by Pip Granger
Auntie Maggie had really gone to town. One of her parcels contained the dinkiest tea set you ever saw and another held a set of copper pans for the kitchen. Yet another was full of minute rag rugs, sets of curtains, a quilt for the four-poster and lampshades for the torch bulbs suspended from the ceilings. She had made all of these things herself and it’s a wonder that she didn’t go blind, what with the tiny little stitches and all. When I think of it now, I am staggered at just how much thought and love went into it all.
15
Auntie Maggie couldn’t wait to get me up on the morning after my birthday.
‘Come on, slow coach, get them lazy bones out of that pit,’ she chided. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get washed, dressed and ready for anything. Your breakfast is almost on the table. Come on now, quick as you can. Downstairs in the caff in ten minutes, ready to wrap your laughing gear round your breakfast and open your parcel.’
The word ‘parcel’ got my attention all right. I was out of my bed and halfway to the door before I’d even opened my eyes. I loved a good parcel. Let’s face it, who in their right mind doesn’t? There is something special about a package that comes through the post. I was down those stairs, still damp behind the ears and with my blouse hanging out, in five minutes flat. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie were already ensconced at our table and there, by my place, was a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and secured with stout string. Uncle Bert eyed me over his Daily Mirror as I skidded to a halt and flung myself into my chair.
‘Sleeping Beauty has arrived at last, eh? I do hope your early rising won’t damage your health, my dear,’ said Uncle Bert from around his pipe. ‘I’ll just get her ladyship her breakfast, shall I? It’s keeping warm in the oven.’ He heaved himself to his feet as I began to wail about opening my parcel first, then having my breakfast.
Auntie Maggie was adamant. ‘Not on your nelly, my gel. Breakfast first, then the parcel. These things are always better for a bit of anticipation, really they are. Anyway, you might get bacon fat or fried egg all over what’s inside and that wouldn’t do at all.’
I opened my mouth to protest, caught the gleam in her eye and knew that resistance was useless. I snapped my mouth shut and looked sullen instead.
Auntie Maggie ignored my expression and pointed to the stamps plastered above my name and address. ‘Look, love, them’s French stamps and the postmark says Paris, which is the capital of France as I’m sure you know. Now I wonder who can be sending you stuff from foreign parts?’
I knew she didn’t expect an answer. Guessing games were one of Auntie Maggie’s specialities and her face always fell if you guessed too quickly.
‘P’raps it’s that lady who had her head chopped off for saying ‘‘Let them eat cake,’’ ’ I suggested, completely forgetting that I was sulking.
Auntie Maggie looked interested. ‘What lady was that then?’
‘It was that queen. Mary something or other.’
‘Marie Antoinette,’ supplied Uncle Bert as he returned with my breakfast.
‘Mary who?’
‘Not Mary, Marie,’ he said, gesticulating wildly with my plate so that the egg was dangerously close to slipping down the back of Auntie Maggie’s neck. ‘Marie Antoinette,’ he repeated in his best Maurice Chevalier voice as he plopped my plate down in front of me. ‘Eat. Now where was I? Oh yes, Marie Antoinette, French Queen during that Revolution they had over there. Got her head chopped off, as Rosie so rightly says, along with all them other French aristos. Well, those who couldn’t leg it fast enough, that is. Did I ever tell you two that my mob originated in France? We was supposed to be French aristocrats with a chateau, land and everything.’
Auntie Maggie and I exchanged long-suffering looks and rolled our eyes at each other. He was off again!
‘Yes, dear, you have told us, hundreds of times,’ Auntie Maggie cut in quickly before he could hit his stride. ‘The thing is, if this Marie Antoinette had her head chopped off, how could she find her way to the post office? Eat your egg white as well, Rosie, there’s a good girl. And your crusts. It’ll make your hair nice and straight, just like Kathy’s. So this queen of yours couldn’t make it to get the stamps without her head, now could she, let alone write the address? Or does she carry her head under her arm like Mary Queen of Scots?’
Uncle Bert shook his head. ‘You’ve got a point there, Maggie, my love, I’ve never heard that she carried her head about, so I reckon not. Now who else is there? We don’t know anyone French, apart from Frenchie from the pub and he wouldn’t be sending our Rosie parcels, would he?’
