by Pip Granger
I loved Mamma and Papa Campanini almost as much as I loved Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert. Mamma was a tiny round woman with the most fetching gold teeth. They flashed and glittered in the light when she smiled, which was often. Papa was bigger and rounder, and he was also given to smiling a lot and pinching my cheeks in what he thought was a playful kind of way. Personally, I didn’t like the cheek pinching much but I didn’t like to say, because I did like Papa and didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was a lovely man, who looked as much at home bouncing babies on his knee as he did behind his counter at the deli.
Dinner at the Campaninis’ always took ages on account of the many courses served, especially on Sundays when Mamma had time to really let rip in her kitchen. It was a tradition that the entire Campanini clan presented themselves straight after eleven o’clock Mass. Mamma and Papa went to the first Mass of the day, which allowed plenty of cooking time afterwards, and Mamma needed every second of it. First of all we had either a soup or cold cuts depending on the season. Then came a pasta dish, followed by fish of some sort, then there was a meat dish, complete with at least half a dozen vegetables and a huge bowl of green salad placed in the middle of the table. Next would come a small water ice, ‘to clear the palate’ before the sweet course. Then there would be fresh fruit, also in a huge bowl so that everyone could help themselves, and lastly there would be cheese and biscuits, although I was usually far too stuffed by then to bother. All this would be accompanied by wine for the adults and wine with plenty of water for the kids who were able to sit at the table. The tinies had milk or water. Then everyone except us tackers would have tiny little cups of strong coffee that smelled wonderful but tasted bitter and foul the only time I tried it.
That dinner time was no different from any other Sunday at the Campaninis’, and the food kept coming and coming. Uncle Bert arrived in time for the meat course, and Auntie Maggie and I heaved sighs of relief as we tucked in with a new enthusiasm. We’d been a bit off our grub with the worry.
Uncle Bert managed to squeeze into a narrow space between me and Luigi and started making up for lost time. He didn’t speak until he’d downed the first three courses, then he took enough of a breather to have a slug of wine and a bit of a chat with Papa Campanini about the football. And after that, he turned to Luigi, who had been waiting patiently, and muttered in a low voice that only Luigi and I were able to hear, ‘No go with Kid still. He’s holed up in that flat of his and hasn’t budged since Joe let him go.’
‘Anybody tried Ruby yet?’ Luigi asked, equally quietly.
Uncle Bert nodded. ‘First port of call. Not a sign. Joe’s lads turned the place upside down, just to be sure.’
‘Kid probably told him about the other houses that service his sort. Checked all those, have you?’
‘Even as we speak, Luigi, even as we speak. But I reckon the bugger’s left town. I feel it in me water. He ain’t stupid; he’ll know we’ll have a go at Kid. He’ll let things settle a bit, then he’ll be back. Meanwhile, it’s a question of keeping our minces peeled, our ears to the ground and our noses sharpened for the first whiff of smoke. Mark my words, the first hint we’ll have that he’s back will be another fire. Bleeder can’t help himself, just loves setting fires.’
‘Christ, Bert, you’d have to be a bloody contortionist to do all that lot, but I get your drift.’ Luigi was about to add more when his mother’s voice broke in, sounding more shocked than she actually was, for the benefit of the tinies.
‘Luigi Campanini, I heard that. In this house, we do not take our Lord’s name in vain.’ Which shut both men up, much to my relief. Talk of the Widow Ginger and the whiff of smoke had put me right off my afters. Luckily, I rallied when I realized that the Widow was probably miles away by now, which meant I could stop worrying, at least for the rest of the day.
I was hardly through the door the next afternoon after school, when Jenny demanded, ‘Guess what?’
‘How many guesses do I get?’ I’ve always found that if someone asks you to guess something, it’s best to set a limit on the number of tries you get, otherwise it can go on all day and get really boring.
‘Three,’ Jenny answered promptly. She was obviously in a hurry to tell me, three being a very measly number. So I rattled off my guesses so that we could get down to the big news.
