Everybody's Somebody

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘When are you going then?’ she asked.

  ‘First thing Monday morning,’ he said. And sighed.

  The sigh made her suddenly and miserably aware that she really was going to lose him. ‘If that’s the case,’ she said, ‘I’ll model for you whenever you need me.’

  She posed for him all through the next day until the little picture was completed, more or less to his satisfaction, and was touched to notice that he was careful to talk about his famous sitters and tell her stories that wouldn’t upset either of them. But he didn’t suggest any ‘sinful idleness’ either and when he finally stopped painting and was cleaning his brushes, he said, ‘Well that’s that then,’ and looked so downcast that she walked across the room and kissed him on both cheeks, the way he kissed her when they parted.

  ‘War is a terrible thing,’ he said. ‘Some of the things I saw out there in France you would never believe.’

  ‘I would,’ she told him. ‘My Jim was in the trenches.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten that.’ Then he shook his head as if he was shaking away bad thoughts and smiled at her. ‘I’ve got a little present for you and your Jim,’ he said and walked across the room to pick up a canvas carefully wrapped in brown paper. ‘I think you’ll like it. Open it when you get home. Now we’d better get going or your family will be wondering where you are.’

  It was a quiet journey back to Newcomen Street but when he’d opened the door for her and eased her out of the car with her present under her arm, he kissed her on both cheeks in his usual way.

  ‘I don’t know when we shall meet again,’ he said. ‘How can anyone tell? Look after yourself.’

  ‘You too,’ she said. ‘I shall miss you.’

  He looked at her for quite a long time and then bent his head to kiss her mouth, gently and sadly. ‘My beautiful Helen,’ he said. Then he got into his car and drove away without looking back.

  She put her key into the lock and opened the front door, trying to be sensible about their parting — and failing.

  Jim was waiting for her at the top of the stairs and he didn’t look at all happy. ‘You’re late,’ he said, frowning at her. ‘I thought you was never comin’ home. The gels ’ave gone to bed long since. What was all that kissin’ about?’

  She walked through into the kitchen and put the kettle on. ‘He’s going to America,’ she said. ‘We were kissing goodbye.’

  ‘So I noticed,’ he said sourly. ‘I was watchin’ you out the winder.’

  Her throat filled with a sudden panic. We’re not going to argue about this now, she thought. Surely to goodness. Not when it’s been over an’ done with.

  But it appeared that they were. ‘If you ask me,’ Jim said, settling into his chair, ‘it’s just as well he is goin’ to America. If you ask me, I hope he’ll stay there a good long time an’ give us a bit a’ peace. He was bein’ a darn sight too familiar out there on the pavement.’

  Bull by the horns, Rosie thought. ‘He could be gone years, if you want to know,’ she said. ‘He’s runnin’ away from the Nazis on account of they’re killing off all the Jews in Germany and he thinks they’ll come over here an’ kill him.’

  ‘Well that just shows how stupid he can be,’ Jim said. ‘They won’t come over ’ere. An’ I’ll tell you fer why. They won’t come over ’ere on account of we won’t let ’em.’

  ‘He thinks there’s going to be a war,’ Rosie said, measuring the tea into the teapot. ‘An’ you can’t say you don’t, because that’s exactly what your sarge was tellin’ us the last time he was here, and you were agreeing with him. If I remember rightly, he said Hitler was gearing up for it.’

  ‘Well, it’s on the cards,’ Jim admitted. ‘I’ll grant you that. Depends if he invades Poland or Czechoslovakia. Just as well we’re not runnin’ away an all.’

  ‘We’re not Jewish,’ she said, filling the teapot.

  ‘Well, I s’pose not,’ Jim admitted. ‘You got a point there. Anyway I’m glad he’s goin’.’

  ‘He gave us a present,’ Rosie said, remembering. She’d been so worried by the way Jim had been frowning, she’d left it on the landing. ‘I’ll just let this stand an’ go an’ get it.’

  Jim wasn’t impressed. ‘It’s a painting,’ he said. ‘Why does he imagine I’d want one of his paintings?’