I was munching steadily as they pondered the problem and batted ideas back and forth. They were still at it when I’d finished and it was a moment or two before I could attract their attention. ‘Can I open it now? Can I?’
They pretended to consider and then grinned and nodded. Uncle Bert cut the string neatly with his penknife, just by the knot, and rolled it up into a tidy, small ball. We never threw string away, or brown paper for that matter, so I had to open the parcel with care. There was no point in giving it a thorough feel first because whatever it was, was obviously in a good, stout box, so the shape would give no clues. I unwrapped the paper and folded it very carefully. Inside was an ordinary cardboard box with some French writing but no picture. Auntie Maggie began to tease Uncle Bert: if he was a Froggy, could he translate it for us, she asked.
To my horror, he snatched the box from my grasp and pretended to read the inscription. ‘Le Blanc, that means ‘‘the White’’, snails and frogs’ legs to the gentry. Two dozen prime limbs of the amphibian and two dozen living snails.’ He raised the tips of his fingers and thumb to his pursed lips and, in an expansive Gallic gesture, made a kissing sound. ‘Delicious!’ he announced, as we squealed in disgust.
He handed me back my parcel and at last I was free to open it. Auntie Maggie hastily removed my greasy plate and dumped it with a thud on the next table. They both leaned forward as I fumbled with the box.
When I finally got it open and peered inside there was an envelope addressed to me, another addressed to Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert, and loads of smaller parcels, individually wrapped in coloured paper. There were red, blue, green, yellow and purple ones. I removed the envelopes, handed theirs over and gently tipped out the rainbow packages. I recognized the style: the Perfumed Lady had remembered my birthday and, what’s more, she had remembered just how much I loved to open parcels. Of course we’d known it was from her all along – she was the only person we knew who was likely to send me parcels from Paris. One or two local bookshop owners got stuff sent from Paris, it’s true, but not through the post. No, those parcels came with shifty-eyed men with wide lapels, shiny hair and lots of gold rings. The same ones that stood about hissing on street corners offering punters postcards of naked ladies.
I opened each parcel slowly, savouring the joy of it. It seems that the Perfumed Lady had been in on the great doll’s-house conspiracy and each tiny parcel contained another contribution. There was a family of dolls – mother, father, a little girl, a little boy and a baby in a cot that rocked. There was a collection of minute toys for the children to play with, including a spinning top that didn’t spin on account of being too small, a titchy doll’s pram, a football and a playpen for the baby. Best of all was the rocking horse. It was a dappled grey with a scarlet saddle and reins; its eyes were wild and its tail streamed behind it.
I was thrilled to bits and itching to get upstairs so that I could put the people into my house and get playing, but Auntie Maggie insisted that I open my card first. It was a picture of a little girl with huge eyes, all dolled up in fancy frills and ribbons. Inside the Perfumed Lady had written, ‘Happy birthday, darling. I hope to see you soon, love Mummy,’ with lots of kisses. Yuk, ‘Mummy’! Nobody called their mum ‘Mummy’ except those squirts in the films or Enid Blyton books.
My eyes must have been pleading because Auntie Maggie grinned and said, ‘Go on, then.’ I went. Later, they told me that the Per
fumed Lady was sorry that she’d been away for my birthday but that something had come up. I am sorry to say that I didn’t mind a lot. I had my presents, and the most beautiful doll’s house in the world.
16
The other big event of the summer, besides my birthday, was our holiday. Auntie Maggie had a younger sister, Flo, who had moved to a place Uncle Bert always called ‘Aggie on Horseback’ and she had invited us to visit her.
‘Where the hell is Aggie on ’Orseback when it’s at home?’ demanded Madame Zelda when a letter came from Flo soon after she’d moved away. I was glad she’d asked because it had been worrying me too, but when I questioned Auntie Maggie she was vague and said it had something to do with sailors but she was blowed if she could remember what.
‘It’s what the sailors call Weston-super-Mare, Zeld. It’s down in Somerset, by the sea,’ Uncle Bert explained.
‘All right, I’ll go for that. But why do sailors call it Aggie on Horseback? I see the horse bit, but who was this Aggie person?’
