Reg knew exactly where it was. ‘We couldn’t do that, Mr Barclay. Shropshire’s miles away. What do I do about my job at the Barffs?’
Barclay shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sure there are Public Bath Houses in Shropshire, too, Mr Lewis.’
‘But wot about our Frankie? It’d break ’is ’eart ter ’ave ter leave the Jumble Shop.’
‘I realise that,’ Barclay replied, with a sympathetic smile. ‘But I can assure you it would be for the best. For some time now my sister-in-law has been wanting to close down her shop – with her health the way it is, the place has become rather a burden for her. The only reason she stays there is – well – because of your son.’
On the landing upstairs, Frankie nearly had a fit. Blackmail! He very nearly shouted it out at the top of his voice. So that’s what the old sod was up to! He wanted him, Frankie, out of the way so that Elsa had no one to take her side. The crafty, conniving old –!
‘So you see, a move to the country could be a blessing in disguise – for all three of you.’ Barclay paused just long enough to flick a quick glance at the Lewises. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Reg and Gracie exchange a muddled look. They clearly didn’t know what to think.
‘Yer see – we’re Londoners born and bred, Mr Barclay,’ said Reg, finally.
And Gracie added, We don’t know nuffin’ about livin’ in the country.’
‘Very well,’ replied Barclay, briskly. ‘That’s settled that then. Let’s say I give you – shall we say. . . six weeks to complete the work.’
‘Six weeks!’ Reg was horrified.
So was Gracie. ‘We’d never get all these rooms painted up and plastered in six weeks! We don’t know anyfin’ about decoratin’.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lewis. I’m afraid it’s the best I can do for you.’ He made one last entry on his clipboard. ‘Let’s say – the last day of April, shall we?’
After he left, Reg and Gracie went into the back parlour and flopped down on to facing chairs.
‘Wot are we goin’ ter do?’ Gracie sat with her arms crossed in her lap, swaying slightly to and fro.
Reg was utterly drained. ‘I don’t know, Gracie. I ’aven’t a clue.’
‘Well I ’ave!’
They looked up with a start as Frankie came into the room.
‘If that old sod finks ’e’s goin’ ter get away wiv this – well, ’e ain’t!’ He leaned on the table with both hands, shaking with anger. ‘I ’eard everythin’ ’e said, and I know exactly wot ’e’s up to. But I’m telling you ’ere an’ now – we’re not movin’ from this ’ouse. We’re stayin’ right where we are!’
Reg waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t talk bloody nonsense, son! We don’t ’ave the loot ter do no paintin’ and decoratin’.’
‘An’ even if we did,’ chimed in Gracie, ‘we wouldn’t ’ave a clue ’ow ter do it.’
‘You may not ’ave,’ snapped Frankie, thumping his fist firmly on the table. ‘But I ’ave!’
During the next few days, Frankie was like a whirlwind. The first thing he did was to go through every secondhand book in the shop to find an instruction book about painting and decorating, and the one he eventually chose was clearly intended for builders for it contained wonderful step-by-step illustrations on how to plaster walls and ceilings. The next thing he did was to go to Elsa and borrow five pounds, which he promised to pay back in instalments. The money was needed to buy several tins of paint, and also some lime and sand to make up plaster for the ceilings and walls. Then he set about practising on a small hole in the wall in the back parlour. Working meticulously from the instruction book, the experiment was judged to be an astonishing success by both Reg and Gracie Lewis. The real test, however, was yet to come.
Using the only stepladder the family had ever possessed, a rickety old wooden contraption that hadn’t been used for years, Frankie started to repair the cracks and holes in the walls and ceilings in different parts of the house. His first attempt took several hours, for the plaster kept drying up on the trowel he had borrowed from Mr Mitchison, the caretaker of Pakeman Street School, and he had to keep running down into the back yard to add more water. When he had eventually finished, he left it overnight to set. The next morning his father went into his bedroom to tell him what he had never believed possible: Frankie’s plastering was an unqualified success.
And so, with Frankie in charge of the painting and decorating, his mum and dad helped him start the great facelift of number 1 Merton Street.
It was a welcome distraction from that great black cloud of April, which had now arrived overhead.
