The Widow Ginger

by Pip Granger

  About the Book

  It is 1954, the year Roger Bannister ran the four-minute mile, and Rosie and her beloved Auntie Maggie are opening up their cafe in Old Compton Street for Uncle Bert's breakfast special when the Widow Ginger comes to call.

  The Widow Ginger, an ex-GI with ice-cold eyes, has unfinished business with Uncle Bert – business that includes being cheated on his share of a ‘liberated’ lorry-load of guns and explosives during the War – and he intends to make sure he gets paid in full.

  And this isn’t all: the lovely Luigi appears to be suffering from a severe case of unrequited lust; Bert and the local Mafioso Maltese Joe have had an acrimonious falling-out; and, most worrying of all, Rosie's best friend Jenny has begun to keel over in the school playground.

  The Widow Ginger

  PIP GRANGER

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Pip Granger

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781446437964

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  RANDOM HOUSE AUSTRALIA (PTY) LTD

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  RANDOM HOUSE NEW ZEALAND LTD

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  RANDOM HOUSE SOUTH AFRICA (PTY) LTD

  Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa

  Published 2003 by Bantam Press

  a division of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Pip Granger 2003

  The right of Pip Granger to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  ISBN 0593 047966

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  In loving memory of my father, ‘Cliff’

  and our beloved Sally

  Also by Pip Granger

  NOT ALL TARTS ARE APPLE

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Ray, for his help and support, Selina Walker for a wonderful edit, the late Fred Potter for the phrase ‘The Widow Ginger’, Jane Conway-Gordon for being my agent and Linda, Judith, Lizzy, Deborah, Kate, Prue, Helen and all the behind-the-sceners at Transworld who make books happen.

  1

  It wasn’t my fault, honest; none of it. According to my uncle Bert, keeping your gob shut is the very best thing, but failing that, sticking to your story is the next best. Of course, that’s the advice he doled out to the punters who found themselves in trouble with the coppers or the military police. Me, I was supposed to own up, tell the truth and take the consequences like his ‘brave little soldier’. Which I mostly did. But what are you supposed to do when you’re not sure what the truth is? Or when you do know, but telling it could get someone you love into lots and lots of trouble?

  And there’s another thing: why is there one set of rules for grown-ups and a completely different set for the nippers? I really would like to know because it never felt fair to me and still doesn’t. But all Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert would say when I asked them is that life isn’t fair. Now what kind of answer is that? Still, I’d better start right at the beginning and not get stuck in to what is and isn’t fair. I could go on for ever about that.

  It started one Saturday morning in March, 1954, with a thundering on the cafe door. It must have been really early, because even Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert weren’t up yet and the work in our cafe starts about six. Usually, banging on the door at strange times of day or night meant that my mum had been on a bender with one of her blokes and was in need of more money to carry on, or was in trouble, or simply felt like visiting and was too Brahms and Liszt to realize that sparrowfart was not the time to do it. But my mum was safely tucked up in a clinic again, where they lock ’em in, so I knew it couldn’t have been her – unless she’d escaped.

  The thought that she might have legged it was what got me across my bedroom with my lug to the door in the first place. I was there almost before I heard Uncle Bert’s muttered curses as he creaked down the stairs. I heard him say, ‘Bleeding ’ell, Sugar Plum, what time do you call this?’ and then, ‘Hang on a tick while I get this door open.’ By this time, my auntie Maggie had heaved herself out of bed and was trundling down the stairs herself. That meant it would soon be safe to take up my usual listening post just behind the door that shut the cafe off from our private bit. It was a good spot because I could usually get out of the way and back to my room in very swift order and I could see and hear almost everything from there.

  Anyway, it was Sugar Plum all right. He must have come straight from work because he was twinkling like a Christmas tree as the lights across the road reflected off the three million sequins on his floor-length dress. I knew it was three million because he’d told me that he and Alma Cogan’s mum had spent weeks sewing them on. He was holding his silver high heels in his hand and I could see that his stockings were in tatters and his feet were grubby from the wet pavements. He obviously hadn’t even had time to remove his make-up and false eyelashes, but he had got rid of the lovely blonde wig that made him look a bit like Marilyn Monroe. His long, dangly diamond earrings looked funny with his short back and sides. He parked his glinting buttocks on the edge of one of the tables and fought to get enough breath to speak.

  ‘It’s Bandy, Bert. She says to come to the club straight away. The Widow Ginger’s just blown in and is being what you might call quietly menacing.’

