Rising Summer

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘That’s better,’ said Aunt May, who obviously thought some straightforward talk was desirable. ‘According to your wife, you’re a nice reasonable man when you’re not one over the eight. It’s not a bit reasonable to go roaring about after your children and walloping the little loves, is it?’

  ‘Little loves? Gawd give me strength,’ bellowed Alf. ‘D’yer know what the young perishers went an’ done while I was at work this mornin’? Pinched me Sunday watch an’ chain an’ bleedin’ pawned it for pocket money.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Aunt May wryly. Then, brightening up, she said, ‘Never mind, Mr Cook, it could have been worse, they could have dropped it down a drain. What a blessing they only pawned it.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell—’

  ‘Now, Mr Cook, not in front of young Tim, if you don’t mind,’ said Aunt May.

  ‘Young Tim?’ bawled Alf. ‘That there young Tim’s a bleedin’ rip. Didn’t ’e stand on me Billy’s foot last week, didn’t ’e near tread Billy’s foot to bleedin’ death? I asks yer, didn’t ’e?’

  ‘Did you do that, Tim?’ asked Aunt May.

  ‘Best thing at the time, Aunt May,’ I said, ‘he was trying to turn Lily Burns upside-down.’

  ‘Oh, poor little Lily,’ said Aunt May, ‘I just hope that’ll be a lesson to Billy. And you, Mr Cook.’

  ‘You done, May Hardy, ’ave yer?’ said Alf.

  ‘Yes, that’s all, Mr Cook,’ said Aunt May.

  Muttering, Alf went back home, looking as if he’d lost a painful argument.

  Aunt May wasn’t very pleased when the country had gone to war against Hitler in 1939. On the other hand, if there was one person who could really get her goat it was Germany’s raving Führer. Late in 1940, with a slightly sad look, she saw me off to a Royal Artillery training camp.

  It was a relief to her that so far I hadn’t been blown up. The battery had had a busy time during the night-bombing raids in 1941, but nothing fell on us. We were in Essex then, close enough to London to see its sky lurid with the glare of flames and to worry about what was happening to families. Walworth caught it, along with other inner London boroughs and Aunt May spent lots of nights in public air raid shelters, where she was no doubt a cheerful help to the nervous.

  I was very fond of Aunt May and it was nice to be home with her again.

  ‘I hoped you’d be in time for lunch,’ she said, ‘I’m going to do liver, with fried tomatoes and mashed potatoes. The butcher let me have the liver when I said you were coming home.’

  ‘There’s a good old girl,’ I said, and handed out a cuddle myself.

  ‘I’ll give you old,’ she said and went out to the gas cooker in the scullery to start the lunch. I followed, with two packets.

  ‘Here you are,’ I said, ‘bacon for our breakfast and kippers for our tea this evening. And I’ve got a dozen eggs in my valise.’

  ‘Bacon?’ said Aunt May, looking happy.

  ‘A dozen rashers at least.’

  ‘Where did you get all that many?’ she asked, putting the liver on.

  ‘Back of a lorry?’

  ‘Now, Tim, you know I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘They’re perks, Aunt May.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Aunt May understood about perks. She thought all servicemen were entitled to perks. ‘And the eggs are from your village friends?’

  ‘Yes, the Beavers. I’ve told you about them.’

  ‘My, they’ve done well for a family not used to life in the country,’ said Aunt May. ‘And did you say kippers as well?’

  ‘Look.’ I unwrapped the kippers. They were fat, golden-brown and shiny. I put them on a plate in the larder.

  ‘Kippers,’ said Aunt May, ‘well, you’re doing me proud, Tim.’

  ‘Mind you, I had to hit Charlie Chipper a couple of times before he coughed up from under his stall. And I told him that as a reward, you’d meet him up the park on Sunday in your best hat and frillies.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ said Aunt May. ‘Here, just a moment, what d’you mean, my best hat and frillies? You saucy devil. I’ll have a little more respect from you, if you don’t mind.’ She took a look at potatoes that were on the boil. She was smiling.

  ‘We’ll have an early kipper tea before we go out,’ I said.

  ‘Go out?’ Aunt May turned the potatoes out in a colander over the sink, then put them back in the saucepan to mash them. ‘Go out, Tim?’

  ‘Yes, time I treated you. Let’s go to the first evening performance of the Crazy Gang show.’ Seeing as it was wartime and London was full of people looking for a dose of escapism, the Crazy Gang were giving two performances every evening.

