As soon as he had finished the last bars of his song, Prof’s performance was greeted by a split second of total silence. So he bowed briskly, hoping to make a quick exit from the stage. But suddenly the Hall erupted into thunderous applause, and there were repeated yells of ’Core! ’Core! Then everyone seemed to be on their feet. Maggs joined Frankie clapping wildly and cheering; Alan whistled, Patty applauded; Auntie Hilda was no longer crying, she was sobbing. She and Gladys were on their feet, clapping so hard the palms of their hands were blood red. Even Alfred Swain and Mrs Goulding joined in the frenzied reception for the brave young artist and his mouth-organ, and when Mr Lincoln started thumping the top of his piano lid in appreciation, this set off a chorus of feet stamping which threatened to shake the very foundations of the entire school.
As he stood in the solitary spotlight, a frail, poignant little figure, bowing awkwardly, Prof gazed out at his audience with a mixture of astonishment and bewilderment. He couldn’t see anything but a vast, fuzzed mass of people waving and leaping up and down.
The cheering seemed to go on forever, and it only came to an end when there was a sudden explosion in the distance. Obviously a V–2 had come down somewhere, yet another reminder that the war was not yet over. Although it was far enough away not to cause any damage to the school itself, everyone, including Prof, dropped to the floor. Simultaneously, the lights went out, but there was no panic and, in the few minutes of darkness that followed, Maggs felt someone take hold of her hand and squeeze it. The lights came on much sooner than Frankie had thought, for when they did, he had to quickly let go of Maggs’s hand. Even though she was blushing, Maggs felt good inside, and turned to give Frankie a warm, shy smile.
When the concert was over and everyone was filing out of the Hall, Prof was overwhelmed by the number of people who congratulated him on his performance. Flushed by his triumph, he made his way through the audience trying to reach Frankie. On the way, Auntie Hilda, tears still swelling up in her eyes, hugged her nephew and told him over and over again how proud she was of him.
‘That was terrific, Prof!’ Frankie took his friend’s hand and shook it up and down so hard it nearly fell off. ‘You was clearly the best fing in the ’ole show!’
Prof beamed with delight. This, coming from his pal, Frankie, was worth more than anything anyone else had to say. ‘D’you think so, Frankie?’ he said, eagerly. ‘D’you really think so?’
‘’Course I do!’ Frankie was now patting his friend on the back. ‘Everyone says so –’ Then he turned to Maggs, who was standing at this side, smiling broadly. ‘Don’t they, Maggs?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Maggs grabbed Prof’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘It was a lovely song. You played it beautifully!’
As he took it in that Frankie was with the girl he had been going on so much about, Prof’s eager smile faded immediately. ‘Oh – thanks’, he said, awkwardly. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘We’ll talk about it termorrer – right, Prof?’ Frankie put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and hugged him. ‘You’re a star! Yer know that, don’t yer? It’ll cost us fifty quid ter talk to yer!’
Suddenly, Prof wasn’t interested in praise any more. ‘Are we takin’ the tram home?’ he asked, weakly.
Now it was Frankie’s turn to feel awkward. ‘Er – no – wot I mean, Prof, is . . . Well, yer see – I’ve offered to walk Maggs ’ome. She only lives up at Canonbury and she oughta ’ave someone to . . .’
‘It’s all right. I’ve gotta see Auntie Hilda home anyway.’ Prof tried not to look hurt, but it wasn’t easy. ‘Might see you over the weekend. If not – well, see you in class on Monday.’
‘See yer, Prof!’
‘Goodnight,’ Maggs called gently as Prof made his way off through the departing audience.
‘’Night!’ Prof called back to Maggs over his shoulder without looking, then quickly went to look for Auntie Hilda.
Auntie Hilda and Gladys travelled back home to Seven Sisters Road on the number 38 tram. Her nephew wasn’t with them.
Prof had decided to walk.
Chapter Fourteen
Jack Barclay hadn’t been in touch with his sister-in-law since before Christmas when he had written to ask her if she would let him make an appointment for her to see his solicitor about making her will. To Barclay’s frustration, Elsa had written back to say that while she was very grateful for her brother-in-law’s interest, she had made ‘other arrangements’ regarding her will. Barclay, however, didn’t give up easily, though it was not until the middle of April that he decided to call on Elsa again, this time without his wife.
