Elsa, too, was enjoying her new lease of life. Something was happening to her, but she didn’t quite know what. There were times when Frankie thought that Elsa bought more goods than she actually sold, and he told her so. At first Elsa objected to the boy’s interference in things that he didn’t understand, but after she had shouted at him a couple of times, she accepted that he was probably right, and invariably took his advice. Frankie soon got used to her little fits of rage, and even enjoyed them, especially her colourful, incomprehensible German curse whenever she dropped something or was forced to fumble. In fact, Elsa made him laugh a great deal, for her tantrums were always short-lived and often very funny. And Elsa loved to see Frankie laugh, for laughter was something she had not experienced since Robert’s death.
And so, with Christmas Day only a few days away, and Highbury Grammar School closed for the holidays, Barclays jumble shop on the corner of Hornsey Road, full of paper chains, tinsel, and cotton wool decorations, looked like a veritable Aladdin’s Cave!
The Emmanuel Church Hall wasn’t very big, but it was very convenient for the residents of Merton Street and their neighbours. Situated snugly between the playground of Pakeman Street School and Hornsey Road, it was used throughout the year for Sunday school classes, Boy Scout and Girl Guide meetings, and, most important of all, the annual local residents’ Christmas get-together. This took the form of a cold buffet with crates of beer, R. Whites lemonade and Tizer, but as there was still a war on, everyone had to pool their ration coupons to provide the spam and cheese sandwiches, homemade sausage-rolls, tea, biscuits, and iced Christmas cake (usually made by old Winnie Brackell, who lived just around the corner in number 9 Roden Street). But the highlight of the evening was the traditional residents’ Concert Party. This, of course, was always organised by Merton Street’s very own ex-professional Music Hall double-act, the Gorman brothers. The programme was meticulously planned and usually included such celebrated and well-loved acts as Doris Simmons from number 37 (‘the harmonica virtuoso’); Fred and Gertie Potts from number 11 (‘tap dancing wizards’); Mr Mickey Saunders from number 43 (‘uncanny bird sounds’); recitations from eight-year-old Ruby Penfold and her young brother ‘the Spiv’ from Hertslet Road; an annual rendition of Come into the Garden, Maud by the Reverend Monty Marshall (accompanied by Florrie, the pianist from the Globe pub in Tollington Road) and Stan Grout from number 29 doing his ‘amazing’ impersonation of the stars of film and radio such as Tommy Handley, Arthur Askey, George Formby, and Gracie Fields. But the star attraction of the evening was, of course, always the Gorman brothers from number 47. After all, who could resist their quick-fire jokes (‘I say! I say! I say! Who was that woman I saw you with last night? Answer: That was no woman. That was my wife!’) delivered like the pros they were. The residents of Merton Street and their neighbours adored them.
Frankie’s mum and dad never attended the Christmas party in the church hall, preferring to sit at home in the Anderson shelter listening to special Christmas editions of their favourite wireless shows such as ITMA, Forces’ Favourites, Music Hall, and Happidrome, and Hi Gang! For Frankie however the residents’ Concert Party was the event he looked forward to all year. But when he arrived at the church hall on this Christmas Eve, he did not expect the reception that was waiting for him.
‘So ’ow’s our Nazi sympafizer, then?’ It was Jeff Murray, who, despite the fact that he was underage, was swigging back a pint glass of brown ale. ‘Don’t tell me yer old Kraut friend’s given yer the brush off?’ Patty, who had her arm around his neck, roared with laughter. But Alan Downs looked uncomfortable with this baiting.
Only a few weeks before, Frankie would have flushed with embarrassment at such a remark. But tonight he just took it in his stride. ‘Elsa’s not a Nazi sympafizer, Jeff. She’s a nice lady. I like ’er.’
‘Oh? Did yer ’ear that, Pat?’ Jeff leaned over and kissed Patty firmly on the lips. ‘’Er name’s not Kraut. It’s El-sa.’
Patty repeated Jeff’s pronounciation, ‘El-sa,’ then roared with laughter again.
Alan quickly changed the subject. ‘Any sign of your gettin’ that bike in Pascall’s yet, Frankie?’
‘I’m savin for it,’ Frankie replied, lowering his eyes. He was still upset that when he was last asked to go out for a bike ride with the Gang to Hackney Marshes, the bike the Prof managed to borrow for him had a puncture, and he’d had to turn back after less than a mile.
