Not All Tarts Are Apple

by Pip Granger

  6

  I had a lot of trouble thinking of the Perfumed Lady as ‘my mum’. To me, she was and still is the Perfumed Lady. That’s how I first thought of her when she was merely a mysterious person who popped up now and then, and that’s how she stayed. She would arrive unexpectedly, bearing gifts or wanting money, and then disappear again to God knows where. Her life and the people in it were a complete mystery to me. Perhaps I was too young, but discovering that she was my real mother didn’t really change how I felt about her. She was still the Perfumed Lady, nothing much to do with me, she was like a distant aunt, kind enough when she thought about it but not all that interested in kids.

  She stayed with us for quite a while after that Saturday when she signed me over. I suppose she was recovering a bit before she faced the world again. The bruises needed to fade and her liver needed a break too. To begin with, even though we were under the same roof, I didn’t see that much of her. She was still in bed when I left for school and when I got back she’d be lounging about upstairs, painting her fingernails, taking long baths or reading. She spent a lot of time reading. I thought it was a very funny thing for her to be doing. No one I knew read actual books. Sometimes Paulette flipped through a magazine in a bored fashion or Madame Zelda pored busily over an almanac and sucked her teeth. Uncle Bert read his paper when he got the chance and Auntie Maggie might look at it when he had finished, but no one read books, except teachers of course and maybe the odd punter at the cafe. As I got to know her better, I found that books were a real passion with her. She always had one in her bag or pocket.

  The happiest memories I have of the Perfumed Lady were of the trips we used to take to the Charing Cross Road, which began on that visit and continued ever after. I got in from school one day and she announced that she and I were going out. She could hardly wait for me to have a biscuit and a glass of milk, and was dancing from foot to foot as she watched me finish the last gulp. A quick wipe at my moustache and we were off. I tried to get her to tell me where we were going but all she would say was ‘Wait and see.’ So I waited and saw and you could have knocked me down with a feather when we got there.

  We turned right out of the cafe and walked down the street at a fair old clip so that I had to skip and run to keep up with her. We swept into Greek Street and made our way through Soho Square and we didn’t even stop for me to peer in at the windows of the little house. At the top of the square we turned right into Sutton Row and came out at the top end of Charing Cross Road. We crossed over and dived into the entrance of the first bookshop we came to.

  It was dark and musty and seemed to go on for ever. There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling and these funny step things with a banister and wheels that you could climb up on to get books from the top shelves. The first time we went I was too shy to explore the possibilities of this contraption, but on later visits I had a wonderful time climbing all over them and whizzing up and down the aisles. There were trestle tables on the pavement outside with boxes of bargain books and inside, every conceivable surface held a precarious pile of volumes. They were stacked on the floor, on chairs and on desks as well as on the shelves. It was a treasure trove, although I didn’t realize that the first time we went. I was too overawed by the strangeness of it all. I had never been in a bookshop before, or a library for that matter, and didn’t know what to expect.

  As we pushed the door open, a little brass bell on an elegantly curved arm tinkled and a figure appeared at the back of the shop. He was small and grey and very, very round. He wore a waistcoat with a heavy gold chain stretched across his ample belly and his hair stuck out at all angles around his head like a grey halo. He had the face of an elderly child, round and innocent with smooth red cheeks. He smiled an enormous smile of recognition and his arms stretched out in front of him in a gesture of uninhibited welcome.

  ‘Cassandra, my dear, it has been such a long time. Where have you been?’

  I looked behind us, wondering who this Cassandra was.

  ‘I have all the books you wanted, tucked away safely in the back,’ the gnome continued. ‘And who is this little lady, hm?’ His shaggy eyebrows shot up to emphasize the question.

  ‘Hello, Mr Herbert. How nice to see you again.’ My mother towered over the delighted little man. ‘This is Rosa and she desperately needs some books.’

  ‘Does she indeed? And what sort of books do you desperately need, Rosa?’

