Our Street

by Pemberton, Victor

  Moving on, Frankie desperately searched the front windows of practically every house in the street, imagining that Helen was behind each and every one of them. As the minutes passed by he became more and more depressed, convinced that he was too late, and that by now Helen’s baby had been taken away from her. In desperation, he trudged his way back towards the sweet shop. He peered through the window. The time on the Post Office clock on the wall showed twenty-five minutes to twelve. Frankie gulped hard. There was now no doubt that he had missed Helen. He turned away and clearing the snow from a coping stone in front of the house next door, sat there disconsolately. Winston squatted beside him, and pushed his heavy body against Frankie’s leg, always a sign that he knew his master was feeling fed up with himself. There was a huge lump in Frankie’s throat, which, no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to swallow.

  ‘Come on, boy.’ Frankie finally stood up. ‘No point in ’angin ’round ’ere.’

  As they crossed the road to make their way back to ‘the Rise’, Frankie took a casual look back over his shoulder. The blizzard had stopped, so people were beginning to emerge from their houses and, in no time at all, the whole area was buzzing with activity as residents, brandishing shovels, started to clear the snow from the pavement in front of their own houses. Frankie took very little notice, but just as they were about to turn the corner, he caught sight of someone in the distance at the far end of the road. It was a girl, her head down, wearing a headscarf and a camel-coloured coat. Frankie’s eyes widened. ‘’Elen?’ Shouting and waving madly, Frankie struggled through the snow to reach his sister at the end of the road.

  Unfortunately, Helen could neither see nor hear Frankie hurrying towards her and, to his horror, she suddenly stopped outside a house at the end of the road, paused a moment while she looked up at the windows, then opened the front garden gate.

  ‘’Elen!’ Frankie was now shouting and waving frantically. At the same time, Winston joined in, harking for all he was worth, his tail wagging so hard it was in danger of falling off.

  Helen reached the front door of 82 Wilmington Road and raised her hand to the knocker – but before she could reach it, Winston leapt over the front hedge, barking and barking, and nearly knocking her down as he jumped up at her. ‘Winston!’ She was taken completely by surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘’Elen!’ Now Frankie appeared at the front gate, breathless and red-faced. ‘’Elen – wait! Wait!’

  Helen, closely tailed by Winston, hurried back to the gate. ‘Frank! What are you doing?’ She quickly glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching them from inside the house. ‘You shouldn’t be ’ere, Frank.’ She was trying to keep her voice low, particularly as there were now so many people clearing snow from their front gardens. ‘Yer shouldn’t ’ave followed me!’

  ‘Don’t do it, ’Elen! Don’t go through wiv this. It in’t right! Yer mustn’t do it!’ he said, passionately.

  ‘Stop it, Frank! I’ve made up my mind. I’m gettin’ rid of the kid. I don’t want it!’

  ‘You’re lyin’, yer know you are! Yer can’t go through wiv it, ’Elen. If yer love Eric Sibley, you won’t get rid of ’is kid. It’s not right, ’Elen. If you get rid of the kid, you’d be losin’ both of ’em. Don’t you understand?’

  For a moment, Helen stared in disbelief at her young brother. It hardly seemed possible that it was he who was talking. What did he know about love, about having a child? ‘I’ve made up me mind, Frank,’ she said, finally, determinedly. ‘There’s no way I could ’ave a baby, not without it ’avin’ a farver. I couldn’t face up to it on me own.’

  ‘Yer wouldn’t ’ave to.’ Although Frankie’s voice was still breathless, it was firm and commanding. ‘You’d ’ave me ter ’elp yer.’

  Helen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She and Frankie had always had the best brother and sister relationship that anyone could ever wish to have, but this – this was a Frankie she had never known before. He wasn’t talking like a kid. He was talking to her like a grown-up man. ‘You can’t ’elp me, Frank. No one can. What I’ve done is me own fault, and I’ve got to pay for it.’ She suddenly noticed that they were being watched by an elderly man and woman who were shovelling snow away in their front garden just a couple of houses along. She lowered her voice again. ‘I couldn’t face up to it, Frank. I couldn’t face up ter mum and dad, and all the people in our street. Every time I looked at them I’d feel – dirty.’