  Rosie was removing the paper, carefully. The painting was facing the wall, but she was feeling too down to wonder what it was. She folded the paper and put it away in the oddments drawer. Then, without very much interest, she turned the canvas round. It was one of the first sketches he’d done in the Borough Market all those years ago. And there they were, she and Jim and little Gracie, standing round Mr Feigenbaum’s stall, pretending to do the shopping. ‘Oh my dear heart alive,’ she said. ‘Will you look at that?’

  The sight of it had stopped Jim in mid rant. ‘Don’t we look young!’ he said, staring at it.

  ‘Gracie wasn’t two. I was carryin’ our Mary.’

  ‘It’s ever so good of you. I’ve seen that look on your face so many times, you wouldn’t believe. An’ ’e’s caught the look of our Gracie too. Pretty little thing.’

  ‘I’ve seen your look an’ all,’ Rosie said, gazing at it. She’d forgotten what a wonderful picture it was and how loving they’d been with one another. It was as if their younger selves were in the room with them, smiling their love at one another to remind them. ‘Oh Jim!’

  He left his chair and came to stand behind her, kissing her hair. ‘That’s a very good picture,’ he said. The sight of it was making him change his opinion of Mr de Silva. Only slightly, of course, but it was changing. He could’ve painted us with any expression he liked, he thought, an’ yet he painted us looking like that. Maybe there was some good in the man after all.

  ‘I do love you,’ she said, still gazing at the picture. ‘You do know that don’t you.’

  ‘Couldn’t be off knowing with that in the room,’ he said and kissed her hair again.

  She turned and put her arms round his neck, encouraged by the change in him. ‘We’ve come through a lot together, you an’ me,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘We ’ave. Couple of ol’ war horses. That’s us.’

  A couple of old war horses sounded about right, although the word ‘war’ gave her pause and she crossed her fingers behind her back just to be on the safe side. One war in a lifetime was quite enough. ‘Let’s have our tea,’ she said, ‘an’ we can decide where we’re goin’ to hang it.’

  ‘Over the mantelpiece,’ he said at once. ‘Where else? In the middle a’ the room where we can see it every day. After all, it’s part of our lives.’

  A Stitch in Time

  Beryl Kingston

  Chapter 1

  The war against Germany was barely a month old and all over Great Britain patriotism burned like fever. London was crazed with it.

  Newspaper headlines grew taller by the day, bragging of victory at the River Marne; citizens strutted and preened; shop windows erupted into an enthusiasm of ribbons and bunting and brand-new Union Jacks. Some windows sported a picture of King George and Queen Mary, looking severe, and a hand-painted slogan, like ‘Britons Never Shall Be Slaves’, or ‘For King and Country’, or even more passionately ‘God Bless Our Boys!’ Others gave space to the new recruiting posters with their demanding, professional type, ‘Do Your Duty! Enlist Now! Join Today!’ and their huge, noble faces — white whiskers drooping like the bags under their eyes — each one confident in the expectation that the young men of the capital would spring to the defence of their country in her hour of need. It looked and felt like a carnival — and on the third Saturday in September 1914, it sounded like one too.

  It was just after five o’clock and the market in Lambeth Walk was at its busiest, the street almost impassable for stalls and shoppers, when there was a sound like a sudden clap of thunder. It was so loud that it made Rose Boniface jump. She’d been picking over the second-hand blouses at Mrs Tuffin’s tot
stall, looking for something decent to cut down for her younger sisters to wear to school. She’d already found a blue cotton for Mabel. Now she stopped, one hand on the white lawn of a lady’s blouse that she was considering for Netta and looked up at the sky.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ she said.

  ‘Drums, you ask me dear,’ Mrs Tuffin said, her eyes firmly on the merchandise. As befitted a lady of her trade, she was a decidedly blowsy woman with a plump pink face, plump pink arms, fat fingers, a bosom that billowed over the tight leather constriction of her belt, and hips like cushions bulging under her long black skirt. She wore one of her own blouses, a confection in bottle-green taffeta threaded with tartan ribbon and decorated by rows of small jet beads and, squashed on top of her bun of black hair, a large straw hat of indeterminate colour.