‘Pete Douglas has been round to see you.’ Pete was one of the fourth year boys and Jenny fancied him like mad, but I don’t think he even knew she existed, so I wasn’t surprised when she shook her head.
‘You’ve got a television.’ But even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t it either, because there was no telly in sight. Another shake of the head and a huge grin because she was so sure I wouldn’t get it.
For my third guess I wanted to say that the doctor had said she could come back to school the following week, but I didn’t have the heart, in case it wasn’t that. I tried to think of something else but was struggling. ‘You’ve found a million quid under the floorboards,’ was all I could come up with, but somehow that didn’t seem likely either.
‘No, you daft thing. It’s me dad. He’s coming home. Seems he caught the Mangy Cow with some wrestler she picked up at Frenchie’s, and what’s more the bloke’s given her “gone ear’’, or something like that. I couldn’t work it out, because when she was here this morning, shouting the odds at Mum and Dad, she had both of her lugs, one each side of her bonce, so the wrestler must’ve given it back. My mum’s ever so pleased. She’s been dead sad since Dad went.’
I didn’t know what to say. I could tell that Jenny was thrilled to bits because for once she had a bit of colour in her cheeks, but to be honest I didn’t think Hissing Sid was much of a bargain, as he should never have left them in the first place. Still, he was her dad, I suppose, and I tried hard to look pleased for her. I must have managed it, too, because she prattled happily on.
‘It started last week, according to Mum. He came round one night when I was kipping and asked if she’d have him back and she said she’d think about it. She says she talked it over with the vicar and he said that “to err is human but to forgive divine’’, whatever that’s s’posed to mean. She says she’ll take him back as long as he sleeps, in my room until he gets this “gone ear’’ sorted, which he has because he’s got a complete set already. It’s OK anyway, with or without his lug, because I’m sleeping in here. So it works out sweet. Gawd, you should’ve seen the Mangy Cow! You’d’ve loved it. She was spitting bricks. She tried to scratch me mum’s eyes out, but Dad stepped in and forced her to get out of the flat quick. It was ever so exciting. Seeing her being thrown out was better than the pictures, I can tell you.’
On and on she went, hardly stopping for air, until she was so knackered she fell asleep. I never did get to tell her why I’d shot out of her place on Saturday or ask her what it was that Kid had to wear. Still, I did get to tell Auntie Maggie and the others all about the Mangy Cow and Hissing Sid when I got home, which made up for it.
I didn’t stay long because Mrs Robbins thought Jenny had had enough excitement for one day. Funnily enough, Jenny’s news made me feel that giving her Dingle instead of Eddie Bear hadn’t been so bad after all, because she was definitely looking a lot better than she had been. Her luck had changed, and she and her mum did feel that the return of Hissing Sid was a jolly good thing, even if I wasn’t so sure.
When I got back to the cafe it was so quiet that I thought for a moment that the place was empty. Then I saw a light in the living-room window upstairs and hammered louder on the door. To my surprise, T.C. answered my knock. I hadn’t been expecting to see him.
He swung me up in the air and on to his shoulders and carried me upstairs. I was so tall that I had to duck so as not to bang my head on the door frames. Once safely in the living room, I snuggled down on his lap while Auntie Maggie went to make hot drinks, tea for the grown-ups and Ovaltine for me. Then he told me he’d been to see my mum in the clinic and that she was very well and sent lots of hugs and k
isses which he dutifully delivered. She also sent a nice, white, crisp fiver for my Post Office Savings book, which was even better. I have to say, I quite liked getting her hugs and kisses secondhand because they didn’t come with the smell of gin and three million fags, which was nice. T.C. smelt of Imperial Leather, shaving cream and shampoo instead, and I much preferred that. T.C. didn’t get all carried away and start slobbering all over me either, the way my mum sometimes did when she’d been on the bevvy too long. I really hated that and would struggle and squirm to get away from her. That usually made her blub, which made me feel bad. There was none of that sort of thing with T.C.; he seemed to know just how long to keep it up, and I never saw him blubbering. Sometimes his eyes did get all shiny as if he was about to, but he never did, thank goodness.
