Pride of Walworth

by Mary Jane Staples

  Most visits to Pa were like that. But he had his loyal subjects, his three daughters. They adored him, and believed he really had been unfairly copped. Just after the third anniversary of his committal to prison, Alice said to Nick that that catty American woman ought to have been thrilled at having a handsome man like Pa admiring her best fancy underwear.

  ‘Eh?’ said Nick. Alice may have been only seventeen, but he had no idea, of course, how the mind of a female worked at any age.

  ‘Well,’ said Alice.

  ‘Well what?’ said Nick, tall and personable.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Alice, ‘you’re too young.’

  ‘You’re even younger,’ said Nick, ‘and I don’t suppose you even need to wear egg-cups yet.’

  ‘Here, d’you mind, you lanky lump of a dog’s dinner?’ said Alice. ‘I happen to have been wearin’ what’s necessary for ages.’

  ‘All right, compliments to your blouse,’ said Nick, who talked like Pa, who’d always been able to put on the style. The whole family were cockneys, having been born in Hackney, but Pa had taken naturally to posh speech, and Nick had taken after him. The girls too could put it on a bit. Ma, however, dropped aitches by the dozen, but being a practical woman she didn’t think they were necessary, anyway. ‘Look,’ said Nick, ‘I know we agree that Pa could have sweet-talked the woman, but I can’t see she’d have been thrilled to be caught in her knickers. When that kind of thing happens, don’t women blush and scream and die a death?’

  ‘Oh, lor’, you poor dear,’ said Alice, ‘you’ve got a lot to learn. There’s any amount of women that would enjoy having a handsome man like Pa see what their best undies look like.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Nick.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Alice, ‘now go and play with your train set.’

  ‘Like a tickle, would you?’ said Nick.

  Alice, who went mad when she was tickled, bolted for her bedroom. Nick went after her.

  Ma came out of the kitchen a minute later and called, ‘What’s goin’ on up there?’

  ‘Nick’s tickling Alice on the landin’, Ma,’ called Fanny.

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ said Ma. ‘I thought she was ’aving a fit.’

  ‘She’s ’aving fifty, Ma,’ called Amy amid the shrieks of suffering Alice.

  ‘Well, let me know when she gets to a hundred,’ said Ma, ‘and then I’ll come up with me frying-pan.’

  Alice, escaping, yelled at Nick, ‘Oh, I hope you break both legs playin’ your next football match.’

  ‘That reminds me, there’s a committee meeting this evening,’ said Nick.

  Chapter Two

  THE FOOTBALL COMMITTEE meeting took place, as usual, in Ma’s parlour. Early on in the proceedings, Nick thought his ears were deceiving him.

  ‘That’s it, then, I ain’t goin’ to lend the team me football no more,’ said Chrissie Evans, otherwise known as Chrissie Dumpling or just Dumpling. She was eighteen, worked in a factory for ten bob a week, a wage common to factory girls in 1933, and could be said to be round all over. She had an uncle who’d once played soccer for Millwall, and he’d given her a new football on her birthday last August because she supported Millwall and also fancied herself at the game. Nick supposed some people found that hard to credit, a fat girl fancying herself as a footballer, but with potty females like Lady Nancy Astor going about saying anything men could do women could do as good or better, even girls like Dumpling were going off their chump. What Dumpling was after was getting herself into the local team, Browning Street Rovers. Most of the team lived in or off Browning Street. ‘I mean it,’ said Dumpling earnestly, ‘if you don’t let me play on Saturday, you ain’t gettin’ a lend of me football no more.’

  ‘What?’ asked Freddy Brown, shaken. Freddy was nearly nineteen and lived in Caulfield Place, just round the corner from Nick’s home. He was the team’s right half, slim, supple and nifty.

  ‘Dumpling, you ain’t serious, are yer?’ asked Danny Thompson, twenty years old and right back for the Rovers.

  ‘Course I’m serious,’ said Dumpling, and Danny looked pained. His black hair seemed to droop. A decent young bloke, he actually fancied Dumpling. It was true that a lot of short women went barmy about tall men, and that some blokes were partial to plump females. Since Dumpling really was roundly plump, Danny was extremely partial to her. Dumpling thought him daft every time he asked her to go out with him. She had only one interest, and that was football. Also, she had only one love, and that was Browning Street Rovers.