  Standing before such an abundance of flesh and finery, Rose Boniface looked like a waif. At seventeen, she was no taller than she’d been at fourteen when she took over the care of her brothers and sisters and became the mother of the family — a mere five foot and skinny with it. Her neck was too slender under the soft twist of nut-brown hair pinned at her nape, her hands too small with thin supple fingers, her wrists so fragile you felt you could snap them by looking at them. Yet, despite a childhood marred by too much hard work, too many worries and too little food, there was a gentleness about her face that was quite remarkable. It was already womanly, oval-shaped and set off by a natural fringe of wispy curls. True, her cheeks were too thin, her skin had the town dweller’s unhealthy pallor and there were poverty shadows under her eyes, but her forehead was high and broad, her nose retroussé, chin prettily rounded, mouth a perfect Cupid’s bow and her eyes themselves were widely spaced, dark grey and fringed with thick brown lashes. In short, Rose Boniface had the makings of a beauty.

  The sudden thunder-crack had progressed into rhythm. ‘It’s a parade,’ our beauty said, eyes gleaming at the thought.

  Mrs Tuffin could see her sale slipping away. ‘Would you like me to put that by for yer?’ she asked, tucking a straying lock of hair under her hat. ‘It’s a good bit a’ cloth. You could come back for it tomorrow.’

  Rose pulled her mind back to the business in hand. ‘It’s gone under the arms,’ she said, lifting up the sleeves. ‘It’ll need a lot a’ working over. It ain’t worth thruppence, Mrs Tuffin.’ She wasn’t bargaining — she was too open and honest to do that — she was simply pointing out the flaws in the purchase.

  Normally, Mrs Tuffin would have argued until a better price had been agreed but she liked Rose and knew what an effort she made to keep her family well fed and respectable.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she suggested, picking up another white blouse. ‘I’ll throw this one in an’ all, and you can use it for repairs. It’s in pretty good nick at the back. See?’

  ‘It’s a bad colour,’ Rose said. ‘I’d rather have that old ecru one, Mrs Tuffin, if it’s all the same to you. The one with the torn sleeves. That ’ud make a nice contrast.’

  Mrs Tuffin considered for a second, as the music drew near enough for them to discern a tune. ‘All right,’ she said, making her mind up. ‘As it’s you, Rose, you can have the three for a tanner. I can’t say fairer than that, can I, gel?’

  The sixpence was handed over and the blouses bundled into Rose’s clean shopping bag. Now there was no doubt that the rhythmic noise was a band and at the end of the Walk, what’s more. People were heading towards it all along the street, agog for excitement. Rose trotted after them and arrived at the Black Prince Road just in time to see the tail-end passing under the railway bridge. It was a detachment of the Queen’s, marching briskly and preceded by a drum and fife band, drums in pounding unison, pipes squealing like pigs. What a lark!

  To her surprise she saw her big brother Bertie standing outside the pub on the other side of the road. She hadn’t expected him home from work so soon, but there he was, tall and dependable and cheerful, nodding his head in time to the music. He looks just like Dad she thought lovingly, taking him in — flat cap, old jacket, muffler flying in the breeze — you can see what a worker he is. Dear Bertie.

  ‘Whatcher Rose,’ he said, as she crossed the road to join him. ‘What price this for a lark, eh? If we was to run, we could catch up with ’em and see the whole thing from start to finish.’

  So, they ran, shopping forgotten, two of a great crowd hurtling off to enjoy the display. And were not disappointed, for seen from the front, the soldiers looked as grand as they sounded, their kit immaculate and their expressions determined. They were led by a resplendent recruiting officer, a sergeant major with a brick-red face and a chest like a pouter pigeon, and by the time they reached Kennington Cross, they had drawn a long, straggling crowd behind and beside them, like a magnet trailing iron filings — factory workers like Bertie, women out shopping like Rose, clerks with self-important expressions, grimy boys in rags, elderly gentlemen stepping out boldly in time to the music, and, down beside the well-polished boots and carefully wound puttees of the contingent, a flea-bitten collection of Kennington mongrels yapping themselves silly with uncontrollable patriotism.

  The procession continued into Kennington Road and came to a halt outside the Town Hall where it was greeted by a councillor, sweating under his ceremonial topper. The sergeant major took up a stand in the middle of the small green called Kennington Park while his detachment stood in bright ranks on either side of him and drummed for attention. Within two minutes all trade and traffic had come to a standstill as cars and carriages were ordered to stop at once, errand boys forgot their errands, eager faces appeared in every window on all five storeys of the houses round the green and the Saturday shoppers told one another there had never been anything to equal this, never in a hundred years.

