Our Street

by Pemberton, Victor

  This was more that Maggs could bear. She quickly turned away and returned to the Ladies’ changing-room. When she came out a few minutes later, Frankie was waiting for her.

  ‘Maggs!’

  Maggs looked more hurt than angry. ‘Go away, Frankie. It’s quite pointless.’

  She started to make for the exit, but Frankie, still on skates struggled to follow her. ‘No, Maggs! Yer don’t understand. I din’t wanna dance wiv ’er! She dragged me on! She was up to ’er old tricks again!’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Maggs, at the exit. ‘And there was nothing you could do to stop her – is that it?’

  Frankie was beside himself. ‘I din’t know she was, ’ere, Maggs, ’onest ter God I din’t. She come ’ere wiv Jeff – Jeff Murray. She’s just split up wiv Alan.’

  ‘How very convenient for you!’ Maggs still didn’t raise her voice. She just turned and passed through the exit turnstile. But she stopped for a moment on the other side and called back, ‘Now you can have as many dances together as you like! And I hope you enjoy yourselves!’

  Elsa usually spent the best part of Sundays in bed at her house in number 19 Hadleigh Villas. She called it her ‘bliss day’ because it was the one day of the week that she didn’t have to go to the shop, and she could pamper herself by having tea and some lightly buttered toast at regular intervals whilst spending as much time as she liked reading the Sunday Chronicle and Picture Post from cover to cover. It was a little different today, however, for during the night she had not felt very well and had to get up several times. Apart from the bouts of nausea, which these days she was getting quite frequently, she had also been plagued with a fierce cough, which resulted in her spitting up some blood. As usual, she took little notice of it, only too aware that practically no part of her body was functioning properly. She therefore felt a little too tired and weak to go all the way down the stairs to make her toast and collect her newspaper. She decided to try and catch up on a little sleep.

  ‘Elsa! Where are yer, Elsa? Are yer still in bed?’

  ‘I’ll be down in just a minute, Frankie!’ she said, shouting out as loud as her weak little voice would allow. But Frankie’s arrival brought an eager smile to her face, and she got out of bed as quickly as she could. She was already wearing her long woollen dressing-gown, but before going she made quite sure that she did not forget to put on either her ginger-coloured hair-piece, or an instant application of powder and rouge.

  As Elsa came down the stairs to the hall, Frankie was pleased to see that she appeared calm and relaxed, and didn’t look quite as pale as when he had seen her in the shop the previous afternoon – even though she did seem to be wearing rather more rouge on her cheeks than usual.

  ‘I know this is your rest day, Elsa,’ Frankie said, breathlessly. ‘I’m really sorry ter get yer up.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Frankie?’ Elsa added as she reached the bottom stair. ‘I thought you were supposed to be spending the day with Maggs?’

  ‘It’s terrible, Elsa! It’s all over wiv ’er ’an me.’

  ‘What! What are you talking about?’

  ‘We went ice-skatin’ tergevver – up at ’Arringay.’ As he told Elsa what had happened, he was like a cat on hot bricks.

  Elsa put her hand up. ‘I blame you, Frankie. Whatever Patty did – you could have stopped her.’

  ‘No, Elsa! Yer don’t understand!’

  ‘Oh but I do understand. When a young man thinks that he is desirable to a young woman, he is vain enough to enjoy the experience. You enjoyed the experience, Frankie. That is why you did nothing to prevent it.’

  ‘But I ’ate Patty Jackson,’ complained Frankie. ‘I dunno why she keeps playin’ these tricks on me.’

  ‘Because she needs to have love in her life, Frankie. You should not be angry with her, – no. You should understand her. We all need love in some way or another. Without it, how can we feel wanted?’

  Frankie was confused. ‘I don’t understand, Elsa. ’Ow can I stop Patty Jackson doin’ fings like – well, like wot she did this mornin’?’

  Elsa stretched her hand across and covered his hand. ‘By being strong, Frankie. You’re not a boy any longer, you’re a man. If you don’t think before you act, you can hurt an awful lot of people.’

  ‘But it’s Maggs I love! I wouldn’t ’urt ’er fer all the tea in China.’

  ‘Then go and tell her!’ said Elsa firmly.

  ‘I can’t! I’ve been up to ’er ’ouse and ’er mum and dad keep tellin’ me she don’t wanna see me!’

