The Widow Ginger

by Pip Granger

  Uncle Bert finally came out from his kitchen and joined Auntie Maggie behind her counter for a moment; a second mongoose, same snake. Then, wiping his hands slowly on his apron, he walked over to the table and sat down opposite the Widow, who was busy arranging his trouser creases. He didn’t trouble to look up or speak until he was absolutely satisfied that there’d be no baggy knees to ruin the line. Uncle Bert waited patiently and didn’t say a word. He wore a faint smile, but his stare was hard. Auntie Maggie delivered two teas to the table and Uncle Bert’s pipe and tobacco.

  My uncle Bert could make a real production out of lighting his pipe. Sometimes, when I was in trouble and Auntie Maggie thought his two penn’orth would help to make me see things her way, she made him give me a good talking to. Other times, when the situation was really bad, he thought of it himself. Either way, he pulled the pipe stunt. He’d concentrate hard on each stage, looking up at me every now and then, but saying nothing. The more stages, the deeper the trouble. If he took his pipe tools out, it was the full monty, which meant very big, very deep trouble. The pipe tools were out now as he and the Widow sat there, saying nothing.

  It got so that the silence got on my already jangled nerves and I wanted desperately to whoop and yell, or drop a load of plates or something, anything to break the tension. But I didn’t dare. I was too afraid.

  At last the American spoke. ‘Nice little operation you got here, Albert. Must bring in a few bucks – knicker, I should say.’ The familiar voice sent a trickle of ice right down my spine. I felt sick as a flash of that menacing moment outside the church came back to me. He was a Yank all right; he sounded just like some of them on the films or the Pathe News. Except the Widow’s voice was very, very quiet.

  ‘It’s a living,’ Uncle Bert replied.

  ‘I should hope so, Albert. I should hope so.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Uncle Bert sounded tired.

  The Widow’s smile was tight and for his mouth only. His eyes were looking round the room as if he was pricing the place up to see what it’d fetch. They stopped at the corner table where Luigi, Madame Zelda and I were sitting. That’s when I realized just what was so frightening about him. It was the expression in his eyes. There wasn’t one. They glittered so coldly, there was no reading them. They acted almost like mirrors so that when they lingered on you, you saw yourself like a bug under a microscope. As if you were a specimen and not a person at all.

  ‘I mean that I should hope so. You’re a family man now, Albert. You have responsibilities. Insured, is it, all this?’ The Widow waved a hand, taking in everything like a bailiff on the make.

  ‘I don’t think my arrangements are any of your business.’ Another hard stare, then Uncle Bert stood up. ‘What can I get you, Stanley? I think there’s some shepherd’s pie left, if you fancy that. There’s nothing else on offer.’

  Absolutely everyone in the place was riveted. We were watching every move. Listening to every word.

  ‘I was only thinking, Albert. Grease fires, nasty things in a catering establishment such as this. Live above, do you? Just you, Margaret and the kid is it?’ There was a long, long silence as Uncle Bert stared hard at the Widow and the Widow stared just as hard back at him. Uncle Bert had the advantage of being the one standing. It was just like a Western. I expected someone to start blasting away with their Colt 45 at any minute. Only this time, it wasn’t John Wayne or Hopalong Cassidy squaring up to the black-hearted villain, it was my uncle Bert. Suddenly, I couldn’t bear it a second longer. I hurled myself at Uncle Bert, clamped firmly on to his legs and glared around his long, white apron at the Widow. I hadn’t forgotten being grabbed by the scruff of the neck and my knees were wobbling badly, but Uncle Bert was mine and I wanted to be on his side. Luigi, Madame Zelda, Auntie Maggie and several punters also stood up and walked over to Uncle Bert and ranged themselves in a semicircle behind him. Nobody spoke. Nobody needed to. The message was loud and clear.

  The Widow stood up, shook out his beloved creases and with another long, slow look round the place smiled that icy smile, picked up his hat, settled it comfortably on that pale hair and started to walk towards the door. Then he stopped, deep in thought, and turned to look at Uncle Bert again.

