Our Street

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by Pemberton, Victor


  By the time the 38 bus turned into Rosebery Avenue and passed the Sadlers Wells Theatre, Frankie was in such anguish he felt that if he didn’t say something to Maggs now, he would never be able to look with honesty into her lovely eyes again. His opportunity finally came when the tram made a lengthy stop to allow the conductor to help the driver of a horse-drawn coal cart, whose wheels had got stuck in the tram rails.

  ‘Maggs?’

  Maggs opened her eyes.

  Although there was only one other passenger on the top deck, a rather large lady who was fast asleep in the front seat, Frankie leaned down close to talk into Maggs’ ear.

  ‘I’ve got ter tell yer somefin’.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ she said, snuggling up closer.

  ‘In fact if I don’t tell you, I’ll go stark starin’ mad!’

  All of a sudden, Maggs was concerned. She turned, and looked up at him. ‘What’s wrong, Frank?’

  ‘Somefin’ ’appened. Last Sunday. The Bike Rally. On the way back from Soufend.’

  Maggs was staring at him. But he was unable to meet her eyes.

  ‘It’s ter do wiv – wiv Patty Jackson.’

  For a second or two, Maggs let his remark sink in, then she sat up straight. ‘Yes?’

  Frankie took his arm away from Maggs’ shoulders, and sat with head bowed and both hands clasped together between his legs. ‘She pulled a fast one on me, Maggs. I fell for it – like a stupid twit. I – I must’ve bin off me chump!’

  Maggs took hold of his head, and turned it towards her. Although her speaking voice was so much more soft and cultivated than Frankie’s, at this moment it was just as anxious. ‘What do you mean, she pulled a fast one on you? What happened, Frank?’

  Frankie slowly looked up into her eyes. They were warm, friendly, and so very beautiful that he was utterly tongue-tied.

  ‘Tell me, Frank. Please.’

  By the time the tram started moving again, Frankie had told her everything that had happened on the return journey from Southend. He kept nothing from her.

  When he had finished, Maggs sat back in the seat, and stared out of the window. The streets of Islington and then Finsbury disappeared behind them as the tram grunted along its two rails, heading towards Southampton Row and Holborn. But neither Maggs nor Frankie saw any more of the journey. At Maggs’ request, for the time being not another word was spoken between them.

  The tram headed down into the depths of the Kingsway tunnel, stopping only briefly to pick up a few passengers at the underground tram stop. When it emerged again at the Victoria Embankment, the sudden glare of the sun was so blinding, it looked as though the clumsy old tram was about to plunge straight into the River Thames. But, with a back-aching jerk it immediately turned a sharp right-angle and continued on its journey, gliding majestically on its rails along the Embankment in the direction of Westminster Bridge. Frankie and Maggs had already decided to get off at the stop before that and take a leisurely, romantic stroll by the river in the opposite direction.

  It was now after five in the evening, and office workers were already beginning to make their way home from the huge Government buildings in the area. As Frankie and Maggs strolled along, not holding hands or even exchanging a word, their heads were too glumly stooped towards the ground to notice the early evening sun reflecting a warm red glow on the surface of the river. They passed that magnificent obelisque, Cleopatra’s Needle, without a glance, and were not even aware that on the other side of the river behind them, hundreds of LCC civil servants were streaming out of that Thames landmark, County Hall.

  No contact was made between them until they were within sight of Captain Scott’s old Antarctic vessel, Discovery. Maggs stopped strolling, and climbed up on to a stone parapet overlooking the river. She put down her school satchel and swimming towel and gazed out at the brand new, shining white Waterloo Bridge. And there she squatted, deep in contemplation, framed against the shimmering scarlet sun.

  Frankie watched her. Having convinced himself that Maggs would now be finished with him, he had no idea what to do, no idea how he could possibly put things right with her again. To his surprise, however, she turned and called gently to him.

  ‘Come and sit up here, Frank.’

  Frankie’s heart almost missed a beat. He quickly lifted himself up alongside her.

  For a moment or two there was silence. They just sat there, looking out at the distant view of the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, which only a few years before had almost been destroyed by Hitler’s aerial bombardment during the Battle of Britain, but was now drenched with the very different red glow of a summer’s evening.

