Frankie was taken aback. ‘She has?’
‘Who is it, Mary?’
The voice that called from behind the partly open door was that of a young man. Frankie bit his lip nervously and waited anxiously while the two voices conversed inside.
After a moment, the white-coated lady opened the door again. ‘Mr Purvis says you may come inside.’
Frankie’s heart was thumping hard as he entered. To his surprise he found this Mr Purvis was a young man, the vet’s son.
‘You’ve come to see Winston?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Frankie felt a bit silly calling the vet ‘sir’, because he didn’t seem all that much older than himself. ‘Is he all right?’
It was difficult to see the colour of Mr Purvis’s eyes because, rather worryingly, he kept them lowered. ‘He’s as well as can be expected.’
‘Is he going to die?’ This was a question Frankie had been dreading to ask, but he just had to know.
‘We’re doing our best,’ was all the vet would reply, ‘but he has had a very bad haemorrhage. Anyway, come and say hello to him.’
Frankie felt sick in his stomach, for it was obvious that Winston’s life was in danger. With tremendous trepidation, he followed the vet through a door and along a stark white corridor. The place smelt of ether and all sorts of other ghastly smells . . .
Before they reached the end of the corridor, dogs could be heard whimpering and barking in the distance. But Frankie knew Winston’s bark too well to know that his was not one of them.
As Mr Purvis opened the door, a deafening chorus of howling dogs and cats rose from their cages. The young vet yelled at them to be quiet, and, in a quiet, adjoining room there were just two cages. Frankie’s heart missed a beat when he saw Winston in one, stretched out fast asleep. One of his back legs was bound up in plaster and, although an effort had been made to clean him up, there were still patches of dried blood on his shaggy black and white fur.
‘Is he – all right?’ he asked anxiously.
‘He’s been like that ever since the accident.’ Although he was clearly concerned, the young vet tried hard not to show it. ‘After the anaesthetic had worn off, he opened his eyes for a few moments. But he’s been like that ever since. I’m afraid he’s still in a semi-coma.’
‘Will he come out of it?’
The vet shrugged his shoulders. ‘Hard to say.’
Frankie felt the anxiety swell up inside him. ‘Please – could I talk to him?’
Mr Purvis tried to give Frankie a comforting smile. ‘It won’t do much good, I’m afraid.’
‘Please! Let me try.’
The young vet shrugged. There was no harm in the boy trying. He undid the latch on the cage, opened the door, and stood back.
Frankie leaned into the cage and gently put his hand on to Winston’s head. ‘Winnie.. . .’ His voice was clear, but low. ‘Winnie, it’s me.’
There was no response from Winston and, if Frankie hadn’t seen a slight breathing movement, he would have been convinced that the dog was dead.
‘Come on now, Winnie. Don’t lark around. There’s nothin’ wrong wiv yer.’ Frankie stroked Winston’s head, then gently removed the fur covering his eyes. ‘Shall I tell yer somefin’, boy?’ He leaned as close as he could to the dog’s ear, and whispered, ‘We ain’t finished yet, yer know. Not by a long chalk. We got fings ter do, Winnie – you and me tergevver.’ Without realising it, tears were rolling down Frankie’s cheeks. ‘I can’t do it on me own, Winnie. Not wivout you. I need yer. Yer need me too!’
The young vet leaned forward. ‘I should leave him now.’
‘But I can’t leave ’im! Not on ’is own! Me and ’im are always tergevver. Ain’t we, Winn? Please, Winnie! Wake up, boy! Please wake up!’
‘Come on now.’ Although he had been through this kind of scene many times before, it gave young Mr Purvis no pleasure to go through it again. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for him.’ The vet closed the cage and led the sobbing Frankie back to the door. But before he opened it, they were both distracted by a whispering sound coming from Winston’s cage.
‘Winnie!’
Frankie turned and rushed back to the cage. To his near disbelief he could see Winston trying to raise his head, his eyes half-open. In a mad, excited frenzy, Frankie, watched by the astonished young vet, undid the latch, opened the door, and squeezed his shoulders back into the cage. ‘Winnie.’ As he gently stroked Winston’s head, Frankie was half-sobbing half-laughing. ‘I knew you could do it boy! I knew it!’
