Our Street

by Pemberton, Victor

  ‘Ah!’ Gertrude gulped down the last of her brandy, convinced that she had stumbled on to something. ‘Zo maybe you prefer to be viz Elsa more zan your mudder?’

  ‘Dumm! Dumm! Dumm!’ Elsa got up from her seat, and grabbed the empty brandy glass from Gertrude. She was clearly embarrassed by her friend’s tactless questions. ‘The cognac has made your tongue loose, Gertrude! It happens every time!’ Clearly irritated, she very nearly snapped the stem of the brandy glass as she slammed it down on to a small side table. Then she returned to her own chair again.

  Gertrude shrugged her shoulders smugly. ‘All I am saying is zat it’s not possible for a person to haf two mudders. It’s not natural.’

  Without looking up, Frankie answered quite casually. ‘Elsa’s my friend, miss – not my mum. And, let’s face it – she’s not your mum either – is she?’

  Elsa swung around with a start and stared at Frankie, delighted. After a brief moment Frankie looked up, and they both exchanged a mischievous grin, which soon turned into a giggle.

  ‘I’m going to bed!’ With supreme effort, Gertrude eased herself up from the settee. She was very wobbly on her feet.

  Elsa rose quickly from her seat. ‘But Gertrude, dear, it’s nearly time for the New Year.’

  ‘Ze New Year . . .’ Her words were now more slurred than ever ‘. . . vill soon be . . . not so new. And it is not our New Year . . .’ As she staggered towards the door, Frankie leapt up and rushed across to help. But Gertrude shrugged him off and, as she disappeared into the hall, the last thing she was heard to mutter was, ‘Sank God anozzer year is over!’

  Elsa rushed to the door and called after her. ‘Gute nacht wunschen, Gertrud! Happy New Year!’ She closed the door, and turned round triumphantly to Frankie. ‘I’m having a wonderful time!’

  ‘Me too!’ beamed Frankie.

  At one minute to midnight Elsa turned on the wireless to listen to the chimes of Big Ben ushering in the New Year. As Gertrude had drained the last few drops of wine from the bottle, Elsa and Frankie had to toast the New Year in with R. W. White’s lemonade and Winston wasn’t left out. Frankie dipped his finger into his own glass, and dropped some of the lemonade into the dog’s mouth.

  When the chimes of Big Ben had finally greeted the first day of the new year, Elsa and Frankie listened for a while to the rest of the festivities on the wireless, and joined in with the crowds singing Auld Lang Syne. Then, before he went home, Frankie asked Elsa if she would play just one more song for him. So Elsa turned off the wireless and picked up her concertina. She sat down in her own armchair, settled her head back, closed her eyes, and accompanied herself on the concertina as she sang. This time, however, it was a very different song: Till We Meet Again.

  It was a sad little tune, and for the first time, Frankie realised why it meant so much to Elsa. Her voice was not perfect, but it was sweet and pure. But, most important of all, there was no doubt that she and her husband Robert had learnt the words together, for Elsa had just sung the song in the most impeccable English accent. As he watched her dab away her tears with her lace handkerchief, he got up from the pouffe he had been sitting on and, without a second thought, kissed her lightly on the cheek. Elsa’s eyes immediately lit up.

  ‘I’m sorry ye’re not my muvver, Elsa,’ Frankie whispered into her ear. ‘But I’m very proud ter ’ave you as my friend.’ Then he kissed her on the other cheek. ‘Happy New Year, Elsa!’ Winston added his greeting by barking just once, and licking Elsa’s hand.

  Frankie and Winston made their way home along darkened streets. There were still a few revellers around, but on the whole, most people had already gone to bed. When they reached Merton Street, Frankie sat for a few moments on the coping-stone of the garden wall opposite number 1. The house was not only in darkness, but also absolutely still and quiet. But Frankie thought the street itself seemed to be generating a very special atmosphere, totally different from anything he had known before. It was as though the roofs and chimney-pots were all trying to tell him something – maybe something about the New Year that was now only an hour old. Would life in Merton Street be any different next year, he wondered? Would he pass his Matriculation Certificate at school? Would he get on better with his family? Would he be able to save up enough for his new bike! And would the war finally come to an end?

  The New Year had a lot to offer. Frankie just hoped that 1945 would live up to all its promises.

