Our Street

by Pemberton, Victor

  After quickly putting on his freshly ironed white shirt and black-and-mauve-striped school tie, Prof combed his hair neatly, kissed Auntie Hilda on her cheek, and made his way down the stairs. A few minutes later he was out in the Seven Sisters Road, his stomach churning at the thought of the ordeal he was about to endure. Despite what Auntie had said, he was furious with Charlie Garratt, the school’s history master, who had talked him into playing his mouth-organ. He was sure he was going to make an ass of himself in front of all his classmates. Still, at least there was one person who wouldn’t make fun of him – one person who meant as much to Prof as Auntie. Frankie Lewis was the best friend anyone could have and to Prof Frankie was not just a friend. He was a hero.

  As he made his way to meet his hero in Merton Street, Prof’s stomach wasn’t churning any more . . .

  Frankie used so much of his father’s Brylcreem that, when he plastered his hair down with it, it made his face look fat and bloated. So, after looking at himself in Helen’s dressing-table mirror, he wiped some of it off. Then, after polishing his shoes with one of his old socks, he finished dressing by putting on his school blazer.

  When Frankie went downstairs, Helen was helping their mother to clear away the tea things. As it was Friday evening, they had all had fish and chips from Anderson’s in Hornsey Road, which Frankie had loved because it gave him a welcome break from his mother’s lazy cooking. Reg Lewis didn’t get his until he got home from work after nine o’clock, so it was kept in the oven for him, to be warmed up later.

  Helen was the first to notice how clean and tidy Frankie was looking, but she didn’t say anything. Since that awful half-an-hour with her mother and the Vicar a few weeks before, Helen said very little at any time and her mother clearly didn’t want to speak to her unless she had to. So, on the evenings when she didn’t go round to see her friends, she spent most of her time in her bedroom reading old magazines and knitting baby socks.

  Frankie found the atmosphere at home so much more depressing than usual that he got out whenever he had the opportunity. He hated the way his mother had reacted to the news of Helen’s pregnancy, and hated even more the way she made her daughter feel so unwelcome in her own house. But their father had come up trumps. When he was home he would often sit and talk with Helen about Eric and about how she should cope in the future. This invariably led to more tension with Gracie, who usually reacted by turning on the wireless full blast, and listening to programmes that she obviously didn’t like.

  Helen waited for her mother to disappear into the scullery before she spoke. ‘Must be a pretty special school concert ternight, eh Frank?’

  Frankie turned with a start. ‘What d’yer mean?’

  ‘Come off it,’ she said with a sly grin. ‘I’ve never seen you tog yerself up so much ter go ter school!’

  Frankie immediately loosened his black-and-mauve-striped tie, doing his best to look untidy. ‘I’m not togged up! We ’ave ter look decent fer the concert. If yer don’t, “Boggy” Marsh kicks up a rumpus.’

  Helen smiled knowingly. She didn’t believe a word of it.

  Frankie was saved by someone knocking on the front street door. ‘That’s Prof. Gotta go!’ Frankie grabbed his raincoat and rushed to the kitchen door. ‘See yer later, ’Elen.’

  Helen got up, and followed him out into the passage. ‘Frank!’

  Frankie stopped and turned.

  ‘If you’re in late ternight, try not ter wake me up. I’ve not been feelin’ too special terday. I’m goin’ ter pack in early.’

  Frankie was immediately concerned and came back to her. ‘Wot’s up? You gonna be all right? I mean . . .’ He felt a bit awkward and didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Is it anyfin’ ter do wiv the baby?’

  Helen smiled. ‘No. Everythin’s perfectly all right. I just feel a bit tired, that’s all.’

  Frankie took her by the shoulders, and held her firmly. The light bulb and tatty shade hanging above them were swinging to and fro, casting flickering shadows across their faces. ‘Listen ter me, ’Elen. If she gives yer any trouble ternight, just lemme know. OK?’

  Helen smiled fondly. ‘I’ll be fine. Nuffin’ ter worry about.’ Then she leant forward and gave him a quick hug. ‘Go and enjoy yerself.’

  Frankie hugged her back, then rushed out, slamming the street door behind him as usual. Helen watched him go and immediately heard the Prof chattering excitedly as they met up on the door step outside. Helen stood there for a brief moment, listening to them, a broad smile on her face. But the smile faded immediately when she heard the wireless turned on full blast in the kitchen.

