The Widow Ginger

by Pip Granger

  When Joe reappeared through the smoke, he was shoving half a dozen underdressed women and two semi-naked men in front of him.

  By now the little street was choked with people and Joe had a quick look round, counting heads. ‘That’s the lot, all present and, if not correct, at least accounted for – except for old Rabinowitz.’ And he disappeared once again into the dense smoke. Nobody said a word as we waited for him to come out again, our eyes straining and streaming as we stared at the door. It seemed longer than a school assembly before we heard stumbling and choking and at last Maltese Joe tottered out into the air carrying what looked like a large bundle of black rags.

  He staggered over to our little group and placed his bundle gently down on the pavement. He could hardly speak; his chest heaved with the effort of getting some air in. He just waved a hand at the heap at his feet and croaked, ‘Do something, can ya?’ Just then, something deep below us exploded and flames and smoke billowed from the club’s doorway like dragon’s breath. ‘We’d better get out of here before something else blows. Give us a hand with Rabinowitz, can you?’

  Betty let go of my hand and bent down to examine the bundle and found old Mr Rabinowitz somewhere inside it. He was still breathing, but his eyes stared blindly ahead and he seemed unaware that he was surrounded by people, some of them semi-naked and smothered in embarrassment. Very gently, she and T.C. helped the old gentleman to his feet and hung on to him so that he stayed upright.

  Maltese Joe found a bit more voice. ‘Just as well it’s early. No punters in the club yet and the girls hadn’t really got going either,’ he remarked to no one in particular. Then he jerked as if someone had stuck his finger in a socket and turned the juice on and barked, ‘Has anyone banged up the lot in the building on the other side?’

  T.C. assured him that he and Mick the Tic had, and sure enough a small frightened group huddled at the end of the street, blocking the entrance so that the fire engine that was clanging along Wardour Street didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell of getting through. T.C. was masterful. He urged us all along the road, clearing the blockage as we went.

  We regrouped in Wardour Street a few minutes later, and stared at the dark, empty space we’d just left. Great clouds of choking black and grey smoke swirled about, trying to find an escape from the narrow tunnel of tall buildings. The last stragglers reached our pavement just in time to let the engine squeeze into the narrow street and hook up to a hydrant. I know this because a nice fireman, who was keeping people away from the entrance to Peter Street, told me, Betty and my doll Lita what they were doing as they did it.

  It took mere minutes to put the fire out, but much, much longer to clear up the mess afterwards. In fact, it was weeks before the club opened its doors again, it having copped most of the damage. Everyone said later that it was a miracle that nobody died or was even seriously hurt.

  Once T.C. was sure everything was under control, he claimed me back from Betty and we all trooped down Old Compton Street to the cafe, even Maltese Joe and Mick the Tic, who seemed to have forgotten for the moment that T.C. was a copper. We made a strange group as we trudged down the road. Maltese Joe was in front, his dapper suit smothered in soot and ash. He had angry red eyes, like the Devil, and was followed by Betty in evening dress, me, T.C. and half a dozen scantily dressed women who supported old Mr Rabinowitz and several tons of goosepimples between them. Behind them came the tenants of the building next door and a whole load of idle nosy parkers. Gigi’s and Ingrid’s punters had melted away, despite wearing little besides their underwear. How they explained themselves away on the tube or to their wives was a matter for intense speculation at the cafe for some days after.

  Nearly all of us made for the cafe but I noticed that Maltese Joe and Mick the Tic didn’t join us. Maltese Joe and my uncle Bert still weren’t speaking, even in an emergency.

  Pretty soon, the girls were wearing various garments rounded up from Auntie Maggie, Madame Zelda and Paulette and we were all wrapped around bacon and egg butties and steaming cups of tea rustled up by Uncle Bert. All except Mr Rabinowitz, who had black tea and salt beef sandwiches from Nosher’s Salt Beef Bar, supplied on Maltese Joe’s instructions via Mic the Tic as he hurried past to round up ‘the boys’. Mick asked Nosher to make them specially, it being well after closing time, or so Nosher explained as he bustled in with his steaming parcel. It seemed that old Mr Rabinowitz was a valued customer and fellow member of Nosher’s synagogue, so he was happy to oblige and to offer the old man a bed and a bath into the bargain. I discovered that I was very partial to salt beef sandwiches that night; I liked a smear of strong mustard on mine. ‘A very sophisticated taste for such a young lady,’ according to Nosher.

