Trouble In Paradise

by Pip Granger

  At dinnertime our canteen was a sea of dark, rough clothing, with just a hint of blue or khaki here and there, where the odd off-duty sailor or soldier shovelled down toad-in-the-hole or a sausage, with a large helping of bubble and squeak made from leftover cabbage and spuds. We’d managed to get hold of a consignment of bangers that very morning, so that dictated the menu. The beauty of toad-in-the-hole was that you could chop each sausage up into several bits to give the illusion of more banger per customer. It made a little stretch a long way, especially if you were generous with the batter. There was bread pudding for afters, using up the leftover loaves. Mrs Dunmore dared not waste crust or crumb, because she had the Ministry to answer to. They were incredibly strict about their paperwork, were the Ministry.

  However, even the Ministry knew dockers and sailors must be fed, and with grub that stuck to the ribs. Solid food fuelled their labours, and formed insulation against the rawest of days or a thoroughgoing wetting when the briny was kicking up in socking great waves out in the Atlantic. So, it did its best to see that our canteen was amply supplied with stodge, and plenty of it, with a little protein thrown in now and then for good measure. The ships and docks were our lifeline and the men who worked them were vital. They still got leftovers, but they got more of them.

  Our establishment looked like what it was – a hastily transformed ex-warehouse. The walls were painted a dark green at the bottom and the colour of elderly mashed potatoes above, but the paint stopped at around fourteen feet, there being no point in going right up to the rafters – according to the providers of the paint, that is. Dim lights dangled by long chains from the ceiling and stopped just above some of the scrubbed pine tables. The naked bulbs added to the sad, dingy feeling. It was a place to fill your face, but not a place to tarry.

  It was difficult to know why Mrs D. was so het up. She wouldn’t have dreamed of confiding in her staff, us being lower orders in her book. So we fell to speculating, naturally. There was no doubt that something ‘had stuck a wasp up her jacksie’, as Cook so delicately put it. The general opinion was that it had to have something to do with Percy ‘Drop your drawers’ Robinson.

  ‘Surely he can’t have got into her knickers already,’ Beryl said. ‘I mean, I know he’s a fast worker, but they only really met on Monday, surely?’

  ‘Yes, dear, that’s true,’ said Cook, ‘but I heard that his missus is away this week, nursing her mum, who’s poorly again. That woman don’t half suffer from her innards.’

  ‘What’s her mum’s innards got to do with anything?’ Beryl was mystified and, I have to confess, so was I. We turned as one to Cook for an explanation.

  ‘Well, his coast is clear, innit?’ she said, raising her eyes to heaven as if she was talking to idiots. ‘It’ll spur him on to get his leg over while all’s quiet, won’t it?’

  She had a point, and we discussed it for a while until Mrs D. appeared in the kitchen with instructions for us to stop gossiping and get on with our work. We waited until she’d bustled back to her office, then carried on with our conversation.

  ‘Yes. But if she’s being serviced already,’ I pointed out, ‘she should be full of the joys of spring, not steaming around having a go at everybody. She ought to be full of the milk of human kindness, now shouldn’t she?’

  ‘True, Zelda, true,’ Cook agreed. ‘But since when has the course of true love, or true lust even, ever run smooth? I mean, it doesn’t, does it? And if Percy’s managed to meet and bed her in less than a week, then sure as anything, he can piss her off in double-quick time an’ all.’ Once again she had a point. ‘Maybe someone’s told her what a womanizer he is. She wouldn’t want to hear that if she’s just dropped ’em for him, now would she? Nobody likes to think they’re one of a crowd.’

  Beryl and I had to agree. It wasn’t good to be one of many in romantic situations.

  ‘Do you reckon their bones’d crash together,’ Beryl asked, ‘looking like a pair of stick insects the way they do? I mean, they’re no advert for the grub here, are they? Surely banging away must hurt when you’re that skinny.’ She started to giggle.

  I tried hard not to imagine the clatter of bones, but a giggle escaped me, too, at the thought, which was unfortunate because I was overheard by a small group of sea queens from one of the merchant ships that had docked in the early hours. They were at the table nearest the serving hatch and had caught the hint of rude talk. Now, there is nothing like a sea queen for spotting a grubby thought at 5,000 paces with his eyes shut. And the queen of the salty thought, my mate Ronnie – Rita to his close pals – Rigby, son of Mrs Rigby of the junk shop opposite the King’s Head, had joined them for his dinner.

