by Pip Granger
‘Well, he can call her what he likes, the old pervert, but she’ll always be Betty to me,’ declared Auntie Maggie firmly to a chorus of agreement.
I yawned at that point, which told Auntie Maggie that it was way past my bedtime, so I missed the rest of the evening’s fun.
9
Smiley Riley had been a bit slack in passing on my message and T.C. didn’t show up at the cafe until Monday. By the time he and Sharky had had a bit of a chat about the Mangy Cow and Mr Robbins it was dinner time, and he offered to pick me up from school and escort me home for my nosh. Auntie Maggie didn’t like to tell him that I was big enough to make my own way home. She said it hadn’t seemed kind, as he was obviously dying to see me.
I must admit I felt a bit of a fool when he took my hand and I had to hiss at him that hand holding was for babies. He understood right away, and dropped my mitt toot sweet. We agreed that putting my arm through his was just about OK, but simply walking side by side was better. He looked a bit disappointed and said it was a long time since he’d had a pretty girl on his arm. So I took pity on him, and got a grip once we were well away from sneaks like Smelly Smales. I told him everything I could think of that had happened since I’d last seen him. He listened carefully to all my news and even asked the odd question about Sugar’s latest sequined creation and Betty Potts to show that he really had taken it all in. T.C. was good at that, just listening as if you were the only person in the world.
By the time we’d got back to the cafe and he’d been talked into stopping for his dinner with me, we’d got on to Jenny. He was particularly interested in hearing how I felt about my friend being ill. It was a tricky one to answer, that, because I hadn’t really thought about how I felt about it, I just felt it. I was tucking into lemon syrup pud, my favourite, when the tears welled up and started to drip into my plate. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how frightened, sad and lonely I felt about it. Next thing I knew, I was on his lap, thumb in mouth and sobbing my heart out. He was very kind, didn’t point out that blubbing was for babies, just handed me his hanky and cuddled me tight, muttering ‘There, there’ from time to time until I hiccuped to a stop. It was only after he had escorted me back to the playground that I realized he hadn’t once told me that everything was going to be all right, the way grown-ups are supposed to do when you’re blubbing. Of course I wasn’t to know where telling T.C. was to lead and the trouble it would cause him in the end. By the time I did know, it was far too late to keep my mouth shut anyhow.
Now, a sighting of Maltese Joe during daylight hours was as rare a thing as seeing Bandy before sunset. Sometimes he could be spotted driving his old ma to Mass in the Roller on a Sunday morning. Occasionally, sunlight caught him on the hop before he managed to get home from one of his clubs and now and then he went to the races, but that was about it. So you can imagine what a surprise it was to see him sitting at the corner table with my uncle Bert when I got home from school. Judging by the virtually empty ashtray in front of him, he’d only been there for a short while.
According to Uncle Bert, he’d just missed bumping into T.C., which was a jolly good thing as there was no love lost between the pair of them. Each knew the other was a family friend, but was too well-mannered to mention it, or so Uncle Bert said anyway. Very occasionally, they both turned up at one of our parties, but they managed not to notice each other and one would always leave quickly. It was fascinating to watch, because there would be no discussion: one of them would simply start saying goodbye to people and then go. The first to arrive was the first to leave. Uncle Bert said it was bad for Maltese Joe’s reputation to be seen hobnobbing with a copper, and Auntie Maggie said that socializing with criminals didn’t do a lot for T.C.’s either. Still, everyone seemed to cope somehow, and we managed to keep friends with both of them.
I loved T.C. and quite liked Maltese Joe. I’m not sure why, although it didn’t do not to like him. T.C. always treated me as if I was a grown-up when we talked, and as a child if I needed comfort in the form of a cuddle. He took what I said seriously and never, ever fobbed me off with remarks like ‘You’ll understand when you’re older’, or ‘You’re too young’. I always hated that. It seemed to me that grown-ups were just too lazy to come up with a better excuse to leave me out of things.
Maltese Joe also treated me like a grown-up female, but that wasn’t saying much, because he treated nearly all females as if they were children, or at least mentally retarded. He was always patting women on the bum and telling them to ‘run along and powder your nose or something while the men get down to business’, in exactly the voice grown-ups use when they’re telling kids to ‘run along and play’.