  ‘Tell me somefin’, ’Elen.’ Frankie took a firm hold of her arms and forced her to look him straight in the eyes. ‘D’yer love Eric?’

  ‘Of course I love ’im!’ Helen’s face crumpled, for she was now close to tears. ‘But ’e’s gone, Frank! Don’t you understand? I’ve lost ’im. ’E’s gone!’

  As Helen dissolved into tears, Frankie, quite instinctively put his arms around her and held her close to him. ‘Listen, ’Elen,’ he said quietly in her ear. ‘Mum an’ Dad ’ave got nuffin’ ter do wiv this. They’ve made a muck-up of their own lives, and they in’t got no right ter interfere wiv yours. You’re goin’ ter ’ave yer kid – yours an’ Eric’s kid. An’ d’yer know why? ‘Cos if yer don’t, as the years go on, yer’ll never forgive yerself.’

  Helen, her eyes full of tears, looked up at Frankie. It was incredible that this was the only person that she could trust, someone who was firm and decisive, who was prepared to help her stand up against the condemnation that would surely come, and not just from her mother and father. For the first time, someone had given her the strength to stand up to what she faced, had given her the determination to see it through with her head held high. And this someone was her own kid brother.

  ‘Keep the kid, ’Elen. Let it grow up. See it grow up.’ Frankie was now holding his sister firmly by both arms, and staring straight into her eyes. ‘Keep the kid, ’Elen – fer yourself – and fer Eric.’

  As he spoke, a loud explosion was heard in the distance. Automatically, everyone in the street fell flat on to their stomachs into the snow. Everyone, that is, except Helen and Frankie. The explosion from yet another V–2 rocket was far enough away to cause no damage whatsoever in Wilmington Road. But, as Frankie held his sister close in his arms, a row of long, pointed icicles suddenly dropped from the windowledge of a second-floor window of number 82 just behind them.

  At the window itself, the face of a middle-aged woman appeared. She looked quite ordinary and, when she saw Helen, Frankie, and a large, floppy dog strolling off together in the snow, she simply drew the curtains and carried on with her own business . . .

  Chapter Twelve

  The Reverend Monty Marshall was not blessed with a very striking personality. In fact, just a few minutes in his company was enough to drive the most dedicated churchgoer into a state of total boredom. Even his appearance was a hindrance. According to most of his parishioners he always ‘looked as though he could do with a damned good meal’. And he was rarely seen in public without his black trilby hat, his dog-collar and his dull grey jacket.

  The main trouble with the Rev. Marshall, however, was that he seemed completely incapable of offering to his parishioners any kind of comfort when they needed it. He conducted funerals in the Emmanuel Church with a bland detachment that seemed to ignore the spirit of the poor soul lying in the coffin before him, and weddings were not much better – the happy couple were often left with the feeling that their marriage hadn’t a hope of lasting more than a few days. Even during the early years of the war, when the Luftwaffe had dropped a bomb and devastated several shops in the Seven Sisters Road, he was quite unable to cope with the human scale of the tragedy. It wasn’t that he didn’t try, simply that he became too emotionally involved to be of any real help to the victims. However, he was greatly liked by the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, but even they found his Sunday School afternoons crushingly boring as they were forced to read endlessly from the Bible. But there was one person whom the Vicar could talk to, and that was Elsa. Despite her differe
nt faith whenever the Rev. Marshall visited her shop, he was always offered a cup of tea – and words of advice and comfort.

  On the day that Helen and Frankie had called on him at the Vicarage, to tell him about Helen being pregnant, the Rev. Marshall had delivered them a stern lecture about how God frowned on sinners who made love before marriage. As Rev. Marshall had never married himself, Helen thought it a bit hypocritical of him to talk in such a way. But, surprisingly, he was sympathetic to her, especially when he realised that the child’s father had been killed in action. Without hesitation, he offered to be with her when she broke the news to her parents, and assured her that he was perfectly capable of dealing with Gracie Lewis’s response . . .

  ‘Call yerself a man of God! You ought ter be ashamed ter wear that collar round yer neck!’ In the front parlour of number 1 Merton Street, Gracie Lewis’s eyes were blazing with temper. She was appalled to hear that her daughter was going to have a fatherless baby, and nothing the Vicar told her would change her opinion. ‘You dirty little bitch!’ she screamed at Helen. ‘I don’t want any part of yer! Yer can pack yer bags and sling yer bleedin’ ’ook out of my ’ouse! I don’t want yer here! I don’t want yer!’