  We talked about the drama in Peter Street until it was late and I was positively dropping with tiredness. It had been an amazing day, one way and another. I lay half asleep in T.C.’s lap, thumb comfortingly in my mouth, and listened to the voices recounting every second of their escape. It was Rita from the building opposite who cleared up the mystery of how the fire started. She just happened to look out of her kitchen window when she was washing up after her tea and saw a bloke dart into the club doorway, strike a match and set light to something with it, then stand back and sling it through the door, followed by some rags he pulled from a bag. Then he scarpered.

  ‘It was all over in a flash, if you’ll pardon the pun. Took no more than four or five seconds from start to finish. It was me what yelled down from the door for you three to get out quick. Just as well there was that back way out. You weren’t going to get up them stairs in no hurry. They was ablaze in the time it took me to get down into the street.’

  ‘There’s no doubt your prompt action saved everyone from serious injury or even death.’ T.C.’s voice rumbled above my head. ‘Any bright ideas who the arsonist might be, anyone?’ He waited a moment then continued into the crushing silence that had stolen over the place. ‘I asked Joe the same question, and, amazing though it may seem, he couldn’t come up with a single soul who bore him any ill will. Extraordinary thing, because I for one could name a whole load of people queuing to do him down.’

  Which made me wonder why he was being so dim, if he knew so much. Even I knew just who was at the head of that queue. Amazed at his stupidity, I squirmed upright and said, in loud, ringing tones, ‘What about the Widow Ginger, then? Everyone knows he can’t stand Maltese Joe at any price.’ My voice echoed around the quiet cafe and I suddenly wished I could disappear.

  Uncle Bert obliged by lifting me off T.C.’s warm lap, plonking me down in front of my auntie Maggie and muttering, ‘Bedtime for this one, I think.’

  At this I was whisked away, undressed, washed, tucked up and kissed goodnight in double-quick time, so I missed the rest of the evening.

  16

  It took me ages to get to sleep that night, even though I was so tired I was almost propping my eyelids open with matchsticks. There were so many different things going on in my bonce. I’d had a wonderful day with T.C., so a whole chunk of me wanted to think about him and whether he was my dad or not and how I felt about it if he was. But the rest of me was too worried about the Widow Ginger to do anything but shiver and shake every time he popped into my head. I knew a nutter when I saw one, and there was no doubt in my mind that the Widow was so far round the bend he was in danger of meeting himself on the way back. There are nutcases who are mostly harmless and then there are NUTCASES, who aren’t. They’re the sort you never turn your back on, even when they’re smiling, laughing and having a joke. The Widow was one of them.

  I must have dropped off eventually because the next thing I knew, I was woken up with a start. For the second time in a few weeks, Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie were yelling at each other downstairs. That in itself was enough to set the gnashers rattling, I can tell you. My aunt and uncle were not in the habit of screaming at each other, and even if they were they’d make sure I didn’t hear them. It showed how upset they were that they had forgotten t
o leave me out of it. I tiptoed to the stairs and listened. My thumb crept into my mouth and I sucked and sucked as if my life depended on it.

  ‘I’m telling you, you stupid bloody woman, that the fire would never have happened if I’d warned Joe in time. He would have been better prepared. But no, you had to nag me into keeping my trap shut. Now I’m on the outs with me mate and that bleeding firebug is playing fast and loose with sodding matches.’ Uncle Bert spluttered to a stop to get his breath back, and Auntie Maggie was in like a rat up a drainpipe.

  ‘Don’t you call me stupid, Bert Featherby. If you didn’t have such dodgy mates in the first place we’d never even be involved in all this. It’s hanging about with the likes of Joe that has brought this trouble on our heads, and you know it!’ Misery and fury were fighting for control of her voice, and it trembled badly, but in the end fury won.