Gracie and Reg Lewis always said that it would be much too painful for them to go to Liverpool Street Station to say goodbye to Helen, Eric, and little Josie, but Frankie gradually talked them into it, saying that if they didn’t go they would regret it for the rest of their lives.
And so, at nine o’clock on one overcast morning in April, 1947, the Lewis and Sibley families gathered on the stark and featureless Platform 1 at Liverpool Street Station to watch their children take their leave of their birthplace and everyone and everything connected with it. There were many other families crowding on to the platform too, for the Boat Train to Tilbury was already packed with other hopefuls, all on their way to a new life in a strange country. Frankie and Maggs watched them, some weeping, some putting a brave face on a terrible ordeal.
‘I’ll write as soon as I get there, Mum – promise.’ Helen had one arm around her mother’s waist and another holding little Josie’s hand. ‘In any case, once we’ve got settled and made a bit o’ money, we’ll come back for a visit. Or maybe we’ll save up enuff fer you and dad ter come over and see us.’
Gracie smiled bravely. She knew that what Helen had suggested would not, and could not, ever happen. ‘As long as yer drop me a line from time ter time,’ she said, fixing her face into a smile. ‘I’d like a snapshot of Josie – just ter see ’ow she’s gettin’ on.’
Helen thought her heart would break. Only a couple of years ago she would have welcomed the idea of getting away from her mother and number 1 Merton Street. But as she watched Gracie lovingly cuddling her little grand-daughter for the last time, Helen wished that life could stop being so cruel . . .
Eric was finding it painful to say goodbye to his own parents. Phyll and Mick Sibley had been dreading this day and Eric’s married sister, Louie, was so upset by the thought of losing her young brother that her make-up was streaking down her cheeks. For several minutes, Eric hugged all three of them, none of them able to speak.
With only six or seven minutes to go before departure, Helen left her mother talking with Josie and went across to say her final farewells to Frankie and Maggs.
‘You two take care of yerselves, now,’ Helen said, her voice hoarse with emotion. ‘Yer’ve gotta lot of good fings comin’ up for yer.’ Then she turned to Maggs with as big a tearful smile as she could muster. ‘I fink yer’ a smashin’ gel, Maggs. If ’e lets you go – I’ll smash ’is face in!’
Although she also smiled, Maggs was having difficulty in holding back her own tears. ‘Have a safe journey, Helen.’ She leaned forward and the two girls hugged each other. ‘Don’t forget to make lots of money!’ Then Maggs moved away to allow Frankie a last minute alone with his sister.
For one brief moment, Frankie and Helen stared straight into each other’s eyes. Tears were running down Helen’s cheeks and Frankie’s face was a deathly white.
‘I’m going’ ter miss yer, ’Elen. Don’t forget all about us, will yer?’
‘Ferget you?’ Helen raised her hand, and gently touched her young brother’s face. ‘’Ow could I ever do a fing like that?’
Frankie was standing absolutely still, as if his legs were made of stone. ‘Goodbyes are a bugger, in’t they?’
Helen responded to this by throwing her arms around him, clasping him as tight to her as she possibly could.
‘Frank . . . Before I go, I want yer ter know somefin’.’ Helen
now had her head resting on his shoulder. ‘If it ’adn’t bin fer you, I wouldn’t ’ave wanted ter go on living. You’re special, Frank.’ The tears were now tumbling down her cheeks. ‘Yer know that, don’t yer?’
Frankie gradually eased her back and looked straight into her eyes. ‘’Elen. Are you sure yer know wot yer doin’?’
Helen swallowed hard, then slowly shook her head. ‘No, Frank. I’m not sure. But we ’ave ter try.’
And then it came. The one sound they had dreaded, the shrill blast of the train guard’s whistle.
Helen and Frankie quickly rushed across to join up for one last farewell with Gracie, Reg, and little Josie. For one breathless moment all five of them stood there in a small, poignant group, hugging each other. Then Eric helped Helen and little Josie to get into the train compartment where they had already left their luggage.
