by Pip Granger
‘I mean it, Tony. Why do you hang around the Holes? You’ll wind up in serious trouble one of these days. Is that what you want?’
‘Course not! Don’t be daft! Nobody goes around looking for trouble. Trouble just happens.’ He shrugged and avoided my eyes: he knew he was talking rubbish.
‘You know that’s not entirely true, Tony,’ I told him. ‘Sometimes it just happens and there’s nothing you can do about it, like your dad going to war. And sometimes you make it happen by mixing with wrong’uns like Brian Hole, who will drag you into bad situations that will, eventually, get you banged up in jail. Is that really what you want to do with your life? Drift in and out of the nick?’
‘Well, it’s better than being blown up or shot by Germans, ain’t it?’ Tony asked.
‘I suppose you’ve got a point there,’ I said, ‘but at least your dad was a hero, fighting for you and your mum and everyone he knew and loved and millions that he didn’t. That’s something to be proud of, that is. Spending your life in and out of prison is nothing to boast about, now is it? It’s more of a waste, if you look at it in a certain way. And anyway,’ I said, shoving the barb in under the ribs, ‘I’m sure your dad would be very sorry if you did that with your life. He’d expect better from you.’
Tony thought about that for a minute or two, realized he couldn’t really argue the point and then changed the subject slightly. ‘What am I s’posed to do, then? I’m not clever like Reggie; he’s brainy, but I’m not good at anything. I can’t even do woodwork. My toast-rack looks like a chimp made it.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised. It’s scrap wood, you need the proper materials to do a proper job. You’ll get better at it when the supply of decent wood starts again.’ It was true; before it was a toast rack, it’d been part of a small bookshelf, and before that, a crate for oranges from Seville – the inky stamp had shown through the watered-down woodstain someone had used to try to disguise it.
‘They could give me bloody oak and I’d still make a balls of it,’ Tony said.
‘Watch your language,’ I answered automatically.
‘Sorry. But it’s true. I’m not good at anything, I told you. I’m as dim as a Toc H Lamp. Mr Sneddon at school told me.’
I know I was prejudiced, but that simply was not true! Tony was a bright little spark, quick on the uptake and funny with it – when he put his mind to it, he could make me weep with laughter.
‘The very idea! The man doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You, a fool? No you’re bloody not!’ I said, forgetting myself in the heat of the moment. Who was this moron to call my nephew dim? ‘You run rings round this family, and there are not too many half-wits in our clan!’ I assured him. ‘You have to be up fairly early in the morning to pull one over on your gran, your great-gran, your mum, Reggie, Auntie Doris and even me, and yet you manage it, you little toe-rag, and that, my boy, is not the sign of a raving idiot.’
I ranted on for a bit more, until I ran out of steam and Tony was rolling around in his Lloyd Loom, clutching his sides with laughter. Then I got serious. ‘And anyway, you are good at something. As it happens, you’re bloody wonderful at it,’ I said, forgetting myself again. ‘You can sing. In fact, you sing like an angel. Everybody says so.’
‘Oh very handy that is,’ he sneered. ‘ “You can’t eat singing and it doesn’t put clothes on your back or shoes on your feet.” That’s what Mum says when I tell her I want to be like Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra when I grow up.’
Good old Vi, always there with the encouragement, I thought. ‘Ah well, your mum misses your dad too, remember. It makes it hard for her to look on the bright side.’ It was true, it did. ‘But I don’t suppose for one minute that either Bing or Frankie got where they are today by hanging around with sneak thieves. I expect they practised their singing and looked for ways to get where they wanted to go, don’t you?’ I asked, all innocence. ‘Don’t give up on dreams, Tony, because if you work hard enough at them, they could just come true.’
‘Oh yeah?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Then how come you’re married to Charlie and working in that rotten canteen? It can’t be what you dreamed about, surely?’ See, not stupid, not stupid at all.
I didn’t answer straight away. I could feel my eyes filling. ‘No, Tony, it wasn’t what I dreamed of. But you see, I hung about in bad company and in the end I got myself a prison sentence, or as good as. So what I’m saying to you is, don’t make the same mistakes as me. Choose a different way and make a better life for yourself. What’s wrong with that?’