  Helen turned, and wearily climbed the stairs up to her bedroom.

  Frankie and Prof made their way along Annette Road to catch the number 38 tram outside Jones Brothers Department Store in the Holloway Road. As it was already twenty-five to seven and the school concert was due to start at seven-thirty, they had very little time to spare and had to walk briskly. Although Annette Road was only a couple of streets away from Merton Street, Frankie always thought the people who lived there were a bit on the posh side but the only reason he had for such a conclusion was that one or two of the houses had a car parked outside. By the time they crossed over the main Tollington Road, Prof was feeling a bit fed up. He didn’t understand why, but it certainly had nothing to do with the school concert.

  ‘She’s really nice, Prof.’ Frankie, hands tucked deep inside his jacket pockets, was walking, as usual, with his eyes fixed firmly on the pavement. ‘I didn’t fink so the first time I saw ’er. D’yer remember? When we was down the air-raid shelter at school?’ He was talking with such enthusiasm, he didn’t bother to wait for any response from Prof. ‘’Er name’s Maggs. That’s short for Margaret, I reckon. She didn’t tell me ’er name, though. I ’eard ’er mum calling for ’er.’

  Prof remained stony-faced, and never once turned to look at Frankie whilst he was speaking.

  They made a dash across the main road, just in time to miss an oncoming truck that was in danger of losing some of its cabbages as it rushed off towards the Holloway Road. Then, as they passed by Sherbourne Road Elementary School to make a short cut to the tram stop, they heard a rumpus coming from Jones Brothers back yard. At first they couldn’t see anything, but what they heard was several people shouting at each other. As they drew closer, they found two teenage boys locked together in an angry brawl, shoving and kicking and punching at each other for all they were worth. And then, out of the darkness, a girl’s voice yelled out: ‘Cut it out you two! I’m not ’angin’ round ’ere much longer!’

  Frankie and Prof couldn’t believe their ears. What they could hear was the shrill voice of Patty Jackson from the Merton Street gang.

  ‘Patty! Wot’s goin’ on?’

  Patty turned with a start as she heard Frankie’s voice. ‘Frank? Is that you?’

  Even though they were now standing right in front of each other, all they could see were dim outlines.

  ‘Wot is it, Pat? Wot’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Wot d’yer fink’s goin’ on! It’s Al and Jeff – the stupid gits!’

  ‘Oh no – not again!’ Frankie sighed despairingly. Of recent, the sight of Alan and Jeff brawling in the street was becoming a nasty habit. ‘Wot’s it about this time?’

  Although there was a note of irritation in her voice, Patty was concealing the fact that she was really enjoying the ugly scene going on before her. ‘Alan asked me to the concert up at your school. We was just comin’ through ’ere ter get the tram, when that stupid bloody Jeff jumps up from nowhere and starts bashin’ out wiv ’is fists.’

  Frankie felt sick. Jeff Murray was such a big-head. Because of his athletic build and good looks he strutted around the streets as though he owned them and his mother and father doted on him. Jeff took advantage of their no-questions-asked loving support of him, but he was not only spoilt, his was dishonest and a downright bully, using his brawn as a substitute for brains.

  ‘Jeff! Alan!’ Frankie�
�s voice pierced the darkness. ‘Cut it out you two!’

  But Frankie’s pleas were ignored, and Jones Brothers echoed to the futile sounds of ‘I’ll teach yer, yer sod!’ and ‘Oh no you don’t!’

  In desperation, Frankie rushed straight at the fighting silhouettes and struggled to separate them. ‘Stop it – both of yer! It’s stupid! Stupid!’ But no matter how hard he tried, the two fighters refused to budge and held each other in a tight, aggressive clinch.

  ‘Oy! You lot!’ A man’s voice suddenly boomed out from a back door of the department store. ‘What the bloody ’ell’s goin’ on out ’ere?’

  As the man spoke, the beam of his torch landed straight on Frankie’s startled face. But it did the trick, for the brawl came to an immediate halt. ‘Sorry, mister!’ Why Frankie had to be the one to offer excuses, he didn’t know. ‘Just larkin’ around, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you lark around somewhere else, or I’ll ’ave the ’bottles on yer!’ Although the body behind the torch did not advance, the voice was angry and menacing. ‘Sling yer ’ook – the bleedin’ lot of yer!’