  Elsa made a dismissive sound with her mouth. ‘Nonsense! Do you love this girl – or don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I love ’er!’

  ‘Then tell her so!’

  It was four o’clock by the time Frankie reached Canonbury Square. It was a Sunday afternoon and there was no one around. Frankie had a sudden vision of all the residents either having a snooze or listening to a play on the wireless.

  Propping his bike up against a lamp-post, Frankie quickly made his way to the front door of the Fletchers’ house. When he had called earlier, Jennifer and Sidney had both come to the door to tell him that their daughter wanted nothing more to do with him. They had conveyed their message reluctantly, for once Maggs started bringing Frankie to tea, they had warmed to him, although they were appalled by his fractured London accent.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frankie,’ Jennifer Fletcher said now, looking sad and anxious. ‘Maggs is up in her bedroom and she’s told me that she won’t come down to see you for any reason at all.’

  ‘Fank yer very much, Mrs Fletcher,’ replied Frankie, politely. ‘Would yer mind tellin’ Maggs from me that if she don’t come down, I’m goin’ ter yell my ’ead off ’til she does?’ And, with a cheeky smile, he added, ‘I’d ’ate ter wake up the ’ole of Canonbury . . .’

  In her bedroom a few minutes later, Maggs was resisting the endless shouts and chanting from Frankie on the pavement below.

  ‘I love Maggs! I love Maggs! Where are yer, Maggs? Where are yer?’

  Maggs couldn’t have been more embarrassed. There was no doubt that every resident in Canonbury Square would be peering out of their windows to see what all the noise was about. So, finally, she opened her own window, and called down.

  ‘Go away, Frank! I’ve told you – I never want to see you again!’

  From her window on the top floor of the tall house, Frankie seemed no more than a slight figure on the pavement below. But his yelling more than made up for it, for it boomed out above the passing traffic on its way to nearby Chapel Street and Highbury Corner.

  ‘Come down, Maggs! I want ter see yer!’

  ‘And I don’t want to see you, Frank! If you don’t go away, my father will call the police!’

  ‘Just let me explain, Maggs. That’s all I ask! Please?’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain!’ Maggs suddenly realised that she was yelling out just as loud as Frankie, so she quickly lowered her voice. ‘There’s nothing to explain! Go back to Patty Jackson. You can tell her!’

  ‘Please, Maggs! Please!’ Frankie fell to his knees as if praying. Then he picked up a roll of white cardboard, straightened it out, and held it out for her to read the large words he had printed out in black ink. And, as he held it up for her to see, chanting ‘Maggs! Maggs! Maggs!’ windows were being thrown open all around the Square.

  Maggs leaned out of her window as far as she dared, and strained to see what Frankie had written:

  I LUV YOU

  Maggs started to laugh. And so did all the other residents of the Square who were peering out of their windows, and applauding.

  A few minutes later, much to the relief of Jennifer and Sidney Fletcher, their daughter went off for a stroll with Frankie Lewis . . .

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The third week of April 1947 was still very cold and many people, especially the elderly, found it difficult to pay the huge electricity bills. Practically every industry seemed to be going on strike, and, as a
lways, it was the public at home that suffered. In the House of Commons, Attlee and Churchill clashed daily on how the country should or should not be run, and these days Elsa hardly ever read her News Chronicle because it was full of gloom and doom and full of endless articles about how and when India was going to be given independence.

  The only person who seemed to be happy was Frankie, for now that Maggs had forgiven him for the silly Patty Jackson encounter at Harringay Arena, he felt that life was really worth living again. Things were also looking more promising at number 1 Merton Street, for Frankie had not only plastered all the cracks and holes but had painted the walls and ceilings in practically every room in the house. With less than a week to go to the expiry of Jack Barclay’s ultimatum, Frankie felt that he could confidently leave the decorating of the stairs and landing to Reg and Gracie.

  The shop, too, had undergone a transformation. Once the builders had finished their repair work, Elsa paid them extra to paint the place for her, because she had firmly refused to allow Frankie to do decorating work both at home and in the shop. It took a long time and a lot of hard work to put all the secondhand goods back on show again, but Frankie got Maggs to help him, and, by the time they had finished, the place looked just like Aladdin’s Cave. The only one who didn’t care for the new look was Winston, who sniffed disdainfully at the new paint and seemed to prefer the old, worn lino and his own scratch-marks on the back-room door.

