‘Don’t worry about me,’ Maggs said with her usual understanding. ‘I’m going to help your mum wash up.’
A few minutes later, Helen and Frankie were walking little Josie down Merton Street. Josie was a big girl for fourteen months, but she was still a toddler, so they had to move quite slowly while the child stopped to inspect everything in sight.
Although it was still only six o’clock in the evening, the light was showing signs of fading, for it was October.
Helen, Frankie, and little Josie gradually made their way past the familiar front gates, glancing only casually to see if anyone they knew was looking out from behind their curtains. But Merton Street these days was becoming very different to what it was only a year or so before and, even if anyone were to suddenly appear at their front door, all you would get would be a brief, courteous smile before the door was quickly closed again.
‘I wonder what our street’ll look like in ten years’ time?’ reflected Helen, as they paused briefly at the corner of Hertslet Road and looked back.
‘Probably full of offices, or council flats,’ grinned Frankie, but deep down such a prospect was a terrible one. He loved the street, with its two long rows of terraced houses, the endless different-sized chimney-pots, some of which were already shedding thin palls of black coal-fire smoke, small front gates still waiting to be repaired a year after the end of the war, and gas-lamp-posts newly painted in dark green paint.
And he loved being with Helen: he had grown even closer to her since she married Eric and it was Helen he had turned to for advice when he first started going out regularly with Maggs – and Helen considered Maggs to be the best thing that had ever happened to her young brother. Since Frankie had stopped her from having an abortion, Helen had never stopped being grateful to him. They had absolutely no secrets from each other.
‘Frank, if I tell yer somefin’, will yer promise not ter let on ter anyone else? It’s about Eric.’
Frankie, immediately concerned, looked at her. ‘Is anyfin’ wrong?’
‘No. Not really. Look, Eric’s bin ter see the doctor, Frank. Did yer know that?’
Frankie was disturbed. ‘No, I didn’t. Wot’s up wiv ’im?’
‘Nuffin’ serious – well, not really serious. It’s because of wot ’e went through in that POW camp. It’s not so much ’is body that’s suffered – it’s ’is mind. The doctor says that if we’re not careful, ’e could ’ave a nervous breakdown. ’E wouldn’t be able ter go ter work or do anyfin’ except rest – maybe fer weeks or munffs. Oh, Frankie, it’s terrible ter ’ear ’im sometimes at night – tossin’ and turnin’ and groanin’ in ’is sleep. It’s as though ’e’s livin’ it all again.’
Frankie sighed. ‘Wot yer gonna do about it?’
‘We bin talkin’, Frank – me an’ Eric.’ She paused for a second, then spoke decisively. ‘We both fink ’e needs a complete break. The fing is, Frank, I love this country. It’s where I was born and brought up. Eric loves it too – Gord knows, ’e nearly gave ’is life for it. But since the war, it’s bin such a depressin’ place ter live in.’ Helen was clearly having difficulty in what she was trying to say. ‘It’d be a terrible fing ter ’ave ter leave.’
Frankie abruptly stopped strolling and turned to her. ‘Leave? Wot yer talkin’ about?’
Holding on to little Josie as if for comfort, Helen’s face crunched up with anguish as she told him. ‘Yer mustn’t tell Mum and Dad, Frank – not just yet. But me and Eric – well – we’ve decided to emigrate – to Australia.’
In the first floor bathroom of number 19 Hadleigh Villas, Elsa weighed herself on a pair of ancient scales that she had bought for one shilling and sixpence. Since the last time she had weighed herself just a few days ago, she had lost another two pounds. With a shrug, she stepped off and took a casual look in the mirror. She couldn’t see any real difference – just a few more lines on her face, which, she muttered to herself, she could easily cover with make-up and rouge. She had also lost a few more hairs from the small wisp that she had left, but that also made very little difference, for nobody – except shrewd old Gertrude – knew that the carefully coiffeured hair they always admired on her was, in fact, a hairpiece. She leaned forward to take a closer look at her face, screwing it up in disapproval. ‘Alte Frau!’ she snapped, scolding herself for being an old woman. So she pinched her cheeks with her fingers to bring some life back into them, then set about smothering them with as much make-up as she dared.