Tony dropped his eyes, along with the sneering defiance, and had the grace to look ashamed of himself. At last he managed to look up again and meet my eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Auntie Zelda,’ he whispered.
‘So am I, sweetheart, so am I. But that’s not your responsibility. What you do about yourself is,’ I told him.
We washed and dried our cups carefully and put them back on their hooks. Tony emptied the teapot on the roots of the apple tree. It was time to go home. After I’d dropped Tony off at his house, I walked on towards home alone, deep in thought. Tony had given me a lot to think about and I made up my mind to do what I could to help him. He was a nice boy, I liked him and I wanted him to have his chance. What he did with it after that would be entirely up to him.
8
‘All that snot and red eyes does nothing for her looks,’ said Dilly in a withering tone.
She and my sister Vi had never been what you might call close. The trouble between them began when Vi and Fred started courting. Fred was very fond of his baby sister, and she of him. He just laughed when she popped up, often with me in close attendance, to play gooseberry and ruin their courting moments. It was our sisterly duty to put the dampers on snogging and close clinches if we could. It was a younger sister’s revenge for all the bullying that had gone on before romance took over.
Well, it was in my case. In Dilly’s? She wasn’t bullied by Fred, she just never thought much of Vi. She considered her to be too wet for her beloved brother. Fred was Dilly’s hero; he had been since she was a scrap and he used to carry her on his wide shoulders or plonk her on the crossbar of his bike and whizz her down the hill at dizzying speed. She’d loved that. We all had.
‘I mean, I know the truancy man coming round about Tony was tricky for her,’ Dilly grumbled, unwilling to let it go, ‘but really, must she carry on so? You’d think she was the only one with troubles.’ Bumping into Vi outside Dean’s the bakers had upset Dilly and her mum, who were, after all, Tony’s auntie and gran.
I nodded sympathetically. With my mouth full of pins it was impossible to do anything else.
‘I miss Fred too, you know. We all do. Mum hasn’t been the same since he went, and when the telegram came, she seemed to sort of crumple from the inside and she suddenly got ever so old. It happened almost overnight. One minute she was the old Mum and the next, she was this little grey shell.
‘Everyone’s lost someone, Zeld, it’s not just Vi. I know it’s wicked to say it, but she always has it worse than everybody else, somehow. It’s always “Poor Vi”. It has been all her life.’
I couldn’t really argue, because Dilly was right in a way. But on the other hand, not knowing whether she was a widow or not was a really difficult one for Vi – or anyone else, for that matter. If she gave up hope and accepted that Fred was not coming back it was as if she was betraying him in some way, wishing him dead. But if she kept hope alive, how long could a body go on without looking a damned fool about it? Then there was the question of getting on with life; that wasn’t easy if you were constantly marking time and waiting, endlessly waiting.
Poor Tony was the living proof of that. He seemed to be stuck in a groove. It suddenly occurred to me that the excitement of climbing through windows not his own might be the only thing that really took his mind off the enormous hole that Fred had left in his young life. Maybe running the risk of being caught made him feel closer to his dad in some peculiar way. I decided that my th
oughts were getting too deep for me and it was politic to change the subject.
‘So, tell me about this Yank, then. What’s his name? Where’s he from? Where’s he stationed?’ I grinned as my friend went pink and became a bit flustered. Dilly had come to my place to take in a frock she’d inherited from one of her sisters-in-law. It was nothing fancy, a navy blue cotton with wide shoulders and a narrow belt, but it was smart enough. Or it would be, once she’d altered it. It had crisp, white piping around its collar and its short sleeves.
‘His name’s Chester. He’s from somewhere called Memphis, Tennessee. He’s stationed on the coast – in Suffolk, I think. And he mends cars and lorries and things like that; he was a mechanic in Civvy Street. When he’s not doing that, he sings sometimes, but mostly he plays the trumpet in his own band. I haven’t heard him yet. He calls his band Chester Field’s GI Jivers,’ she told me proudly, her face aglow over my trusty Singer sewing machine. Good old Chester had hit the spot all right.
‘He looks lovely in his uniform,’ she added shyly. ‘Really lovely. He’s so handsome, Zelda. I’ve never seen anyone as handsome in my whole life, not even at the pictures.’