Uncle Bert always said that the only exceptions to Maltese Joe’s ‘women are idiots’ rule were his old mum, Auntie Maggie and Bandy Bunyan. Auntie Maggie said the only reason she’d been included in the list was that Uncle Bert made Joe put her there by beating him up soon after Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie had started ‘walking out’. It almost ended their friendship, apparently, but Joe’s mum had joined in the argument on Uncle Bert’s side by saying that showing respect for Auntie Maggie was a way of showing respect to her man and anyway Joe didn’t have so many good friends that he could afford to lose one. So it was settled: Auntie Maggie was officially tolerated by Maltese Joe. Over the years they had grown used to each other, and had finally grown to like each other, after a fashion. But Auntie Maggie never did approve of Maltese Joe’s general attitude to the fairer sex.
Naturally, being nosy, I wanted to know why Bandy was OK with Joe, but whenever I asked Uncle Bert he only laughed and said, ‘Would you try telling Bandy to go and powder her nose? I know I wouldn’t. She’d have me minced and diced before the words left me mouth. Anyway, with a hooter the size of hers, she could be gone for a week.’ Which was unkind, but true; Bandy did have a big nose. She looked like an eagle, and about as friendly.
Still, I didn’t mind being told to take a hike by Maltese Joe, because he always slipped me a half-crown as ‘a little sweetner’. Betty Potts said he was the same with the women, except that they got a nice, big, crisp white fiver or two for their obedience.
Of course, he needn’t have troubled, because even big strong men ran away to play when told to by Maltese Joe. It didn’t do to argue with him on account of his temper. He could turn very nasty indeed if crossed by a man, a woman or even a child. I once saw him clip one of Luigi’s young nephews around the ear’ole so hard, he sent him clear across the room, so that he bounced off the wall. Said he’d caught the boy beating up his little sister, and when he’d told him to stop the boy had got lippy and sworn at him. Not a wise move, that, and one Giovanni would not make again in a hurry.
There were lots of stories about Maltese Joe losing his rag and people winding up so badly hurt that they never came back to bother him again. It was true that Dave Potter was still in a wheelchair years after an altercation with Joe over the rightful ownership of a large suitcase full of forged tenners. Joe won the argument after what Uncle Bert described as a frank exchange of blows, kicks and finally army-issue bullets between Dave and Joe and his ‘boys’. And Lenny-the-Gimp did owe his nickname to the time he was caught with his hand in one of Joe’s tills. In fact, as far as I know, my uncle Bert was the only person ever to biff Maltese Joe and get away with it and he had old Ma Joe to thank for that.
Anyway, Maltese Joe was at the cafe when I got home from school and I couldn’t help wondering why. Auntie Maggie was out and the place was empty apart from Joe and Uncle Bert, which was probably just as well. They took no notice of me as I scuttled behind the counter for my glass of milk and a couple of digestives.
Maltese Joe was well dressed as usual. He wore a smart Savile Row three-piece suit in a dark blue wool with the tiniest fleck of maroon, a sparkling white shirt and a blue and maroon striped silk tie with a fat Windsor knot. A white linen hanky peeped out of his breast pocket. He wore a heavy gold wedding ring on his left hand, the way the Italian blo
kes did. Auntie Maggie said that she thought it was terrible that Joe’s old mum still bought all his clothes, despite his being married and everything. She said it showed he was a bit of a mummy’s boy, but she said it quietly, in case she got her head bashed in. But everyone agreed that it was unusual for a married bloke to have quite so much to do with his mum. Everyone put it down to him being Maltese, but nobody said why. I knew other Maltese blokes who didn’t even seem to have mums at all.
Instead of keeping up the regulation short back and sides most blokes had, Maltese Joe wore his hair slightly long, so he kept his barber in Dean Street busy doing his nails once a week and shaving him twice every day instead, once at noon and again at six in the evening, ready for the working night. Maltese Joe always seemed to have a seven o’clock shadow, no matter what time it was.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out why Joe was visiting us. He wasn’t used to kids, so he forgot they have ears, and was soon carrying on his conversation as if I wasn’t there. I could tell by the way his eyes were bulging, and how red the veins were, that he was angry.
‘So, where is he now, does anyone know?’ Maltese Joe glared across the table at Uncle Bert as he took a hefty drag on his fag and flicked the ash in the general direction of the ashtray.
