by Pip Granger
‘Right then, I think that’s that,’ he continued. ‘Everyone meet here in an hour with all the gear you’ll need for the next few days. The decorators’ll be here at first cough, tomorrow, Bert. We need to show that toe-rag that it’s business as usual and that he can’t scare us into cutting and running. That’ll drive the sod mad and he might just get careless.’
I knew Maltese Joe was right and we really had to lie low. But even though I was scared to death after such a close shave, another part of me knew that I owed it to my mate to keep her in touch with the world. It cheered her up and made her feel part of things. All the time I was packing, my thoughts were tangled up with fear and knowing my best friend was trapped in bed with my second-best bear. I couldn’t let her down. Which meant either defying Maltese Joe, or finding another answer to my problem.
26
It was funny living in St Anne’s Court, but interesting too. Lots of professional girls hung about in doorways or strolled up and down muttering, ‘Fancy a good time, dearie?’ or, ‘How about a nice bit of French, sir?’ to any likely looking bloke. Some of the girls worked from about eleven in the morning until the early hours, so nobody could call ’em lazy. Brasses came in all shapes, sizes and ages, from their teens to Mavis, who Auntie Maggie said must be sixty if she was a day. Everybody had their own patch, and God help the girl who tried to muscle in. I witnessed more than one fight on that very subject, and often the girls’ pimps would get involved as well.
Still, the brasses whose patch it was seemed to get on pretty well together and often helped each other out if they were skint or came across an iffy punter or an irate pimp. Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert didn’t have much time for pimps, because they reckoned that the brasses should keep the money they earned and their pimps ought to do an honest day’s graft. I got to know all the regulars pretty well and sometimes got taken out for an ice cream or a trip to the flicks.
The flat that Maltese Joe had lent us took up the top two floors of a narrow house wedged between two identical buildings. On the left of our doorway was the small salt beef bar run by Nosher Cohen and his family. They did a fine line in salf beef sandwiches, to which I had become very partial. Nosher said I must have some Jewish in my ancestry on account of my love of salf beef, chicken soup, latkes and chopped liver, which doesn’t sound very nice but was delicious when made by Mrs Nosher. That, along with my habit of answering a question with a question while I waved my hands about, was a sure sign that I was a member of the Tribe, or at least a descendant.
‘Rosie,’ he’d say, ‘if I tied your hands behind your back, you’d be struck dumb. Jewish somewhere, definitely.’ And he’d give me a shiny sixpence or even a shilling. Mrs Nosher was just as friendly and said I reminded her of little Rebecca, one of her grandchildren, but I don’t know how, because Beccy was as dark as I was fair. She did have curls, I suppose, so maybe it was those that did it.
Everyone in the street knew to keep their gobs shut about our presence there, otherwise they’d have to deal with Maltese Joe or, worse, Bandy with a strop on. Nobody wanted to face that, or so Sugar assured us. Certainly, word never got out, which is amazing when you come to think about it.
It was safe to play in the street, too. There was no traffic, and if one of the girls spotted a stranger who showed even the slightest resemblance to either Kid or the description of the Widow, there’d be a piercing whistle. I’d be hustled into a doorway and hidden behind a gaggle of girls, smoking and chatting amongst themselves, until the danger had passed. I’d almost suffocate in a cloud of Evening in Paris, Woodbines or those posh new tipped fags like Bachelor. There were all sorts of jokes among the working girls about their Bachelor’s tips, but I didn’t get them and Auntie Maggie said I didn’t need to because they were smutty. I’d finally be released into the air, to carry on with my two balls, hopscotch, jacks or skipping. Sometimes the younger girls would join in, playground games being more recent for them, and it was funny to see them trying to hop in high heels and tight skirts with their bosoms bouncing up and down.
To the right of our door was a theatrical costumiers that had the most fabulous clothes for hire. This was run by a good friend of Sugar, Freddie the Frock, and his friend Antony. I spent hours and hours in that shop, draped in feather boas, Egyptian headdresses, beads, bangles, sparkling, jewelled hats and Elizabethan ruffles. I learned a lot about the history of clothes and about the theatre while I was at it. The following Christmas, when we did the school play, Freddie, Antony and Sugar pulled out all the stops and dressed us. Everyone agreed they’d never seen a school play anywhere near as gorgeous, splendid and well turned out as ours. I didn’t half earn some Brownie points for that lot, I can tell you. Miss Welbeloved said all the other schools were dead jealous and we were in the newspaper too. My chest was pigeon-puffed with pride.