That was saying something, because according to Dilly, Clark Gable was the most handsome man in the entire world – until she met Chester, that is. Personally, I always thought Humphrey Bogart was a bit of all right. Vi and Doris had a thing for Robert Taylor, but I couldn’t see it myself; too much of a lounge lizard for my taste. Doris went all soppy if you mentioned his name, even in front of her Ernest, who looked nothing like him. The fact that Dilly thought Chester outshone even her beloved Clark Gable, though, really impressed me.
‘It must be love,’ I said, and she didn’t deny it. ‘Why don’t you tell him about the dance Al and his mob are planning? Maybe he’ll buy tickets for the pair of you, you never know.’
‘It’s an idea, Zeld. I’ll bring it up next time I see him. I told Al I’d flog some tickets when they’re ready. How about you? You could get rid of a fair few down at the canteen. So could Molly Squires at the boozer. It’s for a good cause – Dr Barnardo’s.’
We chatted on for a while about nothing in particular and then we rummaged through my wardrobe looking for some bits to complete her outfit. We topped the dress off with my thin, navy serge coat and her own hat, shoes and gloves. She looked a picture! But then Dilly would have looked a picture in a khaki trench coat and a pair of wellies. She was just made that way. It was something else poor Vi held against her. She yearned to be like Priscilla Lane or Veronica Lake and spent hours working on it when she went out, but somehow she always wound up looking like pudding-faced Vi, pleasant but plain. Whereas her sister-in-law would have shone in sackcloth and ashes.
I never minded being slightly in Dilly’s shadow. It suited me. It could be a bloody nuisance being too good-looking. Dilly was often pestered, and although she always tried to be nice, some blokes just didn’t take the hint. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t hideous or anything, and I got my share of attention from the blokes all right. Most people reckoned my eyes to be my best feature, although some men’s attention was riveted by two spots lower down, the filthy beasts!
9
Dad was not a happy man. Tony’s continued bad behaviour was making sure of that. Dad set great store by respectability. Said the old Queen had laid down certain standards of behaviour that he, for one, was happy to live by. One of those standards was that nice gels didn’t get up the duff before they were safely married, and another was that good boys stayed on the right side of Lily Law. I’d erred in one department and young Tony had erred in the other, which made us stablemates in a funny kind of a way. The trouble was, when someone new managed to get on Dad’s top note, it reminded him of all the others that had annoyed him over the years. As he said, ‘I don’t give a monkey’s what other people’s families get up to, but I expect mine to behave themselves and abide by my rules or they can do the other thing.’ And off would come the belt and someone’s backside would glow for a week.
He never did explain what ‘the other thing’ was, because up until then, nobody had opted for it. And it wasn’t true that he didn’t mind what other people’s children did, either. He did mind. He minded quite a lot, because he liked to compare his with theirs, and God help us if he decided that his were wanting. He never forgave anyone who let him down in any department. And Tony’s spot of bother had reminded him of my wicked ways.
I knew the minute I walked in for Sunday dinner. Everyone was unnaturally quiet and I noticed Tony wasn’t very comfortable resting both cheeks on his hard kitchen chair at the same time. He fidgeted from one buttock to the other and tried to keep his head down while he was about it. I sat down opposite him and gave his knee a gentle nudge under the table. He raised his beautiful eyes, with their great, long lashes, and we exchanged small, sad smiles. Message understood!
‘Oh, so her ladyship has finally arrived, has she?’ Dad’s tone had that edge that said he had a grievance, a belly full of beer and plenty to say. My heart bled for Tony; his poor bum must have been raw, with Dad half-cut and with a strop on.
‘Not too busy dropping your drawers to get a decent night’s kip in, I trust?’ God, I hated the old man when he was on one! I kept my head down and didn’t even dare smile when I felt another tiny nudge, this time from Tony to me.
Vi’s voice cut in, slimy with innuendo. ‘She said she was going to the pictures with Dilly, but mind, she’s said that before.’ And I had, the night I’d sneaked off to the Palais de Dance with Charlie. I had wanted to go to a grown-up dance so badly. Charlie had had tickets, he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke and he could be such a laugh when he felt like it, so I went. I wondered whether I’d live long enough to stop regretting that act of defiance, and if my bloody father and sister would ever let me.
