by Pip Granger
The funeral was to take place on Thursday afternoon, straight after dinner. Auntie Maggie, Madame Zelda, Paulette and Mamma Campanini spent the morning buttering bridge rolls, cutting up bread and assembling mountains of sandwiches. They chatted quietly among themselves, saying how awful it must be to lose a child. All the while, butter knives flashed in expert hands. Once the food was laid out on plates on the counter, the helpers, Uncle Bert and me had our dinner: chicken and mushroom pie with spuds, peas and cabbage, followed by stewed rhubarb and custard. Only then was I dressed, when there was no possibility of dribbling gravy or custard on my new clothes.
The road was packed outside Jenny’s flat. Two huge black horses, complete with waving black plumes and black harnesses, pulled the glass-sided carriage that carried the small white coffin and a mountain of flowers. Jenny loved horses. Behind the hearse were Jenny’s mum and dad, ready to walk behind their daughter to the church. I hardly recognized Hissing Sid, he looked so smart and dignified. He kept shaking people’s hands and laughing a lot, although I couldn’t see a lot to laugh about myself. Auntie Maggie said he was nervous and some people do laugh and joke when they’re nervous.
Mrs Robbins wasn’t laughing or joking. She didn’t seem to notice anyone at all. She was dressed in black and carried a black-trimmed hanky to bury her face into. I noticed that her shoulders were shaking and heaving. She looked so little and lonely standing there. Every now and then, she’d have to lean on Hissing Sid, when he stopped still long enough, that is. Mrs Robbins looked a lot like Jenny standing there, only older. My eyes went all blurry, but I didn’t cry.
Behind Hissing Sid and Mrs Robbins came Jenny’s grandparents and aunts, uncles and cousins. I’d never seen any of them before, not even the cousins. According to Jenny, Mrs Robbins’s lot never could stomach Hissing Sid and his lot, so there wasn’t a great deal of love lost there. It showed, too. Each group kept to itself, exchanging no more than slight nods. As Madame Zelda said, it wasn’t hard to pick out who was whose. Mrs Robbins’s family were very respectable in their dark felt headgear, black gloves and armbands. They wore the kinds of hats that Uncle Bert said looked as if they had been turned on a lathe; all stiff and unyielding like the perms underneath and the corsets lower down. It’s true, too; they did look ever so stiff, like over-starched Queen Mums. Which is why it was funny when one of the horses decided to drop a large, steaming pile right next to the most starchy of them all. I wanted to giggle and ached for Jenny to share the joke. You can always rely on a horse to lower the tone. They just don’t care.
The men wore dark suits, black ties and shoes that shone with spit and polish, army fashion. The women stood quietly, clutching the arms of their silent husbands or, if they didn’t have husbands, their large, black handbags.
Hissing Sid’s mob were a lot looser in style. Draped jackets, heavy on the black velvet trim, narrow trousers and thick-soled suede brothel creepers were the order of the day for the younger men. The younger women and girls wore full-skirted shirtwaisters, high heels, lots of petticoats and wide plastic belts, white or black depending on the outfit. I was dead jealous of the heels. I loved the click, click, click as they hit the pavement. Some of the older women wore daring pencil skirts that made them walk funny, in teetering little steps that tipped them forward as if they were about to fall on their noses. None of them did, thank goodness. They were held up by the older men, uncomfortable in their demob suits and stiff collars. All the women were chattering twenty to the dozen, and the men were slapping each other and Hissing Sid on the back whenever things got too quiet.
Then came the rest of us. We’d formed groups that depended on how well we knew the Robbinses. Mrs Robbins’s ex-workmates had come as one group. Hissing Sid’s punters and associates formed a couple of others. Kid joined one of these. He was looking very well turned out and clean to his fingertips. Our cafe formed a large, untidy straggle of people made up of all of our family members, official and unofficial, and a mob of punters too. The school sent Miss Welbeloved, with our class, but I stuck with Auntie Maggie, Uncle Bert, T.C., Luigi and Betty because I felt happier with them. Mamma and Papa Campanini joined us, along with Madame Zelda, Paulette, Sharky Finn, Bandy, Sugar and Mrs Wong.
