The Widow Ginger

by Pip Granger

  Without talking about it, we wheeled into Peter Street for a scranny at Maltese Joe’s club, to see what progress had been made in getting it back in running order. But it was a disappointment. A new street door was firmly locked and all there was to see were some scorch marks climbing the brick wall around it. Mind you, it was enough to bring back the creeping dread that thoughts of the Widow always set off. I shivered and got a tighter grip on T.C.’s hand.

  We carried on into the bustle of Berwick Street, which wasn’t strictly necessary, but I wanted to go to Mabel’s flower stall. After the quiet of dark little Peter Street, the light, noise and colour of the market was a blessed relief, and the brooding presence of the Widow drew back into the shadows for a while.

  Everybody seemed to be yelling at once. ‘Come on, ladies, get yer spring greens here. Look at the lovely tops on them, now. Fit for a queen.’ Or, ‘How about a nice bit of cods’ roe for yer tea, ladies? Or potted shrimps, spread on yer toast, luvverly!’

  We ignored it all until we got to the flower stall. There were huge buckets of tulips in red or yellow and the last of the spring daffs, looking just a bit sorry for themselves. My purse was deep in my dress pocket. I handed over five large pennies and asked Mabel to wrap up some tulips for my auntie Maggie so we could pick them up on our way back. That done, we turned into Broadwick Street where we didn’t stop to talk to a soul, not even outside the cafe belonging to Luigi’s cousin Lorenzo, or the pub on the corner. We hurried into Marshall Street and the swimming baths.

  I had to go into the women and girls’ changing rooms and T.C. had to go into the men and boys’, and we didn’t meet again until I was up to my chest in warm water at the shallow end. T.C. was ever so patient, and never seemed to get bored with walking from side to side, supporting me under the belly while I tried to get my arms and legs to do what they were supposed to. He never let me slip under the water so I got frightened, either, and unlike Luigi he kept his mind on the job and didn’t eye the girls in their bathing costumes.

  Backwards and forwards we went, until finally, with a yell of triumph, T.C. told me I had just swum without any support at all. ‘You’re a swimmer, Rosie! You’ve done a whole half-width all by yourself. All you need now is a spot of practice and before you know it you’ll swim a mile.’

  I don’t know who was more ecstatic, him or me. We played silly buggers for a bit, whooping and splashing in celebration, then he told me to climb on his back and hang on tight. I did as I was told and then he took off like a dolphin for the deep end.

  Which is how I missed them coming in, I expect, because the entrance to the pool was at the shallow end. Of course, they wouldn’t have recognized me because I had on my rubber bathing cap, which hid my curls, and all they’d have seen was my back. We were swimming back towards the shallow end when I saw Betty. There was no mistaking those legs that seemed to go on for ever, and that figure that made every bloke in the place – except T.C., who was too busy – stop and stare.

  I was just about to wave and shout when I clocked who was with her. It wasn’t Luigi who had his hand possessively on her bum, or Maltese Joe either. It was Johnnie the Horn. I was so shocked that I tightened my grip on my dolphin and almost drowned us both. Luckily, it was shallow enough for T.C. to stand up, spluttering and choking, which tipped me into the water. I floundered about for a bit in a panic and swallowed at least half the pool while I was at it. I was just beginning to think I must surely drown when T.C.’s large hands grabbed me in a firm grip and hauled me out of the water and up on to his shoulders. We waded for the side and climbed the steps and only then did he lower me to the cold tiles. That’s when Betty noticed us, and I swear she turned white first, then red. If she hadn’t been wearing her bathing hat, her face would have clashed with her barnet.

  T.C. was grinning as he waved and yelled. ‘Hello there. Guess who has just swum her first half-width alone and unaided? Esther Williams had better watch out. She’s got serious competition with my water baby here.’

  I was still so shocked at seeing Betty and Johnnie together again, and wobbly-kneed from almost drowning, that I almost missed it. T.C. had called me his water baby. I’d heard him with my own ears. ‘My water baby’, he’d said. It was all too much, and I burst into tears.

