Chapter Eight
Christmas Day at number 1 Merton Street was always a non-event, and this year was no exception. Reg and Gracie had bought Frankie his first pair of long trousers, and for Helen a frilled white blouse which she’d asked for after seeing it in Jones Brothers shop window. The presents had been quite a sacrifice for Gracie and Reg who had had to forfeit quite a few of their own clothes’ ration coupons to buy them. Helen’s present to her parents was a thoughtful one, though: new cushion covers for the tatty three-piece suite in the front parlour room, which she herself had been secretly crochetting for the last five months. Frankie, who was saving every penny he was earning to put towards his new bike, kept enough aside to buy an ounce of tobacco for his father, who rolled his own Rizla cigarettes. For his mother he bought a penny bar of her favourite Lux toilet soap together with a dark brown hairnet and a packet of hairpins. Frankie’s present to his sister was a blue leather-covered pocket diary for 1945, for he knew that she recorded all sorts of boring details about her daily life. But Helen’s present to her brother not only took him completely by surprise, but absolutely delighted him. It was a gramophone record of Bing Crosby and the Andrews sisters singing Don’t Fence Me In and for the rest of the day Frankie drove everyone mad by playing it at least a dozen times.
The Lewis Christmas lunch was traditional, and for Frankie – boring. His mother was a lousy cook, and even though she managed to get a small chicken every year, she always over-cooked it so that by the time it reached the kitchen table it, and the roast potatoes, were shrivelled up to half their size. And the vegetables – greens and brussel sprouts – were boiled soggy and absolutely tasteless. But the family always adored the Christmas pudding – and that was because Gracie Lewis never made it. It was ‘commissioned’ from the Gorman brothers, who were excellent cooks, on the understanding that they didn’t have to provide the necessary ingredients from their own ration book. They also made succulent mince pies, which Frankie and his father soon polished off, usually smothered in Gracie’s thick, lumpy custard made with powdered milk. Thanks to Frankie, Winston had his own Christmas lunch too, a couple of slices of chicken and some vegetables all mixed up with some hot Bisto gravy.
By the time lunch was over, Reg Lewis had drunk so much Guinness and brown ale that he had to retire to the front parlour where he soon fell asleep on the settee, snoring loudly. While Helen helped her mother to wash up, Frankie took Winston out for an afternoon walk. He had offered to call on Elsa, but she said that she never liked to see anyone on Christmas Day. What she meant was that she didn’t want anyone to see her crying to herself as she reflected on the Christmasses she and Robert spent together. Frankie couldn’t understand why people had to get so weepy and sentimental at Christmas. To him it was just like any other day.
The previous night, Helen had been weepy, too. In fact, Frankie was up half the night trying to comfort her, but without success. Her eyes red raw with crying, all she could say over and over again was, ‘What am I going to do, Frankie? What am I going to do?’ Frankie had no idea what his sister was going to do. The only thing he did know was that when their mother found out that Helen was going to have a baby, she would either kill her or order her out of the house . . .
As he and Winston strolled around the deserted back streets, Frankie could hear the sound of laughter coming from many houses. Why, he wondered, couldn’t it be like that in his house? For most people, Christmas was a time for all the family and their relatives to get together and have a good blow-out and a knees-up. But not the Lewises. His grandparents had abandoned his dad and his mother had quarrelled with her own parents and didn’t know whether they were alive or dead. But, thought Frankie, people should have friends, friends who want to get together and enjoy each other’s company. Christmas wasn’t Christmas without company.
Frankie and Winston took the short cut to Hornsey Road by crossing the Pakeman Street School playground. The sky was now very overcast and, although it was still only half-past three in the afternoon, it was getting dark. Despite the fact that this was supposed to be Winston’s Christmas treat, he knew exactly where he was being dragged off to, and the moment they reached Pascall’s bike shop, he flopped down on to the pavement and, with a huge sigh, rested his chin on the shop step. The window itself was already in partial darkness, so Frankie took out his pocket torch and directed the beam straight at his dream bike. Relieved to see that it was still there, he could see his own broad, excited smile reflected in the glass. To Winston’s delight, however, Frankie moved on very quickly and headed off down Hadleigh Villas. As they approached number 19, Frankie could hear the sound of a record being played on Elsa’s gramophone. He recognised the tune immediately, for he had heard it requested many times on Forces’ Favourites. It was called, Till We Meet Again, and was sung by a man called Sam Browne. Frankie didn’t like the song because it was too sloppy and sentimental and he decided to leave Elsa alone so that she could have a good cry all to herself.