The procession finally took off and made its slow way through the little streets to the church. We twisted and turned and went back on ourselves so much I lost all sense of direction. Everywhere we went, shops had their blinds down, flats had drawn their curtains and people stopped by the kerb. The men removed their hats and looked sombrely down at the gutters. After the whole of Soho had had their chance to pay their respects, we finally wound up at St Anne’s where the vicar was waiting for us.
Jenny’s coffin was carried to a platform covered in a gold and red cloth, where it rested for the whole service. It glowed very white in the gloom, and candlelight flickered back off the silver bowls and candlesticks that stood on the altar.
The vicar said stuff about it being difficult to understand God’s plan when he took a child to His bosom. And I thought he was right there; it was hard to understand. I was certainly having a lot of trouble with it. How Jenny could be screaming around the playground with the rest of us one day and then the next day she wasn’t, and she never would be again, I simply couldn’t grasp. Of course, it wasn’t that sudden, she’d been ill for ages, but it felt sudden and shocking all the same. And I didn’t believe for one minute that Jesus wanted Jenny for a sunbeam because He had loads and loads already.
I kept saying my goodbyes to her in my head, all the way through the vicar’s talk, but I can’t say I felt any better for it. I wasn’t convinced that Jenny could hear me anyway, which brought me to the realization that she hadn’t really been in a position to hear me when I’d last seen her either. She’d been sparko at the time, I remembered, out like a light, so it wouldn’t have been so very different if I had managed to say goodbye on that last afternoon after all. For some reason, that idea seemed to take a huge weight off my shoulders and I was able to sit up and take notice properly for the first time that day.
The vicar was very nice about Jenny, but I still didn’t cry. None of it felt that real to me. At last we sang ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and then we filed past her coffin, which someone had opened. I almost fainted. There was Jen, looking like a nasty plastic doll, all pink and white and scary, surrounded by white satin. She even had lace on her pillow. She’d have loved all that satin and lace. She’d made up her mind to have white satin for her wedding: white satin, lace and tons of seed pearls for the trim. The last time we’d talked about it, bridesmaids were getting ghastly pastel blues and pinks. Yuk! Jenny had loved planning weddings. Me, I found it sort of boring, although I liked talking about the clothes.
Clutched in her little white hands was a bald bear – my bald bear – with his silver bell tied round his neck with a ribbon. Dingle wasn’t anything like the bridal posy of white and pink rosebuds that Jenny had set her heart on during all those planning sessions. It was then, when I realized there never would be a wedding for Jenny, that I felt hot tears overflow from my brimming eyes and trickle down my cheeks. The trickle turned into a torrent and I sobbed and sobbed so that I thought I must surely drown. Uncle Bert got to me first and scooped me up and cuddled me close to his chest.
As I flew through the air on my way to Uncle Bert’s best waistcoat I caught a flash of the congregation behind us. Everyone was there. Soho must have come to an absolute standstill, with nothing being bought or sold, because everyone was at church. And right at the back, near the doors, almost hidden behind a pillar, I thought I caught a glimpse of the neat, pale head of the Widow Ginger. It might have been a trick of the light through salty tears, I couldn’t tell for sure, but as I strained for another look he was gone. Surely it couldn’t be? He didn’t even know Jenny.
I decided that there was no reason for the Widow to be at the church. Then something struck me. He didn’t know Jenny, but Kid did. The Widow would know that everyone wo
uld be at Jenny’s funeral. Everyone: Uncle Bert, Auntie Maggie, Sugar, Bandy, Maltese Joe and me to name only six of us. Who knew how many others he had the needle to? It was a golden opportunity to get us all in one place. I was so busy trying to catch another glimpse of the man who might or might not have been the Widow that I forgot about crying.
Uncle Bert put me down but kept a firm grip on my mitt. I kept trying to attract his attention by squeezing his hand, talking in church not being allowed, but he thought I was being friendly and just squeezed back.
It had been decided that the cafe mob would give the crematorium a miss so that they could put the finishing touches to the grub, so I went straight home. Nobody thought the crematorium was the place for me, and I must admit I agreed with them. I didn’t want to see any more fires.
