However, by the time Frankie and Prof reached Laindon, which was a little over half-way, it became hotter than they had bargained for and they stopped for a brief drink of water from a public roadside tap. Then, after knotting their handkerchiefs around their heads to protect themselves from the burning sun, they set off on the remaining part of the journey. Once or twice Frankie became a little nervous about Prof who quite often trailed far behind him. Frankie didn’t believe his pal’s story that the doctors had approved of his taking part in the Rally, that they’d decided the exercise would do his heart condition a lot of good. But, surprisingly, Prof’s stamina held out. After a time he managed to catch up and, in a sudden burst of energy, even overtook Frankie.
The long journey also gave Frankie the opportunity to turn things over in his mind. He thought about the last time he had come along this road, before the war, with dozens of kids from his Pakeman Street Junior School. Frankie remembered the old double-decker bus the kids had travelled on, with the top deck and curved staircase open to the weather, and the horrified look of passers-by as they heard the yells and whistles of hordes of London kids on their way to their first glimpse of the seaside. Frankie also thought a lot about Elsa, and how he would never have been able to make this trip without her help. Elsa, too, had given him so much confidence, not only to do things that he had never done before, but also confidence in himself. She was the first person in Frankie’s life who had actually taken the time and trouble to sit down and talk to him. Since he had met Elsa, he had somehow got to understand things. There was a time when he acted first and thought afterwards, but now he considered things carefully before taking action. Frankie thought back to the VE-night party in Merton Street, and how he had discovered that his mother had been to visit Elsa in the jumble shop. When he had heard about that meeting from Elsa he’d wanted to go back home and tell his mother that she had no right to go snooping on his friends, and that she was nothing but an interfering cow. But, as usual, Elsa had persuaded him that what his mother had done was no more than what any other mother would do, and that far from interfering, Gracie Lewis had been most responsible. Frankie thought an awful lot about Elsa on that rapturous journey along the cycle lanes of Essex. And he came to the conclusion that she was a remarkable woman.
He also thought a lot about Maggs. He was missing her more than he had ever thought possible . . .
It was after eleven o’clock before the Fletcher family left Canonbury Square for their picnic in Surrey.
Maggs could have kicked herself for suggesting to her mother that her friendship with Frankie had already ‘gone too far’. It was not only untrue, but very cruel. For three hours she had sat in the family kitchen being interrogated by her father, while her mother paced the room in tears. However, when she eventually decided to tell her parents that she had only said it because they were being so horrible about her going out with a boy from the ‘wrong part of Islington’, they wouldn’t believe her.
There were lots of tearful comments from Jennifer like ‘Oh, when your poor grandmother hears about this, it’s enough to kill her!’ to ‘Is this the way we brought you up? To behave like an animal!’ from her father, who was, more than anything else, angry at the prospect of missing his day’s golf.
In the end, Maggs felt thoroughly ashamed of herself, and said that she hadn’t meant to hurt her parents. But before she agreed to go on the awful Sunday picnic, she at least got a promise from them that she could bring Frankie over to tea one day.
Sitting on her own in the back of her parents’ car, Maggs could think of no one else but Frankie. And despite the fact that she didn’t much care for bicycle rides, she would have done anything in the world to have been with him on that trip to Southend . . .
Southend-on-sea was looking its absolute best. The sun was shining out of a clear blue sky, the sea was calm and thousands of holiday-makers were crowded on to the beach, where there was hardly an inch between mums and dads of all shapes and sizes, babies bawling their heads off, and kids trying to build sandcastles or leap in and out of the water. Nearly all of them were day-trippers, most of them Cockneys from the East End of London – hence the nickname Southend picked up over the years – ‘London-by-the-sea’. But the locals were glad to see the old place thriving again after almost six sparse war years, and already the Kursaal Amusement Park was full to capacity, and the pubs, ice-cream bars, and bangers-and-mash shops were doing a roaring trade.
The VE Rally cyclists had been swarming into the town since before noon and cycles of every colour and design – some new, most of them old crocks – were padlocked up all along the seafront, and the queues at the jellied eel stalls seemed endless.