  He was a favourite of mine, as it happens, because he and his friends never stared at my main assets, or pinched my bum. He wasn’t interested in asking me out, and treated us waitresses as ladies. He shared the best jokes and the hottest gossip with me as well, and had done so since I’d become old enough to understand them.

  He knew just how important cosmetics, clothes, fabric and stockings were to us poor, deprived females and bought us the odd yard of cloth or pair of fully fashioned nylons, smuggled in among cases of canned corned beef, luncheon meat or peas, bales of jute, tons of wood or metal or mountains of dried goods in sacks. Whatever the cargo was, Ronnie and his pals managed to smuggle in some little luxuries if they’d been allowed to even sniff a foreign port. There was a very lively black market trade going on behind Mrs Dunmore’s back. The sea queens would always bring something that us ladies actually wanted for ourselves, rather than odds and sods we could trade on.

  ‘What’s oiled your giggling gear, may I ask?’ Ronnie flashed his eyes at me. I swear he had more mascara on than I did, and the rouge – well, a girl could go too far! Especially in daylight. Luckily, as Ronnie was a local, he and his friends were safe enough in dockland where they were well known and liked. Anyway, just because they liked to dress up as ladies at the drop of a sequin didn’t mean they weren’t well muscled and used to defending themselves. Being a sea queen had its dangers in the wider world, and it was just as well to wear regular mufti in the hopes of passing unmolested among the throng. Or so Ronnie had told me once when we were half-cut in an air raid shelter up West, a Christmas or two before.

  ‘Speak, Zelda,’ he demanded, ‘or I won’t show you the nice bit of cloth I found for you. Swapped it for a third of a bottle of gin I got off a Dutchman. I’d swigged the other two-thirds, so it was a bargain. Yours, Zelda my flower, for half a dozen small bangers to take home to my old mum and for spilling the beans about what is so bloody funny. What do you say?’

  I stopped my giggling. This was business. I needed a change, and a new garment, made with previously unused fabric, could be just the thing. ‘I’ll have to have a dekko first, Ronnie, but it sounds interesting. Meet you at the Star and Garter later. I’ll tell you then what is so funny. It’s a bit public at the moment.’ I leaned over and whispered, ‘Rumour is that our Percy is seeing to La Dunmore.’ That had him gasping for the whole story, I could tell. You could always rely on Ronnie to enjoy the local scandals right up to the hilt.

  All I had to do was to work out how to liberate a few sausages from the big, but virtually empty, meat safe in the kitchen. I looked around. Mrs D. was waiting on Percy personally. She looked much more cheerful; perhaps she’d been in a bad mood simply because she couldn’t wait to see him again. While she was preoccupied, it was the perfect time for a little creative thievery. All in a good cause, naturally. Cook was no problem; all I had to do was promise her a pair of nylons and pray like mad I could lay my hands on some. I was pretty sure that Dilly had a spare pair, thanks to the Yanks. The promise of a new blouse should secure them. Sometimes all the haggling, bargaining and swapping made your head spin.

  I had those bangers stuffed into the bottom of my oilcloth bag quicker than blinking. If I didn’t like the swap, I could always have sausages for my tea. Meanwhile, Mrs D. was still fluttering around Percy Robinson an
d missed the whole thing. For the umpteenth time, I wondered just what it was about the man that got certain women to abandon their brains and hurl themselves on to their backs. True, he scrubbed up all right, but he was also married and no Clark Gable, except perhaps for the ears. His pale eyes watered all the time, as if he had a permanent cold, and they stuck out like dogs’ bollocks, as my dear old ma would say after a stout or two. Then there was the comb-over hairstyle. I mean, talk about looking a prat. Mrs D. must have been blinded by desperation or something.

  I muttered my confusion to Ronnie and the others as I delivered their bread puddings and the news that the sausages had been liberated. ‘What does she see in him? Tell me that. You lot are supposed to be experts on men after all. What does she see in him?’ A lively discussion followed but no definite conclusions were drawn.