  ‘You don’t want to take me,’ said Aunt May, giving the potatoes a drubbing and watching the frying liver.

  ‘Why don’t I? You’re pretty—’

  ‘Don’t go mad,’ said Aunt May, laughing. I took over the mashing of potatoes and she pushed the liver pieces about and turned them.

  ‘Then there’s all the cuddles and apple pie I’ve had from you,’ I said. ‘You’re overdue for a treat.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Aunt May, ‘but why don’t you take some nice girl? There’s Meg Fowler just round the corner in Turquand Street and just home on leave herself from the Waafs. She looks really nice in her uniform and I’m sure she’s got a soft spot for you.’

  ‘Some soft spot. She knocked me flying only two weeks after we moved here. Fourteen she was at the time and she knocked me flying. What’s she going to get up to now she’s twenty and wears a uniform?’

  Aunt May said, ‘I’d like to know what you were getting up to yourself at the time.’

  ‘I was shouting for help. Well, all right, Aunt May, tell you what, I’ll walk round and see her this afternoon. If she’s fixed up for this evening, that’s it. I’ll take you instead. We can get there early and find a place in the upper-circle queue.’

  ‘All right,’ smiled Aunt May. ‘If it happens, I’ll put my best hat on.’

  We had lunch in the kitchen. The kitchen was like Aunt May herself, bright and cheerful. It looked out on to the yard. The window threw welcome light over the wallpaper, patterned with plump red roses and over the linoleum floor, except during the foggy days of winter. But then the glowing coals of the range fire offered consoling heat to chilled limbs.

  I often wondered why Aunt May seemed such a contented woman. She only had me and I couldn’t count myself as all that special. It was certain I wasn’t going to set the world alight as an insurance clerk and heap diamonds and furs on her. She might have had a lot more than she did have. She’d been engaged after the First World War, but lost her soldier fiancé when he was killed in Russia. She’d spoken about him sometimes in her open way and I felt she’d loved him very much. She said he was a man who cared about people, which made him the best kind of man.

  ‘Well, you’re the best kind of woman, Aunt May,’ I said at the time.

  ‘Not so bad yourself, are you?’ she said.

  ‘First-class mutual admiration society, that’s what we are,’ I said.

  ‘Well, we get along, Tim love, don’t we?’ she said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘WELL, LOOK WHO’S here,’ said Aircraftswoman Meg Fowler when she saw me on her doorstep.

  ‘Mind my braces,’ I said.

  ‘Mind your what?’

  ‘They’re the King’s military braces, so are my trousers.’

  ‘Same old Tim, same old chat,’ said Meg, fair hair rolled, Waaf shirt improperly buttoned.

  ‘It’s come undone,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll buy it,’ said Meg, ‘what has?’

  ‘That button.’

  Meg looked down at herself. ‘Crikey, how did that ’appen?’ she asked.

  ‘Social manoeuvres, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Make a change from military manoeuvres. Do yerself up before your mum spots it.’

  Meg did the button up. ‘Still a comic, aren’t yer?’ she said.

  ‘Wish I was, I might make
a bit of money with the Crazy Gang. Listen, old darling, fancy going up to see their show this evening? Early performance?’

  ‘Oh, yer stinker,’ said Meg, ‘why didn’t yer ask before now? I bet you left it too late on purpose, you’ve spent years bein’ a disappointment to me. I’ve promised to let Bob Micklewright take me to the flicks.’

  ‘Dear Jesus,’ I said, ‘is he still alive?’ We were in her mum’s parlour now.

  ‘Well, he’s still walkin’ and talkin’,’ said Meg.

  ‘He was doing all that years ago, Meg. What is he, seventy now?’

  ‘I’ll bleedin’ hit you,’ said Meg.

  ‘You would too.’

  ‘You bet I would. What d’you mean by it, comin’ round to ask me out at this short notice and catchin’ me already fixed up with Bob Micklewright? And what d’you mean, seventy, you daft cuckoo? He’s just a bit mature, that’s all and ’ave you seen what the war’s left in Walworth these days? Not a decent upstandin’ bloke in sight. I’m surprised you didn’t get jumped on by all the local tarts on your way round here, you’re a sight for sore eyes, you are.’

  ‘You’re growing up pretty good yerself, Meg, I like the look of your shirt.’

  ‘Watch it,’ said Meg. ‘Still, tell me more, give me legs a mention.’

