Our Street

by Pemberton, Victor

  Elsa shrugged her shoulders. ‘Frankie is no longer a child, Mrs Lewis.’

  Without answering, Gracie turned, and made her way to the door.

  ‘You’re very lucky to have a son like Frankie,’ Elsa said quietly. ‘One of these days you’re going to be very proud of him.’

  Gracie, about to open the shop door, stopped briefly, without turning.

  ‘I’m sure you know that he’s a very intelligent young man.’

  In the road outside a particularly noisy lorry was thundering past. Until it had, Gracie remained absolutely motionless, her back still turned towards Elsa.

  ‘You know, Mrs Lewis, Frankie is like a flower that needs the sunshine to open him up. Sometimes, when he talks to me, I can hear him – so full of wonderful, creative ideas. He inspires me. But those who inspire need to be inspired, too. Flowers not only need sunshine and water, they also need to be noticed. After all, what’s the point of them being there if you don’t notice them. And, when you do, it’s amazing how much pleasure they can give you.’

  Gracie slowly turned to look at Elsa. Although she didn’t quite understand her analogy, the feeling of what she had said sank in. And, as she stood there, a tuft of prematurely greying hair just dangling down from beneath her headscarf, Gracie could see her whole life behind her – the life she had had, and the life that she could have had . . .

  When she was a child, someone had told her mother how intelligent Gracie was and, for a time, Gracie believed it. So what happened to her over the years? Why had she allowed herself to disintegrate into the pathetic, difficult creature that she had become? If she thought about it, Gracie Lewis could see Frankie in herself – the rebel, determined not to conform to anything or anybody. Gracie had never had a guiding hand to draw her out and, for a long time, she had known that Frankie was different, that if he was given the chance he could be all the things that she never was. And yet, inside her a voice kept telling her that she had to prevent Frankie from thinking for himself . . .

  Gracie blinked her eyes. Elsa was still standing there. She was real. She was a fact. She was a different, sane voice begging her to listen. And, to Gracie’s astonishment, she found that she actually liked this woman. And that scared Gracie. For some reason, it scared her half to death.

  Without saying another word Gracie opened the shop door and was gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ever since he moved into number 78 Merton Street twenty years before, Clancy had kept himself to himself. Not that he wanted to, but most of his neighbours had instantly decided that he was not the type to associate with and he was almost totally ignored. The clothes he wore didn’t help. Most days he did his shopping in a yellow beret and polka dot kerchief (yellow was his favourite colour), a loose fitting shirt and heavy knitted pullover, tan-coloured corduroy trousers, bright pink socks and open-toed sandals. His real name was Clarence Dudley Porritt, but since the people of Merton Street had long since accepted that he was a ‘pansy’, the kids had given him their own nickname, and there was hardly a time when he left his house without being hounded by a bunch of kids calling after him. ‘Clancy nancy – don’t let him tickle yer fancy!’

  Early on Saturday morning, Clancy left his house and did his shopping in Seven Sisters Road. In the greengrocer’s shop, Ma Digby served him with his usual two pounds of King Edward potatoes, pound of brussel sprouts, pound of carrots, lettuce and bunch of celery, and salad. ‘How are yer today, dearie?’ To Clancy’s delight, Ma Digby always stopped to have a little chat with him, for she had no problems about who or what he was. In fact she loved the way he dressed, for he looked so different to some of the dreary customers who were always grumbling and complaining in the shop. They weren’t so nice in Liptons the grocers, though. Every time he went in just like today, the silly young girl assistants behind the counter stopped to giggle amongst themselves.

  With his string bag full of vegetables and his minute weekly ration of sugar, margarine, flour, and his favourite liquorice allsorts, Clancy waddled his way back home.

  At number 1 Merton Street, Frankie was just leaving home to go to the shop. It was three days since Winston’s accident, but the latest news from the Vet still left him anxious about how serious the dog’s injuries really were so his mind was still preoccupied when he came out of the house and, for the first moment or so, he didn’t take in the noise that was coming from down the street.

