by Pip Granger
Anyway, there we were, trying to feed and water the customers and prepare for the party all at the same time. The sleazy article with the odd, shifty eyes was still stuck in the window, slurping tea, smoking and watching the street like a hawk. He was checking out the passers-by with his busy eyes and I was watching him because he made me nervous. I had my beady eye on him when he stiffened as if he’d seen a ghost and then ducked hastily so that his head was almost under the table. I tried to work out who or what he had seen but it wasn’t until the cafe door opened that I realized that the object of his attention was Madame Zelda. She breezed in, oblivious to the panic she’d caused, and started to chat with Auntie Maggie. Once she had her back to him, he got up and headed stealthily towards the door. I’m not sure why I did it, perhaps it was because he’d hissed at me or maybe I just thought that Madame Zelda ought to know he was there.
‘Auntie Maggie,’ I piped up in clear, ringing tones. ‘Did that bloke that’s leaving pay for his teas?’
He froze with his hand on the doorknob, the babble of voices suddenly died and Auntie Maggie’s eyes narrowed as she glared at the retreating back.
‘Just a minute, mate. Haven’t you forgotten something? Rosie’s right, you haven’t coughed up for your teas. That’ll be sixpence, if you please.’
Madame Zelda turned to look and all the colour drained from her face. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water but it took a moment for her voice to co-operate.
‘Charlie Fluck! What the bleedin’ hell are you doing here?’
Just for a second, he looked as if he was about to bolt, then he straightened and turned. ‘I could arst you the same thing, Enie. What the bleedin’ hell are you doing here?’
They stared at each other across the room like a pair of dogs who were trying to work out whether to go for the throat. You could have heard a pin drop as we waited for the drama to unfold. Then Uncle Bert appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. He took in the scene at a glance.
‘Have we got some kind of problem here?’ he asked quietly. ‘What’s the matter, mate? Can’t you pay or what? We ain’t running a charity, you know.’
Charlie Fluck began to bluster. ‘Hang on a minute. It was merely some kind of hoversight. Course I was going …’
Uncle Bert held up a hand. ‘Just cough up what you owe, there’s a good lad. Then we can all get on.’ He turned to Madame Zelda. ‘Do you know this bloke, Zelda?’
Madame Zelda nodded, her eyes bright with anger. ‘I asked you what you was doing here, Charlie, and I want an answer. If you’ve come looking for me, you can just bugger off again. You and me was finished years ago and bloody glad I was too. Now, what the hell do you want? Spit it out, then crawl back under your stone where you belong.’
Charlie was on his dignity. ‘If you think I’m going to discuss my private business in front of these nosy buggers, you are very much mistaken, my gel.’
Madame Zelda’s face turned an interesting shade of purple. ‘Don’t you ‘‘my gel’’ me, you low-life,’ she exploded. Madame Zelda was never one to tart it up, and still isn’t, come to that. ‘I said spit it out. There ain’t nothing you can say to me that I don’t want these people to hear. They’re my friends and a million times more use to me than you ever was, you toe-rag.’
While this was going on, every eye and ear in the place was hanging on each word and gesture, heads were turning from Madame Zelda to Charlie Fluck as if watching a ping-pong match and we were all very glad that Madame Zelda didn’t seem to need privacy.
Uncle Bert, however, had other ideas. ‘That’s it, folks. Show’s over. It’s time we closed for the day anyway. We’ve got a knees-up to organize. Come on now, give us a chance. Eat and drink up. It’s time to go.’
There was some disgruntled muttering but the punters began to trickle out of the door.
‘Zelda, am I right in thinking that you do know this bloke? And am I also right in thinking that you wish you didn’t?’ Uncle Bert continued. ‘If you want to talk to him here where you’ve got friends to make sure he doesn’t get up to anything, you’re very welcome. The corner table is your best bet. Maggie, get her a cuppa. She looks as if she could do with one. Rosie, you carry on helping your auntie Maggie. Yell if you need me.’
