Gracie looked as though she wasn’t far from a nervous breakdown. ‘We couldn’t afford to pay for it,’ she said, very quickly.
‘Well – not all of it,’ Reg added.
‘Oh, we wouldn’t expect yer ter do anyfin’ like that, Mr Lewis – oh no, no, no!’ Eric was playing his own prearranged game, and was thoroughly enjoying it. ‘I’ve got a good job on the trolleys, yer know. London Transport don’t pay conductors a fortune, but once I’ve taken the driver’s trainin’ course I’ll be on ter some real good money.’
Gracie sighed with relief.
‘In any case,’ Eric continued, ‘I’m pretty sure my old man will chip in wiv a bob or two. ’E’ll do anyfin’ ter get me off ’is ’ands! And we’ll get my ma ter ’elp. She can make some sausage rolls or somefin’.’
This last remark was greeted with stony silence by both Gracie and Reg, but especially by Gracie. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said, haughtily. ‘I’m sure ’Elen and I can manage on our own.’
Helen looked up with a start. ‘Can we?’ she asked in almost total disbelief.
‘We’ll ’ave to!’ Gracie snapped grumpily. ‘That’s all there is to it!’
‘Well, I’ll tell yer this much, Mrs Lewis.’ Ignoring Helen’s reproachful look, Eric continued with his crafty buttering-up of his future mother-in-law. ‘I tasted one of those spam sandwiches you made for the Merton Street VE night party. If the ones you make for our reception are anyfin’ like that – we’re in fer a real feast!’
Helen blushed with embarrassment and quickly continued with her knitting.
‘Right!’ said Reg, getting to his feet. ‘That’s decided then.’
Gracie could see that, after Eric had pumped nearly two quart bottles of brown ale down her husband’s throat, he was none too steady on his feet. ‘It’s gettin’ late,’ she said, glaring at not only Reg, but at Helen’s knitting needles which had almost driven her into a frenzy. ‘We’d better be gettin’ ’ome. Frankie should be back from his bike ride by now.’
Helen put down her knitting needles and eased herself up from the sofa. ‘Good old Frank. I envy ’im goin’ ter Soufend. I bet ’e’s ’ad a lovely day.’
‘Yeah,’ said Eric. ‘I just ’ope ’e didn’t get caught in that rain.’
That night, Frankie got home from Brentwood Hospital soon after eleven o’clock. A friendly off-duty police constable had given him and Auntie Hilda a lift in a Police van, which was also able to carry Frankie’s Raleigh Sports and the Prof’s old straight-handlebar bike.
It had been an agonising trip home, so different to the one he and Prof had embarked upon when they set out with such exuberance from Finsbury Park that sunlit Sunday morning. Sitting in the dark in the back seat of the van, Frankie and Auntie Hilda hardly said a word to each other but as they sped along the main Southend-London road an occasional flash of light from passing cars would illuminate the van’s interior and reflect in the tearful eyes of both the elderly lady and her nephew’s best friend. Only once did Auntie Hilda lean across to Frankie. Taking hold of his hand and clenching it tightly she said, ‘I’m glad you two were such good friends, Frankie. It helped him to live longer.’
Frankie was devastated by Auntie’s remark, and it made him feel guilty – guilty because he thought of all the times when perhaps he could have been nicer to Prof. And guilty because friendship should always be two ways, and Frankie wasn’t sure in his own mind whether he had been as good a friend to Prof as Prof had been to him.
When he eventually did get home, Frankie was surprised to find that his mother and father were still out. For that he was quite grateful; he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. When he went upstairs to his own room he didn’t turn on the light, for he couldn’t bear to see his own reflection in the dressing-table mirror as he passed it.
After undressing in the dark and stroking Winston, Frankie took a casual look out of the window. After the thunderous storm during the early part of the evening the sky was quite clear again, with the moon spreading a vast white glow over all the rooftops and tiny backyards along Merton Street. And as he and Winston stared up at the millions and millions of stars that flickered brightly out of that dark summer night sky, Frankie hoped that his pal Prof was out there somewhere.
In fact, he was certain he was.
