It was just beginning to drizzle as Frankie made his way along the first terrace of houses in Roden Street. As he looked up into the dark evening sky there wasn’t a star to be seen, and the light raindrops that were falling felt like tiny particles of ice that quickly melted on his glowing red cheeks.
‘Still helping out in the shop, Frankie?’
Frankie looked down with a start to see Letty Hobbs just hurrying into number 13. From the inviting smells that were coming from the newspaper-wrapped parcel in her string carrier bag, it was obvious that she had been round to collect the family’s supper from Anderson’s fish and chip shop in Hornsey Road. ‘I don’t go round every night, Mrs Hobbs.’ Frankie liked Letty Hobbs. She was never too busy to stop and have a little chat with him, despite the fact that she had a family of her own to look after, and a husband, Oliver, who had lost a leg in the last war.
‘What’s she like?’ Letty called as she opened her front door. ‘That woman who runs the shop. She looks very nice – never stops working. Is she really a German like they say?’
Frankie bit his lip hard and pulled up his jacket collar. ‘She’s very nice, Mrs Hobbs. She was only born in Germany, that’s all.’
‘Oh well, as long as she treats people nice, what’s it matter? She’s very lucky to have you and Winnie working for her. I bet you’re both a great help.’
Frankie was about to answer, but Letty and her sweet-smelling fish and chips quickly disappeared into number 13.
‘’Night, Mrs Hobbs.’
‘’Night, Frankie.’
As soon as Letty closed her front door, a nagging feeling crossed Frankie’s mind. Letty Hobbs was the second person to mention his working in the shop. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe everyone in the street was talking about his working for someone who, in their eyes was part of the enemy they’d been fighting for the past five years.
The drizzle had now turned to sleet and, as Frankie hurried on his way, it was getting very slippery underfoot and he had to shuffle along rather than walk. Hell! How he hated the winter months with their endlessly long, dark evenings. On a night like this it seemed impossible to believe that the start of spring was only a couple of days away. He only hoped that the first yellow-head daffodils of the year he had seen appearing in the Robinson’s window box at number 16 Merton Street would survive such a frozen onslaught. By the time he had turned into Annette Road and passed the timber cutting factory, Frankie’s hair and jacket were covered with a thin film of white which made him look ghost-like as he glided along in the eerie, unlit street.
At the corner of Annette Road a sudden gust of wind hurtled furiously along Arthur Road and caught Frankie completely off-balance. The sleet engulfed him, leaving him to struggle helplessly to protect himself from the surging wall of freezing white rain.
‘Winnie!’
Frankie’s cry for help was to no avail, for the sound of his voice was lost in the howling wind. And he could no longer keep his balance. His foot slipped on the sleet beneath him, which sent him crashing on to his rump on the ice-cold pavement.
‘Winnie!’
A moment later, the rush of wind disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. But the sleet continued to flutter down mercilessly and, as he sat there Frankie’s stomach started to churn. Where was Winnie? Ever since Winston had been a puppy, he had hardly ever failed to come when Frankie called out for him.
‘Winnie!’
Frankie struggled to his feet.
‘Winnie! Here boy! Here!’ But in whichever direction he turned to look, there was no sign of Winston anywhere.
Ignoring the slippery pavements, Frankie started to hurry down Arthur Road, whistling and yelling and making just about every sound he could think of that Winston would react to. But it was only when he was within a few yards of the front door of Dr McWhirter’s surgery that Winston finally made his presence known.
The barking sounds were coming from Hornsey Road and they were unlike anything Frankie had heard from Winston before – angry, aggressive, and relentless. It was only then that Frankie realised that during the past few months that he and Winston had been taking this same route to the jumble shop, Winston had got into the habit of rushing ahead, eager to get to the apple cake that Elsa always had waiting for him. But he had never crossed the main Hornsey Road on his own until this evening. Frankie didn’t know what was different, but something had clearly aggravated Winston causing him to ignore every call Frankie was making.
