Late Night on Watling Street

by Bill Naughton

  One Saturday night I was dancing at the Floral Hall when the Ladies’ “Excuse me” dance came up before I’d time to get off the floor and have the usual ten-minute game of banker in the gents’ cloakroom. Naturally the dames were all after me. It was the time when I could dance. I mean I never had to ask for a dance. I used to stroll up to the corner where the girls all stood in a circle, the cream of the town’s dancers, and I’d run my eye over them, and the one my eye rested on would come running into the arm of my tight-sleeved pinstripe, barrelled jacket. Sometimes in their eagerness two would run out to me. If there happened to be a stranger, or one a bit posh, I might say, “Lend us your body, baby,” but no more than that.

  I had a rough passage in that “Excuse me”. Every stumer in the place wanted to have a dance with “Rudy”— as they called me—especially the ones who were up in town for their Saturday night hop. I knew I was making their weekend for them, but charity can go too far. There was one wench at the finish who dragged me round the floor, and who wouldn’t keep her damn big powdery chin off the lapel of my coat. Fortunately I was able to give the griffin to Harry, the leader of the band, and he cut the dance short.

  I got back to my mate, Eddie, and I said, “Did you see that heavy-legged ‘un who had me in tow, Eddie? My feet never touched the floor for five minutes.”

  “Don’t you know who that is?” said Eddie.

  “Who?” I said.

  “It’s Maggie,” he said, “the Cotton Town Beauty Queen.”

  Beauty Queens were only just coming in at that time, and, in fact, so far as we were concerned, you could have all the beauties there were—we’d dance with the ugliest girl in town, as long as she could move, was light, and could follow a new blues or a quick-step Charleston. But it was getting towards the end of the evening, and since a chap had to take some girl home, it struck me that it might as well be a Beauty Queen. If Eddie hadn’t told me what she was I don’t suppose I’d have given her a second thought, let alone look, but you know how it is with those things— the world’s opinion comes before your own.

  I had to have a dance with my star partner, Ramona, just to recover, but when they struck up the last waltz I went across to Maggie. She got the shock of her life. I lugged her round, and though it was the waste of a good dance—a thing I detested—yet I knew she could hardly refuse to let me see her home after my sacrifice. And she didn’t.

  She lived in Raikes Row, a twopenny tram ride out of town, which in those days was nearly four miles. Now this was well beyond the limit of seeing girls home. Anything over two miles and you only saw them to the tram, having your smooch or whatever you got beside the railway footbridge that led to the tram centre. But being a Beauty Queen, I thought she was worth spending twopence on.

  It was next to the last tram out. This isn’t going to allow me much time at t’other end, I thought.

  “What time does the last tram leave the terminus, Maggie?” I said.

  “Three minutes to twelve,” she said.

  The first kiss we had in the backstreet I knew at once I couldn’t manage it. I could already hear the last tram on its way out. By the time the driver and his mate had changed wires and had a smoke it wouldn’t allow me much more than ten minutes. Maggie wasn’t a ten-minuter. Her smooching was like her dancing—on the slow side. She’d be good when she got warmed up, but I hadn’t the time. I didn’t reckon she was worth a four-mile walk with a bit more at the far end. But then she was a Beauty Queen. Many a chap would give anything to be in my shoes at this minute, I thought. And Eddie would want to know how Ed gone on. In the distance I could hear them switching the trolley pole over at the terminus.

  “If you don’t go now you’ll miss* it,” she said.

  What I’ve had so far, I thought, hasn’t been worth the tanner I’ll have spent in tram fares. If I stayed she might not make it worth my while. You’re a fool if you stay, something told me, but you might as well chance it.

  “You’d better hurry,” she said.

  “Suppose I miss it?” I said.

  “You’ll have to walk,” she said.

  “Oh, let it go,” I said.

  I was able to relax a bit when the tram clattered past, for now I knew there was no hurry. But after a time I felt myself getting chilly. Not only was the night getting cooler, but the effort of standing on my tiptoes all the time I was kissing her was a strain.

  “My, you’re shivering,” she said, “are you cold?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Any chance of a cup of tea round here?”