Madame Zelda and Charlie Fluck settled down at the corner table and I was put to work by my aunt. It was really hard to overhear what was going on between the two of them and believe me I tried. I kept drifting over towards their table and every time she noticed, Auntie Maggie would grab some part of my anatomy and steer me away. It became quite a game and she and I were red in the face with repressed giggles by the time Madame Zelda exploded in another rage.
‘Now listen here, Charlie Fluck, you was a bastard when we was married and I see no reason to believe that you’ve changed one little bit. I ’aven’t wasted my time even thinking about you since you buggered off and left me for that tart of a cousin of mine. I’m glad to see she’s had the sense to get rid of you at last. I’ve made a life for meself and you, you great pillock, are not going to muscle in on it. Get that into your thick head once and for all.’
I couldn’t hear what Charlie had to say about this outburst because he never raised his voice above a wheedling whine, but whatever it was failed to impress our Madame Zelda. She leaped to her feet and fetched him an almighty clout around the ear with her handbag. This might not sound much, but if you take into account that her handbag invariably contained a small, portable crystal ball, a well-thumbed pack of tarot cards and about half a ton of black market sweets as well as the usual stuff, you’ll get the picture. The blow stopped him mid-wheedle and he slid, in slow motion, down his chair and ended up in an unconscious heap on the floor.
The commotion attracted the attention of my aunt and uncle and Mrs Wong, who had come in to help prepare for the party. They gathered around Charlie’s crumpled form and stared down at him with a variety of expressions.
Auntie Maggie looked deeply satisfied. She and Madame Zelda were good friends and she undoubtedly knew a fair bit about Charlie Fluck and, judging by her expression, what she knew she didn’t like. Her look suggested that Charlie was something that had come in on someone’s shoe and that it was high time he was cleared up. Uncle Bert, on the other hand, looked like a refuse collector, sizing up the difficulties of getting shot of this unwanted heap. Mrs Wong’s expression was, as ever, inscrutable, although there was perhaps just a hint of a smile. Madame Zelda had a look that was a mixture of triumph and astonishment. Me, I danced around whooping like a Red Indian, I’m not sure why, but I’d taken against Charlie Fluck and I was over-excited by the prospect of the coming party. Nobody seemed to mind my unholy glee, however. As one, they turned their backs on the bundle and settled down at another table.
As Madame Zelda began to explain about Charlie, I kept as quiet and as unobtrusive as possible. I was mortally afraid that someone would notice me and decide that this subject was not suitable for a mere child. It’s galling just how often adults decide what you can and cannot hear.
It turned out that Madame Zelda and Charlie Fluck had been brought up near each other in somewhere called Dalston Junction. Later I learned that this was in the East End. It’s not really important to know that, but I just like to know the ins and outs of a louse’s lug’ole according to Uncle Bert. Anyway, they had started going out together when they were very young. Poor Madame Zelda was just seventeen when ‘that bastard Charlie’ got her ‘in the family way’. I was dying to know what ‘family way’ meant, but I didn’t dare ask because I was pretty sure I’d be banished upstairs if they remembered I was there. They had a hasty ‘shotgun’ wedding and settled down in two rooms in Mare Street. About a month after the wedding, Charlie got legless one night and in a rage threw Madame Zelda down the stairs and kicked her over and over again as she lay helpless. She ended up in hospital and lost her baby. She said she’d never forgiven him for it. With tears welling up in her eyes she explained that she
’d tried for a baby several more times after that, but had never been able to hang on to one. It was at this point in the story that Auntie Maggie noticed me sitting there with my mouth wide open. I had never seen Madame Zelda so upset before.
‘Hang on a minute, Zeld, there’s a couple of little harkers flapping away here that shouldn’t be. Rosie, you go upstairs now and tidy your bedroom, there’s a good girl. It’s a tip.’
I knew there was no point in arguing, but I tried pleading anyway, just in case it worked. It didn’t. I was sent, dragging my heels, to sort out my room. Naturally I didn’t really go. I thumped my way up the stairs, making as much row as possible, partly as a protest and partly so that they would all be sure I’d gone. Then I slipped my shoes off and padded silently back down again and lurked just behind the door, which I had thoughtfully left open a crack. I had eavesdropping down to a fine art; I expect most kids do who live in an entirely adult set-up. It’s hard to be left out when you’re the only child in the place. Of course, if you have hordes of brothers and sisters, I expect you’re too busy playing and squabbling to take much notice of grown-up affairs.
