Not All Tarts Are Apple

by Pip Granger

  This particular morning, however, was different. Instead of taking me to school, Auntie Maggie peeled off her flowered pinny and headed straight for the market with me in tow. The order was handed over with the minimum of civilities and we made our way briskly to the paper shop. Once back in the cafe, we settled down at the corner table to discuss my problem.

  After much gentle questioning it was decided that the root of my trouble lay not so much in the knowledge that I wasn’t their child – I’d always sort of known that – but that I was afraid my real mum would take me away from Maggie, Bert and the cafe just as readily as she had left me there.

  Uncle Bert was a man of few words but those few were always to the point. ‘Get Sharky Finn down here, Mag. We need a word.’

  Sharky Finn was the lawyer who kept a dingy office next door. His front door, painted a sad shade of green, nestled grubbily between our cafe and Mamma Campanini’s delicatessen. His brass plate gleamed dully between a card boasting that Paulette gave French lessons and a sign proudly announcing that Madame Zelda was ‘Clairvoyant to the Stars’.

  Actually, Paulette’s real name was Brenda, and she’d never been any nearer France than Wapping, while Madame Zelda also answered to Enid Fluck and was a martyr to her feet. They were regulars at the cafe.

  Sharky himself was into everything. He needed to be. He had a gambling habit, a couple of mistresses and, rumour had it, a wife, two children and a mother-in-law to keep, although nobody had ever actually seen them. There wasn’t a spiv in Soho that Sharky hadn’t represented at one time or another when their luck ran out. He cooked books, drew up contracts – both straight and otherwise – arranged alibis and choreographed divorces in seedy hotel rooms with professional co-respondents. In short, Sharky was as bent as a two-bob watch, but clever and well qualified with it.

  Now our cafe closed for nothing and nobody. It would no more have occurred to Maggie and Bert to close in order to keep an appointment with Sharky in his office than it would have occurred to Sharky to book one. When Uncle asked Auntie Maggie to get him, he did not mean to suggest for one moment that she heave her bulk up to the second floor to get him herself. It was more a suggestion that she should arrange to have it done. She cast her eye around the cafe, looking for a likely messenger. She couldn’t send me because my eyes were puffy, my nose was red and I needed some earnest mopping up. Her eye lit on Luigi, Mamma Campanini’s youngest son.

  ‘Luigi, nip upstairs and ask Sharky if he would care to drop in when he’s got a minute. The sooner the better, if he would be so kind.’ Luigi nodded amiably and got to his feet, whistling faintly through his teeth as he strolled out to do her bidding.

  While he was away I was whisked into the back of the cafe. My face was washed and a hanky produced, into which it was suggested that I ‘blow good and hard’. A brush was dragged through my curls, then I was free to return to Uncle Bert’s welcoming lap. I snuggled in, burrowing my face into his rough waistcoat, breathing in the familiar smell of pipe tobacco and fry-up. I was given a comforting squeeze and a large gobstopper appeared by magic from my left ear. Somehow, in hard times, Uncle Bert always seemed to magic something out of thin air or one of my ears. It could be anything: a gobstopper, a sherbet dab, a tin whistle with bright stripes or a fluorescent yo-yo. He could do other magic too, card tricks and all sorts at Christmas and family knees-ups. I was very proud of Uncle Bert’s magic, and grateful too. I was contentedly slurping on the gobstopper when Sharky Finn appeared.

  Auntie Maggie placed a coffee, liberally laced with brandy, in front of him. Some might think that ten in the morning was a little early to indulge in strong liquor, but Sharky wasn’t one of them. He liked a drink, did Sharky, preferably one that lasted from sparrow fart to sack time. There was very little evidence of this. He rarely appeared to be drunk and the stuff never seemed to fuddle his wits during office hours, but just a hint of the wrath of grapes showed in the puffy white skin around his moist blue eyes and the tiny broken veins that darted across cheekbones and hooter.

  He took a good swig of the coffee, struck a match and lit the stub of cigar that hung from his lip. The blue, aromatic smoke drifted around his sparse blond hair on its way to the ceiling. He let out a deep sigh of satisfaction and tipped his chair back before he spoke. ‘You called and, as you can see, I came. What can I do for you good people, hm?’

