The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (2 page)

BOOK: The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2)
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Chapter Two

I love autumn with its smell of change and ripeness.  Even the one tree in Blountmere Street, a dusty sycamore that fights for its existence on a bit of dirt next to the baker’s, shines in the autumn sunshine. 

Rows of geranium cuttings in flower pots line our glass lean-to.

In the garden the annuals have been pulled up, leaving clumps of chrysanthemums, gold, rust and pink, rising from horse manure.

There’s something about the season that brings the hoarding instinct to life in Mum and Dad, as if they’re preparing for us to be shut in for a long, long time.  It’s when I feel the most secure.  I’m wrapped around in the warmth of my home, and safe in the knowledge we’re prepared for whatever winter might throw at us.

Joe Newnham’s delivered five hundredweight of his best coal, paid for from one of Mum’s mustard tins, into which she puts an allotted weekly amount.

Jars of pickled onions take their place in Mum’s preserve cupboard, next to shiny tomato chutney and raspberry jam.  They’re guarded from behind by bottles of apples, pears and plums.

‘No-one preserves like we do,’ Mum says every year.  Even Dad lets out the odd grunt that Mum interprets as approval.  She’s been generous with the capers in the pickled onions, just as he likes them, she tells him, even though he doesn’t appear to be listening. 

At night, Mum’s sewing machine whirs or her knitting needles click.  Whatever happens, she’s got to maintain my standard of dress.  There isn’t much material left in the battered attaché case in which she stashes the remnants of material Dad used to bring home from O’Donnells.  But she’s already begun another mustard tin, marked “
Material Money
” for when the supply finally runs out.

If my outer layers are high fashion, my under ones are definitely not.  Mum considers fleecy-lined knickers, a rubber ribbed and buttoned liberty bodice, a woollen vest and a winceyette petticoat absolutely essential wear for winter.  At least, essential wear for me.  Mum’s baffled by the bronchitis that keeps me off school for several weeks every year.  “I don't believe it!  I simply don't!” she says.  “Half the youngsters round here have the backsides hanging out of their pants.  They’re without a pair of shoes on their feet, and they don't catch a thing.  Look at that Angela upstairs, in the same skimpy frock summer and winter, and she’s never had a day’s illness that I can remember.  It makes me steaming mad.” 

Then Mum gets the guilt: “Perhaps if I'd started rubbing your chest earlier with camphorated oil and dosed you with more cod liver oil and malt you’d have been all right,” she says.

I make a face.  “It tastes revolting.  If it doesn’t do me any good, why should I take it?”  I ask, but Mum never answers.

Dad stirs from the Saturday afternoon comfort of his armchair and retreats to the glass lean-to he’s built on to the back of our flat.  Mum calls it, “
The Conservatory
”.

Dad’s' workbench is so tidy you’d think he never used it at all, although a line of tools hang above it.  Wrapping itself around everything is the combined stink of paraffin from a small stove Dad has going to keep his plants warm and the reek of Dad’s precious geraniums.

With the change of seasons, it’s too cold to read comics on our back doorstep with Tony Addington from upstairs, as we do on Saturday afternoons when the weather’s warmer.  Tony’s my only friend and we confide our secrets to each other.

Tony loves the word “
confide
” which I taught him and now we use it a lot.  But I know he doesn’t want anyone to see us together in case he gets called names like I do.  Just the same, he’s my best friend.

Today, I sit at the kitchen table painting.  Mum’s popped in to see Aunt Min who’s got a touch of the flu.  It was best I didn’t go with her, Mum had said.  “These things are contagious, and I don’t want you catching anything this early in the year.  It’s bound to go straight to your chest,” she said.

I watch from our kitchen window which looks out on to the lean-to.  Dad produces an old envelope covered with scribbled figures and a drawing of something that resembles a canoe.  I know it’s a twin sidecar that he’ll be able to attach to his motor bike.

‘Those sods in Blountmere Street’ll have something to be jealous of when they see this.’  He talks to himself, as he often does.  Then he whistles a peculiar but happy enough sound through his teeth.  Even so, I push away the memories of his anger whenever he makes anything.  His temper can flare like a rogue wind.