  Later, having met outside the canteen, Ronnie and I repaired to the snug of the Star and Garter to swap goods, gossip, and Guinness if available. To my surprise, Dilly was already sitting in there, chatting to Molly Squires. Everyone greeted each other and we settled down with our drinks. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked Dilly. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. I thought you had a date with Chester.’

  ‘That’s tomorrow, Zelda. Molly’s been showing me her posh frock, in case I want to borrow it for the dance,’ she explained. We spent a happy half-hour or so talking about our possible outfits. Half the fun of going anywhere special was working out what we were going to wear and tracking down bits and pieces to complete the ensemble. Mostly we searched through our friends’ wardrobes; clothes coupons, and anything decent to get with them, were in chronically short supply. Still, the triumph you felt when you’d hunted down everything you needed was pretty good, and almost made up for the sense of deprivation. Almost, but not quite.

  ‘Molly, guess who came into the canteen this dinnertime?’ I asked, after a while.

  Molly gave me a sour look. ‘The King and Queen,’ she said, without much conviction. ‘How the devil should I know? Spit it out if it’s good.’

  ‘It was Percy Robinson!’ I couldn’t help the note of triumph. ‘He’s an ugly sod. Can’t see what all these women see in him, honest I can’t. You could hang a coat on his Adam’s apple. And several on each ear, along with a couple of scarves and a hat,’ I added as an afterthought.

  ‘I’ve always wondered what he’s got myself,’ Molly said.

  ‘Ah, well, I can help you there, ladies. I took the liberty of trolling into the cottage after our fascinating omie. I was intrigued after our little chat.’ Ronnie gave us a big smile and took another swig from his glass, smacked his lips and continued in a conspiratorial whisper. Not that just anyone would have understood him if he’d been yelling from the rooftops. He was parleying in Polari and even Dilly didn’t understand him.

  ‘What’s he on about?’ she asked me, mystified.

  ‘He says he followed our Percy into the gentlemen’s toilets, Dill. Shush, I want to hear this. I’ll explain later.’ I found I was whispering too.

  Ronnie continued with indecent relish. He did so enjoy dishing the scandal. ‘Well, dollies, when he whipped his bingey out of his lally drags I am here to tell you it was fantabulosa!’ Ronnie’s eyes sparkled at the memory and he threw his hands up to his face in illicit delight. ‘Gigantic, huge! You catch my meaning, young Zelda?’

  I did. ‘Percy Robinson’s a big boy in the underwear department,’ I whispered to Dilly.

  But Ronnie had not finished praising the man’s sole attribute: you could hardly call it a virtue, seeing how he spread it about. ‘The omie was a veritable donkey beneath the waistband, darlings. A donkey! No wonder your boss-palone is so smitten. I’ve seen my share, dollies, but this old omiepalone was shaken to the core. Such a terrible waste on a naff bloke.’

  ‘OK, you’ve lost me again. Translate, will you?’ Dilly pleaded.

  ‘I ought to get translator’s fee. How about a Woodbine for my trouble? He says Mrs D. is hooked on the size of Mr Robinson’s John Thomas.’ She’d handed over the precious cigarette before I added, ‘But a naff bloke’s new to me.’

  ‘Let’s just say it means a straight man, one who saves himself solely for the pleasure of you ladies. A direct translation, my little innocents, is far too disgusting for your ears, dears.’

  So that was the secret of Percy Robinson’s success with Mrs Dunmore: bulging trousers! Surely that wasn’t enough, though. No wonder the man had developed his charm muscle. After all, he had to get himself in the position to show off his main asset. He didn’t just drop his trousers and say, ‘Cop a butcher’s at this,’ now did he? I said as much to Ronnie and we decided that, unlike sea queens, who thought nothing of eyeing a bloke’s basket to assess the possibilities, most women wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing, and needed to be persuaded into the boudoir.

  Once we’d finished dishing the dirt on Mrs Dunmore and her paramour we moved on to the important business. Ronnie had done me proud: the fabric was five yards, no less, of cotton in a creamy colour with poppies, cornflowers and daisies scattered about. Enough to make a brand new, never-worn-before, and definitely not unpicked-and-resewn-for-the-umpteenth-time, summer frock. I could have kissed him. I handed over the bangers wrapped in a nearly new bit of greaseproof paper and the deal was done.

