Pride of Walworth

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nick.

  ‘Always a pleasure, sir, and nice to see you again.’

  ‘Mutual,’ said Nick.

  ‘Hope so,’ said the waitress, smiling as she left them to themselves.

  Annabelle, pouring the milk, said, ‘Did you have an uproarious birthday party?’

  ‘Well, we had a knees-up and a mazurka,’ said Nick.

  ‘What’s a mazurka?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Nick, ‘but we’ve got a Polish lodger who can play the piano a bit and thinks a mazurka’s an improvement on a knees-up.’

  ‘I bet it isn’t,’ said Annabelle, ‘there’s nothing as lively or as much fun as a knees-up. There, there’s your tea, now let’s enjoy the crumpets. You can talk to me while we’re eating. Why d’you have a Polish lodger?’

  ‘Well, he was Polish when he turned up,’ said Nick, ‘and we didn’t think we ought to upset him by changing to a Spanish one.’

  ‘Aren’t you funny?’ said Annabelle. ‘Oh, listen, Nick, as you live in Browning Street—’

  ‘Yes, that reminds me,’ said Nick, ‘thanks for the birthday card, but where did you get my address from?’

  ‘Uncle John. He gave it to me very growlingly, he said something about me making an office boy of him, and that I was out of my mind in wanting the address of a pipsqueak clerk. I told him that if he talked that way again, I’d stop coming up to have lunch with him.’

  ‘I think you’ve a way of running things,’ said Nick.

  ‘I’m actually very sweet,’ said Annabelle. ‘Anyway, as you live in Browning Street, I wanted to ask if you know the Brown family of Caulfield Place. Do you, Nick?’

  ‘Freddy Brown’s a close friend of mine.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that interesting? His sister Susie is married to my Uncle Sammy. Don’t you think that’s interesting, a bit like destiny being at work?’

  Nick said he hardly ever thought about destiny. Usually, on his way to work in the mornings, he said, he thought about processing funeral claims for poor old deceased widows like Mrs Potter of Clapham. Going home in the evenings, he said, he thought about what he was going to get for supper, and after supper he thought about going round to see friends like Freddy.

  Annabelle said she didn’t believe a word of that. No-one simply thought of insurance claims and suppers every day. Wasn’t he thinking now of what a coincidence it was that they both knew Freddy? Nick said he did sometimes think it was a small world. Annabelle asked if he also knew Freddy’s lovable girlfriend, Cassie Ford. Everyone knows Cassie, said Nick. Well, the world’s getting even smaller, then, said Annabelle, and asked if he knew the residential area of Denmark Hill. Nick said he knew it well, and that he also knew the Tower of London, Hyde Park and Hackney Wick.

  ‘Blessed saints,’ said Annabelle, ‘how did Hackney Wick get a mention?’

  ‘We used to live there,’ said Nick, ‘we’re Hackney Wick cockneys.’

  ‘Oh, we’re Walworth cockneys mostly,’ said Annabelle. ‘My mother and her brothers are Adams’. Have you heard of the Adams’ of Walworth?’

  Nick, working an enjoyable way through his crumpets, gave that thought. Annabelle eyed him in amusement. She was getting to know him now. He didn’t really have to think about her question, he was working up to some kind of joke.

  ‘Yes, I think I’ve heard Freddy talk of them,’ he said. ‘Well, he would, I suppose, seeing that his eldest sister is married to one of them. Of course, I don’t know any of them. I know most of the market stallholders, some of the assistants in Woolworths, and the manager of the Maypole in the Walworth Road, but no, I don’t know any of your Adams’.’

  ‘Oh, dear, what a shame.’ Annabelle’s colourful smile showed itself. ‘Do you go to Ruskin Park sometimes? I’ve played lots of tennis there with my Uncle Boots and his daughter Rosie. Do you play tennis?’

  ‘No, football,’ said Nick, ‘on Saturday afternoons in Brockwell Park.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Well, there’s the occasional foul or a dirty trip—’

  ‘No, you silly, I don’t mean that and you know I don’t. I mean, do you really play in Brockwell Park?’

  ‘Yes, honestly,’ said Nick.

  ‘You look as if you could be good at open-air games,’ said Annabelle. She thought then that it was a bit silly waiting for him to take the initiative, especially as her mum wanted to meet him and look him over. Quite certain he liked her, she said in her self-assured way, ‘Look, if you’ve never played tennis I could book a court in Ruskin Park one Sunday afternoon and teach you. Then you could come back home and have tea with my family.’