Taking a pencil stub, he spits on the end and scribbles more figures.  Still whistling, he sets about measuring several pieces of wood.  Using a saw which, like most of Dad’s tools, he’s dug from the bombsite rubble, he begins cutting and just as quickly hurling pieces of wood around.  He tries again.  He swears, tosses the wood to the ground and stamps on it.  Several times he saws, utters oaths and breaks the wood into pieces.  The whistling has stopped and I busy myself with my painting.  I swallow down my fear but I’m painting over the lines and making blotches I wouldn’t normally make.

I can’t help casting a flickering glance out the window.  I wish I hadn’t.  Dad’s face is mottled with crimson patches.

Although I’m relieved when Mum gets back home, I’m still frightened.  She shouldn’t be around for Dad to take his rage out on.

‘Minnie's coming to the fireworks on the bombsite.  She should be over the flu by then.’  Mum automatically runs to where Dad is, taking off her hat as she speaks.  ‘Poor old Min’s not in a good state.’

I realise Mum has failed to interpret Dad’s mood.  It’s unusual for her not to have gauged it immediately.  It’s the only way we survive.

‘Like a cuppa?’  She asks breezily, folding her coat over her arm.

‘I need screws.  So don’t just stand there, go and get them.’  Dad sucks blood from his finger.

‘I’d better be going, then, or the shops will be closed.’  Mum puts her hat and coat back on.  ‘What sort d'you want?’

‘Three quarter inch,’ Dad mumbles, not bothering to catch the drops from his nose.

‘How many?’

‘Two dozen!  How many d’you think?’

‘Right,’ Mum begins running from the lean-to into the kitchen and along the passage, picking up her handbag as she goes.  ‘Make your dad a cup of tea.  I'm popping to Hooper and Cadges.  Won't be long,’ she calls to me.

I fill the kettle and stand by the gas stove waiting for the kettle to boil.  I shift from foot to foot and smooth my fringe as I listen to Dad’s swearing becoming louder.  He’s like a bottle of Tizer that’s been shaken up and the top’s about to be undone.  The kettle’s coming to the boil when a sharp crack echoes from the lean-to and I look out to see pieces of celluloid like crystal covering the floor.  Dad has smashed it to pieces with his hammer.

I turn off the gas ring and flatten myself against the door.  I know it’s best to keep out of his way when Dad’s like this.  Part of me hopes Mum will come back soon, while I don’t want her to come back at all.  At least,  not now.  Hooper and Cadges is in the High Street and if she runs, which knowing Mum she will, it’ll take her at least ten minutes.  Perhaps Dad will have calmed down by then.  Just the same, I jam myself harder against the door.

It seems longer than ten minutes before Mum returns, although the kitchen clock says it’s less.

‘Got them.’  Mum’s breath is coming in sharp spurts as she places a box on the bench in front of Dad.  She doesn’t seem to notice the splintered celluloid on the floor, even though she’s had to crunch her way across it.

Dad grabs the box and rips off the lid.  ‘They’re the wrong ones.  I don't want three quarter inch.’  He flings the box across the bench causing the screws to scatter and roll everywhere.

‘What size do you want?’  Mum asks evenly, searching in every direction for the ones Dad’s thrown away.

‘’alf inch.  That's what I told yer.’  Flecks of spittle are fizzing at the corners of Dad’s mouth and his eyes are ball-bearing small.

When Mum has finished picking up the screws and putting them back into the box, she pushes it into her handbag and begins to leave the lean-to,  sliding on the celluloid. 

By the time I get to the passageway, Mum’s already crossing the road on her way back to Hooper and Cadges, sprinting past the bombsite, holding on to her hat.  I close the door gently.  I hope somehow it might bring some peace to the atmosphere, but Dad's ranting continues.

‘Useless bitch,’ he hollers to the surrounding glass. 

I peep through the window.  His spittle is overflowing and dripping on to the workbench. 

