The Widow Ginger

by Pip Granger

  Each time Jenny nodded off, I got bored, and looked around the dreary little room for something to do while I waited. Trouble was, I’d read all the comics I’d brought and I hadn’t thought to bring a book. I played noughts and crosses with myself for a bit, but I kept winning, so that got boring, too. Finally, I noticed a pair of binoculars beside Jenny’s bed. They were army issue, and I figured that they’d stuck to Hissing Sid’s fingers when he was demobbed. A lot of soldiers had sticky fingers after the war. That’s why there were so many guns and stuff around Soho at that time. I spent an interesting hour or so spying on the people in the street and the flats opposite, which I suppose was what Jenny had been up to. It was good fun. It’s amazing how many people pick their noses and scratch their bums when they think they’re not being watched. Jenny and I had a good old giggle about that when she woke up briefly. She also tipped me the wink about watching the very top flat almost opposite. It had big windows and no curtains, so it was easy to see almost everything.

  ‘There’s a couple of blokes there. I know one of them because he works for my dad sometimes, and anyway he’s lived there for months now. Dad calls him Kid, but I don’t know why because he’s ever so old, thirty at least my mum says.’ I nodded. Everyone knew Kid.

  ‘But the second bloke’s new,’ Jenny went on. ‘Kid’s a right old scruff-bag normally, and he stinks to high heaven.’ I nodded again. The smell was one of the reasons everyone knew Kid. You often got a whiff of him long before he actually arrived anywhere, and you definitely knew where he’d been.

  Although she was obviously tiring again, Jenny was keen on finishing her story. After all, her chances for a good gossip had been pretty thin since she’d been poorly. ‘Anyway, my mum says she hates to think what his place must be like. She reckons it must be stiff with creepy crawlies – yuk! Well, all that changed when the second bloke turned up. Kid’s place was a pigsty; you could tell by all the dirty crocks in his sink. Piled higher than Big Ben they were; you could see the heap as clear as anything from here. Then the second bloke moved in and now everything’s different. All the crocks have gone and Kid’s slaving away day and night, washing, scrubbing and polishing while the other bloke just sits there bossing him about. But the really good bit is that the new bloke makes Kid dress up like a …’ And then, would you believe it, she fell asleep, and me with my tongue hanging out wondering just what it was that Kid had to wear.

  I settled down to some serious watching. For ages, nothing happened, and eventually I let the binoculars wander away from the top flat down to the street – just in time to see a squeaky clean Kid, laden with bags of fruit and veg from the market, letting himself in on the ground floor. Jenny was right; gone was the claggy hair, the scuffed old shoes and the grubby, baggy khaki trousers, and in their place was a scrubbed and stylish Kid in a smart new whistle, barnet cut and tidily combed. Through the binoculars I could see that even his fingernails were clean, and that was unheard of in Kid world. Jenny was right; something was definitely up.

  I had to wait a bit while Kid climbed the stairs. I saw his flat door open, and there he was. His gob was moving as if he was saying something to someone I couldn’t see. Then a second bloke appeared with his back to the window, and I felt a jolt run through me. I knew that pale hair and those narrow shoulders. I knew the cut of that whistle as if it was Uncle Bert’s Sunday best. For one thing, Americans’ trousers never seemed to be on speaking terms with their shoes, because they rarely met. Their turn-ups were always just shy of their laces, leaving a bit of sock on show. No Englishman wore his trousers like that, not on purpose. If they were hand-me-downs from a runt, that was different; but their own trousers, never! It simply wasn’t British to show socks on purpose, unless you were a girl in a skirt or a bloke wearing sandals. I’d noticed the trouser business in American films. Even Gene Kelly’s socks were on show to the world, and I bet he wasn’t wearing hand-me-downs. So I reckoned they must like their trousers short, and it wasn’t a mistake at all.

  My mind flashed back to the night outside the Catholic church, when I was forced to stare at the Widow’s shiny shoes, and sure enough, there were his black socks, just peeping out from beneath his turn-ups. Kid’s new friend was the Widow, there was no doubt about it.

  Suddenly, the Widow exploded into movement. He shot across the room and fetched Kid such a clout around the bonce that I screamed out, ‘Bloody Hell,’ as if he’d attacked me. He was waving his arms about and shouting and then his right hand flew out, index finger rigid and pointing at the floor. To my absolute amazement, Kid dropped to the deck on all fours. The Widow turned to get something hanging from a hook on the door and I looked him straight in the face.

