Sons and Daughters (24 page)

Polly noted then that the grey of his eyes was touched by the hint of blue steel. That happened whenever his tolerance was shattered by the vicious, the unspeakable or that which posed a dangerous threat to the family. She wondered if the SS woman had glimpsed that steel when Boots, as Colonel Adams, had come face to face with her and looked her in the eye. Polly hoped she had, for if Boots did find her she would know her time had come.

‘Go hunting, old love,’ she said, ‘I’ll be right beside you.’

Monday morning
.

Lulu was ten minutes late arriving for work. She found Paul in argument with a beefy woman from the publicity department of the collective grass roots of the Party. The woman was known as Blunderbuss Beryl on account of her tendency to deliver booming broadsides at opposition newspaper editors for allowing unadulterated tripe about Clement Attlee’s government to appear in their rags. She wasn’t averse to rushing off to Fleet Street and demanding to see an editor in person. And person to person she was almost always bigger and louder. Some editors locked themselves in when told she was in their building.

The argument she was having with Paul was not only verbal. It was also physical in that she had hold of two legs of a chair, Paul was gripping the back of it with both hands, and a violent tug-of-war was taking place.

‘Let go, you squirt!’ she roared. A Young Socialist official was small fry to her. ‘This is my
chair and you pinched it, you young bugger. Let go, you hear?’

‘This chair,’ hollered Paul, ‘was spare and unoccupied at the time I chanced on it, and by the old and true working-class principle that possession is nine points of the law, I’m claiming it.’

‘Working-class principle my Aunt Fanny, let go!’ Blunderbuss Beryl yanked. Paul yanked.

Lulu looked on, specs glinting with happiness. There was no way that that smartypants was going to get the better of Blunderbuss Beryl. It was said that in 1946 she’d demolished the entire editorial staff of the
Daily Mail
, and that when the corpses came to and found they were actually still alive, they emigrated to Australia, that being as far from her as they could get. Only a story, of course, but it was typical of her reputation.

‘I’m getting cross!’ shouted Paul. He must have been cross. Like his dad and his uncles, he never resorted to bawling. This was a first-timer. ‘This chair’s mine!’

‘You saucy pipsqueak, let go!’ Blunderbuss Beryl yanked mightily. Paul let go. Back she staggered and her abundant bottom cannoned against the wall. Every cushioned spring in her body quivered. But she was made of sterner stuff than to yell for the law. She waited until all her springs had settled down, then said, ‘So this is how you treat a defenceless woman, is it, Adams? And in front of another one, eh?’

Lulu tried looking the part.

‘You’ve got me there,’ said Paul.

‘I’ve got you all right,’ said Blunderbuss Beryl, keeping hold of the chair. ‘You’re finished, you’ll be out by the end of this week, and you’ll be lucky to escape a charge of assault.’ A quiver returned to her bottom. ‘And I’m not sure battery didn’t take place as well. Yes, you’re finished, and I’ll see that Miss Saunders takes your place. Miss Saunders, open this door.’

Lulu opened it and Blunderbuss Beryl departed, with the chair. Lulu closed the door.

‘Exit Boadicea with her chariot,’ said Paul.

‘You weren’t at your best,’ said Lulu. ‘What a clown. Ought to know better than to pick a fight with her. You’re going to lose your job.’

‘I’ll find another,’ said Paul, cooled down. ‘I’d like to stay in politics. I’ll try for a job in the Commons, as assistant to the assistant of an MP’s parliamentary secretary. Yes, good idea. MP George Brown might be the answer. He went to the same school as one of my uncles, West Square.’

‘You’ve got an uncle called West Square?’ said Lulu, wearing what Paul thought could double for a brown tent. ‘Mercy me, can you Adam-and-Eve it?’

‘West Square’s a school in St George’s Road, you dolly,’ said Paul. ‘Look, there’s a maintenance bloke somewhere in this building. I’m going to find him and borrow some tools that’ll help me fix back the leg on that broken chair. Be a good girl and open the mail for me while I’m gone. Put any applications for membership in the relevant tray. OK?’

‘Will do,’ said Lulu.

At mid-morning, Mrs Kloytski was in the East Street market, buying apples and cabbages from Ma Earnshaw, and having a friendly little conversation with her.

‘Ah, I think many people know you, Mrs Earnshaw,’ she said. ‘You have many customers.’

‘So I have, ducky,’ said Ma, selecting the kind of cabbages she knew the Polish woman liked. Good solid crisp ones. ‘And so I should, I been running this here stall for more years than I care to remember.’

‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Kloytski, ‘do you know if anyone has been asking about me?’

‘Didn’t you ask me that there same question before, like?’ said Ma.