‘Her and her high and mighty ways.’  Dad’s demented as he digs his screwdriver into another piece of wood. 

I crawl under the kitchen table, hunched up like an old, old lady.  I’m trembling and I flinch at every word that leaves Dad’s mouth.  This time I pray Mum won’t come back until Dad’s tantrum is over.

It’s almost dark when Mum returns, puffing and with perspiration shiny on her face.   Oblivious to me curled under the table, she races through the kitchen and stumbles into the lean-to.

‘You took yer time!’  Dad snatches the box from her.  His eyes have narrowed to slits.  ‘‘alf inch!’ he roars.  ‘These are ‘alf inch.’

‘They’re what you asked for.’  Mum's voice shakes.

‘Rot!  Bleedin’ poppycock.’  Dad’s lips are still froth-coated.  His neck and face are stained wine red.  I’m trembling so much I think I’m going to be sick.  I try to clench my teeth together, but they won’t stay still.  It’s difficult to crawl from under the table because of the shaking, but I know I need to be quick and I slither out from it and run towards the lean-to.

‘Inch,’ he screams.  ‘Inch, that's what I said.  Useless!  Bloody useless!’  Dad advances towards Mum, and her hat topples to the floor and joins the screws.  To my relief, my real, true, absolute relief, he turns and crashes from the lean-to into the darkness of the garden, causing a pane of glass in the door to crack and the house to vibrate.  ‘Yer no good to any man.’  He spits back at Mum from outside.

I don’t know what to do with my loathing and fear.  But Mum is dry-eyed.  She won’t let me cling to her, stroke her, give comfort and be comforted.  She just puts me aside, walks into her bedroom and locks the door.

I can’t bear to stay in the lean to although I know I should try and clear up the mess.  I go to my bedroom, sit on my bed and cradle my knees to my chest.  Without wanting them to, pictures of my grandfather play like a film in my head.  Mind pictures of a vicious old man sitting in a dark basement hurling abuse at his family.

Thankfully, my thoughts are replaced with others of Carol Fleur's birthday party, the only one I’ve ever been invited to, when her father had crawled around the floor guffawing, pretending to be a horse and giving us all rides.

I huddle myself into a ball and weep.

When Mum comes out of her bedroom, she’s coaxed her hair a little further forward on her forehead and dabbed white powder over a cut she’s come by.  Dad, his anger burnt out, sits in his armchair reading yesterday’s
Star
waiting for Mum to fetch him today’s one.

After clearing up the lean-to, Mum gets Dad’s paper and then cooks tea.

Chapter Three

Outside, the sky is beginning to empty its burden of snow as Mum and I inch our way along the side of Dad’s motor bike, down the path and along Blountmere Street on our way to the market.

‘We'd better not be long, you know what your father's like.  We don't want him carrying on when we get back.’  I can tell Mum feels immediately guilty about criticising Dad.  She continues, ‘I suppose he's worried about his job.  This weather’s not easy for him.  You can’t clean windows when the water freezes the moment it touches the glass.’

‘It's no more difficult for him than other people.  He just grumbles more,’ I say.

‘That’ll do, young lady.  Talking about your father like that!  You’re a lucky girl to have him. We’re both lucky.’  Mum doesn’t sound convincing.  As she usually does, Mum’s accepted Dad’s recent bouts of sulky silence as if it’s all right he doesn’t speak for days on end.  She pretends it doesn’t matter he snatches whatever’s handed to him without even a grunt.  She pretends not to notice he eats his food as if he doesn’t know or care what it is she’s cooked for him.  Even so, I’ve noticed she’s changed since the screws episode.  It’s difficult to explain how.  As if she’s at last realised that whatever she does for him she’ll never gain his affection or approval.  She still boasts to the neighbours about “
her Les
” but I sense Mum’s loyalty is coming at a cost she’s beginning to count.

We shelter in a shop doorway as we wait for a bus, and watch as Mr Stannard, the Addingtons’ lodger, and Miss Lorimore, our neighbour, mince their way across the icy road.  Fred Stannard has Dolly Addingtons’ string shopping bag on one arm and Miss Lorimore on the other.