  That’s done it, thought Nick. It’s put the ruddy cat among the poor old pigeons. I’ve got to get out of this before I get in really deep. I’m already up to my knees. Who wouldn’t be with a dream of a girl, even if she does like playing games? Pa, you’re a problem to your family.

  ‘Well, that’s a nice offer, Annabelle,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think my girlfriend would go for it.’

  Annabelle’s belief in herself suffered a sharp shock. Somehow, from the moment she had developed an unusual interest in him, it had never occurred to her that he might have a steady girlfriend. She hadn’t allowed the thought to enter her head. Her interest had been such that she instinctively excluded any idea of a rival. All the boys who were madly keen on her didn’t have other girls in the wings. Dismayed and disconcerted, she bit her lip. Unhappiness lodged itself, unhappiness of a kind totally foreign to her. She swallowed.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, and Nick felt a twinge of conscience about having summoned up a girl who didn’t exist. But he felt he knew more than enough about this girl’s background to be certain none of her family would jump over the moon if she brought home the son of a felon doing hard labour. It wouldn’t be snobbery or anything like that, it would be natural family reaction, and quite understandable. All the same, he wished he hadn’t made her look visibly unhappy.

  ‘I expect you’ve got a close friend or two,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, lots, of course.’ Annabelle felt utterly down in the dumps. Worse, she felt awful about the way she had contrived to get him into this teashop every month. Uncle Boots hadn’t liked it, and she ought to have thought about that, because Uncle Boots was usually so good-natured about everything. People’s sins and omissions usually made him smile or laugh. ‘Oh, look, you must think me pretty awful about all this.’

  ‘About tea and crumpets with you?’

  ‘Yes, getting you here the way I have.’

  ‘Nothing awful about it,’ said Nick, ‘nor about you. You’re a lovely girl, and I mean that. I think you’ve pulled my leg a lot, but I do that sort of thing myself. The bloke who gets you in the end can look forward to all kinds of fun and games, seeing you’ll never be dull or boring. Well, that’s my opinion, an honest one. It’s been fun and games spending time in this teashop with you, never mind if your Uncle John has growled about it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ said Annabelle. Everything was upside-down. Sure that she could make him fall for her, it hadn’t happened. He’d already fallen for someone else. She herself was the one who had ended up with suffering feelings. ‘No, I really am so sorry I’ve behaved stupidly.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Nick, ‘it hasn’t been like that at all. Well, how could it have been when it’s been so enjoyable, and a lot better than being stuck at my desk?’

  ‘I think you’re trying to be very nice about it,’ said Annabelle. ‘Shall we go now?’

  They parted a little later in Holborn, as usual. Nick, realizing it was a final parting, wished her the very best of luck. Annabelle couldn’t think of anything to say except goodbye. Nick, going home, wondered if there wasn’t some way round his predicament, for he hated the thought of never seeing her again. Annabelle, going her way, thought she’d never be happy again. At seventeen, of course, that was what any mortified young lady would think.

  She told her parents that evening that she h
ad changed her mind about Nick Harrison, so they didn’t have anything to worry about now. She had an over-bright smile on her face. If Lizzy thought it was the end of one more girlish enthusiasm, Ned wasn’t so sure.

  Annabelle later phoned her cousin Rosie, adopted daughter of Boots and Emily. Rosie, who had been brilliant at school, was due to enter Somerville College, Oxford University. Meanwhile, she was studying at home, as well as being a help to her mother and grandma.

  ‘Hello, Annabelle.’

  ‘Rosie, I – oh, how’s everyone?’

  ‘Same as usual, I’m happy to say,’ said Rosie, a fascinating young woman in her nineteenth year and devoted to the adoptive parents who had given her such a lovely life.

  ‘I’m glad someone’s happy. I’m not, I’ve come a terrible cropper, and I’m so humiliated.’ Annabelle recounted her tale of woe.

  ‘Well, bless you, my child,’ said Rosie. ‘Didn’t I ever tell you that she who runs ahead of the tiger has a terrible time when it catches her up?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a bit funny.’

  ‘Sorry, lovey, rotten of me. Is it hurting?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘It’s just your pride, lovey?’