  ‘Clancy! Nancy!’ The chorus of kids’ voices yelling, singing, chanting cat-calling, and whistling, suddenly impinged on Frankie. He and the rest of the Merton Street gang had been part of the same merciless teasing of poor old Clancy many times over the years so at first he decided to ignore the rumpus. But when he saw that the crowd of kids gathered at the end of the street was larger than usual, he decided to investigate.

  Once he had managed to push his way through the crowd of yelling, jeering kids, Frankie was horrified to find Clancy spreadeagled on the pavement, the contents of his shopping bag strewn all over the road.

  ‘Get back all of yer!’ Frankie had to shout at the top of his voice to be heard above the din. ‘Leave ’im alone!’

  Frankie had to battle with some of the older kids, who were having too good a time to stop. It was only when he threatened to have a punch-up with some of them that they turned tail and ran off. And, on the other side of the street, just outside number 27, someone quickly started up their motorcycle and roared off at speed. Although he hadn’t seen Jeff Murray since the evening he beat up the Prof, Frankie was in no doubt as to who the rider was, or who was responsible for whipping up the kids’ frenzy.

  ‘Give us yer ’and, mister.’

  Frankie bent down and held out his hand to Clancy, who was trying to raise himself up to his knees. It was the first time he had seen the resident of number 78 close to and it came as a surprise to see that the old man’s face had been powdered, and that he was wearing a trace of lipstick.

  Clancy took hold of Frankie’s hand and allowed him to help him stand up. ‘Thank you, young man. It’s very kind of you.’

  Despite the cold morning, Frankie was amazed at how warm the old man’s hand was. ‘Are you all right, mister?’

  ‘Oh yes. Nothing to worry about.’ Clancy quickly tucked his white hair back underneath his beret and straightened his kerchief. ‘It’s very good of you. Very good indeed.’

  Frankie had never heard Clancy speak before. It was a funny sort of voice, high-pitched, and a bit like a woman’s. And he couldn’t help noticing how shaky the poor man was, for although he was trying to appear unaffected by what had happened, he was clearly very upset and agitated. ‘Did they push yer? Which one of ’em did it?’

  Clancy was quick to reply. ‘Oh no. Nobody pushed me. It was my own fault. I’m not very good on my feet these days. Getting old, I suppose. No. No one pushed me.’

  Frankie didn’t believe him, but he admired the old man’s courage. ‘Let me give yer a hand.’ He picked up the remains of Clancy’s string shopping bag, and started to collect the contents which were scattered around the pavement.

  Clancy tried to help, but not only was he too shaky to stoop down, it was not easy for someone who was quite so tubby.

  Why do kids have to pick on people who can’t fight back? Frankie thought, suddenly ashamed at the way he’d hounded Clancy when he was younger. Just because this old biddy was different to them was no reason to mock and jeer him. After all, he seemed nice enough, and he was no harm to anybody, for he always kept himself to himself. But it would have been Jeff who pushed the kids to going much farther than usual. It was just the sort of vicious fun he’d get a kick out of.

  ‘There you are, mister.’ Frankie handed over the string bag, complete with its shopping again. ‘Can I give yer a hand inside.’

  ‘Oh no. I shall be perfectly all right now, thank you very much. You’ve been admirable. Quite admirable . . .’ Before he had finished speaking, Clancy wobbled and seemed as if he was about to lose his balance again.
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br />   Frankie grabbed at the old man’s hand and supported him. ‘Just ’ang on ter me.’

  Clancy held tightly on to Frankie’s arm and allowed himself to be led back towards his own house at number 78.

  ‘Oy, you! Frank!’

  The voice calling out along the street caused Frankie to stop dead. As he turned, he was startled to see his father, Reg Lewis, hurrying towards him.

  Lewis, his flat cap pulled tightly on to his head, was only too aware that eyes were watching their every movement from behind curtains all along the street. So, although he was clearly angry, he tried to keep his voice as low as possible. ‘What the bloody ’ell d’yer think yer doin’?’

  Frankie couldn’t understand why his father was so angry. ‘What’s the matter? What ’ave I done?’

  Reg, desperately awkward and uneasy, was looking up and down at the street windows. ‘You know what’s wrong!’ he snarled through clenched teeth. ‘Bloody get out of ’ere!’

