‘’Ello, and ’ow’s yer manly self today, Nick?’ said Gran. ‘Brought some more fog in me shop, I see.’
‘I don’t see at all,’ said Ivy. ‘You sure it’s Nick, Gran?’
‘Well, it ain’t Gloria Swanson,’ said Gran.
‘It’s me all right,’ said Nick.
‘So it is,’ said Ivy. ‘What can we do for yer? Like to come up to the flat and see me saucy seaside postcards?’
‘It’s a bit foggy for that,’ said Nick. ‘I’ll settle for a pound box of Milk Tray.’
‘’Ello, got a young lady, ’ave yer, Nick?’ said Gran.
‘No, I’ve got Ma and three sisters,’ said Nick, ‘and I’m treating them.’
‘My, I like yer nice ways, Nick,’ said Gran.
‘Not ’alf,’ said Ivy, taking a box of Milk Tray off a shelf and placing it in a paper bag. ‘He can treat me to some of ’is nice ways on Sunday, if ’e likes. There, one-and-thruppence, Nick.’
Nick paid up.
‘’Ave you ’eard yet when yer dad’s comin’ ’ome from the China Seas?’ asked Gran.
‘Yes, as soon as he gets word of Ivy’s saucy postcards,’ said Nick. Another customer came into the shop from out of the fog as he left, with Gran delivering a parting line.
‘Wally ain’t forgot about askin’ ’is sailor friend to find out about the Iron Duke, Nick.’
‘Tell him not to worry,’ said Nick, stepping into the fog. The shop door swung to behind him. That sailor might be a friend of Wally’s, he thought, but he’s no friend of ours.
Ma and the girls were delighted with the chocolates he’d bought them in celebration of his promised rise. Young Fanny said she could live with having a brother, after all.
Ma said things were taking a nice turn, what with Nick’s wage increase and the lodger being a very sociable and untroublesome gent. She’d shared another pot of tea with him yesterday, she said. Fanny grimaced and said if he got too sociable, she’d have to tell Pa. Ma said I’ll tell him myself, it’ll show him he shouldn’t have got himself five years hard labour for getting too big for his boots. Besides, she said, I need to enjoy a bit of sociable-ness with a gent now and again. I’m not a woman for nothing, she said, and if your Pa’s not here to be sociable, then I’ve got to make do with entertaining the lodger. Of course, I wouldn’t make do with anyone who wasn’t a gent. Mind, I had to tell him to moderate his language a bit.
‘Steamy, was it?’ asked Nick.
‘What d’you mean, steamy?’ asked Ma.
‘Well, did it steam up the windows?’
‘Not on purpose,’ said Ma. ‘Mr Loovakish just can’t ’elp not knowin’ what he’s sayin’ sometimes on account of what he’s picked up in the East End.’
‘Pa’s never steamed up any windows,’ said Amy.
‘Pa’s a gentleman,’ said Alice.
‘Cor lovaduck,’ said saucy Fanny, ‘our Nick might turn out to be a gent if ’e brings us any more choc’lates.’
‘I might turn out to be disappointed if this fog gets any worse and there’s no football this afternoon,’ said Nick. ‘By the way, Ma, we’d better think about getting Pa transferred to the Invincible. Gran Emerson said that her son Wally hasn’t forgotten to mention the Iron Duke to his sailor friend.’
‘Oh, lor’,’ said Ma, ‘I wish some people wouldn’t stick their noses into Pa’s whereabouts.’
Amy said the best bet, if Gran Emerson mentioned the Iron Duke again, would be to say that Pa had just been transferred to the Mauretania, as she liked the sound of that better than the Invisible.
Nick, studying the fog that was obliterating the backyard, said, ‘Invincible, not Invisible, gormless. And the Mauretania happens to be an ocean liner.’
‘Well, Pa would like that,’ said Fanny.
‘Ugh, look at that fog, it’s sickenin’,’ said Alice.
The backyard fog scowled.
The day was merely misty in the quarry down in the wilds of Kent. The hard labour men were swinging pickaxes or sledgehammers under the supervision of armed warders. Pa was working with Tiny Angel, so called because he was as big as a house and specialized in lying in wait for rich West End gents and bashing them over the head to make it easier for him to lift their gold watches and chains. He never said much. He enjoyed bashing far more than conversation. The nearest warder having turned his back, Tiny executed a bashing movement with his sledgehammer. The heavy head landed an inch from the toe of Pa’s right boot.
‘Ruddy hell,’ breathed Pa, ‘what was that for?’
‘You been saucy, you bleedin’ fairy,’ said Tiny Angel, which was as much as he’d said all week.
