All The Days of My Life (14 page)

“If you fall,” he called up, “for Gawd's sake fall away from me and the beer.”

The man up the ladder grinned down, pointing in the direction of Mrs Fainlight, still thumping away, indicating that should he fall he would be sure to fall on her. At this point Mrs Fainlight changed over to “Less Than the Dust Beneath Thy Chariot Wheels.” The man at the foot of the ladder mimed pulling it away.

“Sid!” called Ivy from the table. “Are you mad? What're you doing up a bleeding ladder when our Mary's just come back?”

“Gawd!” Sid exclaimed, turning his head sharply. “Well, I never did –” and at this came hurrying down the ladder. “Mary, love. I reckoned you wouldn't be here yet. I'm just coming up the street when they urged me up a ladder. Well –” He hugged her, then held her at arm's length. Finally he said, “What a lovely little girl. And aren't we glad to have her back.”

Mary looked at him wordlessly. He was still in his busdriver's uniform, red in the face, holding the tankard the ladder-holder had thoughtfully thrust into his hand. He had very blue eyes. She smiled and said, “Hullo, Dad.” A sharp voice behind called out, “Mary! Mare – hey, Mary!” It was Cissie Messiter, skinny as a rake, hurrying up as fast as she could come, with a huge, rather dirty toddler clutched to her. “Long time no see,” she said over the child's head. “Where's Jack?”

“He's in Framlingham, Mr Twining wanted him on the farm,” said Mary.

“Poor old Jack – miss the party,” Cissie said. “Here – move over. I can't stand up any longer with this lump. How am I expected to enjoy myself carting this lot around the whole time?”

“Is he your brother?” asked Mary.

“Yes,” said Cissie. “He's called Arthur – the names Mum's given us are shocking. Talk about old-fashioned – I'm changing my name to Sandra when I get older. When did you get back?”

“In the afternoon,” said Mary.

“Oh – in the afternoon, your ladyship,” said Cissie, mocking Mary's accent. “You'll have to drop that posh voice now you're back here – the other kids'll bash you if you don't – coo, it's lovely to see you back.”

“Thanks,” said Mary, touched. “Shall I hold the baby for a little while? You could go and play.”

Cissie looked at her dubiously, “I don't think so,” she said. “Any-way, I'm stopping here. I want my tea. When're they going to set us off?”

“Waiting for the vicar,” Sid told her glumly.

“What for?” said Cissie.

“He's going to ask a blessing. Mrs Fainlight and one of the other women insisted,” he said. “Seems a bit unnecessary to me.”

“You're a rotten heathen, that's why,” said Ivy.

“Haven't seen you in church since our Shirley was christened,” said Sid. “Shift up, Arnold,” he said to the man opposite Cissie and Mary. “Let me sit down opposite our Mary. It's been too long since I seen her.”

Cissie was carrying out a running commentary for Mary. “Look – there's Peg's mum – she's had a drop or two. Lipstick inches thick – swaying to and fro – who's that behind her? It's that GI, the one what gives her the gum and the fags and the chocolate bars for Peg. My mum says that won't be all he gives her if she don't watch out – ooh, there's Mrs Flanders in her new dress. Oh, hullo, Mrs Jones,” she said, as a plump woman of about thirty-five came past in high-heeled shoes and a tight red dress. Behind her marched a red-faced sergeant in United States army uniform. “See those nylons?” said Cissie. “Did you hear-no, you wouldn't have – well, old Tom comes in the stables early one morning to harness up his horse and who comes down the stairs from her place but – guess what? – a blackie. I'm not lying – black as the ace of spades he was, said old Tom. His hands and all – what do you think of that?”

“An African?” asked Mary, thinking of the pictures in her book at Framlingham.

“African?” said Cissie. “Oh, cor, where have you been? Half these Yanks are black, didn't you know? They got taken there to be slaves hundreds of years ago and they never let them go home. Dad – Dad,” she called out to a thin man passing by. “Did you bring me any sweets, Dad?” But the thin man just walked past on the pavement. “He's well away,” said Cissie philosophically. “Believe it or not, he's had six pints already. At least. Look – there's Mannie.”

Mannie Frankel came up. He was much taller than Mary remembered. “Mary just come back from the country this afternoon,” Cissie explained.

