The Bells of Bow (43 page)

‘But, Mrs Denham, you can see how well Betty’s doing. She’s smashing. Yer’ve only gotta look at her. I don’t understand what yer on about.’

‘We’ll have to see, won’t we? All I’m gonna say is that I ain’t very happy with the arrangements. And that if things don’t change, she’ll have me to reckon with.’ Queenie held Betty to one side as she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve. She dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Yer do know she ain’t been near nor by that cemetery since the funeral?’

Babs was beginning to feel irritated; she didn’t like Queenie as it was, but her criticising Evie was getting on her nerves. ‘What d’you expect? He was only buried just over a week ago. D’yer want her there every day? I thought yer wanted her here with the baby just now.’

Queenie jabbed her finger at Babs. ‘Don’t you get lippy with me, yer little madam.’

Babs bit her tongue. The last thing she wanted was Queenie finding excuses or, worse still, genuine reasons to try and take Betty away. She determined to try and keep polite. ‘Look, Mrs Denham,’ she said with a smile, ‘yer can see for yerself how well Betty is. She’s a really happy little thing. Honest. And I know how upsetting a time it is for yer.’ Babs stood up. ‘Tell yer what, I’ll go in the kitchen and make us both a nice cup of tea.’

As Babs boiled the kettle and got the cups and saucers ready, she cursed Evie and her selfishness. But by the time Evie got back from the market, Queenie Denham had departed and Babs had calmed down a bit, but Evie was furious when Babs told her she’d been there.

‘The interfering old cow,’ Evie fumed, dumping her bags on the table.

‘Eve, don’t. Stay calm. I’ve tried to explain to yer, yer really have got to watch yerself with that mother-in-law of your’n.’

‘I ain’t stupid, Babs, but no one talks about me like that.’ Evie dragged her coat off the back of the kitchen chair where she had only just thrown it. ‘I’ll have her,’ she shouted as she marched out into the hall.

‘Where yer going now?’ Babs called after her. ‘Betty’ll want feeding again in half an hour.’

‘Keep yer hair on,’ Evie answered her, pulling open the street door. ‘I won’t be long.’

Evie knocked on the faded and peeling paint of the narrow door that had been cut into the high wooden entry gates which opened onto the haphazard cluster of stables and sheds used by the local rag and bone men.

A stooped little man of indeterminate age and equally indeterminate layers of clothing peered round the door.

He grinned, showing an odd assortment of stumps and broken, tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Hello, twin,’ he said, first raising his battered bowler hat and then wiping his nose on the greyish green sleeve of what might once have been a raincoat. ‘What can I do for yer, darling?’

‘Hello, Tots, just the feller I was hoping to see.’ Evie gave him a thin smile, trying not to flinch at the stench wafting towards her. ‘I was just wondering if I could have a word.’

‘Sure, darling, come in, come in.’

He beckoned her in and Evie stepped gingerly through the doorway, doing her best to avoid the steaming piles of dung that punctuated the slippery surface of the uneven cobbled junk yard.

‘So, how yer doing?’

‘Lovely, darling,’ he cackled. ‘We’re all respectable suddenly, ain’t we? Salvage workers, we are now. And how’s yer family?’

‘Well, thank you.’

He put his head on one side. ‘This ain’t no social visit, is it?’

‘No, I can’t tell a lie, Tots, it ain’t.’ Evie opened her bag and took out a crisp ten shilling note. She held it out to him. ‘You don’t like Queenie Denham, do yer?’

‘No, I bleed’n don’t, girl. Nor do hundreds of others,’ he said, keeping his eye on the money. ‘Ain’t got time for no money lenders, but she’s a really hard cow, that one. Sits there in the boozer like she owns the bloody place, letting everyone buy her drinks no matter how short they are. And everyone knows she’s got bags of money. And all made out of poor sods like me.’

‘Thought so.’ Evie paused. She tapped the note against her chin. ‘If I give yer five bob for yer trouble and five bob for the load, Tots, d’yer think yer could deliver something for me tonight? Late, it’d have to be.’

‘Course, darling. Anything for the Bells. You just name it.’

‘I want a load of horse’s muck from yer stable. As a surprise for Queenie’s back yard.’

‘But they ain’t even got window boxes in them gaffs on Bow Common.’

Evie gave a broad exaggerated wink. ‘No. I know. But she’s thinking of digging for victory, ain’t she?’ She grinned, making her cheek pucker into its deep, captivating dimple.

A slow look of understanding spread across the man’s lined and weather-battered features. ‘A surprise, eh?’ he said. ‘I get it.’

Evie dug into her bag again. ‘Tell yer what, Tots, we don’t want her having to lug it too far, do we? So, take this extra half a dollar for yerself and make sure yer put the, you know, the business right up close to her front door. In fact, right on her street doorstep would be nice.’