  They wouldn’t let T.C. into the women’s changing room, so it was Betty who led me through the footbath and the showers to the locker with my clothes in it. I couldn’t explain what was making me cry in front of T.C. in case he changed his mind about me being his, so I just hiccuped and gulped a lot instead. I would have told Betty, I think, but she was too busy towelling me dry and trying to tell me that she and Johnnie were just good neighbours and friends. I didn’t believe a word of it. I wanted to, because I liked Betty, but I had learned a while back that anyone who insisted on explaining something you hadn’t even asked about, and wouldn’t shut up about it, was almost certainly lying.

  Anyway, at that moment, I wasn’t too interested in Betty’s business. I was far more interested in mine. I kept wondering if T.C. had really meant it: that I was his water baby. I found I was hoping that he had. Then I got all confused, because Uncle Bert was like a dad to me, and I loved him dearly, which set me to wondering if I would be allowed to have two sort-of dads. And if so, did two sort-of dads equal one whole one? Or not? I found myself wishing that Betty would just shut up. On and on she gabbled, until I finally got out of the changing rooms, and she went back to join Johnnie in the pool.

  I was very quiet on the way back to the cafe. T.C. was talked into staying for his dinner, and he had steak and kidney pie, spuds and greens, followed by tinned peaches and vanilla ice cream with two wafers. Nobody noticed how quiet I was, but it was all right because T.C. was busy boasting about my swimming. All the time I kept thinking, his water baby, his water baby, over and over again. I know that I’d sort of known for ages that he was probably my dad, but it was the first time he’d ever said that I was his. Of course, he might not have actually meant that, and the thought worried me, but I couldn’t talk it over with Auntie Maggie or Uncle Bert in case their feelings were hurt; in case they thought I wanted to be someone else’s little girl, and not theirs. And that would be awful because, true to form, me being a greedy little sod, I wanted all of them.

  Come the end, I talked it over with Paulette, who could see why I was worried about hurting Uncle Bert’s feelings. ‘Don’t worry, Rosie love,’ she said. ‘Your uncle Bert knows you love him to bits, and love ain’t a cake, you know. If you give a bit to T.C. that don’t mean less for your uncle Bert. It don’t work like that. You can have ’em both, sweetheart. Fact is, you’ve had ’em both for years, so nothing’s really changed. It’s just a bit of a shock to hear old T.C. come out and say it, that’s all. It’ll be all right. Meanwhile, keep your gob shut until you feel up to talking to T.C. about it. It’ll keep. Now, what’s this about Betty and Johnnie the Horn, eh? There’s a turn-up for the books.’

  Once again, Paulette and I decided that my best course of action was to keep Betty’s secret, at least as far as Luigi was concerned. ‘If it is a secret. After all, she might be telling you the truth; they might just be friends. But it does sound a bit iffy to me, all the same. I can’t wait to tell Zelda. It’s a right old mess, innit?’ And I agreed that it was.

  That night, when it was time for bed, I hugged and hugged my uncle Bert until he complained that I’d almost busted his ribs, which was a rotten lie.

  25

  I think all the excitement at the swimming baths must have made me what my auntie Maggie called ‘overwrought’ because sleep was slow to come that night and, once it did, it kept coming and going. I was wriggling worse than a tubful of eels – live ones, that is, not the jellied sort that can wobble a bit but don’t wriggle. Harry the Haddock sometimes had live eels for sale. The Chinese loved ’em or so he said. When I asked Mrs Wong what she thought of live eels she said she preferred ’em dead with a bit of rice and soy sauce but that they were best sold live. Y
uk, yuk and double yuk!

  Anyway, what matters was that I wasn’t as dead to the world that night as I usually was. Which is how I came to hear the flap of the letterbox rattling. At first I thought it must be the postman with the first delivery of the day and thought nothing of it. I was just drifting off again when it struck me that it was a Sunday and that there was no delivery on Sundays. It was a mystery that I was quite content to think about in that lovely, cosy warm place between waking and sleeping that I loved so much. I had a good grip on Eddie Bear and, happy in the knowledge that there was no school on Sundays, was settling down for a good lie-in.

  Then I smelled it. Petrol. Even then I didn’t twig that something was wrong. I was just rerunning my time at the swimming baths and me being T.C.’s very own water baby and Johnnie’s highly suspicious bum-stroking ways when I thought I smelt smoke. I turned over, ready to ignore the whole thing, when my dopey old brain finally put the pieces together. Rattling letterbox, petrol, smoke: FIRE! I leaped out of bed yelling, ‘Uncle Bert, Uncle Bert! Fire, fire! Come quick, FIRE!’