  I expected her to laugh it off, but she didn’t; instead she hesitated and said.

  “I’m not sure.”

  At once I was on the scent. Not only for the tea—but the very thought of going in a girl’s home intrigued me.

  “Never mind, darling,” I put in quickly, “I can’t give you all that trouble.” Refuse anything nice a woman offers you, has always been my way of going about things, because they’re sure to offer it again, and then it’s like giving things twice over.

  “I’m staying with my gran,” she said. “I always do at weekends. Now if she’s in bed we could creep in, and I’d make you a nice cup of tea or cocoa and happen a bit of toast.”

  “Now I don’t want to get you into any bother,” I said.

  “You won’t,” she said.

  “But supposin’ she hears us?” I said.

  “If she’s had her usual Sat’day night supper of fish an’ chips and a gill of stout,” she said, “she’ll be sleeping heavy. And anyway, she’s hard of hearing.”

  “How will we know whether she’s in bed or not?” I said.

  “If she is the light will be out,” she said. “Come on.”

  We held hands and walked quietly down the street. It was a nice little row of houses. Halfway down the street Maggie nodded. “It’s all right,” she whispered, “she’s in bed.”

  We tiptoed to the door. There was a letter-box slot, and Maggie slipped her fingers through it and started pulling away at something.

  “What’s that?” I whispered.

  “The key,” said Maggie.

  After Maggie had carefully drawn out about three yards of string there was a twang inside the slot, and she fished out a big iron key. She put the key end in her mouth and sucked it. “So’s it won’t make a din,” she said. Then she put it in the lock and quietly turned it. The door opened softly. She beckoned me in behind her, and closed the door after us.

  The room was small and warm, with a bit of a glow coming from the fire in the kitchen range. It had a nice smell of home. Gran’s had her fish and chips, I thought. There was a faint smell of liniment too—somebody’s got the rheumatics. It was all so nice and homely that I put my arms round Maggie at once, pulled her to me, and gave her a right good long kiss.

  “Let’s wait till we’ve had something to eat,” she said.

  This kid’s got some savvy I thought. Looks like it’s going to be worth that walk home.

  “Can you see all right?” she whispered.

  “I can see you,” I said, “and you’re lovely.”

  “I like the firelight glow,” she said. “I’ll not light the gas.” She took some nuts of coal from a scuttle beside the fender and placed them on the low red fire.

  “They’ll burn up in a couple of ticks,” she said. “I’ll go and make the tea.” And she went into the kitchen.

  I heard her putting the kettle to the back kitchen tap. The next thing I heard a woman’s voice yell from upstairs. “Maggie!”

  “Yes?” answered Maggie.

  “Is that you?” came the voice again.

  “Course it is!” snapped Maggie.

  There was a pause.

  “What time is it?”

  “Summat to twelve,” said Maggie.

  There was a sharp edge to her voice, and it was* as different as chalk from cheese to the voice she’d been talking in all evening. She must think a lot about me, I thought, to go to so much trouble over the way she t
alks to me. When her gran spoke again her tone was mild.

  “I’ve put your cocoa an’ sugar in t’pint pot, Maggie.”

  “You don’t have to tell all t’neighbourhood,” said Maggie.

  “Han’ you locked the front door?”

  “Course I have,” said Maggie.

  “An’ put bolt on?”

  “Aye.”

  “You didn’t let cat out, did you?”

  “Course I didn’t.”

  There was another pause, and then her gran called down in a very making-up sort of voice.

  “Han’ you had a good time, love?”

  “Yes, Gran,” said Maggie.”

  “I’m glad. Goodnight, Maggie.”

  This time Maggie’s voice softened a little: “Goodnight, Gran.”

  The little nuts of coal had begun to burn, and in the jumping bits of light I was able to look round the place. It was clean, old-fashioned, and a bit bare. There was a horsehair sofa with a black prickly cover, a chest of drawers in reddish wood, and two pictures that each had an angel following a child. There was a framed certificate on the wall, and I was able to read it.

