A Song for Joey (16 page)

After a wonderful dinner of roast beef with vegetables and thick gravy, followed by
golden syrup sponge and custard, I felt ready to face my next challenge, finding
somewhere to live. Back at the crossroads, I picked a direction at random and strode out
with confidence, over the bridge that crossed the river by the traffic lights, and up the long
hill towards the castle tower.

As I walked, looking into shop windows with curiosity, and constantly watchful for any
notices declaring "Room to let", my practised eye also sought out doorways and alleys
where a homeless person might sleep. It was a habit that remains with me to this day; my
subconscious cannot accept that I am secure now, will never need to seek shelter. When
you know where to look, and how to look, the homeless are everywhere. I saw many, but,
aware of my vulnerability, did not approach anyone, did not need to, did not want to. For
here, in this bustling, imposing city, I would begin my new life - never would I return to
the streets.

The gentle rise of the road levelled off, and I realised that I had been walking with my
eyes downcast for some distance. I paused to look around me, and now found that I was
standing at a broad, busy road junction, at the foot of a large mound. Squatting on the top
of the mound, the massive stone cube of Norwich castle lowered over its protectorate.

Beside me was a handsome grey stone building, with pretentious columns rising in pairs
on either side of a rank of five stone steps. A balustrade sat across the top of the columns
and, above that, the wall rose to an enormous triangle-shaped carving, like the peak of a
roof, with a great stone garland hanging in a loop attached to each end of its base. The
words 'Post Office' were carved in the stone below it.

Here was a way to remove one worry: I still had my Post Office Savings book - I would
deposit my cash where it could wait safely until I needed it, earning some interest in the
meantime. The decision made, I mounted the steps leading to the front doors, which were
open, and emerged into a hall that could have been a palace ballroom. The wide polished
floor and high, domed ceiling, created an echo, so that voices and footsteps resounded
into every corner. All around the walls, arched windows, set in alcoves, cast shafts of
sunlight sparkling with dust particles.

I felt very small as I took my case to a cashier and presented it with my account book.
She opened the case and stared in amazement at the mess of notes inside. "Do you
expect me to count these?" she asked in a thin voice, glowering at me over her spectacles,
her mouth pinched tightly into a pale slit beneath her razor-sharp nose.
"Yes please," I said, levelly. I could see her mind working furiously - Who was this
child? How did she get so much cash?
She snorted and angrily banged a "Position Closed" sign in front of me, then took the
case to a desk at the rear of the room. I watched as she emptied all the notes out, her lips
pursed, and began to rummage through them, sorting them into piles by denomination -
brown ten shilling notes, green pound notes, and blue fivers. Several times she glared
suspiciously in my direction as she worked.
Eventually the notes were all sorted, and she quickly counted them, listing the total
values of each pile on a piece of paper. Instead of returning to me when she finished,
however, she crossed to a large, red-faced man who sat at another desk, beneath one of
the great arched windows that ran all around the huge hall.
She showed him the paper, her mouth moving. They both looked over at me. I smiled
and waved, trying to appear nonchalant, whereas really my insides were tied in knots.
He stood, ponderously, towering above the little woman, and together they approached
me. He was dressed formally in a black suit and waistcoat. His shoes gleamed like
polished coal.
Miss Pinchmouth removed the "Position Closed" sign and they both studied me
minutely. I felt like an ape at the zoo.
"Is this money yours?" the man asked asked in a nasal drone, his fat jowls bouncing like
balloons over his several chins. Pompous arse!
"Yes, thank you." I was becoming wary, and ventured no more information. I was
terrified that I would give away something that would get me into trouble, yet, at the same
time, I was becoming angry at their supercilious attitude.
"May I ask how it came into your possession?"
Who the hell did he think he was? “
Joey, tell me what to say
,” I said silently.
It was as though he was standing beside me, giving me confidence, whispering in my
ear, prompting me.
"
Tell 'em your a bank robber
."
"From robbing banks," I retorted, crisply. "I'm the notorious gangster Bonnie Parker, my
partner Clyde is waiting outside in the getaway car."
I had found a comic book about them in a rubbish bin in Great Yarmouth market square
earlier in the year, and had read the story to Joey, who had never learnt to read.
"The trouble is, see, I still can't get the hang of this bank robbing thing, and I keep
paying it in instead of taking it out." I smiled again, sweetly.
His face twisted and he made a sound like 'harumph'. "There is no call to be rude and
flippant, young lady. We are naturally puzzled that anyone would arrive here with a
suitcase full of money, especially someone so young."
“
Say nothing
,” whispered Joey. I folded my arms across my chest and looked squarely at
the man (who I guessed must be a manager) not saying another word.
"Well," he demanded, "what have you to say?"
“F
ight back, they can't hurt you
.
It's your money, not theirs.”
"I tell you what," I said, raising my voice, "give me back my money and I'll take it to a
bank. I'm sure they will be glad to have it."
They didn't move, but people had started to look across at us, and they were clearly
disconcerted.
"Come on," I said, even louder, hearing my voice echo around the hall. "Are you going
to give me back my money, or do I have to call for a policeman?"
All around the hall, heads turned curiously at this, and Mr Manager and Miss
Pinchmouth squirmed with embarrassment.
"Hurry up," I said, looking up at the huge clock that hung over the counter, "the banks
will be closing soon."
After a quick conference, the manager told his clerk to accept the money, then he
departed without a further look in my direction, his shiny shoes clicking on the shiny
floor, until he disappeared through a door at the far corner of the office.
Miss Pinchmouth, also refusing to look at me, copied the total figure from her sheet of
paper into my passbook, and onto her transaction form, sealing the matter with two
vigorous thuds from her official metal stamp. Her face was a frozen mask as she handed
the book back, with eyes that almost emitted laser, beams like Superman, frying me on
the spot.
I knew I had won, and it felt good. I took the little book, smiled, thanked her, turned and
walked back to the doors, my heart thumping loudly in my chest, the sound of my own
shoes making a clock-like rhythm on the parquet floor.
“
Thanks, Joey
,” I whispered.
“
It was a pleasure
,
Bell,”
came the reply.

