Elsa insisted on finding two seats on the upper deck of the bus, which suited Frankie, for it gave him the chance to take in the views of North London that he had never seen before. The only trouble was that the upper deck of the bus was reserved for smokers and, because no one ever wanted to open a window, the air was thick with grey cigarette smoke, which aggravated Frankie’s asthma, causing him to cough frequently. However, dogs were only allowed to travel on the top deck of the bus, and Winston soon settled down without any fuss beneath Frankie’s seat.
As the bus passed the majestic Gaumont cinema on the other side of the Nags Head, Frankie couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss. Until one of Hitler’s doodle-bugs had gutted the building in August of the previous year, the Gaumont had been one of his favourite cinemas. He remembered the opening of the cinema just before the war, where, before the big feature film, The Hurricane had started, all sorts of famous people like Jessie Matthews and Will Hay had appeared on the stage. Frankie himself didn’t have the nine-pence it cost to get in but, after seeing all the famous stars arriving for the opening, he had rushed home and heard it broadcast on the wireless by the BBC. The Gaumont on the wireless, – and it was coming from just around the corner near his own street! A week later his father had taken him and Helen to see a comedy called Tovarich on the screen, and Gert and Daisy on the stage in the same bill as Old Mother Riley and her daughter Kitty. Now, all that remained of that exciting stage, with its ‘mighty Wurlitzer’ organ, huge dome, and a richly ornamental proscenium, was the burnt-out shell of a building, with the rubble of former grandeur strewn everywhere.
In one of his propaganda broadcasts for the Nazis, the hated ‘Lord Haw-Haw’ had promised that, as the Gaumont Cinema in the Holloway Road was built and run by the Jews, the building would be a prime target for the Luftwaffe. He had certainly kept his promise.
The 609 purred its way effortlessly towards Upper Holloway and, as it started the climb up Archway Road, Frankie couldn’t help turning back to look at the Central Hall, which only a few months before, on Guy Fawkes night, had been used as a makeshift mortuary for the victims of the V–2 rocket explosion in nearby Grovedale Road. Frankie remembered that evening well, for, despite the fact that the bomb had come down two or three miles away, lots of the windows in Merton Street had been shattered, and chimney-stacks everywhere had collapsed on to the rooftops. Mr Mitchison, the caretaker of Pakeman Street School, had been blown off his feet by the blast and Rita Robinson at number 22 had a terrible experience – when she took her leftovers to the pig swill bin on the corner, it all blew back at her. Neighbours said she’d gone quite hysterical and had smelt like a pig herself. Frankie smiled to himself. It was funny how, even in times of tragedy, there was always something to laugh at. But Frankie hated the V–2’s. They gave no one the chance to escape, because there was no warning. Just a white streak of vapour across the sky, then a swishing sound, followed by the most devastating explosion.
For most of the journey Elsa never stopped talking. But when they passed beneath the infamous Archway Bridge, spread out high across the busy main road, she suddenly went very silent and, with a sigh, recalled to herself the number of poor souls who had leapt to their death from that footpath so high above them.
It was only when the 609 reached a bus stop in East Finchley Road that it showed its vulnerability. Operated from electric lines hanging above the road, its connecting rods suddenly became detached and started to dance out of control. Frankie had seen this happen before, and loved the hassle that was involved to get the bus moving again, so he poked his head out of the window and watched the harassed bus conductor while he removed the long wooden pole from beneath the floor base of the bus, and started the precarious business of trying to replace each of the unruly flapping poles back on to their respective electric line. After cheers from some of the passengers, the 609 purred its way on again.
Elsa, Frankie, and Winston got off just outside the gates of the cemetery, and Elsa immediately bought a bunch of daffodils from an elderly woman flower-seller who was squatted on a wooden vegetable box by the wall. For the first part of the long trek down the main cemetery road, Winston was put on a leash, and as they walked, Elsa grumbled about the price of the flowers, saying that as soon as she had the time she was going to start growing daffodils in her own back garden.