Mr Purvis looked on, grinning very broadly indeed.
As soon as he had left the vet’s surgery, Frankie practically ran down Isledon Road to the jumble shop, where Elsa was just locking up for the evening. She was overjoyed to hear about the recovery Winston was beginning to make and suggested that they go back to Hadleigh Villas and have a bit of a celebration. That meant cheese and gherkin sandwiches with a glass of white wine for Elsa and a glass of cider for Frankie. It was the first time the two of them had felt their spirits rise since before Winston had had his accident . . .
That night, Frankie didn’t get home until well after ten o’clock. By the time he got there, the house was in darkness, so he crept quietly up to his room where Helen was already fast asleep in bed. He quickly undressed and put on his pyjamas. For a few minutes he lay awake just thinking of Winston, and how different things would be once he came home again . . .
In the room next door, Reg Lewis was alone in his own double bed, wide awake, and smoking a fag. He hadn’t enjoyed the day much, either, and kept asking himself why . . . and, in the lower bunk in the Anderson shelter, Gracie opened her eyes. The shelter was in total darkness, and yet she felt as though she could see its cold, unfriendly, curved aluminium walls. Her mind churned with thoughts and it was the early hours of the morning before she finally went to sleep . . .
Chapter Seventeen
By March 1945, the residents of Merton Street were convinced that the Second World War was finally coming to an end. Day after day their newspapers were full of stories about British and American armies crossing the River Rhine in Nazi Germany and on 25th April they listened in awe to graphic descriptions on the BBC Home Service of how Russian troops had met up with American forces on the River Elbe at Torgau. However, it wasn’t until 7th May, a week after Adolf Hitler’s suicide, when General Jodl made the final capitulation of Germany to General Eisenhower near Rheims, that practically everyone in the street was able to tune in to the impeccable voice of Alvar Liddell on their wireless sets, reading out the words they had waited for nearly six long years to hear: ‘The War in Europe is over.’
Even before Prime Minister Winston Churchill had finished his dramatic address to the nation, the front doors of every house in Merton Street and the entire neighbourhood were thrown open in a frenzy of unrestrained joy. People streamed out into the street, hugged whoever they saw, danced, sang, yelled, cheered, and copied, en masse, Mr Churchill’s victorious ‘V’ sign. Wherever one looked, a sea of two fingers were pointing into the air.
As 8th May had been declared VE Day, the residents of Merton Street had very little time to prepare for the celebrations. But by midday flags of all the Allied nations were draped across the street, trestle tables and chairs provided by Pakeman Street School were set up down the middle of the road, and hordes of sandwiches and cakes and buns were ready for an immediate feast. And that was only for the kids! By evening, a bonfire had been lit on every street corner, and the adults had brought out endless bottles of brown ale. Laughter mingled with tears, for no one could forget the sacrifices that had been made over the past six years, the bomb damage on their own doorsteps, the sons and husbands who had been taken away, some never to return. But now it was over, and a new life was about to begin.
For the first time in five and a half years, Gracie Lewis decided it was safe to abandon her nightly sleep in the Anderson shelter. It was an odd experience for her, returning to the double bed upstairs, especiall
y as it meant sharing it again with her husband, Reg. To their surprise, however, they soon became used to the idea, and got into a routine of having a little chat with each other before turning in. Over the past few weeks there had been a change in both of them. Frankie couldn’t quite make out how or why, but he did notice something – especially when his mother helped make sandwiches for the VE Day party, and his father actually organised putting up the trestle-tables!
But not everyone could feel overjoyed by the celebrations. On the evening of the street party, Frankie found Helen sitting on a wooden kitchen chair in the back yard of number 1. Her eyes were glistening with tears as she stared up into the sky, the evening sun casting a deep red glow across her sad face.
‘It’ll be all right, ’Elen,’ Frankie said, putting his arm around his sister’s shoulder. ‘Now it’s all over, you’ll find someone else – someone who’ll take care of you and the baby.’
‘I don’t want no one else, Frank,’ she said, wistfully. Her hands were resting on her stomach. ‘This baby belongs ter Eric. I couldn’t let anyone else be its farver.’
