On Mother Brown's Doorstep (14 page)

‘Everybody’ll know soon, of course,’ said Boots, ‘but the papers might not mention it’s now an Adams yard.’

‘Well, with the weddin’ comin’ up, yer know, Boots.’

‘We’re all looking forward to it, Jim.’

‘Special special it’s goin’ to be for Susie.’

‘And a revelation to Sammy, I’d say,’ said Boots, and the lurking hint of amusement turned into a smile.

The midday editions of the evening papers came up with the news of the discovery of a girl’s body in a scrap yard in Bermondsey. The possibility that she’d been murdered was hinted at. Mr Brown felt certain the police had no doubts. The pathologist’s report was expected today, and the papers informed their readers that the police were trying to establish the girl’s identity by checking their lists of missing persons.

‘Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Brown,’ smiled Mr Greenberg as the good lady opened the door to him. ‘And vhat a pleasant day, ain’t it?’

‘Oh, I suppose a nice drop of rain is doin’ someone some good,’ said Mrs Brown in her agreeable way. No disillusioned male could ever have said Mrs Brown was a contrary female. ‘’Ave you brought the bikes, Mr Green-berg?’

Mr Greenberg’s small pony and cart stood outside the house. The well-known rag-and-bone man also had a horse and cart.

‘Vell, how could I let Susie down? Vhat a happy young lady she is, ain’t it? Might I bring the bikes in, Mrs Brown?’

‘I’d be ever so obliged,’ said Mrs Brown proudly. Some neighbours were on their doorsteps, watching through the light shower of rain. It could make any woman proud to have neighbours witnessing two bikes going into her house. ‘And I’m that glad you’re deliverin’ now, as Sally and Freddy will be home from school in half an hour.’

‘I vill bring them in at vunce, von’t I?’ beamed Mr Greenberg.

‘And stay for a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Vell, time ain’t alvays money,’ said Mr Greenberg, his
beard
curling happily, ‘and ain’t this a house and a home of fond memories for me? Vhy, ain’t it the only house that’s known the Adams and Browns, all of vhich are my friends? I vill bring in the bikes and drink tea vith you vith great pleasure.’

‘Leave them in the passage,’ said Mrs Brown, and bustled back to her kitchen to put the kettle on.

Mr Greenberg unloaded the bikes one at a time and placed them in the passage. He returned to his cart to put the nosebag on his pony. He looked around for a moment. The shower of rain ceased its patter, the clouds broke and the sun came out, creating a rainbow over Walworth. Ah, such a country with its rain, its rainbows and its good people, thought Mr Greenberg. His love for his adopted country surfaced, and he took out his large red handkerchief and blew his nose. He thought of the trodden muddy streets of Russian villages, and the perils of being Jewish whenever a patrol of Russian police or Cossacks rode in. The tsars and their knout-wielding Cossacks had gone, and the Bolsheviks and their commissars had Russia now. They were no better than the tsars. Who would want to go back and live under them? Who would ever exchange a life with the people of London for a life under the Bolsheviks? There were a few people, ah, yes, who would never smile on a Jew, but did he not have a thousand friends who would laugh with him and crack jokes with him?

How busy he had been almost from the day he and his parents and his sisters had stepped ashore and taken their first steps over the soil of England. He had been fifteen then and was now just fifty. In all that time he had been too busy to find a wife. And now, when grey was peppering his hair and his beard, a woman had entered his house in the Old Kent Road. A woman of thirty-six, a widow, Hannah Borovich, who had three children, all boys.

‘Mr Greenberg, shame on you,’ she had said.

‘Vhat? Vhat? You enter my house and address me in Russian, not even in Yiddish?’

‘We are Russian,’ she said.

‘I spit on Russia.’

‘Tck, tck,’ said the handsome widow. ‘It is time you were married, time you became a father.’

‘To whom should I be married?’

‘To myself. You are a good man, Eli Greenberg, and a kind one. I will take you for my husband and give my sons what they need, a father. Go to Rabbi Goldstein and tell him so.’

What could a man do with such a woman who had three sons all with dark liquid eyes and crisp curly black hair? Should he take a wife at his age and her three sons too? She was poor and was concerned for them.

What could a man do except think about it?

Mr Greenberg smiled, raised his round black hat to Mrs Brown’s neighbours who were still on their doorsteps, then entered the house to drink tea with Susie’s affable mother.

ONE COULD HAVE
said that Sally and Freddy came out of school in leaps and bounds, such was their rushing eagerness to get home and see if their bikes had come. School friends laughed and shouted at them.

‘Go it, Freddy, old Nick’s behind yer!’

‘Leg it, Sally!’

That Sally and her growing legs, thought Freddy, it just ain’t right. His sister was yards ahead of him and running fit to lick him to their door. Exuberant Sally ran on. Appalled at being beaten by a girl, and his sister at that, Freddy charged after her. Up through Walcorde Avenue they flew, Freddy gaining. Sally turned into Browning Street.