A few minutes later, Frankie and Winston headed back down the Seven Sisters Road, so that Frankie could call on Prof.
Prof lived with his Auntie Hilda in a small maisonette above a ladies’ handbag shop in the Seven Sisters Road, just opposite the North London Drapery Stores. Auntie Hilda was a treasure, and Prof was very fond of her. By taking him in she’d saved him from life in a children’s home after his parents were killed in an air-raid on the Angel, Islington, in the early years of the war.
‘Frankie!’ Prof beamed with delight when he opened the door and saw his pal there. ‘Winston! Merry Christmas, boy!’ He made a great fuss of Frankie’s dog, and was rewarded with licks and a lot of excited tail-wagging.
‘Merry Christmas, Prof!’ Frankie and Winston followed their pal up the narrow staircase and as they climbed, there was a strong smell of leather from the handbag shop, mixed with the more seductive smells of Auntie Hilda’s cooking. As they reached the first floor, Frankie could hear Auntie’s voice coming from her parlour, where she was entertaining several of her friends and relatives, all laughing and joking in excited chatter.
Prof’s room was on the top floor and was quite big, with sloping ceilings. Frankie never ceased to be amazed at the endless array of weird contraptions that Prof had built. In one corner, dangling from the ceiling, was an enormous cardboard model of an RAF Mosquito fighter bomber, complete with markings and wing-mounted machine guns. On his chest of drawers was a model of a four-mast sailing ship, complete with sails, designed and constructed by Prof himself. Elsewhere, there were extraordinary electrical contraptions made out of bits and pieces of discarded household goods, and the place was littered with over-hanging electrical wires which, to Frankie, looked absolutely lethal. As Prof’s heroes were neither film or sporting stars, his walls were plastered with photographs and newspaper cuttings of inventors, astronomers, and great adventurers. But Prof’s great pride and joy was the model train system which completely covered the floor of the bedroom. It was a replica of the London North Eastern Railways’ Flying Scot Express train, and Prof had made it entirely himself, complete with railway track, bridges, stations, and signal boxes. It was, in Frankie’s opinion, a work of pure genius.
‘Is it finished?’ asked Frankie, immediately dropping to his knees eagerly to inspect the sleek model railway engine.
Prof crouched down beside him. ‘I put the last electric circuit in last night. Watch.’ He flicked a switch and the engine, which had been waiting patiently with its carriages at ‘Seven Sisters Road Railway Station’, burst into life and, after waiting for the signal baton to rise, rushed off on its journey of discovery around Prof’s bedroom. Frankie roared and cheered with delight, and Winston barked and barked as it sped at enormous speed to the far corner of the room, disappearing beneath a chair, reappearing from behind the settee, and taking every corner as smoothly as the Flying Scot engine itself, speeding around the hills and lochs of Scotland.
As Prof brought his wonderful creation to a halt at the sam
e platform that it had left from, Frankie broke out into wild applause. ‘Fantastic, Prof!’ he yelled. ‘It’s fantastic! You’re a genius!’
Prof beamed with delight. ‘D’you think so, Frankie? D’you really think so?’
‘It’s magnificent!’ Frankie assured his pal, patting him triumphantly on the back. ‘I in’t never seen anyfin’ like it! Wot say you, Winnie?’ Winston barked and barked at the model engine, and his tail very nearly wagged off.
The noise brought Auntie Hilda into the room. ‘What’s going on up here, then? Oh – it’s you, Frankie.’ She was greeted by Winston who immediately tried to get a sniff of the hot mince pies and bottle of Tizer she was carrying on a tray. ‘Hallo Winston – lovely boy!’ As usual there was a greal smile on Auntie Hilda’s chubby face who, with her hair neatly brushed into a bun at the back of her head, and her spotless floral-patterned pinafore, gave no indication that she’d been cooking all morning. ‘Have you had a good Christmas Day, then?’