  It was Frankie who spoke first. Taking a deep breath he said, ‘It’s a lovely view, in’t it?’

  There was a pause, then without turning to look at him, Maggs asked, ‘Did you want to do it, Frankie?’ Then she did turn to look at him. ‘When Patty Jackson – when you both took your clothes off – did you want to do it with her?’

  Frankie didn’t know how to respond to so direct a question. Finally, all he could think of doing was to tell the truth. ‘Yes,’ he replied, turning his head away from her.

  ‘Because you – like her?’

  Frankie snapped back. ‘No! I ’ate ’er!’

  ‘But you wanted to do it.’

  Frankie rubbed his fingers through his hair in anguish. ‘Only because – because – I was excited. Because I’ve never done it before. Because – I ’ad ter find out what it was like.’

  Maggs put her hand under his chin and raised it. His eyes remained lowered, but she was now looking straight at him. ‘Frankie. Just tell me. Are you in love with Patty Jackson?’

  Frankie’s eyes immediately looked up at her. ‘In love wiv ’er! What’re yer talkin’ about, Maggs! I couldn’t love anyone like Patty Jackson. I just couldn’t!’

  Maggs continued to watch him in silence.

  Frankie felt desperate. ‘Yer’ve gotta believe me, Maggs. Yer’ve just gotta! It’s you I love. I swear ter God – I fell fer you the moment I set eyes on yer.’

  For the first time Maggs smiled. All of a sudden she was not looking like a schoolgirl, but a lovely young woman. ‘My mother says people of our age are too young to fall in love. D’you think that’s true, Frankie?’

  For a brief second, Frankie stared deep into her eyes. There was so much he wanted to say to her, to prove how he loved her more than anything or anybody in the whole wide world. But how could he convince her? How could he tell her that he would sooner be dead than live his life without her? Throwing caution to the wind, he grabbed hold of her shoulders, and kissed her full on the lips. To his immense relief, Maggs responded immediately. She threw her arms around him and pressed her lips against his for as long as they could breathe without coming up for air.

  Down below on the river, a large coal-barge approached from beneath Waterloo Bridge and gradually made slow progress towards Hungerford Bridge and Westminster. As it passed by the parapet where two young people were locked together in a firm embrace, the skipper sounded the barge horn.

  It seemed like a very approving sound.

  Frankie got back to Merton Street at about half-past seven. The few hours he had spent with Maggs had raised his spirits more than he had dared hoped.

  Even Merton Street itself looked better to Frankie. It was so uplifting to see so many of his neighbours sitting in chairs outside their front doors, basking in the warm evening sunshine. Since the end of the war only three weeks before, the residents of the street had started to freshen up the fronts of their houses, and even now some people were perched on ladders painting window frames or fixing gutters that had been neglected for so long.

  However, he had noticed of late that the neighbours were beginning to keep themselves to themselves, so as he entered his own front gate it came as no real surprise when no one acknowledged him. So different to the war years, he thought, when everyone was in and out of each others’ houses having cups of tea and a gossip. However,
Bert Gorman and his next door neighbour, Edie Robson, did wave to him, so before disappearing into the house, he did likewise.

  The first thing Frankie noticed as he entered the front passage was that Winston had not come bounding down the stairs to meet him. As he closed the door behind him, he could hear the dog barking wildly from his bedroom upstairs.

  ‘Winnie!’ he called. ‘Wot yer doin’? Come on boy!’

  But as Winston continued to bark without appearing, it was obvious that for some reason or other the poor feller was locked up.

  ‘Frankie! Is that you, son?’ Gracie’s voice called from the front room just as she herself opened the door and peered out into the passage. ‘Ah – there yer are. Come in fer a minute. I want you ter meet somebody.’

  Frankie was curious. He had no idea his mother and father were expecting any visitors. So he put his school haversack and swimming towel down on to the bottom stair, straightened his hair, and went into the front room. The moment he saw who was sitting there on the sofa, he froze.

  ‘This is me son – Frankie.’ Gracie was doing her best to be polite. ‘Frankie. This gentleman has bought the ’ouse from Mr Jackson. ’E’s our new landlord.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Lewis. Your son and I have already met.’ The man got up from the sofa, smiled rather unctuously, and stretched out his hand to Frankie.