‘Winnie!’
The moment of horror came just as Frankie struggled his way to the corner of Arthur and Hornsey Roads.
‘Winston! No, Winnie! No . . .!’
But it was too late. Through the blinding swirl of sleet, Frankie could just see Winston charging down the middle of the main Hornsey Road, barking and howling at a small motor car that was just pulling away from the kerbside outside the jumble shop. Winston was frantic, angrily trying to get at the car, slipping and sliding all over the road as traffic raced by all around him in the blinding sleet storm.
‘Winnie!’ Oblivious to the danger he was putting himself into, Frankie rushed out into the road and tried to get to Winston, who by now was half-way towards the junction with Seven Sisters Road. ‘No, Winnie! Come back! Come back . . .!’
As Frankie spoke, a large furniture van, travelling far too fast for the appalling road conditions, hit Winston sideways on, which tossed him into the air and left him slumped against the kerb at the side of the road.
‘Winnie . . .!’
Frankie’s cry of anguish echoed above the roar of passing traffic and eerie, half-dipped headlights. No one stopped to let him cross the road, so he rushed in and out of the cars and vans, yelling, sobbing, tears streaming down his ice-cold cheeks. By the time he reached the kerbside and dropped to his knees, Winston’s eyes were closed and he was quite motionless.
As he held Winston tightly in his arms, Frankie realised with horror that his cold hands were covered with blood . . .
Chapter Fifteen
Frankie woke with a start. For a moment or so he was completely disoriented, for as his eyes began to focus all he could see was a bare electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling above and the sound of a gentle voice calling to him.
‘Frank. Wake up, Frank. It’s time.’
Frankie sat bolt upright in bed. His sister Helen had drawn the curtains and, although the room was as chilly as usual, the early morning sunshine was streaming straight down on to his face.
‘It’s quarter-to-nine, Frank.’ Helen’s voice was quiet and sympathetic. ‘The Vet told you to call at nine.’
Frankie didn’t need any more reminding. He was out of bed in a flash and, after throwing on his clothes, leapt down the stairs two by two and dashed straight out the front door.
As he hurried off towards Hertslet Road, the whole nightmare experience of the previous evening came tumbling back to him. The sound of Winston’s squeal as the furniture van hit him, without even bothering to stop. And then the horror of holding the poor, lifeless creature in his arms, blood seeping from Winnie’s mouth on to Frankie’s arms and hands. It had been horrible, just horrible . . . As he rushed along the frost-covered pavements, Frankie blamed himself over and over again. It should never have happened. He should never have allowed it to happen. How many times had people warned him about letting Winston roam without his lead? He shouldn’t have taken the chance – it wouldn’t happen again – not ever! But then, harsh reality dawned on him. Suppose there wasn’t a next time? It was true that Winnie was still alive when he took him to the Vet. But that was last night. Suppose – suppose something had happened to him during the night, when Frankie wasn’t with him? It was almost too unbearable to think about. He couldn’t remember a time when he and Winnie weren’t together. They were a team! He should never have left Winnie with the Vet on his own. He should have stayed with him. Tears were swelling up in Frankie’s already sore eyes as he imagined Winnie dying without him being there.
&n
bsp; When he reached the public telephone box in Bovay Place, Frankie found someone already using it. Despite glaring at her, and pacing up and down so that she could not help noticing he was there, the woman carried on relentlessly with her telephone conversation. Gab! Gab! Gab! Why can’t people say what they have to say and push off, thought Frankie, whose ears were now quite numb with the cold.
The waiting seemed interminable. All he could think of was how, if it hadn’t been for Elsa, Winnie would probably have died, because when she came running out from the shop to find out what had happened, she immediately called a taxi and took Frankie and Winnie to the vet in Fonthill Road. That was more than his own mother or father would ever have done.
Gab! Gab! Gab! How much longer?