  Uncle Bert took charge, an unusual occurrence in our household but not unheard of. ‘It’s our Rosie. As you know, Sharky, she has lived with us ever since she was bollock high to our Tom’ (this was a reference to our lace-eared old cat who patrolled the cafe and its surroundings) ‘but it’s always been a sort of loose arrangement.’

  Uncle Bert continued to outline the problem: namely, the sudden realization by all parties concerned, with the possible exception of my real mum who was probably ‘too Brahms to give a monkey’s’, that our situation was far from satisfactory, and that it was seriously upsetting not only ‘the rug-rat’ (me) but everyone else. ‘We’ve got used to her, like, and anyway we need her to see to the signs and that.’ He gave me another reassuring squeeze.

  ‘We don’t reckon we could part with her now. So, you see, Sharky, it’s time we did something about it. We’ve decided to check it out with you and see if you have any suggestions.’

  Sharky had been listening carefully without interruption and now there was a long pause as he pulled on his dead cigar and stared at the ceiling. Everyone waited in silence for his answer: our little group at the corner table, the punters, who had long since given up all pretence of not listening, and Mrs Wong. At last he seemed to reach some sort of conclusion. He tipped forward until all four legs of his chair were on the floor and looked meaningfully at his empty coffee cup. Mrs Wong glided over to refill it, brandy and all. He took an appreciative slurp, coughed and spoke.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he said slowly, ‘that you need some kind of adoption agreement that will hold up in court if it ever comes to that. Also, of course, you will have to get her mother to sign it, in front of witnesses, preferably me and one or two others. I can start drawing up the agreement, if you like, ready for when she next blows in, assuming it’s not in the next day or so. Do you reckon she’ll play ball and sign the thing?’

  All eyes in the place turned to Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert.

  ‘I reckon, if she’s sober enough to write but Brahms enough to be amiable,’ Uncle Bert said. ‘That’ll be the hard bit, getting her in just the right frame of mind. Best get the agreement written and then we can put the word out for her to show up here. The little ’un likely won’t settle till it’s in the bag and neither will Mag. Will you, love?’

  Auntie Maggie shook her head, eyes moist. She heaved a great sigh and lumbered heavily to her feet. ‘Well, this ain’t getting no baby bathed, is it? Time you was in the kitchen, Bert, limbering up for dinner. Thanks, Sharky. If you could get them papers ready, quick as you like, we’d be grateful.’

  She turned to me, eyes soft. ‘Now, what do you want to do, young lady? Stay for dinner and back to school? Or help your auntie Maggie for the afternoon?’

  Of course, there was no contest: I opted to stay put and help. With that, the little party at the corner table broke up, Uncle Bert headed for his kitchen, Sharky took the last gulp from his coffee cup and made for the door, and Auntie Maggie asked Mrs Wong to hold the fort while we went upstairs for ‘a bit of a chat’.

  The ‘bit of a chat’ made me feel tons better. My auntie Maggie told me how much she and Bert loved me and how they had come to rely on me being there every day. She explained how much she had always wanted a little girl but how, somehow, she and Bert had not been ‘blessed’ and then I had come along and made everything all right.

  Then she asked me if I wanted to ask her anything, anything at all. Of course, at the time I couldn’t think of anything much, I was too busy revelling in the warmth of her cuddles and the smell of her as I buried my nose in her ample bosom. Auntie Maggie had a smell all of her
own; a warm smell with a hint of face powder and soap. I was snuggled up in her lap for a long time, thumb in mouth, basking in the comfort of it while she talked.

  She told me all about the day I came to stay, near Christmas. She explained how she and Bert hadn’t been expecting me, how they had had to borrow nappies, bottles and food from one of Mamma Campanini’s brood to see us over the first night and how I had slept in a drawer. She told me how she and I had had a lovely time hunting around for clothing coupons and baby clothes. She told me how Mamma Campanini’s lot had had a whip-round and had come up with a cot, a pram, toys and loads of clothes. I asked what happened to it all and she explained that once I grew out of it, it went back to the Campanini tribe for the next new baby.