  Nick, Freddy and Danny made up the team committee, with Dumpling as a co-opted member because she let the team use her top quality football. Nick was captain, secretary and treasurer, since he was able to read, write and add up in superior fashion and was also pretty good at ordering people about. Further, although not the oldest member, he was visibly the tallest and also a commanding centre half. The Rovers played against other Walworth street teams on Saturday afternoons on a hired pitch in Brockwell Park. The hire cost five bob, and each team contributed half a crown. Every member of the Rovers, including their one reserve, paid a subscription of threepence a week during the season. That left a tanner a week to go into team funds, which just about looked after the cost of replacing the occasional shirt or shorts. Any cost relating to football boots came out of the pockets of individual members. There was never enough money in the kitty to buy a new football. A decent one cost fifteen bob. The previous ball had come apart, and the one owned by Dumpling was the team’s lifeblood. Unfortunately, the committee had promised Dumpling that in return for her regular loan of it, she could step in if ever they were a man short. And they were a man short for Saturday’s game. So Dumpling was standing up for her rights.

  ‘Now look here, Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘this is a man’s game—’

  ‘Well, ’Erbert Briggs ain’t a man yet, nor much of a footballer,’ said Dumpling, tossing her tangled brown curls about. ‘’E played ’orrible last Saturday, and we nearly got beat by Brandon Street United. Fancy nearly gettin’ beat by that cissy lot. I went ’ome almost cryin’ with shame for yer. Well, now that ’Erbert’s got flu and Charlie Cope’s got chronic gumboils, the team’s only got ten men for Saturday against Manor Place Rangers, and the committee as good as swore on the Bible that I could play whenever you only ’ad ten men.’

  ‘Now look here,’ said Nick, ‘it’s—’

  ‘Don’t keep sayin’ now look ’ere,’ complained Dumpling, usually a very jolly and cheerful girl, ‘I am ’ere, ain’t I?’

  ‘Well, of course you are, lovey,’ said Nick, ‘you wouldn’t be sitting there if you weren’t. You’re always here, Dumpling.’

  Dumpling, in fact, never missed any committee meeting, nor the chance to speak in turn, out of turn and mostly all the time. She considered it such an honour to be on the committee that she’d have given up Christmas rather than miss a meeting.

  ‘Nick can’t ’elp sayin’ now look here,’ said Danny, ‘’e’s got a desk job and a grey suit.’

  ‘Well, nobody forced it on ’im,’ said Dumpling. ‘Why couldn’t ’e ’ave got a decent job, like navvying or lookin’ after the council’s dustcart ’orses? Then ’e wouldn’t keep sayin’ now look ’ere like ’e was a bank manager.’

  ‘Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘to me eternal sorrow, I’m going to have to smack your bum in a minute.’

  ‘Crikey, did you lot ’ear that?’ said Dumpling, round eyes rounder in her plump face. ‘Did you ’ear Nick say to ’is eternal sorrow? Where’s ’e gettin’ it from?’

  ‘From his clerkin’ job,’ said Freddy. ‘Me brother-in-law Sammy Adams told me once that clerkin’ companies are always sayin’ to their eternal sorrow they can’t do something or other. Still, a job’s a job, and you can’t always pick and choose. I’m lucky meself.’ Freddy worked in a Southwark brewery owned by his brother-in-law. His dad worked there too. ‘We can’t blame Nick for being in clerkin’.’

  ‘No, but ’e don’t ’ave to talk like some
one readin’ the wireless news,’ said Dumpling. ‘I’m only askin’ for me rights that was promised me, and me rights say you’ve got to let me play on Saturday. I do a lot of kickin’ about with the blokes behind the fact’ry at dinnertime after I’ve ate me sandwiches, and I’ve been paid ’igh compliments regardin’ me dribbling and shootin’.’

  ‘Well, blokes,’ said Nick, ‘she does have her rights, so we’ve got a situation that’s a bit desperate. What it means is how can we fit a girl into a team of fellers without the other team weeing their shorts?’

  ‘’Ere, I heard that,’ said Dumpling, her well-stocked blouse alive with indignant quivers. ‘I didn’t come ’ere to listen to vulgarities.’

  ‘No, of course you didn’t, Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘you’re a nice girl, a credit to your mum and dad, but you’ve got to face the fact that if we put you in a football jersey and shorts, Manor Place Rangers will either fall about like drunks or wee themselves.’

