East End Jubilee (13 page)

‘Yes, I can see that, and I’m sorry to intrude,’ he apologized in a sincere tone. ‘But you see, I really believe in everyone having a bite of the apple, not just a
privileged few. A woman shoulders the lion’s share of household chores. Washing, ironing, cleaning and sweeping. It’s about time, don’t you think, she had assistance?’ He
fanned the paper gently in the air. ‘Just read one of these in your spare time.’

‘I haven’t got any,’ Rose said grudgingly, though she admired him for his persistence. In a vague way he reminded her of Eddie. He was nothing like him to look at, as blond as
Eddie was dark with deep-set blue eyes that held none of Eddie’s natural humour, but he was trying hard to sell against impossible odds.

To her surprise he nodded fiercely. ‘You couldn’t have said a truer word. Time is of the essence for busy housewives.’

She had to smile. ‘Don’t you ever give up?’

‘Not when I think I can help.’

‘You haven’t helped me so far,’ she replied with a straight face. ‘You’ve just stopped me polishing my step.’

He looked down, then moved back. ‘Ah, yes the step. Well, Mrs—?’

‘Weaver,’ Rose provided letting go of the door and placing her hands on her hips. ‘Now you’re going to tell me you’ve got a miracle machine up your sleeve for
polishing steps?’

He laughed then, a wide smile creasing across his face. ‘I’d be a millionaire by now if I could claim that distinction. But I do have something else to offer. It’s called elbow
grease, plain and simple.’ And, before she could protest, he got down on his haunches, dropping his leaflets down by the wall and grabbing her duster. ‘I used to do this for my mother
every Sunday morning,’ he told her as he polished briskly. ‘Only our step was white and she insisted on Dad and me and me sisters stepping over it whenever we came in or went out, not
on it. When we forgot we’d get a right rollicking. Now, for the final touch.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and spat on it, then rubbed the stone very hard.

‘Don’t! You’ll stain it!’ Rose cried out in alarm.

‘A few years ago that might have been true, Mrs Weaver. But not now. This handkerchief would come up like new in a washing machine.’ His blue eyes were twinkling. ‘In fact this
has given me an idea. All those steps along there need polishing, right? And what with? Dusters, yes? Now what’s the best way to clean a filthy duster?’

‘To buy one of your washing machines no doubt,’ Rose answered dryly.

‘See your duster there, I’ll take it away and clean it for you. Ten to one you won’t recognize it again.’

Rose shook her head slowly. ‘No thanks, I’ll keep me duster and you keep your washing machine, but I give you ten out of ten for trying.’

‘Oh well, some you win some you lose,’ he concluded happily to himself, and she watched in amusement as he returned his concentration to her step. ‘Not a bad job if I say so
myself,’ he nodded with a last flourish.

‘You’d better not put that hanky back in your pocket. It’s filthy and so are your hands.’

He waved them comically in the air. ‘Oh, that’ll soon come off.’

‘Not without soap and water it won’t.’ She couldn’t help laughing as he rose to his feet inspecting the bright red stains on his fingers and making a face.

‘Ah well, it’s nice to have a laugh,’ he chuckled as he picked up his leaflets and left red finger-marks all over them. ‘And you’ve got a lovely smile. Really
smashing.’

Rose knew it was pure flattery, but she took pity on him. ‘You’d better come in and wash those hands before you leave. You can’t walk up the road like that. The kitchen’s
through there. I’m leaving this door wide open, mind.’

‘To let in the breeze no doubt,’ he said dumping his leaflets on the ground and entering the hall.

‘No, to let you out again. So be on your best behaviour. The soap’s under the sink, behind the curtain.’

‘Where?’

Reluctantly she went after him. ‘Behind this curtain here.’

‘All right, I’ll find it.’

‘No you won’t, you’re a man.’

They looked at one another. Suddenly they were both laughing.

‘Yes, that does put me at a disadvantage,’ he agreed, the smile lingering on his lips as she stared into his eyes. A disturbing little flutter in her stomach caused her to breathe
sharply in. They stood quietly then, in the silence of the kitchen, the bar of soap still in her hand. Rose felt a warm wave of pleasure flow over her as he looked at her, the blue of his pupils
turning to slate. Then suddenly she realized she was standing there like a fool and her pleasure turned to embarrassment. ‘Here,’ she said abruptly, ‘take it.’