Pa knew what that meant. He had let the grapevine know he was taking umbrage at Ma’s monthly handout being gradually cut down. The warning bash of Tiny’s sledgehammer was to let him know in return to shut his cakehole.
Right, thought Pa, I’m a reasonable case, all things considered, but I’m not another Tosh Fingers. I’ll have to reconsider my future, and Ma’s legal dues. Further, I’m against being discharged with one foot missing.
* * *
November saw to it that there was no football that afternoon. The fog was too thick. It ruined Dumpling’s day for her, so Danny went round and offered to cheer her up in her parlour. Doing what? Dumpling asked the question suspiciously. Well, I wouldn’t mind doing some cuddling meself, said Danny hopefully.
‘Oh, yer daft lump,’ said Dumpling, ‘you know I don’t go in for that soppy stuff, I’m goin’ to do some serious leg exercises to keep me footballin’ knees in trim.’
‘I’ll join yer, Dumpling,’ said Danny.
‘Not likely you won’t,’ said Dumpling, ‘I do me exercises on the floor with me legs up in the air.’
‘Ruddy bliss,’ said Danny, ‘I’ll sit and watch.’
‘What, me with me legs and drawers showin’? You got a hope,’ said Dumpling.
‘Well, some of us ’ave always got ’opes, Dumpling. I’ve got me own, yer know.’
‘Well, I don’t want them ’anging about on my doorstep,’ said Dumpling, ‘they might do an injury to me self-respect as a footballer. I’ll ’ave to ask you to ’oppit.’
‘What, in all this fog?’ said Danny. ‘Dumpling, you ain’t sendin’ me off to get lost in it, are yer?’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Dumpling, ‘we do ’appen to ’ave the fire alight in the parlour. Would yer like to play some parlour games?’
‘Corblimey, not ’alf I wouldn’t, Dumpling, it’s me chief ambition,’ said Danny in bliss.
‘Come on, then,’ said Dumpling, showing her first happy beam on this foggy day. Danny stepped in, closed the door, and Dumpling took him into the parlour. It was full of her brothers and sisters. ‘Now then,’ she said ‘’ere’s Danny. ’E wants to play parlour games, and ’e don’t want to be disappointed.’
Her brothers and sisters yelled with delight and jumped on Danny, more or less. As he disappeared, Dumpling left the parlour, closed the door to shut out the sounds of bedlam, and went back to the kitchen to help her mum with the Saturday afternoon baking. Well, a girl who was as good as one of the blokes and whose one love was football, didn’t want to spend a foggy day doing soppy cuddling.
‘Chrissie,’ said Mrs Evans, a remarkably thin woman considering her first-born was remarkably fat, ‘what’s goin’ on in my parlour?’
‘Oh, just some games, Mum,’ said Dumpling, busy filling Viota paper cases with a bun mixture.
‘Games? What’s all that crashin’ and banging, then?’
‘It’s games with Danny, Mum.’
‘Oh, me gawd,’ said Mrs Evans, ‘you ’aven’t put Danny in with them little cannibals, ’ave yer? They’ll tear ’im to bits.’
‘Mum, ’e said as it was foggy, parlour games was just what ’e was lookin’ for.’
‘No, ’e didn’t, not with them little devils, I know,’ said Mrs Evans, mixing ingredients for a large batch of rockcakes. ‘He’d be better off takin’ you out and gettin’ los
t in the fog with you.’
‘Me?’ said Dumpling. ‘I don’t want to get lost in any fog with ’im.’
‘Well, I would if I was your age,’ said Mrs Evans, ‘a nice young man like Danny and all.’
‘But I’ve got me footballin’, Mum.’
‘Well, that won’t make an ’ome and fam’ly for you, not if you ’ad it for fifty years and more,’ said Mrs Evans. ‘Chrissie, you want your ’ead examined, you do. Danny’s nearly twenty-one and you’re over eighteen, and it’s time you let ’im start walkin’ you out nice and steady. Oh, Lord bless us, is that ’im callin’ for ’elp?’
‘’Elp!’ bawled Danny from the parlour.
‘I’ll murder them kids, even if they are me own,’ said Mrs Evans. ‘Chrissie, go and drag them off ’im and send them up to their bedrooms. Then go and sit in the parlour with Danny, and I’ll bring you cups of tea in a while.’
‘Mum, ’e’ll want to cuddle me and do soppy kissin’,’ protested Dumpling.
‘Well, some girls are lucky,’ said Mrs Evans. ‘Go on, go and do as I say. I can’t ask yer dad, ’e’s round at the workingmen’s club.’