  I stepped back as an alarmed Mrs Robbins came in from the kitchen. ‘For goodness sake, Rosie, what is it?’ Her eyes flew to the bed. She was reassured to see Jenny sitting up, wild-eyed – my yell had woken her with a start – and turned back to me. ‘Will you watch your language. Nice little girls don’t blaspheme or swear like that.’ Now, I wasn’t at all sure that saying ‘hell’ was actual blasphemy. I thought you had to take the Lord’s name in vain, but I didn’t like to argue because Mrs Robbins had got religion since Jenny’d been ill and I thought she might know better than me. Jenny said she spent a lot of time on her knees, and when she got a chance she went to church as well.

  I must have looked stricken because she immediately apologized. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I didn’t mean that. You’re a good girl, and a good friend to my Jenny, but really, dear, you must try not to swear.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Robbins, really I am, for swearing. I didn’t mean to. But I’ve gotta go. Sorry, Jen. P’raps I can come tomorrow and explain it all then, but right this minute I’ve really got to go.’ I was still jabbering at them as I made for the door, but then Auntie Maggie’s training came back, and I stopped long enough to say, ‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Robbins. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jen, if that’s all right, Mrs Robbins?’

  Jenny’s mum nodded just once and I was gone, running down the stairs and then the road as if all the devils from hell were snapping at my bum like Betty Potts’s dog Jack – which they were, in a way. I certainly had no trouble seeing the Widow, with red glowing eyes and a tail, rising from the flames of hell.

  I panted into the cafe almost too breathless to speak, but managed to keep enough of my wits about me not to blurt out the news to the room full of punters. I looked around and saw to my great relief that Maltese Joe and Mick the Tic were both sitting at the corner table with Uncle Bert.

  I rushed over to them. ‘It’s the Widow Ginger. He’s at Kid’s place,’ I managed to gasp.

  It was as if I’d shoved five million volts through the three men. As one, they leaped to their feet and almost trampled me into the lino in their rush to get to the door.

  Auntie Maggie managed a ‘Bert Featherby! You stop right where you are! Let Joe and his boys handle it,’ but she needn’t have troubled, because Uncle Bert ignored her. He charged out of the cafe, then sprinted back in, vaulted the counter like a cowboy in a Western, grabbed his sharpest kitchen knife and was gone again before she could say anything else. I never knew my uncle Bert had such a turn of speed in him, let alone the leaping abilities of a young gazelle.

  Auntie Maggie and I spent an anxious half hour worrying about what was going on at Kid’s place. All Auntie Maggie could do was wring her pinny and keep muttering, ‘Please God, don’t let my Bert use that knife,’ over and over again until I was thoroughly rattled. Thank goodness, Madame Zelda came in after about the ninety-fifth mutter and took charge of the situation.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Maggie, you’re scaring the little ’un. Now you just sit there and give the girl a cuddle while I get rid of the punters, just in case we don’t need any witnesses when the lads get back.’

  I wasn’t used to Auntie Maggie losing her grip like that and I wished and wished that I hadn’t seen the Widow Ginger – or that, having seen him, I’d kept the news to myself.
But it was too late. I found myself taking up Auntie Maggie’s prayer with an added bit. ‘Please God, don’t let Uncle Bert use that knife and let him come back safe.’

  When I wasn’t imagining what was going on in Kid’s flat, I kept seeing Jenny’s pale, pointy face and enormous panda eyes. It scared me, the way she kept falling asleep as we talked. I wanted Auntie Maggie’s reassurance desperately, but I knew that, with Uncle Bert out struggling with that nutter the Widow Ginger, reassurance was out of the question.

  Our cafe began to feel like a flimsy little rowing boat, adrift on the ocean with no hand on the tiller, while sharks circled lazily around, just waiting for it to ship water and tip us into their gaping, razor-toothed jaws. I shuddered, and tried praying for us all instead of letting my imagination drive me mad.

  23

  Uncle Bert and Maltese Joe came back to the cafe in a temper. Maltese Joe was ranting while Uncle Bert was tight-lipped and silently seething, I could tell. The new, improved Kid was wedged between them, looking white and scared.

  Auntie Maggie forgot she had me on her lap and jumped to her feet as soon as they came in the door. I hit the deck with a thump as she rushed forward. ‘You didn’t do anything with that knife, did you, Bert?’ I think she was afraid that they might have left the Widow Ginger dead or bleeding on Kid’s squeaky clean kitchen floor.