‘Wot’s up?’ asked Patty, mischievously. ‘Don’t your Kraut friend pay yer enough?’
Frankie looked up. ‘Wot d’yer mean?’
Jeff had a knowing grin on his face. ‘Come off it, Frank! Everyone knows yer work for the old geezer. ’Ow much she payin’ yer, then?’
Frankie glared at Jeff. Despite the older boy’s athletic build he looked as though he was prepared to challenge Jeff to a scrap. ‘It’s none of yer bloody business, Jeff!’
‘Oh, but it is, Frank. It’s everyone’s business.’ Jeff looked round, pretending that he didn’t want to be overheard. ‘Tell me somefin’?’ He leaned towards Frankie, his voice only barely audible above the excited chatter of the party guests. ‘Wot do yer ma and pa say about you workin’ in the Kraut’s shop every night?’
Frankie lunged at Jeff, but before he could raise his fist, Prof restrained him. ‘Don’t, Frankie! It isn’t worth it.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ The Rev. Marshall was on the tiny stage tapping the microphone to see if it was working properly. ‘Please take your seats. The Variety Show is about to commence!’
There was a great cheer from everybody as Florrie from the Globe pub struck up a welcoming chord at the upright piano, which hadn’t been tuned in years. One by one the party guests took their seats around the sides of the hall and, as Mr Ridley from number 16 turned off the hall lights, the stage was floodlit. Almost immediately, Bert Gorman appeared from behind the curtains. He was greeted with another great cheer and burst of applause. ‘Thank you! Thank you very much, my friends! And a very Merry Christmas to one and all!’ As he spoke, Florrie straightened herself on the piano stool – which was a little difficult, for she was all of fourteen stone – and quickly launched into I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Everyone in the Hall, joined in, including Frankie and the Merton Street gang, and very soon the community singing was so robust poor Florrie’s trills could hardly be heard.
A few minutes later, while the merriment was in full swing, a young girl sneaked in at the back of the hall, and started to look around for someone. She was wearing a heavy winter coat and headscarf, and her cheeks were flushed red from the cold air outside. When she finally caught sight of Frankie, who was squatting on the floor near the stage, she carefully made her way among the guests to him and knelt down to avoid obstructing everyone’s view of the stage. ‘Frankie!’ She had to raise her voice to be heard above the sounds of White Christmas.
Frankie turned with a start. ‘’Allo, Ivy.’
Ivy Villiers, Helen’s best friend, was looking very distraught. ‘’Ave yer seen, ’Elen? I’ve gotta speak to ’er.’
Frankie also had to shout. ‘Why, wot’s up?’
‘Where is she, Frankie?’
Frankie pointed to his sister, who was on the opposite side of the Hall, singing her head off with a group of Merton Street neighbours. Ivy said nothing more, but picked her way through the half-singing, half-shouting audience, many of whom were squatting on the floor, rocking to and fro to Florrie’s heavy-handed piano playing. Frankie, still singing, but a little concerned by Ivy’s anxiety, watched her go, and waited to see what was going to happen when she eventually reached Helen. Ivy spoke quickly and Helen stopped singing immediately and got up. Then she and Ivy left the Hall.
The community singing was followed by Bert Gorman introducing the first of the evening’s acts, Stan Grout doing his impersonation of the stars of film and radio. Frankie recognised them all, and applauded wildly, but was convinced that he himself could impersonate James Stewart an
d George Sanders better than Mr Grout. Despite his enjoyment, however, he kept looking to the entrance door to see when Helen was coming back. But she hadn’t returned by the time Mrs Simmons was giving a rousing interpretation of The Blue Danube on the harmonica and he started to become anxious. He decided to go and look for his sister.
During the concert party, there had been a light fall of snow outside, and when Frankie came out of the warm church hall, the biting cold immediately attacked his face, and soon his eyes were watering. In the garden, which led from the vicarage and church itself, Frankie could just see two or three young couples snogging in the shadows, including Jeff and Patty. But he could see no sign of either Helen or Ivy, so he decided to go back into the Hall.
‘Frankie!’
Frankie turned to see Ivy hurrying through the garden from the direction of the church. ‘Ivy! Wot’s goin’ on? Where’s ’Elen?’