  “Presented to Thomas Henry Bibby, after forty-four years’ faithful service at Workshaft’s Model Bleaching Works: signed Ebenezer Workshaft.”

  All right for you, Ebenezer, I thought. Maggie came in with a pint pot of cocoa and a plate of bread and cheese. She had her finger to her lips.

  “Did you hear her?” she whispered. I nodded. “I had to shout,” went on Maggie, “she’s practically stone deaf.” She smiled at me. “We’ll have to sup out of same pot,” she said; “do you mind?”

  I felt I could have made a funny joke out of that, but I thought that perhaps I hadn’t known her long enough.

  “If you don’t,” I said, “I won’t. Putting my lips where yours have been.”

  She gave me a joking thump in the chest. “Don’t be daft, Rudy” she said. I didn’t answer. Matter of fact, I hadn’t any wind for a minute or two.

  “Nearly every house in the Row has one of them,” she said, looking up at the certificate. “They get a blue ‘un after forty years, an’ a red ‘un after fifty. Grandpa was going in for his red ‘un, when one morning he slipped into a vat of acid. There was practically nothing left of him but his trouser-buttons when they pulled him out. ‘Ere, come on, help yourself to the cheese. An’ let’s sit on the rug in front of the fire—it’s more homely.”

  We sat down on the rug, when suddenly a sharp knocking sounded on the ceiling.

  Maggie put a finger to her lips for me to be quiet, and then she yelled: “What’s up?”

  “Who’s that?” called her gran.

  “Who’s what?”

  “You’ve got somebody down there with you, lass—now who is it?”

  “Don’t be daft—it’s only me.”

  “I heard you talking to somebody,” called her gran. “I had my suspicions when I heard you put all that water in the kettle. I’m coming down.”

  “Sit down,” said Maggie to me. Then she went in the kitchen.

  “If you must know,” she hissed up the stairs, “it’s Ernie Adams.”

  “Ernie! What’s he doing here?”

  “He was over for the weekend, and I met him at the dance. And so I asked him in for a cup of cocoa, just for old time’s sake, but you, with your nattering an’ squawking haven’t given us a minute’s peace.”

  “Give her my love,” I sent a whisper into the kitchen.

  “What’s that?” called her gran.

  “Ernie sends you his love,” said Maggie.

  “Oh, it’s all right if it’s Ernie. Tell him to give my love to his mother. Tell him to be careful with his cigarette-ends. Goodnight.”

  “For the last time,” bawled Maggie. “Goodnight! an’ good chuttons!”

  Maggie tripped back and forced me down on the rug. “She won’t get up now,” she said. “I’ve set her mind at rest.”

  “Who’s this Ernie Adams?” I said.

  “A boy I used to know when I was sixteen,” she said. “They lived in the next street and they used to have a black puddin’ stall outside the Wanderers’ football ground. Then they bought a boarding-house at Blackpool. Gran liked Ernie, he always made such a fuss of her.”

  “Suppose she comes down an’ sees me?” I said.

  “Matter of fact,” said Maggie, “you look that much like him, that she’d be hard put to tell the difference. She’s very short-sighted, you know.”

  “You said she was hard of hearing!”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Maggie, “I know my gran. There’s times when I could murder her.”

  She had no sooner got the words out of her mouth than a couple of feet came clomping down the stairs.

  “Stay where you are,” said Maggie to me, “I’ll handle her.” She went striding into the kitchen to meet her gran. I had a last sup of the cocoa and I was just ready for off, when a few thoughts stopped me. For one thing I didn’t fancy hoofing it—that four miles home—not just for cocoa, anyway.

  “Why’ve you no light on?” I heard her gran say as she trod off the stairs into the back kitchen, carrying a candle.

  “I thought I’d save the gas,” said Maggie. “Now you go back to bed, Gran, an’ leave us in peace. I don’t want you in there, and I’m sure Ernie doesn’t.”

  Now or never, I thought.