  Of course I was too bewildered to answer. One, I wasn’t aware of my desperation and two, who the hell was this Cassandra person? I had heard my mum referred to as all sorts of things – ‘that tart’, ‘her ladyship’, ‘the Perfumed Lady’, ‘dear’, ‘love’, ‘ducks’, ‘her mum’, ‘Rosa’s mother’, and ‘that piss artist’ to name but a few – but never Cassandra.

  However, it seemed that Mr Herbert and my mum didn’t really need me to help. They got busy discussing books and I just sort of lurked, taking it all in. Mysterious words like ‘Borrowers’, ‘Railway Children’ and ‘Pigeon Post’ were bandied about, along with ‘Perhaps a little young’ and ‘No, no one is likely to read them to her, unless I’m there of course.’ They wandered off and started to delve here and there and after a while they emerged with a modest pile.

  There were other treats in store over the next few days, weeks and months. Even after she left the cafe, the Perfumed Lady would suddenly appear and whisk me off somewhere. One Saturday she took me to the Natural History Museum and I fell in love with dinosaurs. Another time she took me to see the Egyptian mummies at the British Museum and I fell in love with Egypt. We pored over the lovely clothes at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and naturally all these discoveries and love affairs had to be accompanied by the right books, which meant lots and lots of visits to Mr Herbert.

  As it turned out, the Perfumed Lady was wrong about people not reading to me. Once I had a small library of my own, Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert got into the habit of reading to me if the books were too difficult, and sometimes even if they weren’t. We all enjoyed discovering the new worlds between those battered and dusty covers. Uncle Bert liked the adventure stories best, and Auntie Maggie liked everything. They took it in turns to read, but whenever possible the three of us would curl up together and share the magic. At weekends, Uncle Bert would launch into Treasure Island, Pigeon Post or some other rip-roaring tale of adventure, displaying an unsuspected talent for reading aloud and entering into the spirit of the thing. All the characters had their own voices and if you closed your eyes you could just see them all. Auntie Maggie and I would listen, enraptured, to these stories of derring-do.

  My favourites changed with each new discovery, but if I was to pick one book from that time it would be The Wind in the Willows. We were to read it many times over the years but it was the special book that the Perfumed Lady and I shared during the weeks she stayed. Each night, after my bath, she would read me the adventures of Toad, Ratty, Mole and Mr Badger as I lay warm and tired in my bed. Sometimes Maggie or Bert would slip in and listen to the tales of the river bank until sleep overcame me and I was tucked in and kissed goodnight.

  7

  I remember that last evening when the Perfumed Lady left the cafe and went back to her own life. It was a Sunday, the street outside was quiet and I had had my bath. I was in my nightie and we had all gathered for our nightly episode of The Wind in the Willows.

  It was a bit snug in my room for all of us, but we managed. I was curled up in a corner of my bed, tight against the wall, so that there was room for the Perfumed Lady to sit beside me; I liked to look at the pictures as she read. Uncle Bert was perched on the end of the bed and Auntie Maggie had possession of the only chair.

  The window was open and a light breeze occasionally lifted the curtains. I liked my summer curtains, which had clusters of pink roses tied with blue bows dotted about on a white background. I liked my winter ones too, which were old and made of a soft, faded pink velvet heavy enough to keep out the bitter draughts. They were nice to strok
e; you could make patterns with your fingers by brushing the pile this way and that. I loved the summer ones best, though, because I chose them and because I liked to try and count the posies. I always fell asleep before I had managed to count them all.

  Anyway, we were all in my room listening to the soft, well-educated tones of the Perfumed Lady as she read to us. She got to the very last page of the big green book, read the bit about how fond Mr Badger was of children and then snapped the covers shut with an air of finality. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall with the book in her hands. She sighed.

  ‘Well, that’s the end of that. Now we’ve finished it, it’s about time I got back to my own place and earned some money.’ She sat up, all brisk and businesslike. ‘I think I’ll get going tomorrow. So, Rosa, you had better come to say goodbye to me before you go to school in the morning as I shan’t be here when you get back.’

  Now, I had lined up all sorts of questions about the book, such as ‘What does ‘‘base libel’’ mean, and ‘‘valuation’’ and ‘‘assessors’’?’ There were loads of tricky words like these in The Wind in the Willows, and I had found that when I asked about them I was always taken seriously, unlike my requests for glasses of water. I could squeeze a good few extra minutes before lights out if I played my cards right and asked the right sort of questions.