Tots took the ten shilling note and the half-crown coin from Evie. Then he lifted her hand and slapped the money back into her open palm. ‘You keep yer money, sweetheart,’ he said sincerely. ‘Think of this as me war work.’

It was Saturday, a week after Queenie had received her anonymous and definitely unappreciated gift of horse muck. The morning had dawned cold and clear and Georgie was half asleep and shivering as he made his way home from the fire station.

‘Ringer!’

Georgie yawned loudly as he looked across to where Jim was calling to him from the doorway of the pub.

‘Glad I caught yer. I’ve been keeping an eye out for yer while I was bottling up.’

Georgie raised his chin in greeting. ‘Morning, Jim. What can I do for yer?’ He scratched at the soot-sprinkled stubble on his chin.

‘Thought yer might be able to use this.’ Jim crossed over to where Georgie was standing almost asleep on his feet by his street door. ‘Feller in the pub last night was flogging ’em and I thought a brave feller like you deserved one.’

Georgie blinked rapidly as he stared down at the piece of paper that Jim was handing him. It was a ticket for that afternoon’s game at Wembley, the Cup Final between Arsenal and Preston North End.

‘Ain’t too tired, are yer?’

‘Too tired?’ he said, suddenly wide awake. ‘Leave off, this is bloody fantastic, Jim. I can’t believe me luck.’

‘Well, see if yer mate Vic can believe his,’ said Jim. He handed Georgie another ticket and clapped him across the shoulder. ‘Couldn’t have yer screaming yer head off on the terraces all by yerself, now could I?’

By three o’clock Georgie and Vic were standing among sixty thousand other football supporters roaring and cheering on their teams. The war had been forgotten for the afternoon: the battle on the pitch was the only confrontation that anybody there was interested in.

But the mood of elation wasn’t to last. As they made their way out of the ground, Georgie tore his ticket into bits and let the pieces flutter away on the breeze. ‘D’yer fancy calling in the Drum for a swift half, Vic?’ He sounded fed up.

‘Yeah, might as well, and I’d like to say ta to Jim, even if the silly buggers could only manage a one all draw.’

‘Compton did his best,’ said Georgie mournfully. ‘But with no back-up what can one player do?’

Vic kicked viciously at a lump of rubble as they passed yet another bombed-out house. ‘I knew it was too good to be true, getting a ticket
and
getting the day off to see the match.’

Georgie and Vic walked into the Drum to be greeted by Jim shaking his head in commiseration. ‘Arsenal? Call ’emselves a team? Like a load of big girls. Yer wanna support a decent side like me.’

Georgie managed a smile. ‘All right, Jim, yer don’t have to rub it in.’

Vic rested his forearms on the bar and stared sorrowfully at the pumps. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Hitler hadn’t put something in Arsenal’s drinking water, yer know. Trying to get at us, like. Break our morale.’

‘Blimey, I wish I’d never given yer the bloody things,’ said Jim, with a broad grin.

‘Sorry, Jim.’ Vic looked ashamed. ‘Thanks for the ticket anyway.’

‘Come on,’ Jim said. ‘Let me buy yer both a drink. Cheer yer up, eh?’

By eight o’clock, the three men had had a drink together, had discussed the football, insulted the Nazis and generally put the world to rights. There was still no sign of a raid and Minnie and Clara had come in for their usual couple of milk stouts as though it was any normal evening before war had broken out.

‘Ringer. How yer doing, mate?’ Minnie patted him on the back. She was obviously pleased to see him. ‘Ain’t seen enough of yer lately, what yer been doing with yerself?’

‘Been working, Min. Them bleed’n Luftwaffe have been keeping us at it all hours.’

‘Quiet tonight though.’

Vic lifted his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Yeah, thank gawd.’

Georgie stuck his hand in his pocket. ‘Put yer money away, Clara, I’ll get these for yer.’

Minnie and Clara raised their glasses in thanks before sipping at their drinks.

‘I bet the girls worry ’emselves sick about yer, Ringer,’ Clara said as they settled themselves at a table close to the bar. ‘It’s such dangerous work yer do.’

‘I don’t think Evie notices or worries about no one, to be honest, Clara. Well, no one but herself.’

Vic puffed on his pipe. ‘Worry, ain’t they, kids?’

‘I wouldn’t mind that sort of worry,’ said Nellie, wiping the counter briskly with a dish rag.

‘D’you hear about Blanche’s young sister, Nell?’ Minnie asked. ‘Lost her little kiddy after all, didn’t she, poor little love.’

Nellie wrung the rag into the drips tray. ‘Life ain’t fair, is it?’

‘No,’ Minnie agreed. ‘It ain’t. In fact it’s a right bugger at times.’

