by Pip Granger
I always knew when my auntie Maggie began to babble that she was avoiding answering one of my questions. I sighed. I was never going to find out what Ruby’s special services were, and I resigned myself to the fact. By the time I was settled comfortably on the bed, Auntie Maggie was on to silver sugar tongs and I fell asleep. There’s only so much babble a person can take.
When I woke up again it was dinner time and I was starving. Downstairs the cafe was full of punters, talk, laughter, fag smoke and steam. Mrs Wong’s little figure was darting about in the fug with plates of food balanced all the way up her arms and I had to dodge smartish so as not to get under her feet. According to my auntie Maggie, one of the secrets of being a good waitress is being nimble and able to dodge and weave because it’s a law of nature that there is always some so and so ready, willing and able to trip you up and send good food and crockery crashing to the lino. And there’s no profit in that, so I learned from nappyhood how to get out from under flying feet fast. Uncle Bert always said that as a baby I was the fatest bum-slider in the west. I expect all cafe kids are the same, otherwise we’d spend our lives covered in gravy, custard and bits of cabbage.
I was so busy trying to get to the corner table without getting in the way that I didn’t see the Widow Ginger come in. I felt the draught from the open door and when I looked round he was standing there in the doorway, smoke and steam billowing around him as it made a rush to escape the crowded room. I felt like joining it, because, just for a moment, the Widow looked like the Devil at the gates of hell. It was his stillness in the doorway that was so frightening. Only his eyes moved; he appeared to be looking for somebody. Then they stopped at me, with a brief, blank stare followed by the coldest smile I had ever seen. I was rooted to the spot as he stared at me and I stared back at him.
It seemed like a hundred years of quaking in my slippers before, thank God, I heard Madame Zelda’s voice cut through the distant sound of the hissing tea urn and the chatting punters. ‘Oi, you, move your arse. We’ve got a starving mob backed up behind your carcass.’ And the Widow Ginger was shot sharply forward into the room by a dig in the back from Madame Zelda’s handbag. Nothing and nobody was allowed to get in the way of a hungry soothsayer with a whiff of the trough in her nostrils – or so Sugar said later, when relaying the story back to Bandy. I scuttled for the safety of the corner table and the reassuring company of Luigi, Sugar and, once she’d muscled past the Widow, Madame Zelda.
When I looked again, the milling about around the doorway had stopped and the Widow Ginger had gone. I almost thought I’d imagined the whole thing, until Luigi muttered to no one in particular, ‘I wonder what that bastard wanted. I think I’d better get hold of Joe.’ He stood up and headed towards the door, then turned and added an afterthought. ‘Sugar, warn Bert and Bandy that he’s about, will you?’ And he too was gone.
It wasn’t often that I was struck dumb, but I was left feeling really shaken and frightened, and with no way to explain it to anyone. Nothing had actually happened, but I still felt as if he gave me his special attention. On the few occasions I’d seen him he’d always given me strange looks. That was it; nothing more than funny looks. I’d seem a right wally if I told my nearest and dearest that I was all rattled because he’d looked at me. But I was. It seemed to me that the Widow hated just about everything and everyone round our way, and that for some reason I couldn’t understand he seemed to hate me too, which wasn’t fair; stepping on someone’s shoe isn’t that bad, after all. And I wasn’t even born until the war was over, and whatever it was that had got so far up his nose that it had twisted his brains was nothing to do with me.
I was convinced that those glittering eyes sought me out for special attention and it made me deeply afraid. I hoped and prayed that I wasn’t going to be on the receiving end of any of those ‘special services’ nobody would talk about.
Luigi wasn’t able to find Maltese Joe at any of his usual haunts, but then it was a bit early in the day for that, so he had to content himself with leaving urgent messages for him with various henchmen. It was Betty Potts who suggested that Luigi try at Maltese Joe’s flat. Now, nobody visited Maltese Joe at home unless they were a priest or a nun or were invited to do so by the man himself. It just wasn’t done, because he was funny like that. Most people weren’t even sure where he lived most of the time, because he moved around a lot just so he could confuse business rivals and the police. Still, there was the flat that his mum lived in. He was often there, but even Uncle Bert had always waited for an invitation before visiting it.