Paulette told me later that no one saw any actual flames at the crematorium, that it was all ever so tasteful with organ music, sliding coffins and thick curtains, but I’m glad I missed it anyway. My class didn’t go either. They went back to school and even missed the food, poor things. I was kept close to Auntie Maggie, Uncle Bert and the others, I’m glad to say.
At last, I finally managed to whisper to my uncle Bert that I thought I’d seen the Widow, but now the bloke in question had disappeared. He said he’d keep his eyes open and spread the word to a few others to do the same.
Auntie Maggie and Mamma Campanini decided that action would help sort me out, me being all twitchy and damp. They had me dashing about with plates of this and bowls of that until every table was well stocked and my legs and arms ached.
As I ran backwards and forwards with loaded plates and cups and glasses, I kept getting a flash of that pale head at the back of the church and my stomach would lurch. The trouble was I wasn’t allowed to stop still long enough to have a good butcher’s, but I did notice Uncle Bert, Luigi and a variety of Campanini men floating in and out of the cafe and looking up and down the road in a casual manner. Sometimes they’d stop on the pavement for a fag and a natter, but all the while their eyes would be moving restlessly over the crowd gathering around the cafe, or sliding over the passers-by and watching their backs hurrying away. I got the really comforting feeling that here was a bunch of blokes who were not in the business of allowing a nutter to ruin an important thing like a funeral. There was a time and a place for everything, and this time and place was for Jenny and the Robbinses and their friends and families. Italians, their restless eyes said, know about these things.
31
The men were not the only watchers, however. Madame Zelda, Paulette, Auntie Maggie, Sugar, Bandy and I were all watching Luigi and Betty. They were holed up in the opposite corner, trying to talk as an endless stream of men swaggered up to eye Betty and natter with Luigi. You could tell, even from the other side of the room, that things were not going well. Luigi seemed to be asking Betty something and she was shaking her head and looking sad.
Hissing Sid was drunk and so were the rest of his family – except Mrs Robbins. She sat on the table next to ours with Mamma Campanini and Mamma’s daughters and daughters-in-law. She wasn’t saying much, but she was watching Hissing Sid with great sad eyes. Her own relatives hadn’t stayed long. They’d had a sandwich, a cup of tea and a word with Mrs Robbins and then they were gone. That’s when she’d been scooped up by the Campanini women, who would pass her their hankies when she cried and tut gently as they squeezed her arm or patted her hand. Nobody knew what to say, except that they were sorry, and that didn’t even come close to covering it.
Meanwhile, Uncle Bert, Maltese Joe, T.C. and Joe’s boys were wandering about the cafe, the street and the alleyway behind, watching all the time. Occasionally they’d stop by a group of men for a chat, but their eyes would be looking over their shoulders, watching the crowd, the windows of the buildings opposite and the street corners. Normally, T.C. didn’t mingle with Maltese Joe or his boys if he could help it, but Uncle Bert said there was a truce in operation, there being a common enemy to watch out for. Soon, I began to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing, and felt bad for getting everybody on the alert. Mick the Tic said they’d have to keep their minces open anyway, everybody being together like we were, and it being a perfect opportunity for the Widow to do some real damage. That made me feel worse, so I made my way back to our table to join in the Luigi and Betty watching.
Just as I arrived on Auntie Maggie’s lap, Luigi grabbed Betty’s arm. She shook him off angrily and got to her feet. Her voice was loud, sharp and as clear as anything. ‘It’s not what I want, Luigi. I’m sorry, but there it is. I don’t want any more upset and aggravation. There was enough of that at the farm and during the damned war. I want a quiet life, kids, husband, that sort of boring stuff. You’d never be right in Surbiton or Tunbridge Wells; you know you wouldn’t. You’d never even manage in Camden Town – it’d be too far out in the sticks for you. You’d be back here every day, visiting your family, seeing your mates. You’d never settle. And before you say you’d try, I don’t want you to try.’