‘We’re not sure, Joe, but last seen he was in a coma at Ruby’s. We reckoned she’d keep him out of our way while we had a think. We was hoping to come up with some sort of plan that didn’t involve too much in the way of mess and bother, while he was occupied, like.’
‘You’re wrong there, Bert. He’s been occupied in poking about the manor, and only a day or two ago. And when were you planning to give me the news, huh? I had to hear it from Hissing Sid’s bint when I was giving her one in the office last night. Woman goes like a rabbit. It’s an eye-opener, I can tell you. She talks while she’s at it and she was talking about this funny Yank. Talking a blue bloody streak, in fact. The more she said the more I was reminded of the Widow. So, I’m asking you again, Bert, when were you planning to tell me that Stanley was back and looking to shove a shiv in me back right up to the sodding hilt, eh? Or have you come to some arrangement with the man himself, is that it?’
‘Now, you’ve no call to make insuations like that, Joe, no call at all. I’ve never come in on the wrong side in all the bloody years I’ve known you and I resent you even thinking it.’ Uncle Bert was getting angry too. He jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over with a clatter, and glared down at Joe, his fists clenched by his side. Joe stood up slowly and took a long, hard look at Uncle Bert. Their noses were almost touching. Then he shrugged, walked to the door and stopped with his hand on the doorknob.
‘And this plan, it’s sorted is it?’ Maltese Joe’s eyes were glittering dangerously, just like the time when he clouted Giovanni. I hoped like mad that he wasn’t going to clout my uncle Bert because I didn’t know what I would do if he did.
Uncle Bert took a deep, calming breath before answering. I could tell he was working really hard not to lose his rag. ‘Not exactly, Joe, no. I haven’t had much of a chance, to be fair. I s’pose I was hoping that that would be the end of it, and was waiting and seeing. But of course it won’t be the end of it, not really. He’s like a bleeding terrier, that one. Never lets go of anything.’
‘So, no plan, eh? Time to get one going then. Stanley’ll be back, no question of that, and – thanks to you – I might not be ready when he gets here. I still say I should’ve killed the sod while I had the chance, but you soft buggers wouldn’t let me. It would’ve been a bloody sight easier to tart it up as an accident in the blackout than it will be now.’
‘Hold your water, Joe. Now do you see why I kept my gob shut? I knew you’d go overboard. Me and Bandy have discussed that much and we say no killing, even if it is so richly deserved. If anyone is going to top Stanley, let’s make sure it’s the government that does the deed and not us, any of us. But I agree, I have been putting things off, and I’m sorry. I just thought it was for the best, that’s all.’ Which wasn’t quite true. It was Auntie Maggie who had thought it best, and had made Uncle Bert keep quiet. He really hadn’t wanted to. I wondered why Uncle Bert wouldn’t just say that Auntie Maggie had put her foot down and be done with it. Except that you never grassed up your own, and Auntie Maggie was more to Bert than his lifelong mate. It must have been hard to fall out with his friend, but he kept his gob shut just the same.
Maltese Joe’s eyes bulged a bit more and the little vein in his forehead throbbed. ‘Let’s hope your thinking hasn’t done any permanent damage, shall we? But I wouldn’t put your pension on it, Bert, or on your chances if he fucks me over.’
‘Are you threatening me, Joe?’ my uncle demanded, his voice dangerously quiet.
‘I suppose you could say that, Bert,’ Maltese Joe replied. ‘You could say that. You’d better start praying it turns out right, hadn’t you?’
Uncle Bert had his mouth open to reply and had taken a step towards Joe when he spotted Auntie Maggie coming towards the cafe door with Madame Zelda and Betty Potts in tow. Maltese Joe smiled a tight smile, shrugged and pulled the door open, stepping to one side to let in the chattering women, and walked out into the street. He didn’t turn back for one last joke with Uncle Bert, like he usually did. In fact, there had been no jokes at all, and Uncle Bert watched him go with a sad look on his face. Then he, too, shrugged and walked slowly back to his kitchen with his head bowed low.
10
The atmosphere around our place was just so awful it was a real pleasure to go to school. I missed meeting Jenny in the churchyard, but took to waving to her instead while I waited for Kathy Moon to turn up. Jenny also liked feeding the pigeons only now she was so poorly she fed hers on her kitchen window sill. Her mum let her, even though she said they were filthy things. Jenny’s favourite was called Peter the Pigeon and was brown and white instead of grey. He had a dodgy beak which grew over just like an ingrowing toenail, and Jenny and her mum had had to grab poor old Peter and file his beak down with a socking great nail file so that it didn’t grow so far over it was stuck closed. Still, he seemed to appreciate it, because he kept coming back for his grub.