‘They're getting very friendly.  Did you see the way he looked at her?’  Mum stares after them.  ‘And she was holding his arm, too!  There are some who would say it’s too soon after his wife passed on.  Tongues will always wag.  But they're two people on their own.  Why shouldn't they have a bit of love and company; that’s what I say.’  A look comes over Mum’s face that says it’s exactly what she wants.  Me, too!  I envy Tony having Mr Stannard live with them, not only living with him and Angela but being their godfather as well. 

Perhaps envy isn’t the right word.  Tony deserves someone like Mr Stannard after that drunken father of his went off with a woman.  At least Dad doesn’t get drunk like that horrible Mr Addington.  But Mr Stannard, Miss Lorimore, Angela and Tony are always together.  They even went to Hampton Court.  The day they went, I watched from my window.  I knew they were taking Tony to try and get him over his friend Dobsie’s death.  Just the same I cried because they hadn’t asked me to go with them.  I often cry because the other kids never ask me to go with them.  Mum says not to let anyone see.  Anyway, I’ve got a lot more things than they have, she says.

The market, which is usually blazing with colour and alive with the sound of stall holders and chattering shoppers, is bleak.  The sounds are muted.  The grey-white canvas tops of the stalls merge with the sky.  Some of the stall holders have probably decided to have a day in front of the fire.  Their stalls stand abandoned in the middle of a freezing debris of fruit and vegetables, wooden crates and cardboard boxes that are rapidly undergoing change into a series of white mounds.  Those stall holders who have defied the weather stamp their boots on the ground and fling their arms around themselves trying to whip some warmth into their bodies.

Most of the stalls I like the best aren't there.  The eel lady is absent, so are the two red-nosed, red-scarved men who sell crockery.  They throw it around as if it’s made of cardboard and shout, “How much would you pay for these dinner plates, Missus?  Genuine willow pattern, I tell yer.  In ‘arrods five quid but to you, luv, I'll let yer `ave the lot for a quid.  ‘Old on a minute, Missus! ‘Old on!  I tell a lie, four quid.  No!  No, I can't do it!  I can't charge yer that much. Yus, I know, darlin’, I'm a fool to mesself, but 'ow about I throw in these six genuine willow pattern tea plates.  All 'eart, lady, that's what I am, bleedin' all 'eart.  Just to prove it, darlin', you can 'ave the lot, not ten bob, not seven and six, but five bleedin’ bob.  Right, Jim, one for the lady over there and another over there.  Now don't get excited gals, it's only me dinner services I'm selling.  You 'ave to watch these women, Jim.”

‘Come on, Paula, stop day dreaming, we don't want to hang around here any longer than we need to.  We'll pop to Gaters for a bit of Gorgonzola for your father and a couple of slices of corned beef.  Then we'll get some meat for tomorrow and a few vegetables.’

I trail after Mum, while she notes the prices each stall is charging, and yet still walks faster than everyone else on the skating rink of a footpath. 

I know Mum’s got no idea how much Dad’s saved.  If this weather keeps up and he can’t clean windows she doesn’t know how long the three pounds housekeeping he places on the kitchen table every Friday morning is going to keep coming. 

Surprisingly, the material stall is open and a couple in matching tweed coats and hats, wearing large fur gloves, are clumsily measuring lengths of cloth against a ruler fixed to the edge of the stall.  Their breath billows in front of them like the pale grey velvet they are measuring.

‘They've got the pink tulle I need for my ballet tutu Aunty Min gave me the money for at Christmas.  Can we get it while we're here?’  I ask.

‘Wait till we've done the rest of the shopping.  We may have to hold on to the money, just in case.  Now don't dawdle.  There's a good girl.’

‘Still in a hurry, I see, Lil?’  A thin, gloveless hand touches Mum on the shoulder and a gaunt pearl-pale face looks directly into hers.