  I flung open my bedroom door and charged on to the landing. It was dark and I was groping for the light switch when I looked down the stairs and through the open door into the cafe and saw an eerie orange flickering in the gloom. I forgot the light switch and charged into Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert’s bedroom, hurled myself at the lumps under the gold satin eiderdown and yelled at the top of my lungs, ‘UNCLE BERT, FIRE!’

  Both lumps reared up, almost tipping me on to the floor. Uncle Bert said ‘Wha … ? Eh … ?’ and then ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Fire, Uncle Bert. Fire.’ And that finally did it. He was up and pelting towards the landing like Tom after a mouse.

  ‘Shit! Rosie, get wet towels from the bathroom NOW. Maggie, fill anything you can find with water. MOVE, the pair of you.’

  So we moved, me to the bathroom and Auntie Maggie to our little upstairs kitchen. I was back at the landing first with the soggy towels. Uncle Bert took one and wrapped it loosely round my nose and mouth. He wound another towel round his own mush and then Auntie Maggie arrived puffing and panting with a bucket of water in one hand and a sloshing saucepan in the other. Uncle Bert handed her another wet towel. ‘Stick this round your kisser, then start passing water down to me and keep it coming’. And then he was gone into the black smoke that was beginning to creep up the stairs, making our eyes stream.

  Backwards and forwards we went, filling anything we could find and dumping it as far down the stairs as we could get. I saw the ghostly outline of Uncle Bert beating at the flames with a sodden towel, then rushed to the stairs for more saucepans of water, and charged back upstairs with the empties for Auntie Maggie to fill.

  Up and down I went as Uncle Bert ran between the stairs and the front door of the cafe and Auntie Maggie refilled the empties and delivered the dripping pans. My little legs were feeling as if they were just about to drop off when Uncle Bert yelled that it was safe to use the cafe kitchen now. So Auntie Maggie and I went downstairs and into the back and continued filling anything we could find. This time I did the filling and Auntie Maggie did the carrying, catering saucepans being so much bigger than our domestic jobbies upstairs. At last the orange flickering gave way to choking smoke and a weird hissing noise, and Uncle Bert told us that the fire was out.

  Then we heard the sound of a fire engine and, for some reason I will never understand, Uncle Bert began to laugh, closely followed by Auntie Maggie and me. I laughed so hard that I wet myself, which would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t been soaked anyway. At least the water trickling into my slipper was warm this time.

  The next hour was a bit of a blur of firemen and neighbours and people coming and going. Auntie Maggie whisked me upstairs and dried me off with a tea towel – every other towel being soaked and sooty – whipped my nightie over my head and popped me into a dry one. I was wrapped in my winter dressing gown and my slippers disappeared into the rubbish bin and were replaced by socks and sandals. Then she did the same for herself. Finally, she went to the stairs and yelled, ‘Bert, get your arse up here for some dry clothes.’ Which told me all I needed to know about how serious the situation was, because my beloved auntie Maggie hardly ever used rude words in front of me.

  We never did get back to bed that night. Once the firemen left, the police turned up and started asking questions about whether we knew anyone who would want to set fire to the cafe deliberately. We all kept our gobs shut about the Widow Ginger, although we knew it was him. We didn’t know another soul who would do such a thing. Looking back, I don’t know why we kept schtum. Habit, I suppose. If anyone deserved grassing up, that rotter did.

  Friends and neighbours poured through the blackened hole that had once been our front door offering comfort and help. Various male Campaninis followed Luigi in, assessed the situation, and disappeared again. An hour later they were back, toolbags in hand, and our smouldering door was fixed enough to keep the wind, rain and nosy punters out. It was agreed that a better job would be done when the builders’ merchants were open to supply the gear for it.

  Next came an army of Campanini women and Paulette and Madame Zelda, armed with mops, buckets, scrubbing brushes, huge bars of Sunlight soap and boxes of washing soda. The Campanini children arrived at dinner time, driven by a bustling Mamma, who had given them each a dish of food to carry. She and Papa had decided that we would need feeding and so would our army of willing volunteers.

  ‘Papa thought you wouldn’t want to leave the place until you had made it safe and seen what needs doing tomorrow, so Mamma said she’d feed you here. Hope that’s all right with you lot,’ Luigi explained.

