by Pip Granger
I was trying to work out what had woken me when I heard it again: knocking and wailing cries of ‘Zelda, Zelda, open up – pleeease.’ I crept painfully to the flat door, tottered down the stairs very gently and opened the street door to the blinding glare of daylight. All I could see was a figure in front of me; whether it was male or female was a mystery. I couldn’t make out any features.
‘Come in,’ I croaked and made my way slowly back up the stairs and across the kitchen to the kettle. I wasn’t prepared, or indeed fit, to deal with anything until I poured tea on to my parched tonsils, and that was final. In fact, I was buggered if I’d even open my eyes until the first sip.
‘Make the tea,’ I ordered my visitor, as I sank into a chair and rested my head in my arms on the table.
I only came round again when I heard the chink of spoon on cup and the rattle of cup on a saucer a few inches from my left ear. ‘Ta,’ I whispered and took my first sip. Then, and only then, did I open my eyes. It was Vi, looking a little the worse for wear herself, but scrubbed up ready for church.
‘I thought we could stroll to church together,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a chat with Reggie,’ she added.
Ah! That explained her arrival at my door. I started to nod, then stopped abruptly in case my head fell off. I faintly remembered I had promised to meet Reggie after church, so getting there was the first order of my day. I tottered back to the bedroom for clean clothes, took off the ones I’d slept in, slipped on my dressing gown and returned to the kitchen sink to wash and clean my furry teeth.
I put my fresh, clean Sunday best on slowly. I felt like death warmed up, twice. Vi didn’t say much, she seemed to be miles away. Her eyes had that glazed and inward look that could either be a deep, brown study or a hangover. I squinted at her a bit more closely; it looked like a bit of both. I knew the feeling all too well that sunny, Sunday morning.
Despite everything, we presented ourselves at church, shipshape and Bristol fashion, on time and ready to sing and pray our hearts out. All the while I wondered how much Vi knew. I didn’t want to put my foot in it by telling her too much before I had my wits about me. They’d been missing so far that morning, so I’d kept my mouth more or less shut, in the hope they’d come back before I had to talk to anyone, particularly Vi.
‘Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings …’
I took several deep, slow breaths and wished Zinnia was next to me with useful advice, but she wasn’t. Some Sundays she travelled a considerable way to go to her own church, a ‘watered-down’ version of the Wee Free faith of her childhood. She didn’t usually get back until around teatime or even later, Sunday transport being what it was.
To be absolutely honest, I wasn’t at all sure I believed in God. I mean, if there was a God, why would He allow Hitler to be let loose on the world? Frankly, that ‘free will’ stuff seemed a handy get-out to me, very handy. For God, it would have been a simple matter to make sure Adolf had never been born – and He hadn’t done it. Only He knew how many people had suffered and died because He hadn’t made either Mrs Hitler or Mr Hitler senior sterile. It would have taken a matter of moments, one tiny adjustment at the planning stage, and Mr Hitler could have been shooting blanks and that would have been the end of it. It beggared belief that any god worth his salt would have allowed Hitler to happen.
But I did like church. I liked the ritual. I liked the way the Reverend Cattermole’s wayward hair was illuminated by the stained-glass windows on a sunny day. Sometimes when clouds passed by his barnet flashed on and off like neon, and with about as many colours. Blue was the Virgin’s robe, red was one of the Apostles and yellow was the brilliant desert sun of the Holy Land shining down on Jesus.
Then Mrs Cattermole would start thundering away on her organ, her back ramrod straight. The fruit, feathers or whole stuffed birds on her hat of the day would tremble and shake as she hit a note, yanked out a stop or pounded her plump little feet on the pedals. Mrs Cattermole played the instrument with her entire body and soul, and you couldn’t say fairer than that. Every now and then she’d turn her head and flash an enormous, white, porcelain grin at the congregation, like the organist on the Mighty Wurlitzer at the pictures. Sometimes it was hard not to burst into rapturous applause at the end of a hymn – she seemed to expect it, and she certainly deserved it – but we sat on our hands. Clapping and God did not seem to mix, somehow.