  Now, I don’t think I had ever seen my uncle Bert stuck for words or even surprised before. Let’s
face it, if you were born and bred in the very heart of Soho, it’s difficult to think of anything that would come as a shock, but the words ‘Widow Ginger’ obviously did, because he and Auntie Maggie couldn’t have looked more stunned if Sugar Plum had sprouted wings and started whizzing around the cafe, dive-bombing them as he went.

  Uncle Bert finally found his voice. ‘I thought we were shot of him when he was incarcerated by the Yanks. What’s brought him back?’

  ‘I dunno, Bert. He says they slung him out of the military when he’d done his bird. Must’ve been something a bit weighty if even that bunch wouldn’t keep him. I mean he wanted to stay and, normally, having a heartbeat is the only requirement. He’s not saying a lot, just sitting there looking around like he’s totting up what fixtures and fittings might fetch down the auctions. It’s best you get round there and see what’s what. Bandy says I can stay here and help Maggie get started, if you want. Truth to tell, I don’t like the way that bleeder looks at me, so I’d rather stay if it’s all right with you.’ He waved a bag about in the air. ‘I’ve brought me mufti, so’s not to excite the punters. Can I nip upstairs and wash and change?’

  That was my cue to get back to my room, so I went. The next time I saw Sugar he was eating a bit of toast in our kitchen and was dressed in sensible shoes, neatly pressed trousers, immaculate white shirt and a perfectly knotted, striped tie. You’d never guess that the vision in sequins and this soberly dressed man were the same person, and in a way I suppose they weren’t. Sugar explained to me once that he felt like two people living in the one skin, and that’s why he liked to wear dresses sometimes.

  It was lucky that he lived and worked with Bandy at the club, because neither she nor the punters cared what he wore. I didn’t like to tell him that I did care, but I always thought he looked better when he sparkled. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings because I had decided to marry Sugar when I grew up, so he could make me some lovely dresses.

  2

  I suppose I’d better explain a bit about our set-up. I had lived with my auntie Maggie and uncle Bert in a cafe in Old Compton Street since I was a dot small enough to fit comfortably into a sideboard drawer. They’re not my real aunt and uncle, but that’s what I got used to calling them over the years. One story says that my real mum chose them to look after me because she realized that she couldn’t do it herself. Another story says she nipped into the cafe one day to borrow a few quid and somehow managed to leave without me. I expect it was a bit of both, as my auntie Maggie always said. Either way, it was all official by then; I was properly adopted with the papers and everything. Which was good, because I loved my auntie Maggie and uncle Bert and I wouldn’t have swapped living at the cafe for anything. I was coming up for nine when this Widow Ginger person crashed into our lives.

  Bandy Bunyan’s drinking club was just round the corner, down an alley that you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it. According to my auntie Maggie – and she should have known because she knew everything and everybody in our patch of Soho, and every other patch come to that – Bandy and Sugar had been a team for years.

  The pair of them had shared the flat above the club ever since it opened up for business right after the war. Sugar served the drinks and Bandy pulled in the punters by sitting in her favourite spot, drinking Gordon’s gin, smoking Passing Clouds and insulting her paying customers in a rich, dark brown voice and ripe language. She always dressed in flowing silk pyjama-type garments, designed and made by Sugar, in an assortment of glowing colours. They hung in just the right way to soften Bandy’s bony edges.

  How Sugar got the silk from the Chinese in Gerrard Street nobody knew, because hardly anyone could get even a nod and a wink off them in the normal way. The Chinese preferred to stick to themselves mostly, except for Mrs Wong who helped out at the cafe. Even she hardly ever said anything to anyone, and she rarely smiled either, although I swear she twinkled at me sometimes.

  Nobody knew where Bandy came from, because she wouldn’t tell anyone and I mean anyone, not even Sugar. She had just turned up one day, the way people do in Soho, and never left. Well, almost never; she did move a couple of miles away in the war to do her bit, whatever that was. You could never be sure with Bandy, or so Auntie Maggie said.

  Mind you, being secretive about your life past or present was not at all unusual around our way. Miss Welbeloved (who wasn’t) used to tell the kids in her class at school that Soho had been a bolt-hole for the wanted and unwanted of Europe for centuries. Miss Welbeloved, strict, plain and ancient, belonged with the unwanted ones, at least as far as our school was concerned. She had been there for ever, terrorizing several generations of local kids, and was still treated with respect by the most hardened of bruisers.