“Bet that's a relief after all them fields and cows,” said Mannie. “Here – when are we going to get our tea?”

“Waiting for the vicar,” said Cissie.

Mannie said, tactfully, “D'you bring any eggs with you, Mare?”

“No,” Mary said, “I never thought.”

Two women now dragged a huge tea urn, hissing and spitting, up the street on a baby's pram and hoisted it on to the table. Some men rolled another beer cask past the table and set it on a crate at the other end. On the pavement Cissie Messiter's cousin Dorothy danced, slowly, with another girl, to the sounds of Mrs Fainlight's “Onaway, Awake, Beloved.” Children left the table to play and were called back.

Passing the piano Cissie's dad sang, “Roll me over in the clover. Roll me over in the clover and do it again.”

“George!” came Mrs Messiter's anguished voice from the tea urn.

“Hasn't anyone in this street got a gramophone,” moaned Mannie Frankel.

“I'm not sitting here a minute longer waiting for the vicar,” Sid declared. “By the time he turns up there won't be nothing worth blessing – look, there's flies all round them cakes.”

“There he is,” said Cissie, pointing. It was Mr Burns, the schoolmaster, in a black suit, coming round the corner with the vicar, in his dark suit and dog collar.

“Let's hope he keeps it short,” Sid said audibly.

From the head of the table the vicar gave a short address, thanking God for the Allied victory over the forces of darkness and calling a blessing down on the celebrations of the proud and humble alike. With a grateful “amen” from some of the men and women round the table and a mutter of general agreement from the others, the children let rip with their sticky fingers and, as soon as the vicar had disappeared round the corner, the men called out vigorously for more beer.

“Now then, Mrs Fainlight,” Ivy called encouragingly. “Come and have a break and have your tea.”

“How about a knees-up?” called out Cissie's father.

“Ignore him,” said Ivy. “He's drunk.”

“I can see that perfectly well myself,” replied Mrs Fainlight, distantly, taking up her bag and going down the table to where Lil Messiter and a friend were filling the big, white china cups with tea. Arthur, the baby, knocked over his lemonade. Mary, now famished, ate three buns before anyone could stop her. Not, she suspected, that anyone here would. Sid, in fact, looked at her approvingly. “That's my girl,” he said.

“Nice cup of tea, Mrs Fainlight,” Lil Messiter said encouragingly. The tea cups went round the table.

“Thank Christ it's all over,” said Sid, holding a cheese sandwich. “D'you know I don't think, till I sat down here, I realized it.”

“No more rationing,” said Ivy feelingly.

“No more fighting,” said Joe Flanders, appearing at Sid's shoulder with a mug of beer.

Marge Jones appeared, still swaying, at the end of the table, with her American. It caused a slight chill. People did not really like Englishwomen to associate with Americans – it was felt to be a minor form of collaboration. But Marge said, “Here, folks. Marvin's got his camera. He wants to take a picture of us all – how about it?”

Finally, after a lot of pushing and shoving and shifting of places and slappings of children, and clearings of debris from the table so that it would look nice and fresh, Meakin Street arranged itself, standing and sitting along the length of the table.

Young Jim Flanders stood on a chair at the top, by the tea urn, solemnly playing “God Save the King” on his mouth organ, and old Granny Smith, whom the rowdy Smith family had only just remembered to haul out of the house, was right at the bottom in her wheelchair. Beside her stood old Tom Totteridge, an elderly man in a flat cap and collarless shirt, solemnly holding the bridle of his horse, Tony. In the middle Ivy and Mrs Messiter stood side by side, like a wedding couple, both holding the handle of Ivy's breadknife, which was posed over the big, iced VE Day cake. As Marvin stood ready on the other side of the street there was complete silence but for Jim, still playing his mouth organ. The shutter clicked and all Meakin Street took up the end of the song “Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us. God save the King.” The people who had been on the other side of the table then went back into position and the jolly, often tipsy, street party went on.