The music and singing were always good at St Mary’s – ever since the Cattermoles had taken over, anyway. Their enthusiasm spread to the choir and the congregation. We often found ourselves singing our way through the war, particularly when times were very hard; the singing got louder, somehow, and so did Mrs Cattermole’s organ. When the docks were copping it and you couldn’t hear yourself think above the racket of aircraft and bombs and the ackack guns chattering incessantly, noisily but, in the end, uselessly over everything, we’d be down in the crypt, belting out ‘Rock of Ages’ for all we were worth and drowning it all out. It helped. It helped a lot.
Halfway through Mrs Cattermole’s ‘winding-up piece’ – she always played the same piece of Bach at the end of the service – the Vicar would come down from his pulpit and walk up the aisle to the great, oak, nail-studded doors. He and a few helpers would sling the doors open on whatever the English weather and London air could throw at us, and he’d stand beneath the porch smiling, shaking hands and exchanging a few words with his parishioners as we filed past. I loved it all. It was a comfort in its regularity and its sameness, week in, week out. The Vicar and Mrs Cattermole were its musical centre, its beating heart, and I loved them too.
Without prior discussion, Vi and I tracked Tony down straight after the service. It wasn’t hard. He was waiting in the churchyard and Reggie was with him. ‘You two are going to help us water the beans,’ I said. It was the only excuse I could think of for getting away from the rest of the family for a private chat. I still didn’t know exactly what Vi knew, but judging by her grim expression, it was more than enough.
Tony was taking a deep interest in his boots on the way to the allotments and barely looked up in case he caught anyone’s eye. We didn’t speak at all until we felt the grass under our feet and knew we were out of earshot of everyone. That was the good thing about the allotments. There were few places to lurk and listen; you could see people coming long before they got within earshot, and shut up if necessary.
‘So, what have you got to say for yourself?’ Vi asked Tony, arms folded across her chest. ‘And don’t trouble to lie. Reggie had to tell me everything when I caught him creeping about in the early hours.’
To my utter astonishment, Tony burst into tears. Two sobbing nephews in one day – it had to be some kind of record. Nothing could have disarmed me more, except the sight of Vi putting her arms around her son and muttering, ‘There, there,’ into his thick, dark hair as she patted his back tenderly. Her fury had subsided and, I was surprised to discover, so had mine. ‘There, there,’ she murmured over and over until he hiccuped to a stop at last and was able to talk. He told us the same story as Reggie.
Apparently, Brian had told Tony that if he grassed him up to anybody, then he would make sure Tony went down with him. Tony had been involved in Brian’s petrol thefts, he was involved in the warehouse robbery and there had been a good few other thefts along the way, a lot of them very recently. It was mainly small stuff, but it accumulated, and a stint in Borstal seemed certain if all of Tony’s crimes were to catch up with him. On the other hand, he certainly didn’t want to have anything to do with guns, hand grenades or nicking the church silver, which seemed to be the alternative.
‘I don’t want to do it, Mum, Auntie Zelda.’ He sniffed hard. ‘I don’t want to do anything that will get the Rev. in trouble. He’s my friend,’ he wailed. I have to say, I was proud of the boy.
‘You know,’ said Vi, ‘Borstal would be the death of Dad. He’d never get over the shame.’ What surprised me was that she seemed to think s
he could, by the sound of things. She was right, though. Dad wouldn’t see a stint in Borstal as anywhere near punishment enough for bringing shame on our spotless family. Mum and Gran would be more sorrowful than angry, and somehow, that would be worse than all the ranting Dad was likely to do. But being banged up was on the cards for Tony unless we could think of a plan.
In the end, we agreed on a plan that was no plan at all really. Tony should have nothing to do with Brian’s schemes. He was to make himself as hard to get hold of as was humanly possible, to delay things while his mother and I thought some more. We needed to find a way to protect Tony from Brian, keep the church silver safe and keep Tony out of the hands of Lily Law. Nothing to it – and the band played ‘Believe It If You Like’, I thought, but didn’t say.
I was really surprised at how calm Vi had been throughout Tony’s confession. Apart from the remark about Dad not surviving the shame of Borstal, she’d come out firmly on her son’s side. There had been no weeping and wailing, no gnashing of teeth, just the simple desire to get her boy out of the terrible spot he found himself in.
It was Reggie who came up with the first concrete thing to be done. ‘We’ve got to warn the Vicar,’ he said quietly. ‘Bung’ole’s armed and he’s after the church silver.’