  In the last few weeks or so Frankie had also been building up a nice collection of regular customers, and for the first time there were signs that business was picking up. But despite his determination to make the shop a good business proposition, Frankie was becoming increasingly concerned about Elsa’s health. These days she took twice as long to walk the short distance from Hadleigh Villas as she used to, and when she got there she spent most of the day sitting in a wicker chair staring out of the window. But she absolutely denied there was anything wrong. For Frankie, it was a tragedy, but when he came to work on the last Wednesday of the month, he at least found a way of cheering her up.

  ‘’Ere, Elsa! Wot d’yer fink of this?’

  Elsa turned from her mug of tea to find Frankie had tried on an overcoat and a bowler hat that were at least four sizes too big for him. It did bring a huge smile to her face. ‘Frankie,’ she said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Wot’s up? Don’t it suit me or somefin’?’ He quickly discarded both coat and hat. ‘OK, then. ’Ow about this?’ He disappeared behind a rail of secondhand coats and jackets and after a short pause reappeared, this time wearing a lady’s feather boa and huge cartwheel hat.

  This time, Elsa roared with laughter. ‘Frankie! You are such an idiot!’

  Once he had started to raise her spirits, Frankie was determined to go on, so for the next few minutes he made a succession of quick-changes of coats, jackets, workmen’s overalls, vast-sized wellington boots, and a variety of different styled hats – both men and women’s. Then he went across to an old upright piano, which had been waiting to be sold ever since he first started to work in the shop. Opening the lid, he pounded out the most awful sounds on the keyboard with his fists, and pretended that he was accompanying himself as he sang ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ in the most dreadful soprano voice. Winston raised his nose towards the ceiling and began howling his head off too.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ called Elsa, who for a few brief moments had forgotten her frail condition. ‘An actor! I always knew that you were an actor!’

  As Elsa applauded his performance, Frankie bowed deeply. ‘Fank yer! Fank yer!’ Then, still acting the fool, he leaned forward and announced triumphantly: ‘Yer in’t seen nuffin’ yet!’

  Jack Barclay arrived at Number 1 Merton Street just as Reg Lewis was listening to the six o’clock evening news on the wireless. Gracie had been painting all day and was now perched on top of the stepladder finishing off part of the ceiling above the narrow first-floor landing.

  ‘So wot’ d’yer fink, Mr Barclay? Not bad for amateurs, eh?’

  Reg hadn’t felt so good for a long time, for every room that he took Barclay into smelt of fresh paint, and the place positively gleamed with loving care and attention.

  ‘You’ve done very well, Mr Lewis – I have to admit.’ As he looked up at ceilings and inspected walls, Barclay appeared to be impressed by the transformation. In reality, of course, the last thing he wanted was for the Lewises to keep to the terms and conditions in their rent book, because that would mean he would have no power to evict them. And evict them he must, for getting this wretched family out of the neighbourhood was the only way, as he saw it, to block Frankie Lewis’s ever-growing influence over his sister-in-law.

  In the kitchen, Reg eagerly pointed up to the ceiling where only a few weeks ago there had been an ugly hole revealing the wooden slats. ‘Just look at that! You’d never know there’d been an ’ole up there. Be ’honest now – would yer!’

  ‘Very good,’ agreed Barclay, nodding his head. ‘Really very good.’

  ‘An yer know who done it, don’t yer? Not any of these jerry builders – oh no! It was our young Frank!’

  ‘Really?’ Barclay tried hard to disguise the coolness in his voice. Once again he had miscalculated Frankie’s shrewdness. The boy had clearly accepted Barclay’s challenge – and won. No court in the land would allow him to evict a family who had refurbished his property to such a high standard. ‘Very impressive,’ he said, the words practically sticking in his throat.

  They finished up in the hall passage, where Gracie, now balancing precariously at the top of the ladder, could hear them talking.

  ‘So where do we stand now, Mr Barclay?’

  Reg felt so good that he took out some already rolled fags from his tobacco tin, and offered Jack one. Barclay smiled courteously and shook his head.

  ‘We’ve met yer deadline – three days early, eh?’ Reg lit his fag and excitedly blew out smoke. ‘I trust that means yer won’t frow us out onter the streets now?’