Frankie and Prof didn’t catch up with the Merton Street lot until after noon, for, unlike Jeff Murray, they had not considered the Rally to be a race. However, when they did meet up inside the Kursaal Park, Jeff was in his usual bombastic mood.
‘What kept you?’ Jeff called, as he, Patty, and Alan, all laughing hysterically, climbed out of the ghost train.
Frankie ignored the jibes – it was one of the things he’d learnt to do over the past few months and it took him very little time to realise that he didn’t really enjoy their company any more, that he had simply outgrown them. ‘Me and Prof are goin’ off ter get some bangers,’ he said. ‘I’m starvin’!’
‘Don’t tell me you’re too scared ter go on the Scenic Railway?’ Now it was Patty Jackson’s turn to be part of the comedy act.
‘Yeah,’ quipped Jeff. ‘Yer might get sun-stroke if that ’anky blows off yer ’ead!’
He and Patty burst into hysterical laughter again but Alan Downs didn’t join in. To him, it was all beginning to seem a bit silly.
‘We’ll maybe see yer later, then,’ Frankie called back.
Frankie and Prof hurried off and disappeared amongst the crowds. Although she did her best not to show it, Patty was sorry to see Frankie go. During the past few months he had changed. She really quite fancied him now . . .
Making sure that their bicycles were safe and secure amongst all the others huddled together on the seafront, Frankie and Prof headed as fast as they could to the bangers-and-mash café on the opposite side of the promenade. The Amusement Arcades were jammed to suffocation and, wherever they walked, families were strolling along in ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hats and stuffing themselves with candy floss, sticks of peppermint-flavoured Southend rock, and endless cornets of hand twisted Rossi’s ice-cream.
After queuing for nearly twenty minutes, Frankie and Prof were back on the promenade tucking into their mouth-watering sausages which were smothered in fried onions, and embedded in a great lump of pease pudding – which to Frankie tasted so much better because it was served in newspaper.
With Eric’s ten bob note practically burning a hole in his shorts pocket, Frankie decided to treat him and Prof to a couple of double cornets. But Frankie’s legs were beginning to feel the strain of the long cycle trip they had just completed, so before contemplating the return journey, he and Prof made their way to the Westcliff side of the Pier and found a few feet of the beach that they could stretch out on. As soon as he had finished his cornet, Frankie took off his vest to soak up some of the sun. Prof kept his shirt on and both of them also kept their heads covered with their knotted handkerchiefs. Frankie was sporting a very red nose which looked as though it was going to be pretty sore on the way home.
For a few minutes, both boys just lay there, half-dozing, listening to the distant waves as the tide started to drift slowly in. Not far away they could hear the yells and laughter from the Crazy Car track just alongside the Pier and, when they opened their eyes, they could see the silhouettes of people strolling along the one and a quarter miles to the end of the Pier, where the matinee performance of the GRAND SOUTHEND V.E. CONCERT PARTY was about to begin. For Frankie it was all a magical experience . . .
‘I’d like to be buried in the sea,’ Prof said suddenly.
Frankie’s eyes sprang open,
but the sun immediately made him squint. ‘Huh? What yer talkin’ about?’
Prof was lying on his back, eyes closed, head resting on his hands. ‘Well, wouldn’t you? There’s somethin’ lovely about the sea. It’s so quiet and peaceful.’
Frankie closed his eyes again. ‘Not if you’re out in a boat in the middle of a storm, it ain’t!’
‘Even so . . .’ Although his eyes were still closed, Prof had a smile on his face. ‘Just think of all those fish you’d see – all swimmin’ around you, darting in and out of the rocks and seabed . . .’
‘Yer stupid git! ’Ow could yer see them if yer dead!’
They both laughed. Then there was another silence between them.
Prof opened his eyes and turned to look at Frankie lying beside him. ‘Frankie?’
Frankie only grunted because he was half-asleep.
‘Thanks for being my pal.’
‘Yeah – right.’ Frankie wasn’t really thinking.