  She also told me all about the big knees-up held in the cafe to welcome me in, once we’d all settled down a bit and got used to things. How Paulette, Madame Zelda, Mamma and Papa Campanini, their kids and their kids’ kids, Mrs Roberts, Ronnie from the market and his missis, and Sharky and loads of others had all come and brought me things. Being a greedy little bugger and wanting to prolong this lap-time, I demanded a list of everything and who brought it. Amazingly enough, Auntie Maggie remembered it all, or at least she pretended to.

  By the time she had reeled off the complete list, I had gathered my wits a bit and thought to ask about my real mum. That was when I realized that the woman I always thought of as ‘the Perfumed Lady’ was, in fact, my mother. She visited the cafe now and then and sometimes she brought me presents. I liked her. She laughed a lot and wore princess clothes. She would bring me wonderful things like silver shoes, glittery jewellery to dress up in and satin ribbons. I thought she was a Fairy Godmother. Sometimes, though, she would sort of blubber over me and call me her baby and try to cuddle me too hard. I didn’t like that and would get frightened and hide behind Maggie or climb on to Bert’s lap.

  I had just about had time to take all this in when Mrs Wong appeared in the doorway to ask if Auntie Maggie could lend a hand with the dinners. I was left feeling that all the worry of the past few weeks had been a waste of time. Now I knew who she was, I realized that my mum wouldn’t try to hurt me. Everything was going to be fine.

  Uncle Bert, Auntie Maggie and Sharky had it all under control.

  3

  Life for me carried on pretty much as before. Sharky kept his promise and wrote up an agreement and delivered it to Uncle Bert, and word was sent out to find the Perfumed Lady.

  The news network in our bit of London was far more efficient than the wireless or the post office. Paulette asked among her colleagues and their pimps, and Sharky made enquiries in his circle of gamblers and clients. Madame Zelda gazed into her crystal ball in the hope of catching a glimpse of her. When that failed, she also took the precaution of mentioning it to the steady stream of theatrical hopefuls who came looking for a sign of their big break. Buskers scanned theatre and cinema queues looking for ‘faces’ to pass the whisper to and soon the message had travelled to every nook and cranny in the manor. There wasn’t a pub or club in Soho that didn’t know that the Perfumed Lady was wanted at the cafe. We even informed the police, not a common occurrence round our way. But T.C. was different. He was liked by us all and considered straight and fair-minded. He had the most gorgeous, crinkly blue eyes and Auntie Maggie said that his hair would have curled if only the police force would let it grow long enough. But they wouldn’t. They had rules about that sort of thing, even for plain-clothes officers like him.

  Days turned into weeks and still she didn’t show. No one had seen her. This wasn’t really surprising; she led an erratic sort of life, and for all anyone knew she could be abroad with one of her posh punters or be taking a rest anywhere in the country. Sometimes things got a little warm for a girl and she might take herself up to Leeds, Manchester or even Scotland for a whiff of healthier air until the heat turned down. After all, a change was as good as a rest, and a brass could trade anywhere where there were men.

  Still, despite the waiting, I was feeling a lot better. I stopped wetting the bed. I was much relieved that we had a plan, even if I was a little hazy as to what this was. I had absolute faith that Auntie Maggie, Uncle Bert and Sharky would get it sorted. Kids are like that, aren’t they? It never occurs to them that there are just some things that grown-ups cannot do. I still remember the shock the first time Uncle Bert couldn’t mend one of my toys. I took it to Auntie Maggie, sure that she would work the miracle, and was staggered when she couldn’t either. The world as I knew it took a real shunt. Then I managed to convince myself that the failure was a one-off, a glitch in the works; that it was all a big mistake. I did such a good job that I had to go through the whole thing again later. It was like realizing the Queen had a bum; very weird, believe me.

  Luckily, at this stage, the awful knowledge that my auntie Maggie and uncle Bert were fallible had not crossed my mind, so I was happy. Weekdays, I went to school as usual and on Saturdays I ‘helped’ in the cafe. My ‘helping’ was largely confined to wiping down tables and chatting to the regulars. Saturdays and after school were profitable times for me. There were not that many children actually living in the area even in those days, and small girls with blond curls and big blue eyes were IN at the time, what with the coming Coronation and all, and Princess Anne being so popular. Everyone thought I looked just like her, which cheesed me off more than a bit, seeing that I was three years older than she was. It was a regular occurrence for me to have pennies, threepenny bits and sixpences thrust upon me. I was even stopped in the street when I was out with Auntie Maggie or Uncle Bert. I had quite a thriving little business going. As the weeks passed and my mum still hadn’t showed, the regulars began to feel sorry for me and my piggy bank bulged.