‘Sell the shop? Why should I sell the shop? It makes me money.’ Elsa was behind the shop counter, half-way up a ladder using a feather duster to clean off some bookshelves. ‘I don’t understand you, Jack Barclay,’ she called, without bothering to look back at him. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a good businessman?’
‘I am a good businessman, Elsa.’ Barclay was perched uncomfortably on one of Elsa’s favourite high stools, warming his hands over the flickering flame of the paraffin stove. ‘That’s why I think someone of your age shouldn’t be bothering herself with – well, with a place like this.’
Elsa swung round indignantly. ‘What do you mean someone of my age? Just remember, I’m younger than you.’
Barclay could have kicked himself. The last thing he wanted to do was to offend his sister-in-law. ‘Oh no, Elsa,’ he said very quickly, as he watched her come down the stepladder. ‘What I meant was, this shop is too much for you to cope with all on your own. If you sold it, you’d be able to invest the money and retire. You could move up to Golders Green or Swiss Cottage. I know how much you like it up there.’
Elsa slammed her feather duster on to the counter, sending up a huge cloud of dust as she did so. ‘I don’t want to live in Golders Green or Swiss Cottage. I want to live here – Islington – in Robert’s home – in my home!’ She crossed her arms defiantly and glared at her brother-in-law. ‘And in any case, I have all the help I need to run the shop.’
Barclay’s moustache twitched nervously. ‘Help? You mean that scruffy local boy?’
Elsa immediately came out from behind the counter and, with clenched fists resting firmly on her hips, confronted Barclay face to face. ‘His name is Mister Frankie Lewis. And he is not scruffy. He is my friend!’
‘This is a tough neighbourhood, Elsa,’ he blustered. ‘You must be careful about trusting a boy like that.’
This raised Elsa’s hackles even more. ‘What do you mean – a boy like that? Mister Lewis is not a boy, he’s a man. And I trust him more than anyone else I know – anyone!’
Barclay didn’t take kindly to this remark. In his mind he was convinced that he knew only too well what the young ruffian was after, but he decided to change tack. ‘You see, my dear,’ he said, tucking the handkerchief back into his top pocket and trying to sound as reasonable as possible, ‘it’s only your welfare I’m thinking of.
‘The war is almost over, Elsa. Once rationing comes to an end, there’ll be no demand for places like this.’ Surrounded by rails of secondhand clothes, Barclay was scanning the jumble shop as though it was a public lavatory. ‘The Government will want to start rebuilding London, especially areas that have been damaged by the Blitz.’ Before he continued, he made quite sure Elsa had no eye contact with him. ‘Chances are, places like this will be the first to go. It’ll be worth nothing. Nothing at all.’
Elsa went to the window, and started to rearrange the second-hand china tea service display there. ‘So it seems things are not looking too good for me, eh Jack?’ Her comment was wry and not anxious. ‘Even if I wanted to sell the shop, no one would want to buy it. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Not exactly, Elsa.’ Barclay was watching her carefully. ‘As a matter of fact – I’d be prepared to make you an offer.’
Elsa looked back over her shoulder. ‘You? You want to buy this shop?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t offer
very much, Elsa. But you are Robert’s widow, and you know how close he and I were. I feel I owe it to him to help you out in any way I can.’
Barclay’s lies made Elsa feel quite sick. ‘How considerate of you, Jack.’ Her voice was like ice. She turned around, perched herself on the window-ledge, crossed her arms, and fixed him with a look that totally summed up what she thought of him. As she watched his pale face, Elsa remembered all the times when her ‘caring’ brother-in-law had done everything in his power to drive a wedge between her and Robert. And she couldn’t help resenting the fact that Jack Barclay had used the war years to make money out of other people’s misery. For Barclay bought at very low prices, the land on which various properties had been bombed, land that would inevitably increase in value once the war was over. ‘And what would you do with an old jumble shop like this?’ she asked.
Barclay, detecting what he thought was some interest in Elsa’s response, said eagerly, ‘Oh I wouldn’t keep it as a shop. Goodness no! I’d pull the place down. Demolition job. No value in the place. None at all.’ His confidence growing, he made his way across to Elsa and stood in front of her. ‘I couldn’t afford to offer much, Elsa. I just don’t have the capital.’
‘How much, Jack?’