‘Well, you see, I lost sight of my brother when he was taken from Warsaw by the Germans to work in one of their factories—’

‘Gawd help us, them devils of ’Itler’s,’ expostulated Ma in a compulsive paddy, ‘when they weren’t killing people or dropping bombs on them, they were making slaves of ’em.’

‘Ah, but some survived, and I am always hoping my brother did, yes,’ said Mrs Kloytski. ‘I am also hoping he will find out I have come to England with my husband. Then perhaps one day he will reach London and ask people questions about me. Perhaps he will even reach this market and ask people here. No-one has asked you about me, Mrs Earnshaw, no?’

‘Well, I did tell you last week no-one has,’ said Ma.

‘Ah, how sad,’ said Mrs Kloytski.

‘Still, you never know,’ said Ma, ‘so keep yer pecker up, eh?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t get downhearted, ducky.’

‘I see, yes.’ Mrs Kloytski smiled. ‘Ah, wait, if anyone should ask, please let me know quickly. I will pay if you send a boy with the message.’

‘All right, dearie,’ said Ma.

Mrs Kloytski paid for the apples and cabbages and left. A few minutes later, Ma thought, well, she didn’t say where she lived. I’m sure it’s Wansey Street, where Cassie Brown lives, but what number? Still, I don’t expect her brother to come asking. If he ain’t dead, I’ll be more than surprised. Them Nazis left a lot more people dead than alive. Oh, well, it’s all over now, praise the Lord, and I ain’t one to keep on about it.

That evening, Lulu left her flat in Walworth to call on her parents at their home in Kennington. Her dad was there, not at some political function, and she had a long chat with him.

The following morning, Blunderbuss Beryl took a phone call from Mr Saunders, the constituency’s MP.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I believe you’ve had words with our Young Socialists secretary, Paul Adams.’

‘The squirt pinched my office chair.’

‘You’ve got it back?’

‘You bet I’ve got it back, after a lot of sauce, impertinence and too much bloody heave-ho, and I’m arranging for Adams to be replaced.’

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Mr Saunders—’

‘Don’t do it.’

‘But your daughter can have the job.’

‘My daughter doesn’t want the job under those kind of circumstances.’

‘Listen, Mr Saunders, I’m objecting to this conversation.’

‘Object all you like, there’s two sides to any argument unless the other bloke’s a Tory. Adams keeps the job. He’s good at it, he’s increasing the membership week by week, and every member is a guaranteed Labour Party voter. That’s all, thanks. Good morning.’

Mr Saunders didn’t inform Paul of this. Lulu had said she’d disown him if he did. What happened was that one of Blunderbuss Beryl’s hunched underlings brought a scrawled note down to Paul.

‘You’re reprieved, but don’t do it again.’ It was signed by Beryl.

‘Look at that,’ said Paul, handing the note to Lulu, who read it.

‘Lucky old ratbag, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘Blunderbuss must have bumped into my fairy godmother,’ said Paul.

‘Don’t suppose your fairy godmother thought much of that,’ said Lulu, presently revising the list of members.

‘Much of what?’ asked Paul.

‘Being bumped into by half a ton of plum duff,’ said Lulu.

Paul yelled with laughter.

‘Lulu, you made a funny,’ he said.

‘Pardon me, I’m sure,’ said Lulu.

‘There’ll be quite a few letters for you to type this afternoon,’ said Paul.

‘Give ’em to your fairy godmother,’ said Lulu. ‘I’ll still be busy.’ Paul let that go. A minute later, she said, ‘By the way, you never told me what tarty Henrietta talked to you about.’

‘Oh, some project concerning a home for lonely old maiden ladies,’ said Paul.

‘Oh, my word, dearie me, how sweet,’ said Lulu. ‘And what help will you give?’

‘Well, for a start,’ said Paul, ‘she thinks we could do a lot together at weekends.’

‘Not for the old ladies. No, I bet not. The mind boggles.’

‘At what?’

‘At what you’ll look like on Monday mornings.’

‘Lulu, you’re in form today,’ said Paul. ‘Listen, I’ve got a letter here from a Left-wing church deacon. He wants me to join him on a soapbox at Speakers Corner one Sunday and address the crowd on Jesus as the first Socialist.’

‘The mind boggles,’ muttered Lulu, and used
a savage blue pencil to cross out the name of a defector who hadn’t and wouldn’t renew his subscription. The soft lead broke.

‘The invitation doesn’t include her,’ said Paul.

‘Weekends do. Sundays are a part of every weekend.’

It was lunchtime when Ma Earnshaw turned to serve her next customer, a man who had been waiting in the background until the stall was clear, when he made a quick approach.

‘Hello again, Ma,’ he said.