‘’Ere, you Sally!’

‘Slowcoach!’ called Sally.

Freddy belted after her and they were almost together as they turned into Caulfield Place. And there they almost sent Mr Ponsonby flying.

‘Oh, ’elp,’ panted Freddy.

‘Oh, sorry, Mr Ponsonby,’ said Sally. They stopped.

Mr Ponsonby, regaining his balance, straightened his bowler hat and peered at them.

‘Dear me, what a day,’ he said, ‘what high spirits. Who are you?’

‘I’m Sally, ’e’s Freddy.’

‘Ah, yes, Sally Brown. Charming, charming, such a sweet girl. And Freddy, yes, such a firework, my word, yes. Dear me, where are you going?’

‘’Ome,’ said Freddy, ‘to see if our bikes ’ave come.’

‘Bikes?’ said Mr Ponsonby, looking puzzled. ‘Ah, bicycles, of course. Have a peppermint.’ He produced the bag, opened it and proffered it. Sally and Freddy each took a peppermint while their feet fidgeted.

‘Thanks ever so, Mr Ponsonby,’ said Sally.

‘Not at all, Sally, not at all. My, you’re a pretty girl.’

‘She’s got special wooden legs,’ said Freddy.

‘He’s barmy,’ said Sally, and Mr Ponsonby peered at her legs.

‘Dear me, dear me, well, I never,’ he said, ‘how very charming.’

‘She just ’ad ordin’ry short legs before,’ said Freddy. ‘Well, we got to go now, Mr Ponsonby – crikey, look, Sally, that’s Mr Greenberg’s cart outside our front door – come on.’

Off they ran. Mr Ponsonby turned to watch them, a kind smile putting a crease in his tidy-looking face.

‘Dear me, what a very nice photograph I could take,’ he said, and helped himself to a peppermint. ‘But one is so busy, so busy. I must get on. Now, where am I going? Ah, yes.’ He turned about and twinkled off, rolled umbrella lightly tapping the pavement.

Having paid their joyous respects to the beaming Mr Greenberg, and gobbled up cake with their cups of tea, Sally and Freddy took up rapturous ownership of their bikes. Off went Sally to ride round and see her friend Mavis. Boys whistled at her legs.

‘Soppy ’a’porths,’ said Sally and cycled on.

Freddy just went careering around the back streets, having promised his mum and Mr Greenberg too not to tussle with trams and buses in the Walworth Road. Trams always come off best, said his mum. And Mr Greenberg
said
bikes were valuable as business goods, but boys were valuable to their families.

Pedalling from Rodney Road into Orb Street, Freddy spotted Cassie. She was meandering along and singing to herself. With a tyre-hissing swerve, Freddy crossed to her side of the street and stopped.

‘Watcher, Cassie.’

‘Oh, ’ello,’ said Cassie.

‘Like me bike, do yer?’ said Freddy.

‘Crikey, is it yourn?’ breathed Cassie in awe.

‘Not ’alf,’ said Freddy, ‘it’s a present from me eldest sister. She’s wealthy, yer know. Well, she is a bit.’

‘Oh, does she wear furs?’ asked Cassie. ‘I ’ad an aunt once who wore furs. An’ jewels. An’ she ’ad ’er own carriage with four white ’orses. Only she fell on ’ard times and ’ad to go an’ do the laundry for a wicked uncle.’

‘Rotten ’ard luck,’ said Freddy. ‘Did it turn ’er hair white?’

‘Oh, no, she ’ad lovely gold ’air,’ said Cassie, ‘and ’er wicked uncle tried to cut it off. ’E chased ’er all round the laundry room. Only ’e couldn’t see where she was in all the steam, and ’e fell in the great big laundry tub.’

‘Did ’e? You sure ’e did, Cassie?’

‘Oh, yes, and it boiled ’im all over,’ said Cassie.

‘Did it drown ’im as well?’ asked Freddy.

‘Oh, no, ’is servants got ’im out,’ said Cassie.

‘And hung ’im on the line?’

‘I think they ’ad to,’ said Cassie, ‘he was all soppin’ wet. Still, me aunt did say he was sort of different after that. Is it really yer own bike?’

‘Yes, like a ride?’ said Freddy. ‘You can sit on the carrier be’ind me.’

‘Oh, could I?’ Cassie was aglow with pleasure.

‘Yes, come on,’ said Freddy, and held the bike steady. Cassie perched herself astride the wire carrier.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s all wiry,’ she said, ‘’ave yer got a little cushion I could put in me knickers?’

‘I dunno, you girls don’t ’alf ’ave soft bums,’ said Freddy. ‘I suppose us blokes ought to carry cushions around, only we don’t. Never mind, Cassie, use this.’ He took his soft cap off and handed it to her. Cassie unperched herself and with no more than two or three facile movements she lodged the cap in the seat of her knickers. Then she frowned.