Back in her bedroom, Elsa dressed quickly, and left the house to go to the shop.
She completely ignored the three boxes of different coloured pills, one of each of which she had been ordered by the Specialist at the Royal Northern Hospital to take, four times a day . . .
Elsa took her time to walk down Berriman Road towards the shop. These days she moved more slowly than she used to, and even though it infuriated her to do so, she had to rely on a walking-stick – ‘but only as a weapon’, as she would assure Frankie when he’d become concerned.
When she eventually reached the shop, Elsa was furious to discover that the builders still hadn’t turned up to continue the repairs to the ceiling and walls that they had started the previous Monday morning. However, Elsa consoled herself with the fact that, much to Jack Barclay’s disappointment (for it was obviously he who had notified the Health and Safety Department at the Town Hall), the ‘man from the Council’ turned out to be very sympathetic and did not condemn the shop as unsafe. But the place did need some urgent repairs, and, much to Frankie’s astonishment, she had somehow found the money to have them done.
‘So doesn’t anybody know how to get out of bed in the mornings any more?’ she snapped, tetchily, as Frankie and Winston came through the door, nearly five minutes late. ‘If you ask me, the war has made the English worker very lazy!’
‘Sorry, Elsa.’ Frankie looked miserable and he seemed to have no life in him.
Elsa instantly felt guilty. Ever since last Monday when Frankie had told her about his sister deciding to emigrate to Australia, she knew how down in the dumps the boy had been. She quickly covered up her tactlessness, and went to the biscuit tin to give Winston his usual morning treat. ‘So – what news about your sister?’ she called, as she tried to manoeuvre around one of the many pieces of scaffolding that had been erected above the counter.
‘They’re goin’ in April.’
Elsa could hardly hear his reply it was so soft and solemn. But then, when Frankie was suffering about something, he never really made any effort to conceal it.
‘You mean – they’ve definitely decided to go to Australia?’
‘Oh yeh. Wot she didn’t tell me last Sunday was that she an’ Eric ’ad already bin to Australia ’ouse and got the papers. Apparently they ’ad an interview a few weeks ago, and it’s all arranged.’ Suddenly, he felt a momentary surge of anger and he showed it by kicking a large second-hand mattress that he was covering. ‘It’ll take ’em six weeks on the boat.’
Elsa knew only too well what a loss it would be for him to part with the sister he loved and admired so much. As she lit the new gas ring to boil up a kettle of water for her cup of tea, she sighed, not really sure what comfort she could give the boy. ‘Such a stupid idea! Who wants to go to Australia! All that sunshine and silly kangaroos!’
‘When yer fink about it, it’s not such a stupid idea, Elsa.’ For a moment or so, Frankie stopped what he was doing. ‘When yer fink about the state this country’s in well, if I was old enough I’d take Maggs and we’d go, too.’
Elsa swung round with a start. She couldn’t believe what he had just said. ‘Are you mad, Frankie? How can you say such a thing about this country – your country. You only just won a war.’
‘Yeh – fer what!’ Frankie replied, sourly.
‘Oh, stop feeling so sorry for yourself!’ she said brusquely.
‘Australia’s a smashin’ place, Elsa. Everyone says so!’
‘And zo is zis country!’ She was so angry
that she momentarily lapsed back into an accent. ‘It takes time, Frankie. Six years of war is a long time, and it doesn’t matter whether it is Mr Attlee or Mr Churchill – you cannot re-build a country or it’s people overnight! And so – when are you going to Australia, may I ask?’
Frankie sighed. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Elsa. I only said that if – only if I was old enuff, I wouldn’t ’esitate.’
‘Really? And what would you do with poor Winston? Would you just cast him out in the street like so many so-called English animal-lovers seem to do when they don’t have any more use for them?’
At the sound of his name, Winston’s ears pricked up, hoping that this would mean another biscuit for him.
As Frankie watched Elsa, hands on hips, glaring at him disapprovingly, he suddenly felt guilty. For some time now he had noticed how frail Elsa was looking. Her body seemed to be all skin and bones, and her dresses were virtually hanging off her and she no longer made or ate her much-loved apple cake.