  Still, Bandy was a woman of mystery. For instance, I never understood why she was called Bandy, because her legs were as straight as mine, but that’s what she answered to. What’s more, she didn’t pay any protection money to anyone. Uncle Bert said it was because she was well able to look after herself and that it took a brave man or woman to take her on. Everyone knew that she could flay you alive with her tongue and anything else she happened to have about her person. Many’s the drunk who found himself lying on the pavement in the early hours with only the haziest of notions as to how he had managed to escape with everything intact. But Auntie Maggie said it was because Bandy did someone an enormous favour once, and she’d never needed any protection since.

  Uncle Bert said he thought it was one of the great mysteries of life why anyone would actually choose to drink at Bandy’s place when she insulted them the way she did, but they seemed to love her being rude to them. People actually begged to be allowed to join her club and carried on begging year after year. Members said it was the way she spoke to them that was so wonderful, but I couldn’t really understand that any more than Uncle Bert could. If we treated our punters like that the cafe would be empty toot sweet. He put it down to the fact that Bandy’s lot imbibed plenty of strong drink, which addled their brains, whereas ours only got tea, which didn’t. Still, as he also said, Bandy and Sugar made a bloody good living out of her foul mouth, so they were obviously doing something right.

  Sugar was another mystery person. He said he came from Ireland originally, but his accent was pure London, so he must have been young when he crossed the Irish Sea. He found Soho when he was still at school and ran away from his family to ‘come home’ as he put it. What I think he meant is that his original home, wherever that was, couldn’t or wouldn’t get used to his dresses, whereas some of the clubs and theatres of Soho would and did. Nobody ever bothered to search for him. Or if they did, they didn’t think to look in the obvious place. Sugar felt it was probably a relief for them to get shot of him but I couldn’t see why; Sugar was just lovely and made gorgeous frocks and silk pyjamas.

  Anyway, Sugar was in Auntie Maggie’s spot behind the counter that morning, and Auntie Maggie was in Uncle Bert’s kitchen doing the cooking. According to Uncle Bert, Saturday mornings were always busy in the cafe because on Friday nights the punters came to Soho to spend their wages in the local pubs and clubs, and come the morning they needed a nice cup of tea and a fry-up to help them line up behind their eyes. That’s if they had got any money left after the dedicated local professionals had done their very best to relieve them of it.

  Still, our customers were a varied lot. The Saturday morning mob were mostly strangers, although some turned up every Saturday, regular as clockwork. Then there were our proper regulars who came in every day, at least once, even when we weren’t open. Luigi Campanini was one of these.

  I was hovering near the corner table, the one reserved for us and anyone else who could be called ‘family’, when Luigi showed up. Family to us meant anyone we liked enough to include, and Luigi was very definitely one of those. He belonged next door but one in the delicatessen run by Mamma and Papa Campanini and their huge tribe of sons, daughters, grandchildren and in-laws.

  Luigi was Mamma’s baby, a
nd he came in early most mornings, not having been to bed the night before. Mamma would turn the lock on him in an effort to get him to mend his wicked ways, but it didn’t work. He just found somewhere else to sleep and went to Confession on Saturdays. That way, he said, he started his weekend on the tiles with a clean slate. Personally, I couldn’t see what slates and tiles had to do with anything except building houses and as far as I knew, Luigi had never built anything, except mashed potato mountains on his dinner plate. Auntie Maggie said he was young and sowing his wild oats but I was pretty sure oats had nothing to do with it either and that he was just hanging about with his mates in the spielers, or canoodling with one of his many girlfriends. He did a lot of that on account of being gorgeous. He had flashing brown eyes, sparkling white teeth and a glossy black barnet all set off by a lovely olive skin free of even a single pimple. Anyway, Luigi was the first of our regulars in that morning.

  ‘Morning, Shoog. How’s the angle of your dangle?’

  ‘Perfect, thanks, Luigi. What’s your pleasure, young sir?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll say in front of young Shorty here’ – that was me – ‘but a cuppa will do nicely for now, ta. What are you doing here all dolled up in a tie and everything? Bandy slung you out, has she?’

  Sugar looked carefully around, checking out the punters to see who was earwigging – besides me, that is; everybody knew my lugs were always flapping up a storm. He inclined his head, inviting Luigi to lean in a little closer, and mouthed in his ear, ‘It’s the Widow Ginger. He’s back, and round at the club. Bandy sent for Bert to help her decide what to do. You never know, we may get shot of him before anything really nasty happens. But I doubt it somehow. Something tells me that the brown stuff’s about to hit the proverbial. The Widow’s bad enough on his own, but mix him with Maltese Joe and you’ve got all the makings of World War III. I reckon that round about now would be a bloody good time to take a holiday, but of course we can’t leave the club—’