  ‘I feel so stupid.’

  ‘And a bit jealous?’ said Rosie.

  ‘Jealous? Me? Who of?’

  ‘His girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh, her. Hope she catches measles.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I think it’s serious. Well, look, I can’t talk a lot now, but come round tomorrow evening and we’ll work something out. It’s ridiculous, any suggestion of parting for ever, when you don’t know if his feelings for his current girlfriend are really deep or not. You’re not pining away at this minute, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m stupid, but not as stupid as that.’

  ‘Well, good. Come round tomorrow evening. Shall I tell your Uncle Boots that disaster has struck?’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘All right, lovey, chin up.’

  Nick, trying to put Annabelle out of his mind, had popped in on Gran Emerson and Ivy on his way home from Holborn. They had customers. He waited his turn, and when it came, Ivy grabbed his attention.

  ‘’Ello, me dear, what can I do for you in private?’

  ‘You saucebox,’ said Gran, ‘you’ll get me shop a bad name.’

  ‘Can I ’elp it if I fancy showin’ Nick me picture postcards?’ said Ivy.

  ‘I’ll make do with you selling me a sixpenny bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate,’ said Nick.

  ‘Don’t get me too excited,’ said Ivy, placing the bar on the counter.

  ‘Any news about yer Pa’s ship, Nick?’ asked Gran.

  ‘Only that whatever ship it is, it’s still in the China Seas,’ said Nick, paying for the chocolate and making for the door before Gran could ask other questions.

  ‘See yer some time, ’andsome,’ called Ivy.

  ‘Not in private yer won’t,’ said Gran with a larky giggle.

  Dumpling arrived early for the evening’s committee meeting just to give herself time to say hello to Ma and the family. Ma told her she was looking a nice healthy girl.

  ‘Yes, ain’t I?’ said Dumpling. ‘It’s me footballin’ that does it, Mrs ’Arrison. Oh, did yer hear about me scorin’ the winning goal last Saturday week?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ma, ‘I ’eard a lot about it from Nick and me girls.’

  ‘I headed it, yer know, with me robust chest,’ said Dumpling proudly. That was double Dutch to Ma, and so it was to Amy, but Nick, Alice and Fanny had an acquired understanding of what Dumpling meant.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a myst’ry to me,’ said Ma, ‘and it still don’t sound natural, girls playin’ football. And I don’t know that a girl’s chest ought to be anywhere near a football.’

  Fanny giggled. Alice and Amy struggled to keep their faces straight and just about won.

  ‘Oh, I’m one of the blokes when I’m in the team,’ said Dumpling cheerfully.

  ‘Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘in appreciation of your winning goal, accept this with my compliments.’ And he gave her the large bar of milk chocolate. He had bought it thinking that because he’d been unkind to Annabelle, he ought to be kind to someone else. There were few people in Walworth who didn’t think a sixpenny bar of Cadbury’s a real treat. Dumpling gazed at it in rapture.

  ‘Oh, yer a lovely captain, Nick,’ she said, ‘I dunno I’ll ever come up against one as sporty as you.’

  ‘They’ll know it if you do,’ said Amy wickedly. It had no effect on Dumpling, touched by her captain’s gesture of appreciation.

  ‘I dunno that I won’t keep this choc’late for ever instead of eatin’ it,’ she said. ‘I mean, well, it’ll always remind me of me winning goal and ’ow the captain of me beloved Rovers give it to me in appreciation of me footballin’ gifts.’

  ‘Tell you what, Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘you eat the chocolate and I’ll give you a signed certificate about the goal. How’s that?’

  ‘Oh, would yer, Nick?’ breathed Dumpling, beaming mistily.

  ‘Half a tick, and I’ll rough it out,’ said Nick. Annabelle was on his mind and he was in the mood for doing good deeds. ‘We’ve got ten minutes before the others arrive.’ He lifted a sheet of notepaper from a drawer in the dresser and sat down at the table. He used a pencil to scribble the tribute, then asked Dumpling if she’d like him to read it out.

  ‘Not ’alf,’ she said.

  ‘Corblimey, you bet,’ said young Fanny.

  ‘How’s yer canary, Alice?’ said Amy.

  ‘All ears,’ said Alice.

  ‘Go on, read it out, Nick,’ urged Dumpling, and Nick did so.