  ‘Serve ’em right if they do,’ said Dumpling, ‘they won’t like playin’ in wet shorts. We’ll beat ’em easy.’

  ‘We’ve got to beat ’em, that’s certain,’ said Nick. Manor Place Rangers were the Rovers’ greatest rivals. Manor Place was opposite Browning Street.

  ‘Well, Dumpling does ’ave the right to play,’ said Danny.

  ‘But in what position?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘Me? I can play anywhere,’ said Dumpling.

  ‘All right, in goal,’ said Nick.

  ‘Beg yer pardon?’ said Freddy.

  ‘In goal?’ said Danny dubiously.

  Nick knew they were thinking of the better part – well, the roundest part – of Dumpling in Charlie Cope’s goalkeeping jersey. But it had to be. The Rovers had to supply the ball for this particular match, and Dumpling didn’t seem shy about fitting herself into the jersey. If she could. She was beaming about it, and a beam on Dumpling’s face was like a sunray.

  ‘As goalkeeper,’ said Nick, ‘she’ll be as far away from the Rangers as we can get her.’

  ‘And not get noticed a lot?’ said Danny.

  ‘Eh?’ said Freddy, and made a survey of Dumpling, a hopeful one. It didn’t help. Dumpling was a noticeably bonny girl from any angle. And she was so cheerful and good-natured that the whole team couldn’t help liking her. She was their mascot.

  ‘Listen,’ said Freddy, ‘what about if the Rangers win a lot of corners? They’ll crowd Dumpling then.’

  ‘I’ll knock ’em all flyin’,’ said Dumpling, ‘I’ll be yer best goalie ever. Crikey, Nick, I ain’t half proud of you for askin’ me.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Nick, ‘but look, about changing. You won’t be able to do that in the hut with us, so you’ll have to put the kit on at home. You can travel on the tram wearing a coat. Your dad’s coat. And tuck your hair up in the goalkeeping cap. And if anyone in your family’s got a false moustache, stick it on.’

  ‘’Ere, leave off,’ said Dumpling, ‘I ain’t stickin’ any false moustache on, I’ll look daft. Listen, I don’t mind I’m a girl, yer know, and me dad’s proud I am.’

  ‘All right, Dumpling, we’re proud too,’ said Nick.

  ‘Girl and a half, you are, Dumpling,’ said Danny.

  ‘Twice over,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Oh, I do appreciate yer kind sentiments,’ said Dumpling happily, ‘I never ’ad any blokes nicer to me than the Rovers. It makes me feel just like one of you.’

  ‘Well, do your best on Saturday to look like one of us,’ said Nick. ‘Try not to look like a girl.’ He coughed. ‘Stick a stiff sheet of cardboard up the jersey.’ Danny and Freddy coughed as well then. Dumpling just looked puzzled. She never took any notice of her plumpness. Nick thought she probably didn’t see herself as having a bosom at the moment. She probably thought girls couldn’t officially own one until they were women. She probably thought hers was still a chest. ‘You listening, Dumpling?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know if I ’eard you right,’ she said. ‘I mean, what do I want to wear a sheet of cardboard up me goalie’s jersey for?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Er well,’ said Danny, who admired all Dumpling had and could admit she had a lot of it.

  ‘It’s to square you off, Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘and make you look manly. And to protect your chest if the ball hits it.’

  ‘I don’t want to look manly,’ said Dumpling, ‘I’m a girl. Besides, if the ball does ’it me, it won’t ’urt me. I’ve got a robust chest like you blokes ’ave.’

  That was it. Dumpling really did think that what she’d got at the moment was a chest, not a bosom. Nick hid a grin.

  ‘What was that she said?’ asked Freddy faintly.

  ‘Yes, me dad says so too,’ smiled Dumpling. ‘I like me dad, ’e’s one of me best mates, and ’e won’t half be proud I’m goin’ to be goalie for the Rovers on Saturday.’

  ‘Not if you let any goals in,’ said Nick. ‘Your dad won’t even see you again, not unless he digs you up out of the pitch.’

  ‘’Ere, that ain’t very kind,’ protested Dumpling.

  ‘Nick’s the captain,’ said Freddy, ‘he can’t afford to be kind, he has to chuck ’is weight about or the team gets sloppy.’

  ‘Well, ’e’d better not chuck it at me,’ said Dumpling, ‘not now I’m goin’ to keep goal. Mind, I don’t say I don’t honour ’im for bein’ captain, but I ain’t a weak and fearful girl, yer know, I can stand up for meself.’