‘That’s not fair, ’Elen.’ Frankie had to speak above the din coming from the street party outside. ‘Yer can’t bring someone back who’s – well, who can’t come back. So yer ’ave ter fink of the kid now – an’ yerself.’
‘I am finkin’ of the kid, Frank. That’s why, as soon as I’ve ’ad it, I’m goin’ ter find a place of me own.’
‘What d’yer mean?’
‘I’m goin’ ter move out, away from ’ere. I’ve got to stand on me own two feet and I don’t want Mum glarin’ at me every time the baby bawls its ’ead off.’
Frankie crouched beside her. ‘You can’t leave ’ere, ’Elen! How’re yer goin’ ter support yerself?’
‘I don’t know, yet. But I’ve got plans. Ivy says she knows someone in Tottenham who might let me ’ave a room in ’er ’ouse. If I can get someone to keep an eye on the baby durin’ the day, I could carry on workin’ at the shoe shop and pay the rent.’
Frankie took hold of Helen’s hands, and squeezed them tight. ‘Don’t do anyfin’ rash, ’Elen. But if yer really wanna get out of ’ere, I’ll do me best ter ’elp yer. Once I’ve taken my Matric in July, I’m goin’ ter get a job. I promise yer, I’ll ’elp yer out.’
Frankie meant what he said. Because of the war, he and quite a few of the other kids had been late starters at Highbury Grammar, so he was having to stay on a bit past the official school-leaving age. But despite his mum and dad’s objections, he was determined to have a go at his Matric, thanks mainly to Elsa’s encouragement.
Helen felt like bursting into tears. As she looked at Frankie’s wide-open face, she felt such trust in him. He made up for all the loveless years she had suffered from their mother and father. ‘You’re – marvellous, Frank,’ she said, kissing him gently on the forehead. ‘I wish you’d have had the chance to meet Eric. You and ’im would’ve got on so well tergevver.’
There was a street party going on in Hadleigh Villas, too, but Elsa contented herself with watching it from an upstairs window. Earlier in the day, Frankie had turned up to help her drape a large Union Jack flag from the same window and, as she peered out, there was a certain irony in the image she presented.
Like Helen, Elsa was feeling the loss of her husband Robert deeply. In her mind she could see him walking up the street where people were now joining hands to dance around a bonfire. Oh, if only he had lived to see this day, she thought! And, as the early summer evening gave way to a dark night sky, and fireworks skimmed the rooftops to sparkle amongst the stars, she thought back to what it must have been like on that similar night in May just five years before, when the beach at Dunkirk echoed to the sound of tracer bullets and anti-aircraft fire. Yes, she thought, it must have been a night just like this that claimed her Robert, and took him away from her forever . . .
‘What yer doin’ up ’ere then?’
Elsa, her eyes misty from her lonely vigil at the landing window, turned with a start to find Frankie calling up the stairs to her. He hadn’t bothered to knock on the street door, for Elsa now trusted him with his own key to the house.
‘Frankie!’ Elsa’s eyes lit up immediately. ‘Why aren’t you at the party with everyone else?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
Elsa came down to meet him. ‘It’s not for me, Frankie. This night is for the British people.’
‘So? You’re British in’t yer?’
Elsa’s smile did not reveal that she had been crying. ‘In my heart – yes. But not to the people of Hadleigh Villas.’
‘That’s OK, then.’ Frankie waited for her to reach him, then stood aside to let her pass. ‘So you can come to our party.’
Elsa stopped dead. ‘Me? Go to – Merton Street?’
‘Why not?’
Elsa paused briefly, then chuckled as she made her way down the last flight of stairs. ‘Can you see the look on your neighbours’ faces when they see the defeated enemy joining in their victory celebrations?’
‘You in’t the enemy, Elsa,’ said Frankie, as he followed her down the stairs. ‘You’re one of us. You’ve always said so, and you are!’
They made their way into the sitting-room, where Elsa went to the fireplace and poked the fire. ‘You’re a good boy, Frankie. But I couldn’t do it. This is a night your family and friends and neighbours have been waiting for. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for them.’