  The sergeant major surveyed the scene with satisfaction, fondled his moustache and silenced the drummers with a glance.

  ‘This ’ere band,’ he bellowed at his fascinated audience, ‘will be playin’ for the next two minutes. No more nor less! Two minutes. Then Councillor Thomas has got sommink to say to you, and I got sommink to say to you, and you won’t none of you want ter miss a word of it, believe me. If you got friends what ain’t here, do ’em a favour. Nip orf an’ get ’em. Sharpish! ’Cause I tell you, they’ll kick their selves if they ain’t here to hear this.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘Two minutes,’ he warned, and shot another steely glance at his instrumentalists who instantly began to play their tune again, very loudly.

  Young men scuttled off in every direction to do his bidding, more faces appeared at the windows, the crowd grew by the second and the band completed its two-minute entertainment with a drum crescendo, white gloves flying like birds. Then the councillor began his speech which was blown into inaudibility by the evening breeze. But because he smiled a great deal and waved his arms about, his audience gave him a happy cheer when he seemed to have finished. Then the sergeant major took over again.

  ‘Hever since our glorious vic’try at the Battle of the River Marne,’ he bellowed, ‘we got the ’Un on the run. Thirty miles from Paris they was when our lads got stuck into ’em. And what did they do then, lads? I’ll tell you what they done. Beggared off out of it as fast as their little yellow legs ’ud carry ’em. That’s what they done. And for why? I’ll tell you for why. For two reasons. Because your ’Un is a coward. And because the British Hexpeditionary Force is a fine body a’ men, highly trained, perfessional soldiers, British an’ proud of it.’ He paused to give his audience time to cheer, which they did, with fervour. ‘Nah then,’ he continued. ‘I come down here this evening to give you the chance to join our victorious Army. Chance of a lifetime. Come Christmas, the German war machine’ll be finished for good an’ all. We nearly knocked the stuffing out a’ them all-a-ready. So whatcher say boys? All you got to do is take the shillin’. Just think a’ the benefits. Free grub, free uniform, free lodgin’, an’ seven bob a week on top of all that. You’ll have the world at your feet my lads. The world at
your feet an’ any girl you want jest for the asking. There ain’t a girl alive what don’t love a soldier.’ Appealing to the women in his audience. ‘Ain’t that right my darlin’s? An’ if you’re a married man, sir — since you’re asking — even better. Wife’s allowance nine bob, wife an’ child fourteen shillings, two an’ a kick for every child on top a’ that. You could live like lords. Like lords me lads. An’ all you’ve got to do is cross the road to the recruiting office over there an’ take the shillin’. What could be simpler?’

  What indeed, put like that? The recruiting office at the Town Hall was clearly labelled. The flags were flying. There was even an army sergeant standing by the door ready to welcome them in.

  The sergeant major looked at the ranks of ardent young faces turned towards him and his world — at dark cloth caps and work-grimed clothes, at collarless shirts and frayed mufflers, at the trusting innocence of young men lifted by his oratory and, in their unaccustomed stillness, touched with glory by the setting sun.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘He’s right,’ Bertie Boniface said to his sister. ‘I ought to do it, our Rose.’

  Rose tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and gave it a squeeze. Ever since this war had been declared, she’d known he would volunteer for it sooner or later. She was so proud of him. ‘A’ course,’ she agreed, smiling at him. ‘You go our Bertie.’

  A queue was forming outside the recruiting office and young men were running towards it from every side.

  ‘Three cheers for our brave lads,’ the sergeant major cried. ‘Hip-pip-pip-pip! Hooray!’

  Bertie ran at the second cheer.

  I shall never forget this moment, Rose thought, watching him as he stood in the line. Our Bertie going for a soldier. And all them young fellers running to take the shilling and defend the country and everything. She was proud of them all. But specially Bertie, dear loving Bertie, who’d fathered the family ever since mum died and worked like a Trojan to look after them all. He’s so good, she thought. Always has been. Wait till we tell them in Ritzy Street. Won’t they be thrilled!