 ‘Bill!’  Mum’s face is rosy from quick marching us both around the market but suddenly she seems to lose her purposefulness.  ‘Fancy seeing you here.  I thought you lived over Deptford way.’

‘I do, but I've come to pick up some material.  I'm in the upholstery trade now.  While I was here, Marjorie ... my wife ... asked me to get a few sprouts.’  The man clears his throat and half smiles.  ‘You haven't changed at all, Lily.  How long is it?’

‘A long time,’ Mum replies, fidgeting with the handle of her shopping bag.  ‘And this is my daughter, Paula.’

‘My word, Lil, she's like you.’  It’s a second or two before the man can introduce himself.  ‘Bill Masters, an old friend of your Mum's,’ he says at last.  The man grins as if he’s desperate to be liked.  It makes me like him immediately.

‘Are you keeping well?’  Mum asks, breaking into the awkward atmosphere.

‘Not so bad.  How about you?’

‘I'm all right.’  Their breath mingles to make a mist into which they look as if they might vanish.

‘So how old are you, young lady?’  Bill asks.

‘She's ten, aren't you Paula?’

I wish Mum wouldn't answer for me. Anyway, I’m not ten yet.

‘Look, Bill, we've got to go.  It's been nice meeting you again,’ Mum says formally.  She grasps my hand, in a hurry to be off.

‘I'll walk with you.  Where are you off to?’

‘We're going to catch the bus home,’ Mum says, forgetting Dad’s Gorgonzola.

‘And where's home?’  Bill falls into slippery step beside us.  He walks on the outside nearest the road which Mum always says is very gentlemanly.  She says it’s got something to do with women being less likely to get splashed or knocked over by a bus if there’s a man there to take the impact.  It seems to me that if a bus mounted the pavement it wouldn't matter who was on the outside.  But I’m impressed by Bill's manners.  Dad wouldn’t have bothered.

‘It's where it’s always been,’ Mum replies vaguely.

‘You mean Whitely Square?’

‘In that area.’  Mum gives me one of her “watch your mouth” looks.

‘I've got my van parked down the road.  I'll give you a lift.’

‘No thanks.  The roads aren't looking good.  You need to get back to Deptford before this weather gets any worse.’

‘It won't take long to drop you home.  Come on, you'll both catch your death waiting for a bus.’

I wait, anxious for Mum’s reply.  I’ve only once before been in a car, when an old friend of Mum’s took us to Richmond Park.  I remember it had been like riding in a closed-in version of a magic carpet.  A van may not be quite the same, but it’s a thousand times better than riding home on a damp, crowded bus.

‘I don't know.’  Mum looks doubtful.

‘Come on, Lil.’

It occurs to me that Bill and Mum must have known each other very well for them to be talking in such a familiar way to each other.

‘Well, I suppose it’ll be all right,’ Mum finally gives in.

‘Good.’  Bill smiles at me with an “I’m glad you like me” sort of smile.

‘Are you sure there's nothing you need to buy before we go?  You don't seem to have much in that shopping bag.’

‘I suppose I could pop along to Gaters for some meat and a bit of cheese.  And I'll get a few vegetables from the stall here.  Didn't you say you'd got to get some sprouts?’

‘So I did.  I wouldn't have been too popular if I'd forgotten them.’

‘Paula loves sprouts, don't you?  I expect your kids do, too.’  I know that what Mum’s asked Bill is her way of finding out whether he’s got any children, without actually asking him.  I can’t understand why she doesn’t just come out with it.

‘We don't have any children.  It's just Marjorie and me.’

‘Oh!’  Then in a flurry of embarrassment, Mum continues, ‘How long have you been married?’

‘Five years.  We met just after I was demobbed.  Marjorie’s the sister of one of my army pals.  He thought I was looking a bit lonely and introduced me to her.’  Once again, Bill looks directly at Mum.

Now that Bill’s with us, our shopping becomes less hurried in spite of the weather.  Bill and Mum chat and Bill carries her shopping bag.  Occasionally, he asks if she wants to stop at this stall or that shop.  When she does, he waits with me and asks me questions about school.  He even makes jokes.  In between, he whistles.  On the next special occasion when we have chicken and Mum gives me the wishbone I’m going to wish that Dad will come to the market with us and whistle and joke with me while we wait.