Then Vi surprised me once more by coming up with an idea. ‘We’ll stop by Brian’s shed and take the gun. That’s where he keeps it, isn’t it Tony?’ He nodded. ‘Well then, we’re right here’ – she looked around – ‘and there’s no-one else about. I say we take the gun, then he can’t hurt anyone with it.’
It was a good idea, but when we broke into the shed, with the help of a screwdriver taken from ours, there was no sign of any gun, hand grenade or box of bullets, just a strong smell of petrol.
‘Where is it?’ I hissed at Tony, who looked bewildered.
He shrugged and shook his head. ‘I dunno, Auntie. Maybe he’s taken it to show the other lads. I mean, not everyone’s got a proper German Luger and the ammo to go with it, let alone a real live grenade.’ Tony sounded awed, despite his fears. ‘P’raps he wants to show them off.’
It made a half-witted kind of sense. Most villains would want to keep their personal arsenal quiet, but Brian didn’t have the brains. By dinnertime, he’d probably have waved his grenade under a dozen youthful and envious noses, and then wonder why the whole neighbourhood knew all about it by teatime.
The fumes in the shed were beginning to give me a headache and I thought it best to beat a hasty retreat. Tony seemed to take ages to screw back the hasp, complete with an untouched padlock, but when he’d finished, you wouldn’t have known we’d been there. Time was pressing. If Dad wasn’t to have his suspicions and his temper raised, Tony had to be at the eleven o’clock service to sing again. We trudged back to church with Tony, not saying much. Nobody had mentioned it, but it had been silently agreed that he wouldn’t be left alone for a single, solitary second that day, as the close company of witnesses was the best way to keep Brian at bay.
At the churchyard gate Reggie turned to go home to his mum and sisters, while Vi and I made our way to Paradise Gardens and what we hoped would be the relative quiet of Granny’s basement. We should have known better.
Gran and Mum had arrived ahead of us, and were swigging tea before they went upstairs to get the dinner on. Gran eyed us shrewdly as we came in. ‘Wotcha, gels,’ she said. ‘Who nicked your sixpence and gave you back a farthing?’ We shrugged and tried to look carefree.
‘Don’t come that butter wouldn’t melt lark with me. You two are keeping secrets. You’ve been like it all your lives: the minute you’ve got a secret you want to keep, you look as if you’ve swallowed the damned thing and you’re about to burst at the seams with it. What’s worrying you now? Something happen at the dance, did it?’
Vi and I looked at each other, then at Gran and Mum. We realized there was no point in not blurting it out, because they would find out sooner or later anyway. The Secret Service had nothing on them for information gathering. We told them everything we knew without the application of a single thumbscrew or electric shock.
Gran was firm. Reggie was right, we had to tell the Reverend Cattermole, and the sooner the better. ‘Better still,’ she said, ‘Tony should tell him. The boy’s got to take responsibility some time, and now’s the time.’
Mum agreed. ‘She’s right, Vi. The Vicar must be told, the boy owes it to him.’ For a moment, Vi looked as if she was going to argue but she gave it up the second she saw that there was no other way.
Gran looked closely at Vi, noting the lack of sopping hanky and wet cheeks. ‘What’s got into you, Vi? Why ain’t you making more of a fuss? You’ve made enough racket over all his other pranks; how come you’re so quiet and reasonable now it’s serious?’
It was a good question. I’d been wondering that myself. After all, she had stood by and let Dad take charge of disciplining Tony ever since Fred had left. Why was she taking an interest all of a sudden?
Vi blushed. ‘I s’pose I realize I’ve got to take charge. Make some kind of fist of bringing Tony up, now his dad’s gone.’ So that was it. Vi had finally accepted that she was a widowed mother with a job to do. ‘I mean, we’ve done it Dad’s way and it’s not been working, has it? I reckon Zelda has the right idea, give him something else to think about. Anyway, he needs me.’ Her voice was so quiet, I had to strain to hear her.
Gran didn’t trouble, she simply grumbled, ‘Speak up, gel! You know I’m getting a bit mutton in me old age.’
‘I said, he needs me to stick by him,’ Vi said, a bit louder. ‘He needs to know that he’s my boy, no matter what.’