  ‘I wondered how long it would take you to slag off my mate. You’ve never liked Joe, but I didn’t see you complaining when his good offices brought all that gear to our door in the war. How do you think we’d have kept this place going without Joe? You just tell me that.’ Uncle Bert’s voice was shaking with rage and he crashed his fist down on the counter with such force that the teacups tinkled and at least one crashed to the floor.

  That was my cue. I couldn’t stand hearing my beloved aunt and uncle fighting for one second longer. It was bad enough that we were all scared to death, but the Widow had got everyone at each other’s throats with no trouble at all. I’d seen enough Westerns and war films to know that, in times of real trouble, sticking together is better than not. Look at the wagon trains in the Wild West. The minute the Indians turned up, the wagons formed a circle and the men, women and children defended that circle and each other to the last gasp. It seemed to me that we ought to be doing the same, so I stepped out of my hiding place and waited for them to notice me and belt up.

  ‘I want you to stop fighting now,’ I said firmly. I was good and cross, as well as scared half to death. ‘You’ve always told me that families stick together when there’s trouble,’ I went on, while they stood there with their gobs open. ‘You told me that families are made up of people we love, whether we actually always like them or not, and you told me that you can’t always choose your family.’ I was hitting my stride now. What I was saying made sense to me, and as it was made up of all the stuff they had taught me they couldn’t even argue with it.

  ‘It seems to me that Maltese Joe is family, whether you like it or not, Auntie Maggie. He came with Uncle Bert when you married him.’ Then I wobbled a bit, because I knew I was on very dodgy ground. I was about to defy my auntie Maggie, something I hadn’t really done before, not seriously, and anyway she’d always won any battle of wills. But this time I knew I was going to dig my heels in, and I was afraid. I’m not sure what of; perhaps that she wouldn’t love me any more. ‘I think we should form a circle, like the covered wagons do when the Indians come. If you go to see Auntie Flo and leave Uncle Bert behind, then I’m not coming with you,’ I shouted. Then I burst into tears, and they almost knocked each other over in their rush to get at me.

  There was a long silence after that, broken only by the occasional hiccup from me. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie stared at each other, then at me, and then at each other again and at last Uncle Bert spoke. ‘Out of the mouth of babes, eh?’ he said, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  Auntie Maggie seemed to understand because she nodded, dabbed her eyes with her pinny and said, ‘She’s right, of course, Bert. And I’m sorry about Joe. I thought it was for the best, but …’ And she left it at that.

  I was reassured that nobody was going anywhere without the others; that I wasn’t in trouble for shouting at my auntie Maggie and that I did indeed have a point about sticking together. To top things off, I got to sleep with them in the big bed, a rare treat saved for times of special need. We all agreed, this was definitely one of those.

  Everyone was tense over the next few days as we waited to see what was going to happen next. There was little or no doubt about who set the fire at the club. What nobody knew for sure was what to do about it. Nobody knew where the Widow Ginger was or exactly why he set the fire in the first place. Some people thought it was a simple case of a nutter being a nutter and enjoying setting fires, especially if it involved an old enemy and a spot of vengeance. Uncle Bert said that although he had long suspected that the Widow had enjoyed playing with matches since childhood – look what had happened to his parents – and wasn’t against arson for fun in principle, there was more to it than that. He thought it was part of a carefully thought out plan to get Maltese Joe rattled and force him into a position of either doing something stupid or negotiating some sort of settlement. He also thought it would be a good idea if Bandy, Sugar, Maltese Joe and our little household kept our eyes and ears wide open, because he was convinced that the fire at the club was far from being the end of it. ‘Mark my words, it’s just an opening shot. There’s more to come. That bleeder can hold a grudge like you wouldn’t believe. He’s had all that time in his cell to plot and scheme and he’s a meticulous bastard, that one. He’ll have polished that plan until it’s a blinder. He’ll definitely want us to suffer before we hand over our assets, so he’ll do his best to build up a nice head of terror.’