Ivy, shivering, tried to keep her voice as low as possible. ‘She’s in the church, Frankie. Go and look after ’er – please.’ There was a tone of desperation in her plea. ‘She’s in a terrible state.’
Frankie was alarmed. ‘Wot’s up wiv er?’
Ivy was clearly upset herself, for her eyes were red from crying. ‘It’s Eric. Eric Sibley. ’E’s missin’ in action.’
‘Wot!’
‘’Is bruvver Gary came round and told me and Joyce. ’Is mum and dad are in a terrible state.’ Ivy used her already very wet handkerchief to dab the tears filling her eyes. ‘Eric was such a nice bloke. We all liked ’im. It’s terrible fer ’Elen! Terrible!’
Frankie was shocked and embarrassed. He wanted to comfort Ivy, but he didn’t quite know what to do. ‘But missin’ in action – that don’t mean ’e’s dead or anyfin’?’
‘That’s not wot ’Elen finks. She knew Eric was goin’ to the front line. She knew he was goin ter be in danger. It was somefin’ about the way he wrote ’is last letter to ’er.’ Ivy suddenly put her arm around Frankie’s neck and, sobbing and speaking at the same time, whispered in his ear, ‘I’ve gotta go, Frankie. Mum and dad are takin’ us to our Auntie Polly fer Christmas. Go an’ see, ’Elen – please! She needs yer!’
Frankie and Ivy walked back through the vicarage garden. The branches of the big oak tree were stark and bare, and, for one brief moment, Frankie thought it looked sinister and overpowering. But the light sprinkling of snow had softened the bleak winter look of the rose bushes, although it didn’t help what was left of the chrysanthemums, whose dead blooms drooped down pitifully.
As they passed through the iron gate which led into Hornsey Road, Ivy said goodbye to Frankie and made her way home while he climbed up the few stone steps of the red-bricked Emmanuel Church. Before going in, he paused for a moment. What was he going to say to his sister? How could he, of all people, comfort her? In those few seconds he thought of the many times Helen had helped him out of trouble at home, how she had always defended him when their mother went for him. Now it was his turn to do something for Helen. But Frankie didn’t know anything about being in love, so how could he assure his big sister that everything would be all right? It wasn’t going to be all right and there was nothing he could do or say that would make it so. Oh, if only Elsa was here now, thought Frankie. She’d know what to do.
No one would claim that the Emmanuel Church was the most beautiful building in the world, but it did have a special atmosphere of its own. It wasn’t particularly old – it had been built sometime during the latter part of the nineteenth century – with pews set out each side of the central aisle. If there was any sun during the day, it would stream through the windows on the right-hand side of the building in the morning. After dusk, it was poorly lit, mainly by a few overhead chandeliers, and during Evening Service it was difficult to know how the Rev. Marshall was able to read the lesson.
It was the first time Frankie had been inside the church since he was a small boy, and he immediately felt conspicuous, though he didn’t know why; the first thing he did was look around for Helen, but there was no sign of her. As he moved down the centre aisle, his shoes, with their metal-tipped heels and toes, echoed on the marble tiles. When he reached the front he stopped briefly to look up at the Christmas tree near the altar. On the top of it was a small figure of Jesus, and not the traditional fairy. But not far away was a manger designed and constructed by the children of Pakeman Street School, whose playground was overlooked by the church itself.
‘’Elen?’ Frankie summoned up enough courage to call his sister’s name. But the silence unnerved him, so he kept his voice very low. ‘You in ’ere, ’Elen?’
There was a pause, during which time Frankie felt comforted by the sudden distant sound of the Rev. Monty Marshall giving his annual rendition of Come into the garden, Maud at the Concert Party. He called again, this time a little louder. ‘’Elen?’
Only then did Helen call back. ‘Over ’ere, Frank.’
Frankie turned, and finally spotted his sister sitting in a pew on the edge of the left-hand aisle. She was sitting in partial darkness, for she had chosen a pew beneath a chandelier which had only one electric light bulb working. ‘Wot yer doin’ ’ere then?’
‘I just wanna few minutes quiet, that’s all.’ To Frankie’s surprise, Helen was perfectly calm, sitting upright in the pew with her hands tucked into her coat pocket.