I had just got settled comfortably behind the door and was trying to breathe quietly when I heard a soft groaning sound. I was wondering what on earth it could be when Uncle Bert kindly told me.
‘The little bastard’s coming round. Do you want me to put him out again for you, Zelda? Or would you rather do it yourself?’
There was a pause, presumably so that Madame Zelda could weigh up her options. ‘No, it’s all right, ta. There’s Luigi and a few of his mates. We could ask them to dump him somewhere out of the way.’
I heard someone rapping on the window and the cafe door being unbolted and then Luigi’s voice. ‘Watcha, all. What can I do for you?’
‘Could you get rid of that somewhere for me, Luigi? I want shot of the bleeder.’
Luigi sounded embarrassed. ‘I dunno, Madame Zelda. Snuffing’s not really in my line. You’d be better off with Sid the Shiv or maybe Mad Albie’ll do it for you. He likes that kinda thing. Course, he’ll have to check it out with Maltese Joe first. He may not like Albie freelancing. Who is he and what’s he done, anyway?’
‘Don’t be daft, Luigi. I ain’t asking you to bump the bugger off. I just want him removed from the premises and dumped on a bomb site or somewhere until he comes round and crawls back to the sewer he came out of. He’s my husband, if you must know. He just turned up looking for someone and came across me by mistake. I’ll tell you more about it when he’s gone. He may look out for the count but you can bet your life he’s earwigging even as we speak.’
I heard a gusty sigh of relief and Luigi’s voice drifted through the crack in the door. ‘Oh, is that all? Yeah, we can get rid of him for you. How far away do you want him? Oy, you lot. Get in here and scrape him up, will you? We’re taking him on a little trip. South London do you, Madame Zelda? We were heading that way anyway. We’ve heard there’s a big game on down Clapham way. We thought we’d relieve ’em of a few bob, didn’t we, lads?’
There was a murmur of agreement and negotiations continued in tones too low for me to hear. Eventually I heard the cafe door open and close again.
Auntie Maggie’s voice boomed in the silence that followed their departure. ‘Well, that’s got shot of him. You can tell us now – what was he doing here anyway? If he wasn’t looking for you, who was he looking for? He was definitely keeping his eyes peeled for someone, that’s for sure.’
‘Well, that’s it, see. I’m not sure. He said he was looking for a woman called Cassandra Loveday-Smythe. I told him I’d never heard of her. Then I remembered that our Rosie’s mum is called Cassandra something or other and wondered if it might be her. Course, I never let on. I just asked him why he was so keen to find her. He tapped his nose and said that that would be telling. You can bet your life the slimy little git is up to no bleeding good. He says he works for her dad as a chauffeur, and learned to drive in the war. Do you think he’s talking about Rosie’s mum?’
Uncle Bert sounded alarmed. ‘Did ’e tell you anything else? Any details that might give us a clue? Cassie’s name is Smith as far as I know, but I never was convinced by it. Course, some poor sods have got to be called Smith and I don’t s’pose anyone ever believes ’em. If she wanted to disappear, changing her name would be her first move. Mind you, it’s a bit close to Smythe for comfort, but amateurs always do that, pick a name close to their own. I s’pose it’s comforting.’
The talk continued but I hardly heard it. I was trying to take it all in. Any information about my mum was news to me and it always made my stomach tighten and my heart lurch. She made me nervous, my mum did.
I came to just in time to hear Auntie Maggie’s tread and voice approaching my hideout. I barely made it up the stairs. I couldn’t pretend I’d been tidying my room because it was still a tip so I launched myself at my bed and grabbed a book. It was only after she’d poked her head round the door and tutted at me for being ‘a lazy little tyke’ that I realized I had it upside down.
9
The next day was Coronation Day!