  Uncle Bert sounded strained. ‘No, love, I didn’t do anything. Seems that Stanley caught a glimpse of our Rosie the same time she saw him, and put two and two together when he saw her racing down the road. He legged it quick. It’s just a matter of persuading Kid here that it’s in his interests to tell us where the man went. Trouble is, at the minute, he still finds Stanley more terrifying than us.’

  Maltese Joe grinned with his teeth, but not with his eyes. ‘But that’s just about to change,’ he said, giving Kid a hefty shove towards the door again. ‘When Mick gets back with the boys, tell him that we’ve decided to take Kid to Bandy’s place instead for our little chat. No bloody great windows there, see. More privacy. He’s to follow us round there. C’mon, Bert. It’s time to tango with this toe-rag.’

  Auntie Maggie put her hand on Uncle Bert’s arm, trying to stop him from leaving, but he wasn’t having it. Gently, he took her hand away and said quietly, ‘I’ve got to do this, Maggie. It involves us all. If we let Stanley wander about, then he’s free to use his matches and oily rags again, and next time someone might be killed. And Maggie, love, that someone could be us, or Joe here, or Bandy or Sugar. Let’s face it, he could incinerate a whole club full of innocent people. We can’t let him carry on, now can we? Use your loaf, gel. The man’s a bleeding nutter and that makes him unpredictable and dangerous. I don’t need to tell you that, now do I?’

  ‘Can’t you let the coppers deal with it? It is their job, after all.’ Auntie Maggie’s face was all white and pinched. The fact that she was suggesting calling the police told me all I needed to know about how serious the whole thing was.

  ‘Don’t be daft, girl. What are we going to tell ’em? All about our war work? And what about the bloke in the blackout and all that? They’ll want to know why it wasn’t reported years ago, and that makes me an accessory to the blackout thing. On top of that, how can we prove the swine’s responsible for the fires? We might know it’s him, but where’s our proof? No, love, we’ve got to have a little natter with Kid here. Lives depend on it, especially ours.’

  ‘Come on, Bert. The sooner we’ve broken a few bones, the sooner we’ll know where that slimy git Stanley’s hanging out.’ There was a glint in Maltese Joe’s bulging eyes. The veins showed bright red in the whites, like the arterial roads on a map.

  ‘Just a tick, Joe. Zelda, look after my girls for me, will you?’ Uncle Bert turned to Auntie Maggie. ‘Try not to worry, love. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Look after your auntie, Rosie, there’s a good girl.’ And with a swift peck on Auntie Maggie’s cheek and a pat on my curls he was gone, along with Maltese Joe and Kid.

  Auntie Maggie started pacing as soon as they left, her pinny wrung almost to rags. Madame Zelda tried to calm her down. ‘It’ll be all right, Maggie, you’ll see. Your Bert’s not given to being too hasty and he’ll be able to keep Joe in some kind of order. You’ll see, it’s going to be OK. Now get a grip, there’s a good girl. Poor little Rosie here’s in a right old two and eight and you ain’t helping.’ That got Auntie Maggie to stop pacing for minute and have a good look at me. Large tears were streaming down my mush. I could tell by the steady drip, drip, drip from my chin on to my blouse.

  ‘I didn’t mean to let him see me, Auntie Maggie, honest I didn’t.’ And then I began to blub in earnest. Everything was my fault: Jenny being so poorly and Uncle Bert being mixed up in nasty business with Maltese Joe and the Widow. I wished and wished I’d been more careful, that I hadn’t hared back from Jenny’s flat, gob flapping the minute I got in the door, telling them I knew where the Widow was hiding. I was so pleased with my discovery, I just didn’t stop to think as usual. I didn’t think that I might be seen, or what might happen when Maltese Joe got his hands on anybody connected with the Widow. But it was much too late to be sorry.

  Then I began to wonder and worry about what my uncle Bert had meant when he talked of the bloke in the blackout, and him being ‘an accessory’. But Auntie Maggie’s kisser closed up tighter than a miser’s wallet when I asked her, and I knew it was no use to nag. She wasn’t going to tell me and that was that.

  The men still hadn’t got back to the cafe by the time I had to go to bed. We’d sent Mick the Tic and the rest of Maltese Joe’s boys round to Bandy’s place ages before. By the time I was tucked up, Paulette had come to join Madame Zelda and Auntie Maggie in the long wait. Bless her heart, she realized I wouldn’t be able to sleep and felt sorry for me all alone upstairs, so she joined me for a chat and a cuddle.