  ‘Nice you’ve got two,’ I said. ‘Well, pity you’re fixed up this evening. Never mind, can’t be helped. Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Wait a minute, you ratbag,’ said Meg, ‘there’s tomorrow, yer know, and Monday and Tuesday and so on.’

  ‘So there is,’ I said. Meg was an old neighbourly mate of mine and had been a real Walworth tomboy in her younger days. ‘OK, I’ll take you out tomorrow morning, we’ll go to morning church.’

  ‘We’ll whatter?’ asked Meg.

  ‘It’ll please the vicar, I’ll call for you at five to eleven.’

  ‘Blow that for a lark,’ said Meg, ‘I didn’t come home on leave to go on church parade, you barmy teacake.’

  ‘I’ll bring Aunt May as well.’

  Wallop. Meg thumped me in the chest, then did her best to shut me up by trying to stuff a chair cushion into my mouth. It sat me down. The cushion began to swing, narrowly missing family ornaments on the mantelpiece as she swiped my head with it. I wondered what the war was doing to women, I didn’t think it was improving them. If they weren’t going after GIs, they were getting rid of all the virtues I held dear in them. Aunt May, of course, was an exception.

  ‘What’s going on in here?’ I asked.

  ‘Bleedin’ murder,’ said Meg.

  ‘What’s going on in my parlour?’ called her mum from somewhere.

  ‘Ruddy murder,’ called Meg.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ called her mum, who knew her boisterous daughter, ‘only be a bit more quiet about it, can you, love?’

  Meg gave me a final swipe.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘let’s go out tomorrow afternoon, let’s take a bus ride to Hyde Park, like we used to when we first met.’

  Meg let a little grin show. ‘You looked at my knickers when I was growing up,’ she said.

  ‘Couldn’t help it, could I, when you were always standing on your head,’ I said. ‘But all right, I won’t look tomorrow, not in Hyde Park, nor on the bus.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a promise, is it?’ she said. ‘It sounds like you’re goin’ to be a disappointment to me again.’ Meg said things like that. They were all bluff. Meg was going to keep herself to herself until she met a bloke who she recognized as just her type. Someone like a hammer-thrower. And as far as I was concerned, I didn’t go in for mucking about with young ladies. Aunt May was strictly against that kind of thing and she’d brought me up to behave myself. A girl once asked me if I’d always behaved as if I was in Sunday School. I said not half, it stopped girls’ dads coming after me with a meat axe.

  ‘OK, Meg,’ I said, ‘pick you up at two-thirty.’

  ‘Well, Tim?’ smiled Aunt May when I got back.

  ‘I bring good news,’ I said.

  ‘Not before time,’ said Aunt May. ‘You should have suitable company when you’re on leave. Meg’s a lively girl, you’ll enjoy a nice evening out with her and it doesn’t have to be serious.’ That meant Meg was suitable company, but not to be considered as a serious prospect.

  ‘No, Meg’s not coming,’ I said, ‘she’s going to the flicks tonight with Bob Micklewright. I’m taking you.’

  ‘You said good news.’ Aunt May was rolling dough on the kitchen table. ‘That’s not good news.’

  ‘It’s good enough for me,’ I said, ‘so you can get your best hat ready.’

  Aunt May shook her head and laughed. ‘You’re a funny one, Tim,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to get down to being serious sometime.’

  ‘There’s a war on, old girl, that’s serious enough at the moment. Let’s get that over with first.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t help thinking about your future,’ said Aunt May, ‘I’m not going to have you turning into a stuffy bachelor.’

  ‘Listen, I’m only twenty-two.’

  ‘All the same,’ she said. I think she’d spent the last twenty years with my future in mind. But what about herself? What would her future be like if I got married? I honestly didn’t like the thought of Aunt May being alone.

  ‘What’re you making?’ I asked.

  ‘A plum pie for tomorrow’s dinner with some bottled plums.’

  ‘You lovely old darling,’ I said.

  ‘Watch your tongue, young man,’ said Aunt May, ‘you’ll be putting wrinkles on me next.’

  ‘Not you,’ I said. She didn’t have a single wrinkle, she looked nowhere near her age. The man who’d have married her if he hadn’t lost his life in revolutionary Russia, had missed years of lovely living with Aunt May.

  We had an early tea. The fat kippers were first-class. When we left the house Aunt May looked a treat in a spring coat and her nicest hat. She knew how to wear clothes. We took a bus up West and got on the tail of the queue for the upper circle of the theatre. The West End had a colourful atmosphere because of the sunshine, the girls and the many different uniforms.