So Luigi was relectant to go ringing on the doorbell, what with that and the fact that there had been no love lost between the two men since Betty had appeared on the scene. That made visiting Maltese Joe an even dodgier manoeuvre. Everyone at the corner table agreed on that. It was Uncle Bert who suggested telephoning first. Owning a telephone was still a relatively rare thing – we didn’t have one at the time – but Maltese Joe did, and so did Sharky Finn, so Luigi nipped next door clutching a piece of paper with the number on it.
He was back quickly. ‘No answer,’ he explained.
Uncle Bert was puzzled. ‘What do you mean? It ain’t Sunday, is it? So Joe’s mum should be there at least. She never goes out if she can help it, except to Mass, of course. There’s always someone there. Joe makes sure of it. You’re certain there’s no answer? Did you let it ring? The old girl’s a bit slow on her scotches nowadays. Maybe she didn’t make it.’
So back Luigi went. He was away considerably longer this time, but the news was the same. ‘No answer.’
Uncle Bert was worried, and the deep frown showed he was thinking hard. At last he came to a decision. ‘Look, Luigi, I don’t want to leave the girls or this place, not with that nutter roaming about. He’s already scared our Rosie by just walking in here.’ (Now how did he know that? I hadn’t said a word. Later, Madame Zelda said I did look a bit white around the gills, but Auntie Maggie said that he just knew his little girl like the back of his hand.) ‘Can you stay on here while I nip round to Joe’s flat and make sure everything’s all right? I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’ Luigi simply nodded once and Uncle Bert whipped his apron off and slipped out. I noticed that Auntie Maggie pressed her lips tightly together, so as not to say a word.
She was all business once he’d gone. ‘Betty, would you mind sitting with our Rosie for an hour or so? Looks to me as if she could do with a rest and I know she’ll be messing about up there if she’s all on her tod. We’ve got the dinner-time rush to clear up after and it won’t clear itself.’
I was still a bit jittery at first. The Widow had unsettled me that much. But Betty cosied up beside me and began telling me stories about her childhood on the chicken farm deep in the Sussex countryside, somewhere near a place called Bolney. She told me how, even when she was tiny, she’d dreamed of getting away from chicken poo and becoming a dancer or a film star. She didn’t mind which. After a while, the soft drone of her voice soothed my jangled nerves, and I was almost able to forget about the Widow and the nameless dread he made me feel.
I especially liked the story of her dog, Jack, and how he saved her from getting squashed flat by the tractor at the farm at the top of her lane. It seems that she had just learned to walk and was busy putting her new-found talent to good use. She got everywhere: in the barn, in the chicken coops, in the dung heap and, finally, out of the farmyard and into the lane. ‘What you don’t realize, Rosie, being brought up in the Smoke, is just how many dangerous places there are on a farm. There’s the hayloft, for a start. Get up there and fall, and it’s a broken leg at least; land on something, and you could be run through into the bargain.’ Betty knew I was keen on gore in theory, if not in practice, and usually managed to include some in her stories.
‘Then there’s the duck pond; easy to drown there. God, there’s a hundred and one places for a toddler to get hurt or even killed stone dead on a farm, and according to my mum I found all of them. Luckily, though, I had my
faithful old Jack, who stuck to me like glue and managed to get me out of most dangerous situations. He’d just grab me by the nappy, or my cardigan, and drag me away. But this particular day he couldn’t get a grip on anything because there was nothing to sink his teeth into. I was stark naked; not a stitch on, no nappy, no cardie, no nothing, and I was headed straight under the wheels of next door’s tractor. Farmer Cattermole saw the whole thing from his cow byre. He yelled to try to warn the tractor driver that I was in the way, but the engine drowned him out, and just as he’d started to run across his yard he saw Jack round me up like a naughty sheep and then drive me back all the way down the lane to home by nipping just a fraction behind my bare bottom. His teeth didn’t make contact once. He was that clever.’
We played a few games of snakes and ladders and then it was time for tea. Now that I was getting better and there wasn’t a mump to be seen, I was expected to eat my meals in the cafe to save Aunt Maggie the trips up and down with loaded trays. I was keen to oblige, because it was more interesting downstairs once I was in a fit state to sit up and take notice.