Frankie had never been to a cemetery before. To him, it seemed a cold, remote sort of place, where dead people were thrown down holes, covered with earth, and a stone erected above them to mark their last resting place. And, as he and Elsa walked, he could see plenty of those stones. Hundreds of them, probably thousands and thousands. All shapes and sizes, most of them either white or black or grey, some made out of granite, some with a large cross at the head, others with just a plain block and a simple inscription. Frankie soon gave up trying to read all the inscriptions. What he did discover, however, were the number of bomb victims who were buried there. Men, women, children – some of them babies of no more than a few months. As he passed all those endless rows of mysterious head-stones, he couldn’t help wondering how many of those hapless victims he might have seen somewhere in the street, or the cinema, or in a shop in the Seven Sisters Road. Frankie felt himself becoming consumed with anger. This war should never have happened, he said to himself. Hitler had a lot to answer for.
‘Hallo, my dearest one!’
Hearing Elsa’s voice, Frankie came to a halt and turned to look back. Elsa had stopped by a graveside, tucked away in a corner beneath a huge chestnut tree. It was quite a simple grave, in dark grey stone, with a gold-coloured inscription which read: Captain Robert Barclay. Born 16th April 1896. Died 3rd May 1940. A brave soldier and a loving husband. The headstone was completed with an ornamental cross, which was also outlined in a shining gold colour.
‘Looks as though you could do with a little bit of a clean up, Bobby.’
Frankie felt a little awkward standing there, listening to Elsa talk to the grave as though her husband could talk back to her. Winston also wondered what was going on, and despite being scolded by Frankie, he sniffed all around the grave.
‘Let’s see what we can do!’ Elsa put down the bunch of daffodils she had just bought, then took some things out of the small brown paper bag she was carrying – a pair of scissors and a garden trowel. ‘Be a good boy, Frankie,’ she said, taking up the empty green metal vase from the grave. ‘Go and fill this with water. You’ll find a tap just over there on the side of the road.’
Frankie took the vase without saying a word. Then Winston followed him back to the road, where he duly washed out the dirty vase and filled it with water. When he got back to Elsa, she was crouched over the grave, freshening up the frost-covered earth with her trowel.
‘You know something,’ said Elsa, taking the vase from Frankie and replacing it in its position just beneath the headstone. ‘His brother thinks he knows everything. But he doesn’t. Jack Barclay knows nothing. Nothing at all!’ There was a twinkle in her eye as she grinned at Frankie and cut the daffodil stalks down to size with her pair of scissors.
Frankie didn’t know what Elsa was talking about – but it was often like that. Elsa loved saying things to him that she really meant for herself. It was her way of sharing her thoughts out loud.
‘We have one or two secrets that Jack Barclay won’t like, don’t we, my dear?’ Again Elsa was talking to the grave and not to Frankie. Then, with a little chuckle to herself, she said, ‘One of these days, Bobby. One of these days . . .’
Frankie now felt really awkward and, when Elsa looked up at him, the only response he had was to scratch his nose.
‘Give me ten minutes,’ Elsa said, flashing a warm smile at her young friend. ‘We have things to talk over.’
Frankie was relieved to leave the graveside and have a stroll around the cemetery with Winston.
There was only a sprinkling of people – attending to graves or, like him, just taking a stroll. He imagined that this was either because it w
as a very cold March day, or that a lot of people were at Sunday morning church service. It didn’t seem much like a Sunday, for since the start of the war the Government had stopped the pealing of church bells, only allowing them to be used in an emergency, such as an enemy invasion. Frankie had always liked the Sunday bells and hoped that it wouldn’t be too long before they would be heard again, next time in celebration of the end of the war. With his hands tucked deep inside his trouser pockets, he moved in and out of the grave-stones, stopping only briefly to pick up a few old conkers which had fallen off many chestnut trees last autumn.
Winston had no respect whatsoever for the sacred stones he was constantly desecrating. Every few yards he raised his back leg to leave his mark, despite Frankie’s scoldings.
It was only when Frankie stopped to peer inside what looked like an old soldier’s mausoleum that he suddenly realised Winston was missing. He immediately panicked, for the dog hardly ever went off on his own, not unless he had a good reason for doing so. ‘Winnie!’ He called in as loud a voice as he dared in such surroundings. But there was no sign of Winston among the gravestones that stretched out for as far as the eye could see. Frankie turned to look back at Robert Barclay’s grave in the distance, where Elsa still looked to be in animated conversation with her last husband, but there was no sign of Winston.