  Chapter Ten

  The Thursday after New Year’s Eve, Frankie received an offer he couldn’t resist. It was his sister Helen’s afternoon off from the shoe shop, and she asked her brother if he would like to go to the pictures with her. Frankie jumped at the chance, especially as he wasn’t paying. The last time they’d gone to the pictures together was way back in 1940, to see Tod Slaughter in a really spooky horror film called The Face at the Window. The film had an H Certificate, so no children were allowed anywhere near the place. But Frankie and Helen had sneaked into the cinema through an Exit door, and concealed themselves on the floor at the back of the Circle. However, when the film was half-way through, the sudden wail of an air-raid siren was immediately followed by a flash on the screen:

  The Air Raid alert has sounded.

  Will those patrons who wish to leave,

  please do so quietly.

  For those patrons who wish to remain,

  the programme will continue.

  To their immense frustration, Frankie and Helen were forced to leave, not because they were afraid, but because the attendants were moving through the auditorium with their torches, showing the few people who wanted to leave the way out, and they’d been afraid of being discovered. Once outside, the anti-aircraft gunfire was already shattering the buildings along the Holloway Road, so Frankie and Helen had had to hurry back to Merton Street, dodging the red-hot pieces of shrapnel that were falling out of the sky as they ran.

  This afternoon, as Frankie and Helen settled down in their seats in the circle, for which Helen had paid one and threepence each, all the horrors of those nightly air-raids seemed like a bygone nightmare and the double bill playing that week was well worth the money. The picture Frankie wanted to see most was the ‘B’ feature – Laurel and Hardy in The Dancing Masters, his favourite screen comics. But he was also eager to see Down Argentina Way, a colour musical with Betty Grable and Carmen Miranda. Although he laughed a great deal at ‘the Brazilian bombshell’ as Carmen Miranda was called, Frankie always cringed with embarrassment every time he saw her, for it reminded him of the time when, at the age of seven, he had been forced to impersonate her at the annual Christmas party in the church hall.

  Helen didn’t seem particularly excited by the thought of seeing any of the programme. There was, as Frankie suspected, an ulterior motive in his sister’s sudden generosity but Helen waited until the interval before revealing it. Frankie had already consumed the Mars bar Helen had donated with her ration coupons, and now he was joining in the chorus of Shine on Harvest Moon, which was being played with skilled bravado by Mr Rupert Hufpepper, who was in the spotlight, his back to the audience, smiling and nodding his head at them in the mirror of the cinema’s Compton organ.

  ‘Got somefin’ ter tell yer, Frank,’ Helen said, turning to Frankie, as Mr Hufpepper and his ‘musical wonder machine’ sank into the bowels of the Marlborough pit. ‘I need yer ’elp.’

  Frankie turned to look at her. ‘Wot’s up?’

  Helen looked carefully around to make sure no one was listening. ‘I’m gettin’ rid o’ the baby.’

  Frankie practically leapt out of his seat. ‘Wot!’

  Helen quickly put a hand to Frankie’s mouth and lowered her voice even further. ‘Ssh, Frank! I don’t want the ’ole cinema ter ’ear.’

  Frankie was utterly flabbergasted. ‘Wot d’yer mean – gettin’ rid of it?’

  ‘I’m ’avin’ an abortion. Ivy knows some woman up in Hornsey Rise who’ll do it.’

  Frankie started biting his fingernails hard. As he l
istened to Helen, he found he couldn’t look at her. The cinema house lights had already darkened, and the projectionist was showing some local advertisements on the screen.

  ‘I’ve thought very ’ard about it. In fact, I’ve ’ad ’ardly any sleep since – since I ’eard about Eric.’

  ‘But why d’yer ’ave ter get rid of it?’ Frankie was watching the cinema screen without taking anything in. ‘Why can’t yet just ’ave it, and look after it?’

  ‘Are yer jokin’!’ Helen leant across the arm of her seat so that she was almost whispering straight into Frankie’s left ear. ‘’Ave yer any idea wot Mum’d do ter me if she knew? Dad, too, most like. They just couldn’t take it, Frank. They wouldn’t know ’ow.’ She stopped speaking abruptly when two small children passed along the empty row of seats just in front of them, clearly heading for the toilets. Helen waited for the two kids to disappear, then leant across to Frankie again. ‘At first, I thought I’d take a chance and just sit it out. But then I decided, well – it wouldn’t be fair on the kid. I mean, wot’s the point if I’m kicked out of ’ouse and ’ome, wiv nowhere ter go, and a small baby wiv only a muvver ter bring it up. It wouldn’t be right, Frank. It just wouldn’t be right.’