  Frankie’s blood turned to ice.

  The man he was reluctantly shaking hands with was Elsa’s brother-in-law, Jack Barclay.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Friday 7th June 1945 was the first time for ages that nobody had come late for morning assembly at Highbury Grammar School. Whether it was out of respect or sympathy for Prof or because of ‘Boggy’ Marsh’s warning of ‘disciplinary measures’ if anyone did arrive late, Frankie couldn’t really tell. All he did know was that although it was only ten minutes to nine in the morning, the school hall was packed to suffocation. As usual, everyone had to stand, including the entire teaching staff who were gathered on the stage, all in very solemn mood.

  Frankie had hardly slept all night. What with the horror of meeting up with Jack Barclay in his own home, and the prospect of having to face all his fellow pupils the following morning, it was little wonder he could now barely keep his eyes open.

  ‘Boggy’ Marsh arrived at one minute to nine and, at nine o’clock exactly, the short Thanksgiving service began. It wasn’t really a religious service as in a church, but more of a chance for the pupils and teaching staff to pay their last respects to Prof. It started with ‘Boggy’ giving a short address about why this particular assembly was so special, and asking God and the school to give thanks for such a young life. Then everyone sang a hymn, The King of Love My Shepherd Is, and that was followed by two of the pupils reading short extracts from the Bible. Frankie thought about the irony of these two particular boys being singled out to do such a thing, for Prof couldn’t bear either of them. In a single row across the stage in the background stood the teachers and, once or twice, Frankie caught the eye of Mr Woods, the rather supercilious English master, who always seemed to Frankie to have a head too large for his body. Next to him was rotund Mrs Goulding, who spent most of the proceedings wiping tears away from her eyes, and alongside her was dear, old Charlie Garrett, still sucking his loose tooth. Mr Lincoln, was, as usual, thumping away at the piano to accompany the hymn-singing.

  By the time Charlie Garrett had finished his little speech about what a good pupil Prof was, Frankie’s stomach was churning over so much he thought his legs would give way before it even came to his part in the proceedings. But after the next hymn had been sung, and he had been signalled by ‘Boggy’, he took a deep breath, clutched the book he was carrying firmly in his hands, and, climbing the steps on to the stage, took his place in front of the teaching staff.

  The moment had finally come for him to look out at the mass of mauve school jackets. It was an awesome sight, and Frankie’s mouth went so dry he didn’t think he would be able to open it. It didn’t help when one or two of the first term kids giggled in the front row, but one look from ‘Boggy’ sent a chill of terror through the culprits. In the few seconds that he stood there, trying desperately hard to summon up enough courage to speak, Frankie couldn’t help thinking back to that night of the school concert, when Prof himself had been standing in exactly the same spot in the middle of the stage. In his mind’s eye he could still see that frail little figure, who had just been beaten up so brutally by Jeff Murray, his lips swollen, a bruise on his cheek, and a gash over his eye. And in those few seconds he also remembered the magical sound Prof had made on his mouth-organ, and how he had got the entire audience to join in with a chorus of Shine on Harvest Moon. How they had loved him!

  ‘As some of yer know, Pete Moosey was my best friend.’ Without realising it, Frankie had started to speak. And his voice was so loud and clear it echoed around the Hall. ‘Ter me, though, he was Prof. ’E’ll always be that, ’cos that’s ’ow I’ll remember ’im – the one wiv the brains.’

  ‘Boggy’ Marsh was already beginning to wish he hadn’t asked Frankie to speak. Shaking his head, the headmaster found it difficult to believe that despite Frankie Lewis’s four years at Highbury Grammar School, he had stubbornly resisted losing his accent. The boy’s vowel sounds were appalling!

  ‘The fing is, sir,’ he said, throwing a brief glance back at ‘Boggy’, ‘there ain’t much I can say about Prof – ’cos, ter be honest, ’e wouldn’t want me to.’ Then, turning back to the assembly, he continued, ‘But if yer really wanna know somefin’ about ’im . . .’ at which point he raised the worn-looking book he was holding, ‘it’s all ’ere – in this book. I got it for ’im from this friend of mine who runs a shop. I reckon it was written by someone who was a bit like Prof.’

