Trouble In Paradise

by Pip Granger

  I thought about it for a moment and decided it really didn’t matter. It was enough that I was on the brink of freedom. I didn’t need to clutter myself up with another bloke before the sheets were even changed after Charlie – metaphorically speaking, of course. I pulled myself together and heard Dilly’s voice still plaintively asking, ‘What’s “nanty riah”?’

  ‘No hair,’ I answered absentmindedly. I was thinking how nice it was that Ronnie had found a new friend. ‘So,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Where will you live when you’re married, you two? London? New York? Paris?’

  ‘Paris,’ Dilly and Chester chorused, faces wreathed in happy smiles.

  48

  There was panic stations at work the next day. Mrs Dunmore had disappeared. No Mrs D., no wages. I was going to need my wages if I was to pay the first week’s rent in Soho. It wasn’t easy telling Beryl and Cook that I was leaving on the Friday. But on the whole, they were pleased for me, knowing my situation with Charlie as they did. It left them in a spot, with no Mrs Dunmore and no me either, but Cook took her courage in both hands and telephoned the man in charge, Mr Frobisher, known to one and all as Old Misery Guts.

  ‘He carried on about the lack of moral fibre nowadays,’ Cook told us afterwards. ‘And had a good moan, but Old Misery Guts promised to have our wages in our hands by Friday and someone in to help us out by Monday.’

  I was going to miss Cook and Beryl, too. We even got weepy about it, until we cheered ourselves up by saying that Soho was only a bus ride away. We celebrated by raiding Mrs Dunmore’s drawers for her cache of Rich Tea biscuits and scoffed them all with a nice cup of tea and a good gossip about our ex-boss. None of us could understand her throwing in her lot with Percy Robinson, but as Cook said, there was no accounting for tastes.

  Each night towards the end of that last week in Hackney, I went back to the flat and packed up a few more things. It really didn’t amount to much. I took the pots and pans, the crockery and the cutlery on the grounds that Charlie couldn’t cook. I took all my clothes, my camel-skin pouffe, some bedding and, after much thought, the gramophone and records. I’d earned them, I reckoned. Charlie could always get new ones with all the money he’d saved by not paying any rent on the flat for six long years.

  By Friday night it was all done. I was ready to go. I had promised to meet Zinnia, Mum and Gran at the allotments because the judges were coming round to judge the plots and vegetables. As usual, some of Reverend Cattermole’s honey was up for grabs, and so was Dobbin Whitelock’s manure. Terry had put up two packets of Typhoo Tea and a bottle of Camp Coffee as further prizes, but the big one that year was forty Player’s Navy Cut. Everyone was after those. Even if they didn’t smoke, they could swap them with someone who did for all sorts of luxuries, such as chocolate, stockings, setting lotion or a pound of stewing steak.

  The judging took place on the Friday evening, while the prize-giving was on Saturday afternoon at the grand picnic. All the interested parties and their hangers-on were gathered. I looked around for my lot and saw them camped out, adults on their Lloyd Loom chairs and kids sprawled on the grass, outside Zinnia’s back gate. I thought my heart would break as I looked at them: Mum in her battered straw hat and Dad in his cap; Gran also in a straw hat, trimmed with faded pink roses; Doris with her hair neatly rolled into a blue headscarf and a clean wraparound pinny tied tight round her plump figure; Reggie, the twins, Vi, Tony and Zinnia – they were all there. I wondered when, if ever, I’d see them like that again. I wiped my eyes, blew my nose and went to join them.

  As soon as I was within earshot I heard Gran hiss, ‘There’s been dirty dealings on the allotments. Some swine’s gorn and nobbled Zinnia’s beans.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I said.

  ‘Somebody’s gorn and nobbled Zinnia’s beans,’ repeated Gran, swivelling her eyes. ‘Naming no names, but follow me eyes.’ I followed her gaze and there, just on the other side of Zinnia’s patch, stood the squat figure of Ma Hole and the stringy outline of her Brian, both grinning malevolently in our direction.