‘It’s all lumpy,’ she said.

‘Look, Cassie, as me mate you ain’t supposed to complain,’ said Freddy. ‘Me old mate Daisy never complained not once.’

‘I ain’t complainin’,’ said Cassie, ‘I’m just sayin’, that’s all. I’m just sayin’ it’s a bit lumpy.’

‘Well, try it,’ said Freddy, and Cassie perched herself astride the carrier again. ‘’Ow’s that?’ he asked.

‘Oh, it don’t feel ’alf so lumpy now,’ said Cassie.

A boy came up.

‘What’s she doin’ on yer bike?’ he asked.

‘Sittin’,’ said Freddy.

‘You ain’t supposed to give girls bike rides. Get ’er orf, and I’ll ride.’

‘She’s me mate, Alfie Gibbons, and you ain’t,’ said Freddy.

‘Bleedin’ cissy,’ said young Alfie Gibbons.

‘’Ere, Cassie, ’old me bike while I roll me sleeves up,’ said Freddy.

‘Oh, you goin’ to ’ave a duel?’ asked Cassie in excitement.

‘No, I ain’t, I’m just goin’ to fatten ’is ’ooter,’ said Freddy, who had a lot of his mum’s equability but couldn’t stand being called a cissy.

‘Ain’t you got a sword?’ asked Cassie, off her perch and holding the bike. ‘Me dad ’ad lots of swords once and ’ad lots of duels. ’E ’ad one once with a French duke. On ’Ampstead ’Eath. Dad cut ’is ’ead off.’

‘Cor blimey,’ said Alfie Gibbons, ‘she’s yer mate? She’s as daft as old Ma Simmonds, who ain’t got no teef, eiver.’

‘Right, put yer dooks up,’ said Freddy, sleeves rolled up and muscles flexed. Cassie’s eyes grew big. It was the first time a boy had threatened to fight a duel on her behalf. Street kids were approaching, sensing an up-and-downer.

‘I just remembered, I got to do some errands for me mum,’ said Alfie Gibbons, and made tracks for his home in Stead Street.

Freddy rolled his sleeves down and Cassie said, ‘Oh, ’e didn’t give you a chance to bash ’im.’

‘Still, it saved ’im goin’ ’ome with a flat ’ooter,’ said Freddy. ‘Come on, let’s ’ave our ride.’

Once again Cassie perched herself astride the carrier, Freddy’s soft cap cushioning her bottom, and away they went. It was Cassie’s very first bike ride and she pictured herself being carried away on a white horse by King Arthur, the horse galloping and six wicked uncles chasing after them.

Around the back streets Freddy cycled, but could hardly believe his ears when Cassie, coming out of her dreams, suddenly said, ‘I’m ’ungry’. They had just passed the shop in Rodney Road that sold boiled sheep’s heads for sixpence, or half a one for fourpence.

‘Well, if yer don’t mind, Cassie, I ain’t stoppin’ to buy yer any sheep’s ’ead.’

‘Ugh, I don’t want no sheep’s ’ead,’ said Cassie, ‘I was just sayin’ I’m ’ungry, that’s all.’

‘Could yer wait till next time I see yer?’ said Freddy, turning into Charleston Street. ‘Then if I got a bit of pocket money on me I’ll buy yer a toffee-apple.’

‘Oh, I like toffee-apples,’ said Cassie, legs swinging, hands holding on to Freddy. At the end of Charleston Street, he let the bike bump gently up on to the pavement and rode along the path separating St John’s Church from the vicarage. This time he could hardly believe his eyes. It was that big bloke again, the one with a flapping overcoat and hollow staring eyes. He was striding straight towards them.

Henry Brannigan hissed with rage. A bloody bicycle and two bloody kids riding on it. Those kids, the ones who’d been in his way before. Look at that girl, she had her legs stuck out, curse her. She was bad luck, if any kid was. But he refused to stop, he came barging on, keeping to the measured stride that ensured he trod on no lines.

Freddy wavered and veered. The man, glaring, brushed the bike as he bruised his way by. The machine fell over, and Cassie and Freddy toppled and sprawled.

‘Oh, yer rotten great elephant!’ yelled Freddy.

‘Bloody bikes, bloody kids, ridin’ on pavements, I’ll ’ave the rozzers on the pair of yer,’ said Henry Brannigan in a growling roar, and strode on.

‘I bet me bruvver Will ’ud kick ’is teeth all the way down ’is throat,’ said Freddy. ‘You ’urt, Cassie?’ He helped her up.

‘I don’t like ’im,’ said Cassie, brushing herself down, ‘I bet ’e’s someone’s wicked uncle, I bet ’e tramples people to death under ’is ’orses, I bet ’e rides six ’orses at once.’

‘Yes, but are you all right?’ asked Freddy.

‘Yes, course I am, I just fell over, that’s all. Me sister Annie fell over last week and ’urt ’er knee.’