No Peace for the Wicked

by Pip Granger

  To my disappointment, the sewing equipment was cleared away, and we were settled at the table with cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits called ‘cats’ tongues’ made by the French pastry chef Pierre, who worked at the pâtisserie around the corner from the cafe.

  At last, we got back to the original subject of our talk. When Peace had stayed for the school holidays in the past, she was so quiet – ‘deep’, according to Sugar, who had grown fond of the girl – that you would hardly notice she was there.

  In my presence too, Peace was unfailingly polite, helpful and utterly enigmatic the way adolescent girls so often are, ‘but with knobs on’, as Maggie would say. Privately, we all thought Bandy had been giving her lessons in being secretive and unreadable, because she herself could have won prizes in that.

  But in some ways, I think Soho may not have been quite so alien to that poor girl as school had been. At least when Peace was in Soho she was in the heart of a busy city, and quite a few Chinese businesses had opened up in and around Gerrard Street recently, especially since so many of their people had been bombed out of Limehouse during the Blitz. Peace could even get Chinese food if she fancied it, because a small wave of Hong Kong citizens were emigrating to Britain, on account of political unrest in China.

  Sugar said that Britain being another small island made it feel the tiniest bit familiar to the incomers, who certainly seemed to fit in seamlessly. Mind you, the Chinese kept themselves to themselves and never seemed to have any problems with the authorities. Sugar said it was because they were quiet, hardworking people who liked to take care of themselves and each other and not to trouble their hosts too much, if at all.

  I could not help feeling that it must have all been a shock to poor Peace, just the same. One minute she was Chinese and going about her business in Hong Kong, and the next, she was trussed up in a gymslip, lisle stockings, blazer, scarf and silly hat and expected to be an English miss. She had been thrust into a public school in chilly old England, without warning, and in the school holidays she lived above a bar stuffed full of the oddest types, not least of which were her Aunt Bandy and Sugar. No wonder she was quiet; it’s a tribute to her strength of character that she wasn’t struck completely dumb. I said as much to the assembled company.

  ‘You’re right there, Lizzie,’ said Sugar. ‘She’s adaptable, that one. And clever! You should see her reports. What that girl can’t do with numbers ain’t worth doing, according to the maths mistress. She’s good at music too, plays the piano a treat. They often go together, according to the school, music and being good at sums.’

  Sugar was puffed with pride. I noticed that he had turned slightly away from Malcolm, who’d sat down between him and Bandy, but being excluded from the conversation didn’t seem to bother Malcolm in the slightest. He was too busy leaning over Bandy to murmur sweet nothings into her ear.

  I don’t know what he was saying but Bandy looked faraway and dreamy, and suddenly they were gone, only their empty cups and the crumbs of cats’ tongues to show that they’d been there. That, and a lingering odour made up of Passing Clouds, French perfume, fresh coffee and something less pleasant.

  ‘Eau de armpit,’ explained Sugar knowledgeably. ‘It’s that Malcolm. He had his bath on New Year’s Day as usual, and there’s aeons to go before the next one,’ he added, with just a touch of malice, as he got the embroidery things out again.

  ‘Surely the baths aren’t that rare,’ I objected. ‘You’re exaggerating!’

  Sugar giggled. ‘Well, perhaps a tiny tad. But the man doesn’t like soap and water any more than he likes a razor, a fine badger brush and Mr George F. Trumper’s scented shaving soap. He is unclean, I tell you – but when I complained to Bandy she said he was “masculine”, something she feels I know little about. But even our Bobby doesn’t smell like that – and what’s more he never did and he was a wrestler before he cleaned for us. You don’t come much more butch than that! His Pansy would never let him leave a venue without a proper hose down and fresh togs. I expect you’ve noticed that Bobby’s nails are immaculate, even when he’s giving that bar the benefit of a thorough buff with a soft cloth and the Johnson’s Lavender. You don’t have to be a slob to be a proper man. It’s not compulsory, you know.’