‘It means a lot to me, you know. I never liked Jeff and the others. I only knocked around with them because – well, because of you.’ He turned over, leaned on one hand, and studied Frankie carefully. ‘I’ve only ever cared for two people in my whole life, apart from my parents,’ he said, almost as though he were talking to himself. ‘Auntie Hilda – and you.’
Frankie started to snore and so, as he was clearly fast asleep, Prof thought it was quite safe for him to say all the things he had always wanted to.
‘Just because I don’t do the sort of things that people expect me to do, they think I’m a bit of a freak. Well – maybe I am. But you don’t treat me like a freak, Frankie. You’ve always talked to me just like you talk to anyone else. That’s been marvellous – really marvellous! But then you’re that sort of person, Frankie. From the first time we used to play hopscotch down Merton Street, I knew you were someone special. There aren’t many special people around, Frankie – there really aren’t . . .’
Frankie suddenly groaned again. ‘D’yer say somefin’, Prof?’
Prof quickly lay down on his back again and looked up at the amazingly clear blue sky. ‘Just thanks, that’s all.’
‘Fanks? Fer what?’
‘Oh – for a lot of things.’
Prof closed his eyes again, secure in the knowledge that Frankie hadn’t heard one single word he had said.
He was wrong . . .
It started clouding over about half-past four. By then Frankie and Prof were well on their way back home, having seen no sign of Jeff, Patty, or Alan since they left them behind in the Kursaal Amusement Park. As it would take most of the cyclists at least four hours to complete the return journey, the cycle path alongside the main Southend to London road was already filling up, and those energetic souls who wanted to get a move on were tearing ahead among the car traffic on the road itself. Frankie was really beginning to feel the strain on the back of his calves, so that he had to summon up all the effort he had left to peddle up even the most gradual of hills. Prof wasn’t much better, and at times Frankie was quite concerned about him and insisted that they stop at regular intervals for a rest and a swig from their water-bottles.
By early evening the sky was not only grey but very nearly black all over – and it was quite easy to see that a June thunderstorm was just waiting to show what it was made of.
The first drops of rain started to trickle down just as Frankie and Prof got on their yellow cycle-capes. Quite suddenly, the cycle path ahead seemed to have cleared, most of the other riders taking shelter in the nearest café or bus shelter or anything that would keep them dry until the storm passed. Frankie and Prof cycled on as far as they could, but when the rain began to pelt down they pulled over to the side to look for the nearest shelter. Unfortunately, they were in a fairly isolated rural area and, at first glance, the only protection they could find was beneath one of the many large elm trees alongside the road. But just as they got off their bikes and started to wheel them towards the largest tree they could find, a girl’s voice suddenly yelled out through the first clap of thunder.
‘Frankie! Frankie . . .!’
Frankie and Prof turned with a start to see Patty Jackson crouched beneath a white raincoat, with her bike laid out on the grass alongside the cycle-path. ‘Patty! What yer doin’?’ he called, then quickly looked around to see that Jeff and Alan were not with her.
Although she was yelling and waving, Patty could only just be heard above the rain which was now becoming torrential. ‘Give us an ’and! I’ve got a puncture!’
Frankie immediately rushed over to her. Prof followed him, slowly and reluctantly.
‘What yer doin’ ’ere?’ yelled Frankie, the rain running down from his head onto his cycle cape. ‘Wot’s ’appened ter Jeff and Alan?’
Although her raincoat had a hood, Patty’s curly hair was so wet it was straggling down across her face. ‘They don’t know wot ’appened. I was miles behind ’em.’
Frankie tried to wipe away the rain which was now dribbling down his neck. ‘So wot yer goin’ ter do?’
‘I can’t go on wiv a puncture. Can yer mend it for me?’
Frankie’s heart sank. He hadn’t a clue how to mend a puncture. ‘Not in this rain!’ At least it gave him an excuse.
Patty turned and pointed across the field behind them. ‘There’s an old caff over there. It looks empty.’
Frankie turned to look. Through the rain he could just see what looked like a ramshackle old timber building. ‘OK! I’ll ’ave a go!’ He put his hand down to help Patty up from her crouching position. ‘Let’s get a move on! Come on, Prof!’
