Memories of You (19 page)

 

 

I've been in London for four months now. Dorothy has been as good as her word and looked after me. She persuaded Stefano to take me on as she'd promised. ‘Go on,' she'd said, ‘you know how hard we northern lasses work,' and he had to agree.

I like working at Stefano's. Being a waitress is incredibly hard work but it's so interesting. Stefano is a pet lamb but Marina, his wife, is a tartar. Here in Greek Street the customers are a varied bunch, much more diverse than the clientele of the Cosy Café at home in Newcastle.

Living with Dorothy can be trying at times. She isn't the world's best housewife – or anywhere near. Sometimes I tease her, asking her what she will do if Mr Barker asks her to marry him.

‘Oh, I shan't have to do any cooking or housework,' is her usual answer. ‘I shall be living in a nice house in Pinner and I shall have a maid and a cook and someone to come in and do the washing and ironing.'

She makes a joke of it but a long time ago I suspected that Mr Barker, whom I've never actually met, is never going to make an honest woman of her because he is already married. But, even though we are the best of friends, I've never felt able to ask Dorothy about this.

Dorothy and I seldom go out together. She spends as much time as possible with Mr Barker and, in any case, we very rarely have the same days off work. So I explore London on my own. I bought maps and guide books just like a tourist. I go to look at interesting buildings, I visit museums and art galleries, I love the old markets, and I go to the pictures.

I've recorded all this in my daily jottings, but what I haven't admitted until now is that as I'm walking along busy streets I'm not just taking in the passing show. I know the Partingtons are here because I see pieces about Mrs Partington's social life in the society pages of the newspapers that customers leave in the café. I haven't found out where they live. They aren't listed in the telephone directories – there are so many for London – but it seems that you don't have to be if you choose not to.

So I go into the most fashionable shops and look at rich women buying clothes for themselves and their daughters. Elsie will be twelve years old now. Perhaps she no longer looks like a child but I'll recognize her. Of course I will. The question is, will she recognize me, and if she does what will I do? The likelihood of bumping into them in a shop like this is far-fetched, I know, but I spend hours imagining it might happen.

Could Joe and Danny have come to London? This is a place where they would be able to vanish if they wanted to. But why would they want to vanish? Why didn't they just come to me when they ran away from Haven House? What happened there? Whatever it was, didn't they know that I would have done anything in my power to help them?

But of course they didn't know that. How could they? What use had I been to them? I had allowed the family to be split up and the only promise I had given was that one day we would be together again. I don't blame them for not putting much faith in that. Wherever they are, I'm sure that Joe will take care of things. At least that's what I tell myself.

What if they aren't in London? What if they aren't even in the British Isles? They could have gone to Liverpool and made for America. That's one of my worst fears. I try not to think about it.

The second Christmas without my sister and brothers, but I haven't had time to brood. Stefano kept the restaurant open and I was amazed at how busy it was. What sort of people would prefer to eat in a restaurant rather than at home on Christmas Day?

Well, some people have to work, Christmas Day or not. A lively bunch of girls from one of the theatres came in and ordered the full Christmas dinner. How on earth were they going to do their high kicks, Dorothy wondered, when they were full of turkey and roast potatoes, stuffing and plum pudding? All the while the girls were eating they kept glancing hopefully at a couple of serious-looking men at the next table. The men were dressed in pinstripe suits and they were obviously discussing business. Dorothy said they had an office in Wardour Street and were part of a film company.

Then there were some of the usual bunch of reporters, men and women who work in Fleet Street.
He
was there – Matthew Renshaw, they call him, he doesn't come in often. I think he works abroad a lot. Dorothy showed me a report in a newspaper that he had written from Berlin. It was serious stuff. Political. All about the Nazi party winning one hundred and seven seats in the Reichstag, that's the German parliament, and it was obvious from the way Matthew had written his report that he didn't think that was a good thing.

When he does come to the restaurant he looks as though he's got a lot on his mind. Even when he gives his order from the menu he barely glances at you. He's tall and not exactly skinny but looks as though he could do with a few more good meals. He wears a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and Dorothy says he looks like a schoolmaster or a socialist. His face is interesting rather than handsome, and a swoop of dark hair sort of flops over his forehead. Sometimes I wonder how much he can actually see through the lenses of those owlish glasses of his. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't recognize me if we met outside the restaurant and I try not to let this bother me. Why should it?

Today he didn't seem to notice what he was eating, even though he emptied his plate. I would have taken him seconds at no extra cost if only he had smiled at me.

As well as the workers there are the lonely people, who haven't got a proper home to go to, and there are a lot of people like that in London. They live in flats and bedsitting rooms in rundown houses that were once grand mansions with whatever possessions they have managed to bring with them. There are always rumours that some of them have smuggled the family jewels out by stitching them into their clothing. Particularly the Russians. Well, if they have, good luck to them. How else are they going to live?

All over Europe, it seems, there are people leaving their homes and walking for miles until they find somewhere safer to live. ‘DPs', Stefano calls them, Displaced Persons who just happen to be the wrong religion or race, even if their ancestors have lived in their towns or villages for hundreds of years.

Groups form like little social clubs and they come to Stefano's at their own special time on their own special day and discuss in their own languages the news from home. Stefano says that none of them will ever go home again and, what's more, it's going to get much worse before it gets better – if it ever does. From reading Matthew's report it would seem that he agrees with him.

Everyone was very jolly until they started singing and then people began to cry. Songs from their homelands, I suppose, which brought back painful memories. Marina was having none of it. ‘For God's sake, this is Christmas Day!' she announced in that smoky voice of hers. ‘We're supposed to be rejoicing.' She said that we would sing some proper carols and she persuaded, well, let's be honest, ordered, Stefano to take the lead.

What a surprise. Our boss has the most haunting tenor voice; his customers listened in amazement and Marina's purpose to jolly everyone up was defeated when people started to cry again at the sheer beauty of it.

Nevertheless everyone was agreed that we'd had a good time.

 

Dear Helen,

Well, here's my monthly report although I don't have much to tell you. Your aunt doesn't change. She still complains about everything and she is making no effort to help herself. In my opinion she could do a lot more than she does but she likes to play the martyr. Dr Salkeld calls on her every week – sometimes twice – and then sends in his bill, no doubt.

And there's the chemist, too. Whenever your aunt reads of some miracle potion or pill in one of her magazines, some newly discovered vitamin or other, she sends me along to buy whatever it is. Honestly, Helen, you should see her bedside table. And the smell of some of those bottles is disgusting. All they seem to do is make her fatter. My mam says lying around in bed or on the sofa all day and eating as much as she does will kill her rather than the stroke she had.

At least she doesn't interfere with the way I run the house. So long as I keep serving up good grub and doing the basic housework, she doesn't complain too much. Mind you, she keeps me on the hop, so now my younger sister, Louie, calls by when she can to run errands for me. I've got to be honest with you, Helen, when Louie calls she often stays to eat with me. I hope you don't think that's dishonest – particularly as your aunt doesn't know about it.

Well, Helen, that's it for this month. I look forward to your reply as ever. News from the big city and all!

As usual I end by saying there haven't been any letters for you. You know I would forward them if there had been.

Yours truly,

Eva