  Rumour had it that there had been violent rows between mother and son over the previous week or two. Brian had been seen slamming out of their house on more than one occasion, with Ma screeching obscenities and threats and waving her fist after him, but they seemed united as they came to witness the judging. Ma stared down at the tangle of runner bean vines, blood-red blooms and velvety young beans crushed and battered into the soil, and smiled. Even the bean canes had been snapped and scattered around.

  ‘I don’t think much of your beans this year, Zinnia Makepeace,’ she jeered. ‘Looks like someone else’ll have a chance for once. Can’t see them making any kind of prize, can you, Brian?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘Don’t reckon so, Mum. You always said she fixed the voting. Well, let’s see her fix it now. They can’t pretend a pile of rubbish like that’s anything to write home about, can they?’ And they walked back to their own plot, talking and laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. We all watched them go in silence.

  A few moments later, Reverend Cattermole, Mrs Cattermole and several other worthies from the Allotment Committee came to judge our group of allotments. They tutted sympathetically at Zinnia’s obviously sabotaged plot. ‘Oh, Miss Makepeace, we are so sorry,’ the Vicar told her. ‘It’s such a dreadful thing to do. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing.’

  ‘Well you must be the only bug … er, person who can’t,’ muttered Gran into her buttered scone. The Vicar and his party moved hastily on. He knew a disgruntled Gran when he saw one.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Take it philosophically,’ said Zinnia, placidly. ‘There’s nothing else I can do, hen. At least we know who did it. There’s been no mystery about this particular act, and that makes it easier on my puir nervous system.’

  ‘I dunno,’ grumbled Gran. ‘They didn’t ought to get away with it.’

  ‘Ach, well. Forget it now, Ida,’ suggested Zinnia, ‘and enjoy the cool of the evening and the spectacle of the judging.’

  I looked about me, and thought that a load of shabby allotment owners plus our Vicar and his chums didn’t make much of a spectacle. The judges plodded round, looking solemnly and carefully at each plot and making their deliberations. The Vicar carefully noted all comments on his clipboard before they moved on to the next one. Every face there was at least known to me, and quite a few were very dear. The event had become an important part of our social calendar. I realized with another pang that I was going to miss each and every one of my old neighbours: even the Holes, in a peculiar sort of way. Having a common enemy came in handy: they stopped you turning on each other.

  I made up my mind there and then to come back the next day, after moving my stuff over to my new home and delivering Tony for his lesson. Suddenly, I wanted desperately to be at the Allotmenteers’ annual picnic and prize-giving, in case it was the last time I ever got the chance. Anyway, a body never knew, we might even get our hands on that honey – or possibly the fags.

  I was up bright and early the next morning. I had the urge to walk around, to say goodbye to familiar places while the streets were quiet. I was torn between excitement at a new beginning, sadness at leaving all that was familiar and relief that I was getting away from Charlie. I think excitement and relief had the edge, although the sadness did threaten to overwhelm those feelings at times, especially when it came to the nooks and crannies around Paradise Gardens. It was only the thought of tube trains and buses running east to west and west to east that stopped me blubbing my heart out.

  Frankie was giving Tony and me a lift up West in his car, with all my household goods crammed in the spaces between bodies. It wasn’t a comfortable ride, but we did get everything in the motor, which saved making two trips. It was arranged that Frankie would help me carry my stuff up the stairs to my new home while Tony was at his lesson. Once his lesson was over, Tony would hotfoot round to the flat and help where he could. Then, after a bite
to eat at the cafe, all three of us would head back to Paradise Gardens in time for the picnic and prize-giving.

  I hadn’t yet made up my mind whether to spend Saturday night at my new place, or to troll over there after church and Sunday dinner. I was leaning towards the Sunday option, suddenly unwilling to give up all my rituals at once. All those months and years yearning to get away, yet when the moment came, I was reluctant to go!

  ‘Ach hen, it’s only natural,’ Zinnia assured me when I got back to number 23. ‘But you forget, you’ll be seeing me quite often until Digby and I actually marry – and we’re in no rush. And of course, Vi and Tony will be up to see you every Saturday, and I dare say your mother and grandmother will get in on the act too. You don’t think they’ll be able to control their curiosity, do you?’

  I had to admit it was impossible to imagine Mum and Gran not being nosy. Of course they’d want to visit, to give unasked-for advice and even to meddle in my new life. The thought perked me up immediately.