Nevertheless, there were sad memories, even though no one referred to them – memories of air raids, of the Jypps, who had lived at number 35, next to the stables where old Tom kept his horse, and who had been blown to pieces, along with the house, during the blitz. There was the gap too, where number 7 and number 9 Meakin Street had once stood, until hit by a doodlebug only the year before. Both families had been out, down at the Marquis of Zetland at the bottom of Meakin Street, so luckily the only casualty was an old lady who lived upstairs who had been flung out into the street when the rocket hit. She was a mass
of broken bones when the rescue squad picked her up and she never stopped asking for a cup of tea all the way to the hospital. So there were the gaps in the buildings and gaps in families, too. Mrs Sinclair, a widow, had refused to come to the party. Her only son had been killed at Tobruk. Two other men had died, one on the Atlantic convoys, one in Germany. In spite of the victory, everyone was tired. They all knew the general loss.

As evening came, the street lamps went on and darkness seemed to take away the memories. The adults had all had a drink or two, the children ran wild, rushing to and fro and shouting louder and louder. Mary, still a dazed stranger, ran with them, in and out of houses, seeing here a proudly kept room, with glass ornaments on the mantelpiece and well swept grate beneath, there an upstairs room where a whole family lived – beds covered with dirty blankets, a grate filled with uncleared ashes, a pile of clothes in a corner. In one house a baby lay in a cot, screaming himself hoarse. In another a row of three wooden elephants brought back by an old soldier who had been in the Indian army, marched across a table. “Let's pinch them,” said bold, ginger-headed Harry Smith. But the others told him not to. In Tom Totteridge's stable on the corner old Tony snorted and shifted on his straw. From upstairs came thumps and whispers from Marge Jones and her Marvin. The children clustered in the doorway turned and fled.

In the middle of the street beer kegs now stood on the tables. The older or quieter residents had disappeared and Joe Flanders had captured the piano – although Mrs Fainlight looked out continually from behind her clean net curtains to make sure nothing was happening to it. Joe was thumping out the old favourites which, as everyone got drunker, swung between sentimentality and cheerfulness:

“If I could plant a tiny seed of love” everybody sang,

“In the garden of your heart,

Would it grow to be a great big flower one day

Or would it pine and fade away?”

There was “Knocked 'Em in the Old Kent Road” and a few choruses of “Maybe It's Because I'm a Londoner”, which brought tears to Ivy's eyes. Joe Flanders, who secretly fancied her, slid his arm round the piano and gave her buttocks a squeeze, shouting out quickly, to prevent a protest, “Come on, everybody – how about a knees-up?” The old rallying cry got everybody going. As the door of the Marquis of Zetland swung to and fro the street filled with the sound of singing and
the dance began. Some danced in couples, Sid with Ivy, old Mrs Messiter with old Tom Totteridge, Marge Jones, who had reappeared with Marvin, teaching the steps to the amazed American. Some danced alone, hands on hips, doing the peculiar ducking and bending step which must have been taken from some ancient country dance and was now the special property of Londoners having a good time. Everyone joined in, even little children like Shirley dancing away by herself on the pavement, her face puckered with concentration as she watched the others to make sure she got it right. Even Mary, still in the carefully-laundered dress and little white socks, now very grubby, joined in holding Harry Smith's hand.

“Knees up, Mother Brown,

Knees up, Mother Brown –

Under the table you must go,

Ee i, ee i, ee i oh.

If I catch you bending

I'll cut your head right off.

Knees up, knees up,

Don't get the breeze up

Knees up, Mother Brown.”

Then everybody shouted “Oi!” loudly.

“One more time,” shouted Marvin, carried away by it all. So they started up again but Mary, winded, tired and a bit alarmed by Harry Smith, who was a bad, wild boy, strolled away from the music and dancing alone and was quite pleased to find herself at the top corner of Meakin Street, under the lamp, while lower down the celebration went on. Standing there, opposite Tom Totteridge's stable, she felt a little afraid but, suddenly, quite calm.

On the other side of Wattenblath Street the high wall loomed. Mary crept a little closer to the corner of Meakin Street and peered round it, to see what the other street looked like. There, to her left, outside one of the little houses, she saw the figure of a man in a dark suit. He stood under one of the lamp posts, which tilted slightly into the street. He was standing very still. Mary got frightened and ducked back round the corner. She was about to set off down Meakin Street towards the people when a voice called out, “Mary.” She jumped. Her little heart banged in her chest. Biting her bottom lip she took a step forward and peered round the corner again, ready to run like the wind.