Dumpling did what was required of her, although there were five minutes of new bedlam in getting her brothers and sisters up to their bedrooms. That accomplished without any actual blood-letting, she gave Danny some first aid and then, when he was fully repaired, she sat in the parlour with him. Five minutes later, Mrs Evans heard her first-born yell.
‘Mum! ’Elp!’
Mrs Evans smiled, put a batch of rockcakes in the kitchen oven, and decided she wouldn’t make cups of tea yet.
Freddy and Cassie were in another parlour, Mrs Brown’s. The fire was glowing, and they were playing cards by cutting the pack. Whoever turned up the higher card received a penny from the other. Freddy was losing the cut often enough to be one-and-tuppence down, and while being sporting about it, he did suggest it was beginning to hurt, and to look suspicious. Cassie said all right, let’s play that if you lose you have to kiss me, and if I lose I have to kiss you. All right, said Freddy, it’s something to do on a foggy afternoon. We’ll do six cuts, said Cassie, then settle the owings. So they did six cuts each, and Freddy lost them all.
‘Crikey,’ said Cassie, ‘that means you’ve got to kiss me six times. I’ll be overcome. Still, I did say, so I’ll have to risk it.’
They were sitting on the sofa together, facing the table and the fire. Cassie, a dreamy smile on her face, offered her lips. Freddy kissed them. Cassie accepted the owings as her due, and more than that. She pressed her mouth ardently to his, closed her eyes and hung on. Blow me, thought Freddy, this is nearly as good as playing football. Cassie gulped and unwound herself. Freddy blinked. It looked to him as if his best friend was actually blushing.
‘What ’appened?’ he asked.
‘How do I know?’ said Cassie. ‘I fainted, didn’t I?’
‘That’s funny,’ said Freddy, ‘so did I.’
‘How many kisses was it?’ asked Cassie.
‘Just the one,’ said Freddy.
‘Well, you still owe me five more,’ said Cassie.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, and I don’t mind faintin’ again.’
‘That’s funny,’ said Freddy, ‘nor do I.’
Cassie giggled. Freddy kissed her. Her giggle became a gurgle. Her eyes closed again and she made each kiss last. In between she accused him of overcoming her. Some hopes, said Freddy, I couldn’t overcome an empty paper bag, not in my condition. Well, if you do overcome me, I’ll have to tell my dad, said Cassie. What for? Well, she said, like when you squeezed my pomegranates that time, you’ll have to marry me, and my dad’ll have to know. Cassie, I wouldn’t overcome you, even if I could, said Freddy. Why not, said Cassie, don’t you want to marry me later on? Cassie, you’re me best friend, said Freddy, and me mind’s made up, I’m not going to overcome you, not in me mum’s parlour nor anywhere else. Cassie went for him and Freddy fell on the floor.
‘Get up,’ said Cassie.
‘I can’t,’ said Freddy, ‘I’ve fainted.’
Cassie shrieked with laughter.
Dumpling, meanwhile, was trying to give Danny a good hiding. But Danny, having tasted her plump rosy lips, was fighting back in his enthusiasm for more.
‘Oh, yer daft lummox,’ gasped Dumpling, ‘look what yer doin’ to me jumper.’
‘I like it, it suits yer chest,’ said Danny, ‘but it ain’t yer jumper I’m after, Dumpling, just some more kisses.’
Dumpling yelled, all in vain. A real smacker arrived on her lips. Oh, the soppy devil.
‘Mum!’ she yelled as soon as she could. Another smacker arrived. ‘Oh, me gawd,’ she breathed some seconds later, ‘I’ll break yer legs in a minute.’
‘Dumpling, y’er a lovely cuddle,’ said Danny.
‘Course I ain’t, yer loony, I’m a footballer.’
‘Just one more kiss?’ said Danny.
‘Oh, all right,’ sighed Dumpling, ‘it ain’t my fault all you blokes ’ave got barmy ideas about girls.’
She was yelling for her mum again two minutes later, for the soppy devil was getting soppier.
The fog shifted irritably about on Sunday as if the hounds of heaven were worrying its tail. It lifted in a sulky and reluctant way in the afternoon, when Mrs Higgins observed to her better half that if it couldn’t make up its mind what it was going to do, November ought never to be allowed on a Christian calendar. It would be more in place on a heathen one, she said. So down it came again, thick and yellow with umbrage, and the chimneys of Walworth belched black smoke into the heart of it. November didn’t like that, either.
Mr Lukavitch knocked and put his head round the kitchen door in the evening. Ma, Nick and the girls were sitting at the table playing dominoes. They were playing for matchsticks and for the fun of it.