Uncle Bert put on his best schoolmaster’s voice and puffed his chest out ready to deliver his words of wisdom. He liked to tell people things. ‘One Agatha Weston, Zeld. Famous for being good to sailors.’
‘Hmph.’ She snorted. ‘Paulette’s been good to loads of sailors in her time and I don’t see no places named after her.’
‘Not that kind of good, Zelda. For starters, she gave them money, not the other way round.’
‘Oh, I see,’ gasped Madame Zelda as she and Auntie Maggie rocked with laughter. I wasn’t at all sure that I saw but I laughed anyway, not wanting to be left out.
Auntie Flo had kept in touch regularly every week since she’d moved away with Sid, her second husband. Johnny, her first, had copped it in the war, having stood on a landmine. Auntie Maggie had never liked Johnny as she suspected him of being a womanizer and very poor husband material altogether. On hearing the news of his demise, she’d had real trouble keeping the satisfaction out of her voice. ‘He’d always spread hisself a bit thin but never from here to kingdom come before,’ she stated. Of course, she was very careful not to let Auntie Flo hear her views. Auntie Flo had never complained to anyone about her Johnny and Auntie Maggie didn’t want to hurt her feelings now that Johnny’s philandering days were over.
Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert had much more time for Sid, who was a travelling salesman, and were genuinely pleased when Auntie Flo and he tied the knot. They gave them a fine old wedding bash at the cafe and then the happy couple moved to the seaside and the boarding house run by Sid’s mum. The idea was that Auntie Flo would help with the boarders and Sid would carry on travelling with his ladies’ corsets.
Much to everyone’s astonishment, including Auntie Flo’s, she and her mother-in-law got along fine together right up until the old girl died. Then Uncle Sid and Auntie Flo inherited the boarding house and now they were in the middle of doing it up. Auntie Flo’s plan was that we would go down for a holiday and help with the refurbishments at the same time.
‘Oh good,’ groaned Uncle Bert when Auntie Maggie read the invitation to him. ‘Some holiday, I don’t think. Up to our armpits in scrubbing and decorating, I’ll be bound.’
‘Stop your moaning, Bert Featherby. The change’ll do us all good and anyway Rosie’s never seen the sea, have you, love?’ I opened my mouth to answer, but she ploughed on. ‘She’s my sister, Bert. She could do with our help, and I for one don’t mind giving it.’
Uncle Bert rolled his eyes at me and patted Auntie Maggie’s substantial knee reassuringly. ‘Keep your hair on, Maggie, my love. Your sisterly devotion does you credit. I was only saying. Of course we’ll go and we’ll give her a hand, if that’s what you want. Anyway, it’s about time we had a holiday and it’s time the rug-rat here saw the briny. Write back and tell ’em we’ll be down straight after Rosie’s birthday.’
In the event, it was decided that Madame Zelda and Paulette should come too and we were all wild with excitement. I had never been out of London before and I had no idea what to expect.
We had my birthday party on the Saturday, after the cafe closed. My mates used to fall over themselves to get to a bunfight thrown by Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert. Uncle Bert would always finish off by entertaining us with his famous magic tricks and every kid would leave with some sweets he just happened to ‘find’ nestling in their ears or even in their nostrils. The ‘nose sweets’ never failed to bring forth disgusted cries from the party-goers but it didn’t seem to put anyone off eating them. Sweets were a really big deal in those days because they were still on ration, but Uncle Bert could always get them when the need arose, rationing or no rationing – another bit of his magic.
This particular birthday party went with the customary swing, although we finished up a little more smartly than usual on account of leaving for Aggie on Horseback the next day. We had packing to do and a couple of Campanini girls were coming by to receive their last-minute instructions. They had agreed to help Mrs Wong take care of business while we were away, and Luigi had promised to keep an eye on things.
We were still downstairs, clearing up the cafe, when there was an agitated rapping on the door. Uncle Bert shouted that we were closed, but the rapping came again.
‘Who is it, Bert?’ Auntie Maggie yelled from the kitchen.
‘I dunno. Some old gent I’ve never seen before. Bugger off, mate. Can’t you see we’re closed?’ He was just tapping the closed sign and glaring at the old man when I, being a nosy little sod, came out to investigate.