  ‘So, Rosie, what’s going on with Luigi and Betty?’ And so I told her all about our most recent trip to the swimming baths in Marshall Street and how Betty in a bathing costume caused even more of a stir than Betty in proper clothes. I told her that Johnnie the Horn, so called because he played the trumpet in a jazz band, had been there with his girlfriend Annie, the band’s singer. We’d had a great time playing with a huge beach ball until we were so tired we had to nip into Campanini’s for coffee for the grown-ups and ice cream for me.

  ‘So, no hanky-panky yet again. Do you reckon the fire’s going out with those two? That’s if it was ever lit in the first place. Of course, we all know that Luigi’s burning hot still, but Betty never really managed much more than a bit of a smoulder, did she?’

  Sadly, I had to admit that I thought she hadn’t. It worried me, because I knew that if Betty dumped poor Luigi he would be very upset. Still, it gave Paulette and me something to talk about while we waited for Uncle Bert to come home. It was a long, long wait, and by the time he finally did turn up, I was sparko.

  Nobody was saying much the next morning. Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert were obviously worn out from lack of sleep and plenty of worry. I tried to keep the chatter going, but it was such hard work that even I shut my trap in the end.

  I had just raised the last mouthful of scrambled eggs to my mouth when Maltese Joe hammered on the door. Uncle Bert let him in and Auntie Maggie’s lips thinned. She chomped down on her bit of toast with a snap like a trap closing on a rat. She was definitely not happy to see him.

  Maltese Joe ignored her and spoke only to Uncle Bert. ‘The bugger’s not saying much. I don’t know what Stanley threatened him with, but whatever it was it was worse than even I can manage. Nothing’ll shift him. I left Mick working on him all night and Mick’s a man who enjoys his work. Trouble is, Kid likes it more, so upping the persuasion ain’t going to do it. He looks as if he’s been hit by the bleedin’ Flying Scotsman at full tilt. He won’t be using that arm again in a hurry, neither, but still he’s keeping schtum as to Stanley’s probable whereabouts. Best we could manage was to get him to swear to drop the word in me
shell-like the minute he hears from Stanley. But we can’t trust him. By then he’d have said anything to get out alive.

  ‘We dumped him on the steps of the hospital come the end. You can’t do anything with a fucker like that. Bleedin’ pervert enjoys a good slap. I’ve got the boys taking it in turns to watch him and his gaff. I reckon if we can lull him into a false sense of security, he’ll try and get in touch with Stanley, or Stanley’ll get in touch with him, one of the two. What d’you think?’

  ‘I think it’s worth a try, Joe. It’s definitely worth a try. You had breakfast?’

  Uncle Bert and Maltese Joe went upstairs after that and Auntie Maggie and I were left alone. We sat in silence for a long, long time and then Auntie Maggie heaved a huge sigh and said, ‘So, Rosie love, what are your plans for the day? Off back to Jenny’s, are you? Or is she resting today? How is the poor little mite, anyway? Her mum holding up, is she?’

  I told her all about how Jenny told me that her mum had gone all religious and was always down on her knees praying in her bedroom or at church.

  ‘I suppose it’s a big comfort to her. Makes her feel less helpless, I expect.’ She spoke in an absentminded sort of way. You could tell that she had half an ear listening to me while the rest of her was wondering what Maltese Joe was talking Uncle Bert into upstairs, well away from her flapping lugs – and mine, come to that.

  Finally, Uncle Bert and Maltese Joe came back down to the cafe and headed towards the street door, much to Auntie Maggie’s alarm. ‘Where are you off to now, Bert?’ she demanded.

  ‘Won’t be long, Maggie,’ was all he would say. Then he was gone, leaving me and my aunt staring at the door.

  We were still staring when Luigi arrived, so he didn’t have to knock. He just strolled in, whistling quietly through his teeth. ‘Wotcha Maggie, Shorty. Bert asked me to pop in, make sure you’re all right, but I was on me way here anyway. Do you two girls fancy your dinner round at ours? Mamma says it’s been too long since you were at our table. She’s been cooking all morning and she’s got enough grub to feed the five thousand, and now our Gina’s had to cry off because two of her lot have gone down with mumps. Bert’s coming later, and so’s Betty. So what do you say? One o’clock do you, will it?’