After Hours (3 page)

Sadie flicked her hair behind one-ear, pouting back at him. ‘I'd go help Dolly get your pa home safe if I was you, Charlie.'

She outstared him easily, and he went off down the court with the usual Saturday night feeling that his own life stood still as the rest of the world hurried on by. Twenty-six, still unattached, still working for Maurice Leigh in the chain of cinemas he managed, but going nowhere fast. His work hours were unsocial, his teenaged dreams of bursting upon the world of cinema with wondrous improvements had so far come to nothing. He'd talked to Maurice about the chances of improving synchronization between sound and vision on the new talkies by incorporating the soundtrack on to the edge of the cellulose film by a series of patterned dots, like on a pianola roll. Maurice had listened approvingly, nodded his head, considered it carefully. Then he'd told him that as far as he could judge, there wasn't the demand for it as yet. ‘They flock to
see
Negri and Pickford, not to
hear
them talk,' he'd advised. ‘Hold your horses. Work at it, Charlie; it's a bright idea. But bide your time.'

That was in the very early days, in his first flush of enthusiasm.
Now, however, Charlie was in a rut, and he knew it. He'd chucked his chances over his scholarship for grammar school by throwing in his lot with the moving pictures game. At the same time, nearly ten years ago, he'd chucked his chances with Sadie Parsons. Sadie, was considered the smartest, most admired girl around, and didn't Charlie know it.

‘What's eating you?' Dolly asked as he crossed the threshold of his terraced home down Paradise Court. He'd slammed the door behind him. She sighed. ‘No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Just lend a hand up these stairs with your pa, for God's sake, and don't stand there looking like a wet weekend.'

It was Rob Parsons' last job of the evening to pick up his sister, Hettie, from the Mission on Bear Lane; a favour he did every Saturday night, when Southwark's streets were full of helpless, hopeless drunks who'd turned up too late to get a bed with the Army. They curled up instead in the tunnelled walkways that ran under the railway line, or lurched out of alleyways in blind, aimless pairs.

He pulled up outside the new redbrick Mission with its arched windows; worn out, easing his artificial leg into a less painful position, wanting his own bed. He watched a woman with a small child stagger unsteadily in the direction of his idling cab. He saw his sister emerge and come down the steps, leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Hop in, Ett, I'm freezing to death out here.'

She stepped on to the running-board, then collapsed exhausted into the leather seat. ‘Sorry!' She loosened the stiff ties to her dark blue bonnet and sighed.

Rob eased the Bullnose into gear and edged away from the pavement, too late to avoid the woman with her outstretched hand. He dipped into his pocket, found two coins and flung them to her through the window. Hettie had closed her eyes and sunk her head against the seat. The woman, hair loose, scrawny-armed, backed into the mist with her child. The car rolled off down the road, heading for home,

‘Had a hard night?' Rob glanced at his sister. This work for the
Army, on top of the dress business she'd set up with Jess, was wearing Hettie out. She sat pale and still beside him.

‘The usual. How about you?' She opened one eye and rolled it towards him. ‘You ain't exactly a bundle of laughs yourself.' She studied his slight frown, the jaw set tight. ‘Ain't nothing wrong, is there?' It didn't take much to see that Rob had something on his mind.

‘Nothing I can't put right.' Rob steered through the empty streets, long since rid of their tram and bus traffic. In the fog, the old acetylene lamps on his car scarcely penetrated the gloom. ‘Electric headlamps,' he muttered, changing the subject. ‘That's the up-and-coming thing, Ett. Electric. Powered by a battery that starts up the engine and works a windscreen-wiper too.' He turned at long last into the home stretch of Duke Street.

‘Never! Did you go over Ealing way tonight?' Hettie enquired. She knew that her brother often picked up their brother-in-law and took him home to his posh new neighbourhood after work. She pulled herself out of her own exhaustion and tried to make pleasant conversation.

‘I picked Maurice up from the Picturedrome and drove him over.'

‘And did you see Jess?'

He shook his head. ‘I never stopped off. There was another job waiting.'

‘You've been busy, then?'

‘Pretty much. Could be better.' They drew up outside the Duke. Hettie prepared to get out.

But she turned back and touched his elbow. ‘Rob,' she began.