  The Rev. Marshall was taken aback. All he could say was, ‘Now then, Mrs Lewis, you must be reasonable. I know Helen has done wrong, but we must have compassion. After all, she is your daughter – and the poor child she is bearing will have no father.’

  ‘That’s ’er bleedin’ fault! Don’t blame me!’ By now, Gracie’s voice could be heard outside in the street, and Winston decided it was time to retire to his basket in the scullery.

  By this time, Helen had dissolved into tears, Frankie was gnashing his teeth in anger, and Reg Lewis was already rolling his fourth Rizla fag.

  ‘Please, Mrs Lewis, be reasonable.’ The Rev. Marshall was sitting beside Helen on the mock-velour sofa, his arm around the girl, trying his best to console her. ‘Helen is one of God’s children like all the rest of us and she has a hard time ahead of her. The least we can do is to be merciful. Remember, both Helen and Frankie were baptised in my church.’

  ‘Why don’t yer shut up, Vicar. This’s got nuffin’ ter do wiv you!’ Apart from Frankie, Gracie Lewis was the only one in the room who was standing. ‘’Ow would you like to ’ave a daughter who goes sleepin’ around wiv any Tom, Dick, or ’Arry she meets in the street?’

  ‘Don’t talk about ’Elen like that!’ Frankie, standing in the open doorway, could hold his tongue no longer, and he virtually exploded at his mother. ‘She’s better than you! She’s better than you could ever be!’

  Gracie immediately turned on the boy. ‘You mind yer own soddin’ business, or you can sling yer ’ook wiv ’er!’

  The Rev. Marshall looked absolutely crushed. ‘I know this is a difficult time for you, Mrs Lewis . . .’

  ‘’Ow do yer know?’ screamed Gracie, eyes glaring at him. ‘You don’t ’ave ter walk down that street, knowin’ that all the neighbours are talkin’ about the goin’s on at number 1.’

  ‘Who cares about the bloody neighbours?’ yelled Frankie, daringly.

  ‘I care!’ Gracie yelled back at the boy, and gave the impression that she was going to hit him. But she just stopped herself from doing so. ‘An’ you use that kind of language in my ’ouse once more, and I’ll ’ave yer bleedin’ guts fer garters!’

  At this point, the Rev. Marshall quickly rose from the sofa. ‘This is really no help at all, Mrs Lewis. Helen needs help. In a few months’ time she’ll be having a child, and having to care for it all on her own. Now we must be practical. What can we do to see her through this traumatic time?’

  Gracie swung around with a start and ignoring the Vicar, pointed a menacing finger straight at Helen. ‘I’ll tell yer what she can do. She can get out of my ’ouse as quick as she likes. I want ’er out of ’ere by first fing termorrer mornin’! Right?’

  ‘Wrong!’ Reg Lewis spoke for the first time. ‘If she goes, I go wiv ’er!’

  Everyone turned to look at Reg, as he stood up and tossed his fag butt into the fire.

  Although she was clearly taken aback by her husband’s intervention, Gracie Lewis remained defiant. ‘I want ’er out of my ’ouse!’

  Reg turned on his wife. He didn’t raise his voice, but he made it clear that he was just as determined as she was. ‘Grace, this is my ’ouse just as much as yours. I pay the rent – not you. I say that if ’Elen wants ter stay, she can stay – baby or no baby.’

  Frankie exchanged a startled look with his sister and Gracie found herself standing face to face with her husband in front of the fire. ‘You knew about this, din’t yer? You knew about it all the time.’

  ‘Yes, Gracie, I did.’

  Once again, Helen and Frankie exchanged an astonished look.

  ‘That’s lovely, in’t it?’ Gracie crossed her arms angrily. ‘Yer own daughter gets laid by a bloody soldier, an’ yer quite ’appy to let ’er get away wiv it!’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes, Grace. Even you and me.’

