Auntie Hilda was crying profusely and everyone filed out of the Chapel, with Frankie following last.
It was only as the procession reached the back of the small chapel that Frankie noticed three figures who had clearly crept in after the service had begun. It was Jeff Murray, Alan Downs, and Patty Jackson, all standing side by side in a back pew with their heads lowered.
Not one of Frankie’s former friends in the Merton Street Gang raised their eyes to look up at him.
Everyone went straight to Auntie Hilda’s flat above the ladies’ handbag shop. Needless to say, she had made some cheese and fish-paste sandwiches, currant cakes, and a tinned fruit trifle. Once she had given the undertaker a cup of tea and paid him off, Auntie Hilda asked Frankie to come upstairs with her to Prof’s bedroom.
‘You’re to take anything you want,’ she said, her eyes were red from all the crying she had done. ‘Peter left strict instructions. Whatever you like is yours.’ She looked around the room with a warm, affectionate smile on her face. ‘He said he particularly wanted you to have the train set, because you’d be the only one who’d appreciate it.’ Auntie Hilda turned to look at Frankie. ‘He was very fond of you, you know.’
Frankie felt numb inside. As he looked around his pal’s bedroom, with all the gadgets and inventions Prof had worked on during his short lifetime, he just couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t be seeing him any more. ‘I dunno wot ter say, Auntie,’ said Frankie, feeling absolutely bewildered.
‘Of course, whatever you don’t want, I’ll find a home for.’ The rest I’ll just have to put out for the dustman.’ She made her way back to the door and turned. ‘Anyway, you have a look round. Have a little think about it.’
After Auntie Hilda had gone, Frankie didn’t know where to start. He wandered aimlessly around picking up pieces of Meccano and electrical wires. Then, with the tips of his fingers he gently touched Prof’s enormous cardboard model of the RAF Mosquito fighter bomber which was dangling from the ceiling. It immediately started to swing to and fro as though it was actually in flight. Then he moved across to the chest of drawers and admired Prof’s model of a four-masted sailing ship, which Frankie decided there and then that he would like to keep because in his mind it was absolutely brilliant. From the chest of drawers, he turned to look down at the floor. And there it was, Prof’s pride and joy – the incredible model train system built entirely by Prof himself, complete with the replica of the Flying Scot train engine and carriages. Passenger station, signal boxes, bridges, and a railway track covered the entire floor. Frankie dropped to his knees, crouched alongside the minutely constructed track, and started to feel the engine and its colourful freight and passenger rolling stock. Then he turned on the switch. Suddenly, the Flying Scot started to pull away from the station marked, ‘Seven Sisters Road’, and, as Frankie operated a lever outside the track, it gathered speed on its adventurous journey around its inventor’s room. As it went, Frankie was telling himself that, as much as he would dearly love to have all this wonderful gadgetry for himself, he was growing up and would surely have no use for it. But as the mighty express train rattled effortlessly beneath Prof’s bed, and headed off at high speed around the back of the chest of drawers, the Flying Scot’s engine whistle shrieked out loud as if to remind Frankie that his own journey was only just beginning, and that one day maybe he himself would have a son of his own who would thrill to the sight and sound of Prof’s great railway system. So, as tears flowed down his cheeks for the first and only time that day, he made an instant decision.
‘I’ll keep it, Prof!’ he yelled out loud. ‘I’ll never part wiv it – not fer as long as I live!’
Chapter Twenty-three
During the first week in July, Frankie took his school exams. It was three days of sheer hell and he hated every minute of it. Despite the sympathetic extra tuition he had been given by the teaching staff, Frankie knew that he hadn’t a hope in hell of getting the necessary number of passes, especially with subjects like mathematics, physics, and French. But for three days he sat there and sweated it out, dreading the time in September when the results – and his future – would be known. Before that, though, Frankie had another ordeal to endure . . .
Helen and Eric were married on the third Saturday in July. By then, of course, she was eight months gone, and, in the words of her father, ‘only just made it.’ The wedding took place in a rather stark oak-panelled room in the Islington Town Hall in Upper Street. Despite the fact that Helen had to have her friend Iris make her wedding dress, which was made up of rather a lot of plain blue taffeta, Eric thought she looked very nice in it. It was only a short dress, but luckily Helen was able to get a special ration coupon allowance for the material, otherwise it would have been a question of ‘something borrowed’. Helen had bought her close-fitting hat with its fashionable marine-look and blue veil from Jones Brothers in Holloway Road, pleased at how good a match it was for her dress. Eric didn’t look too bad either, she reckoned proudly, in his navy-blue demob suit, white shirt, Tootal tie, and highly polished bull-shined shoes, a hangover from his army square-bashing days.