  ‘Y’er a lovely girl, Dumpling,’ said Danny, ‘I could sit in the back row of the flicks with yer all night.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want to talk daft for,’ said Dumpling, but in a friendly kind of way, so that Danny wouldn’t take offence. ‘Nick, you goin’ to write the team sheet out now?’

  Nick, using a sheet of notepaper, began to inscribe the names in team formation, starting with C Evans, goalkeeper.

  ‘There you are, Dumpling,’ he said when he’d finished, and she looked at her own name in misty pride.

  ‘Oh, don’t it warm me heart?’ she said. Nick smiled. Good old Dumpling. Being barmy about football, he supposed she should have been born a boy, except that fat boys came in for even more stick than fat girls. ‘I’ll take it to Ashford’s sweet shop on me way ’ome tomorrer, and get Mrs Ashford to put it up in ’er shop window, like always. Crikey, everyone’ll see me name, all me friends as well. Oh, I ain’t ’alf happy.’

  The meeting broke up, and as Nick was seeing his visitors to the front door, Ma appeared in the passage. Freddy and Danny said hello to her.

  Dumpling said, ‘Oh, would yer believe it, Mrs ’Arrison, I’m playin’ for the team on Saturday. I’m playin’ goalie.’

  ‘Bless me soul, Chrissie, you in their football team?’ said Ma in astonishment. ‘I never ’eard of a girl playin’ before. You sure it’s natural?’

  ‘Oh, it’s me life’s wish,’ said Dumpling, ‘and I’ve been natural ever since I was born. You can ask me mum and dad. Oh, is Nick’s dad still away?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Ma, producing a little sigh.

  ‘Well, it’s a shame,’ said Dumpling, ‘Nick and ’is sisters ought to ’ave their dad around a bit. We’ll all have to ’ope that Mr ’Arrison comes ’ome soon, so’s he can see one of our football matches before the season ends – ’ere, what’s goin’ on?’

  ‘’Night, Mrs ’Arrison, so long, Nick,’ said Freddy, and he and Danny hauled Dumpling out of the house and into the misty October night. If the Rovers couldn’t afford a new football, at least they had Dumpling as their cheerful chatty supplier of a first-class one. In 1933, not many street teams could have asked for more.

  ‘That girl’s got some funny ideas,’ said Ma.

  ‘Harmless, though,’ said Nick.

  ‘I hear Danny’s got a special likin’ for her.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a special liking for her shape,’ said Nick.

  ‘I can’t think why she’s shaped like that,’ said Ma. ‘She doesn’t get it from ’er
mum and dad, and none of ’er brothers and sisters is a bit fat. Now you sure she won’t do ’erself an injury, playin’ football?’

  ‘If anything’s injured, it’ll probably be Charlie Cope’s goalkeeping jersey,’ said Nick. ‘Chrissie could damage it permanently, if she can get herself into it.’

  Ma nearly giggled. Nick winked, then remembered the Rovers were committed to Dumpling as their goalkeeper against Manor Place Rangers. The Rangers had a large, beefy and kill-on-sight centre half who could hospitalize an opposing centre forward with a twitch of his hips, and scare the living daylights out of any goalkeeper. What he might do to Dumpling if he found out she was a girl could mean she would never be the same again. Ruddy hell, what’ve I done, thought Nick, I forgot about that tank of a centre half.

  He followed Ma into the kitchen, where his sisters were sitting around the table. The range fire was alight, the kitchen warm, and the girls were enjoying hot cocoa. Upstairs, cold bedrooms awaited them and so did the cold linoleum that covered the floors. On winter mornings, the lino was like ice beneath bare feet. It was no wonder old people wore bedsocks. It was either bedsocks or chilblains.

  Nick was careless enough then to come out with the news that Dumpling was going to be the Rovers’ goalkeeper on Saturday. His sisters fell about, of course. Hysterically.

  ‘That’s it, have a good time,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind what the prospect is doing to me. I’m only your brother being as good as a father to you.’ They all had louder hysterics. ‘Hope you all wet your drawers.’

  ‘Oh, crikey, don’t,’ gasped young Fanny, the one with the small nose in the middle of a saucy face. She was turning red.

  ‘Nick, I ’ope I didn’t hear what you just said,’ remarked Ma.