He reached out and the tips of his fingers drew lightly across her skin. She snatched her hand away as if she’d been scalded.

‘Don’t worry, I’m harmless,’ he said quickly. ‘You can boot me out as soon as I’m clean.’

‘Don’t worry, I will.’ Rose turned and folded a towel that was hanging over the back of a chair. She felt distinctly strange and kept her face averted as Bobby Morton splashed
his hands vigorously under the cold water.

A minute later he was drying them on the towel she had just taken so much care to fold. ‘You know, you could fit a washing machine in nicely under there.’ He nodded to the draining
board.

Rose rolled her eyes once more. ‘I told you, I’m not interested.’

‘Can I ask why are you so opposed to washing machines?’ he asked curiously, handing her back the towel. This time she kept her fingers well out of reach.

‘I’m not. It’s televisions I don’t like.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘I don’t like televisions,’ Rose repeated, wondering why she was having so much difficulty with an ordinary sort of conversation. Was it because her instincts told her that
Bobby Morton wasn’t exactly an ordinary kind of visitor?

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he answered, with a perplexed look on his face. ‘As I said, they’re very popular now. Especially with families.’

‘Not this family they’re not,’ she snapped. ‘Now, if you’re finished?’ Without waiting for a reply she marched along the hall, pulling the front door open.
‘Don’t forget your leaflets, either.’

Still looking baffled, her visitor walked past her. He piled his leaflets into his arms, then stood erect. ‘Well, thank you for being so hospitable.’ His long fair lashes reminded
Rose of a big, friendly puppy just waiting to be acknowledged. ‘And I know what you’re thinking, that all I’m after is a sale, and maybe that was true – initially. But
you’ve been kind enough to give me your time—’ He stopped and added shyly, ‘and your lovely smile. To be honest, I haven’t even managed to get one lead. So,
well, just – thank you.’

Rose felt awful now. She had been rather rude and he looked so dejected. He was thanking her for a smile – which cost nothing except the effort. The truth was, if he’d been an old
man, trying to earn a few pennies towards his retirement, she might even have offered him a cup of tea. ‘All right, I believe you,’ she conceded, ‘though thousands wouldn’t.
By the way, what do you mean by a “a lead”?’

‘It’s where someone says they’re interested in one of your appliances,’ he explained eagerly. ‘Then you say, would you like a demonstration? They say how much is a
demonstration and I say, no cost at all. Then they say they’ll ask their husbands and before they change their mind I ask what time’s convenient to call again? It’s all a lead-up,
you see, to a sale.’

Rose laughed. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re going away empty-handed from here. Despite me shining step I still don’t want to buy anything. You know, you might have done better
with mops and brooms.’

‘Yes, possibly,’ he nodded. ‘But I had this dream, you see. When I was in the desert with sand right up to me eyeballs, I promised myself if I ever survived Rommel’s lot,
I’d do something special with me life, not fritter it away. So when I was demobbed I trained with the electricity company and Bob’s your uncle, I discovered me calling.’

‘You were in the desert?’ she asked in astonishment.

‘Yes. North Africa.’

‘It was rotten out there.’

‘Yeah, well, it was hot,’ he joked lightly.

‘My husband was in France,’ Rose replied. ‘He had a rotten time too. But I always knew he’d come home.’

Again, they stood in silence, but this time no words were needed to convey the emotions that these memories evoked.

‘He was a lucky bloke,’ Bobby Morton said at last, looking deep into her eyes. ‘Lucky to have the girl of his dreams waiting for him. Perhaps that was the reason he did make it
home safely, eh?’

Rose could hear the sounds that made up her life; a horse and cart somewhere, children yelling, a boat’s hooter, a distant wireless set. But as she stared into the young man’s gaze,
her ears were suddenly full of her own heart’s heavy and excited beat.

‘Well, I’d best be on my way.’ He paused a few seconds longer, then turned.

Rose couldn’t stop herself. ‘Wait! Wait a minute, er . . . Bobby!’

He swivelled round and stood uncertainly on the pavement.

‘Give me one of those things. I’ll read it if I can find the time.’ She held out her hand. ‘But taking it doesn’t mean to say I’m interested in buying
anything.’