  ‘Well, Bert,’ said Bandy, ‘that’s a point of view that’s sure to get all our gussets in a right old tangle. But I think you’re right; the shit does want us gibbering with fear and ready to give him anything. The man may be a psychopath, but he’s no fool. Vigilance is the order of the day. Meanwhile, let’s put the word about, quietly, that we want to know where the sewer is hiding himself. And when we find him, in no circumstances must he discover that we know where he is. It might be handy to know his movements and his cronies – if he has any, that is.’

  And so it was agreed. The word trickled out until everyone we knew in Soho was on the lookout for sight or sound of the Widow. Meanwhile, life went on, even if it did twitch a bit and keep looking over its shoulder.

  With school officially over for Easter, Luigi’s nieces and nephews were at a loose end, too, so I was invited to the flat above the delicatessen to play. This was a few days after the fire and what I always think of as T.C. day, because it was the day I knew for sure that he was my very own dad. Not that he said so, but I felt it, and have never stopped feeling it. I don’t think the penny had quite dropped before.

  So, despite being afraid of the Widow, worried about Jenny and still nervy about the rows at home, I was about three-quarters full of the joys of spring when I went to play at the Campaninis’. It was always great fun there, because Mamma never bothered her head about little things like noise or mess. Auntie Maggie said that with her tribe she’d have driven herself completely loopy if she had. I think that Mamma just adored kids, and her grandchildren in particular, and loved to see us having a good time, and that not driving herself round the twist was simply a bonus.

  We were soon playing hard, screaming up and down the stairs in a game of ‘he’. This involved choosing someone to be ‘he’ and leaving them to count to a hundred while the rest got away; then ‘he’ had to track us down and chase us until we’d either been caught or made it safely ‘home’. The first one to be caught took over the job of being ‘he’. Sometimes we played a more vicious variation where the caught ones joined ‘he’ until we were all caught or ‘home’. However, ‘home’ was only safe for the count of a hundred; then you had to make a break for it and attempt to reach another safe haven and so on until everyone was caught. The last person standing then became ‘he’. The vicious variation was more fun by far, although having a howling mob baying at their heels did tend to frighten the tinies. I’m ashamed to say that just added to the fun for us bigger ones, who enjoyed scaring them witless. Still, they got comfort and lap time with Mamma and the odd sugared almond or lump of chocolate, so it wasn’t all bad.

  We’d played this at top volume for at least an hour when, to my su
rprise, Luigi appeared from the bathroom wearing only a towel round his waist and a black eye. Now, a Luigi who slept in his own bed was a rare and wondrous thing, so it took me a moment to recover from the shock of seeing him at home and half naked to boot. He yawned blearily and greeted me with a ‘Wotcha, Shorty’ before disappearing into his bedroom. I noticed that even a black eye couldn’t make Luigi less gorgeous. His olive skin glowed with health and his glossy dark hair was wet and all spiky. I’d never seen that before. When Auntie Maggie washed my hair it still curled into corkscrews. Hers was so fine that it just hung there like limp lettuce, while Uncle Bert’s bonce had very little hair at all, as he kept it very short and it was a bit thin in places, so spikes were out of the question. I must admit, it struck me as very odd the first time I saw it and it almost took my mind off the eye. The one good one was brown and soft like a cow’s, and fringed with a thick set of black lashes about a yard long that were the envy of every female within a ten-mile radius. The other was dimmed slightly by its red, yellow and purple bruise and the swollen and puffy eyelid. But its lashes were intact, thank goodness.

  ‘Who clobbered your Luigi?’ I demanded, good manners hurled to the wind. Here was hot gossip and I was blowed if I was going to miss out.

  It was Serafina who answered. ‘Maltese Joe hit him when he saw him leaving the club with Betty.’

  ‘Why?’ I was mystified. Why shouldn’t Luigi walk Betty home after work?

  What felt like twenty pairs of soft brown eyes looked at me with pity, the silent message being that I didn’t know anything. They were right, I didn’t. But I made up my mind that that was about to change. ‘So tell me, why did Maltese Joe clout your Luigi? They’re friends.’