  ‘Of course it’s all right. I can’t believe everyone’s kindness.’ Auntie Maggie hiccuped before she burst into tears.

  Mamma stood on the bottom stair, flung a comforting arm round my aunt’s heaving shoulders and guided her head towards her ample bosom. ‘It’s the shock, Maggie. You weep your tears and you will feel better. And poof! The kindness is no more than you would do for us, if such a terrible thing should happen. Now weep, cara mia, and then eat, and you will feel better.’

  We had just downed the last of the ravioli and green salad and were about to start on the fish when Maltese Joe flew through the door, closely followed by Sugar, still in his hairnet, and Bandy in her scarlet Chinese silk dressing gown with the gold embroidered dragon on the back. They were late risers on account of working all night. Everyone budged up and three more plates were produced and nothing much was said until the final mouthful had been downed. Then Maltese Joe took charge of the situation.

  ‘No need to ask who did this. It’s got his mark all over it. Now, Mamma, Papa, can you take the kids out of here? Me and the others need a private chat. No offence meant, but the fewer people who hear what I’m going to say, the less chance of it reaching that toe-rag’s harkers.’

  ‘No offence taken, Joe,’ Papa assured him, although I’m not sure that Mamma agreed. Her lips looked a bit thin to me as she organized the kids to clear the tables. I was excused hard labour on account of my nasty experience and lack of sleep. Papa ignored Mamma’s stern looks. ‘I hope you get the man who did this terrible thing, Joe, and if you need any help from our boys, you just tell us. Mamma, bambini, it is time for us to go.’ And he led them through the blackened doorway and back to the deli.

  ‘Right. Bert, Maggie, Bandy and Sugar. I want no lip from any of you. I’ve arranged for you to take over the top two floors of that gaff of mine in St Anne’s Court. I want no arguments. Nobody’s safe from that bleeding maniac. Don’t you worry about your places. They’re probably all right while they’re heaving with punters; it’s when you’re kipping you’ve got the most to worry about. So I want you all to sleep at St Anne’s. Got that?’ Joe didn’t wait for an answer, but ploughed on, voice and expression grim. His eyes sparkled and flashed with rage. ‘Your places will be guarded when they’re closed for business. Nobby Clark is lending us some of his boys so that
we can keep our minces on Kid, the club and the caff. They’ve been told to try and take the bastard alive if he shows up, but if that ain’t possible, then it ain’t possible. If he ain’t stopped, then someone’s going to wind up dead, and I, for one, don’t want it to be any of us. Now, get your things and be ready to move out in an hour. I’ll be sending cabs to get you, they’ll wander about a bit, until we’re sure the fucker’s not following. Make sure you never take the direct route to or from St Anne’s. Is that all clear?’

  Nobody said a word, they all just nodded. I’d never seen anything like it. It wasn’t like Bandy or my auntie Maggie to allow themselves to be bossed about, or my uncle Bert either, but they took it like lambs. Auntie Maggie didn’t even blink at the swear words.

  Then Maltese Joe turned to me. ‘Come here, Rosie,’ he barked, and I went, toot sweet, I can tell you. I almost passed out with shock when he lifted me on to his knee, grabbed my chin in his mitt and looked deep into my eyes. ‘I’m relying on you to keep your mouth shut. You can’t tell anyone, not your mates, not anyone, where you will be staying. Do you understand me, Rosie? Not a living soul. If you run off at the mouth, then you could get everyone killed, burned to a crisp. I know you don’t want that, so keep it zipped. Got it?’

  I nodded till I thought my head’d drop off. I’d got it all right. I saw Auntie Maggie’s mouth open to complain about him putting the fear of God up me, but Uncle Bert took her hand and muttered, ‘The man’s right, Maggie love. She’s got to understand just how dangerous this is.’ She simply nodded and shut her mouth as Maltese Joe spoke.

  ‘I’ll arrange for cabs to take you to school and back, so you’re not seen on the street,’ he said, still looking me right in the eye.

  I opened my gob to protest that I had to meet Kathy Moon in St Anne’s Churchyard and signal up to Jenny’s flat. I still waved my arms about to tell Jenny when I’d be visiting, even though she hadn’t been able to answer me for a while. But we’d let Mrs Robbins in on our secret code, so sometimes her mum did it for her. Joe held the look though, so I kept schtum.