Cockney Orphan (21 page)

Connie waited, hoping no one would notice her in the shadows. She had been faced with the choice of wearing her old coat or going without one. But the manner of their transport had settled the
question; riding bare shouldered in Ada’s borrowed frock on the seat of Taffy’s lorry didn’t seem appropriate.

So Connie had opted for her coat, hoping she could dispose of it quickly once inside Valentino’s. Noting the small cloakroom to the right no bigger than a large cupboard, she saw a young
woman appear behind the narrow counter. Connie was tempted to go over before Vic returned, but to her relief he was back immediately.

‘We’re now life members,’ he grinned, winking. ‘Thanks to Georgie. Now, let me take your coat.’ He slid it from her shoulders and Connie tried to hide her
embarrassment as he handed it over. But the girl didn’t seem to notice it was as old as the ark, and Vic whistled softly as he turned to admire her peach silk dress.

‘You look wonderful, Con.’

‘Do I?’

‘Are you sure you want to be seen out with the likes of me?

‘Don’t be daft.’ She flushed.

‘You’re dazzling, honest. I’ve got to keep blinking to see where I’m going.’ He took her hand and squeezed it.

‘As long as you keep hold of me, I don’t care.’

He bent and kissed her cheek softly, then guided her through the double doors. The air was filled with cigarette smoke, soft laughter and strong perfume. Couples sat at tables, all heads bent
close under the soft, romantic lights. To the left was a bar with a man in a white waistcoat serving the drinks. Above the bar stretched a wide mirror reflecting the back of the bartender and his
customers’ faces. In the centre of the room was a miniature dance floor, at present unoccupied. The white piano beyond had no player, though there was an ashtray and a half-filled glass on
top of it.

‘Oh, Vic, it’s so grand! I’ve only ever seen this sort of place in the films.’

He escorted her to a table and she glanced at the couples as they went. Some women wore ankle-length styles like herself and were partnered by clean-shaven men in dress suits. But there were
also service uniforms like Vic’s and a scattering of less formal frocks.

‘Would you like a cocktail?’ Vic asked as he pulled out her chair.

‘I’ve never had one.’

‘Well, it’s time to try.’

‘In that case, I’ll say yes. But I don’t really want anything but you,’ she whispered as they snuggled together in the darkness. ‘You’re all that
matters.’ Love was the strangest thing. When it hit you, you had no defence. You were trapped in its spell.

‘Two Manhattans, please.’

Connie realized the waitress was standing beside them, waiting for the order.

‘I don’t want to get tipsy,’ Connie whispered when she’d gone, ‘and embarrass myself.’

‘I’ll carry you if you fall over.’

She giggled. ‘You might have to. The last time I had a drink was when Dad got out the sherry after the roof fell in.’

The piano player returned in his smart dark suit and bow tie. He smiled, looking into the faces of his audience. His hands began to flow over the keys. Connie held her breath as Vic’s hand
tightened over hers. The strains of the popular hit ‘You Stepped Out of a Dream’ began to fill the room. Connie felt the tears rush to her eyes. She was so happy. As she looked into
Vic’s face and found him looking back at her she wanted to pinch herself to make certain she wasn’t dreaming.

‘Let’s dance,’ he said, pulling her up.

Connie stood on shaky legs. But once on the floor he held her tightly against him. She closed her eyes and moved in time with the music, almost by instinct. As she nuzzled close to his chest she
wondered what had happened to the old Connie. The single girl determined to resist love in pursuit of a better life. Her vision of the big manor, the lady of the house like she’d seen in the
film
Rebecca
, the gardens that stretched down to the cliffs, with rose bushes and croquet lawns, was all her imagination. Now the only dream she had was to live the rest of her life with
this man.

The melody changed to ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’. They swayed slowly, Vic’s hand pressed in the small of her back, his mouth touching the bare skin of her neck.
When the tempo changed to ‘You Must have Been a Beautiful Baby’, he sang the words in her ear, whirling her round the floor and into the next medley of songs.

‘To us, sweetheart. To our future,’ Vic said breathlessly as they took their seats and lifted their glasses.

‘Oh, Vic, I’m so happy. But I’m sad too. I don’t want to go back to reality.’

‘We’ll always have tonight, darling.’

‘Can we dance again?’

‘All night, if you like. What do you want him to play?’

She lowered her glass. ‘Can I chose?’

‘Of course you can.’

‘I’d like “Dancing in the Dark”. Wouldn’t it always remind us of tonight?’