  The last thing Frankie wanted was for the bluebottles to be called out from Hornsey Road Police Station. ‘Goin’ mister! Goin’!’ he yelled desperately, as he quickly grabbed both Jeff and Alan by the arm and started to lead them out of the yard towards the Holloway Road entrance. Patty and Prof followed discreetly behind, making sure they used the darkness to conceal their identity.

  ‘If I catch yer back ’ere again, I’ll ’ave yer guts fer bleedin’ garters!’ The torch beam followed the beleaguered Merton Street lot until they had disappeared out of the yard.

  ‘Wot’s up wiv you two?’ Frankie waited until they had reached the safety of the main Holloway Road. ‘Wot’s the point of scrappin’? Don’t yer know there’s a war on?’

  Yes, there was still a war on all right, for there was no street or shop window lighting, and even the traffic had to use dipped half-headlights.

  Jeff and Alan were out of breath from their brawl and, in the dark, sounded like a couple of dogs on heat.

  ‘When I want your advice, Lewis, I’ll ask for it! Right?’ Jeff’s reply was, inevitably, hostile.

  ‘You’re the one that started it, Jeff.’ Patty tried to sound like an innocent, hurt female. ‘Alan wasn’t doin’ you no ’arm. We was mindin’ our own business when you ’ave ter poke yer nose in.’

  ‘Let’s forget it, Pat.’ Alan used the back of his hand to wipe away a small flow of blood streaming down from one side of his nostrils. ‘If we’re goin’ to get to that concert, let’s go.’ He grabbed hold of Patty’s hand and started to lead her off towards the tram stop.

  Jeff wasn’t going to take that, so he quickly followed them, yelling, ‘If you think you can kick me up the arse like that, Patty Jackson, yer’ve got anuvver fink comin’! I’ll get yer fer this! I promise yer – I’ll get yer!’

  At this point, Prof, who had said absolutely nothing during the entire rumpus, went after Jeff and, grabbing him by the arm, snapped, ‘Why don’t you leave them alone, Jeff? Stop being such a bully.’

  Jeff, as usual, reacted on impulse. Swinging around angrily, he clenched his fist tight and punched it straight into Prof’s face, sending his glasses whirling up into the air.

  ‘Prof!’ In the restricted glare from a passing car’s headlights, Frankie saw his friend collapse to his knees, where he was given another upper punch beneath his jaw by the frenzied Jeff. ‘Leave him alone, you sod!’ Frankie yelled and rushed at Jeff, waving his own fist angrily. ‘Leave him alone!’

  Frankie’s shouts brought Alan and Patty hurrying back, but by the time they got there, Jeff broke away and sprinted down the road, heading off in the direction of the Nags Head.

  ‘I’ll get yer, Jeff!’ yelled Frankie. ‘I swear ter God I’ll get yer!’

  By this time Prof was spreadeagled on his face on the wet pavement. As Frankie and Alan helped him to his feet, he was swaying a little dizzily, and, in the passing car headlights, blood could be seen trickling down his face from a cut above his right eye.

  ‘Prof! Are you all right?’ Frankie was desperately concerned for his friend. ‘’As he ’urt yer bad?’

  ‘It’s OK, OK.’ Prof seemed uncannily calm. ‘Jeff’s the one with the problem, not me.’ He tried to brush off his raincoat, which was covered in wet dirt from the pavement. ‘But can you find my glasses for me?’

  Everyone searched for the Prof’s tortoiseshell spectacles, one arm of which was held together with sticky paper taken from the edge of postage stamps. But, after ten minutes, they could not be found anywhere.

  The stage of Highbury Grove Grammar School was draped in so many Union Jacks that one indiscreet member of the audience (a father who had clearly just topped up in a local pub) remarked that this is how he imagined it must look like in Churchill’s bedroom in Downing Street. The fact was, however, flags were the cheapest way to dress the stage, and the only props used were the odd chair, a card table (for Charlie Garrett’s conjuring act), and a stand microphone which had a nasty habit of causing a deafening humming sound on the Tannoy speakers.