  We drank up and Dilly, Ronnie and I strolled towards home arm in arm in the gathering dusk. It had been a good night, full of merriment. I loved old Ronnie.

  17

  Saturday dawned fair, and Tony, Reggie and I duly presented ourselves at Zinnia’s kitchen door. Tony hadn’t needed much persuasion once he’d heard that Digby Burlap had dealings with stars of stage, screen and radio and had his studio in Soho. However, his mother was much more dubious.

  ‘Who is this bloke? And what’s more important, how much is he going to charge? I don’t have any spare cash, as you well know. Certainly not spare enough to throw away on singing lessons. I mean, I ask you, whoever heard of such a thing?’ Vi looked at her son, then at me and back to Tony. ‘And anyway, he won’t keep it up. It’ll be good money after bad, you both know it will. He can’t even get to school on a weekday; what makes you think he’ll give up his Saturdays for more bloody lessons?’ She had a point there.

  ‘Nothing’s set yet, Vi. This Burlap bloke’s got to listen to him first, and see what he thinks. If he reckons Tony’s got talent and a chance to make something of it, we can worry about the lolly then. Let’s wait and see, eh?’ I suggested.

  Vi reluctantly agreed. The look of relief and delight on Tony’s face was a picture. He’d obviously set his heart on having a go. Or at least, I thought he had, but as Saturday approached he’d become more and more nervous until finally, I thought he was going to bolt in sheer terror. That’s when having a cousin came in very handy.

  ‘Don’t be weedy, Tone. I wish I could sing. I’d go like a shot. Trouble is, I’d wheeze at the bloke and he’d sling me out. But you can sing, everybody says so. I reckon you’d be a real prat – sorry Auntie Zelda –’ I shrugged and let it go: apart from the language, the boy was doing good – ‘if you missed your chance.’ Reggie’s argument swung it. Tony took a deep breath and said he was ready.

  ‘Lucky you’re coming with us, Reggie,’ I said. ‘You can keep Tony from getting too nervy.’ Also, he could supply the necessary scorn if his cousin balked at the last hurdle. Reggie’s sneers would drive Tony on far more effectively than all the well-intentioned praise of any two women. Blokes quite often work like this. The opinion of men and other lads is far more important than that of a mere female; even when the chaps are obviously wrong.

  The bus dropped us in Oxford Street, but we didn’t waste much time looking at the shops. The war had ended so recently, the supplies of clothes and fancy goods hadn’t got going again. Other things, like building materials, coal, petrol and basic foodstuffs, were needed more urgently, and they had priority when the supply lines finally opened up again.

  Posh frocks and decent fu
rniture would just have to wait a while; a good long while as it turned out. It didn’t occur to the powers that be that in order to rebuild our country, a spot of morale boosting might not go amiss. Well, not immediately anyway. It did cross their minds later, when it came to the Coronation, but not much changed straight away. Even then we were supposed to get our jollies out of the fact that it was the Queen and other women in the Royal Family who got the posh, brand new frocks.

  To my utter astonishment, Zinnia seemed to know her way around Soho like a native. ‘Follow me,’ she cried, setting off at a fair old clip. The two boys and I had to gallop to keep up with her. She dived down a narrow side street lined on both sides with tall, sooty buildings, with flats above and small shops below. Several were boarded up, supplies of whatever it was they had sold having dried up. However, a tobacconist, a baker, a butcher and a hardware store still struggled on. I was so busy looking at a shop window that had bunches of weird sausages hanging from cruel hooks in the ceiling and a large mound of something that looked suspiciously like string in a huge bowl, that I missed one of Zinnia’s turns and found myself alone for a moment.

  Then Tony’s head popped out of a nearby alley and yelled, ‘This way, Auntie Zelda!’ and I scurried along the narrow footway to catch up. I noticed the alley still had gas lamps, and wondered if they worked. I liked gaslight. It had a more mellow atmosphere than the brash electric jobs.

  Eventually, we wound up outside a place called the Old Compton Cafe. Two large, steamy windows flanked the central door, through which Zinnia swept as if to the manner born. Tony, Reggie and I were nowhere near as confident. I had eaten out once or twice, but the boys never had, and their eyes were like saucers.