  I had to agree, although I was aware the majority of the population didn’t. Around half of us still couldn’t get used to having running hot water, let alone enough for regular baths. We’d been used to eking it out when it was scarce, and couldn’t get past the idea that it was precious stuff, along with soap, washing powder and shampoo. Others thought that liberal use of soap – any soap, be it carbolic, Lux, Wright’s Coal Tar or Imperial Leather – was very suspect indeed if used by a man, because as everybody knew, real men stank. Apparently, Caitlin Thomas had had to tempt her Dylan into the bath with his sweet tooth: she had arranged dolly mixtures tastefully around the edge, or so she informed the entire bar one night when they’d been in. And as Bandy had pointed out, Dylan had lacked little in the masculinity department, if the testament of several experienced ladies was anything to go by.

  ‘But that didn’t clinch the argument,’ Sugar informed me. ‘I could show Bandy some seriously butch types who’d pass the Sugar Plum Flaherty hooter test any day, Maltese Joe and that nice Luigi from the deli to name but two. All the Campanini boys are clean, got the bathing habit from those lovely Roman ancestors, I expect. Nobody casts nasturtiums on Maltese Joe’s manhood, I notice, and I happen to know for a fact he uses a cologne that smells of violets that he gets sent from some place in France.’

  ‘So who won the argument in the end?’ I asked as I unwound some emerald green thread from its spool, before packing it away in the deeper bottom drawer of the little chest.

  ‘Neither of us. It still rumbles on. Bandy’s besotted with that smelly sod and insists I’m jealous, which of course I’m not. Who can be jealous of a giant, hairy armpit, I ask you?’

  I decided it was better not to say. I didn’t want to hurt poor Sugar’s feelings, but the truth was, he probably was a little jealous. A change of subject seemed tactful. ‘You were telling me something about Peace?’

  ‘Oh yes. Hang on a tick.’ Sugar got up, pushed the club door shut and rejoined me at the table. ‘It seems Peace has been asking awkward questions about her parentage, and Bandy’s been trying to dodge them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Apparently Bandy’s been sworn to secrecy, by both parties concerned – mum and dad, or at least by the people that represent them,’ Sugar answered shortly. I could sense what he thought of such promises.

  Then his attitude softened slightly. ‘Actually, Bandy’s in a bit of a spot with one of the parties concerned, on the Chinese side. It wouldn’t do to stir up any resentments there. There’s a sort of code …’

  His voice trailed off and he swallowed. ‘It’s just that Chinese culture takes a dim view of bastards in general and half-European ones in particular. If certain parties found out who Peace’s father was …’ He trailed off again, then brightened. It seemed to be his turn to change the subject. ‘So, Elizabeth, how have you enjoyed your first lesson?’

  ‘Immensely, thanks. I hope I’ve been an apt pupil.’ I was hoping for some reassurance on that point. I didn’t feel very apt when I looked at Sugar’s fine stitches and mine.

  ‘It’ll come easier with a bit of practice; almost everything does,’ he assured me. ‘You love the fabrics and the bits and bobs, that’s the main thing, and you’ve got an eye. You can’t teach that; you’ve either got it, in which case it can be refined, or you haven’t, in which case there’s sod all you can do about it.

  ‘To some people, one frock’s pretty much like another, ’specially if it’s in the same colour. They can’t see the possibilities in a piece of jersey wool, silk chiffon or lawn cotton. Some of them can’t even tell the differences between them, believe it or not. But you do see.’ Sugar smiled. ‘What’s more, you’re a whiz with colour, nobody to touch you in that department, appar
ently. Freddy was telling me only the other day that he and Antony are determined to get you trained up, so that you can turn your hand to anything in the frock-making line. They say you’re gifted and it’d be a criminal waste to let you go completely untrained. So it’s practice, practice, practice for you my girl, until you feel like Cinderella condemned to knock up the ballgowns, but never to attend the ball.’

  ‘But what’s the point in having this “eye” you all talk about if you don’t get to wear your own creations now and then?’ I protested. It sounded too much like the aunts to me; I knew then that I wanted, eventually, to have the courage to wear one of the confections I helped to produce.

  ‘My sentiments entirely, petal. There’s nothing quite like the feel of fine silk sheathing the old body in my view and chiffon is just plain heaven! It’s like wearing clouds.’ Sugar had a faraway look in his eye. I knew what he meant; I’d often draped myself in it when I was alone in the shop. It’s impossible not to feel delicate and feminine in yards of floating chiffon. ‘So different from cavalry twill,’ Sugar added.