Betty and I entered the cafe at exactly the same moment as Uncle Bert. He had been round at Maltese Joe’s for an amazingly long time for somebody who was uninvited and not on speaking terms with his host. He should have got what the American soldiers called the ‘bum’s rush’ in very swift order. Paulette explained to me that a bum had nothing to do with backsides in America; a bum was a tramp or something like it. I wasn’t at all sure that she’d got that right; after all, getting ‘the bum’s rush’ and getting ‘your arse out of here’ sounded pretty similar to me. Still, the point is, Uncle Bert had been gone for ages and we soon found out why.
Uncle Bert didn’t trouble to stop at the corner table, and I knew things were serious when he began encouraging the last few punters to leave. Even Betty said she had some shopping to do. Soon the place was empty except for Luigi, Uncle Bert, Auntie Maggie and me.
‘Go and pull the door blind down, Rosie, and turn the sign to Closed, there’s a love. I’ll get your tea. Boiled egg and soldiers do you?’ And he disappeared back into his kitchen.
For some reason, none of us spoke, even though he was being infuriating not telling us what had happened round at Maltese Joe’s place. We simply waited in silence until Uncle Bert came back carrying a tray with my tea, several glasses and a bottle of whisky on it. He began handing out food and drinks and I remember being struck by the wonderful colour of whisky as it sloshed into the glasses. Needless to say, I got milk, which is nowhere near as good-looking. Once everyone was served, Uncle Bert sat down heavily with a deep sigh and took a large swig of his drink. ‘OK, I’ll tell you what happened.’ Which is what we were all longing to know.
Uncle Bert thought for a long time before he spoke. Truth to tell, I was getting bored with waiting and almost blurted out ‘Get on with it!’ But I didn’t, because they would almost certainly have sent me upstairs to get me out of the way.
‘I knew I was right and that something was up as soon as I got up the stairs to Joe’s door,’ Uncle Bert began at last. ‘It was ajar. Now Joe’s never that sloppy, so I called out and got no answer. Gave me the creeps, I can tell you. Anyway, I pushed the door right back, in case there was someone behind it, but there wasn’t. What I thought I was going to do about it if there was, I’m blowed if I know; but there wasn’t any problem, so that was all right. I waited a bit, to see if I could hear anything, but there was nothing but this funny little tapping noise. Once I was sure I was on me tod, at least in the hallway, I stepped in.
‘I saw the pile straight away. It was a great heap of what looked like Joe’s clobber. Suits, shoes, shirts, the lot, and they reeked of petrol. Sure enough, somebody had left the empty jerrycan right next to the pile. That and a box of matches. On the wall behind it, written in what looked like blood, but might well’ve been ketchup, seeing there was a bottle of it on the hallstand, was a message. “Joe, I’ll be seeing you … but will you see me?” The bloody Widow knows how to make you sweat, I’ll give him that. The bastard’s been planning this for a long time.
‘Meanwhile, that tapping noise was getting on me nerves, so I thought I’d better look into it. In the end, I tracked the noise down to the broom cupboard in the kitchen. It was old Ma Joe. Trussed up like a Christmas goose, she was, just had the strength to tap the chair leg against the floor. If the place hadn’t been so quiet, I never would’ve heard her. Poor old duck had a gag and everything. It’s a wonder she didn’t suffocate.
‘Anyway, I figured I couldn’t just leave her there so I calmed her down a bit and took her to your mum, Luigi. I didn’t think the poor old darling would like to be faced with a cafe full of punters so soon after what had happened to her. I thought she’d feel safer away from the flat, you see. She was able to tell Mamma what happened while I went to find Joe. You’ll never guess where he was? Not in a million years. Go on, have a guess.’
Auntie Maggie gave Uncle Bert her old-fashioned look. ‘Don’t be a prat, Bert. If you’re going to tell us where Joe was, just bloody well tell us and get it over with, there’s a dear.’