‘No sooner said than done.’ She watched him weave between the chairs and tables, looking so tall and handsome in his new uniform as he made his way towards the piano. The pianist
glanced up and nodded, spinning his fingers across the keys.

‘Think of me whenever you hear this and your thoughts will reach me wherever I am,’ he whispered as he held her tightly on the dance floor.

She lifted her face, committing every detail to memory. She was Cinderella tonight, with her prince. And all too soon they would be rushing out of the door, in their case not to the coach and
six white horses to return to the castle, but to Taffy arriving in his lorry to drive them home.

G
ran opened the front door and searched the cloudy skies. The raids now had nothing like the intensity of the Blitz, and it was a relief. But the
Luftwaffe visits were still unpredictable. The warning siren was as disturbing as ever, though all she could hear was the sound of Barker Brown’s old nag, clip-clopping along the main road.
The rag-and-bone man was off to an early start. The inclement September weather, a gusty wind and continuous rainfall, had him encouraging the horse faster before a downpour.

There was a lot to be said for the old-fashioned methods of transport, Gran thought to herself as she tied on her scarf and buttoned up her coat. A horse and cart made a friendly noise, unlike
these new-fangled motor cars, frightening the daylights out of unsuspecting pedestrians. Vic had convinced her to ride in his car once or twice, but she wasn’t impressed. You couldn’t
put your foot down and stop it when you wanted, like a bicycle. And as for all that pulling and pushing of levers, well – what a game! No, she was quite satisfied to take her morning stroll
to the shops – even in the rain – by Shanks’s pony.

Once fully attired, Gran set off. Her umbrella blew sideways once or twice, but she held on grimly. Gran was an all-weather veteran. She prided herself on her resilience to the elements.

‘Hope yer wearing your long johns,’ a voice said beside her as she waited on the pavement to cross the street.

‘Oh, it’s you, Albie.’ She smiled at her next-door-but-one neighbour, Albert Cross. ‘And no, in answer to your question, I ain’t got me flannel drawers on
yet.’

Albie’s wizened face wrinkled into a grin. ‘Come on, let me take you across the road, before you fall over that bloody umbrella.’

Gran held out her elbow and Albie grabbed it. ‘Which way you going?’

‘Down the butcher’s.’

‘Me too. I’ll keep you company.’

It was a conversation they enjoyed regularly, old friends from a different generation, still around to tell the tale of a previous existence. Gran liked Albie. He’d been a costermonger in
his time, starting off in Cox Street as a barrow boy. She had known his wife, Elsie, a dressmaker, who had died a decade ago of TB, leaving behind a heartbroken partner. Not that Albie had let on.
His pride wouldn’t allow it.

‘Still can’t get used to all these missing houses,’ Albie complained as they walked. ‘Went by the old Star pram and mangle factory the other day. Nothing left of it. Same
with the Blackwall Mill and all those warehouses. Been there years they had. Snowdon Sons have moved out to Crawley I hear. As for the Clergy House of Saint John’s, it’s growing weeds
as tall as trees.’ He shook his head mournfully. ‘And I daren’t walk by the place where Bullivant’s factory stood. To think of all those poor buggers sheltering there, a
hundred by some estimates. All gonners that night in March last year. It still chokes me up something rotten.’

‘I know,’ agreed Gran soberly. ‘I’ve only got to stroll down Roserton Street or Cleveland Terrace and see the gaps, and think of all the people I’ve known a
lifetime, not there any more.’

‘Yeah, I was born in Chipka Street, you know. Nothing left of the old home now. Still, I suppose there’s not many who haven’t lost someone or somewhere. Speaking of which,
how’s your Vic? Saw he was home last month. Waved to me as he passed, looking the cat’s whiskers in that uniform of his.’

Gran nodded proudly. ‘Been on the Arctic run to Russia.’

‘Christ! Read about them convoys in the papers. Sitting ducks they are for the U-boats.’

‘I daren’t think about it, Albie.’

‘No, course not.’

Gran stopped to get her breath back. She had been walking too fast as usual. Harris’s the butcher’s was on the next corner. There would be a queue, but she fancied a nice tasty bit
of liver if she could get it.

‘You all right, gel?’

‘I’m not as young as some.’

‘I was rushing to keep up with you.’ Albie lifted the collar of his raincoat. ‘Fancy a cuppa in the café? My shout.’

Gran smiled a little wearily as she glanced across the road. ‘It’s rotten tea in there.’