  However, her startling announcement drove all other thoughts from my head. I had got used to her being around. I liked the smell of her and I liked our trips out and about. I sat bolt upright in bed and looked first to Auntie Maggie for confirmation. She gave me a sad little smile and a small nod. I checked Uncle Bert, who looked solemn. Then I flung my arms around the Perfumed Lady’s neck and asked in a small voice if she really had to go. Couldn’t she stay with us and work in the cafe, I asked.

  Of course, I had already realized that this was not an option because it was obvious that the grown-ups had already discussed things and the decision had been made. To be absolutely truthful, I couldn’t imagine her behind the counter, up to her elbows in greasy washing-up water, or getting up early enough in the morning to serve the breakfasts. But it was worth a try. I was going to miss her.

  She gave me a hug and kissed the top of my head, then disentangled herself from my skinny arms and left the room in a hurry.

  Auntie Maggie heaved herself to her feet and came over to me. She cuddled and stroked me, and murmured that I wasn’t to worry, that I’d see my mum again, that she would still take me places, that it had all been settled, that she would come to visit often. Eventually, I allowed myself to be comforted enough to feel sleepy and I was tucked up and kissed goodnight. Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert filed out of my room, closing the door quietly behind them.

  The next morning, I went into her room to say goodbye but she was still dozy. She managed a drowsy ‘Cheerio. See you soon. Be a good girl,’ and then I had to go to school. Sure enough, she’d packed and left by the time I got home. The only evidence that she had ever been there was a waste-paper basket full of bits of make-up-smeared cotton wool, a half-full bottle of flame-red nail polish called ‘Jezebel’, some magazines and my precious store of books.

  The Perfumed Lady left on that Monday and it wasn’t long before our life at the cafe returned to its well-ordered pattern. I’m ashamed to say that for all my fuss of the night before, the familiar routine closed over the gap that she left in no time at all and you couldn’t even see the seam. Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert would keep the customers well supplied with grub, beverages and gossip. Madame Zelda, Paulette and Luigi were in every day, usually several times, and were my favourite regulars. Sharky came in when he decided he needed solid refreshment for a change, or some information as to the whereabouts of ‘esteemed clients’ of the more slippery kind. Ronnie from the market had his dinner with us on weekdays, while someone minded his stall. Auntie Maggie used to tease him, saying we paid good money for his veg and then the bleeder came and ate it all. He would counter by telling her that this hardly mattered as he was still paying through the nose for it, wasn’t he?

  School was OK too. Kathy and I had become quite friendly after our fight and a small group of us hung around together. Lessons had taken on a new interest because we were rapidly approaching the Coronation. We were busy boning up on all things to do with our monarchy. The bits about the crown and the crown jewels were fun, and we heard about Elizabeth I, how we were the ‘New Elizabethans’ and how we were about to enter a ‘Golden Age’. Elizabeth II’s lineage was explored and we discovered how she came to be Queen. The abdication of her uncle, Edward VIII, was skipped over pretty quickly and our teacher, Miss Small, tried to move hastily on to the reign of Elizabeth’s father. The story of Edward VIII’s affair with a married woman, who, what’s more, had been divorced, was not considered suitable for our young ears but of course I didn’t realize this and began to wave my hand about. I had information and was determined to pass it on. I’d heard the grown-ups at home talking about it and there was no holding me.

  ‘Yes, Rosa, what is it?’

  ‘It’s Edward VIII, miss. He was having it off with that Simpson woman, my auntie Maggie said so. Terrible it was. She was a divorced woman, miss, and still married to Mr Simpson. He was her second husband, I think, or maybe her third. Anyway, she’d had more than her share, my auntie Maggie says. She was still married to this Simpson bloke when she got off with the King, miss, only he was the Prince of Wales then of course. Madame Zelda says that the Queen’s mum never really forgave them for landing her old man in it and him with that awful stutter too, miss, that’s what she says.’