Mum’s voice was sharp as she carried the chicken to the table. It was one of Mr Whitelock’s finest, kept in his yard with Dobbin and swapped for Tony’s cast-off school uniform, with a pair of stout boots thrown in for good measure. The boots were hardly worn, on account of Tony having had a growth spurt shortly after they’d been bought. They didn’t fit his cousin Reggie, who had big feet. Mr Whitelock always had a child or two in need of clothes, even third-hand ones.
‘You can keep your opinions to yourself, Violet Gunn. I seem to remember you’ve had one or two moments that you needn’t be proud of yourself. And you, Dad. Let it be, for God’s sake! Tony’s had his thrashing; you’ve had your say; and our Zelda’s paid her dues, with knobs on. It can’t be any picnic to be married to Charlie Fluck, now can it?’ Mum’s voice was rising dangerously.
‘That’s the trouble with going to the pub of a Sunday dinnertime. It gets you moody. Let’s just have a nice, family dinner for a change.’ Mum’s cheeks were burning cherry red and her hair was standing up in a harassed halo around her head. At that moment, I loved my plucky little mum so much, I thought my heart would burst.
Dad’s tone would have soured lemons. ‘What is this with the “Zelda this” and “Zelda that” cobblers? I named her Enid, and if the name is good enough for my mother, then it’s bloody well good enough for my daughter!’
‘It’s what she prefers to be called, Harry. I see no harm in it. Anyway, we also called her Zelda, remember, after your bloody aunt! So what difference does it make? Except you’re a stubborn old git who is hell bent on ruining my Sunday dinner!’
Mum stood up, hands planted firmly on her hips. Her chest heaved indignantly and her glittering eyes dared him to make something of it. Every inch of her said that if he did, he’d wind up wearing his chicken, roast potatoes, two veg and gravy, and possibly his blancmange as well.
I jumped to my feet and stood beside her, just in case Dad decided to make something of it anyway. I noticed that Doris slid in on the other side and, after a moment’s hesitation, Tony joined us. Vi stayed put and Doris’s Reggie struggled to decide what to do. The twins, bless them, looked interested, in a nervous and thoroughly bewi
ldered sort of way. They were only little.
A long silence followed, with Dad’s face growing more purple by the second. Then Reggie nodded slightly to himself, stood up slowly and placed himself firmly beside his cousin. Reggie always liked to think before doing anything. Zinnia said it came of being hard of breathing; he liked to work out if the effort and the breath was worth it.
It was only when Gran came in and broke the tension with a rude remark about Mrs Cattermole’s church hat that I realized we’d all been rigid, waiting for the explosion. It felt like the ‘all clear’ after a night’s heavy bombing. ‘I swear it’s that same old brown felt that that woman has under all that greengrocery,’ Gran was saying. ‘If she shoves another cherry on it, she’ll be pecked to death by the bleedin’ starlings.’ Nine sets of lungs expelled stale air as we exploded into hysterical laughter. Well, nine breathed and seven laughed while the twins looked on, to be exact.
‘Well, what’s got into you lot?’ Gran demanded, looking from one to another. ‘It weren’t that funny.’ But the moment had passed, and Dad decided to give it up. While the rest of us chatted uneasily, he ate in sullen silence. He didn’t like it when Mum stood up on her hind legs, but he knew that she meant it, because she didn’t do it often.
‘I saw Molly Squires in Mare Street this morning,’ Doris told me quietly over the washing-up. Dad had retired to bed to sleep it off. Mum and Gran had nipped round to Zinnia’s for a chinwag and to get out of Dad’s way for a bit, the twins were playing quietly and the boys had disappeared – God knew where. ‘She says that she could’ve sworn she saw Ma Hole with your Charlie last night. She caught a glimpse of them, she says, in the snug of the Star and Garter. The place was packed and she was run off her feet, so she can’t be sure. But she said if it wasn’t Charlie, then he’s got a double.’
Doris must have noticed the colour drain from my face because she patted my shoulder reassuringly. ‘I told her she was probably seeing things. She did say it was only a glimpse.’