  Clancy started to panic and immediately pulled away from Frankie. ‘It’s all right, young man. I’ll be quite all right.’

  ‘No!’ Frankie tried to slam the front garden gate behind him and old Clancy. ‘What’s the matter wiv yer, Dad? Can’t yer see ’e’s ’ad an accident?’

  ‘I really can manage, I promise.’ Clancy grabbed his shopping and rushed off toward his front door.

  ‘Get out of there!’ Reg Lewis, now absolutely furious with his son, grabbed hold of Frankie by his jacket collar, tugged open the garden gate, and virtually hoisted the boy back out on to the pavement.

  ‘Stop it, Dad! What’re yer doin’?’

  Frankie’s yells of protest were ignored by his father, who started to frog-march him as discreetly as he could to the end of the street. As they went, curtains fluttered and the eyes peering from behind them gradually retreated into the safety of their own back parlours.

  As soon as Lewis had got Frankie away from the prying eyes of his neighbours in Merton Street and into the relative obscurity of Hertslet Road, he gave his son an almighty push, which sent him reeling. ‘Yer bloody little sod!’ he spluttered, his face blood-red with anger. ‘If I catch you ’round that ’ouse again, I’ll ’ave yer bleedin’ guts fer garters!’

  ‘What’s the matter wiv yer, Dad!’ Frankie was in a state of total anguish. ‘What’s wrong wiv Clancy? Why does everyone keep pickin’ on ’im? You’re a bully, Dad! Just like all the people in Merton Street. You’re nothin’ but a rotten bully!’

  Lewis’s temper exploded and Frankie flinched as his father lashed out with a hard slap across the boy’s face with the back of his hand. ‘It’s the last time I tell yer! The last time, d’yer ’ear!’

  Frankie, tears streaming down his cheeks, watched his father stride off back down Merton Street. As he went, he called after him. ‘I ’ate yer, Dad! I’ve always ’ated yer!’ Then he walked right back into Merton Street and into the middle of the road and yelled at the top of his voice: ‘I ’ate the ’ole bloody lot of yer!’

  At number 78, Clancy peered nervously out of his ground floor window and quickly drew the curtains.

  Frankie didn’t go home for the rest of the day. Nor did he go to see Elsa in the shop. After the way his father had treated him he just wanted to get away. Over and over again he kept asking himself how anyone could bring themselves to bully someone like old Clancy. Even if he was different and behaved more like a woman than a man, he was a human being, just like anyone else. How could it be so wrong just to talk to someone, to help them when they were in trouble?

  Feeling thoroughly fed up, Frankie wandered up Seven Sisters Road. When he reached the Astoria Cinema he crossed over the road and made his way under the Railway Bridge by the entrance to Finsbury Park Tube Station. The whole area was congested with football crowds on their way to a game at the nearby Arsenal Stadium. Frankie was in no mood to share the high spirits of the ‘Gunners’ supporters. He thought of all the times his father had tried to get him interested in the game, and how he had said that it was ‘nancy’ not to behave like other normal youngsters by taking up ‘a man’s game.’

  Frankie stopped briefly to look at the posters for the current week’s films at the Rink Cinema, then quickly slipped through the gates of the park and made his way past the children’s playground. But in the park where the football pitch was being used by local youngsters, he noticed Jeff Murray’s old Triumph motorcycle parked at the kerb nearby and a quick glance revealed that some of the Merton Street gang were playing in the teams, watched from among the thin line of spectators by Patty Jackson. Making sure that none of the gang had seen him, Frankie hurriedly crossed the road then doubled back towards the bridge over the railway line which ran alongside the western fringe of the park.

  As he climbed the steps leading up to the heavy iron bridge, three figures came down towards him, emerging from the steam of a passing train. Frankie recognised Letty Hobbs’s husband, Oliver, a regular visitor to the bridge, despite the fact that he only had one leg and had to walk with the aid of an artificial limb. As usual, Oliver had his two young sons with him. Frankie liked the eldest boy best, for he had once heard him sing in a talent contest at the Star Cinema in Upper Hornsey Road, and it was so awful it made everyone laugh. But he didn’t care for the youngest boy, Mick. Frankie thought he was snooty and too big for his boots. Once Frankie had exchanged a casual greeting with them all, the Hobbs trio left, and Frankie took up their former position in the middle of the bridge. But much as he always liked to watch the trains go by, today Frankie’s mind was preoccupied with other matters.

