by Pip Granger
We had always regarded Sharky as ‘family’, especially when he pulled off my adoption over the protests of my real mum’s rich and snobby family, and I’m pretty sure he felt the same about us. We never seemed to get a bill from him.
Anyway, Sharky came to the cafe almost before the request was out of my mouth. When Auntie Maggie thanked him for his promptness he assured her it was his pleasure, the alternative being a trip home to the wife and kids, something to be avoided at all costs. I sometimes wondered if they really existed, this shadowy family of his; I never did find out for sure. I couldn’t think of a reason for inventing them, though, until I was older and realized that they were a handy excuse for not marrying any of his women.
Once a steaming cup of coffee, laced with a hefty slug of the ‘medicinal’ brandy, had been placed before him and he’d lit his fat cigar, he was ready for a consultation. ‘You called, dear lady, and, as you can see, I have arrived. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s not me, Sharky, it’s that poor woman Lizzie Robbins. She’s got big trouble.’
By this time, of course, I was out of Auntie Maggie’s direct line of sight. I’d nipped behind the counter to get some water just as things were getting interesting, so naturally I hovered a bit, fiddling about. I wish I hadn’t, because what I heard really, really upset me and there seemed to be nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t even tell my best friends because I knew this bit of news wasn’t meant to be blabbed all over the playground. It was, I realized, even more serious than the Widow Ginger turning up. This was personal. Jenny was one of my best friends and she was very, very poorly. Next to that, the Widow Ginger’s squabble with Maltese Joe didn’t seem so bad. But then, I didn’t know just how bad things were going to get with the Widow or with Jenny. I was going to find out soon enough, though.
As Auntie Maggie always said, there were times when listening to grown-up talk could leave you wishing you hadn’t, and this was one of those times all right.
7
Whatever was wrong with Jenny, it was nothing simple like a cold or chickenpox. It had a strange name that involved about a yard of Latin and was very serious; that much was clear from what I remembered of Auntie Maggie’s talk with Sharky. I could tell that she was really upset by what Mrs Robbins had told her, because she was so angry with Hissing Sid and the Mangy Cow that she didn’t even notice me. I can hear the edge in her voice now, the one she had when she was fighting back tears with a hefty dose of rage.
‘Those two have kept Lizzie and Jenny short ever since they took up with each other. It’s been a nightmare for that poor woman to keep their bodies and souls together and now, when it looks as if she could lose the battle, they’re still keeping ’em short.’ Her voice rose to a pitch that could cut through girders. ‘Isn’t there some way to make the devils pay? That trollop Mary Cowley is saying that she can look after Jenny while Lizzie carries on working. Reckons she did a bit of nursing in the war, before she became a blood-sucking leech, that is. I know for a fact that Jenny, poor lamb, can’t stand her at any price. Of course, that spineless git Sid Robbins is agreeing with her, says it’d be better for Jenny to live with them and be nursed by a professional. He’s even on about their place being more comfortable for an invalid, and’ – at this point her voice wobbled dangerously – ‘whose bloody fault is that? It’s that hag with her sodding jewellery that keeps Lizzie so skint she’s had to pawn or flog almost everything but the bare essentials. Do you know she has to weigh up whether she can afford to buy the poor little soul an orange or an egg?’
Sharky listened quietly without interruption and by the time Auntie Maggie paused to catch her breath she had the attention of everyone in the place. I could tell that by the silence that followed her speech. Then there was an embarrassed cough and the normal cafe noises started up again. But the damage was done; the story flew round Soho quicker than a pigeon with the trots and from that moment on virtually no one would speak to the Mangy Cow or Hissing Sid unless they had to. What’s more, mysterious parcels containing fruit, veg, sweets and eggs would be left on the landing outside Jenny’s flat at regular intervals. The market traders, led by our friend Ronnie, had heard what was going on and had taken action. They also took to overcharging the Mangy Cow at every opportunity, so in a way she was helping to keep Jenny and Mrs Robbins despite herself.