There were about two dozen guests. Apart from Gracie and Reg, on Helen’s side there were Reg’s sister and her husband, Auntie Dot and Uncle Harry (who hadn’t seen Gracie and Reg for years, and only accepted the invitation out of curiosity), Lil’ and Ed who worked with Reg at the Baths in Hornsey Road, and Joyce and Ivy, Helen’s two best friends. Most of the remaining guests came from Eric’s side – his parents, two widowed aunts, a grandmother from each side of his family and one grandfather, three cousins, two nieces, and two of his ex-army pals and their girlfriends.
And then, of course, there was Frankie, who arrived for the ceremony at the Town Hall far more nervous than both bride and groom and all the guests put together. First he was self-conscious in the new, double-breasted grey flannel suit Eric had bought him. Then, despite the fact that he had put the wedding ring on his own forefinger for safe keeping, he had convinced himself that when the time came he would have lost it. Tragedy did strike close, for when he was eventually asked to produce the ring he found it was stuck hard on his finger, and only some of his Auntie Dot’s face cream solved the problem of releasing it.
The reception was held at number 1 Merton Street, and between them, Gracie and Helen had searched around for enough ration coupons to provide a very appetising buffet tea. This included a variety of sandwiches with fillings such as real ham and cods’ roe, and among the many delicacies were two bowls of boiled pigs’ trotters. There were also two enormous custard trifles but the pièce de résistance was the wedding cake, a gift from Auntie Hilda who had made it herself.
The problems did not start appearing until well into the evening . . .
It was obvious from the start that Gracie Lewis and Eric’s mum, Phyllis Sibley were not going to get on. To Gracie, it seemed that the stupid cow of a woman had nothing better to do than to criticise. First it was about Frankie being a bit young to be a best man, and then barbed comments about how well turned-out her ‘side’ were. Gracie also couldn’t bear Eric’s father, a former semi-pro boxer who spoke as though he was punch-drunk, moaning about how tough the pigs’ trotters were and complaining that the Guinness was too cold. The crunch came, luckily, after the bride and groom had left for their week’s honeymoon in Bognor Regis and most of the guests had left.
‘I must say, Gracie,’ said Phyllis, ‘I did feel so sorry for your poor ’Elen’ – ’avin’ ter stand up at the weddin’ like that in ’er condition.’ She was on her third gin and tonic, and clearly itching to get a dig at her hosts.
‘Oh, I dunno,’ Gracie said, icily. ‘I fawt she looked really lovely.’
Phyllis popped a potato crisp in her mouth. ‘It’s such a pity they didn’t get to know each other before they got – well, before they got so involved. I mean, I wonder wot would ’ave ’appened if Eric ’adn’t wanted ter marry ’er when he come back from the Army?’
Gracie didn’t d
rink spirits, but she had already downed two bottles of stout, and the danger signals were there. ‘I’m sure she’d ’ave done the same as any uvver girl – found someone else.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, Gracie.’ Phyllis was perfectly aware that she was being provocative. ‘Eric’s an ’onorable boy. Before ’e met your ’Elen, ’e’d ’ad lots of girls. Any one of ’em’d tell yer that ’e’d never leave ’em in the lurch.’
There was an uneasy silence as everyone in the room listened to the conversation between the two women and pretended not to.
Gracie slammed down her half-consumed glass of stout, spilling some of it on to the tablecloth. ‘Let me tell you somefin’, Mrs Sibley. It takes two ter make a party, yer know. If your son ’ad taken precautions, they wouldn’t’ve ’ad ter get married.’
Phyllis’s hackles rose immediately. ‘Come off it! Your daughter knew exactly wot she wanted – and she got it all right!’
Gracie sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘Are you tryin’ ter make suggestions about my daughter?’
Reg, aware that his wife was rising too easily to Phyllis Sibley’s bait, quickly interrupted. ‘Forget it now, Grace.’
But Phyllis was determined to carry on with the scene. ‘I’m not suggestin’ anyfin’,’ she snapped. ‘But your daughter only ’ad ’erself ter blame for gettin’ ’erself inter this kind of situation.’