Living with Bandy and Sugar was interesting as well. I was able to tell Jenny that they shared a bedroom but not a bed, there being two singles crammed in there. But Madame Zelda pointed out that might just be the case at St Anne’s Court; it might be different in their flat above the club. Which was true.
I didn’t see a lot of them on weekdays because Uncle Bert, Auntie Maggie and I left really early in the mornings to go round the houses to get to the cafe by six. It was practical for me to go with them, because if I left later I’d be hanging about on my own, waiting for the right time to go to school. It also meant I could keep my date at St Anne’s each morning, so I needn’t have worried after all. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie had understood straight away why it was so important. Uncle Bert told Maltese Joe the new plan and it was sorted. I was escorted to the churchyard by a whole variety of people. Nobody had forgotten I’d been kidnapped only the year before, and although it was unlikely to happen again I was ‘better safe than missing’ according to Uncle Bert. My favourite escort was Luigi because he was a good laugh and joined in my frantic signalling with messages of his own that made no sense.
Bandy and Sugar used to stagger in in the early hours and were soundo by the time we got up. It made sense to eat breakfast at the cafe, so as not to wake the sleeping beauties, as Uncle Bert insisted on calling them. We’d tiptoe about getting washed and dressed and try and keep our legs crossed until we got to the cafe, so that the sound of the flush being pulled in the thunderbox didn’t wake them – although we didn’t always manage that. Still, Sugar said they appreciated the effort, so they didn’t mind when the khazi did wake them, knowing that we’d tried.
What Maltese Joe had forgotten to tell us was that he’d relocated four working girls so that we could have the flat. This meant that the first couple of weeks was spent ‘repelling randy punters’ as Sugar put it, but luckily Uncle Bert and Bandy were ‘just the men for the job’. And they were, too. Bandy was amazing. They only had to see her beaky fizzog glowering at them from the top window and hear her roar, ‘Piss off, you degenerate little wanker, or I’ll tell your better half,’ for them to leg it, toot sweet. Of course, Auntie Maggie wasn’t entirely happy having me exposed to such awful swearing but as she said, it’d take a braver woman than her to tell Bandy to watch her language.
Sundays were the best days because we all stayed at home. Auntie Maggie, Uncle Bert and I still had to creep around until about dinner time, when Bandy and Sugar would rise and slop about in their dressing gowns until after they’d eaten. I loved those dressing gowns. Bandy’s was red with a gold dragon, as I already knew, and Sugar’s was black with a large gold embroidered lotus flower. Sugar even wore slippers to match, but Bandy didn’t. The dinner table would be a happy place, with Bandy, Sugar, Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie chatting, laughing and joking, pleased to be free of work for the day, or night, depending. And of course, it helped that we knew that no one was going to set fire to us – well, not deliberately anyway.
We often heard the most beautiful music coming up between the floorboards, which was a bit of a mystery until we realized that old Mr Rabinowitz had moved into the little flat below.
He’d told Maltese Joe that the fire that T.C. and I had seen at the Peter Street club had reminded him of something he called the pogroms in the Old Country, so Joe had moved him so he felt better. Having Nosher Cohen’s salt beef bar next door was something of a bonus for him as well, so he was content. And so were we, because he could play the violin beautifully. So, incredibly, could Maltese Joe. Even Uncle Bert was amazed. Of course, we’d all heard about his violin lessons, but nobody had realized that he was really, really good at it.
‘You think you know a bloke through and through and then he chucks in a complete bombshell,’ said Uncle Bert.
Once, Bandy managed to persuade the two of them to give us a little concert after Sunday dinner and I saw a Maltese Joe I never would have guessed existed. Not only was he a completely different bloke with a violin under his chin, but he was shy about it too. Now, who would have thought that?