‘Take no notice of me, Elsa,’ he said, sheepishly, going to where she stood. It’s just that – well, yer know ’ow much I fink of my sister. I can’t bear ter fink I won’t see ’er no more.’
‘What do you mean, you won’t see her any more! Australia isn’t on the moon, is it? You can save up money and visit her?’
For the first time that morning, Frankie smiled. Elsa was right – yes, of course she was right – as always. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and went to cuddle her.
Elsa immediately reciprocated by throwing her arms around him. For a moment she felt totally warm and secure, as though it was her own son embracing her . . . ‘Try always to remember, Frankie,’ she said, her voice now soft and sympathetic, ‘when you part from someone, it’s so different from losing them . . .’
Their moment together was abruptly broken by the arrival of two of the builders, who strolled into the shop brightly. ‘Mornin’, missus!’ they called in unison. ‘Don’t you missus, me!’ yelled Elsa, once again losing her perfect English accent, ‘if you expect me to pay you good money for starting verk half-way through the day, you can zink again!’
The two men exchanged a look of horror.
Elsa went back behind the counter and turned off the tap of the gas ring under the boiling kettle, opened the back room door, and yelled again: ‘And if you vant to have a cup of tea – you can make it yourself!’
With that she disappeared into the back room, and slammed the door behind her.
Frankie roared with laughter. He was delighted that Elsa was back to her old self again.
Now alone, Elsa turned on the light switch in the back room. Sorting through the letters she was holding, she found the particular one she was looking for, and put the others down on top of a pile of cardboard boxes. Sliding her finger through the top of the envelope, she gradually tore it open, took out the letter inside, and started to read it:
ROYAL NORTHERN HOSPITAL
HOLLOWAY
LONDON, N.7.
Mrs E. Barclay
19, Hadleigh Villas
Holloway, N.7.
14 October 1946.
Dear Mrs Barclay
We have now received the results of the blood and pancreas tests you undertook on 4th October.
Your specialist, Dr. P. A. Carter has asked me to request that you make an immediate appointment to see him.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely, (signed)
J. Hartley (Mrs) Registrar.
Elsa read the letter impassively, folded it up again, then replaced it in the envelope.
Then she calmly tore it up and put the pieces into her dress pocket.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Gracie and Reg Lewis blamed themselves for Helen and Eric’s decision to emigrate to Australia. When they heard the news it was as though their entire married lives had been thrown up to confront them. But despite their pain and anguish, and their knowledge that they would never again see their daughter, or be able to watch the growing-up of their granddaughter, Gracie and Reg vowed to use these last few months to do everything in their power to compensate Helen for all the mistakes they had made in the past.
Christmas 1946 turned out to be the happiest the Lewis family had ever known. Helen, Eric, and little Josie spent both Christmas Day and Boxing Day with Gracie, Reg, Frankie, and Winston at number 1 Merton Street, and even Maggs persuaded her parents to let her spend a good deal of the two days with Frankie and his family. The big surprise, hovever, turned out to be a visit from Eric’s parents, who accepted the Lewises invitation to come and have a drink with them on Boxing Day after Gracie wrote a letter saying that she hoped they would accept her apologies for her behaviour after the wedding, and let bygones be bygones.
And so the Lewis family drifted into the new year of 1947, and as the days ticked by and the weeks rushed past, the dreaded month of April floated closer and closer, like a vast, black cloud heading for its final destination above number 1 Merton Street.
Before that, however, in the middle of March, Gracie and Reg Lewis had a very different problem to face up to; their new landlord, Jack Barclay.
‘It’s bad, Mr Lewis, very bad indeed.’ Barclay stood in the hall passage of number 1, clipboard in hand, taking down notes as fast as he could scribble them. ‘I’m sure you realise it’s my duty as the freeholder to point out the poor state of decoration of your two upstairs bedrooms, the landing toilet. . .’ As he spoke, he ticked off his notes. ‘. . . ceilings and walls above and alongside the staircase, this hall passage, ground floor scullery, and the two back and front living rooms.’ He looked up, sighed, and shook his head to and fro in firm disapproval. ‘You really have been very negligent, you know.’
Reg and Gracie Lewis both looked as though the blood had been drained from their bodies.