  Frankie had chewed his thumbnail down to the quick, and he was now moving on to his forefinger. As the last advertisement was coming to an end on the screen, he thought he saw the dim figure of a man flickering hurriedly across the projection beam. He swung around with a start, half expecting to see the ghost of the Edwardian actor who, it was alleged, had haunted the circle seats area since the turn of the century, when the old Marlborough cinema had been an elegant variety theatre.

  ‘So wot d’yer say, Frank. Are yer wiv me?’

  Frankie forgot all about the ‘ghost’, and turned back to his sister. ‘’Course I’m wiv yer. But I don’t see ’ow I can ’elp yer?’

  Helen waited for the usherette to show an excited family party of four kids and three adults to their seats on the other side of the gangway. Once they had settled she drew close to Frankie again. ‘I need some money, Frank. It’s gonna cost five quid ter get rid of the baby.’

  ‘Five quid!’ Frankie swung a horrified look at her.

  Helen shushed him. ‘She’s doin’ it cheap ’cos she knows Ivy. I’ve got nearly four quid of me own. I was savin’ it fer . . .’ She stopped speaking for a moment, for there was a huge lump in her throat. ‘I was savin’ it for when Eric came ’ome. Did yer know ’e’d asked me ter marry ’im? We’d only known each uvver a few weeks. ‘’E loved me, Frank. I swear ter God, he did love me!’

  Frankie suddenly stopped chewing his fingernail, grabbed hold of his sister’s hands and squeezed them hard though he’d never done such a thing before. Knowing Elsa was changing him in lots of ways . . . ‘I’ll give yer the rest of the money, ‘’Elen. I can take it out of my money jar.’

  Helen, whose eyes were glistening with tears in the light from the cinema projection, stared at her brother with a look of anguish and astonishment. ‘But you can’t, Frank. You’re savin’ that money for yer bike.’

  ‘There’s no rush,’ said Frankie, taking a deep breath and straightening up in his seat. ‘I’ve waited so long, I can wait a bit longer. Anyway, you’d do the same fer me.’

  Helen threw her arms around her brother and hugged him. ‘Oh fank you, Frank!’ she whispered. She wanted to cry, but somehow felt that it would probably embarrass him. ‘I’ll never forget this, I promise. Never!’

  They quickly straightened up again as the two small kids returned from their visit to the toilets, giggling at the two funny people who were cuddling each other.

  The lights in the great chandelier on the ceiling above gradually started to dim and, within seconds, the fading red plush seats and peeling gold leaf stucco were plunged into total darkness. But then that magic, flickering light beamed down from the projection booth behind and, as the dusty old quilted curtains drew back across the screen, it was only moments before the Marlborough cinema in the Holloway Road was transported into the glamour of technicoloured Argentina.

  This was always the moment that Frankie loved the most. To him, the lights dimming at the start of a film was the most exciting thing in the world. But not today. At this precise moment, all he could feel was a sense of overwhelming depression . . .

  On Saturday morning, Elsa woke up to find that there had been a heavy fall of snow overnight. But, as she had never failed to open her shop promptly at nine o’clock every morning, she left number 19 Hadleigh Villas half-an-hour earlier than usual. It was a slow and perilous journey, for although most people were already clearing the snow from the pavement in front of their gates, others were clearly taking advantage of a Saturday morning lie-in. As she plodded her way along Hadleigh Villas, she couldn’t tell where the pavement finished and the road began, for the snow was way up past her ankles. Luckily, because of the appalling conditions, there wasn’t much traffic on the road, so she didn’t feel too threatened if she occasionally wandered off the kerb.

  Once in the Tollington Road, Elsa stopped briefly at the small newsagents shop where she bought her usual copy of the News Chronicle. However, it wasn’t until she was making her way out again that she suddenly noticed a large front-page photograph that sent a chill down her spine. ‘DEATH CAMP HORROR’ read the headline above it, and below, it told the terrifying story: ‘Allied forces advancing on a small town in northwestern France, came upon this scene of human carnage and destruction . . .’ Elsa could read no more, for she immediately realised that the photograph was of a group of French men, women, and children, their heads shaven and marked with the word: JUDE. All were riddled with machine-gun holes and had been thrown into a muddy trench grave in some quiet country woods. It was a horrifying picture, and Elsa couldn’t look at it. She quickly folded up the newspaper and tucked it in her shopping bag, hurrying out of the shop.