  I realize now that the waiting must have been hard on Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert, but they didn’t show it. As far as I was concerned, life was following its regular pattern. After school, I had my tea at the corner table and then helped to close the cafe for the night. This was a complicated business that began with me turning the sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’, and Auntie Maggie pulling the blind down over the glass door. Left-over counter food such as cakes and biscuits were sampled and sorted into ‘still fresh’ and ‘past it’. The ‘still fresh’ went into tins, and the ‘past its’ were set aside as the basis of trifles and other puddings. Old bread became bread pudding, dark and rich with spices and dried fruit and lip-smackingly delicious. I really loved the crusty bits at the corners of the baking tin and it was my treat to prise these loose and munch them.

  The rest would take hours. Salt, pepper and vinegar shakers were collected and refilled, using little funnels, one for each job. I was kept well away from the pepper as I tended to get it all over the place, including up my nose and in my eyes. Smelly ashtrays were emptied and washed, the tables were wiped down, chairs lifted on to them, and the floor was swept and scrubbed.

  Uncle Bert cleared and scrubbed down the decks in the kitchen, ready for the baking of the next day’s puddings and pies. He also sorted his leftovers. The stuff that was still good was put to one side for one or two down-and-outs that he fed at the back door. Uncle Bert never turned away a tramp, on the principle of ‘there but for the grace of Gawd and my good woman go I’. The rest was binned. Washing up of plates, cutlery and cups and saucers was done all day by whoever was free to do it. There was a sink behind the counter and drying racks suspended over the draining boards. Auntie Maggie, Mrs Wong and Uncle Bert all did a bit. However, the end of the day was when the heavy stuff, cooker, pots, pans and baking tins, had to be scoured and scrubbed. This took elbow grease, and Auntie Maggie, Mrs Wong and Uncle Bert were all far too busy to see to it, so Ernie came after closing to get stuck in. He arrived as Mrs Wong left.

  The changeover was my cue to get ready for bed. Auntie Maggie would see Mrs Wong out at about sixish and then I would be whisked upstairs for a bath and a cup of Ovaltine, then bed and a bedtime song or story, depending on Auntie Maggie’s mood or my
pleading. Uncle Bert would come up and tuck me in with a goodnight kiss to end my day. God knows when theirs ended. The smell of bread pudding would waft up the stairs long after I was tucked in.

  4

  It was late on one wet and windy night towards the end of April that I heard a loud hammering at the cafe door. I had been curled up in bed all snug and warm with my teddy for hours when the row woke me. The stairs creaked loudly and Uncle Bert’s voice was raised in irritation. ‘Hang about, hang about, keep your hair on, I’m coming. No need to wake the bleeding dead, is there?’

  There was a rattling noise as the key was turned in the lock and the bolts, top and bottom, were drawn. ‘Bugger me, look what the cat’s dragged in.’ Uncle Bert’s voice was muffled but I could hear him through my bedroom door. ‘We’ve been hanging about like spare pricks at a wedding waiting for you. Well, don’t just stand there dripping like a drowned wassname. Get your arse in here.

  ‘Mags! Get yourself down here and see what the tide’s washed up. Her ladyship has finally showed her face and as pissed as a newt, if I’m any judge.’

  Next came the heavy thud of Auntie Maggie’s tread on the stairs and then a loud exclamation. ‘Oh my Gawd, look at the state of you! Get them wet things off straight away. Bert, you put the kettle on and make some strong coffee, there’s a love. Looks as if she could do with something hot and sobering. I’ll find a towel and a dressing gown. No, dear, don’t get undressed right there in front of the windows. Don’t want to give them buggers out there a free show now, do we? Take her in the kitchen, Bert, and I’ll get them dry things.’

  More slow thuds and then a creak as my bedroom door opened and Auntie Maggie peered silently in. I decided it was best if I pretended sleep and made my breathing slow and deep. I heard a muttered ‘Good’, and the door closed.