Perseverance Street (14 page)

‘I miss him, Auntie Dee. He’s my baby and he’s growing up without a mother. Maybe if I applied for some sort of access?’

‘Possibly, but with their money they could make it a very slow and expensive business, getting their lawyer to ask for adjournments and the like.’

‘I need to give it a try,’ said Lily. She lit her cigarette and allowed a plume of smoke to leak from the side of her mouth. ‘You want me to come and work for you on your market stalls?’

‘Correct. It’s not easy running a stall on your own. You need eyes in the back of your head to stop people thieving, especially the stuff I sell.’

‘Auntie Dee, you sell fake jewellery.’

‘Hey!
Imitation
jewellery – and not all of it’s imitation. With me you pays your money you takes your chance. My customers know this. Some of it’s the good stuff: mebbe one piece in fifty. It’s up to them to work out which is which. I just act dumb and say I buy the stuff in job lots, so I don’t know for sure. The trick is to buy in the real stuff that looks rubbish and imitation stuff that looks great. When someone buys a piece of the good stuff I have a quiet word in their ear. I says to them, “I don’t do this for everyone, love, but you take it to a jeweller’s to get it valued and if it’s worth less than you paid I’ll give you the difference.”’

‘Why do you do that?’

‘Why? Take brooches for example. Generally speakin’ old brooches allus look crap. I had a genuine diamond and
ruby brooch on my stall for three months marked up at four pound seven an’ six. It looked so manky no one’ll touch it. Then a couple o’ weeks ago this feller came up wanting a present for his missis. He asked me if it was real. I said I’d got no idea but if it is I’m doing meself out of thirty odd quid. Anyway he haggled me down to three pounds ten and bought it. I had a word in his ear about having it valued.’

For the first time in weeks Lily was vaguely interested in something other than her personal problems.

‘And did he?’ she asked.

Dee grinned. ‘Oh yes. I knew he would. He were a gloater, y’see. I can spot a gloater a mile off. He came back the next market day to tell me it were worth forty quid.

I said, “Oh, bugger me, mister! I wish I’d known that.” He’s standing there, waving this valuation certificate under me nose, and there’s poor old me looking embarrassed with a crowd gathering round me – plus I made sure I had a load o’ brooches on me stall that day. Sold the lot for a fiver each. I didn’t pay more than ten bob for any of ’em.’

Lily smiled for the first time in weeks.

‘I’ve been doin’ it fer years,’ Dee told her. ‘Word gets round that there’s a barmy old bird selling real jewellery at knock-down prices. I call ’em loss leaders. People turn up specially to come to my stall. Mostly they’re paying well over the odds for old tat but the trick is to send the odd one away with a bargain.’

‘Is it illegal, what you do?’

‘No, not a bit of it. Look, they buy what they see. I never tell anyone it’s the real stuff. For every twenty quid
loss I make on a real gem I reckon I make four times that on the crap stuff – which is high-class crap, I might add. There’s women going round wearin’ fake diamonds an’ pearls, what they’re not gonna risk havin’ properly valued, who thinks they’re the Queen of bleedin’ Sheba. I never tell ’em no different. What they don’t know don’t hurt no one.’

‘Do you ever get real jewellers coming round? People who can tell the good from the fake?’

‘Not so much nowadays. I could smell a real jeweller a mile off – specially when they bring their eye glasses out. I tells ’em to piss off. “This isn’t a bleedin’ trade stall!” I tells ’em. “This is for ordinary folk who like to pick up a bargain now and again.” They seem to have got the message.’

Lily finished the tea and put the cup back in the saucer with a decisive flourish. ‘How much do I get paid?’

Dee grinned broadly. ‘That’s the ticket, girl. Welcome back to the world. You start Thursday. I’ll get your pockets jingling and together we’ll get your boys back.’

Charlie Cleghorn
looked at the gleaming machine on display in the window of Morgan’s Bikes.

It was his dream bike and for sale at £38 15s 0d – less than half the original 1938 price of £82 10s. He had £39 16s 9d left from his demob money, most of which had gone to repay certain gambling debts he’d incurred during the war. When a man spends the war gambling with his life he doesn’t worry too much about gambling for money. If he bought the bike he wouldn’t have anything left to buy Beryl the engagement ring she was expecting. She would also expect him to be saving for their marriage and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. What he needed was time to think things over, but what if the bike got sold while he was doing his thinking? He went inside the shop and took a closer look. A salesman appeared by his side. He was middle-aged and wore a regimental badge from the First World War.