Suddenly he heard a dog barking just beyond the First World War Memorial statue about a hundred yards ahead of him, and the noise was interspersed with the sound of a girl calling back excitedly.
Frankie started running. Although he knew Winston wouldn’t hurt anyone, he was big enough to scare someone who wasn’t used to dogs – especially in a cemetery! After jumping over endless graves covered with frozen leaves, Frankie finally caught up with Winston. He was leaping up on all fours at a young girl who, with her back to Frankie, was collecting water in a glass vase at a tap just behind the memorial statue.
‘Winnie! Down boy, down!’ Frankie tried to keep his voice down as much as he could. But it wasn’t easy, for Winston was clearly thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Stop that, will yer! Get down!’
As Frankie spoke, the girl turned around. To his relief, she had a broad smile on her face and had clearly been thoroughly enjoying the encounter. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, her bright, violet-coloured eyes gleaming happily in the cold frost of the morning. ‘He’s not doing any – Oh – hallo!’ Her bright smile suddenly turned into a rather shy one.
Frankie immediately recognised her from the day in that school air-raid shelter, when she seemed to smile an awful lot at him, and he scowled an awful lot at her. After grabbing Winston by his collar, Frankie plucked up enough courage to respond.
‘’Allo.’ He only found it difficult to answer her because he was embarrassed. ‘Din’t expect ter see you up ’ere.’
‘I didn’t expect to see you, either.’ The girl’s voice was soft, almost husky. She pulled back her long, blonde hair, which had got caught up inside the knitted white woollen scarf around her neck, and quickly rearranged her black woollen bobble hat.
For a brief second their eyes met and, for the first time, Frankie thought what a good-looker she was. Feeling a bit awkward with the thought, he ducked his head and pulled Winston away. ‘Sorry about this. ’E wouldn’t ’urt yer. ’E don’t bite.’
‘Oh, I’m not scared of him. I love dogs.’ The girl stooped down and patted Winston on his head. ‘He helped me finish off my cheese sandwich. Didn’t you boy?’
Winston panted and rolled on his back to allow the girl to rub his stomach.
‘Trust you, Winston!’ Frankie shook his head. ‘Old cadger!’
‘Winston? That’s a good name.’ The girl was now crouched down, stroking the shamelessly abandoned Winston under the chin. ‘I bet Mr Churchill would approve.’
Frankie was watching the girl. He liked her a lot . . . ‘Wot are yer doin’ ’ere then?’
The girl looked up. ‘I came with my mother.’ Frankie thought she had quite a posh voice. ‘My grandma and grandad are buried just over there.’
Frankie turned to look, and in the distance could see a smartly dressed woman arranging flowers on a rather grand, well-kept family grave.
‘What about you?’
‘I’m wiv a friend. ’Er ’usband got killed at Dunkirk.’
The girl’s radiant smile became a sympathetic one. ‘Oh, I see. It’s so horrible this war.’ Her eyes looked all around her. ‘Everyone seems to have lost someone.’ Much to Winston’s disappointment she stood up. ‘How’s school?’
‘Not bad. Got me matric in July.’
‘Me too. I’m dreading it. I haven’t got a chance.’
‘Don’t believe yer. I bet yer’ll get frough wiv flyin’ colours.’
The girl removed a strand of blonde hair from her lips. ‘How can you say that? You don’t know me.’
Suddenly, Frankie felt embarrassed, and he blushed. ‘I can tell, that’s all. You’re the brainy type.’
The girl laughed. ‘If only you knew!’
Frankie loved the way she laughed. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the bright sunshine and, as she threw back her head, her teeth seemed almost as white as the last remnants of snow on the tarmac road.
‘Are you going to your school’s concert?’ All of a sudden her eyes briefly met Frankie’s, and she immediately became shy again.
‘I dunno.’ Frankie found himself looking straight into the girl’s eyes. ‘When is it?’
‘Friday evening, next week.’
Frankie shrugged his shoulders. ‘I might. It depends.’
‘On what?’