Uncle Bert whipped out his pipe, stared at it for a minute, then smiled. ‘Suit yourself. Where was I? It turned out that old Ma Joe answered the door to what she thought was the postman first thing. But it wasn’t; it was the Widow. He pushed his way in, tied the old girl up, arranged his bonfire in the hall, wrote his message and then told her to tell her son that he should keep his boys away from him and that he would be back to light the matches. Then he buggered off. Poor old dear had been there all day, practically. She couldn’t walk. I had to carry her to Mamma’s.’
Auntie Maggie was anxious. ‘Is she all right now? Should I go round there?’
‘No, no. Mamma’s got everything sorted. Ma Joe’s staying the night with her. She was tucking into a plate of spags when I left. She’ll be all right. She’s too sparky to let something like that get her down for long. Right now, she’s telling her Joe just what he’s got to do to the bugger when he catches up with him, and believe me, it ain’t pretty. Last I heard, she had the Widow’s orchestras flying through the top of his head, and that was just for starters. Joe says that he’ll be along for a word in a bit, when he’s got his mum settled.’
Auntie Maggie looked uncomfortable, but held her peace. Uncle Bert and Maltese Joe had some ground to make up, and she knew it. She also knew that in no circumstances was she to interfere. It was between the two men.
Nobody seemed inclined to ask the question that was bothering me. There was a long, long silence while everyone thought about what they’d heard. Except me, that is. I was busy thinking about what I hadn’t heard. In the end, I could bear it no longer. ‘Uncle Bert, I give up. Where was Maltese Joe?’
He laughed, eyes sparkling in merriment. ‘He was having a violin lesson, Rosie, with old Rabinowitz. Seems he’s been at it for years, but he keeps it very, very quiet. I mean, who ever heard of an arch spiv playing the bleeding fiddle? Classical at that, according to his mum.’
At that moment Maltese Joe walked in the door, closed it behind him and shot the bolts top and bottom. If he noticed me at all, he gave no sign. I tried to make myself as small and still as possible. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and, like the others at our corner table, I waited.
At last Maltese Joe spoke. I had expected plenty of ranting and raving, because that was his style, but in fact he was very quiet and serious. ‘Thank you, Bert, for sorting my mum. She could’ve died in that cupboard.’ He took a few deep breaths and continued. ‘Like she said, if you hadn’t dropped by, sure as hell nobody else would’ve had the front to come to my private place. So, I owe you one, Bert, a big ’un.’ He walked over to our table then, and stuck out his hand.
Uncle Bert stood up, wiped his hand on his trouser leg, and shook briefly with Maltese Joe, looking solemn. They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and nodded slightly at each other. Then Uncle Bert said, ‘Take a load off, Joe. I
reckon we’ve got a lot to talk about. Maggie, how about a cuppa? And Rosie, you’ve been up long enough. Time for you to have a nap, if you ask me.’
Which I hadn’t, and neither had anybody else, but I was hustled up the stairs by Auntie Maggie anyway. The last thing I saw was Maltese Joe hooking a chair over to the table with his foot and sitting astride it, resting his arms on the back. ‘Right, now that’s out of the way for the time being, we’d better talk about what we’re going to do about that mad fucker Stanley. Luigi, nip round and get Bandy, will you? She’d better be in on this.’
I missed the next bit, because Auntie Maggie was busy settling me under my eiderdown for a kip. However, I could tell that her mind was downstairs with Uncle Bert and Maltese Joe and it wasn’t long before I got a swift kiss on the curls and she was gone. Of course, I was out of that bed almost before the door closed and her heavy step sounded on the stairs, and it was only moments before I heard Maltese Joe telling Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie what was going on.
‘I’ve got my boys out now, combing every inch of the manor. There ain’t a club, knocking shop, boozer, dive or doss house within a five-mile radius that they ain’t turning over as we speak. The bastard’s in and out so quick, he’s got to have his base nearby. I’ve told the lads not to hesitate to break arms, legs or even backbones, if required, to loosen any tongues. Some bugger knows where he is, or is hiding him; if creating a few cripples helps us find out who and where, I say the effort’s worth it. Now’s the time to bung your loose change into a wooden leg factory, Bert, because demand’s about to fucking well go up.’