  “Oh, yes I do!” I called out, at the same time running across to the door between the front kitchen and the back. “How are you?” I said, shaking her hand and passing the candle to Maggie, who looked a bit flummoxed, but had the sense to blow it out. Living four miles away I’d a very different way of speaking from Raikes Row folk, but I knew the way they talked and I put it on for gran. “I’m right fain to see you, Missis Bibby, I am that an’ all. Here let me get you a chair. Isn’t it grand in here—so cheery, yu’ know, with the coal fire burnin’. Just like old times, eh, Maggie?”

  Maggie didn’t answer, and the old woman said, “Well, I don’t know—”

  “You’re lookin’ champion, Missis Bibby,” I said.

  She sat down. A little hardworked body she was, with a good hard stare coming out of her little wizened eyes. She was wearing a shawl over a flannel nightdress, and I thought that was perhaps why she didn’t insist on Maggie lighting the gas. At last she spoke:

  “If tha art Ernie Adams,” she said, “tha’s either changed a great deal, or my eyes are worse till I thought.”

  “Course I’ve changed,” I said. “What do you expect?”

  “I’d expect thee to grow taller, not shorter,” she said.

  “I am taller,” I said, and I stood up on my toes and stuck my chest out.

  She looked at me, and I knew she had me as good as rumbled, and that I was out in the street unless I could strike something good. The liniment smell came a bit stronger to my nostrils and I took a chance. Suddenly I leant forward and said:

  “How’s your leg, Missis Bibby?”

  “My leg?” she said. “You mean my leg?”

  “Yes, your bad leg,” I said. “You know,” as though I didn’t have to explain that.

  “If anything,” she said, “it’s better till what it used to be.”

  “You’re all right if you keep on the move, Missis Bibby, eh?” I said.

  “Aye, but if I have to sit down for any length of time it sets about me,” she said, and gave a bit of a groan.

  “I’ll bet you don’t do much sitting down, Missis Bibby,” I said, “unless you’ve changed a heck of a lot!”

  “You’re right there, Ernie,” she said warmly.

  I’m in, I thought. “I thought so,” I said.

  “I forgot to ask you,” she said, “how’s your mother?”

  “She’d be all right if it weren’t for her arthritis,” I said. “There’s times when her hands get all curled up like that—it’s the sea air, yu’ know, doesn’t do for her.”

  “I’m right sorry to hear that,” she said. A flame fr
om a nut of coal brightened up the room. She stared at my pinstripe suit and my painted-toe patent leather shoes, then looked up at my long-pointed collar and at me.

  The look she had at first came back to her face. “I can’t get over the change in thee. Tha looks like a Woolworth’s shop-walker.” She changed the subject: “How’s your Fred?” she asked.

  “He’s gone into insurance,” I said. “Started for the Prudential.”

  “He never did like work,” she said.

  The coal was catching on and the room was going brighter. Maggie was looking on, not saying a word.

  “What about your Irene?” she said.

  “She’s got engaged,” I said.

  “I thought she didn’t like men,” she said.

  “She’s changed,” I said.

  “Must be the sea air,’ she said.

  She wasn’t satisfied. I sensed that. I must get back to her leg, I thought.

  “How is—” she said, turning to look at Maggie, and then looking quickly back at me, “is your Harold?”

  I nearly answered, but something in her manner warned me. “Our Harold?” I said.

  “Aye, your Harold?” she said.

  “Missis Bibby,” I said, “I’m surprised at you. Wait till I tell my mam you were asking for our Haroldl” And I burst out laughing.

  “Blackpool’s done thee no good,” she said, getting up from her chair, “Maggie, don’t be long. Don’t forget to damp the fire down. I’m off.”

  Maggie lit the candle for her, and gran gave a last look at me and went off. I waited until I heard the bedroom door close.

  “Whew, Maggie,” I said, “she nearly caught me then. I was going to lead off about brother Harold, but something came over me, and I knew I hadn’t got one.”

  The rug looked very nice and cosy. I was getting down to it when I saw Maggie.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Get out that door,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe my own ears. I’d been waiting for the applause.

  “Steady up, Maggie,” I said. As I stood up she stood in front of me. She seemed to be in some kind of temper that put inches on her height, and her bust. For the first time I was able to see the signs of a Queen in her.

  “Out that door,” she said.