Last to get on was Eric, and before he did so, he hugged Frankie with a ‘Keep an eye on the Gunners for me, mate!’ After turning to give one last wave to his own parents, he pulled Gracie and Reg together, whispering ‘Fanks fer givin’ me ’Elen, you two. I promise I’ll take good care of ’er.’ Then he quickly leapt on to the train before he made an absolute fool of himself. Once on the train, Eric slammed the carrige door and immediately pulled down the window.
Helen’s face appeared at the open window and Eric lifted little Josie up to join her. Now three strangely lost faces peered down onto a platform brimming with other lost families, all of them struggling to understand why their lives were being thrown into such turmoil and anguish.
The train guard brought down the green flag, sounded his hated whistle for the final time, and gradually the train started to move off.
Watching it go, all huddled tightly together, the Lewis family couldn’t really hear what Helen or Eric or little Josie were calling to them because of the yelling and shouting and waving and whistling from the other relatives and friends, some of whom were running alongside the train as it gathered speed.
Frankie took a quick glance up at the huge, white-faced station clock which was suspended over the concourse. Its black hands showed that it was exactly ten o’clock.
And, as the boat train disappeared on its journey to Tilbury and its even longer journey of hope and ambition to the other side of the world, all the Lewises could now see were three tiny, distant figures, waving and waving, until finally they became no more than a fleeting memory . . .
Chapter Twenty-eight
Frankie hadn’t been to Harringay Arena since the last years of the war. There used to be a time when he went ice-skating there regularly with the Merton Street gang, but after nearly a month of painting, decorating, and plastering every evening, a full day’s work at the jumble shop during the day, and the trauma of seeing Helen and Eric off to Australia, a couple of hours’ diversion with Maggs seemed like a good idea.
The Arena itself was enormous with a wide concrete concourse leading up to the main entrance turnstiles, a Greyhound Racing Stadium plonked right alongside, and a British Railways main line running between the two.
During the war, the Arena had been damaged several times by bombs and doodle-bugs, but it had escaped with nothing more serious than broken windows and a few holes in the vast roof caused by incendiary bombs and stray pieces of white-hot shrapnel from anti-aircraft fire.
As soon as they got there, Maggs could see that Frankie loved the place, for, after paying a shilling each for their skate hire, he couldn’t wait to lace up his boots and get on to the ice. As Maggs had never been ice-skating before, she suggested that Frankie go off on his own for a while and while she waited for him to come back she was left to struggle around the edge of the rink, clutching on desperately to the wooden barriers with the rest of the beginners. Frankie, though, was like a professional ice-skater as he rushed off at an enormous speed, hands clasped behind his back, weaving in and out of the dazzling array of skaters wearing multi-coloured sweaters, gloves, and bobble-hats. With the sound of pop songs echoing out on a faulty Tannoy system from the Hammond Organ, Frankie was in seventh heaven.
But even in Harringay Arena, exhilaration was to be short-lived.
‘’Ow are yer, Frank?’ said a familiar voice. ‘Long time no see!’
‘’Allo, Jeff.’ Despite the lingering resentment he still felt for his former mate from the Merton Street gang, Frankie shook his hand. ‘’How long ’ave yer bin ’ome then?’
‘Got five days’ compassionate leave. My old man died.’
To Frankie, this seemed an odd kind of place to hear this kind of news. ‘Oh – I’m sorry ter ’ear that.’
‘One of those fings, Frank.’ These days Jeff’s blond hair was short and regulation navy-cut, but it was still long enough to get ruffled during high-speed skating. He took out a comb from the inside pocket of his sailor’s monkey jacket, and started to comb it. ‘So when are you comin’ up fer your two years? Yer turned eighteen now, in’t yer?’
‘I go for my medical in a couple of weeks. I’m tryin’ ter get in the RAF.’
‘The RAF! Wot d’yer wanna be a Brylcreem boy for? Yer should join up wiv my mob. It’s a great life out at sea, yer know. An’ the pay’s good. Did yer know I was a signaller now?’
‘No, Jeff. I didn’t.’ Frankie felt a sense of despair. Although Jeff seemed noticeably more mature he still had a slightly bombastic manner. Why oh why, thought Frankie, did Jeff have to show off about being a signaller out at sea when everyone in Merton Street knew that he hadn’t set foot off dry land?