  Concern was etched deep on his face, but missing those cold eyes completely. ‘I mean it, Albert. Watch out for grease fires. I would take out insurance if I were you. Yes sir, I surely would.’ And with that, he was gone. His untouched tea steamed gently, the only sign that he had ever been there. Well, perhaps not the only sign; there was also the deathly silence from everyone that seemed to go on and on.

  Luigi was the first to react. ‘Christ! I see what everyone means about that geezer now. A chilly bastard, ain’t he?’

  It showed how seriously everyone took the Widow’s visit that Auntie Maggie didn’t notice Luigi’s ‘bastard’ and failed to shoot him the usual ‘watch that gob of yours’ look she had when people swore in front of me. She was especially touchy about the word ‘bastard’; I suppose because I was one and she didn’t want my nose rubbed in it.

  ‘He is that, Luigi. He is that.’ Madame Zelda’s voice was thoughtful. ‘Was it just me grabbing the wrong end of the stick or was that bugger threatening you, Bert?’

  ‘He was threatening all right, Zeld, and he’s not one to be idle about it neither, but I reckon we’re safe enough until he states his terms. He wants something from me, that’s as certain as I’m standing here. The only question is what?’

  ‘Use your loaf, Bert. What do people usually want? Dosh, gelt, filthy lucre, the folding, whatever you want to call it, that’s what he’s after,’ Madame Zelda said firmly. ‘Bound to be.’

  ‘No, it’s not money, Zelda. Well, not just money, anyway. Did you see the whistle he was wearing and them shoes? He ain’t short of a bob or two. No, it ain’t just the readies he’s after; he wants more than that.’ Luigi looked worried as he turned to my uncle Bert. ‘What are you going to do, Bert?’

  Uncle Bert stared long and hard at his cold pipe before he finally answered, and when he did he sounded bone weary. ‘I’m blowed if I know, Luigi. Wait and see, I suppose. It’s all I can do for the minute until he gets to the point and tells me what he wants. I reckon Maggie’s right: he’s after Joe’s businesses and he thinks he can force me to help him get them.’ He sighed, and my heart ached for my beloved uncle. Despite Auntie Maggie’s attempt to keep Uncle Bert away from the Widow Ginger, it seemed that the Widow was determined to come to him. I wondered if it was all my fault, that by stamping on his foot I had tipped the Widow over the edge. He had been very angry at the time and everyone said he was a nutter, so it might not take much to set him off.

  Uncle Bert seemed to shake himself slightly, then he smiled a rather tight smile. ‘What he thinks I can do is another question. But that’s why he’s threatening me. He wants me to co-operate and he knows I’m not willing; that, and the fact that he enjoys turning the screws just to watch you squirm. He told me once that as a nipper he used to torture cats and things, to see what would happen and how much they could stand before they pegged out. Fair made me sick to hear it, I can tell you. He called it his “spirit of inquiry”. Personally, I call it sadism. He’s a twenty-four-carat gold nutcase, that much is certain.’ Uncle Bert stared at the floor as if he could see the mangled remains of some poor pussy cat. My eyes filled with tears as, just for a second, I saw it too. It was our lace-eared old Tom and I wanted to rush out to make sure he was all right, but I knew he was curled up in his box next to the warm oven, so I didn’t. Maybe my accident with the Widow’s toecap really had shoved him right out of his trolley. If he was already three-quarters there, it wouldn’t take much. Dimly, through the miserable guilt of wondering why I could never watch where I was going, I heard Uncle Bert’s voice continue.

  ‘The only thing I ever saw that worried that one was currants, of all things.’ When everyone looked blank he went on to explain. ‘Not the currants you get in spotted dick, but curran
t buns as in nuns. Turned white he did when he bumped into a pair of ’em begging for the poor outside the Ritz. Couldn’t empty his pockets into their little mitts fast enough. Cleaned him out they did. I had to lend him the price of a drink to calm him down and even then he shook so bad he slopped it. Said he was brought up by the Sisters back in New York, at some orphanage or something. Said that was after his folks died in a fire that burned down their … what did he call it now?’ Uncle Bert’s brow creased in concentration as he looked back across the years to that conversation. ‘Their “apartment block”. That’s a block of flats to you and me. I remember thinking at the time that it wouldn’t surprise me if he turned out to be the bug who set the fire in the first place. I dunno why I thought that, but I did.’