We had a nice evening. I passed on my hot gossip about Hissing Sid and the Mangy Cow and the trouble they seemed to be having with their lugs, which made everybody roar with laughter. I’m not sure why. On the whole, they thought Hissing Sid’s place was at home with his wife and child and that it was a good thing that Mrs Robbins was prepared to overlook his bad behaviour with the Mangy Cow.
Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie seemed to have got over the last traces of their moodiness with each other and were chatting and laughing with T.C. as if nobody had the hump in the first place, which was a big relief. We all had fun playing dominos, snap and Happy Families before having a bit of supper, poached eggs on toast all round. Once that was over it was my bedtime, and T.C. read me a bit of The Borrowers. Before he finally tucked me in and kissed me goodnight I told him I was trying to learn to swim and he promised to take me swimming the following Saturday.
All in all, it was a good day, and I slipped into a deep sleep full of dreams of little tiny people climbing up my bedspread so they could borrow my second-best teddy. When I woke up the next morning, I had poor Eddie Bear in a stranglehold. Nobody, but nobody, was getting my bear if I could help it.
24
School was OK, but I still missed Jenny. The seat next to me seemed ever so empty. Miss Welbeloved must have been missing her as well, because she kept dropping in to see her and she didn’t take any school work along while she was at it. She also started getting us to pray for Jenny at the end of every school day. I was giving those prayers some serious wellie, I can tell you. The place just wasn’t the same without old Jen.
We were still practising running, jumping, sack racing and the egg and spoon ready for Sports Day at the end of the school year. The weather was cold and we’d even been promised hailstones and pelting rain, so a summer Sports Day felt like months and months away. Shivering in the playground in your PE knickers while you waited for your turn was no joke. I thought a person could overdo the practising bit, but Auntie Maggie said she thought old Welbeloved was probably just sick and tired of thinking up new things for us to do in our PE lessons.
It was all a bit of a yawn until Roger Bannister shoved a boot up our bums by running the four-minute mile. All of sudden, we were much keener on this running lark than we had been. Every boy in the school fancied himself as another Roger, and at playtime the boys’ playground became stiff with red-faced lads, puffing, blowing and sweating despite the cold. It was the boys’ clothes that did it. It was still too parky to let go of the thick grey flannel shorts, long grey woolly socks, sturdy white cotton shirts complete with tie and, you’ve guessed it, grey knitted pullovers that they had to keep on at all times. Grey was a much favoured colour at the time, because it didn’t show the dirt when the smoke from winter fires left smuts on everything.
Poor Lardy Lucas, a third year who was definitely not built for running, wound up collapsing in a heap when he tried to copy Roger Bannister. It was more a case of the four-minute yard with poor old Lardy. He wound up like a huge, sweaty tomato being carried by four equally sweaty teachers to what was called ‘the medical room’. In fact, it was really a stock cupboard with a chair and a first aid kit in it. Anyone poorly enough to need to lie down had to make do with two chairs pushed together in the staffroom, much to the teachers’ disgust. They liked to be shot of us during their breaks, and having a sicko in the corner cramped their style something awful. It didn’t do much for the sicko either, especially if they had a rotten cough or were feeling Uncle Dick, because the fag smoke and the stench of old ashtray made a yellow pea-souper smell sweet in comparison.
Anyway, there I was, hanging about in the playground and turning blue in my PE kit, when who should I see walking past but Betty Potts and Johnnie the Horn. I’d’ve yelled and waved if it had been break, but didn’t dare in a proper lesson, so I was forced to just stand and watch them. They didn’t see me. They stopped for a moment when they got to the corner and Betty put her hand out and brushed Johnnie’s cheek with her fingertips as they parted. She carried on up Wardour Street and he headed towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The whole scene lasted less than a second, but there was something about it that made me feel uneasy.