  ‘This is to certify that on the third Saturday of November, 1933, at the age of eighteen, Miss CHRISSIE EVANS in capital letters played centre forward for Browning Street Rovers against Rodney Road United, known as the demons of Walworth soccer. It’s also certified that despite the rough-house tactics of the demons, Miss CHRISSIE EVANS in capital letters burst courageously through their defence and scored the winning goal three minutes from time. It’s finally certified that her fearless chest played a noble part in this historic act of footballing valour. Signed, Nicholas Harrison, Captain.’

  ‘Crikey,’ breathed Dumpling, ‘fancy all that bein’ certified, Nick.’

  ‘That’s not the only thing round ’ere,’ said Alice.

  ‘Nick, could yer do it in yer best writin’ with no crossings out?’ asked Dumpling.

  ‘I’ll do it during the committee meeting,’ said Nick, ‘and the committee can sign it too.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs ’Arrison, ain’t yer got a kind son?’ said Dumpling. ‘I don’t ’old with some of the blokes callin’ ’im a bit lah-de-dah on account of ’im talkin’ like a bank manager sometimes. If you could see ’im when he’s performin’ ’eroic for the Rovers, well, anyone would take ’im to be as manly as any navvy.’

  ‘Chrissie, I’ll ’ave you know Nick’s like ’is sailor Pa, a gent,’ said Ma.

  ‘Certified,’ said Alice.

  ‘Oh, Nick’s a gent all right, Mrs ’Arrison, and none of us mind that,’ said Dumpling.

  The front door knocker sounded then, and so did a voice calling through the letter-box.

  ‘Coo-ee, Nick, it’s me and Freddy and Danny.’

  Irrepressible Cassie had turned up again.

  The committee’s discussion of recent results and form took in Dumpling’s winning goal against the Rodney Road lot. Dumpling herself, apart from admitting she’d made history, played a modest part in the discussion. Then Nick wrote out the certificate of merit, with Danny looking proud, Freddy grinning, and Cassie showing her sweetest smile. Everyone signed, and Dumpling clasped the completed certificate to her jumper.

  However, she then brought up the subject of what footballers didn’t ought to do to each other. She hadn’t mentioned it last week, she said, but she just couldn’t help herself tonight, because it was playing on her mind. Danny
had been at it again last Sunday week in her mum’s parlour. He’d as good as turned her best Sunday blouse inside-out, she said.

  ‘Now look here, Dumpling,’ said Nick, ‘what goes on between you and Danny in your mum’s parlour is just between you and him. It’s nothing to do with the team or the committee. Speak to your mum about it.’

  ‘But I did speak to ’er,’ said Dumpling, ‘and I showed ’er what Danny ’ad done to me blouse, and she said well, it couldn’t be ’elped and that Danny could stay to tea. Of course, when me dad ’eard, ’e nearly ’ad a fatal seizure, but somehow ’e can’t bring ’imself to tell Danny never to darken our doorstep again. Nick, can’t the committee lay down a sort of law of be’aviour? Otherwise, me mum says she might ’ave to ask Danny to marry me.’

  ‘I second that,’ said Cassie.

  ‘But what about me footballin’ career?’ protested Dumpling.

  ‘Some time or other, Dumpling lovey,’ said Nick, ‘we’ve all got to chuck our footballing careers out of the window.’

  ‘I second that as well,’ said Cassie, giving Freddy a pointed look.

  ‘So do I,’ said Danny.

  ‘Oh, me breakin’ heart,’ said Dumpling, ‘I won’t ’ave anything to live for.’

  ‘Course you will, Dumpling,’ said Danny, ‘you’ll ’ave me.’

  ‘’Ere, I ain’t goin’ to live soppy ever after, not while I’ve still got me powerful footballin’ legs,’ said Dumpling.

  ‘Never mind, me darling,’ said cheerful Freddy, ‘you’ll always ’ave yer signed certificate.’

  ‘And Danny’ll promise to love and honour your footballing legs,’ said Nick. ‘What’s the next item on the agenda?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  MR LUKAVITCH CONTINUED to be no trouble at all. He didn’t get drunk, he worked quietly away in the upstairs top, while treating himself occasionally to the pleasure of sharing a pot of afternoon tea with Ma. Now and again he visited the East Street market to do a bit of shopping, becoming a familiar figure to neighbours. Sometimes a neighbour would stop Ma in the street and mention him.