Authors: Emily Bullock
The girl nodded in Pearl’s direction. ‘She with you?’
Jack nearly blew beer from his nostrils but swallowed it back in time. ‘Christ, I ain’t that hard up. She’s my little sis.’
‘She looks too young to be your sweetheart but I thought she might be your daughter.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. I ain’t ready to be six feet under yet.’
The barmaid turned her head. Glasses were building up at the other end of the bar, but Jack didn’t want her to leave yet. He gripped hold of Pearl’s wrist, rolled up her sleeve. Small teardrop-shaped scars, white as milk, marked her arm.
‘I’ll show you a trick.’ Jack kept his voice low, reeling the girl in.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth, sucked the dry-paper taste from his bottom lip. The end was damp with spit so he gripped it nearer the ember; as if he were holding a pen he dabbed a full stop on Pearl’s forearm then whipped it away again. The barmaid let out a shriek – the best reaction yet. Pearl turned a page and the girl closed her mouth. They fell for it every time.
He re-lit the end with a fresh match, handed the cigarette to the girl. ‘Go on, try it. She’s been like that since a baby. Smack her across the face and she just ain’t going to feel it.’
‘I don’t know.’ The girl twisted the cigarette between her fingers. ‘Sure it won’t hurt none?’
‘Did you hear her make a peep? Doctors got some name for it, can’t for the life of me remember what.’ Jack sat back on his stool. ‘Tell her, Pearl.’
‘Idiopathic neuropathy.’ She stared at the girl. ‘It wouldn’t hurt if you cut me open with a knife.’
The girl picked up the cigarette, tapped it against Pearl’s arm, and let out a small squeal. It filtered through the growing fog of beer inside his head. Pearl snapped her lips tight, snatched her arm away. Those grey irises, always staring at
him. Sometimes a trick of the light or a fall of a shadow and it was like having Rosie back.
‘Best leave it there.’ He winked at the barmaid.
‘At least she’ll never get her heart broken.’ The barmaid sucked down on the cigarette, drawing out the last spark. ‘How can she, when she can’t feel nothing? Lucky cow.’
‘She’s just a kid, not even interested in boys. Are you, Pearl?’
She shrugged. Too busy reading and dreaming; a lost cause, but still she was good around the house. Pearl rubbed antiseptic over the red bump; the pot of Clayton’s she carried round stank of eucalyptus. The barmaid turned to serve one of the dockers. He gave Pearl a gentle push.
‘Get supper on for me?’
‘I waited here because you said you’d have money, Jack. I don’t get paid until the end of the week.’
‘Loan some grub from Mrs Bell.’ He pressed her outstretched palm down before the girl saw.
‘She’ll make me stay for a chat.’
‘Tell her I said you’re to get dinner on quick.’ He watched her roll up the comic, or whatever it was, and adjust the small bandage. ‘It was a bit of fun. Not like you felt nothing, was it?’
‘More than one way to feel things.’ Pearl shrugged as she walked away.
They used to do the cigarette trick all the time. How was he supposed to keep up with her changes? Jack shook his head, turned back to find two big brown eyes in front of his. He smiled.
‘Can’t just call you “barmaid”, now, can I? Tell me your name.’
‘Georgie Smyth. Smyth with a Y.’
‘Nice to meet you, Georgie. Call me Jack.’
He reached over, shook her hand. He thought he could see his own reflection in those eyes, light brown like the polished wood of the swing chairs at the summer fair. Higher
and higher he and Rosie used to ride. Jack looked down. The bottom of the glass peered up through the cloudy mist that was left of his drink.
‘You should come see my new fighter some time, Georgie.’
‘Maybe I will, Jack.’
She took his empty pot and moved on to the queue at the pumps. He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his handkerchief, pushed it back into the depths of his waistcoat. Slowly he eased himself off the stool, but he couldn’t help glancing at the pictures tucked behind the half-empty bottles at the back of the bar. The Bible Factory send-off; his dad at the front in his Great War uniform, proud and tall; his mum at the pub’s VE Day celebration with a Union Jack poking from her hair. More photos waited for him back at the house. He couldn’t leave that family behind; sepia eyes, sneaking up on him when his mind wandered: the boys in their East Surrey Regiment get-up; Winifred and Win lying on a fur rug, only ten months apart – the first was born sickly, never expected to make it, so their dad’s mother’s name was supposed to live on in the next girl. The Winnies at eleven and twelve, still side by side as if their dresses were sewn together, just before they left for good. And, half hidden: one of Jack, back when he was John. He’d had that photo taken after his first win, thirteen years old – hands up, hair slicked, shorts hanging low. He could list them all. But only one picture of Rosie survived; Jack kept it at the back of his bedside drawer. Sometimes it was as if she had never existed for anyone but him. The people on the front room mantel were from John’s life. John James Munday – the name he was born with. He wasn’t that runt any more, but he still couldn’t get rid of their faces.