  As she made her way slowly down the Tollington Road, Elsa felt sick in her stomach. She was overwhelmed by the deep, merciless cruelty of the Nazis. How could one human being do this to another human being, she kept asking herself? And her mind went back to those early days in Germany, to her family and friends, and what had happened to them during those brutal, soul-destroying times. She and Gertrude too might have ended up in a pile of death like those poor, tragic creatures in the newspaper photograph. As she walked, her hand felt for the Star of David brooch she was wearing on a chain around her neck. And, as she rubbed it gently in her fingers, she prayed that the human slaughter would soon end . . .

  As she reached sight of Hornsey Road, Elsa was in a deep depression. But, as she drew closer to the jumble shop on the corner, her face lit up. Winston was bouncing in and out of the snow towards her. ‘Winston!’ she yelled, half-laughing, but doing her best to keep her balance. ‘You young rascal! What are you doing out so early?’

  ‘’Allo, Elsa.’ Frankie suddenly appeared from around the corner. He was wrapped up against the cold, with a woollen scarf tied around his head and ears, and Wellington boots which were covered with snow. What could be seen of his face was very flushed, for he had been toiling away at clearing the snow from the pavement outside the shop, using a small coal shovel lent to him by Mr Jones in the dairy yard just down the road.

  Elsa was astonished to see what Frankie had been doing. ‘Frankie! You excellent chap! This is wonderful, wonderful!’

  Elsa quickly took the shop key from her pocket and opened up. Winston followed her in, then Frankie, who immediately lit the paraffin stove. The shop was at once filled with the sour smell of burning oil. In no time at all, Elsa had boiled a kettle on top of the stove, and, after putting two teaspoonfuls of tea into her small brown china teapot, poured piping hot water on to it. During this, Winston took up his usual place as close to the stove as possible, where he was kept quiet with a couple of Jacobs cracker biscuits covered with Marmite. Frankie took off his scarf, but kept his raincoat on, then set about trying to unfreeze his fingers over the stove.
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  ‘You’re a good boy, Frankie. I’m very lucky to have you help me.’ Elsa poured hot tea into two mugs which immediately gave off a fresh smelling aroma, dispelling the sour vapour from the stove. While she waited for the tea to brew, she went to the window and raised the blackout blinds. It was only when she turned that she noticed how tired and miserable Frankie was looking. ‘Frankie? Is something wrong?’

  A shaft of early morning winter light was piercing through the window, which caused Frankie to shield his eyes. It also made him look even paler than he was already. ‘I’m all right. Just tired, that’s all.’

  Frankie’s response was almost surly, so Elsa knew something was wrong. ‘Are you worried about your examinations? I think maybe you shouldn’t come here so often. You need time for your homework.’

  ‘It’s got nuffin’ ter do wiv me exams, Elsa. I don’t take them ’til the summer.’

  Elsa decided not to push it. She knew Frankie well enough to know that he wanted to tell her something, but didn’t know how. But she wouldn’t force him. Shrugging her shoulders, she made her way back behind the counter again. ‘Would you like some ginger in your tea today?’

  ‘No, fanks.’

  Elsa took some fresh ginger from a small jar underneath the counter, cut off a piece, popped it into her mug, and stirred it. She put a flat teaspoonful of sugar into Frankie’s mug and left the spoon there. Then she picked up both mugs and took them over to the paraffin stove where Frankie was still thawing his hands. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Frankie took his mug, stirred it, and took a sip. It was piping hot and it burnt his lips.

  For a moment or so, neither said a word as they stared down almost mesmerically at the flickering flame on the burning wick of the stove. Sooner or later, thought Elsa, Frankie wouldn’t be able to resist speaking. During the months since she had got to know him, she had grown used to her young friend’s little mannerisms, his moods, and anxieties. And if there was one thing she had learnt, it was that he could not resist the temptation to share his anxieties with someone. And she was always flattered when it was she whom he confided in. So Elsa waited, sipping tea, and warming herself by the stove. For her, there was no drink in the world like a good cup of tea. It reminded her so much of her young days in Germany, when, during the cold winter months, after the long walk home from Synagogue on Saturday afternoons, the whole family would sit down to lemon and ginger tea, cinnamon biscuits, and apple strudel.