‘Yeah, but think of the riveting company you’ll have. Worth a bit of poison for a laugh.’

Gran took her neighbour’s arm and they crossed the road once more. The glass window of the café was drenched in condensation. She wasn’t fussed about going in, but she was
puffing like a dray. She must remember to take it slower in future.

The café was warm inside, if damp. Albie bought two teas and they sat a safe distance from the wet window and the puddles pooling on the lino. The two other customers were dockers,
putting away plates of fried bread.

Gran examined her cup. She curled her lip. ‘As I suspected, dishwater.’

Albie laughed. ‘It’s hot dishwater, though.’

They drank in silence and Gran felt the tea warm her insides, even if the taste was unrecognizable. Albie rattled his false teeth in pleasure and sat back on the wooden chair with a sigh.
‘We should do this more often.’

Gran glanced at her companion. ‘I’ve got better things to do than waste my time in here.’

‘Such as?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘Don’t you ever get lonely, Alice?’

Gran felt a funny little stir at the mention of her name. Rarely was she called Alice. She had been known by all and sundry for years as Gran. Alice was part of ancient history. But then so was
Albie.

‘Why should I be?’

‘Your grandson’s at sea, that’s why.’

‘That doesn’t make me lonely.’ She regretted her sharp tone and said a little softer, ‘Women are more resilient, got more stamina in their later years.’

‘My Elsie hadn’t.’

Gran sighed heavily. ‘She was a good wife, Albert.’

He nodded, a quiver of a smile on his lips. ‘Like your Maurice.’

Gran reached for her damp brolly. ‘Well, this won’t do.’

‘Blimey, are we off already?’

‘Needs must.’

He chuckled as he stood up. ‘You didn’t give me time to try out me courting tactics.’

Gran smiled ruefully as she gathered her bag and umbrella. ‘You keep your tactics to yourself.’

As they approached the door, it opened and a man entered. Gran stood still as he rudely pushed past, and Albie muttered, ‘Watch your step, chum!’

Gran turned slowly, her heart dipping as the man ignored them and pulled out a chair. He sank down on it, beginning to undo the buttons of his suit. Thin features, eyes set too close, an
opportunist’s face. Her eyesight wasn’t up to scratch these days, but she was almost certain . . . yes, she had seen him before. She couldn’t forget lights like that. The dark,
muddy brown . . .

Albie squared his shoulders. ‘Bloody ignorant, some people.’

Gran pulled him with her through the door and into the fresh air. The rain was coming down harder.

Albie stared at her, his brow furrowed. ‘Don’t forget to put yer brolly up.’

Gran nodded, though she wasn’t for once concerned about a few drops of water. It was those lights that had upset her. Just like the ones round Connie.

‘I’m glad you’ve called, I’ve got something to tell you,’ Pat said as she showed Connie into the front room. A fire was burning and there were
toys scattered on the rug in front of it. ‘Laurie’s just gone to the park with Doris for an hour. Give me your coats and Lucky can play with her toys.’

When Lucky was settled, Pat sat next to Connie. ‘We’ve just had some bad news. Laurie received his call-up this morning.’

‘I thought Laurie’s security job at Kenward’s was safe.’

‘The firm is cutting down on staff and moving out to Rayleigh. Laurie wasn’t asked to go with them. Not that I’d want him to go away, but if it meant him not having to join up,
I would have agreed.’

‘When has he got to go?’

‘Next week.’

‘That’s a bit short notice.’

‘They’re recruiting all and sundry now.’ She looked down at Lucky. ‘We’re trying to make the best of it for Doris’s sake.’

‘What have you told her?’

‘Just that Daddy is going away for a while but will be home soon.’

‘I’m really sorry, Pat.’

‘Can’t be helped I suppose,’ sighed Pat, trying to be cheerful as she pushed her thick brown hair from her face. ‘Anyway, that’s enough of our troubles. How are
you?’

‘All right – well, I was until this afternoon. I’ve just been round to Gran’s and she wasn’t her usual self. I wondered if you knew why. Is it because of Laurie, do
you think?’

Pat frowned. ‘She doesn’t know yet. When you say upset, do you mean ill?’

‘No, at least I don’t think so.’ Connie was bewildered. ‘She told me she’d read her cup and there was a big exclamation mark in it. She didn’t know who it was
for, but thought she would tell me to be on the safe side. She did seem worried, though, kept asking funny questions, like had anything queer happened lately?’