  Reg immediately regretted what he had said. As Gracie lowered her eyes, he knew that he had hurt her. And it wasn’t the first time it had happened, though he never intended it. Over the years it had become obvious to both of them that their marriage had been a disastrous mistake. When they first met, they’d got on so well together that as both had come from unhappy family backgrounds, getting married seemed an easy escape. But getting on well wasn’t being in love and their existence as man and wife had turned into a daily grind at best, a war of vicious slanging matches at worst. On the other hand, Reg Lewis loved kids and, although he would never admit it to anyone, Helen was his favourite.

  For a brief moment, Gracie seemed stung by Reg’s remark and she tried to disguise it by running her fingers through her hair which hadn’t been combed since she got up that morning. ‘If yer knew she was pregnant, why didn’t yer tell me?’ she said. ‘I am supposed ter be ’er muvver, yer know.’

  Frank took a box of matches from the mantelpiece over the fireplace, and lit his fag. ‘I didn’t know ’Elen was pregnant.’

  Suddenly, the room was plunged into a tense silence.

  Reg took a deep draw of his rolled fag, but took time to exhale it. A few seconds later the room was filled with the foul stench of the raw tobacco. ‘If you’re a muvver, Grace,’ he said, without raising his voice, ‘if yer bring a kid inter this world, there are some fings yer get ter know wivout bein’ told. ’Elen’s our daughter, Grace. If she gets inter trouble, it’s our duty ter stand by ’er. The same goes fer Frankie.’

  The Reverend Marshall was almost mesmerised by Reg Lewis’s calm reasoning, and only wished that he had thought of saying the same thing.

  Helen was too surprised and upset to say anything. Throughout the last terrible half-hour she had kept her head low, her eyes streaming with tears.

  Frankie was utterly amazed by his father’s intervention. He had never heard him talk like that before, never realised that this meek and mild man even had the ability to stand up for his kids against their mother. In fact, it had never once occurred to Frankie that his father had any feelings at all for either Helen or himself. As he watched his father calmly draw on his fag, he thought back to all the times when he was growing up, of how Reg had never seemed to show any interest in anything his son was doing. He remembered a time when he was still at Pakeman Street Junior school; he had got into a fight with another kid and been whacked on the forehead with a cricket bat. Streaming with blood, Frankie had been rushed off to the Royal Northern Hospital where the gash had needed five stitches. But when one of the teachers brought him home, all Reg Lewis could say was that the boy had probably asked for what he got, and that, in the future, it might teach him to stand up for himself.

  Gracie Lewis, more subdued but still angry, watched her husband with quiet disdain as he stared into the fire, puffing away at his newly lit fag. ‘And ’ow’s she goin’ ter look after this baby, may I ask?’

  Re
g didn’t even bother to look up at her. ‘We’ll find a way.’

  ‘Oh yes? Well, if you fink I’m goin’ ter sit at ’ome and look after some bleedin’ soldier’s kid whilst she goes off ter work, yer’ve got anuvver fink comin’!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Grace.’ Reg inhaled deeply, and blew smoke into the fireplace. ‘No one expects you ter do anyfin’.’

  Once again, there was a deathly silence. Then, without another word, Gracie swept out of the room.

  As usual, the Rev. Marshall was at a loss for words, so he took out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes with it. Whenever he was anxious or ill-at-ease, his eyes always seemed to water.

  Frankie was absolutely riveted to his father as he watched him turn towards Helen, whose head was still lowered.

  ‘’Elen. ’Ave yer seen a doctor about this?’

  ‘Not since – since I found out,’ she replied, her voice barely audible.

  ‘I want yer ter go round and see Dr McWhirter as soon as possible. Right?’

  Still without looking up, Helen nodded.

  Then Reg went across and stooped over her. ‘It’s goin’ ter be all right, gel – you’ll see.’ His voice was quiet, warm and sympathetic. ‘Anyway, a baby in the ’ouse might brighten the place up a bit – eh?’

  Helen looked up, managed a weak smile, and threw her arms around her father’s neck.

  Frankie looked on. Suddenly, he was seeing his father for the first time . . .

  On a Sunday morning a few weeks later, Frankie and Winston went with Elsa to visit the grave of her husband in the Islington Cemetery. It was a straightforward route, which involved taking a 609 trolleybus from the Nags Head in Holloway Road to East Finchley, a journey of about forty-five minutes. Luckily, the bus was reasonably warm, for although most of the snow had now thawed, the air was still very cold.