Without realising it, Frankie was shrugging his shoulders again. It was his way of trying not to show too much interest. ‘Oh – lots of things. It was lousy, last year. Too much chat, not enough songs. Old Lincoln always loses his place on the song sheet when ’e plays the piano.’
This time they both laughed. Then they both shuffled about on their feet, trying not to catch each other’s glance again.
After a brief silence, a woman’s voice called from the distance. ‘Maggs! What are you doing over there? Where’s that vase?’
The girl called back: ‘Coming, Mother!’ Then she picked up the glass vase and smiled at Frankie again. ‘Sorry, Frankie. I’ve got to go.’
Frankie did a double-take. ‘’Ow do you know my name?’
This time, it was the girl’s turn to blush. ‘Got to go! We’re going on to see my godmother at Swiss Cottage.’ She turned. ‘’Bye, Winston! See you, boy!’
The girl started to hurry off, but she had gone no more than a few yards when she turned to look back at Frankie. ‘See you, then. Maybe at the concert?’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Frankie suddenly came out of his trance. As the girl rushed off, he found himself calling after her eagerly. ‘See you there – Maggs!’
The girl ran off back towards her mother and Frankie watched her go. He could hardly believe how much he had enjoyed those few, fleeting moments. She knew his name and he knew hers. It was quite extraordinary for Frankie – Frankie, who had never had any time for girls. But in those few short moments he had been convinced that Maggs was not like other girls – especially girls like Patty. As she rejoined her mother, Maggs turned and waved.
For the first time ever, Frankie couldn’t wait to go to the annual School Concert.
Chapter Thirteen
When Prof got home from school at half-past four, Aunty Hilda had his tea waiting for him, and, after tucking into a plate of hot spam cooked in batter, mashed potatoes, peas, and his favourite pickled onions, he immediately disappeared up into his room to do a bit of swotting for his forthcoming geography mock exams. He finished at about six o’clock, which was pretty good even by his standards. But geography was one of Prof’s favourite subjects; it gave him the chance to imagine himself travelling to the most exotic parts of the world, places like the Sahara Desert or the Himalayas, or the Grand Canyon, or Tahiti. Most of all, however, Prof dreamed of going to Switzerlan
d. He loved the idea of being a passenger in a pony and sleigh, gliding effortlessly along snow-covered roads beneath the shadow of the Alps.
Prof thought mountains were the most incredible things in the world. Not that he’d ever seen a mountain, except when he and Frankie went to see a Sonja Henie film. But oh how he would love to climb one! So many times he had seen himself trudging in the snow, climbing up steep rock-faces, feeling his way bit by bit to the summit. And then the exhilaration of standing there at the top of the world – the freedom, the danger, the excitement! But people with dicky hearts don’t climb mountains . . .
‘Don’t be nervous tonight now, dearie,’ said Auntie Hilda, sipping her Camp coffee and chicory while her nephew washed himself at the kitchen sink. ‘You don’t have to worry, ’cos me and Gladys’ll cheer you on.’
‘Thanks, Auntie.’ Prof dried his face with a towel and rubbed the soap out of his eyes. When he turned to look at his Auntie, she was only a blur, because he was very short-sighted and didn’t have his specs on.
As usual, Auntie Hilda was being a tower of strength. She knew how her nephew hated the thought of taking part in the school concert, but she also knew that no one could play a mouth-organ like him and she was very proud that she and her friend Gladys were going to be in the audience to hear her nephew’s performance. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to play yet?’
‘Yes, Auntie.’
‘No! Don’t tell me. I want it to be a surprise.’ The old lady’s chubby cheeks were glistening in the light from the 100 watt bulb that dangled from the middle of the ceiling, and seemed almost naked despite the tassled yellow shade that only partially covered it. ‘I’ve put out your clean shirt and, before you go on, don’t forget to make sure your tie’s straight.’
‘Yes, Auntie.’ Prof knew that Auntie was fussing, but he didn’t mind, because she was obviously excited and only wanted him to do well. To Prof, Auntie was a saint. She had brought him up single-handed and wanted nothing from him, but gave everything in return. Most of her weekly food ration was spent on her nephew, even if it meant she had to go without. In return, Prof loved her without reservation and, as the years went by, had grown to think of her as his one and only mother. He never stopped telling himself how lucky he was.
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