I was beside myself with excitement for all sorts of reasons. Probably the most thrilling was the fact that Uncle Bert had invested in a television set. He had bought it specially to watch the Queen being crowned, which just goes to show what a big deal it all was. At school my chest had swelled with pride the day after he brought it home. They were thin on the ground in those days, tellies were, and I was the first of my schoolmates to have one. Being the natural swanker that I was, and probably still am, I got plenty of mileage out of it. Auntie Maggie told me that I could invite my friends round to watch it if I liked. Did I like? Not being one to let an opportunity slip past me, of course I did! It was quickly agreed that a few of my friends could stay and party until the grown-ups really got going, then perhaps it would be better if they buggered off home.
I was also dying to see the crown, the Queen’s dress and all the jewels. Me, Patsy, Jill, Jenny and Kathy Moon had, of course, been playing coronations for weeks with an old velvet curtain for a train and a cardboard crown. Paulette had given me all sorts of bits and pieces like paste diamonds and sequins to decorate it. The whole effect was splendid. That cardboard crown twinkled and shone almost as well as the real thing. For an orb we had a rubber ball covered in silver paper and more of Paulette’s gems. I can’t remember what our sceptre was made of – cardboard, I suppose. We thought we looked wonderful as we took it in turns to strut about being the Queen. I expect you’re wondering what that cow Kathy Moon was doing joining in the proceedings. It’s just amazing what making somebody’s nose bleed can do.
When I finally got to see the real Coronation the bit that deeply impressed me was the coach and horses. We still saw the odd horse here and there delivering things but these were different. Much smarter they were, all done up in fancy gear and everything matching. They were beautiful. I tried for days after to get Tom to act as a horse, but he wasn’t having any. He just hissed and scratched and by the time I gave it up I looked as if I’d been savaged by a demented hedgehog.
Of course, the other great excitement besides showing off the television set and finally getting to see the event that had been heralded for so many months was the party. Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert really knew how to throw a bash and all my favourite people were there. I tended to get spoilt rotten by all and sundry and of course I lapped it up.
It seems to me that people in those days had the corner on having a good time. Life had been grim. Austerity was a word much bandied about, and it said it all. There had been years and years of fear, death, injury, separation, rationing and endless shortages for most people. Everywhere you looked there were reminders. Bomb sites gaped like broken teeth, pathetic reminders of just how temporary life could be.
Uncle Bert seemed preoccupied as the finishing touches were being put to the food and decorations. He kept going next door to Sharky’s to use the telephone, but whoever he was
trying to reach was out. Whenever this happened he’d go into a huddle with Auntie Maggie and look worried. Every now and then he’d take a look out of the window and each time he did so, his expression got grimmer.
This went on for a bit and then he seemed to come to some kind of decision. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck as I hurried past with a trayful of meat paste sandwiches and told me to nip up the road and get Luigi. I was on the point of making the ritual protest, the sort that comes out as a sort of wail and usually starts with a long-drawn-out ‘Ohhh’, and had my gob open to begin when I caught the look in his eye and snapped it shut. I nipped, and with alacrity. On the way, I caught a glimpse of Madame Zelda’s Charlie lurking in a doorway, eyes peeled. I figured that Uncle Bert’s uneasiness had something to do with him and hurried along faster.
The Campaninis’ delicatessen had, and still has, the most tantalizing smell. It’s a combination of fresh coffee, herbs, garlic, spicy sausages and musty dried mushrooms all piled on top of the sweet scent of vanilla and something else I can’t quite identify, chocolate maybe. It is so good it’s tempting to grab a spoon and try to eat it.
The back of the shop was dedicated to the selling of groceries. Shelves were stacked up the walls and groaned under the weight of packets, tins and jars filled with mysterious goodies. As England squirmed out from the grip of rationing, so the cabinets began to fill slowly with cheeses, cold meats, dishes of olives and delicious concoctions that swam in olive oil and tomato sauce. Fresh ravioli, tortellini and spaghetti were also available. Various Campanini daughters and wives were pressed into service producing the stuff. Ravioli was popular in hard times, as all sorts could be ground up and stuffed into it and no one was any the wiser. It also made a very little meat go a very long way.