Chapter Twenty-one
Most people who lived in Swiss Cottage had no idea why it was called that. Some thought it had once been owned by a rich Swiss banker; others were convinced it was named after a continental loaf of bread. But whatever the reason, this cosmopolitan area of north-west London contained an amazing selection of nationalities, of whom a great number were pre-war refugees from Nazi Germany.
On this Thursday afternoon, Swiss Cottage was sweltering in the intense humidity of a blazing hot June heatwave. From all the tall Edwardian terraced houses leading down to West Hampstead in the south, to the fashionable leafy suburbs of well-to-do Hampstead itself in the north, windows were flung open in the desperate search for even the slightest breeze and all along the main Finchley Road, hordes of shoppers were shuffling along at a snail’s pace, wearing as few clothes as possible and doing their best to move in whatever shade was available. Amongst them was Gertrude Rosenberg who was making slow progress in her high-heeled shoes on her way to her Thursday afternoon tea and cakes with Elsa. Although her fox-fur had been replaced with a long chiffon scarf, her winter coat discarded in favour of a frilly printed silk summer dress, and her head now covered in a large-brimmed straw hat, Gertrude grunted and grumbled to herself as she was pushed and jostled by weary passers-by.
When she eventually reached Gershners Jewish Restaurant, the place was crowded, which irritated her hugely. But as she looked around for her usual waiter, the last person she expected to see was Elsa. It was only five minutes to three, and there she was, already sitting at their usual table by the window, sipping a glass of iced mineral water, dressed in white silk from head to foot, and looking as cool as a polar bear. To make things worse, Elsa hadn’t even noticed her come in, which absolutely infuriated Gertrude. This wasn’t good. She had never seen her old friend and sparring partner like this before.
There was definitely something on Elsa’s mind . . .
Try as he might, Frankie couldn’t bear ‘Boggy’ Marsh. There was something in his manner which was so lacking in humanity that Frankie felt that he had no mental contact with the man at all. ‘Boggy’ had been headmaster of Highbury Grammar School all through the war years and yet not once had he ever sat down and had a friendly chat with any of his pupils and ever since he had joined the school after leaving Pakeman Street Juniors, Frankie had got it fixed in his mind that the old git had it in for him, for whenever they met – either in the corridor or the classroom – ‘Boggy’ had pulverised him with warnings about failing his matric exams if he didn’t start concentrating more on mathematics. So, it was with some trepidation that he climbed the stone stairs to the headmaster’s study after being summoned for an ‘interview’.
The meeting, however, turned out somewhat different to what he had expected.
‘Lewis. This has been a distressing experience for you. I am fully aware what good friends you and Peter Moosey were, and I want you to know that the entire school shares your sense of loss in this great tragedy.’
Frankie had never seen or heard his headmaster like this before. A short and tubby little man, with black horn-rimmed spectacles, he was sitting at his large oak desk with his back to the window.
‘Moosey was a good pupil. He worked hard.’ ‘Boggy’s’ eyes only occasionally flicked up to actually look at Frankie. ‘There is no doubt in my mind that he had tremendous potential.’
Frankie, standing in front of the desk with his head bowed, could say nothing.
Then ‘Boggy’ got up from his desk, and turned to look out of the window towards the indoor swimming-pool on the other side of the Recreation yard. Before he spoke again he straightened the gown, which, even on such a blis
tering hot day, he insisted on wearing over a formal pin-striped suit. ‘I have, of course, written to Moosey’s relative, and I have asked Mr Woods to represent our school at the funeral.’ He paused briefly and turned from the window. He was now a silhouette. ‘I have decided to hold a short service of Thanksgiving for Moosey during tomorrow morning’s assembly. Mr Garrett has agreed to say a few words about him, and two of your form colleagues will be doing short readings from the Bible.’ He paused again. ‘However . . .’
The bright afternoon sun was shining directly into Frankie’s eyes, so he could not see ‘Boggy’s’ face.
‘Under the circumstances, Lewis, I think it appropriate that you, also, should say something.’
Frankie stiffened. ‘Me, sir?’
‘You were Moosey’s best friend. It would be a generous farewell gesture.’