  It was then that Auntie Maggie noticed my teeth chattering and me shivering all over with fright and called a halt to the conversation. But it was too late. I was back on that pavement, head being forced down and down. I was really and truly frightened, and what made it worse was that I knew I wasn’t alone. Everyone at that table was frightened, even my uncle Bert.

  13

  Daylight wasn’t Bandy Bunyan’s natural element, so you can imagine how surprised I was to see her, large as life and twice as ugly, sitting in the cafe when I got back from playing with Kathy Moon. Actually, it wasn’t quite daylight – more twilight – and Bandy wasn’t ugly at all; what she was was deeply unfashionable. Women were supposed to be made up of soft curves, fluffy hair-dos and pretty, doll-like faces. Bandy was all hard angles, with wild, wiry hair like a wayward Brillo pad and a handsome, imposing face.

  According to the women’s magazines at the time, a real woman devoted her life to providing a comfortable home for her man. Her job was to greet the master of the house at the door, bathed, fragrant and attractively dressed, with her hair neatly brushed and her slap freshly applied, his slippers warming by the fire and his tea ready and waiting for the warrior’s return. Any children should be safely tucked up in bed out of the way in case they disturbed their old man’s well-earned peace and comfort. In other words, she was to give the impression that her day had been a doddle and that her well-kept little mitts had been nowhere near mop, broom, duster or smelly nappy.

  Try as I might, I could not imagine Bandy ever doing any of those things. If there was a lord and master in her house, it certainly wasn’t Sugar. It was her. If any slaving over a hot stove, sink or duster was to be done, it was done by Sugar. If any hair was coiffed, or slap applied, it was Sugar’s bonce that got it, and all the curves were his. And they seemed to love it that way.

  Everyone knew that Bandy was as tough as old boot leather, but few realized that she had a soft, soggy side that she kept for Sugar, kids in general and me in particular. Every year she threw a Christmas party for the local ‘tackers’ as she called us. Sometimes she’d lob in an Easter one as well. We’d had a really good one the year before, to celebrate the end of the official sweet rationing. Not that Bandy had ever let a little thing like rationing stunt her style in the past, certainly not. Uncle Bert had been roped in to do his magic tricks, Sugar and Auntie Maggie did the catering, Madame Zelda and Paulette were the waitresses (despite Madame Z.’s poor plates and their glowing chilblains) and Bandy was the entertainment. She was a gifted clown and seemed to be made of India rubber as she threw herself around her club doing pratfalls and tripping over her huge clown shoes into giant custard pies. She didn’t seem to mind being smothered in goo or landing on her bum. Looking back it’s a miracle that she could hurl herself about like that, given the gallons of gin and the number of pink packets of Passing Clouds she got through in an average week. Still, her guests loved it, and more than one of us left with damp gussets after all that hysterical laughter.

  We also left the club clutching a neatly wrapped parcel, with a carefully selected gift inside. That Easter, she gave us each a selection of sweets, each wrapped separately in bright tissue paper, all fancy like the stuff the French use on their bonbons. At Christmas she was at Hamley’s riffling through tin whistles, yo-yos, spinning tops, jacks, clockwork trains, cars and aeroplanes looking for just the right thing for each child. Nobody ever got a doll or a stuffed bunny, but the very young might get a teddy or possibly a dog. Bandy wasn’t keen on dolls or any other girlie-type toys but teddies and dogs were all right as they were loved by all. She spent hours wrapping parcels with hands that looked as if they should be wielding a sledgehammer rather than dainty little bits of ribbon. Sugar said that she had a wonderful time and loved every minute of it. It showed, too. The parcels she gave us were really beautiful, flashes of sparkle and colour in a generally very dreary grey world.

  It was very cold as I came home from Kathy’s, and to my surprise the cafe door was locked, although light poured through the windows streaming with condensation. Bandy was there, sitting at our corner table with Sugar by her side and Madame Zelda, Paulette, Luigi, Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert in close attendance. Everybody looked serious as they listened to something Uncle Bert was saying. Then Bandy spotted me at the door and her face lit up like the sun bursting through black clouds.