‘Shut up will yer, Phyll!’ This time it was Mick Sibley who interrupted.
But it was too late. The two women had now gone too far.
‘Your son is just as guilty as my daughter!’ Gracie yelled. ‘Soldiers are all the same. They’re only out fer one fing!’
‘Don’t you dare say that about my son!’
‘Don’t you say that about my daughter!’
Frankie leapt up. ‘It’s not true – none of it! Eric loves ’Elen, and she loves ’im. That’s why they got married. That’s why they’re ’avin’ a baby!’
This unexpected outburst from Frankie momentarily united both mothers.
‘You mind yer own bleedin’ business, Frank! This ’as got nothin’ ter do wiv you!’ Gracie’s eyes were nearly popping out of their sockets with rage.
‘Just keep yer tongue between yer teeth, young man! I told Eric you was too young to be a best man!’
‘Don’t you talk about my boy like that!’ yelled Gracie, turning on Phyllis again. ‘’E was a wonderful best man!’
By now, Frankie was convinced they were both mad, so he quickly sat down again.
‘Right! That’s me lot fer one day.’ Mick Sibley got up from the arm-chair. ‘Come on, Phyll. Get yer arse out of ’ere!’
At which point, Reg Lewis got up from the other armchair. ‘Come on now, everyone. This is supposed ter be our kids’ weddin’ day. If they ’eard us goin’ on like this, they’d do their nuts!’
‘I’m sorry, Reg.’ Mick put on his jacket and made for the door. He looked fed-up with the whole set-to, for he actually got on quite well with his new daughter-in-law’s father. ‘I know my missus. She won’t give up ’til she’s got everyone pissin’ in their pants!’
‘Ha!’ Gracie reacted in a flash. ‘Well, she won’t get me doin’ any such fing!’
Last to get up was Phyllis. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve spent all the time in this ’ouse that I want!’ She quickly straightened her dress and tried to look unruffled. ‘I just ’ope that all the people who’ve tasted the muck that’s bin served up ’ere terday will still be alive in the mornin’!’
‘Well, p’rhaps they might’ve bin,’ snarled Gracie, as she followed Phyllis to the door, ‘if you’d given one hand or one penny ter ’elp!’
‘Grace!’ Reg yelled so loud that Winston leapt behind the sofa.
Reg followed Mick and Phyllis Sibley out into the hall passage, making quite sure he shut the front room door behind him. Gracie and Frankie remained behind, with Gracie, clenching her fists in anger. She found herself a fag and lit it.
After a moment, Reg came back into the room and slammed the door behind him. ‘Yer stupid bitch!’
Gracie blew out an angry cloud of smoke, ‘You leave me alone! I didn’t start it!’
‘No, you didn’t start it! But yer couldn’t resist ’avin’ a go at yer, could yer?’ He went straight to the ashtray where he had left a half-finished fag. ‘She wanted yer ter take ’er on. She wanted ter make trouble. Yes – and yer let ’er, Grace. Yer bloody well let ’er! Yer own daughter’s weddin’ day, and you ’ad ter go and finish it off like this!’
‘I did everfin’ in my power ter make this a nice day for ’Elen!’ yelled Gracie.
‘So why ruin it by losin’ yer temper! ’Ow d’yer fink ’Elen’s goin’ ter feel when she ’ears about all this?’
‘That woman’s a bloody bitch – and you know it!’
‘Of course I know it. But that don’t mean you ’ave ter be’ave like ’er. Don’t yer understand, Grace? Wevver we like it or not, she’s now ’Elen’s muvver-in-law!’
Winston leapt up beside Frankie on the sofa, worried that the screaming match was something to do with him. Frankie himself found the whole incident deeply upsetting and disappointing. Over the past few weeks it had seemed that his mother and father were beginning to become better friends than they had ever been, but now they were fighting like cat and dog.
‘It’s no use, Grace!’ Reg, his back turned towards the small, tiled-surround fireplace, took a deep draw on his fag. ‘When I saw yer put so much effort inter –’ he looked towards the parlour table with the remains of the wedding buffet ‘– inter all this, I felt proud of yer, really proud. But yer ’ad ter go an’ spoil it all. Why, Grace? Why?’