  There were over five hundred people in the audience, most of them pupils from the school itself, together with a sprinkling of adoring parents who applauded every act with rapturous excitement.

  Also in the audience was a representative selection of pupils and teachers from Highbury Fields Girls’ School. The girls, enjoying themselves, spent most of the evening either taking the mickey out of the performers on stage, or flirting with some of the older boys in the seats at the back of the Assembly Hall.

  As soon as Frankie had been satisfied that Prof was recovered enough to take part in the concert, he left him with the other performers assembled in Classroom 6A, who were awaiting their turn to go on. Then Frankie made his way to the hall where, after scanning the audience eagerly, he spotted Maggs sitting in a row of seats with some of her own school friends and a rather stern-looking teacher who was supposed to make sure there was no hanky-panky between the pupils of both schools. Maggs was clearly looking out for Frankie, for when she caught sight of him she indicated a spare seat at the side of her. Frankie dashed so hard to reach her that he trod on the stern lady teacher’s toes, which earned him an immediate glare.

  The concert itself proceeded in its predictable way. One of the ‘star’ performers, as always, was of course, Mrs Goulding, the rather rotund and full-bossomed Highbury Grove music teacher who wore the same revealing black evening dress year after year, mainly to tantalize her fellow physics and chemistry teacher Mr Lincoln, who once again accompanied everyone at the upright piano, dressed immaculately in full white tie and tails, a long sleek cigarette holder protruding from his lips, from which smoke constantly curled up from the many lighted cigarettes he was never without.

  Mrs Goulding’s musical rendition of Lord Tennyson’s ‘Come into the garden, Maud’ was always a firm favourite with the parents in the audience, but despite the fact that Headmaster ‘Boggy’ Marsh, wearing his school gown, was assiduously watching his pupils from the side of the auditorium, some of the boys covered their mouths and either jeered, booed, or whistled. The real ‘star’ of the evening, however, was the professional BBC singer, Alfred Swain, a baritone of great intensity, whose ‘performance’ of a little ditty entitled, The Song of the Flea, complete with the singer’s rolling eyeballs, was judged to be a triumph, especially by his young son, a pupil at Highbury Grove.

  And so the performance continued, with varied acts ranging from sixth-form recitations from Shakespeare, a piano solo from Mr Lincoln – who gamely ploughed on despite the fact that all his music had scattered on to the floor when one of the Highbury Grove boys mischievously opened a nearby window – more patriotic songs from Mrs Goulding, and an absolutely ingenious conjuring act from the history teacher, Charlie Garrett. But the moment Frankie and Prof’s Auntie Hilda was waiting for came immediately after Mr Wood’s highly dramatic reading from Milton’s Paradise Lo
st. As Mr Woods left the stage to thunderous applause, the stage lights dimmed, and into a solitary spotlight stepped the fragile figure of Prof.

  There was a gasp from Frankie, Auntie Hilda, and even Alan and Patty, as Prof appeared, for his lips were swollen and there was a huge bruise on his left cheek and a nasty-looking gash just above his right eye. But despite his physical appearance, he was neat and combed just as Auntie Hilda had wanted.

  Suddenly, there was a deathly hush in the Hall. Frankie didn’t know how his friend was going to manage to do his ‘act’, and felt himself tense up inside.

  Prof, however, was completely calm and relaxed, or at least that’s how he seemed as he took a slow bow. The only problem was that he had to squint to see his audience, for, as he had no glasses, they were nothing more than a vast, out-of-focus mass. Undeterred by that, he raised the mouth-organ to his poor swollen lips, and started to puff into it.

  The sounds that drifted around the hall for the next five minutes were the most beautiful that Frankie had ever heard in his whole life. In his opinion, Shine on Harvest Moon had never sounded so good, not even when it was sung by Bing Crosby on the wireless. Soon, the audience was swaying to and fro, joining together in a unanimous hum, sounding almost as though they were just one person. Despite his heavily swollen face, Prof had certainly captured the mood of his audience. As Auntie Hilda and Gladys swayed to and fro in time to the music, joining in the words, tears were streaming down their eyes, and even Mrs Goulding, who in her own act had used her black chiffon scarf to devastating theatrical effect, now used it to dab the tears in her own eyes.