It was five minutes before the woman finally left the telephone box and, when she did, Frankie nearly knocked her down in his desperation to make his call. When he put the two pennies into the coin box, it seemed an eternity before anyone answered. It was two minutes past nine o’clock. Surely he couldn’t be too late already?
‘Fonthill Road Veterinary Surgery.’
Frankie pushed Button A, which allowed him to speak. ‘Could you tell me how my dog is, please? His name’s Winnie – that’s short for Winston. I brought him in last night. He had an accident, in Hornsey Road . . .’
‘One moment, please,’ answered the brusque-voiced woman at the other end. ‘I’ll ask the vet for you.’
Suddenly, Frankie didn’t feel cold any more. In fact, his hands were sweating and he found it difficult to hold the cumbersome black telephone receiver. ‘Please, God,’ he said to himself at least three times, ‘Don’t let Winnie be dead.’
‘Are you there?’
‘Yes! I’m here!’
‘The vet says your dog has woken up . . .’
Frankie practically yelled with joy in the woman’s ear. ‘Can I come and collect him?’
‘I’m afraid not. He’s had a very bad haemorrhage and he’s broken one of his back paws. He’s still quite groggy. He’s not well enough to leave the surgery just yet. Mr Purvis would like to keep him under observation for the next day or so. Please call again the day after tomorrow. Goodbye.’
Frankie heard the line go dead at the other end, and the dialling tone returned. For a moment he just stood there, just staring into the telephone receiver as though he could see the woman who he had just been speaking to. Groggy? ‘He’s still quite groggy,’ she’d said. What was that supposed to mean? All his fears returned. Were they trying to keep something from him? Was Winnie much worse than they were saying? He felt sick. If Winnie was awake, he’d want Frankie to be with him. It wasn’t right that he should be left alone with people he didn’t know and who probably didn’t care whether he lived or died. Without realising it, Frankie was running rather than walking home.
By the time he got there, he was so worked up, he forgot that he should have been at school nearly half-an-hour before . . .
As usual, Charlie Brend’s sweet shop was full of kids from Pakeman Street School. But, as it was Friday and the end of the week, most of the kids didn’t have any ration coupons left to buy sweets, so the roaring trade was a glass of one of Charlie’s legendary fizzy drinks. The counter was dominated by five large glass bulb-shaped containers, each containing a different flavour cordial. The cordial was fed into a highly complicated soda-making machine which looked like one of the army’s secret war weapons. The favourite flavour always seemed to be sarsparilla and, as he pulled handles and turned knobs, a sea of fascinated young faces watched in awe and expectation for the rapturous moment when, after a great deal of hissing and bubbling, a magical single glass of highly coloured fizzy drink was produced. When the price of one penny was finally handed over, the drink inevitably disappeared faster than it took to make.
Gracie Lewis wandered into the shop to buy her daily packet of ten Players fags. She pushed her way to the counter, for the kids gathered there always irritated her.
Although he was a jovial little man, utterly adored by the kids, Charlie took Gracie’s half-crown, handed over the cigarettes and gave Gracie her change without passing a single word of greeting. For, although Gracie had been coming into his shop for years, she had never exchanged any form of greeting with Charlie, and when once he asked her how the family was, she replied with cold indifference that if he wanted to know then he should ask them himself.
Once outside, Gracie quickly ripped open her fag packet, took one out, pushed it into her lips, and immediately lit it with a match from her box of Swan Vestas. Gracie never inhaled deeply, but she produced plenty of smoke, which, on a cold day like this, curled up into the air and practically froze into a twisted shape.
She moved on at a slow pace, strolling rather than walking, past Mitchell’s newspaper shop and then the dairy. When she reached Barclay’s jumble shop, she came to a halt and, uncharacteristically, took a deep puff of her fag. She stopped to look in the window and glanced casually at the display of a rather tatty looking secondhand china tea-set. She lingered just long enough to take a sly look through the window into the shop. There was no sign of anyone inside. She moved on a few paces until she reached the shop door. After another quick puff of her fag, Gracie turned the door handle and went inside.