  The trip to Soho went smoothly, and Maggie was smiling widely as she handed over the keys to my new place. ‘You’ll want to nip up and have a look,’ she told me. ‘Frankie’ll have a cup of tea with us. You better go on your own to begin with. You’ll want to take it all in. I whipped round yesterday for you and gave it a bit of a clean. Joe’s cousins left some mess, but I think Mrs Joe threatened them with losing vital bits if they were too squalid. It comes with a bed, a cooker, table, chairs, stuff like that, but if you need anything, you’ve only to ask. I reckon we can rustle most things up between us.’

  My hand was shaking as I stuck the key in the lock of the brown street door next to the cafe. A glossy brass plate announced that Peter R. D. Finn, Solicitor and Commissioner of Oaths, had his offices there. Even though he was a randy, flirtatious devil, I found the thought of Sharky being on the premises vaguely reassuring.

  I pushed the door open and found myself in a narrow, dark hallway with a heavy locked door to the left and a set of painted stairs ahead of me. Maggie had told me that Sharky’s offices were on the first floor and my flat was at the very top. I climbed the stairs with shaky legs. My heart was thundering as if I had just climbed Everest. It was ridiculous.

  At the top was a tiny landing with one door leading off it, and another flight of stairs heading up to the roof. I turned the second key in the lock and pushed the door inwards to a small kitchen, with a window looking out on to a patch of weedy concrete entirely surrounded by other buildings. The air above the concrete patch was crisscrossed with washing lines and, sure enough, I also had a rope and pulley arrangement for my washing. A tiny table and two chairs were placed in front of the sash window. There was a larder, a cooker and a butler’s sink with a cupboard under it. Everything sparkled with Maggie’s elbow grease. I smiled to myself as I imagined eating my meals at that little table. I’d be able to wave at my neighbours while I was at it.

  There was a bedroom next to the kitchen. It looked out over the roof of next door’s extension, which had filled up their patch of concrete. The flat roof had a small table, some chairs and, arranged around the edges, large tin cans stuffed full of bright red geraniums. There was a coffee pot, a cup and a plate on the table. Somebody had had their breakfast out there.

  I took stock of the room. It wasn’t large, but it did have a cupboard, a bed, a dressing table with three drawers beneath and the window. All I was likely to need. I was going to have to replace the curtains, which were dark and shabby, and the brown lino on the floor had also seen better days. Still, all in good time.

  The living room was a lovely room. It faced out on to the street, and at the moment I walked in, the sun was pouring in one of the two windows. There was a fireplace, with a mantel over it, and a sideboard with a mirror hanging on the wall above it. There were two comfortable-looking chairs upholstered in a ghastly brown fabric that would have to go, and an understuffed sofa that didn’t match them. The curtains were a mustard shade, with a pattern of overblown brown roses, also nasty. Thank goodness for my trusty Singer.

  I knew I was going to love this room. Despite the drab furniture, it had a warmth and a cosiness about it that promised much.

  There was also a small spare room, just big enough for a narrow, single bed and a chest of drawers. It had a tiny fireplace with shelves set into the recess on one side of the chimney breast, and a cupboard set into the other. It may have been small, but I reckoned it’d take the odd nephew or niece now and then. It was good to know that I had room for them to stay when they wanted. It lessened the awful sadness at leaving them behind. And the long school holidays were about to start!

  I thought I would burst with joy when I pushed open the last door in the flat. It was a bathroom! A bathroom of my very own, complete with a proper bath, a basin and an indoor khazi. I had never, in my life, had a plumbed-in bath and an indoor toilet, let alone one all to myself. I thought I must be in heaven, or the Ritz at the very least. I gazed lovingly at that bathroom for what felt like a week, but was only minutes. I was in love. As well as being besotted with my bathroom, I loved every inch of my new flat; I could hardly wait to start making it my home.

  I spent the rest of the morning happily puttering about putting things away as Frankie and Tony ferried bags and boxes up the stairs. It didn’t take long, because I didn’t have a lot, and it was noon when I finished. Just time for dinner at the cafe and then back to Paradise Gardens for the picnic. The prizes were to be announced and given at three, and the bunfight was scheduled for straight after that.