But all that came later. For the moment, Sharky listened carefully and we waited to see what he had to say. We had a good long wait because Sharky wasn’t one to be hurried. His cup was refilled and he puffed thoughtfully on his cigar until he’d made a fine old fug around his head of thinning fair hair. At last he spoke.
‘It’s tricky, Maggie. If Lizzie were to go for a formal separation prior to divorcing the little prick, we could probably get a court order ordering him to pay a percentage of his income, but enforcing that court order is another thing entirely. They’ve only got to move about a bit. Then again, who is to say just how much he earns? I don’t suppose, as a trader in dirty books, he keeps strictly accurate accounts, or any accounts at all for that matter.’ There was another long pause, accompanied by deep puffs, the odd slurp and the tinkle of cup hitting saucer. ‘No, I feel that this situation requires a little more thought and possibly a slightly more original approach than your actual legal solution. Leave it with me, dear lady, and I will have a more substantial think on the matter. Meanwhile, I feel it behoves us to consult with T.C. on the beginnings of an idea I have that I feel might just work. I won’t elaborate now; too many witnesses. After all, we don’t wish the persons in question to get the slightest inkling of our plans, especially before I’ve had the opportunity to firm them up and get T.C.’s opinion. Can you send a runner to indicate that a visit would be appreciated, at his earliest possible convenience of course?’
Auntie Maggie cast her eye about, looking for me, and spotted me still behind the counter. ‘Rosie, love, we need you to nip along to the cop shop and see if T.C.’s around. If not, leave a message with the desk sergeant asking him to come to the cafe as soon as possible.’
Now, policemen or women were not that popular in our bit of London because quite a lot of people earned their money on the wrong side of the law. It was an unwritten rule that nobody got too friendly with them because they were, after all, the official enemy. Most of the time, though, both sides rubbed along together without too much fuss and bother. Still, T.C. was seen to be different. He was a decent bloke, everyone thought so, and he had never been known to take a bribe or fit anyone up. He was also widely believed to be my dad, although no one said this out loud while his wife Pat was still alive, because it would have hurt her and we all liked her a lot as well.
Paulette had once explained it all to me. T.C. couldn’t leave his missus for my mum and me, because she was ill and needed him more than my mum or I did. After all, I had Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert to look after me and love me to bits. And, anyway, no one was sure he was my dad. When I pointed out that my mum was ill too, being tucked up in that clinic to prove it, and had been for quite a while, Paulette got a little bit flustered because it was true.
‘Yes, but T.C. can’t help your mum with her particular trouble. No one can really, but he can help Pat with her wheelchair, getting her in and out of bed and all that sort of thing. Besides, he was married to Pat when he met your mum, so I expect he feels he owes it to her more.
‘Anyway, you know your mum. If he left poor Pat for her, how long do you think she’d stick around, eh? She gets itchy feet does your mum, you know she does. Even your mum agrees that T.C.’s more use to his missus than he can be to her. Still, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you both, because I reckon he does. He keeps an eye out for the pair of you, doesn’t he?’
And it was true, he did. He was always popping into the cafe to see us all and he never once forgot my birthday or Christmas. He regularly got my mum out of scrapes and he even paid her fines sometimes when she was caught picking up men or being drunk and disorderly. Of course, he
did it on the quiet, because policemen weren’t supposed to be doing that kind of thing. He usually gave the money to Paulette or Madame Zelda and they handed it over. So T.C. was considered all right by one and all, despite his calling in life.
I know it’s big-headed to say so, but I was a favourite down at the cop shop. They always made a fuss of me when I nipped in to see them and I made a small fortune in threepenny bits and shiny silver sixpences. I blame the fact that I looked a lot like Princess Anne at the time, all blonde curls and blue eyes, and I expect they’d also heard the rumour about who my dad might be. On top of that, I made a nice change from all the old lags that passed through their doors, according to Smiley Riley, the usual daytime desk sergeant. He was on duty that Saturday and told me that T.C. wouldn’t be available until the following day, but he would pass on the message.