There was a long, long silence as we three took in the full meaning of Vi’s words. In the end, it was Gran’s hanky that came out, and her cheeks were suspiciously damp. She had a good blow and, feeling better, became brisk.
‘Right then, we’re agreed. We’ll keep our lips buttoned around Harry. Tony’s not left alone for a minute until the Brian Hole business is sorted out. It’s probably best if he kips somewhere different for the time being, in case there’s any more midnight callers. He could sleep upstairs. We’ll say we want his room decorated. It’s time it had a good bottoming out anyway, there’s probably things living under that bed.’ She shuddered, then continued. ‘Let’s try and think of a plan, you lot. We can only hold the day of reckoning back. We can’t keep it away for ever.’
It was my turn to shudder. While we were dithering, there was an armed idiot running loose in the neighbourhood.
34
It was after Evensong by the time Vi, Tony and I were able to meet at the vicarage to see Reverend Cattermole. Mrs Cattermole showed no surprise at all at seeing us on her doorstep at such an unusual hour.
‘As the wife of a vicar,’ she said, ‘one must get used to irregular hours and a steady stream of callers. One would miss the excitement if one kept regular hours and the stream was dammed, so to speak. Come in. Come in, do.
‘I’m afraid the Vicar has a young couple with him at the moment, but they shouldn’t be long, they’re just booking a christening. Do take a seat.’ Mrs Cattermole waved a large, capable-looking hand at some shabby chairs in the parlour.
The parlour was a homely room in a huge, draughty house originally built in the young Queen Victoria’s day for a large family plus servants. The Vicar and his wife rattled around in the place, so most of the vicarage, I knew for a fact, was kept closed up and shrouded in dust sheets. They had chosen some of the smaller rooms as their own because they took less coal to heat in winter and less furniture to make them comfortable.
It was easy to imagine the Vicar and his wife enjoying quiet, winter evenings in front of the parlour fire, her tinkling on her piano and him reading his Bible. Although, of course, it was rarely like that. As she said, theirs was a busy house with people tramping in at all hours for all sorts of reasons. It wasn’t at all unusual to find Mrs Cattermole sorting out a squabble between local ladies regarding the church cl
eaning rota in one room and the Vicar comforting the bereaved and arranging a funeral in another, while a small, orderly queue formed in the hallway. It was a stroke of good luck that we were the only ones waiting that evening.
Apparently, it hadn’t been difficult for Vi to persuade Tony to tell all to the Vicar. ‘I’d sort of rolled me sleeves up, in my mind like, ready to do battle with him,’ explained Vi, ‘and all he said was, “OK, Mum.” He came as quiet as a lamb.’
‘I knew there was no point in arguing, Auntie Zelda,’ Tony piped up, ‘with Mum, you, Gran and Granny Ida lined up against me. Let’s face it, ’Itler would’ve won if he’d had you lot on his side, no question – and he wouldn’t have needed no tanks neither.’ Even when he was up to his ears in muck and bullets, my nephew could still find the neck to be a cheeky little sod.
‘Would you care for some tea?’ asked Mrs Cattermole. Normally we would have jumped at it, but we turned it down; we were too fidgety with nerves to enjoy it. Poor Mrs Cattermole tried to chat with us while we waited, but the jitters robbed us of small talk. In desperation, she turned to Tony and asked him about his singing lessons with Digby Burlap, but he didn’t have much to say for himself, either. I expect he was too busy trying to stop his knees from knocking.
At last, the door to the Vicar’s study creaked open and we heard his voice in the hallway. ‘Good night to you then, good night.’ The front door opened and closed. Mrs Cattermole waited until we heard the Vicar’s returning step on the hall tiles, then slipped out of the room. We heard the Vicar say, ‘Really? Then send them in, dear, and perhaps some tea?’
We filed into the Vicar’s study to be beamed at by an apparently delighted Reverend Cattermole. It showed the measure of the man. Sunday was his busiest day, he was at the church early and was kept hard at it, praying, preaching, singing and greeting all day, mostly on his feet; then, when he could reasonably expect to put his feet up with the lady wife and the wireless, an endless succession of callers banged on his door wanting his attention. And still he could beam at us as if we were just the people he wanted to see. And what’s more, Mrs Cattermole made the tea cheerfully. We could distinctly hear her singing along with her kettle.