So, all in all, those weeks of early summer were wonderful in their way and really educational too. It was during that time that I took up playing a little cello lent to me by Mr Rabinowitz. Maltese Joe insisted on paying for my lessons; I’m not sure why. Mr Rabinowitz said it was because he was a genuine music lover and wanted to encourage me to be the same. That seemed a bit far-fetched when you realized that it was Maltese Joe he was talking about, but neither Uncle Bert nor I could think of a better reason for it. What’s more, when it became clear that I wasn’t going to get fed up with it, Maltese Joe bought me the cello and presented it to me for my birthday. You could’ve knocked me down with a violin string, honest you could.
27
I went to visit Jenny more often once the days began to draw out a bit. I’d nip in just for half an hour or so because she got tired easily. We had some good chats, and I passed on any hot gossip I heard on the street or at school. She was always interested in what Luigi and Betty were up to, and was as disgusted as I was when I told her about Johnnie the Horn. I explained why I’d rushed out after spotting the Widow at Kid’s flat and she started watching for me, being ideally placed. And it gave her something to do. But she had nothing much to report. Kid was letting himself and the washing up go, and that was about it. He never had any visitors and he did nothing much but slop about in growing piles of dirty plates and clothes. The man was a terrible slob.
Everyone in the little brown flat seemed a bit happier since Hissing Sid had come home. The Mangy Cow had stopped calling round, which probably meant she had a new bloke, according to Jenny. It made sense to me. As long as she stayed away, who cared? Mrs Robbins looked years younger, although she still looked at Jenny with sad eyes. And no wonder. Poor old Jen was ever so pale and skinny. Her panda eyes had grown bigger and sunk deeper and her hand was so thin you could see all her veins sticking out clear as anything. She was proud of those blue, snaking veins, and said they looked like the picture in the encyclopedia at school. I had a look and they did too.
Sometimes she went to hospital for some sort of treatment. She’d be gone a day or two, and once it was a whole week, but she always came home again and I’d carry on popping in. She was fascinated by my life with Sugar and Bandy, even though the news mostly happened on Sundays on account of their sleeping habits. She found the idea of Sugar in a hairnet really funny and almost wet herself laughing, but I couldn’t see the funny side myself. Sugar was Sugar, and that meant painted toenails and lashings of cologne. As he said, he demanded the right to wear what he chose in the privacy of his own socks, trousers and, indeed, living room. And if he wished to smell like a ‘whore’s boudoir’, that was entirely up to him. Bandy said she didn’t know about the boudoir. ‘More like the whole bloody brothel,’ she wheezed, and let out a loud cackle that was husky with about three million Passing Clouds. You rarely caught Bandy without a cloud of smoke round her. If I was ever so good I got to fit the cigarettes into her long black cigarette holder. Jen was thrilled to bits when I gave her one of Bandy’s cast-off holders. She’d pretend to be all lah-de-dah as she waved it about like Ginger Rogers.
As the days went on, my visits got shorter and I got more worried. I told my auntie Maggie how peaky Jenny was looking.
‘Ah, sweetie, try not to worry too much,’ Auntie Maggie said. ‘People often look like two penn’orth of Gawd help us just before they take a turn for the better.’
And Hissing Sid and Mrs Robbins kept saying that it was a bad patch, nothing more. So I did try not to worry, but sometimes Jenny would really scare me by not making any sense at all when I visited. Soon she’d be her old self again, though, and I would breathe a sigh of relief.
* * *
It was a bright Monday morning a week or so later and the sun was pouring through the hall window, making the dust dance and swirl about in the air, and the headmistress was droning on about Sports Day and then about ‘the rough male kiss of blankets’, a line from a poem that had always made me and Jen snigger. What did our headmistress know about rough male kisses? Not a lot, we were sure of that. Miss Smith was about a hundred and eight and she even had a large wart on her chin, with a single hair growing out of it; proof that she was a witch when she wasn’t being boring in assembly. The poem made it a Monday, definitely. On Mondays we got told what we had to look forward to in the coming week, followed by ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ a long prayer from Miss Smith and an ‘Amen’ from us when the droning stopped, followed by ‘These Things I Have Loved’ I think the poem was called but, to be honest, by then I wasn’t listening. I was hanging on for the Lord’s Prayer and ‘Rock of Ages’, then we would be free.