He walked towards her and handed her a leaflet. Rose grasped it almost afraid to look into his face as she took it. But she did and her tummy flipped all over again.

Bobby Morton said nothing, just smiled and it was Rose who ended the moment, hurrying indoors to close the door without looking back.

Placing the leaflet on the coat-stand, she waited, holding her hands over her burning cheeks. The temptation was irresistible. She hurried into the front room and looked out of the window. A
tall, fair-haired, broad-shouldered figure was standing outside the Parkers’. Would Olga answer the door? He waited, but after no reply, swivelled slowly on his heel.

Rose dodged back behind the curtain as he glanced across the road. Her heart was thumping heavily and she swallowed. A few minutes later she dared to peep again. The street, as far as she could
see, was empty. Bobby Morton had gone, but Rose was still, as her mum would have remarked, ‘all of a fluster’.

It was Saturday evening and Rose was in the backyard, sweeping the cracked paving stones. The girls sometimes played hopscotch on them and the chalk marks were still visible
from their last game. The worn brown grass in between sprouted dandelions and thistle and a few brave daisies had unwisely reared their pretty heads.

The soft and balmy air made her think of her own childhood evenings spent playing with Em in this yard, just as Donnie and Marlene did. Only then her father had planted dahlias and snapdragons
mixed with wallflowers that seemed to grow without any trouble at all under his supervision. Unlike her own children who had carte blanche when it came to the yard, Rose recalled with a smile her
father’s strict orders as to where they could play and where they could not.

On Sunday mornings she and Em would walk to Granny’s house at Blackwall. Her grandfather smoked a clay pipe which had seemed to be an extension of his moustache and long grey beard. The
living quarters of their elderly relatives had consisted of the ground floor of a small terraced house. It was here her mother had been born as the eldest of seven children though only three had
survived. Here the family had lived until her mother left home to marry her father who worked in the offices of the Port of London Authority.

The memory of their visits was still clear in her mind. She could taste, even now, the distinctive carraway-seed cake that was baked especially for their visits. The ritual was always the same:
elevenses taken in the kitchen, a big room dominated by a huge black cooking range. The table spread filled most of the room, its wooden top scrubbed daily with Sunlight soap by Gran dressed in her
long black skirt and white pinafore. On top of the table stood the cake and best china cups and Gran would pour rich dark tea from a heavy brown teapot that seemed to contain far in excess of their
needs.

Granddad would sit puffing away, his sombre gaze never leaving their faces as they ate the wedges of cake that Gran served up. Granddad rarely spoke, just puffed and watched. It had been Gran
who had asked after her mother and tried to extract what little information she could obtain from her two awe-struck grandchildren.

Rose smiled to herself as she set aside the broom and leaned against the fence, once more recalling the yard in her father’s time. It would have been unheard of then to threaten the safety
of the flowers with any larking about. She and Em had always played, as Marlene and Donnie were doing now, in the street. Those were the carefree days of the mid-1930s when the islanders were still
oblivious of the horror of war to come.

Rose wondered if her dad and mum were watching now from some silver-lined cloud and feeling proud of their two granddaughters, even if they had wrecked the yard he had tried so hard to
cultivate. Her parents had never seen her children, never held their newborn bodies in their loving arms. They would have made the perfect grandparents, but it was not meant to be. Even so, Rose
had a faith that went beyond everyday life and felt certain they were there, guarding and guiding her girls.

Just then a loud curse came from behind her and Rose turned to see Anita pushing her bike through the kitchen door and into the garden.

‘Hello, love. I’m getting too old for this lark,’ Anita muttered as she leaned her bicycle against the fence, tugging her overalls from the saddlebag and wiping her damp
forehead with the back of her wrist.

‘At least the rain kept off,’ Rose commented looking up at the overcast sky. It had grown humid and still. ‘You should catch a bus to work and give yourself a break.’

‘Saving up, ain’t I?’ Anita bent down and squeezed the front tyre. ‘Sod it, I’ve got a slow puncture.’ She gave the wheel a token kick, then grinned at Rose.
‘Did you get to market today?’

‘No. Thought I’d give it a miss and do some housework.’

‘When’s dinner, Mum?’ Alan called from the back door.

Anita glowered at her son. ‘I was hoping you had it there on the table awaiting me arrival,’ she yelled, hands on hips.