Meanwhile, I made half a crown and a cup of cocoa in the canteen, so it wasn’t a wasted trip. I bought copies of Girl and Schoolfriend, which were Jenny’s favourite comics, with my profits, although I did read them from cover to cover before I handed them over the next afternoon. Auntie Maggie said it wasn’t polite to cop a read of someone else’s present before you gave it to them. Personally, I thought it was an act of nobility buying Jenny’s girlie-type comics at all, rather than Eagle and the Topper which were my own favourites at the time.
Still, Jenny didn’t seem to mind when I told her that I’d already read them, so I suppose it was all right despite Auntie Maggie’s objections. My auntie Maggie could be a bit strict about what she called ‘manners’ when the mood was on her.
8
I was very nervous on Sunday by the time I rang Jenny’s bell. I always got nervous when I went somewhere new, and anyway, I didn’t know how the yard of Latin was going to make her look. I needn’t have worried too much. Jenny was Jenny, only paler, and her face was a bit thinner. I couldn’t say what the rest of her looked like because she was wearing a nightie that covered her from neck to wrist to ankle; it was a case of once round her and twice round the gasworks, it was so big.
Her bed had been brought into the living room and stuck beside the window so that she could watch the comings and goings in the street. I couldn’t help noticing that instead of the plump, rose-pink satin quilt that covered my own bed Jenny had thin khaki army blankets, the colour of horses’ poo after they’ve had a lot of grass. For a London kid I was quite an expert on horse droppings, on account of getting pally with some donkeys in Weston-super-Mare when I was on my holidays visiting Auntie Maggie’s sister, Auntie Flo. I’d also been introduced to various horses by Great-aunt Dodie, who took me riding on Hampstead Heath when she was in town. I’ve always loved everything to do with horses, their smell, their muzzles, their lugs and even their poo, which I knew was a great help when growing veg because Auntie Flo told me so.
The whole room seemed dark in Jenny’s flat, like the inside of a dreary old cave. The shabby lino was brown with a deeper brown swirly pattern all over it. The rug was brown, too, and brushed almost bald in places. A pair of tired leatherette armchairs, brown yet again, sagged each side of a small grate that had been fitted with a gas fire that glowed a friendly orange with blue bits where the flames spluttered around the jets. The fire was the only bright spot in the whole room. When I told Auntie Maggie how fond Mrs Robbins seemed to be of brown, she explained that the colour didn’t show the dirt and therefore needed replacing less often. I told her I didn’t think dirt stood a chance in Mrs Robbins’s house. What little they had had been scrubbed, brushed or polished to within an inch of its miserable life.
After a shy start, Jenny and I soon fell into talking and giggling as usual. We had to catch up on all the school gossip to start with. The big news there was that Miss Welbeloved had suddenly sprouted an engagement ring. We spent a happy hour or so trying to imagine the kind of man who would fancy her in the first place and had the nerve to take her on. We were both beside ourselves with laughter and had to make several trips to the bathroom so as not to run the risk of smelling like Enie Smales on a bad day.
Next, we played snakes and ladders, ludo and beat your neighbour out of doors, finishing up with a very loud game of snap, accompanied by lots of shrieking, yells of triumph or ‘Rotten cheat!’ and much groaning and crowing with delight. ‘All good clean fun,’ as Uncle Bert would have said if he’d been there, being a great crower himself when he was winning any sort of game. Auntie Maggie always said that crowing was bad form, but we enjoyed it. Where’s the fun, clean or otherwise, if you can’t have a jolly good crow?
Auntie Maggie had been so determined that our indoor picnic should fill all of our corners, she’d packed enough grub to feed a small army of starving Brownies. She’d also told me that I had to insist that Mrs Robbins joined us when noshing time came. The basket had been so heavy, Luigi had been grabbed off the street to carry it to Jenny’s front door for me. I was left to carry the games and the comics I’d bought the day before.