‘Oh, good evenin’, Mr Loovakish,’ said Ma.
‘Ah, yes, how’s your father, eh, Mrs Harrison?’ said Mr Lukavitch. ‘I am just asking if anyone has six pennies for my sixpence. My meter says no gas.’
‘Oh, we can find you pennies,’ said Ma, ‘but now you’re ’ere and I’m just goin’ to make a pot of tea, would you like to sit down with us?’
‘How bloody kind,’ said Mr Lukavitch, and sat happily down with the family. ‘Such a day, don’t you think?’
‘Corblimey foggy,’ said saucy young Fanny.
‘All right for Jack the Ripper,’ said Nick.
‘Ah, I have heard of him,’ said Mr Lukavitch, ‘he—’
‘Not in front of me girls, Mr Loovakish,’ said Ma, and got up to put the kettle on.
‘No, you bet, missus,’ said Mr Lukavitch, and looked as if the Ripper was a bit of a blot on the East End. ‘But London in the fog is itself, eh, and famous, don’t you think?’
‘Ruddy ’orrible,’ said Nick.
‘But better than the bleedin’ marshes of Poland, you bet,’ said Mr Lukavitch.
‘Language, Mr Loovakish,’ said Ma from the scullery.
‘Yes, I am proud I can speak ruddy fine London English. And how is your father, you young ladies? Across the world in his battleship, I think, eh?’
‘Not half,’ said Amy.
‘Pa’s a gent,’ said Fanny.
‘Yes, it’s ’ard on a gentleman like my ’usband to have to fight pirates in the China Seas,’ said Ma, ‘specially when there’s these common jewel thieves enjoying themselves robbin’ people and not gettin’ caught. It’s them that ought to be in the China Seas. You’ve read about them, Mr Loovakish?’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Lukavitch, and sighed. ‘Most unhappy, yes.’
‘It is for Pa,’ said Alice.
‘I am corblimey sad for you,’ said Mr Lukavitch, and sighed again. But he brightened up when Ma made the tea and poured it. He spent a pleasant hour chatting to the family about the attractions of London, and made it known that he thought the King and Queen were ruddy tophole. He informed Ma how delighted he was to be lodging with
her and her family. Ma was visibly pleasured to have him say so. Fanny, however, looked as if she was thinking of telling Pa that the lodger was getting too sociable with Ma. Alice looked amused, Amy looked pretty, and Nick looked thoughtful. He was thinking about work and how silent the fourth floor had been, and how jumpy Mr Pollard was whenever they came face to face. The manager obviously wanted to ask him questions about what had given him entry to the fourth floor, but just as obviously he’d been told not to. It was a nervous time for a claims department manager faced with the fact that one of his junior clerks had once been summoned by God.
In the meantime, Nick occasionally thought of the girl who’d become the favourite young relative of her long-invisible great-uncle. She probably enjoyed toasted crumpets in front of the fire on Sundays.
Chapter Ten
ANOTHER WEEKEND JEWEL robbery, this time at a country house in Kent, almost made Ma do her nut. She expressed herself bitterly on the matter of common thieving criminals and the unlucky misfortunes of Pa. She would have gone round to the police station and definitely complained if Alice hadn’t said it would be best not to let the local arm of the law know Ma was the wife of Albert Harrison, a gentleman convicted for swiping an American woman’s sparklers. It might make them pay Ma a visit, just to turn the house over in a hopeful search for the missing loot. Ma said yes, best to keep quiet.
While Alice’s birthday was still a fresh and lively memory, Freddy celebrated his nineteenth in old-fashioned style with his family and closest friends. His best friend, Cassie, starred in a very pretty flowered dress with puffed sleeves. And she put a red rose in her hair. Mrs Brown said she’d never seen Cassie look more of a picture. You’d better buck up, Freddy, she said, or someone might come and carry her off. Freddy said if that happened he’d lose his keenest football admirer. You and your football, said his mum. Don’t forget Cassie will be nineteen herself next year, she said. All right, I’ll carry her off meself then, said Freddy. On a horse, Freddy? No, on a tram, said Freddy, and to Brockwell Park for a walk round the football pitch.
A third birthday was on the way, Nick’s twenty-first, and his manager, Mr Pollard, called him in during the morning to say his increment would commence the week of his birthday. Nick said thanks very much. Mr Pollard told him he was a junior clerk no longer and that office boys and their like would now address him as Mr Harrison. You’re a promising employee, said the manager, and went on about his prospects with the company. Nick had a feeling he was being encouraged to say something about what had happened on the fourth floor exactly a month ago. He decided not to take the bait, being sure God expected him to keep his mouth shut.
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