Barclay felt the blood rushing through his veins with excitement. ‘I’m sure you realise how much it would cost me to get all this junk cleared out. More than likely we’d have to throw the whole lot away.’
‘How much?’ Elsa was sick of his double-talk.
‘Difficult to put an actual figure on it without –’
‘How much!’
Carefully avoiding any eye contact with her, Barclay swallowed hard before answering. ‘No more than a couple of hundred – at the very most. That’s generous, Elsa – I promise.’
Suddenly, the total silence that had fallen was pierced by Elsa’s laughter, which was so forceful it threatened to scatter dust from every bookshelf in the shop. ‘Generous!’ Still roaring with laughter, she made her way back behind the counter. ‘So your generous offer is to give me two hundred pounds, take the place off my hands, and get rid of all this – “junk”. Is that it, Jack?’
Barclay was rubbing his chin uneasily. ‘It’s the best I can do, Elsa, it really is. I can assure you, you wouldn’t get an offer like this from anyone else.’
‘Oh, I’m quite sure of that!’ Elsa said, silkily.
She put on her reading glasses and started to search for a particular book, one that she wanted to give to Frankie the next time she saw him. ‘Let me tell you something, Jack,’ she called, her back towards him. ‘I don’t need you or anyone else to take this place off my hands. And do you know why?’ She found the book she was looking for and removed it from the shelf. ‘Because this dusty old shop never stops reminding me why I loved Robert so much.’ She turned around and took off her glasses. ‘When he bought the shop, he knew exactly what he was doing for me. Every piece of “junk”, as you call it, is special. It has a story to tell – someone’s story. Sometimes, when I’m alone here, I can hear them all telling me their different stories.’ Still holding the book in one hand, she moved slowly around the shop, touching each object with her fingertips as she talked about it. ‘An old umbrella that is too stubborn to open out . . . a teapot with a chipped spout that once belonged to grandma . . . a camera that took all the family snapshots . . . or a little girl’s Sunday dress that was only worn once.’ She finished up in front of Barclay, now clutching the book to her chest. ‘You know, Jack, it makes me very sad to sell any piece of this “junk”. To me, it’s like losing a part of Robert all over again.’ She smiled wryly to herself. ‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But, you know, money doesn’t mean a thing to me.’
Barclay was now really irritated. ‘You’re not getting any younger, Elsa. This place is a lot to handle on your own. I mean – what are you going to do if you get ill or something?’
‘I’ve told you, I have all the help I need!’
‘You really can’t be serious about that – that ragamuffin?’
‘Misster Frankie Lewis is not a ragamuffin. He is my friend.’
Barclay’s back stiffened. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this stubborn hag, and he had another element to contend with, one that he hadn’t bargained for. ‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said, pulling out the pocket watch that was tucked into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I’d better be on my way.’ He leaned forward to kiss Elsa on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Elsa.’ His voice was cold and distant. ‘If you change your mind, let me know.’
Elsa smiled sweetly again. ‘Goodbye, Jack. Give my regards to Celia – and to Hertfordshire.’
A moment later, Barclay had gone. Elsa didn’t bother to go to the window to see him leave. Instead she looked at the cover of the book which she intended to give to Frankie.
The book was by Charles Dickens, and it was called The Old Curiosity Shop.
Winston looked fed up. His master had been home from school for over an hour, and yet he was still sitting on the edge of his bed, scribbling into his notebook.
Frankie’s homework for the evening was his worst subject – mathematics. Thanks to Elsa, Frankie had certainly discovered the joys of literature, but quite how pi-squared contributed to the quality of life remained, to him, a total mystery.
Finally, he put down his pencil. ‘Come on Winnie,’ he said thankfully, ‘let’s go round the shop.’
Even before Frankie had put on his jacket, Winston had leapt to his feet, nudged open the door with his nose, and was half-way down the stairs.
‘Frankie? Is that you?’
Gracie Lewis’s shrill voice calling from the kitchen brought Frankie to a halt. He had no time to answer before his mother suddenly appeared in the hall passage.
‘I fawt yer was suppose ter be doin’ yer ’omework? Where yer goin’?’
Much to Winston’s frustration, Frankie closed the street door again. ‘We’re goin’ for a walk.’
‘Don’t gimme that!’ Gracie had a fag dangling from her lips and the smoke was causing her right eye to squint. ‘You’re goin’ ’round to that bleedin shop again, in’t yer? Well, yer farver an’ me don’t want yer ter keep seein’ that old bitch. The ’ole street’s talking about it.’