When Gracie entered, Elsa was sewing the hem of a torn dress. At first Gracie didn’t notice her, for she was sitting among the hordes of old suits and dresses that took up at least one half of the shop.
‘Can I help you, please?’
Gracie stopped dead as Elsa’s head peered from behind a pin-stripe suit. Elsa came out to greet her customer. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular, my dear?’
Gracie was stony-faced. ‘I’m lookin’ for the woman who runs this place.’
Elsa’s smile became rather fixed. ‘Yes? What can I do for you?’
‘You can’t do nuffin’ fer me.’ Gracie puffed her fag, and blew out a funnel of grey smoke. ‘Wot’s more, I don’t want yer to.’
Elsa became a little uneasy, but remained quite calm. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand?’
‘My name’s Lewis. I’m Frankie’s muvver.’
Elsa felt her face tighten. ‘Oh – I see.’ She smiled again and held out her hand. ‘How nice to meet you at last, Mrs Lewis. Frankie has told me so much about you.’
Gracie declined to shake hands. ‘Yeah. I bet ’e ’as!’
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ As she made her way back to the counter, Elsa did her best to appear hospitable. ‘It won’t take a second to boil the kettle.’
‘No! I don’t want no tea.’
For a moment, Elsa stood with her back turned towards Gracie. Then, after patting the bun she had combed her hair into at the back, she turned around. ‘Then what can I do for you, Mrs Lewis?’
Gracie peered around the shop. Although she would never admit it, she had always adored junk shops like this. ‘Me and ’is farvver don’t approve of Frankie workin’ ’ere. We don’t like it, OK?’
‘Oh, I see. And what does Frankie say about that?’
‘It’s got nuffin’ ter do wiv ’im. ’E’s under age, and we don’t want ’im workin’ ’ere.’
‘I quite understand.’
Even in the poor light of the shop, it was easy to see the difference in the two women. Elsa, small and diminutive, but looking so elegant in the most simple floral cotton printed dress, and Gracie, at least a head taller, wearing a smudged and dowdy grey winter coat flecked with cigarette ash, a tatty-looking woollen scarf tied around her head.
Elsa clasped her hands together in front of her and leaned back slightly to rest her back against the counter. ‘Tell me. Is there any particular reason why you object to Frankie coming here?’
‘It’s not ’ealthy!’
Elsa squinted at her, quizzically. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand.’
‘When Frankie leaves school ’e’ll get a real job. ’E don’t need ter take money from people like you.’
Els
a lowered her eyes. The remark had hurt, but she was determined not to show it. ‘I don’t force him to come, you know. He comes because he wants to. At least it gives him some pocket money. I gather he’s saving up to buy his own bicycle.’
Gracie made a dismissive, scoffing sound, then, without thinking, flicked ash on the floor.
‘Has he not told you about it?’ Elsa picked up an ashtray from the counter and took it across to Gracie. ‘It’s a way of his doing something on his own.’
‘’E’s always doin’ fings on ’is own.’ Gracie stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray that Elsa was still holding. ‘For my mind, ’e’s too independent.’
‘You think that’s a bad thing?’
‘’E should tell me what ’e’s doin’.’
‘Do you ever ask?’
Gracie fixed her with a stony glare. ‘I don’t want my boy workin’ in this shop! It’s givin’ me and my family a bad name. Everyone in our street’s talkin’ about it.’
Elsa smiled wryly. ‘People talk about me, too, Mrs Lewis. But does it really matter?’
‘It matters ter me!’
‘In the end, it will be Frankie’s decision to do what he wants to do. There’s nothing we can do about it, Mrs Lewis, neither me – nor you.’
‘I’m ’is muvver. ’E’ll do what I tell ’im.’
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