‘Let me tell yer somefin’ – mate! You got me inter all this – you and that bloody son-in-law of ours! If I ’adn’t ’ave listened to you, if I ’adn’t ’ave been so bloody taken in by yer, I’d never ’ave agreed to ’ave the do in this ’ouse in the first place!’
‘Don’t be silly, Mum,’ interrupted Frankie. ‘It was marvellous . . .’
‘You keep out of this!’ Gracie shrieked back at him.
‘Listen to ’er!’ bawled Reg. ‘You’re like a ravin’ lunatic! Why can’t yer see that it was our duty to give ’Elen a good send-off. We’re ’er mum and dad, for Chrissake. Gord knows we’ve done little enough for our kids since they was born!’
‘Speak for yerself!’ Gracie pushed him out of the way, and threw her only partly finished fag into the empty fire-grate. ‘P’raps if you’d given us a proper ’ome, we could’ve done more fer all of us!’
‘’Ang on, you!’ Reg growled back angrily. ‘Just wot’s that supposed ter bloody mean?’
‘You know wot I bloody mean! Pissin’ yerself silly ’round the pub every night.’
‘Well, I’d sooner piss myself ’round the pub than sit ’ere wiv you!’ With his smoking fag gripped in his teeth and his finger wagging menacingly at Gracie. Reg was prepared to say anything that came into his head. ‘Shall I tell yer somefin,’ Grace? As a wife, you stink!’
Frankie was thunderstruck by his father’s cutting attack. ‘Dad!’
‘Get out of ’ere, you!’ yelled Reg at the boy.
‘’Ow could yer say such a fing!’ Frankie was close to tears.
‘Out!’ Reg now seemed to have lost all control.
Frankie got up from the sofa and left the room with Winston. The rest of the conversation he heard by hanging around in the passage outside.
‘Grace,’ Reg said, no longer shouting. ‘I’ve wanted ter tell yer this fer a long time, but I’ve always bin afraid of yer. Gord knows why I should be scared of me own wife, but that’s ’ow it’s been.’
Frankie could hear his father’s voice clearly.
‘We’re not a ’usband and wife, Grace. We ’aven’t bin fer years. Wot’s ’appened to us? We don’t talk, we don’t listen to each uvver. Oh yeah, now the shelter’s bin taken down, we sleep in the same bed tergevver agin. But we don’t do anyfin’, Grace. We don’t do anyfin’,
’cos – well, let’s face, we don’t know each uvver – do we?’
There was absolutely no response from Gracie at all.
‘It comes ter somefin’ when a ’usband and wife can’t even talk ter each uvver about their problems, don’t it? I mean, I go off ter the Baths in the mornin’, do a day’s work, and when I come ’ome, even if there is a meal waiting, we don’t ’ave it tergevver, we don’t talk about wot we’ve both done all day.’ Gradually, the anger was leaving Reg’s voice. ‘Why is it like that, Grace? Why does it ’ave ter be like that? Why do yer ’ave ter shout and ’oller and go on all the time about ’ow much you ’ate everybody?’ He paused just long enough to try to compose himself. ‘Oh Grace. Why can’t yer understand that I don’t care ’ow people like that woman be’ave. But I do care about you. About Gracie Lewis – my wife!’
In the passage outside, Frankie sat on the stairs and covered his face with his hands.
‘Why do you ’ave ter treat me and ’Elen and Frank as if we were a big mistake in yer life? Wot did I do wrong, Grace? Tell me? Wot did I do wrong?’
Suddenly, Frankie was startled by the sound of the parlour door being thrown open. As he looked up, his mother came hurrying out, and, without stopping for a single second, rushed straight out of the house and into the street.
‘Mum!’ Frankie got to his feet.
As he did so, Reg called from the front room. ‘Let ’er go. Shell be back!’
In her sitting-room, Elsa was at her upright desk reading some documents which had arrived from her solicitor that morning. She hadn’t been sleeping too well of late, so she delayed going to bed for as long as possible.
As he had now taken his school exams and had a few weeks to spare before the results were known, Frankie had been helping out in the shop on most days, for Elsa was trusting him more and more to take over the more strenuous duties in the running of the shop. But once or twice Frankie had noticed how tired she was looking, and he told her so. He put it down to the strain of working too hard, and also the pressure being put on her by her brother-in-law. Elsa feared that Barclay’s purchase of the Lewises’ house was going to be used as some kind of blackmail. Which is why she had been in touch with her solicitor.
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