  There was an air of curiosity throughout the Hall.

  ‘It’s about trains. Railway trains. ’E used ter go train spottin’ over on Finsbury Park bridge – every Sunday mornin’. ’E must’ve collected ’undreds – no, fousands of train numbers. Yeah. That’s what Prof cared about most of all. Not people – or fings – or knockin’ around Merton Street where I live. It was trains. ’E worshipped ’em. Yeah. That was Prof all right.’

  Mr Lincoln, who taught chemistry, was sitting at the upright piano, listening with great intensity to Frankie. He took off his metal-rimmed spectacles, and although Frankie was now only a blur, the boy’s words were clearly having a marked effect on him.

  ‘So if yer don’t mind, sir,’ continued Frankie, turning briefly again to ‘Boggy’, I’d like just ter read yer a bit from this book. ’Cos I know it’s not only wot Prof himself would’ve liked, but I reckon it also tells yer quite a bit about ’im.’

  There was a buzz of expectation around the Hall as Frankie opened the book and started to read:

  ‘Wot is the attraction of the train, whose engine speeds yer fru the countryside at shatterin’ speeds? Is it the smoke that billows out from the funnel of its coal-fired burner? Is it the convenience of gettin’ ter yer destination in comfort an’ on time an’ wivout the trouble of ’avin ter ride yer ’orse or drive yer autermobile? Or is it because of the beauty of the creature itself, glidin’ along the rails by day or night, defyin’ the elements, tearin’ against wind an’ rain? As a regular passenger meself I know me journey well. I know every sound, every friendly jolt, an’ every change in speed. I know where all the signals are, the junctions, an’ the tunnels. Is there any more magical experience than ter sit in the comfort of a railway compartment as it disappears inter the darkness of a tunnel? Listen ter the sound! Yer can ’ear wot the engine’s sayin’ ter yer. An’ when yer come out of the tunnel again, everythin’ looks so much brighter. Yes, my friends, there is nothin’ in this world like a journey by train, whevver it be long – or whevver it be short.’

  Frankie finished reading, closed the book, and walked off the stage.

  Not a single sound could be heard in the Hall as he returned to his place in the front
row of the Assembly.

  Then everyone sang the school hymn: To Be A Pilgrim.

  Frankie knew he would never forget this morning’s Assembly at Highbury Grammar School.

  As did his headmaster, ‘Boggy’ Marsh.

  At three o’clock that afternoon, Prof’s funeral took place in the Crematorium at Islington Cemetery. There were only two cars, sombre-looking black Daimler’s. One of them was a hearse which carried Prof’s body, and the other was for Auntie Hilda, her next door neighbour, Gladys, Mr and Mrs East who ran the ladies’ handbag shop in Seven Sisters Road, and Frankie. The Vicar from the Emmanuel Church in Hornsey Road, the Rev. Monty Marshall travelled in the front seat with the driver.

  When the tiny procession arrived at the entrance of the grey-stoned Crematorium Chapel, Frankie was surprised to see his sister Helen there with Eric. Helen knew Prof very well from all the times she had seen him with Frankie, and she also knew what a distressing experience Prof’s death had been for her young brother, so she wanted to be there to support him.

  To Frankie’s surprise, the service only lasted about fifteen minutes. The Reverend Marshall said a few words about Prof, and the sparse collection of people sang a hymn. Then Frankie’s English teacher, Mr Woods, who had quietly entered from behind the procession when they came in, read from the Bible, and they finished with another hymn. Through it all, Frankie’s eyes never left that coffin which was placed on a special plinth just in front of the altar. It seemed so small, both in length and width, with Auntie Hilda’s single wreath of summer flowers placed on top.

  Then the moment Frankie had been dreading finally came. In absolute silence, a huge pair of heavy curtains started to close solemnly across the altar. Frankie hated it. How different it was to what Prof had really wanted, he thought, as his mind flashed back to those strange few moments on the beach at Southend when Prof had talked about being buried at sea. He quickly shut his eyes and, in his mind, said, ‘See yer, Prof!’ When he opened them again, the coffin could no longer be seen.

 

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