‘Wait a minute, Uncle Bert. That’s Mr Herbert from the bookshop. You know, the one I told you about. Hello, Mr Herbert. What are you doing here? Can you let him in, Uncle Bert? I know him, honest I do. It’s him who chooses all those books for me that you like so much – The Wind in the Willows and all that.’
Uncle Bert unlocked the door, apologizing to Mr Herbert as he did so. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t know you was a friend of our Rosie’s. Any friend of hers is a friend of ours. Come in, why don’t you, and take the weight off.’
Mr Herbert bustled in beaming, and with his hand out to shake Uncle Bert’s to show there were no hard feelings.
‘Hello, Rosa, my dear, how nice to see you again. How are you and how is dear Cassandra? I don’t seem to have seen either of you for a long while. This must be … er … Uncle Bert. How do you do, sir? A pleasure, sir, a real pleasure. And this is your good lady?’ He bowed stiffly to Auntie Maggie who had appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her pinny. She blushed a fetching pink and invited him to sit down and have a cup of tea.
The chat was idle for a bit. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie established that Mr Herbert had run the bookshop for the better part of thirty years and that he lived above his shop. They compared notes on living and working in the same place and concluded that, despite some drawbacks, it was a jolly good thing. The main problem, as they saw it, was getting away from work. They agreed that a change of scene now and then was essential. Auntie Maggie talked about our holiday with Auntie Flo, her sister, which led on to Mr Herbert knowing a ‘local chap’ once, years ago, who’d had two daughters, Margaret and Florence, and it turned out from that that he’d known Auntie Maggie’s dad quite well. They had played chess together at a club that met on Tuesdays in a room above the Coach and Horses.
‘Of course he was a senior member and it was some time before I had the privilege of playing him,’ Mr Herbert said. ‘A very fine player, Mrs Featherby, very fine. Quick, too.’
Auntie Maggie beamed, eyes misty for a second, then she sat up with a jolt. ‘Hang about! You’re not ‘‘young ’Erbert’’, are you? I remember my dad coming home in a terrible temper because ‘‘that young ’Erbert’’ had beaten him, not once but three weeks on the trot. Was that you?’
Mr Herbert fidgeted for a bit and looked modestly at the ground before owning that he and young ’Erbert were, in fact, one and the same. ‘I should like to add, Mrs Featherby, that your dear father did go on to beat
me several times after that. I think my game confused him for a bit – until he got used to my style of play, that is.’
‘You’re being too modest, Mr Herbert. My dad thought you was one of the finest chess players he’d ever met. What’s more, you was really good to him when he couldn’t get about no more after his stroke. Played by post, you did, never missed a turn in all them years. He loved those games, Mr Herbert, he really did. He was in the middle of one when the bomb hit ’em; he’d got me mum to write down his next move and everything. I know ’cause I was going to post it for him but he just wanted to think about it a bit longer, to make sure. Said he couldn’t slip anything past you. They got clobbered that very night.’ Auntie Maggie sniffed slightly, fished out a huge, snowy handkerchief from the pocket of her pinny and blew into it mightily.
There was a moment’s silence as we all thought about Auntie Maggie’s mum and dad, killed by a direct hit during the Blitz. The spot where their house had been was a sort of car park now. It was the place where the pack of stray dogs hung about waiting for Auntie Maggie to step out in her best moleskin coat. It was also where the ‘ten bob and find your own railings’ class of working girls plied their trade, according to Paulette. I couldn’t quite see why they were called this because there weren’t any railings. They’d been taken away for scrap to help with the war effort, or so Auntie Maggie said when I asked.
Uncle Bert was the first to come back to the present. ‘It’s been fine wandering down Memory Lane with you, Mr Herbert, but you’ve not told us to what we owe the pleasure.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Foolish of me to get sidetracked. It’s about Rosa’s mother, Cassandra; I suppose you have no notion as to where she is at present, do you?’
I had my mouth open ready to say ‘Paris’ when I felt the gentlest of nudges against my ankle and snapped my gob shut. I was being reminded not to answer questions about people we knew until I had some idea as to why the questions were being asked in the first place.