‘It’s not easy, Mr Barclay. We can’t afford ter bring in decorators, and by the time I get ’ome from the Barfs I in’t ’ardly got time ter ’ave me supper and get ter bed.’
‘With great respect, Mr Lewis, that is your problem – not mine. And it has to be said that your previous landlord felt exactly the same way as I do.’
‘What, Mr Jackson?’ said Gracie, indignantly. ‘’E never asked us ter do any buildin’ work in the ’ouse. ‘’E always got uvver people ter do those sort of fings.’
Barclay was only too aware of the anxiety he was causing the Lewises. ‘Mrs Lewis,’ he said. ‘Have you ever read the terms of occupancy inside the back cover of your rent book?’
Gracie exchanged a puzzled look with Reg. ‘Why should we?’ she replied, naïvely. ‘We’ve always paid the rent on time.’
‘They state quite clearly that the cost of all building repairs to the fabric of both exterior and interior of the property shall be borne by the freeholder – that’s me. But—’ He wagged a scolding gloved finger at Gracie. ‘– the rent-holder shall be held responsible for the reasonable maintenance of good decorative order.’
‘Wot’s that supposed ter mean?’ asked Gracie, again naïvely.
‘It means we’ve gotta paint the place up,’ replied Reg, gloomily.
‘Precisely, Mr Lewis.’ There was nothing menacing in Barclay’s manner, and all the time he spoke he smiled politely. ‘It is, after all, only fair that you keep to your side of the arrangement – don’t you agree?’
Reg tried not to look at Gracie, who was clearly alarmed and distressed. ‘Mr Barclay,’ he said, after a brief moment’s thought. ‘Can I ask yer a question, please?’ His tongue licked his lips, which were parched dry with anxiety. ‘Mr Barclay. ‘Wot ’appens if we can’t find the cash ter do all this work?’
Barclay shrugged his shoulders and tried to look concerned. ‘What can I say, Mr Lewis? I’d have no alternative but to ask you to vacate the premises.’
‘Wot!’ Gracie’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Yer mean – yer’d throw us out?’
‘Mrs Lewis. I’m sure you know that the war has left a lot of people without decent homes.
Many of them would give their right hand to find accomodation like this. The Council has a long, long list of people waiting to be rehoused.’
‘But yer see, Mr Barclay – well – we don’t ’ave nowhere else ter go,’ Reg spluttered, hoping that Barclay would understand the desperate situation he and his family were in. ‘It’s not only me and Gracie. I’ve got my son, Frankie, ter fink about.’
If Reg Lewis had hoped that his plea for understanding would elicit Barclay’s sympathy, he was sadly mistaken. The mention of Frankie’s name was enough to seize up all the muscles in Barclay’s face, and his polite smile had a fixed glare. He had convinced himself that it was Frankie’s interference that was preventing him from getting his hands on Elsa’s shop, and that, if the only way to stop that interference was to put pressure on the boy’s parents, then that’s how it would have to be!’
‘I’d like to help you, Mr Lewis, I really would. But agreements have to be honoured. It is the law, you know.’
Frankie fumed with anger. Unknown to Barclay he had been listening to the entire conversation out of sight on the first-floor landing, and everything he heard confirmed his worst suspicions. He was now positive that Barclay had only bought number 1 Merton Street so that he could have some kind of a hold over the Lewis family. But, as he listened quietly at the staircase bannisters, he still didn’t know why.
‘Please, Mr Barclay.’ Gracie Lewis sounded as though she was begging. ‘There must be somefin’ yer can do ter ’elp?’
Barclay shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lewis, there is nothing I can do. Unless, of course –’
Gracie eagerly seized on his hesitation. ‘Yes?’
Barclay paused a moment, as though deep in thought. ‘If you really can’t do the work the house needs, there might be a place I could find for you in the country.’
Reg exchanged a puzzled look with Gracie. ‘The country? Yer mean – outside London?’
‘I have a friend who owns some small workmen’s cottages up in Shropshire. If you want, I could have a word with him?’
‘Shropshire?’ asked Gracie, utterly bewildered. ‘Where’s that?’
Our Street Page 31