‘What? Get a move on, Ett. Let me drive this old girl down the depot. I need some kip.'

‘I know. But Rob, something happened tonight. I can't get it off my mind.' She looked out of the cab window at the lights dimming inside the pub.

‘Down the Mission?' Rob knew she never made a fuss unless it was something serious. He studied her for a moment, finding himself wishing that she would ease up, get out of that drab Salvation Army uniform that looked like it came out of the Ark, and be
more like the old, carefree Hettie, pre-Daisy O'Hagan, pre-Ernie's trial. She used to dance and sing her way through life then.

‘Yes.' She shook her head. ‘Don't mind me, it's probably nothing.' She pushed down on the door-handle. ‘It's just we gave a bed to a newcomer tonight. In pretty bad shape. I ain't never set eyes on him before.'

‘And?' Robert prompted.

‘He was rambling on a bit, drunk, of course. It felt like trouble, that's all.' She began to regret giving voice to her worry.

‘Trouble? Who for?'

‘For Annie and Duke.' But she opened the door and scrambled out. ‘Look, forget it, Rob. Pretend I ain't never mentioned it, OK?'

He blew out his cheeks and shrugged. He guessed it was something about the old man's habit of serving after hours. Rob sometimes got a bit hot under the collar about that himself, thinking that one of these days it could get them into trouble. They were tightening up the licensing laws again. He'd even heard they planned to put a full stop to alcohol altogether in America. But he nodded at Hettie. ‘As you were, Ett. My lips are sealed.'

She leaned in and nodded. ‘Thanks, Rob. I expect it'll all blow over. The poor old geezer'll have sobered up by morning. He'll be on the move again. Sorry I brought it up.'

Rob watched her slip quietly down the court, by the side of the pub to the back entrance. She'd brushed it off, whatever it was, but he made a mental note to warn Duke to be careful about who he served after hours.

Now he had his own bone to pick with Sadie; something he hadn't wanted to mention to Hettie until he'd had it out with their wayward kid sister. He turned the car back on to Duke Street, recalling his little chat with Maurice earlier that night. The railway arches at the top of the street loomed into view. He'd park the Bullnose and lock her up for the night. Then he'd hurry back on foot.

Maybe Sadie would still be up, having a cup of cocoa with Hettie before they both went off to bed. He pocketed a list of scribbled messages left on the table by Walter, then went out and bolted and
padlocked the big wooden doors. ‘Davidson and Parsons', it said on a newly painted sign, ‘Taximeter Cabs for Hire'.

He went off down the street, shoulders hunched, cap pulled well down, a familiar late-night sight limping home to the Duke.

Jess heard the click of the front-door lock. Maurice was home from work. She looked up from the paper pattern she had carefully laid on to the silky silver-grey fabric on the front-room table, under the glow of the standard lamp. First he would steal upstairs to look in on sleeping Grace and little Maurice, then he'd come back down to tell her about his day. Taking three pins from her mouth, she tucked them neatly into the pattern to secure the cloth beneath. Then she glanced into the mirror over the mantelpiece. Strands of hair had worked free of the loose bun at the nape of her neck. She tucked them back into position and straightened her blouse into the waistband of her skirt.

Maurice took the stairs two at a time. Along the landing, he spotted Grace's bedroom door standing open. When he peeped inside, it was as he'd suspected; that little monkey, Mo, had decamped from his own room further down the corridor and come to snuggle up beside his big sister. Their two dark heads lay together against the white pillow, round-cheeked and peaceful, their breathing light, almost silent. He tiptoed across the carpet, turned down the blanket on Mo's side, and, careful not to wake him or Grace, he took the boy in his arms and carried him to his own bed. He smoothed the pillow, stroked his forehead, then bent to kiss his son's soft cheek.

At the sound of his return downstairs, Jess came to the hallway. She greeted him with a smile and an embrace, noticing the usual smoky, damp smell of his overcoat and the shadows around his eyes. He was working too hard. She took his coat and hung it on the hallstand.

‘Mo's been on his travels again,' he mentioned as he took off
his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat. ‘Sometimes I think he gets there in his sleep.' Maurice hitched up his shirtsleeves and followed Jess into the dining-room.