Frankie thought about it nervously for a brief moment. When he spoke again he could only just be heard. ‘But – what should I say, sir?’
‘That is entirely up to you. You probably knew him best in the entire school but it wouldn’t have to be much. Just a few words.’
In the split second that followed, Frankie pondered on what ‘Boggy’ had just said: ‘You probably knew him best in the entire school.’ Frankie was staring at his own feet, unconsciously shaking his head as he thought to himself that he didn’t know his pal at all. In fact, it was impossible to ever really know Prof.
Frankie suddenly looked up, and his voice was firm and decisive.
‘Yes, sir. I would like ter say somefin’, sir.’
‘Thank you, Lewis. I’m grateful to you.’
To Frankie’s astonishment, ‘Boggy’ stretched out his hand and shook hands with him.
‘And just one more thing.’ ‘Boggy’ came out from behind his desk, stood beside Frankie and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I realise that, with your matric exams coming up in the next few weeks, this is a very difficult time for you. I’ve instructed the teaching staff to offer you any additional help you may require.’
Frankie was taken aback. ‘Fank yer very much, sir.’ He turned, made his way back to the door and opened it.
‘Lewis.’
Frankie turned to look back at ‘Boggy’, who was once again a silhouette against the study window.
‘I’m sure things will work out.’
‘Fank yer, sir.’
Frankie left the headmaster’s study, and closed the door behind him. His footsteps echoed on the stone staircase as he went down to catch the start of Charlie Garrett’s history lesson in a ground-floor classroom. As he went, his mind was pounding with the image of ‘Boggy’ Marsh standing with his back to that window. Funny, he thought, people aren’t always what they seem.
Even headmasters . . .
At about the same time that Frankie was starting his history lesson, Elsa and Gertrude were tucking into iced tea, apple strudel, and a ration-book version of Black Forest gateau which contained powdered milk, dried eggs, and an awful lot of kirsch. There wasn’t one table free in Gershners and the afternoon customers were being serenaded by a delicate selection of pre-war Central European love songs, played on the violin by an elderly Jewish gentleman who was togged up in full white tie and tails, with a red carnation in his buttonhole, and white gloves. It was the first time that this kind of musical treat had been provided by the management since before the war.
‘You didn’t get here five minutes early just to listen to zis rubbish!’ Gertrude, trying to raise her voice above the violin solo, was in a spikey mood.
But Elsa loved the music. As she forked her strudel, she was swaying to and fro to the sound.
‘Elsa!’ Gertrude was in danger of breaking her teacup as she slammed it down on to the saucer.
Elsa flinched, but refused to respond to her tetchy friend until she had joined in the genteel applause with the other customers at the conclusion of the violin serenade. ‘Bravo!’ she called over her shoulder, as the elderly soloist bowed low as though he had just performed at the Royal Albert Hall. Only when that was over did Elsa turn back to Gertrude. ‘Now then, Gertrude. Where were we?’
‘Vhere vere ve!’ Gertrude practically exploded. ‘Dumm frau! One minute you say you have some-sing important to tell me, and zen you turn avay and listen to all zat rubbish! Vot’s it all about?’
Elsa refused to be provoked. So she put down her fork, wiped her lips on her white cotton table napkin, then leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin on them. ‘It’s Barclay. Jack Barclay.’
‘Who?’
‘My brother-in-law. The one who lives in Hertfordshire.’ There was a marked curl to her otherwise good English accent as she emphasised the county name. ‘He promises to be big trouble.’
‘In vot vay, big trouble?’
‘You remember I told you – he wants to buy my shop?’
‘So vot’s new? Let him haf it,’ spluttered Gertrude, as she tackled her first piece of gateau. ‘Anything to get you avay from zat terrible place!’
‘It’s not as easy as that, my friend. It appears that Barclay has ambitions that not only include my shop.’
‘And vot’s zat supposed to mean?’
Elsa leaned across the table and lowered her voice. ‘It means, Gertrude that this man is trying to buy up property in a certain part of the area in which I live.’
‘So vot’s wrong viz zat?’
Elsa leaned back in her chair. ‘It’s where and what he’s trying to buy that concerns me.’