Before I knew what I’d done, my hand shot up and I asked old Welbeloved if I could go to the medical room please because I was feeling a bit uncle. I wasn’t, of course; I just wanted a minute or two in the warmth of that cupboard to think about what I’d just seen and I wanted to be well away from everyone while I did it. I was always able to think better on me tod.
I kept replaying the little scene I’d witnessed over and over again in my head, but whatever way I looked at it, it seemed too friendly by half. I’d never seen Betty touch Luigi like that. Come to think of it, I don’t think she’d touched him at all since I’d started going out with them. For once in my life, I decided that the best course of action was to keep my gob firmly shut on the subject, at least until I knew more. It wouldn’t do at all for Luigi, Maltese Joe or Johnnie’s girlfriend Annie to hear about it, just in case I turned out to be wrong in thinking that it was anything to worry about. I felt in my water that it was; I just didn’t know why.
At last Saturday came, and T.C. presented himself with his towel and swimming costume rolled into a sausage and tucked under his arm. Auntie Maggie wouldn’t let us go straight away. It was too close to my breakfast and she was very firm about that sort of thing: no baths or swimming straight after food. So we hung about upstairs for a while, chatting and playing hangman, while Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert dealt with the Saturday morning rush and I digested my grub.
‘So, what’s new, Rosie? How’s school going?’ asked T.C. He always took an interest in what was happening in my life.
‘Kid’s started stinking again, ever since the Widow Ginger went away. I saw him in the street the other day and he was back in his old smelly khaki clobber. He must keep that smart suit for best,’ I told him.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie, you’ve lost me. What’s this about Kid and the Widow?’
That was the thing about T.C. He was a great listener, and I was a big talker, so we matched up really well. I told him all about being at Jenny’s and the binoculars and everything, except about Uncle Bert being around when Maltese Joe and Mick the Tic questioned Kid. I may have been a blabbermouth, but I also knew when to keep it buttoned. It didn’t do to tell a copper that my beloved uncle had been running around with a knife, even if he hadn’t actually used it on anything livelier than a string of bangers.
‘But Kid wouldn’t tell anyone where the Widow went, even though the Widow was so horrible to him. I saw him yesterday when he was getting his fags and asked him why he’d got the clout round the head, and he said it was because he’d bought the Widow the wrong sort of cheese. My auntie Maggie and uncle Bert never clout me when I get the shopping wrong, so why did the Widow bash Kid? And why didn’t Kid sock him back – that’s what I don’t understand?’
T.C. said he didn’t understand it either. ‘But then, there’s no accounting for some people, Rosie. If there was, there’d probably be no call for policemen. Well, not as many policemen anyway.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Righto, my lovely, time to go swimming, I reckon, if your auntie Maggie’ll
let us out of here, that is.’
We strolled down Old Compton Street in the sunshine chatting about nothing special as we passed Campanini’s and the Continental Fruit Stores but I stopped at the French coffee shop and had a good look at the cakes in the window. It looked like fairyland to me, with fluffy meringue castles and chocolate truffle houses. The little cakes were the fairies, with their intricate, cut-out paper doilies or their frilly-edged cake cups made of pastel-coloured paper folded into tiny little pleats. The light caught the towering cream froth and the dusting of caster sugar so that everything sparkled, and every now and then the jewel shades of glazed strawberries, black grapes or frosted raspberries gleamed. The French really knew how to make a body drool all right. In the end, T.C. managed to drag me away with a promise of nipping in on the way back.
When we got to Wardour Street we stopped for a swift chat with Mamma Campanini, who was on her way back from Berwick Street market. She was followed by two daughters-in-law, both so laden to the eyebrows with bags stuffed with vegetables, fruit and long French loaves that it was impossible to tell who they were; so we just said ‘Hello’ in their general direction and hoped for the best. Mamma seemed happy enough to settle in for a long chat, sunlight catching her gold teeth as she beamed at us and her helpers sagged in her shadow. But T.C. took pity on them and me, and made our apologies for being in a hurry. We promised to drop in for coffee on the way back and carried on.