‘Did yer ’ear about Patty then?’ Jeff was already getting bored, and was looking everywhere else except at Frankie. ‘She’s left Alan.’
‘Wot!’
‘It was bound ter ’appen. Let’s face it – she only did it ter get someone. She didn’t really love ’im and Alan’s still posted out in Germany.’ Without warning, Jeff suddenly dashed off again, and, just to show his expertise, he went backwards this time, crossing one foot over the other, showing off his flashy style. But, to Frankie’s horror, he could just hear what Jeff called back as he disappeared into the seething mass of multi-coloured sweaters: ‘Patty’s around somewhere. I’ll tell ’er yer ’ere!’
Only a voice on the Tannoy system snapped Frankie out of his shock.
‘Clear the ice, please! Dance period begins.’
Frankie immediately joined the other skaters in getting off the ice and when he reached the wooden barrier on the dressing-room side of the rink, he looked around for Maggs. And then he remembered that he had arranged to meet her for a cup of tea in the Café bar, so he stepped carefully back on to the well-worn lino outside the barrier.
As he did so, his heart sank. Patty Jackson was coming towards him.
‘Good ter see yer again, Frank,’ She had put on a little weight, but it suited her. And she had grown her hair to about the same length that Maggs had hers – but Frankie found her skating frock much too short and he was embarrassed.
‘’Allo, Patty.’ He responded awkwardly. ‘I didn’t expect ter see you ’ere.’
‘Likewise.’ Patty smiled slightly. But the last year had softened her usual more mischievous expression.
‘I’m sorry to hear your news,’ he said, fumbling for something to say. ‘About you and Alan.’
Patty shrugged her shoulders. ‘Times change, Frank. So der people. That’s life.’
Both of them watched the last few skaters clear the ice in time for the dancing session.
‘So – ’ow’s that nice gel yer used ter ’ave?’
‘Maggs is fine, thanks. She’s waitin’ for me in the Caff.’ He made a movement to leave, but Patty had other ideas.
‘We ’ad a lovely talk that evenin’, yer know,’ she said – ‘when we met at that dance at the Town ’All – remember? She told me all about yer,’ she said, with a twinkle in her voice. ‘Well – nuffin’ I didn’t know already . . .’
‘Sorry, Pat – I’ve gotta go.’
As he spoke, the Tannoy system sudden
ly burst forth with the sound of I’ll be Your Sweetheart. Before Frankie even had time to protest, Patty grabbed hold of his hand. ‘Come on, Frank! We ’aven’t ’ad a dance on the ice tergevver fer ages!’
Frankie tried to pull away. ‘No, Patty! I’ve gotta get back ter Maggs!’
But Patty held on, and tugged him harder until he had one skate back on the ice. ‘Oh, come on, Frank! She won’t mind!’
Before he could say another word, Frankie found himself back on the ice, partnered by Patty, joining the select group of dancers who were straggling on and showing off in time to the skating version of the foxtrot.
For the next few minutes, Frankie was on tenterhooks as his eyes scanned the whole Arena for a glimpse of Maggs. This clearly irritated Patty, for every now and then she tried to divert his attention by swirling him around to make him skate backwards.
While the dance was going on, Maggs had got fed up with waiting in the Café and decided to go and watch the dancers.
When she reached the barrier, it took her several minutes to notice that Frankie was involved on the ice with Patty, and that the two of them were dancing cheek to cheek.
Maggs watched with incredulity. She herself had seen what a terrible dancer Frankie was, but he had never at any time told her about his skill as a dancer – on ice. And so, for the next ten minutes, Maggs had to watch Frankie and Patty complete the entire dance period. Time and time again she thought she would just take her skates off and go home. But she decided the least she could do was to wait and talk to Frankie about not only his dancing, but also about the partner he was dancing with.
When the Hammond organ music finally came to an end with a false roll of drums and a clash of symbols, Patty suddenly slipped over on the ice pulling Frankie down on top of her. From where Maggs was standing she couldn’t tell whether it was deliberate or not, but she could see Frankie helping Patty up again. And then, to the accompaniment of cat-calls and wolf-whistles from some of the spectators, Maggs watched Patty fling her arms around Frankie’s neck, and kiss him passionately on the lips.
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