  Yes, it must have been very strange for Peace to meet her aunt and her friends, I reflected, looking at that dear man going dreamy over chiffon. I wondered if they had bohemians, boozy women, or even transvestites and suchlike in Chinese culture. They must have their own brand of misfits, it stood to reason. But that didn’t mean that Peace had met any, any more than I had before I moved to Soho.

  6

  The cafe was full of familiar faces when I went there for tomatoes on toast on my way to work the following Friday morning. I loved tomatoes on toast, and liked to have breakfast among friends now and then. There had always been people around when I got up in the mornings, all my life, until Jenny died in the summer of 1954. And then, suddenly, I was alone.

  I still hadn’t got used to how quiet it was as I cleaned my teeth and chose my clothes for the day. A year and a half on, any changes around me or in my circumstances still really upset me. I couldn’t seem to help it; I simply hated the way time had a habit of marching over all my carefully cherished habits and routines. I had the irrational feeling that if things just stayed exactly the same, right down to my wearing the marcasite poodle brooch that Jenny had saved and saved to buy me for my birthday, then nothing awful could happen.

  I wore that brooch every single day, which was ridiculous, because I was wearing it the day my darling had died – and that was the most terrible day of my entire life. Up until then, I hadn’t realized there was anything worse in this whole world than hearing that my baby was dying. Then she had actually died, and I knew that there was. There were two deaths that day: Jenny’s, and my belief in a fair and just God.

  I’d learned that on the bad days, when the silence threatened to overwhelm me, breakfast at the cafe would soon put me right. Maggie’s usually smiling face, Bert’s wonderful breakfasts and the comings and goings of the morning regulars gave me a feeling of belonging that I had never had before, even as a child. I was thankful that they opened early every day, except Sunday, when they didn’t open at all.

  ‘Morning love. Usual, is it?’ Maggie asked me, as she handed over a cup of tea to Ronnie from the market.

  ‘Yes please, Maggie.’ I glanced over at the corner table. Rosie, Luigi Campanini, T.C. and Madame Zelda, the fortune teller with consulting rooms in the house between the cafe and Campanini’s delicatessen, were munching on pieces of toast, sipping tea and chatting idly. I could never quite work out if Madame Zelda was a fraud or not; my religious relatives would say that she was far worse, that she was an instrument of the Devil. I found that hard to believe of Madame Zelda, who was too good-hearted and sensible to be anybody’s evil instrument. What’s more, every now and then she’d surprise everyone, including herself, by making a prediction that came true.

  Rosie, who was getting ready to go upstairs for a final wash and scrub up before school, had been the first to spot me weaving through the busy tables.

  ‘Morning, Auntie Lizzie,’ she grinned. ‘Sorry I’ve got to go, but I’ve got to find my kit for netball. Yuck!’ She screwed her nose up. ‘I hate netball,’ she explained, unnecessarily.

  ‘Off you go then, Rosie. You don’t want to be late. I’ll take your nice warm seat. Hello Madame Zelda, T.C., Luigi,’ I said and sat down.

  ‘Morning love,’ said Madame Zelda, between sips of her creosote-coloured tea. It could strip paint, her tea. ‘We was just talking about them teddy boys. There was a load of ’em up here Saturday night. Came from all over and met in Leicester Square. We was just saying, we don’t know what all the fuss is about, they was as good as gold. Didn’t snap a matchstick, let alone smash up a pub or anything. They got a bit sparky in The French, Luigi says, but Frankie, Luigi and Danny the Dip just had to stand in doorways for a minute or two and they quietened down like lambs.

  ‘I’ve had a few of their girls in in my time, too. The things they want to find out from their palms or the tarot cards are the same things girls always want to know. Will they find true happiness, and what’s his name? Or for those that already have a lad, does he really love me? They may look tough with their leather jackets and their hair like bleached birds’ nests, but they’re just like girls everywhere.’

  T.C. nodded, blue eyes creased in laugh lines as he smiled at Zelda. ‘Most of them were no problem when I was in the Force. It’s just the odd one or two who want to cause real trouble. With the rest, it’s high spirits mostly.’

  Luigi laughed. ‘They all want to be James Dean. Can’t say I blame ’em neither; it sure does pull the girls, that look. Thought I’d get Ernesto to give me a James Dean next time I’m in having my barnet cut.’