While Patty picked up her bike and started to make her way across the field, Frankie and Prof went back to collect theirs from beneath the elm tree.
‘I’m not coming with you, Frankie.’ Rain was streaming down Prof’s tortoiseshell spectacles and all he could see of Frankie was a blurred image.
Frankie was shocked. ‘Wot’re yer talkin’ about? We can’t just leave ’er!’
‘I know that.’ Prof picked up his bike and climbed on to it. ‘But it doesn’t need the two of us.’
‘Don’t be a twit, Prof! I ’aven’t the faintest idea ’ow to mend a puncture, yer know I don’t!’
Prof looked strange, unrelenting, and detached. ‘You’ve got a brain on you, Frankie. You’ll mend the puncture all right.’
Frankie had never seen Prof like this before, and it disturbed him. ‘Wot’s the matter wiv yer, Prof? Wot’s up?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Frankie. I just don’t want to help Patty Jackson, that’s all.’ He pulled his cape closer over his head and shoulders and took his bike handlebars firmly in his hands. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll push on. We’ll meet up down the road somewhere.’
‘Frankie!’ Patty, already half-way with her bike towards the old café, was yelling back through the rain.
Prof smiled briefly at Frankie. But it was an odd smile. ‘See you, then.’ And with that, he pedalled off.
Frankie watched him go in almost total disbelief. The last he saw of Prof was a solitary yellow-cloaked figure disappearing into the torrential rain of the Essex countryside.
‘Frankie!’ Patty was getting hysterical. ‘’Urry up!’
A few minutes later, Frankie helped Patty push open the broken door of the disused café. It wasn’t very big, but there were still a few benches and one or two tables left behind.
Surprisingly there were no leaks in the roof.
‘Wot ’appened to Prof then?’ spluttered Patty, as she wheeled in her bike.
Frankie followed her in, ‘’E ’ad ter get back.’
Patty laid down her bike and quickly took off her white raincoat and hood. ‘’E don’t like me – that’s why. ’E never ’as.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Patty,’ said Frankie, leaning his bike up against what was left of the serving counter.
‘Oh, I don’t care if ’e likes me or if ’e don’t.’ She took hold of her wet, straggling hair, and with bot
h hands wrung out as much of the rainwater as she could. ‘Still – you like me, don’t yer, Frank?’
Frankie took off his cycling cape, and shook the rain off it. ‘Let’s ’ave a look at this puncture then.’ He was very careful to avoid her question.
He knelt down and inspected the tyres of Patty’s bike. The front one seemed firm enough, but when he used the tip of his fingers to feel the back tyre, there seemed to be very little air in it.
‘It may just need pumping up.’ Frankie unclipped the pump from the crossbar of Patty’s bike, and unscrewed its valve.
‘Wanna fag?’
Frankie turned to see Patty lighting a cigarette. ‘No, fanks. ’Ow long ’ave yer been smokin’, then?’
‘Oh, I ’ave one when I feel like it.’ As Patty glanced around she noticed an old black stove in a corner of what was once the café dining-room. Curling up from it was a chimney flu which went out through the roof. ‘It’s freezin’ in ’ere. I wonder if we can light a fire.’
Frankie didn’t even bother to look up as he struggled to fit the pump valve on to the wheel valve.
‘I’ll go and see if I can find some wood.’
Frankie didn’t hear her go off into an adjoining room; he just started pumping up the flat tyre. While he was doing so, his mind kept pounding away at the thought of a lonely, solitary figure cycling off in the driving rain, and of the strange things that Prof had said while they were lying together on the beach at Southend. Although the two of them had been pals since they were small kids, Frankie had never known Prof to behave in such a way. What did he mean, for instance, when he said, ‘You’ve always talked to me just like you talk to anyone else’? Why was it Prof was such a loner, he wondered? Why was it he shrank from seeing Frankie when Frankie first started going out with Maggs?
‘I couldn’t find any wood.’ Patty had re-entered the room behind him. ‘We’ll have ter find anuvver way ter keep warm.’
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