  ‘Rosie!’ she roared, and Sugar leaped to his feet to unlock the door for me. Bandy flung her arms out in welcome and before I knew it I was gathered into an enormous hug. Suddenly, my worries about the Widow and Jenny’s illness didn’t seem quite so bad. If Auntie Maggie’s hugs pillowed you against life’s knocks, then Bandy’s stood in trouble’s way, threatening to smack it in the teeth. Either way, it was a comfort in hard times.

  ‘And how is my favourite girl, apart from being frozen? How’s school? My spies tell me that you are a jolly fine student just bulging with brains. Is that true? Of course it is, of course it is. Any fool could see that you were brainy even when you were still dribbling round your dummy. Now let me see, where is it? I know I had it somewhere. Sugar, where did I put the first clue, can you remember?’

  I forgot to mention two other things about Bandy. One is that she rarely bothered to wait for an answer to any of her barrage of questions – unless it was important, of course – and the other is that she loved setting up treasure hunts and used any old excuse to get one going. I am thrilled to say that I was often just the old excuse she needed.

  ‘Left hand pocket,’ Sugar replied promptly.

  ‘Ah yes. Have a rootle, Rosie, there’s a good girl. There should be a scrap of paper in there. Found it? Excellent. Now, what does it say? Read it out, you clever little tyke you.’

  I did as I was told toot sweet. ‘The frogs call them “apples of the earth” and you’ll find them in the kitchen.’ Which meant that clue number two would be in the spud barrel. Off I galloped to have a delve and came back waving a rather muddy bit of paper. ‘Where you lay your weary head to dream.’ I shot off to my bedroom and looked under the pillow and found clue number three, ‘Where Uncle Bert parks his skinny derriere.’ Number four was under the cushion on Uncle Bert’s armchair. I knew from previous experience that there would be ten clues in all and that the clues would get harder as I went along. I realize now that clever old Bandy was giving me French lessons while I was at it. Proper ones, not the ones advertised by ‘Yvette, Strict Discipline’ on a grubby card in Moor Street. Thanks to Bandy, I was already quite proficient in French by the time I went there with my school.

  While I was dashing about hunting down clues I was too busy to wonder why Bandy and Sugar were round at our place and why the cafe had closed early. Had I given it any thought at all, I would have realized that the meeting was about the Widow Ginger’s veiled threats. However, nobody was talking about anything important while I was within earshot. They confined themselves to idle gossip – which turned out to be pretty fascinating as it happens.

  I heard Bandy’s plummy tones telling everyone about Sharky’s solution to Mrs Robbins’s money troubles as I puzzled over clue number four, ‘Under the joanna in le petit salon’. It was tricky working out what the French meant while trying to eavesdrop at the same tim
e and it took a while before I realized the next clue was hidden under the toy piano in the living room of my doll’s house. I paused before I hared off to my bedroom to listen to Sharky and T.C.’s brilliant scheme.

  ‘We had Hissing Sid and that skinny creature that I believe the lovely Rosie refers to as the Mangy Cow in the night before last. Personally, I like my women with a bit of meat on them. And my men, come to that.’ There was a hefty thwack as she slapped Sugar’s bum playfully as he passed with a tray of drinks.

  Sugar was indigant. ‘Watch it, Band. I’ll have scorching tea all down me good bits if you’re not careful. Still, skinny or not, it didn’t stop you giving her one now and then, did it? You really are a sex-crazed old bag. We should change your moniker to Randy Bunyan and have done with it. Half a bottle of Gordon’s and a toast rack starts to look good to you, doesn’t it, sweetie? Do you reckon Hissing Sid realizes what a shagnasty that Mary is?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. But hold hard there, Sugar-pie. I do have some standards, as you well know. Anyone I bed must have a heartbeat, be human in origin and over the age of consent. Apart from that, given the right circumstances, I’ll try virtually anyone. Where was I? Oh yes, they were whining about being raided by the vice boys. Seems that they were cleared out of their entire stock only to discover that the self-same books had turned up round at Cliff’s place. Seems the chaps in blue simply sauntered round the corner and flogged the lot to the grateful Cliff at a very healthy discount. When I asked Cliff about it later, turns out the whole scheme was dreamed up by Sharky and T.C.’