‘Did you take him back?' Through in the kitchen, Jess put the kettle to boil on the gas stove. It was a point of difference between them; she liked to leave the two children snuggled together, but Maurice insisted that Mo should get used to waking in his own bed, now that he was six and going to school.

‘Yes. But don't worry, he's still fast asleep.' He wandered into the kitchen for a cosier chat. The sight of Jess, reaching for cups from the pantry cupboard, her slim waist shown off by the tight-fitting skirt, pleased him. His arms encircled her from behind and he kissed her neck.

She returned his embrace with a light kiss on the cheek, then went to stir milk and sugar into the cocoa, waiting for the kettle to boil.

Maurice leaned against the cupboard watching her. ‘What've you been up to while the cat's been away?'

‘Not playing, if that's what you think. Sewing.' She glanced up. ‘I've an order to finish for Monday.'

‘And can't Hettie do it?' He didn't like to think of Jess always working, making clothes for the well-to-do women of their new neighbourhood. He felt it could damage their name here in Ealing; people always found a way of looking down on others. As an East End Jew he knew this all too well.

‘Hettie's at the Mission on a Saturday night, you know that.'

And because he was feeling edgy about the dressmaking business which Jess and Hettie ran from a small shop on the High Street, he grumbled on. ‘Sadie came up to the Picturedrome tonight,' he said.

‘Yes?' Jess handed him the cocoa, still smiling. ‘To see the great screen lover with her pals, I expect?'

Maurice didn't answer directly. ‘She was wearing that red outfit you made for her. You can't hardly miss her.'

Jess laughed. ‘Don't she look a picture?' She enjoyed the way Sadie chose to look these days. As a young and single woman, she
could get away with the new short skirts, the dark eye make-up and lip rouge.

Maurice grunted. ‘I expect Richie Palmer thinks so too.' He wandered off into the sitting-room, moved a newspaper from a low table and sat with his feet propped up, head back, trying to wind down.

‘Richie Palmer?' Jess had to call through from the kitchen. ‘What's he got to do with it?'

‘That's what I thought. But that's who she was with tonight. Richie Palmer from Rob and Walt's place.' He predicted to himself the effect this piece of news would have.

Jess came through, hands on hips. ‘Maurice, you ain't kidding me?'

He shook his head. ‘You could've knocked me down with a feather. What's she see in him, for God's sake?' They knew Richie only as the surly mechanic at the taxi depot; hardly a likely candidate for Sadie's attention, even if she wasn't already walking out with one of the bosses from there.

Jess frowned and shrugged. ‘It's her business. And I expect they was just friendly, that's all. You know how much Walter has to work these days. You can't blame Sadie for going out and enjoying herself.'

Maurice applied this to his own situation. The idea of Jess going out and enjoying herself, as she called it, touched a raw nerve. ‘Some would.' He bent forward to pick up the newspaper. ‘Like your pa, for instance.'

Jess went and crouched by his chair, one hand on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Maurice, don't go telling tales on Sadie! Pa's got enough to cope with.'

He glanced at her over the newspaper and curbed his next remark. Instead he said, ‘Why don't
you
have a quiet word with Sadie, then? Explain how it looks to other people when she goes two-timing Walter for some shady character like Richie Palmer.'

Jess breathed out sharply and stood up. ‘Maybe Sadie don't care how it looks to other people.'

‘Then she should, tell her.' Maurice closed the subject. ‘It says
here the Welsh miners are on strike again for more pay.' He pointed to a headline. ‘It's back to the old hunger marches, it seems like.'

Jess looked at the photograph of coal-blackened feces beneath worn-out caps; a ragged procession of half-starved men. ‘Quite right too. They deserve a decent living,' she said hotly.

‘But not strike for it. Look what happens to the whole blooming country if they go on strike, what with winter coming up.'

Jess turned away. There's no talking to you, Maurice.'

She went out into the polished hallway, automatically pausing to listen to any sound from the bedrooms. All was quiet, so she slipped into the front room to take up her sewing. Half an hour later, she heard her husband close the sitting-room door and go quietly upstairs. Then she switched on the radio, turning the loudspeaker volume low, listening as she cut and tacked the silvery cloth to news of hardship in the Welsh valleys; children working in the pits while her own two slept soundly in their beds.