  Madame Zelda wheezed around her fag, exhaling a cloud of smoke as she did so. ‘Yes, but the poor boy wound up dead, didn’t he, and not all that long ago? Wasn’t he racing about in fast cars? Bloody motorbikes can’t be any safer, can they? Nothing between your nut and the road if you take a header. Nasty things, I’ve always thought.’

  Maggie plonked a plate in front of me and admonished her friend. ‘I don’t think it was his haircut that caused that poor boy’s accident, Zelda. Anyway, you told me once all about getting a lift on a motorbike in the war from some Yank, and you said you loved it! The open road, the wind in your hair, all that. Motorbikes wasn’t nasty then, I notice. It’s because you was young then. The young like speed, danger, it’s only natural. The trouble is, it scares the daylights out of the rest of us, specially if you’ve got impressionable kids growing up. Isn’t that so, T.C.?’

  T.C. nodded gravely. ‘There certainly seem to be more temptations and pitfalls around nowadays. I don’t know about you lot, but I’ve looked like a younger version of my dad more or less as soon as I could stand.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you I didn’t!’ Maggie told him archly. ‘My dad had an enormous moustache. But I suppose I looked like my mum in miniature, even to the wraparound pinny.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I ever looked like my papa,’ Luigi said, with a slightly worried frown. Papa Campanini was a short, round man, while Luigi was slender and rangy. ‘I don’t look like my mother either,’ he added. She was also short and round and had several gold teeth in her flashing smile.

  ‘P’raps you was left on the doorstep, Luigi, with the bread sticks,’ Madame Zelda suggested, rather unkindly I thought, but everyone laughed, including Luigi. Personally, I could see a lot of his dad in Luigi: the masses of thick hair and the sad, brown eyes, and he definitely had his mother’s saucy smile. I looked back at myself as a child. Like Maggie, I was a carbon copy of my mother. Both of us wore the same neat, plain, serge skirt, white blouse and home-knitted cardigan in shades of brown or grey. Everyone in my childhood had worn black, or shades of brown or grey. They were serviceable colours that didn’t show the dirt and didn’t draw attention to the wearer – both desirable attributes, according to Mother. In winter, a pale, pasty face – hers or mine, or that of any one of the aunts – would peep out of a grey felt hat toppin
g off a grey flannel coat.

  A voice penetrated my memories. ‘A penny for them,’ Maggie said. ‘You was miles away then, Liz; bloomin’ miles away.’

  ‘I agree with you and T.C.,’ I said. ‘I was brought up to be just like my mother. It never occurred to me it was possible to have a style of your own. I think all this stuff in the newspapers about “teenagers” being feckless and out of control is simple jealousy from a generation who never got a chance to do the same because of war and rationing. It’s sour grapes, a lot of it.’

  I was absurdly pleased to see T.C. nodding and smiling as I spoke.

  ‘How’s it working out for you at Bandy’s?’ he asked me, changing the subject entirely.

  ‘What’re you doing there?’ Maggie enquired.

  I smiled. ‘Don’t tell me, Maggie Featherby, that something has happened around here and you don’t know about it!’

  Maggie stood on her dignity. ‘The odd thing does occur that escapes my notice, but not for long. Cough it up, gel, what are you doing at Bandy’s?’

  I explained about my temporary job on Friday and Saturday nights, and the embroidery lessons I was getting in return. Maggie immediately pressed for details of everyone who passed through the hallowed doors; who they were with and what they said. All the loneliness I had been feeling evaporated as the cafe weaved its magic and wrapped me in its warmth. ‘I can’t tell you all that,’ I smiled. ‘I’ve got to get to work. And anyway,’ I asked innocently, ‘isn’t a barmaid sworn to secrecy, like a priest?’

  Maggie turned to Zelda and shrugged. ‘It’s too late, Zeld. Sugar’s nobbled her already. She’ll never spill the beans now. And Sugar won’t talk because he says Bandy’s is the only place in the world where some people can relax and be themselves. It’s a crying shame.’

  ‘It is that, Maggie. It is that,’ Zelda agreed, with a slight twinkle in my direction. I realized that Madame Zelda had a great many secrets – her customers’ – that she was unable to share. According to her, being a fortune teller was like being a priest in that regard.