If looks could only kill, Frankie’s would have struck his mother stone dead there and then. He thought it was really rich for his mother to talk about the whole street, when he knew only too well she never even passed the time of the day with any of them. ‘I don’t know what you’re goin’ on about,’ he said contemptuously.
‘You know what I’m talkin’ about!’ Gracie took the fag out of her mouth and ash flicked down the front of her cardigan. ‘I’ve told yer ter keep away from that bleedin’ kraut. In case you ’aven’t realised, we’ve been fightin’ the likes of ’er for the past five years!’
Frankie was fed up to the teeth with hearing people talk like this. First it was Jeff, now his own mother. ‘Give over, Mum! Elsa’s British – just like you and me!’
‘She’s no more British than ’Itler!’ Gracie took a deep puff of her fag and shrieked at him. ‘That woman oughta been locked up years ago!’
‘You know nothin’ Mum – absolutely nothin’!’ Frankie was grinding his teeth so hard in his enraged frustration that they felt as though they were wearing away. ‘D’yer know what they did to Elsa at the beginnin’ of the war? They put ’er in an Internment Camp on the Isle of Man. And d’yer know ’ow long they kept ’er there? Exactly six weeks! Six weeks, Mum – that’s all! And d’yer know why they let ’er out after such a short time?’ Frankie wasn’t aware that he had advanced on his mother, and was now face to face with her half-way down the hall passage. ‘Because they didn’t take the trouble to find out that she was a British subject. A British subject, Mum – married to a British army officer!’
With a dismissive wave of the hand, Gracie threw her fag butt down on to the lino and stamped her foot on it.
‘Elsa’s husband wa
s killed at Dunkirk, Mum. He was killed fightin’ the people you’re talkin’ about – not people like Elsa. She’s a good, fine lady, Mum – one of the best I know. She’s kind, and thoughtful, and . . . and . . . Elsa wouldn’t ’urt no one, Mum – no one in the whole wide world!’
Gracie turned to go back into the kitchen.
‘You don’t believe me do yer, Mum? You don’t believe me – because you don’t want to believe me! Why, Mum, why?’
Gracie turned swiftly, her eyes piercing him through the yellow glare of the hall passage light. ‘Because she ain’t yer muvver – that’s why!’
Frankie watched his mother disappear back into the kitchen and slam the door behind her. For a moment he just stood there, staring at the blank door, totally unable to believe what she had just said. Oh, God, if only Gracie Lewis had given birth to someone else and not him!
Frankie made his way down Pakeman Street. It was very cold, so he tucked his hands deep into his jacket pockets. When he reached the school gates, the caretaker, Mr Mitchison, was just locking up for the night.
‘That you, Frankie?’
‘Hallo, Mr Mitchison.’
‘Bit late for the shop tonight, aren’t yer? It’s nearly six o’clock.’
This remark took Frankie by surprise, for he had no idea his movements were followed so closely. However, Mr Mitchison was known to be a bit of a nosey-parker, so he didn’t take too much notice. ‘I’m just taking Winston out for a walk, that’s all.’
Mitchison grinned and carried on locking the school gate. ‘Well, don’t work too hard, son. The wife says she often sees you through the shop window. I ’ope that old girl’s givin’ you a good wage.’
Frankie didn’t know why, but he deeply resented Mr Mitchison’s remarks. After all, his wife had no right to go nosing through shop windows spying on him. Why couldn’t people just mind their own business!
‘G’night, Mr Mitchison.’
Frankie hurried on and, as he reached the corner of Roden Street, he saw old Mr Kendrew, ‘the dummy’ smiling and waving at him. Frankie hated himself for thinking of Mr Kendrew as ‘the dummy’ just because the poor man had been deaf and dumb since he was a child. But every kid in the neighbourhood had always called him that, and through the years the name had stuck. It was a pity, for Mr Kendrew and his wife were two of the nicest people in the street, always smiling and waving at their neighbours as they passed by, and often fetching out a biscuit or a barley sugar if a mother came along with her child. Their house was not only the best kept on the outside, but those who had been invited inside for a cup of tea were full of stories of how clean and tidy the place was kept. Yet in most people’s mind, the house in Roden Street beside the school would always be ‘the dummy’s house.
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