a chair.
‘Nothing, Mum.’
She sat on the arm of the chair, stroking his hair. ‘Don’t give me that. I can see you’re upset about something.’
Kevin pushed her hand away. ‘Leave it, Mum.’
‘Don’t be silly, son. If you’re upset about something, maybe I can help.’
‘If I tell you what’s wrong, it won’t do any good.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘My friends are going to Brighton on Sunday, but I can’t go with them.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos they’re all driving down by car, and can you see me keeping up on my scooter?’
‘Surely one of them could give you a lift?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so, but you don’t know how it feels to be the odd one out. From now on I’ll have to scrounge a lift every time we go somewhere.’
Dolly stood up, exhaling loudly. ‘Kevin, I know how much you want to buy that car, but it’s an awful lot of money, son.’
‘See, I knew you’d say that! I told you to leave it, but you insisted I tell you! What good has it done?’ he cried, bending forward then as though gasping for air. After forcing a wheezing sound and hearing his mother murmuring worriedly, he straightened. ‘It’s that bloody scooter and the dust I inhale that causes these attacks, but forget it, Mum. You can’t afford to buy me the car so that’s that.’ And on that note Kevin reared from the chair, stomping to his bedroom, the door slamming behind him.
Dolly paced back and forth but then, casting a glance behind her, she went into her bedroom and to the dressing table. Tucked in the bottom drawer, from under her underwear she took out her cash box. This was her hidden hoard, money the tax man had no knowledge of, and carefully added to over the years. Taking the notes that Bernie had given her and the key, she opened it, her eyes mentally assessing the contents. Why not? she thought. They weren’t hard up, and if riding that scooter was making Kevin ill, he’d have to have a car.
‘Here you are, love,’ Dolly said, knocking before going into Kevin’s room. Her son had become a stickler for privacy, but it was probably normal at his age.
‘Thanks,’ Kevin cried, jumping up and throwing his arms around her. ‘You’re the best mum in the world.’
Dolly smiled, and touched his face. ‘And you’re the best son.’
‘I’d better get a move on before he sells the car to someone else.’
Kevin released his mother, leaving the room without a backward glance, his face alive with excitement. Good old Mum, she had coughed up, as he knew she would. The radio he’d nicked and stashed in the bottom of his wardrobe wouldn’t have raised more than a pittance, but now he had all the cash he needed.
He rushed through the dining room, totally ignoring Nora as she vigorously swept the floor. In the yard he hopped on his scooter and in no time he was at Larry Mason’s house, relieved to see the Vauxhall parked outside.
‘Is the car still for sale?’ he asked, hiding his anxiety when the man came to the door.
‘Yeah, do you want to have another look at it?’
‘I’ve just been to see a Morris, but I can’t make up my mind between the two. Mind you, the Morris is cheaper.’
‘Huh, you can’t compare a Morris to a Vauxhall Wyvern.’
‘Maybe not, but I ain’t made of money.’
; ‘Come on, I’ll take you for a spin. It might help you to make up your mind.’
Kevin hid a smile. He knew he was going to buy the Wyvern, but there was no need to let Larry know that. He wasn’t ready to part with two hundred quid and intended to haggle.
‘It runs like a dream,’ the man said as they drove along Falcon Road.
‘The engine sounds all right, but I think I’ll go for the Morris. It’s fifty quid cheaper and I ain’t got money to burn.’
‘How about I knock off twenty-five quid? It’s still a better car, and I can’t go any lower.’
Kevin pursed his lips, pretending to consider the offer, and then said, ‘All right, Larry. I’ll take it off your hands.’
In another hour Kevin was on his way to see some important contacts, his heart thumping. They’d have to take him seriously now. They needed a car, and he had one. And without it, the job would be impossible.
Chapter Five
On Saturday, Pearl took her first week’s wages, pleased to find an extra ten shillings. With tips she had made two pounds, thirteen and sixpence. A guinea would have to go to her landlord, but now that she didn’t have to buy much food, art classes were definitely on.
She hugged herself with excitement. Art classes! She could actually go to art classes! Her mind slid back to the orphanage and the one teacher she had liked. Miss Rosen had come to the orphanage during Pearl’s final year, and she’d been inspirational, encouraging her to look at objects in a new way.
‘See the texture of the bricks,’ she would say, ‘feel them, and there’s the sky, Pearl. It isn’t just one shade of blue with clouds like puffs of cotton wool. Look closely – there are far more colours.’
And she had looked, and she had learned, but not enough, not nearly enough. Only three months after Miss Rosen arrived came Pearl’s release, and she was one of the first to leave that year. And that’s how she saw it: release – as though she had spent her whole life up to that moment in prison. Miss Rosen was the only teacher she missed, but she would never forget her art lessons.