To Gertrude’s intense irritation, the violinist approached their table, holding his violin and bow in one hand, and holding out his other hand for a tip. Gertrude, outraged, snapped at him, ‘Do you expect us to pay for zat dreadful noise! My Persian cat vould haf made a better sound!’
The poor man was taken aback, and bowed humbly. But before he left the table, Elsa spoke to him. ‘Please . . .’ She dug into her purse, pulled out a half-crown, and dropped it into the palm of his hand. ‘That was a beautiful performance,’ she said, with a smile that showed she meant it. ‘Thank you so much.’
The violinist’s face lit up as his hand closed around the coin. ‘Zank you so much, madame!’ he said with a deep bow, suddenly feeling like the artist he used to be. And without even a glance at Gertrude, he left.
Gertrude tried to ignore the incident, but she felt a twinge of guilt. It was not the first time she had thought that Elsa was a much better person than herself. Returning to her gateau, she asked, ‘Vot do you mean it’s vhere and vot zis Barclay is trying to buy?’
Elsa leaned forward in her chair. ‘I heard that’s he’s buying up houses in Merton Street.’
Gertrude shrugged her shoulders. Merton Street could have been in China for all she knew.
‘Merton Street is where my Misster Frankie lives.’
For the first time, Gertrude took notice. She put her fork down. ‘Vot’s he up to?’
‘I don’t know, Gertrude. But I have a good idea.’ Elsa leaned back in her chair again, turning briefly to look at the wonderful selection of faces around the crowded tables in the restaurant. The place was now thick with cigarette smoke – not Woodbines or Players or Gold Flake, but more exotic brands like Abdullahs and Craven A and scented Sobranies. And as she glanced around at the customers, many of whom she imagined had, like herself and Gertrude, taken refuge from Nazi persecution before the war, their lined faces were, in Elsa’s mind, wiped out by one evil image – that of Jack Barclay. ‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘When some people know you have something they want, they’ll do anything to get it.’
Gertrude knew exactly what she meant. ‘You know vot I zink,’ she said, taking out a cigarette from her packet of Abdullahs. ‘I zink you should invite zis man over to tea vun day, and poison him viz rat killer!’
Elsa laughed. ‘No, Gertrude. Even for you that’s a little extreme.’
‘So vot are you going to do?’ Gertrude fixed the cigarette into her holder. ‘He vonts your shop. He vonts your house. H
e vonts your money. How can you stop him?’
‘I think I know how.’
‘How?’
As Gertrude lit her Abdullah, Elsa leaned across and said quite simply, ‘I have a plan, Gertrude. But I need your help . . .’
At four o’clock that afternoon, Frankie walked up to Highbury Fields Girls’ School to wait for Maggs. When she came out, they received a barrage of wolf-whistles from the other girls who were streaming out into Highbury Grove.
As the weather had turned so hot, Frankie and Maggs had arranged to bring their towels and swimming costumes so that they could go for a late afternoon swim at the Highbury open-air pool. But when they got there the air was filled with shrieks and laughter for the place was full of kids and excited teenagers who were leaping in and out of the pool, and queuing up to use the diving board. Maggs suggested that they go for a tram ride instead.
In Upper Street, the number 38 tram was just about to pull away as Frankie and Maggs leapt on to it. Luckily the back seat on the top deck was free and, after paying the conductor the fare for two tickets to the Victoria Embankment, they settled down to enjoy the journey, Maggs by the window, her head leaning on Frankie’s shoulder.
For the first few minutes, as the old tram rattled its way along the main high street of Islington, neither Frankie nor Maggs said anything to each other. For most of the time, Maggs’ eyes were closed, for she felt that she was never more in heaven than when she was with Frankie. But Frankie himself had a great deal on his mind, what with the Thanksgiving service at school first thing in the morning, followed by Prof’s funeral in the afternoon. Then, on top of all that, there were things that he just had to tell Maggs, but didn’t know how; things that could possibly pull them apart forever. Staring out of the window aimlessly, he hardly noticed the tram as it passed the ornate grey-stoned grandeur of the Town Hall, Collins’ Music Hall on the Green, and the busy intersection of main roads at the Angel, Islington.
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