Back outside, I set off along a road that looped clockwise around the base of the castle
mound. I could feel its weight, its mass looming above me. I stopped beside a gate,
beyond which I could see a path winding up the steep slope. Viewed from this position,
the grey stone edifice of the castle, with its battlements and slits, looked all the more
imposing. I could imagine an attacking army standing where I had paused, looking up at
the tower and wondering if they really wanted to storm up that hill, knowing they would
be pelted with all manner of sharp projectiles by the defenders, who themselves were
hiding safe behind their walls.

As the castle fell behind me, the road meandered away from the city centre and into a
more residential area, with houses, shops and cafés lining the pavement. This part of town
had a different feel about it - the noise was not the drone of traffic but the buzz of voices
talking and shouting, babies crying, somebody singing a tune I didn't recognise.

Then, at last, as the sun sank ever lower, I saw what I had been looking for - and had
begun to doubt that I would find - a handwritten notice in the door of a public house that
declared: "Bedsit to let".

As I pushed open the door and entered the poorly-lit bar, I saw heads turn and
disinterestedly observe me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. My shoes stuck to the dirty
floor as I walked nervously between the tables, my eyes took in the grubby walls and the
yellow, smoke-stained ceiling - it was a dump.

If there had been a choice of places for me to stay, then I would have turned and walked
out, and possibly altered the whole direction of my life.
I remembered another moment of decision, ten years earlier, when I had elected to stay
with Gran instead of moving in with the Macintoshes; my choice then had not been in my
own best interest but, despite the hardships that followed, I remain certain today that it
was the right thing to do. In 1961, however, there was really no choice: if I didn't get a
room in that pub, then it was a night on the streets that awaited me.
I strode to the bar, trying to assume an air of nonchalant confidence that belied my
shaking legs. A young woman insolently ignored me for as long as she deemed expedient,
then dragged herself away from a magazine she was reading, and approached me. "Yeah?
What you want?" she muttered without removing the cigarette from her mouth.
"I've come about the bedsit that's advertised." I aimed my thumb over my shoulder,
towards the entrance, indicating the sign taped there.
Wordlessly, she turned and shuffled to an open door behind the bar. "Steve, someone
here wants the upstairs room," she shouted. Then, without even a look in my direction,
she returned to her magazine. My experienced eyes scanned the counter top, it was
covered with cigarette ash and glass stains, and there were glasses piled in a sink waiting
to be washed. This Steve had a staffing problem.