Not on this Monday, though. Miss Smith asked us to wait a moment, and she had to get pretty sharp about it because we were already pushing towards the door, keen to get out of there. The hall was airless and it ponged a bit of loads of kids and the rubber feet on the legs of the chairs piled up around the hall. That rubber really stank; it reminded me of the gas mask at the dentist and I hated it. She finally got us to stop and shuffle back to our places. Then she asked us to kneel and join her in a prayer for Jenny Robbins who was very poorly indeed. She said if we prayed hard enough, maybe the good Lord would hear us and spare her.
It took me a minute to catch on. ‘Spare her’? What did that mean? Then I twigged.
The next thing I knew I was in the staffroom, laid out on the chairs, choking on fag smoke and looking around for the dog that was howling. It sounded pitiful, as if it had been locked out. It was only when the howling turned to hiccups that I realized it was me.
28
I was sent home from school that day so that I could pull myself together, as suggested by Miss Smith.
I spent the day in the cafe and I was very quiet as I sat at the corner table. Everyone tried to be comforting in their own way. Auntie Maggie gave me a hug along with a rich tea biscuit and a glass of milk.
‘I’m sorry, love, I really am,’ she said as she stroked my curls. ‘I want to tell you that everything’s going to be all right but, truth to tell, no one’s sure. We just have to hope for a miracle, sweetheart. It’s been known to happen.’ My auntie Maggie always liked to hang on to her silver linings for as long as possible. As she said, ‘If bad news is coming, it’ll find me soon enough. Meanwhile I might as well look on the bright side until proved wrong.’
I know it sounds daft, but it had never crossed my mind that Jenny wouldn’t get over her yard of Latin and be bouncing around in the playground again before too long. Miss Smith’s announcement changed all that. It made it official. My eyes weren’t deceiving me; Jenny really was fading away.
Madame Zelda was cuddly and kind when I told her why I wasn’t at school. I even told her the shameful bit about howling like a dog in front of everybody. She was bracing about that. ‘Don’t worry, petal. I expect you do a very good dog and the little ’uns were well impressed. How many people do you know who can do dog impressions in assembly and get away with it? Not only get away with it, but get a day off and all? Takes real talent, that. I’m sorry about little Jenny, though. We’ll just h
ave to wait and see, love. That’s all anyone can do.’ And I was enveloped in a very soothing cuddle. Madame Zelda had a smell all of her own; maple brazils always seemed to linger on her breath, Ponds Cream clung to her face and neck, and wintergreen floated up from her feet.
Uncle Bert took one look at my face as I came into the cafe and scooped me up on to his lap. He listened to my worries about not coughing up Eddie Bear when I should have, and thought about it carefully before he answered. If he’d been too quick to tell me it was all right and that I was being daft, I wouldn’t have believed him. But as it was, seeing he was giving the matter really serious thought, I knew I’d get the truth according to Uncle Bert, which was usually good enough for me. ‘I’m sorry to hear about young Jenny. She’s a good kid. But Rosie, love, life ain’t fair and people don’t always get what they deserve. Any fool can see that Jenny deserves a better shout, but that don’t mean to say she’s going to get it. Life just ain’t like that. As to the question of the bear,’ and he gave me a squeeze here, ‘I reckon that the number one bear wouldn’t have swung it. God don’t work like that. It’s as simple as that. Bribes is for mortal men. God’s above that kind of thing. More to the point, was Jenny pleased with the bear she got?’ He paused while I nodded. ‘Well then, there’s your answer. Jenny’s happy, you’re happy, Eddie Bear’s bound to be happy, so I expect the Almighty’s happy too. Can’t see where you’ve gone wrong there.’ Which made me feel a whole lot better, I can tell you. The bear question had been worrying me a great deal.
I was back at school the next day. The week followed its usual routine of lessons, playtimes and dinner and tea at the cafe. It was familiar and it made me feel that I was on safer ground. Understanding that Jenny might die had changed my view of the world for ever. Children were supposed to grow into grown-ups, it was as simple as that. Puppies grew into dogs, foals into horses, kittens into cats and children into grown-ups. It changed things when I could no longer take all that for granted. It changed things a lot.