Frankie sat at her side. ‘Ivy told me about – about Eric. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
Helen half glanced at him and smiled gratefully. ‘Fanks.’
‘It could be a mistake, yer know.’ Although Frankie felt decidedly awkward, he was making an effort to be reassuring. ‘I’ve ’eard it’s ’appened before. They report someone missin’ in action, then find they’ve made a mistake.’
‘It’s no mistake, Frank.’ Helen was staring at her lap. ‘It’s all over. I always knew somefin’ like this would ’appen. Everyfin’ was going too well for me. It’s all over. Eric’s dead.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ Frankie was suddenly and uncharacteristically firm. ‘People in’t dead ’til you see them fer yerself, stretched out in their coffin.’ In his desperation to be objective, Frankie had been unwittingly tactless.
Helen quickly turned and snapped back at him. ‘You stupid little nit! Eric won’t be in no coffin. He’s probably lyin’ out there in a field somewhere, waitin’ ter be picked up and frown down an ’ole in the ground!’
‘No, ’Elen!’
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ For the first time, Helen was showing emotion, biting her lip to try and hold back tears. ‘We was goin’ ter set up ’ome tergevver. We ’ad all sorts of plans. As soon as ’e was demobbed, Eric was gonna go and see mum and dad, and tell them ’e wanted ter marry me, an’ if they didn’t say yes we’d run away from ’ome and do it anyway.’ Helen was talking faster and faster, as if she was living through that final conversation she had had with Eric before he went away. And while she was talking, the tears were beginning to trickle down her cheeks. ‘I loved ’im, Frank. I loved ’im so much!’
Frankie let his sister talk on, for he felt that this was the only real way he could help her.
‘We ’ad such good times tergevver – me and Eric. An’ I could tell ’e loved me by the way ’e used ter tease me all the time.’ She turned to face Frankie. There was such eagerness – and desperation – in her eyes. ‘D’yer know wot ’e once told me?’
Frankie shook his head.
‘’E said, ’Elen – if you wasn’t such a good looker, I’d fancy you!’ She roared with laughter, which echoed right across the church ceiling. The laugh mixed with her sobbing and the tears which were rolling freely down her cheeks. ‘’E was always doin’ it, Frank. ’E was always teasin’ me.’
While she talked, Frankie never stopped looking straight at her. To him, Helen had always been more like a brother – the way they’d fought together as kids, the way they both spoke about their ‘pals’, the way Helen could talk to him as an equal when it came to disagreements over footbal
l matches. But as he studied her face, with the solitary light bulb from the ceiling above reflecting in her eyes, Frankie gradually realised that this wasn’t a brother who was talking to him. Helen was his sister. She was a girl – and she was beautiful, really beautiful. ‘You’ll find anuvver feller, ’Elen. You’re bound to.’
‘I don’t want anuvver feller! I want Eric.’ She rubbed her eyes with her fingers, and the little make-up she was wearing immediately smudged. ‘Don’t you understand, Frankie? ’E was the only one who meant anyfin’ ter me, the only one who cared what I fawt or wot I looked like. There are some people yer just can’t replace. Yer just can’t!’
Frankie could bear it no more. In the most spontaneous act of his life, he threw his arms around her and hugged her tight. ‘It’ll be all right, ’Elen, you’ll see. I’ll take care of yer – I promise I will.’
Helen’s voice was muffled, her face pressed tightly into Frankie’s shoulder. ‘I wanted to ’ave ’is kid, Frankie. I wanted so bad ter ’ave ’is kid . . .’
‘You’ll ’ave uvver kids, ’Elen,’ whispered Frankie reassuringly. ‘When the war’s over, you’ll find some uvver nice feller, an’ you’ll ’ave lots an’ lots of kids.’
Helen took her hands out of her coat pockets, threw them around Frankie, and squeezed him tight. ‘I don’t want somebody else’s kid, Frank. Don’t you understand?’ She looked up at him, anguished, and said, ‘I’m pregnant. I’m gonna ’ave Eric’s baby.’
A couple of hours later, the Concert Party in the Church Hall was over, and most of the residents of Merton Street and their neighbours filed into the Emmanuel Church for the Midnight Service. Frankie had always convinced himself that he didn’t really believe in religion, and since his mum and dad never went to Church he never saw any reason why he should. But, with Helen at his side, he stayed for this one.
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