  ‘No, not at all, Mr Lewis. I’m delighted what you’ve done here. It does you great credit—’ He called up the stairs to Gracie. ‘All of you!’

  Gracie ignored him and carried on working while Reg beamed with pride and immediately exhaled a circle of blue smoke from his fag.

  ‘However,’ continued Barclay, as he made his way towards the front door, ‘now that you’ve made such a good job of the place, it is worth considerably more so I’m afraid this means a much higher weekly rent.’

  ‘Wot!’ Reg swallowed some smoke, and had a violent coughing fit.

  ‘Wot yer talkin’ about?’ Gracie called down the stairs. ‘You only put it up a little while ago!’

  ‘You have to realise, Mrs Lewis,’ Barclay called back, ‘that this house is now a valuable asset. There are plenty of potential tenants around who would pay a good deal of money to live in a beautifully decorated place like this.’

  Reg, at a loss for words, was spluttering helplessly. ‘But . . . you was the one that insisted we do this ’ouse up. We’d never ’ave done it unless . . .’

  ‘You sod!’ yelled Gracie, brandishing her paintbrush from the top of the stepladder. ‘You got us ter do up this place so’s you could make money out of it! Crafty old bleeder!’

  ‘All I have ever asked you to do, Mrs Lewis,’ Barclay called up the stairs, ‘is to return this property to the good state of repair that is called for in the terms of your rent agreement and you have complied with those terms. And, as the freeholder of this property, I intend to implement my right to charge whatever rent I consider appropriate. Good morning!’

  With that, Barclay tipped his hat to Reg and left.

  ‘Yer soddin’ old rat-bag!’ Gracie yelled down the stairs. ‘Money-grabbin’ old sod!’

  ‘Don’t Grace! It won’t do any good!’ Reg yelled back at her.

  ‘After all we’ve done!’ Gracie shrieked hysterically. ‘After all the hard work Frankie’s put into this place . . .!’

  �
��Stop it, Grace! It’s not worth gettin’ upset.’

  ‘I’ll tear ’is bleedin’ guts out!’

  Reg suddenly noticed that the ladder was creaking badly. ‘Be careful, Grace! Don’t move about on that ladder!’

  But Gracie was too worked up. ‘’Ow could someone do a fing like that! The old sod! The schemin’ old git . . .!’

  As Gracie spoke, the stepladder suddenly collapsed beneath her and her terrified scream carried right to the top of the house.

  ‘Grace . . .!’

  Reg’s horrified shout could be heard outside in the street. But it was too late. Before he could reach her, Gracie came tumbling down the entire flight of stairs.

  At about the same time, Frankie locked up the shop, and, with Winston leading the way on his leash walked Elsa back home to Hadleigh Villas. Arm in arm, they strolled very slowly along Tollington Road, stopping every now and then to look at some quite ordinary things that neither had noticed before. First it was a street door that had recently been painted in a totally unsuitable bright red. Then they saw a white cat with each eye a different colour and a chopped-off tail. As they passed the creature, it arched its back and hissed at Winston, who totally ignored it, and across the road at the Globe pub, they could hear old Florrie thumping away at the upright piano, urging the early evening customers to yell their heads off in a rowdy chorus of ’Allo! ’Allo! Who’s yer lady friend?

  As they turned into Berriman Road, they caught two small boys and a young girl crouched on the kerbside together, passing a fag around between them. They couldn’t have been aged more than nine or ten years.

  ‘Stupid! All of you stupid!’ Elsa yelled brandishing her walking-stick at them to let them know that she meant business. She and Frankie watched all three rush off, shrieking and yelling abuse at her until they disappeared over the debris of the blitzed houses alongside the railway line in Tollington Road.

  ‘What is their future, Frankie?’ Elsa asked. ‘What is the future for all you children of the war? Sometimes, I wonder.’ For a brief moment she raised her head to look up at the sky. For the third time that week it was very overcast, and the dark grey clouds were low and intimidating. But when she felt the cold breeze caressing her cheeks, Elsa closed her eyes and smiled. It was a strange smile, one that Frankie had never seen before, as though in her mind she was having a loving conversation with somebody. Then, quite unexpectedly, with her head still raised up towards the sky and her eyes closed, she squeezed Frankie’s arm with her own arm, and said, ‘Oh, I’m so pleased to know you, Misster Frankie Lewis!’