Every morning, I’d look up and wait for Jenny’s head to poke out of the top window and I’d wave like mad and she’d wave back. It wasn’t the same as walking to school with her and sitting next to her in class, but it was better than nothing. Since I’d last seen her I’d been thinking about a simple code language, with coloured hankies or hand signing or something and planned to talk it over with her next time I saw her. I had a really good book about codes and semaphore and stuff. I loved all that. I could pass on all sorts of bits of good gossip if we could find a system of secret signals. I could keep her up to date with poor Luigi’s unrequited passion for a start. Jenny had a bit of a crush on Luigi, but then most females did, it seemed to me. Except Betty Potts, that is. As it happens, there was about to be a bit of action on that front at last.
After a week of gloomy silences at home, it was Saturday again, and as it happened I was the only one there, apart from Mrs Wong that is, and she showed no interest at all. Auntie Maggie, Madame Zelda, Paulette and Sugar were well cheesed off, but I was next to myself with the deepest of joy. It wasn’t often that I got to come up with a bit of red hot gossip, so you can imagine my unholy glee.
Madame Zelda and Paulette had just left to go in search of some incense to pong up Madame Zelda’s consulting room. It added atmosphere, or so she said. Personally, I thought she used it to smother the whiff of wintergreen in the horse liniment she used on her poor feet. As I’ve said, Madame Zelda was a martyr to her feet, especially in winter when they were smothered in chilblains as well as the rheumatics that made her hobble so. Anyway, there was a shop in Bloomsbury that supplied churches with candles, chalices and stuff, but it closed at dinner time on Saturdays, so they were in a rush.
Auntie Maggie had nipped out to get some cucumber for Mrs Williams’s Sunday tea. We always had cucumber sandw
iches with the crusts cut off when Mrs W. had tea with us, even in the winter when it was almost impossible to get. As luck would have it, our mate Ronnie knew a bloke who knew a bloke who supplied the Ritz, so that was all right, as long as he got plenty of warning. As Uncle Bert said, they had to have time to tell the bloke who knew a bloke to get his bloke to start growing the damned thing, but Auntie Maggie said he was laying it on a bit thick. Still, it was a right old performance, getting cucumber in winter. Cucumber sandwiches were something to do with Mrs W. being in service before the First World War, and before she married Mr Williams and took over the grocery next door to the paper shop. Mr Williams had been killed by flying shrapnel while visiting his mum in Bow in 1942.
I wasn’t that keen on cucumber sandwiches. They were titchy for one thing, apart from being disgustingly boring. Still, it made the local pigeons very happy, because they got the crusts. Personally, I liked a nice bit of Spam, fish paste or a fried egg in my sandwiches, but I didn’t count when we were entertaining.
Down the alley round the corner, Sugar was asleep in his bed above the club, Friday nights being long and busy. Uncle Bert was in his kitchen, getting ready for the dinner-time rush, so there was only me and Luigi at our table, Mrs Wong behind the counter and a few of the Saturday morning punters. They were usually a fairly quiet lot, being busy trying to focus their poor eyes and get their brains to work through the fog. It’s not easy thinking up new and original excuses for being out all night splurging the pay packet on booze, women and gambling when you have a hangover. Or so Luigi was explaining to me as I sipped my milk and swung my feet.
I was bored, jittery and thoroughly fed up with all the trouble about. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie were barely speaking. Maltese Joe was avoiding Uncle Bert, Jenny was poorly and there was nothing I could do to change any of it. There was no one to play with. Kathy was being made to stay in and scrub the kitchen floor on account of being caught playing knock-down-ginger the day before on the way home from school. I told her it was stupid to ring her own bell, her mum being no fool, but she wouldn’t listen. I wasn’t caught as I’d had the brains not to poke my head round the corner, but Kathy just had to see her mum’s face when she stuck her head out of the window to an empty doorstep. Kathy was never overburdened with the grey stuff when it came to playing tricks; she just couldn’t resist a gloat. So no Kathy that Saturday, and I was bored rigid and in a deep funk. At least I was until the door opened and Betty Potts strode in.