  ‘So, what do you think? Suit you, will it?’ Maggie asked as soon as I stood in front of her.

  ‘I love it. I just love it. Thanks for cleaning it for me, it’s spotless. It was very kind of you and I appreciate it.’ I felt awkward. I wasn’t used to people skivvying for me.

  ‘That’s all right, love. Mamma Campanini and her girls helped me. They live the other side of you and run the delicatessen. I’ll introduce you later. Lovely people. Now, what can I get you? There’s liver and bacon with mashed spuds and onion gravy or, as a special treat, there’s some of Mamma Campanini’s ravioli with a tomato sauce – but don’t tell anyone because there’s only a few portions of that.’

  I had no idea what ravioli was, but suddenly I felt adventurous. ‘Ravioli please,’ I said firmly, a huge smile plastered across my face.

  ‘Liver and bacon, please,’ said Tony, equally firmly, and we all laughed.

  ‘One ravioli and one liver it is. Drinks?’

  Pretty soon we were seated at what had rapidly become ‘our’ table and tucking in for all we were worth. The ravioli was delicious! Maybe I did have Italian blood after all.

  49

  Everyone was there for the prize-giving, because nobody wanted to miss the picnic. It was the nearest we got to a holiday. That and hop picking in Kent.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen and children,’ sang out Reverend Cattermole, ‘it is my great pleasure to announce the winners of the Annual Vegetable and Allotment Competition.’ He always did the announcements on account of him being used to public speaking, what with church services and everything. He had a good, strong voice that carried right across the allotments – unless there was a train passing, in which case even he was drowned out.

  ‘As usual, we’ll start with the smaller prizes. The first prize for a magnificent marrow goes to young Arthur Whitelock. Well done, young man. May I present you with a packet of refreshing Typhoo Tea, kindly donated by Rainbird’s the grocers.’ The Vicar did the honours and young Arthur grinned in triumph. How keen he was on tea was anybody’s guess, but I was pretty sure his parents wouldn’t grumble.

  Molly Squires’s mum got the other packet of tea for her carrots. The Camp Coffee went to the Whitelocks again, for the best beetroots; they had Dobbin to thank for that. I listened to the Vicar’s voice rising and falling above the hum of the spectators’ talk and the buzz of his very own bees. The warm sun, the gentle murmuring and contentment were making me drowsy. I lay flat
on my back staring up at fluffy clouds and blue sky, happy in the knowledge that there would be no doodlebugs or enemy aircraft, and that the only things likely to dive-bomb us were the sparrows, starlings and pigeons.

  ‘This year, the best runner bean award has been won by Florence Marriott. Congratulations, Mrs Marriott.’ I sat up. With Zinnia out of the running, Mum had won the beans! I jumped to my feet and flung my arms around her dear neck.

  ‘Mum! You won the beans!’ I yelled, as if she didn’t know.

  Mum laughed; her face looked so young, suddenly. ‘No, lovey, I didn’t win the beans. It might be my allotment, but this year, you did all the work. You won the beans, Zelda.’ She turned and shouted across the plots. ‘Did you hear that, Vicar? Zelda grew the beans, she should get the honey.’

  ‘Right you are, Florence. It is my proud pleasure, then, to present a pot of honey donated by my own dear bees to the winner of the best beans section, Mrs Zelda Fluck!’ I didn’t know what to say. My cup ran over: new home, new life and a pot of honey. It was just hard that I’d won because Zinnia’s runners had been nobbled; but looking at her happy, smiling face I thought she didn’t seem to mind, so I decided not to mind either.

  I accepted the honey gratefully. It was only on my way back to my mob that I noticed Ma Hole and Brian. Ma’s expression would have curdled milk. Brian’s face was harder to read: he looked nervous, if anything. I passed close by them and heard Ma hissing at her son, ‘You useless little sod. I can’t even trust you to grow a decent row of beans, but you spend bleeding hours on the allotment if you’re to be believed. What have you been doing down here, if you haven’t been growing prize sodding veg?’ She landed him a hefty clip round the ear. I thought it was no wonder he was so dim, the way she rattled his poor brains – such as they were.