‘Right, that's about it,’ Mum drops the cheese into her shopping bag.  It has a market smell, strong and sort of show-offish. 

‘We ought to be going.  I'm getting a bit concerned about this weather.’

‘Can we get the material for my tutu before we go?’  I ask.

‘Next week.  There's no rush.’

I want to argue with her, and if Bill hadn't been there I probably would have. 

‘You go to ballet, do you?  How long have you been going?’  Bill asks as if he can sense my disappointment.

‘I started last summer.’

‘Do you have your ballet lessons at school?’

‘No, I go to Hatherington Road Hall to Kilips Dancing School.’

‘I know Hatherington Road.  I suppose you go after school?  It’s a bit of a way for you to go on your own.’

‘Mum takes me.  She knits while she waits.’

‘I can imagine that,’ Bill smiles.  ‘What night do you go?’

‘Tuesdays.’

Mum begins making a clicking sound between her tongue and her teeth which means she’s getting irritated.  ‘What is this, the Inquisition?’ she snaps.

Bill answers casually, ‘Just interested, Lil.’

We finish the shopping and slither back to Bill’s van.  I sit in the back on a lumpy cushion but I still love it.  Bill drives very slowly.  I’m not sure it’s because of the icy roads or that he wants to spend as long with us as he can.  Perhaps it’s both.  I especially like it when, in between talking to Mum, Bill sings snatches of songs, and asks Mum if she remembers them.  His voice is like his face: friendly and easy-going.  I thought the only time a man sang to a woman was in films.  When Bill sings to Mum,  I think it’s the loveliest sound I’ve ever heard.

Mum won't let Bill drive us to our flat.  She says we can walk from the baker’s.  When Bill asks us what street we live in, she replies, ‘Just round the corner,’ and glares at me like she did before.

‘It's been good meeting you again, Bill,’ Mum says, stumbling up the kerb.  At the same time, she grabs the shopping bag Bill offers her.  ‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘It's been good catching up with you, too, Lil, and you, Paula.  Let's hope it won't be so long before we meet again.’  Whistling, Bill walks around the van, jumps in and with a wave is gone, while Mum looks more flustered than I’ve ever seen her.

‘Have you known Bill for a long time?’  I ask as we turn into Blountmere Street, and I try to keep up with Mum.

‘All my life.  He lived a few doors away.  I went to school with him and his sisters.’

‘Did you play together?’  I wonder if they were like Tony and me.

‘Sometimes, when neither of us was busy.  It wasn't often.  Most days after school and at weekends Bill helped Jack Moody with his rag and bone business.’

Old Jack Moody’s got a shack on a bit of bombsite between some houses half-way down Blountmere Street.  His yard’s littered with old clothes and furniture, sinks and cracked chamber pots.  He’s got a horse and cart and he rides along the streets ringing a bell, calling in a sing-song voice, “Rags and bones.  Bring me your rags and bones."   Outside his junkyard are two pig bins, where Mum sends me with our food scraps.

Jack Moody smells and spits.  Worst of all, he blows his nose between his fingers straight on to the ground.  I hate going to the pig bins.  I hate it almost as much as having to follow Jack's horse when it leaves a pile of steaming manure in the road.  It’s the only time Dad gets excited.  "Quick you two," he orders Mum and me, "Get that bucket and shovel".  He pushes us out the front door.  Then he stands with his arms folded while we scoop up the treasure.

I wrinkle my nose.  ‘Fancy working for Jack Moody.’

‘Look here, my girl, he had no option.’  Mum speaks forcefully.  It surprises me.

‘Bill’s father was killed in the First World War and he had to keep his mother and sisters.  I never knew anyone who worked as hard as Bill Masters.  I suppose I did too, although I only had my mum and dad to look after.  Bill had his whole family.’

BOOK: The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2)
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