Frankie lowered his head, almost guiltily. ‘Yes, fank you, Auntie.’
‘That’s good.’ Auntie Hilda beamed. She insisted on her nephew’s friends calling her Auntie because it made her feel as though she had a family of her own. Prof took the tray from her, and placed it on the floor between him and Frankie. ‘And how’s your mum and dad these days?’ said Auntie, as she watched the two boys, helped by Winston, devour her newly baked mince pies. ‘Have they got visitors this Christmas?’
Frankie, mouth full of mince pie, shook his head. ‘Mum and dad never have visitors. They like ter keep themselves ter themselves.’
Auntie’s happy smile briefly faded. ‘Really? Well, that’s a pity now. I’d hate to spend Christmas without my loved ones around me.’ She trotted back to the door; a plump little woman, she was very light on her tiny feet. ‘You two boys enjoy yourselves. Don’t drink too much Tizer.’
When she reached the door, Frankie, swallowing a particularly hot last piece of mince pie called to her. ‘Fanks fer the mince pies, Auntie. They’re smashin’.’
Auntie turned at the door, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘So they should be. Those currants took a whole week of my ration coupons!’ With a little chuckle, she closed the door and returned to her own visitors downstairs.
‘You’re lucky ter ’ave Auntie,’ said Frankie, ruefully. ‘I wish my mum was like ’er.’
Prof was collecting two beakers from a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. ‘Auntie’s not like other women. She let’s me do what I want.’ He came back with the beakers, filled them with Tizer and handed one to Frankie. ‘I saw that girlfriend of yours the other day.’ There was a touch of scorn in his voice.
Frankie took a swift gulp of his Tizer. ‘Girlfriend? Wot yer talkin’ about?’
Prof sat down beside Frankie again. ‘That one from the Girls’ School at Highbury Hill – you were eyeing her up in the air-raid shelter.’
Frankie coloured. He knew exactly who Prof was talking about. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Well, she remembers you. She was in Marks and Spencers with her mum and she had the cheek to come up and ask if I knew whether you were going to our school concert in January.’
‘Wot d’yer tell ’er?’ Frankie was trying to sound disinterested.
‘I said I wouldn’t know, I’m not your secretary.’ Prof took a quick swig of his Tizer, which almost half-emptied the beaker. Frankie was the only real pal Prof had ever had. In fact, no other member of the Merton Street gang would ever have bothered with him if it wasn’t for Frankie because Prof was a real one-off. He dressed peculiarly, sometimes putting on odd socks, his trousers hoisted so high by his braces that they were invariably at half-mast, and, to the despair of Auntie, he often wore plimsolls out in the street in the dead of winter. He would do anything for Frankie, because Frankie treated him like a human being. The idea that Frankie should have a girl-friend upset him. It wasn’t that Prof didn’t like girls; he just didn’t trust them, especially after the way Patty in the gang had teased and taunted him so many times.
Frankie shuffled awkwardly, then quickly changed the subject. ‘Yer know somefin’, Prof.’ You oughta sell this train set. I bet yer’d make a fortune out of it.’
Prof replaced the model train engine on the track beside the station platform. ‘I don’t want to sell it. There’s no point.’
Frankie looked puzzled. ‘Wot yer gonna do wiv it, then?’
Prof hesitated, then turned to look straight at Frankie. ‘It’s yours, Frankie. At least it will be – one of these days.’
Frankie was thunderstruck. ‘Mine!’
‘What good is it to me when I’m dead?’
‘Come off it, Prof! Yer only fifteen. Yer’ve got donkey’s years left yet.’
Prof flopped back on to the floor. ‘Not necessarily.’ He tucked his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. ‘I went to the Royal Northern hospital in Holloway Road last week. They did a whole lot of tests on me.’ He was speaking quite naturally, with no trace of self-pity. The specialist said I’ve got to be careful, I could drop down dead any time.’
Frankie felt the blood drain from his body. ‘Whose leg are yer pullin’, Prof?’