We had a nice afternoon and a fantastic picnic. Auntie Maggie had really gone to town. There were paste sandwiches, a homemade Victoria sponge, a bag of custard creams, a large bowl of strawberry jelly covered with a starched white serviette, three bags of Smith’s crisps, a bag of Cox’s orange pippins and a large, homemade pork pie. Mrs Robbins had tried hard to argue the toss about joining us, but Jenny wouldn’t take no for an answer either, saying that she wouldn’t wrap her laughing gear around one scrap unless her mother did too. Naturally, there was tons of food left over and once again I had precise instructions from my aunt. I was to make sure that I left it with Mrs Robbins come hell or high water. My excuse was that I’d needed a bearer to bring it, and having no one to help on the return trip I’d better just take the basket.
‘And if she tries to come with you, remind her that it’s best not to leave Jenny on her tod. Got that?’
I got it and did as I was told. Mrs Robbins didn’t put up that much of a struggle, as it happens. I think it was the sight of the faint pink glow on Jenny’s cheeks that swung it; she didn’t want to ruin the mood with a squabble. It was agreed that I would come again while Jenny was too poorly to come to school. I was to be a frequent visitor to the little flat during the next few weeks.
When I got home, I found the Campaninis had come to visit and were filling the cafe almost to bursting. There were too many of them to fit into our living room upstairs. Poor Luigi was being teased something rotten by his sisters about his lack of success with Betty Potts. He took it in good heart, but then life would have been misery for him if he hadn’t. As the youngest, he got more than his fair share of teasing, and if he’d risen to it it would have been far worse. I knew how merciless those Campanini women could be, especially if they had a good target like their baby brother in their sights.
‘So, she’s toying with you, huh, Luigi? Like a big red pussycat with her little mouse. Serves you right. If she keeps it up for the next hundred years, it still wouldn’t be enough to make up for all those broken hearts you’ve trampled on over the years.’ Gina was enjoying herself hugely.
‘What do you mean, a hundred? A thousand, more like. Don’t forget what he did to Maria Gambini as was. She was my best friend until Romeo here stole her poor heart and her piggy bank all in the one afternoon. You remember, it was at the Sunday school party the year he turned ten. She was an older woman, too, being thirteen at the time. He was a devil with the girls even then. Do you know Maria still asks about him? And her with two bambini of her own now? It’s disgusting, the effect baby brother has on unsuspecting girls. And he never confesses all of his sins, that one, never!’ Bella sounded indignant but was grinning all the same.
Luigi had that effect on most people, women especially, even his sisters who should have known better. Paulette said it was because he was the baby, that and he was just plain lovable, despite everything. He was also gorgeous, everyone agreed on that. All the Campanini children had turned out good-looking and as Aunti Maggie said, ‘After all those practice run
s, it stands to reason that Mamma and Papa had perfected the art by the time they got to Luigi.’ Although she never said it if there was a Campanini about; feelings might have got hurt.
I was tired after my hard afternoon’s play and big nosh-up. That didn’t stop me from trying to carry on well into the evening on the grounds that I might miss something, and that would never do. In the end, though, I just had to go to bed and leave them all to it, and I hardly argued at all, which shows just how knackered I was. However, I did manage to stay awake long enough to hear that Betty Potts had finally got a job, at one of Maltese Joe’s clubs, and that he had changed her name for professional reasons.
‘Betty Potts’ didn’t conjure up the right image for a glamour-puss hostess, according to Uncle Bert, who broke the news to Luigi and the assembled company, so Maltese Joe had come up with a name that was far more exotic and expensive sounding. ‘Chinchilla O’Reardon he calls her. Chinchilla on account a coat of the same costs an arm and a leg and that’s what she’s cost him since he clapped eyes on her and it’s got him nowhere fast. The O’Reardon’s on account she looks Irish to our Joe, even though she ain’t, and anyway he says she’s got a great arse. I didn’t get it till he wrote it down for me. Silly sod spells it R-e-a-r, as in back end. He’s got her billed as “the Emerald Isle’s brightest jewel”, would you believe? No one’s had the heart to tell him that a chinchilla’s some kind of rat and that arse or no arse that’s not the way to spell O’Riordan. Still, nobody’s ever been able to tell Joe anything, except his mum of course, and maybe Bandy now and then, if he gets her mad enough.’