  I was just about to launch into how they’d been sent to live abroad and were not allowed back in England when Miss Small managed to attract my attention.

  ‘I’m sure that is all very interesting, Rosa, although your turn of phrase could do with a little work, I feel. Let us move away from Edward VIII and get back to the Queen’s father, shall we?’

  ‘Oh, miss,’ my classmates, who loved a good scandal, wailed in disappointment. What Miss Small failed to understand, coming from Hampshire as she did, was that it took more than illicit sex and divorce to shock Soho children or even to surprise them. Let’s face it, it was the stuff of our everyday life. Some of our mothers sold sex for a living and others had a lively trade in being professional co-respondents. One or two of us even had divorced parents. So stories of such things concerning royalty only made them more human to us.

  So, with all these distractions, I barely missed my mum after the first day or so. It was probably just as well. I think I’d already realized that she was not someone you could rely on, otherwise I wouldn’t have been so frightened at the thought that she could take me away. Don’t get me wrong, I liked her all right. It was just that I’d cottoned on that she couldn’t stand the weight of being needed. She had to travel light.

  8

  It wasn’t long after the Perfumed Lady left that the stranger showed up at the cafe for the first time. He bought cups of tea and sat in the corner by the window, managing to drag each cuppa out for ages, according to Auntie Maggie. He just sat smoking, drinking his tea and watching the street. It was almost dinner time before he finally left. Next day he was back, and the day after and the one after that. Then he disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. His routine over those few days had never varied: cups of tea, a window seat and lots of fags. Auntie Maggie began to suspect that he was watching and waiting for someone but whoever it was never showed up.

  He reappeared a month later. I know it was about a month because they had let me have the day off school on account of the Queen’s Coronation the next day, Tuesday. So I saw him. He was a pretty ordinary-looking bloke except for his eyes, which were never still. The really weird thing about them, though, was that one was blue and the other was brown. Of course this fascinated me and I kept finding excuses to lurk around him so that I could get a better look. I think he cottoned on because in the end he hissed out of the side of his mouth for me to �
��bugger off’. There was something sinister about that hiss, so off I buggered, toot sweet, I can tell you. I scampered over to help Auntie Maggie, and didn’t mention the hissing because I was pretty sure she’d tell me it served me right for staring.

  We were closing a bit early that day; a rare event, but it wasn’t every day that a queen got crowned, was it? We had to prepare for the great day. The actual crowning was to take place in the morning, which meant that our Coronation knees-up would last all day and most of the night. Everyone we knew was invited to the party.

  You can imagine the rush and bustle about the place. Between customers, Auntie Maggie, Uncle Bert and I were busy trying to decorate the cafe. We were aiming for a patriotic look so there was red, white and blue everywhere. There wasn’t a spider plant, geranium or wandering Jew in the place that didn’t have its little Union Jack on a stick poking out of it. A small forest of the things was stuck in the top of the tea urn, but the steam was making them hang limp like damp washing. I thought they looked miserable and disheartened, rather than proud and jaunty like they were supposed to look. Red, white and blue streamers hung from the ceiling and the light fittings, forcing everyone to dodge and weave so that the ends didn’t flap into their bacon and eggs or cups of tea.

  Any surface that didn’t have a punter sitting at it had plates waiting to be piled high with biscuits, fancy little cakes and sandwiches. While they waited, they were being elaborately decorated with frilly doilies and miniature Union Jacks. Some things were still rationed and there were lots of shortages but somehow this never seemed to cramp Uncle Bert’s and Auntie Maggie’s style one little bit. Of course, we did live in a place where wheeling and dealing were second nature to virtually anyone or anything with a heartbeat, and our cafe always seemed to have things like sugar, cheese and meat even when rationing was at its meanest. A constant stream of men with patent-leather hair and sharp suits saw that we were kept well stocked. They’d sidle in the kitchen door, eyes darting this way and that, just like the hissing mystery man’s, as they displayed their wares from battered suitcases. In their time they had sold everything from sugar, butter, eggs and corned beef to stockings and dresses. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie always got a good deal because they had what the local villains always referred to as ‘respect’.