‘Well, if it ain’t yerself again, Boots dearie,’ said Ma. ‘It’s a real pleasure. I hear about the family from Cassie Brown now and then, here and there, like. What can I get yer, love?’

‘First, you remember when I brought Sammy’s girls and my twins to see you?’ said Boots.

‘Lovely surprise, that was,’ said Ma.

‘After we left, you served a woman, a blonde woman. D’you remember that too?’

‘Course I do. She’s one of me Polish customers, Mrs Kloytski,’ said Ma. ‘She buys a lot of apples, spuds and cabbages, which she said last week she makes sauerkraut with. I dunno why them Poles eat stuff like that, and have names like that.’

‘D’you know where she lives?’ asked Boots.

‘Here, wait a tick,’ said Ma, ‘that’s a bit odd. I mean, she’s been on at me lately about people asking after her. Only yesterday she said her lost brother might just come looking for her. You ain’t her lost brother, are yer, Boots? She said to let her
know quick if anyone at all asked after her. I didn’t think you’d be one.’

Lost brother my elbow, thought Boots. There’s a woman who’s been on the run, and still has something to worry about, even though she’s parked herself in London with her husband.

‘I need to find her, Ma,’ he said. ‘I can’t explain right now. Simply, do you know where she lives?’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s Wansey Street, but I don’t know what number,’ said Ma. ‘But yer family friends, Cassie and Freddy Brown, they live in Wansey Street.’

A customer arrived.

‘Good enough, Ma,’ said Boots.

‘Can I serve yer something now?’ asked Ma. ‘Here’s two quid,’ said Boots, fishing the notes out of his wallet. ‘Make up a box of fruit and let the Salvation Army have it for one of their hostels.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Ma. ‘You’re a good bloke, Boots, you always was, and a gent as well. Mind, you’ve got me wondering about Mrs—’

But Boots was away through the market crowds, and Ma turned to her customer.

Cassie, answering the knock on her front door, found Boots on her step. Cassie, fond of the Adams family, was particularly fond of Boots and his younger brother Sammy.

‘Well, look who’s here,’ she said, her smile rich with pleasure, a decorated apron over her turquoise blue dress. ‘Boots, you look as if you’ve been in the sun for ages.’

‘Cornish holiday, and hello to you, Cassie,’ said Boots. He had a soft spot for Cassie, wife of Susie’s brother Freddy. Thirty-three now, she still projected a hint of teasing mischief, the kind that had driven Freddy dotty during their growing years together. ‘How are you?’

‘Hot,’ said Cassie, ‘I’m ironing yesterday’s washing, and that’s hot all right in August. Still, Freddy does like his nicely ironed shirts. You’ll come in, won’t you, Boots? Muffin and Lewis are out with friends.’

‘Thanks,’ said Boots, stepping in. Cassie closed the door and took him into the front room which, like most front rooms in Walworth, was still known as the parlour. Boots noted the clean, tidy look of the room and the obvious use of furniture polish. On the piano stood a large framed photograph of Cassie and Freddy on their wedding day. On the window ledge were pots of African violets in flower. Boots could recognize any parlour that knew the care and attention of a Walworth housewife.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Boots, and something to eat?’ asked Cassie. It was lunchtime, and she was going to do a light meal for herself and the children in fifteen minutes.

‘Thank you, Cassie, but no,’ said Boots, ‘I’ll catch a pub sandwich and a beer a little later. But it’s good to see you, Cassie, and I know Freddy’s doing well at the store.’

‘Oh, you and Sammy gave him a nice job there, Boots,’ said Cassie.

‘Freddy’s always given of his best for the firm,’
said Boots, and came to the point of his call. ‘Cassie, do you have a neighbour called Mrs Kloytski?’

‘Not half I do,’ said Cassie, ‘but I’m not sure I like her. The blessed woman’s got a fancy for Freddy, and her at her age. She must be all of ten years older.’

‘What’s the number of her house?’ asked Boots.

‘Twenty-three,’ said Cassie. ‘A few doors down, next to Mr and Mrs Hobday. And you’ve got me curious. She’s Polish, Boots, and so’s her husband. And he’s a cool one all right for a Pole.’

‘Cool?’ said Boots.

‘As handsome as Cary Grant,’ said Cassie, ‘and ever so friendly, only when he smiles it’s not like a real smile. It’s sort of cool and his eyes look right through you. Mrs Kloytski now, when she smiles she kind of embraces you. She’s always smiling at Freddy and trying to get her bosom closer to his chest. Freddy says he’s going to undo her buttons one day and see what all the fuss is about.’ Cassie laughed. ‘He’d do it too, he came out of Burma a lot tougher, Boots, only he knows I’d hit him with a saucepan if he did.’