‘But you wouldn’t spoil it for them, Elsa.’ Frankie took the poker from her, and replaced it on the companion set. Then he took her by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me, Elsa. I’ve listened ter you a lot of times – and I’m glad I’ve listened, ’cos you make more sense than anyone I know. But about this, you’ve got to listen ter me. This is your night just as much as any of that lot out there – in Hadleigh Terrace, Seven Sisters Road, Merton Street, Hornsey Road – anywhere! People have got a lot of fings to put right with you, Elsa. They’ve got a lot of time ter make up for. Because you gave up somefin important for them, for all of us. You gave up yer husband . . .’
It took all Elsa’s strength not to cry. She looked at Frankie. Was this the same boy who had first come knocking at her door to play a silly street game? Was this the boy who, only a few months before, could hardly put two or three sensible words together? But how had it happened? Yes, it was true that she had tried to open his mind by giving him books to read, and to talk to him as her equal. But it was Mister Frankie Lewis himself who had allowed his mind to grow. What he was saying not only made sense, but it also made Elsa more aware of herself.
‘Tell me just one thing, Frankie,’ Elsa said, moving away from the fireplace. ‘Are you saying that, if I come to Merton Street, you will be with me?’
To her surprise, Frankie suddenly left the room. He returned immediately, holding her top coat and hat which he had collected from the hall stand. ‘I’ll be more than wiv you, Elsa,’ he said, holding up her coat for her to slip into. ‘I won’t leave your side for one single second.’
For a brief moment, Elsa stared in awe at him. Then, quickly brushing the tears from her eyes, she smiled broadly and rushed towards him to put on her coat and hat. ‘Let’s go!’
As she spoke, a cacophony of noisy fireworks exploded in unison high above the Hadleigh Villas’ street party outside.
Not far away, the Merton Street party was in full swing. The Gorman brothers, Mike and Bert, were leading a boisterous Conga, which formed outside their house at number 47, then snaked deliriously along Merton, Hertslet, Roden, and Pakeman Streets until it reached fever pitch back where it had started. Although it was getting near midnight, the street bonfire was still burning fiercely, for everyone in the street had raided their back yards for anything they could lay their hands on that would burn.
Small groups of residents were sitting around everywhere, chatting, laughing, joining in the sing-song together, and the most unlikely neighbours found themselves dancing with one another. It
was, of course, no surprise to see Mike and Bert Gorman dancing with practically every woman in the street, or every man, woman, and child joining in Knees up Mother Brown, but to see snooty Mrs Robinson from number 22 doing a cheek-to-cheek pastiche of the tango with Ma Digby the greengrocer was something no resident of Merton Street had ever expected to see. But this was the end of nearly six years of war and nobody cared what they did as long as they enjoyed themselves.
Another surprise was Gracie and Reg Lewis. Not only had they both taken the trouble to spruce themselves up a bit, but, once they had got through a few glasses of blackmarket gin and brown ale, they even joined in the spirit of the occasion by dancing a waltz with each other. At one time, Prof’s Auntie Hilda tried to get him to partner her in the waltz. But Prof hated dancing. He felt very out of it all, especially as Frankie seemed to have deserted the party. Patty Jackson was there, too, with Alan Downs. But she was in a furious mood. Earlier in the evening Jeff Murray had tried to force her to take her knickers down in the secluded darkness of his family’s back yard.
It was about twenty-past eleven when Helen’s friend, Ivy Villiers, turned up at Merton Street. With her was a good-looking young man in an ill-fitting suit. He looked as though he hadn’t had a decent meal in months and he smoked his cigarette in the side of his lips, clearly to give the impression that he was more grown up than he really was. All the partygoers were delighted that Ivy had at last found herself a boyfriend and, as the two of them made their way through the crowds, they were constantly dragged into one of the endless knees-ups that were destined to carry on throughout the night. When they finally managed to break loose, Ivy caught sight of Gracie and Reg Lewis who were sitting on one of the front garden coping-stones. She left her young man for a moment, and went across to talk to them.
‘’Allo, Mrs Lewis,’ she said, expecting a frosty response. ‘I’m Helen’s friend, Ivy.’
‘’Course you are, dear.’ Even by the light of the bonfire, Ivy could see that Gracie had been drinking, for her cheeks were red, her hair was dishevelled, and perspiration was trickling down from her forehead. Ivy was both surprised and relieved to get a smile from her. ‘’Ow are yer, Ivy? Long time no see.’
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