While I waited, I looked around the small public bar. The walls were painted a dark
brown or maroon, but were hardly visible, festooned as they were with photos, letters and
postcards. The few patrons had returned to their beers and their newspapers. There was no
conversation.

A man emerged from a door at the end of the bar. He was dressed casually, but the
clothes were clean and of good quality: a striped shirt, the sleeves rolled up, was tucked
into neatly-ironed brown trousers. He looked to be in his forties, with a tanned and lined
face. His hair was already thinning, but was cut in a way that suited him.

He studied my face before speaking. "Marlene says you're interested in the bedsit." His
voice was deep and rich, with an accent I couldn't place.
"Yes, I just arrived in Norwich."
"It's four quid a week, can you afford that?"
"Oh yes. Can I look at it?"
"Sure." He lifted a flap in the bar to let me through then, with a glance at Marlene, who
was too interested in her book to notice, led me through into a hallway, with one other
door off and a flight of stairs. "It's on the top floor," he said over his shoulder as we
climbed the first flight.
"That's fine," I replied, taking in the threadbare carpets and grubby, peeling walls.
We reached the top, where there was a small landing with one door at each end. He
selected the left door, produced a key, and unlocked it.
I didn't know what I was expecting to see, but as we stepped through into a large room
with sloping ceiling, I gasped.
Dust swirled in shafts of hazy, late afternoon sunlight that sliced the dingy room from
two grimy windows, like spotlights, illuminating a threadbare rug, a bare bed, an
assortment of rickety furniture and, in one corner, a gas cooker. It was dirty, dusty, smelt
of stale tobacco and something worse. I loved it at first sight.
"I'll take it," I whispered.
"Ok. I want a week's rent, plus a week as security. Rent is due every Friday; if you are a
day late, I throw your stuff out on the street. Got that?"
"Yes," I said timidly. He was such an imposing character that I felt ... not scared, but
dominated - no, overawed - by him.
He saw that I was taken aback. "What's your name, kid?"
I pulled myself up to my full five feet two inches and looked up at him defiantly.
"I'm not a kid, mister. I may be young, but I'm no child. My name is Belinda Bellini."
"Sorry, Belinda." He seemed to mean it. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen," I lied.
He eyed me, doubtfully. "Fair enough. I didn't mean to be rough on you. It's just that
some folks try to take liberties with me, and I won't stand for it." He stuck out a hairy
hand. "Steve Flock, pleased to meet you."
I took the offered hand, feeling my own tiny fingers gently being squeezed in his firm
grip. When he released my hand, I shook it ruefully, then fished in my pocket and counted
out eight pounds.
"You got any bedlinen in that?" he asked as he took the money, nodding towards my
battered suitcase which I had set down at the door.
I didn't tell him it was empty. "No, I only arrived in the city today."
What a strange new word it was, casually passing my lips:
city
. I knew that London and
Paris were cities, but I had never set foot in one before. Again I felt that thrill, a
combination of excitement and fear at the adventure upon which I was embarked.
"I am looking for work as a singer," I added. Then, as an afterthought, "Or a barmaid."
Unexpectedly, his face cracked into a broad smile. "A singer? My wife will be glad to
meet you, she's a great singer." As he spoke, I saw something dawn on him. "Bellini? Are
you Italian?"
"My father was Italian, he was a prisoner of war," I said pensively. "But he went back to
Italy when the war was over. His name was Paolo Bellini."
"But, that means you are like family, Belinda. That makes all the difference. Come and
meet Dolly, and we will sort out some sheets and blankets for you."

Dolly Flock squealed with delight when Steve introduced us. "What a beautiful Italian
girl," she effused. "Look at your hair! My goodness, Steve, she is such a treasure. Come in
the kitchen, Belinda, and tell me about yourself. Are you hungry. You must be. I'll make
you a sandwich. There's some cold beef. No, it's no trouble. Can't have my pretty new
friend going hungry." The barrage was relentless, accompanied by bustling activity
around the kitchen.