  The country was suffering strict rationing at home and perils abroad. In 1940 and 1941 it had suffered bombs at home. London houses and buildings had been flattened and this made the old place look ruined in parts. But fat old Goering’s Luftwaffe hadn’t flattened spirits and the people themselves didn’t look ruined. The West End swarmed with pleasure-seekers, particularly Americans, who knew how to enjoy themselves. Nor did they waste time asking if there were any rules. They picked up cockney girls and suburban girls with no effort at all. They had no inhibitions when it came to making the necessary approach.

  Aunt May’s spring coat, bright hat and young-looking appearance put her in the firing line. I wasn’t in the least surprised when a veteran GI, a sergeant who looked as if he might have served as a rookie doughboy in 1918, advanced on the queue with his eyes on Aunt May.

  ‘Pardon me, bud,’ he said, ‘you doing anything special with your sister?’

  ‘No, nothing specially special, just queueing,’ I said. ‘And how did you know she was my sister?’

  ‘Family likeness, I guess,’ he said. He was having me on, of course, and paying Aunt May a compliment. ‘I’m a loner right now. My date took one look at my best friend and pranced off with him. I guess my maturity put her off. How about asking your sister if I could borrow her for the evening? I’ve a coupla stalls’ tickets for the Strand Theatre and we could catch some eats at Romano’s joint afterwards. I’ll see her home, bud, give you my word.’

  ‘Well, there you are, sis,’ I said to Aunt May, who had a laugh in her eyes, of course. ‘D’you fancy the Strand Theatre with this American gent?’

  ‘Ask the gentleman if he’s married,’ said Aunt May as the queue began to move forward.

  ‘Are you married?’ I asked the mature Yank.

  ‘Sure am. To Alma McKinley of Chicago. Only she’s over there and I’m
over here. You can see my problem.’

  ‘Yes, ruddy hard luck, mate,’ I said, ‘but my sister doesn’t go out with married men. And she’s shy, anyway, aren’t you, sis?’

  ‘I’m overcome,’ said Aunt May.

  ‘Hell, ain’t that a shame?’ said the sergeant. ‘All the same, nice talking to the both of you. Enjoy the show. I’ve seen it myself, it’s a hoot. So long, guys.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I said and off he went to search for other talent.

  Aunt May was having hysterics. ‘You’ll be my death one day, Tim,’ she said, ‘all that funny talk of yours.’

  The show was a riot. Bud Flanagan, Chesney Allen, Nervo and Knox and the rest of the Crazy Gang cracked their wartime jokes, took off army generals and ATS commandants, bashed each other, tore about the stage and chucked things at the audience. The whole theatre kept erupting. Aunt May laughed until her tears ran.

  When we got home we put together a pot of tea and some fried bacon sandwiches, a Walworth speciality. We listened to the Saturday night wireless programme and to the news. The news was all about how the Allies were doing. They were doing fine, apparently. Someone ought to be telling that to the Japs and Germans. It might make them give in.

  When it was time for bed, Aunt May said, ‘It was a lovely evening, Tim.’

  ‘Can’t be bad, can it, an evening with the Crazy Gang?’

  ‘But take a nice girl out next time,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’m making an effort with Meg tomorrow,’ I said. ‘We’re going to wander around Hyde Park. Simple and healthy stuff.’

  ‘Meg’s good company,’ said Aunt May.

  ‘So are you. Aunt May, don’t you get lonely sometimes?’

  ‘Now, how can anyone get lonely in Walworth?’ she said. ‘Walworth is full of neighbours and doorsteps.’

  ‘I wonder sometimes if you couldn’t have had a lot more than you have had,’ I said.

  ‘Now, how can you say that after we’ve had twenty years together?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘They’ve all been worthwhile, love, every one.’

  Meg enjoyed Hyde Park. She wasn’t a girl to get bored if she wasn’t riding the moon. Hyde Park was a green playground and the afternoon was bright. She looked swingy in her uniform and ready for fun, as long as it wasn’t the kind of fun where she had to fight her way out of it. She helped boys to sail their toy boats on the Serpentine, much to their delight. There was a regiment of smart-looking Yanks about and several arrived to give Meg and the boys some American advice on the sailing of boats. A broad-shouldered wallop of a GI began to take Meg over. He thought that as a Waaf she was cute. Meg was responsive. She liked extrovert males. This one said he was Steve Schuster from New Jersey. He and Meg seemed like kindred spirits. They exchanged stories of their lives and both seemed to have enjoyed tearaway years.