  Ever since that humiliating scene with his father in Merton Street, Frankie had been plunged into a deep depression. The dreary grey sky of the March afternoon didn’t help and, as he stood there on the bridge, staring through a gap in the high metal fence, the railway line below gradually seemed to disappear into a distant haze. Frankie felt as though he was drowning, with his whole life floating before him. He could see number 1 Merton Street, the house he had been born and brought up in, dark and dingy and totally without love. There had never been any love at all in the Lewis family, he thought. A family which existed with no hope, no ambition, and no future. He could see his mother, a lost soul who, for some reason, had relinquished any chance she might have had to get the best out of life. Gracie, Frankie thought, didn’t care what her children did, whether they lived or died. She wasn’t even really aware that in just a few months’ time her son would be taking important exams at school and then going out into the world to earn his own living. And what difference would it make even if she was aware? What difference would it make to his mother or his father? His father! How could he have behaved the way he did?

  And then he thought of poor Helen. Although Frankie had persuaded her not to get rid of her baby, what would happen when it arrived?

  How would she cope on her own without a husband to support her? He thought about Merton Street, that long straight street, just like any other in London, with the same shaped houses on each side, and heartless creatures who peered out from behind their curtains to watch an old man being spat on and jeered at by their own precious kids. How would they treat Helen and her kids. Were these really the same people who had helped each other dining the dark days of the blitz, no matter who they were or where they came from? ‘Our street is the best in London,’ he had once heard Bert Gorman say. Frankie had never before doubted that comment. But he did now.

  The distant, shrill whistle of an approaching train brought Frankie out of his trance. But his mind continued to race. This time, however, there was more hope in his reasoning, for he was thinking how Elsa had changed his life. Thanks to her he was reading books to improve his knowledge – but he was also reading them for enjoyment. Ever since that foggy night in November, when he and the gang had teased her with their childish game of ‘Knock Down Ginger’, Frankie had grown as a person. He didn’t exactly know how or why, but he could feel it happening inside him, as though a seed had been sown and was g
rowing throughout his entire mind and body. Elsa was an inspiration, a person who had known prejudice of one kind or another almost all her life and yet she had survived, and survived with the most extraordinary dignity.

  The approaching train made its presence known again. And as it did so, Frankie’s heart started to beat faster and faster. Suddenly, all the anger and frustration came swelling up again. His mother! His father! The gang! And Winston! Winston was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it! Oh God! Frankie was now screaming inside. What am I doing on this earth? I’m nearly sixteen years old and I have no meaning – no meaning at all! He looked down at the railway line below and, as the approaching train rushed faster and faster towards the bridge, there was a split second when Frankie thought that this would be the way to solve all his problems. Yes! Now! This is it . . .! But as the train whistle shrieked and the steam from its engine engulfed Frankie in a massive grey cloud, he found the only release that made any sense to him.

  He just yelled and yelled and yelled at the top of his voice. A yell that seemed to go on for ever.

  Ten minutes later Frankie was ringing the front door bell at the Fonthill Road Veterinary Surgery. The door was answered by a middle-aged woman in a white coat, whom Frankie imagined had been the snooty voice at the end of his telephone calls. She had a much kinder face than he had imagined.

  ‘I’m sorry. The surgery is closed until six o’clock,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got my dog. His name’s Winston.’ There was a tone of desperation in Frankie’s voice. ‘You said – well, the vet said, I could see him some time.’

  The white-coated lady was smiling firmly. ‘I told you, young man. The surgery is closed.’

  Frankie was more anxious than ever. ‘But I’ve got money to pay the vet’s bill. Well – not all of it. If it’s all right, I could give you some now and a bit each week?’

  The white-coated lady suddenly felt rather guilty. ‘The bill is not a problem. Mrs Barclay has already taken care of it.’