Vic tapped his pipe thoughtfully against the ashtray that Nellie had pushed towards him. ‘Yer’ll have me crying in me beer in a minute, you mob. Give us another round, Nell, and maybe we should count our blessings for once, eh?’

Georgie shook his head. ‘Blessings? I feel like throttling that Evie of mine at times. She’s been driving me potty.’

‘Ringer, yer shouldn’t talk like that. Vic’s right.’ Nellie panted slightly as she pulled on the pump, filling the glasses with foaming beer. ‘I know she can be a bit of a handful, but yer’ve got plenty to be grateful for. That granddaughter of your’n for instance.’ She slipped the glass across the bar. ‘Awww, I could eat her right up, I could.’

Georgie smiled. ‘Yeah, she’s a smasher all right.’

‘It’ll be hard for her growing up and not having a dad,’ said Minnie, not yet into the optimistic spirit of things. ‘I know Albie Denham was a waster but it’s still easier to bring up a kiddie when there’s someone bringing a wage in.’

‘She’ll be all right with me and Babs looking out for her, Min,’ George said firmly.

Nellie agreed. ‘Course she will. Couldn’t go wrong with you two, could she? You love her to bits and work all hours, and that Babs, she’s a real little diamond.’

‘And don’t I know it. I’m a lucky man having a kid like her. That Babs’d run from here to China if you asked her. And even though the other one’s a right little mare, yer right, I should be grateful. Yer know, she don’t half make me laugh at times.’ Georgie took a swallow of his beer, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and smiled. ‘D’you hear what happened to old Queenie last Saturday night?’

‘What,’ asked Jim, ‘with the horse shit, yer mean?’

Nellie flicked her husband with the drying up cloth. ‘Language, Jim!’

Jim rolled his eyes at his wife’s reprimand. ‘I don’t suppose that had nothing to do with your Evie, did it, Ringer?’

Georgie laughed. ‘I’m shocked yer could even think that, Jim.’

A few minutes passed in companionable silence, then Minnie and Clara stood up.

‘About time we was off, everyone,’ Minnie said, helping Clara get her bag from under the table. ‘Let’s hope that the rest of the night’s as quiet as this, eh? Dunno about the rest of yer, but I know I could do with a night’s kip that ain’t interrupted by them bloody sirens.’

‘Yeah, yer right there,’ said Vic, raising his glass in farewell.

‘Night, night, ladies, mind how yer go,’ called Nellie.

Jim called time but winked at Georgie and Vic to stay behind. When he had seen the last of his reluctant customers off the premises and had shut and bolted the doors, Jim ducked down behind the bar and reappeared with a bottle of Scotch.

‘Have a nip of this before yer leave, lads. Reckon you deserve it and all, after having to watch Arsenal all afternoon.’

It was getting on for half past eleven when Jim offered them a refill, but Georgie put his hand over his glass.

‘I’ll stick at the one thanks, Jim. I’ve already had a pint and a half of ale, ain’t I?’

‘Go on. You ain’t on duty again for a couple of days, are yer?’

‘We ain’t meant to be,’ said Vic, cottoning on to what Georgie was thinking. ‘But listen to them planes.’

They waited for a moment while Jim listened.

‘There’s been no warnings,’ Jim said with a frown.

‘Not yet, there ain’t. I reckon they’re our lads we can hear, and by the sound of it, they’re getting ready for something big.’ Georgie jerked his head towards the door. ‘Come on, Vic, I know yer knackered mate, but this sounds like it could be serious. We’d better get down the sub-station a bit sharpish.’

By the morning, Georgie had been proved right. London had taken one of the worst beatings of the war. Factories, schools, homes and even the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey had been hit. The destruction was so catastrophic in places that deaths and casualties were difficult even to begin to estimate.

But during the next few weeks, it seemed that that terrible night had, at last, marked the end of the Blitz, and Londoners took the chance to catch their breath, to begin the long job of clearing up all the damage and even to relax a little.

There were one or two moments of excitement, such as Hess landing in Scotland, which immediately caused rumours to fly that he was being fed on all the best while Londoners were doing without. And then the
Bismarck
was sunk, which gave an excuse for a much-needed celebration after all the dark days of gloom, which had temporarily returned to London when Arsenal lost the replay of the Cup Final to Preston. Then summer started with a sudden, glorious heatwave. It was only June, but it was sweltering. And with the new double summertime, the evenings were really light with the blackout not starting until eleven o’clock at night. Londoners made the most of it and spent hours sitting in the street outside their houses, watching children, mending and knitting, drinking tea, smoking and endlessly discussing the war. Roughly painted ‘V for victory’ signs on walls and fences became as familiar to Londoners as the taste of pilchards and sardines.