Prof sat up and propped himself on his elbows. ‘I’m not pullin’ anyone’s leg, Frankie. It’s true. It’s all to do with this rheumatic fever I had when I was a kid. I haven’t told anyone except you about it. Auntie knows, of course. She says she’s not worried, as long as I take care of myself and wants me to get rid of my bike. But I’ll never do that.’
For once, Frankie was at a loss for words.
Prof grinned broadly. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to pop off yet. At least – I hope not.’ But his expression became just a little more intense as he sat upright and stared straight at Frankie. ‘But when it does happen, I want you to have all this – the train set, and all the rest of the stuff. You can sell it if you want. I want you to have it, Frankie. You won’t forget, will you?’
Frankie suddenly stood up. He was feeling angry, which was his way of expressing how upset he was. ‘I’m not gonna listen to this crap, Prof. Ye’re only fifteen years old. Only old people die. I’m tellin’ yer, Prof. Yer’ll be around when most of us are dead and gone.’
Prof roared with laughter. ‘Don’t be a nit, Frankie. I mean, let’s face it – nobody lives forever.’ And with that, he poured them both another beaker of Tizer.
All the way home, Frankie couldn’t get the Prof off his mind. It was something about the cool and calm way that his own best pal had told him that he was going to die. It was impossible, thought Frankie. He looked so well, so alive! Surely there must be doctors around who could put him right? After all, since the war started thousands of people had been pulled from the bombed wreckage of their homes and saved from death, so why couldn’t they do the same for the Prof? Churning over in his mind what his friend had told him, Frankie said to himself that he didn’t want the stupid old train set, or the ‘Mosquito’ fighter bomber model or the four-mast sailing ship model. He just wanted the Prof to stay alive! As he and Winston turned into Merton Street from Hornsey Road, Frankie wished this miserable Christmas would hurry up and end.
It was after nine o’clock when Frankie and Winston arrived back home at number 1. But just as he was about to put his key in the street door, someone called to him.
‘Frankie!’ It was Helen, approaching from the other side of the street. ‘Don’t go in yet.’
‘’Elen?’ Frankie was surprised to see her outside, wrapped up in her coat and headscarf. He expected her to be down in the shelter, listening to the wireless with Mum and Dad. ‘Wot yer doin’ out ’ere?’
Helen beckoned to him silently, and he came back out into the street to join her. ‘Dad’s been gettin’ stroppy,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘’E’s ’ad too much ter drink.’
‘Oh no,’ groaned Frankie. His father seemed to think that every high day and holiday was an excuse to get as much booze down him as possible
. That was fair enough, but Reg Lewis couldn’t hold his drink and it transformed him from a fairly placid, hard-working man into an uncontrollable monster. ‘Where’s Mum?’
Helen turned, and indicated the other side of the street. Their mother was wrapped up in her warm clothes, sitting on the coping-stone of a front garden wall opposite.
‘Wot’s she doin’ over there?’
‘’E went for ’er. So we came out for a walk – ter give ’im time ter go off an’ kip.’
Frankie had just about had his fill of this Christmas. ‘One of these days someone’s gonna give ’im a wop! ’E’s a menace when ’e’s on the booze!’
‘Don’t make fings worse, Frankie!’ Helen was trying to pull him away from the gate. ‘Come over and sit wiv me and Mum.’
Frankie refused to budge. ‘No I won’t! I’m tired. I’m goin’ upstairs to read my book.’
‘Well, make sure yer do,’ sighed Helen, only too aware of how stubborn and obstinate her brother could be. ‘Just ignore ’im and go straight upstairs. I’ll see yer later.’
Frankie watched Helen return to their mother, who looked pathetic sitting disconsolately in the freezing cold, hands tucked into her coat pockets. Then he and Winston made their way back to the street door, and went in.
Frankie was determined not to creep quietly into his own house, so as soon as he followed Winston in, he closed the door quite normally. But he had got no further than the bottom of the stairs when he heard his father’s voice yelling from the front parlour room.
‘Grace! Is that you?’
Frankie took no notice, and started to push Winston gently up the stairs. ‘Go on, boy!’
Suddenly, the parlour door was flung open and Reg was there, hardly able to stand up. ‘Did you ’ear wot I –?’ On seeing Frankie there, he stopped dead. ‘Oh – so it’s you, is it?’
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