‘Climb aboard, soldier,’ he said. ‘Get a feel for her.’

Charlie was
wearing his army khakis. He felt the uniform might give him a bit of an edge when negotiating the price. He threw a leg over the bike and sat on it. Leaning forward and gripping the handlebars, he knew he must have it.

‘Would you go down to thirty quid?’

The salesman shook his head. ‘We’ll get the asking price, no problem.’

‘Really? I’m told it’s been for sale for a month.’

‘I’ll have a word with the boss, see if he’ll go down to thirty-five.’

‘It’ll have to be thirty. I haven’t got thirty-five, but I can pay cash.’

‘We’re in business to make a profit.’

‘You’ll still make a profit, just a smaller one.’

The salesman smiled. ‘What mob are you in?’

Charlie hesitated. He wasn’t in any mob. Not any more. But he desperately wanted this bike.

‘Special Forces.’

‘What, commandos?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’

Charlie’s reluctance to tell the man his regiment meant that he was in one of the elite groups: SAS, SBS or Long Range Desert Group. His uniform gave nothing away, no regimental insignia. The only things on display were two strips of medal ribbons. The salesman recognised one of them as the Military Medal, as Charlie was hoping he might. It was a properly won medal, but perhaps using it to negotiate a decent price for a motorbike might be frowned upon by the military.

‘I could
stretch it to thirty-two pound ten,’ said Charlie.

‘Tell you what. Leave me a fiver deposit and if we haven’t sold it in a month I’ll get in touch. If it’s sold, or you don’t want it, you get your money back.’

Charlie gave this a few moments thought them stuck out a hand. ‘Deal,’ he said.

The man nodded at his medal ribbons.

‘Where’d you get the MM?’

‘Italy,’ said Charlie.

‘I’ve seen this wedding dress in Marshall and Snelgrove’s,’ said Beryl. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’

‘Marshall and Snelgrove’s? Aren’t they a bit snooty?’ said Charlie, still thinking about the Gold Star.

‘Charlie, you have to pay for quality. I don’t want to be seen walking down the aisle in any old tat.’

They were in the Town Hall Tavern in Leeds. Charlie was drinking a pint of Tetley’s bitter. Beryl was sipping a port and lemon, which she considered to be a sophisticated drink.

‘You don’t want me walking down the aisle in any old tat, do you, Charlie?’

‘What? Oh, no.’

‘You can hire your morning suit from Moss Bros. They do lovely morning suits. I can’t wait to see all the men in top hat and tails.’

Charlie was now picturing his demolition contractor dad in top hat and tails. It was a difficult image to conjure up.

‘Top hat and tails? I thought I might just buy a nice suit
from John Collier or somewhere. At least I’d get to keep it.’

He thought she was jumping the gun a bit, considering they weren’t even engaged yet. She seemed to have taken a lot for granted since he got back from the war.

‘Oh, and we need to get formally engaged, and put it in the
Yorkshire Evening Post
– not the
News
. Only common people use the
Evening News
for formal announcements.’

‘Right.’

‘I thought a spring wedding next year. I’ve always wanted to be a spring bride. April would be nice.’

‘April?’ said Charlie. ‘Doesn’t it rain a lot in April?’

‘Well, May then, if that’s what you want. I don’t want you to feel as though I’m making all the decisions. If you want a May wedding that’s what we’ll have.’

Charlie, who hadn’t realised he wanted a May wedding, looked at her over the top of his pint glass. Beryl Townsend was a looker and she knew it. He’d admired her from afar before his call-up and they’d got together on one of his leaves. She’d been more than generous with her affections. That had helped cement their relationship. If only she wasn’t so pushy.

‘Has your demob money come through yet?’

‘No, it’s still a bit tied up,’ lied Charlie.

‘Marlene’s brother got his money the day he was demobbed.’

‘I know, most blokes do, but with me being in Italy there’s a lot of red tape and stuff.’

It was a lie he’d told before and he hoped she wouldn’t ask for details.

‘Anyway,’ she said cheerfully. ‘If you haven’t got it yet you
can’t be tempted to spend it. I always look on the bright side of things. Haven’t you noticed that about me?’

‘Er, yes, I have.’