Luigi was standing now and running his hand through his hair as if he wanted to tear it out by the roots in his frustration. ‘But Johnnie the Horn, Betty. Can’t you do better than that? He’ll never stay in sodding Surbiton either, a month, maybe two. He’s a musician, for Christ’s sake. They travel all the time.’
I noticed that Mamma Campanini didn’t say anything about blasphemy this time when her baby was in trouble. You could tell she was just itching to barge in and tell that nasty girl to stop upsetting her boy. But as Madame Zelda said, Mamma had brought too many kids up not to know when to keep her opinions to herself. That’s why her children still adored her. She simply sat among her women folk, arms folded across her belly, dark eyes glinting dangerously, lips pressed tight shut, with no sign of flashing gold teeth to brighten things up a bit.
‘He’s said he’ll change, Luigi. Settle down, get a job with his dad at the Co-op. It’s been decided.’ Betty didn’t sound as sure as she tried to look. I couldn’t imagine Johnnie the Horn at the Co-op, not even to stock up on Spam, let alone to work in one.
I was afraid that Luigi’d be bald any minute, with that hand raking away at his lovely, glossy barnet. ‘Don’t you realize he’s a bastard, Betty? He’ll shag anything between nine and ninety, that one. All that about the Co-op is to get into your drawers girl, and when he’s done that, he’ll be off. He always is.’
But Betty wouldn’t listen. ‘You’re just jealous, Luigi, and I’m sorry about that, but Johnnie’s who I want and that’s that. I don’t want to be mixed up in all this business with that mad American and neither does Johnnie. He was due to play in that club in Peter Street and I was working there. We could wind up dead in a fight that’s nothing to do with us, and why?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We’re leaving next week.’ She leaned over, pecked Luigi on the cheek and headed for the door. She was in such a hurry to get out that she didn’t even stop to say goodbye to us.
Poor Luigi slumped back in his chair as if he was a long balloon that someone had just stuck with a ruddy great hatpin. I had never seen him look so miserable.
Nobody moved for ages, we just stared at the door. Once again, Mamma kept her distance. Later, when I asked why – because if I’d been his mum I’d’ve rushed over to him – Paulette explained it to me. ‘He’d look a right noddle in front of his mates and the other blokes if his mum went all mumsy on him, now wouldn’t he? He’s nearly a grown man, Rosie, he’d look stupid and, worse, he’d be a mummy’s boy. No, she’ll save it for private. Pity that bloody Betty didn’t do the same.’ We all agreed with that.
After what felt like a week in which Luigi continued to stare at the floor and the rest of us stared at the empty doorway, while sliding our eyes sideways to see how he was doing, Maltese Joe ambled over to Luigi’s table with a bottle and a glass. He put the glass on the table, poured a generous slug of brandy into it, patted Luigi’s shoulder for a second, then, without saying a word, ambled away again, puffin
g gently on his cheroot. As Luigi picked up the glass and took a hefty swallow, the whole room seemed to let out the breath I hadn’t realized we’d been holding.
As Madame Zelda said later, ‘Round our way, you can’t just have a simple funeral. Oh no! You have to have the bloody floor show as well.’ And how right she was.
After Betty stormed out things went very quiet for a bit. Then the women got busy and started clearing the dirty crocks, washing them up and then refilling them with more food and drink. As Paulette said, it was handy being a girl because there was always something to do. There was always someone to feed at the difficult times, like funerals and when there’s just been a socking great public domestic, leaving everyone staring at their toes in embarrassment.
The men set up barrels of pale and brown ale in the kitchen. The Coach and Horses had supplied pint glasses and smaller ones for the shorts. Most of the women and children went home, leaving Hissing Sid and the blokes to carry on with the wake. Get-togethers were a serious business.
Still Luigi sat on his own, staring at the floor and looking up only when someone refilled his glass. It was ever so sad to see him like that, but everyone said it was best to leave him to it, so we did.
Mrs Robbins looked as if she’d been set in concrete. Only her eyes moved as they followed Hissing Sid around the room. Every now and then Madame Zelda, Auntie Maggie or Paulette would offer her something to eat or drink, but she’d just shake her head slightly and carry on watching Sid. It was eerie.