‘When you’ve finished that beer why don’t you get us a glass of wine each. You should know all about wine with the time you spent in Italy.’

She was right there. Charlie had spent many a night carousing with the Legione SS Italiana – the Italian SS. A brigade of ultra-fascists which he’d infiltrated, using the identity of a dead Italian soldier. He played a convincing drunk, having perfected a trick of swapping his full glass with someone else’s almost empty one. Getting drunk was never an option in his work. And all the time he was drinking the enemy’s wine he’d been dreaming of Yorkshire beer.

‘Beryl. I’ve had enough Eyetie wine to last me a lifetime.’

‘You must wear your medals on your morning suit. Oh, I’m going to be so proud of you. Will you be proud of me, Charlie?’

‘Prettiest girl in Yorkshire, why wouldn’t I be proud of you?’

‘Stop it, Charlie. You’re making me blush.’ She smiled, coquettishly, then added, ‘Tell me what you see when you look at me.’

Charlie looked at her and all he could see was his Gold Star disappearing into the distance at ninety miles an hour.

Dee worked
three days a week – Skipton market on Tuesday and Wednesday, and Leeds market on a Thursday. On the other two weekdays she visited a Dutch wholesaler of imitation jewellery and toured auctions and antique shops, where she bought the good stuff which she would mark down by as much as eighty-five per cent from the cost price. She loaded her wares into the sidecar of her 1936 BSA Blue Star. It was Thursday and Lily had ridden pillion to Leeds where they had their stall set up and open by nine a.m.

Kirkgate Market in Leeds was a covered market that had been selling an endless variety of goods since its opening in 1904. Adjacent to it was a lively open market that had been selling goods for much longer. In this market, in 1884, Michael Marks opened his first Penny Bazaar which led to the founding of Marks and Spencer in 1890. Here Dee worked her Thursday stall, opposite one selling crockery. She’d chosen her stall because the crockery salesman, Danny Muldoon, had been selling crockery for over twenty years and had offered as much entertainment as the Leeds City Varieties theatre just ten minutes’ walk away. Danny was a
comedian, a salesman, a juggler and a shrewd businessman. During his spiel Danny’s assistant would throw him a complete, twenty-four piece dinner service, piece by piece, until Danny held them between his outstretched arms as his assistant placed a soup tureen on his head like a German helmet. His hilarious routine drew the biggest crowd in the market which suited Dee down to the ground as the crowd would disperse past her stall which had a reputation as good as Danny’s, but for different reasons.

Lily helped with the layout. There were rings, bracelets, necklaces, jewelled hairslides, hair bands, cocktail rings, earrings and even a couple of tiaras. When the set-up was complete Lily cast her eye over the whole display, nodding her head in approval.

‘OK,’ she murmured, ‘I give in. Which is the good stuff?’

‘You can’t tell? That’s good. That’s how it should be.’

‘Well, I’ve never had much experience of the good stuff – only this,’ Lily said, looking down at her engagement ring. It was a half-carat diamond solitaire and had cost Larry a month’s wages.

Dee took her hand and assessed the ring. ‘Well, it’s definitely the real thing. He probably paid thirty-five quid for it – more ’n’ a month’s wages for most.’

‘Thirty-two,’ said Lily. ‘I went to choose it with him.’

Dee looked around to make sure she wasn’t being overheard. ‘Those earrings in the second row down are real pearls. I paid twenty-five quid for them. A valuer would put them at thirty-five, minimum.’

Lily looked at the earrings, which didn’t look in any way
superior to half a dozen other pairs of earrings on display. They were marked at three pounds fifteen shillings.

‘And that diamond solitaire – it’s a genuine, point eight carat diamond set in nine carat gold. It set me back thirty-five quid.’

The ring was for sale at four pounds seven and six but it was the least impressive of the rings on display.

‘Anything else?’ Lily asked. There were over a hundred items on the stall.

‘No,’ said Dee. ‘Two’s enough. If we sell one of these today and word gets out that it’s the genuine article it’s enough to keep my reputation as a crazy old bird intact.’

It was late in the afternoon. Danny Muldoon had just finished one of his half-hourly routines and those among the crowd who weren’t waiting to buy his amazing bargains were dispersing past Dee’s stall, many of them still laughing at his cheeky jokes. A young man stopped to examine a tray of Dee’s rings with obvious purpose but little expertise.