J
ohn recognises the house, all square windows and big red front door like something from Little Chums picture books. He heard the Winnies whispering to his mum about St John’s Villa when his dad was out of the room. The gate is closed and John doesn’t blame them. If he lived in a house like that he’d have a moat, a drawbridge, soldiers on guard, anything to keep the rest of London out. A copper walks along; any minute now he is going to wonder what a dirty canal rat like John is doing on that street.
He chews his nails and presses himself closer to the prickly hedge; the blue uniform crosses to the other side, goes into a house. John hasn’t decided what to do yet, how to ask the question. So he waits some more. Leaving Camberwell, getting on the tram for Mitcham, coming all this way, it seemed so easy this morning.
Two ladies appear at the front door. Neat grey dresses and matching hats. John tucks in his shirt, swallows a squeak as his fingers graze the top of his buttocks; the strap marks are bleeding.
‘What the bloody hell is he doing here?’
They turn back into his sisters as they reach the gate, hands on their hips. Same dresses, same hats, same scraped-back hair; got up like a music hall pair of old women even though they are only eighteen and nineteen. He isn’t sure which sister is which.
‘This is our place.’ Winifred holds on to the metal latch. He recognises the sharpness in her voice. It is as if they are little again, the panic of having nowhere to hide, the seeker
counting down from a hundred:
coming, ready or not.
They aren’t children now: long skirts and clean gloves, sharp bones stretching out their skin. But the staring dark eyes haven’t changed, just like their dad’s.
‘You can’t stay. We’re going to work.’ Win brushes invisible dust off her dress. ‘Tell him he can’t stay.’
Winifred puts a hand on her younger sister’s arm. She is waiting for John to give himself away, to have an excuse to dob him in. The branches of the bush poke up against his bare legs but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t want them to leave yet.
‘Where d’you two work, then?’
‘Book-keeping for the –’
‘Don’t tell him anything. If he knows where we’re going the sneak’ll follow us.’ Winifred leans on the gate, her thin face pushing towards him. ‘Won’t you?’
John shakes his head, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. When the Winnies came back at Christmas they had still seemed like girls, nudging each other and playing with their hankies, but here they are different. Taller and bigger, but maybe that’s because there is more room out in the country. The windows up at the house are open wide, thick pink drapes and bright red cords looped around them, white flowers over the red brick, green grass, orange and yellows sprouting out of the earth beds in ordered rows.
‘What have you gone and done this time?’ Win hisses at him.
‘Nothing. No law against coming to see you.’ He tries not to chew his lip and give away the lie. ‘Thought you might not know me otherwise – I’ve grown big.’
‘Oh, we would recognise you anywhere. Wouldn’t we, Win?’
‘We would, sister. He looks…’
‘… like
him
.’
‘Fucking liars.’ John kicks the gate. ‘You two look more like Dad than I do.’
He didn’t mean to do that; now they are never going to say yes. But it is true: their dark hair, transparent skin like a worm, and eyebrows sloping to meet in the middle.
‘Let us come in.’ He tries to smile, lips sticking together.
‘Aunt’s with visitors this morning.’
Winifred keeps a tight grip on her black bag. He isn’t going to nick it, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Win touches her sister’s sleeve. ‘What if she finds out he was here from one of the neighbours? Better to let him visit at lunch.’
‘We’ll be back at twelve-thirty. Stay out of sight, for heaven’s sake. Go play in the stream or something.’ Winifred, the oldest and in charge, nods at her sister.
‘Have these then, if you must.’ Win drops a bag of sweets in his hand but holds on for a second as if she doesn’t want to let the bag go. He opens the crumpled paper. It is only liquorice, black and hard-edged; he prefers toffee.
‘Stream’s back there, and make sure you can’t be seen from them houses.’ Winifred’s voice drops back into its south London lilt.
Win grabs his shoulders, turns him towards a long line of trees. Neither of the Winnies see the woman dressed in black come down the path, but John does.
‘What is going on out here? I thought I said to send all beggars to the church, girls.’
They shuffle together to clear a spot on the path for her; the black folds of her skirt take up more room than she does. John tries to stand up tall, but the old postman’s boots on his feet have rubbed blisters into his heels. The woman angles her beaked face towards him.
‘They have assistance there on Thursday mornings, young man.’
‘This is John, Aunt. Father’s youngest.’ Winifred bows her head a little.
‘Oh, my, I forgot my cousin had this one left.’
John can’t understand why they are all supposed to call her ‘aunt’ when she is only some sort of distant leftover-cousin;
she even looks leftover, all grey and stretched thin like stale dough.
‘I don’t know what he is doing here, Aunt.’
‘He certainly wasn’t invited, Aunt.’
They fire off answers, so quick he doesn’t know which Winnie said what. John rubs at the finger-shaped bruises under his shirt sleeve until it brings water to his eyes. The aunt neatly folds her hands in front of her.
‘So, your elder brothers are off serving in the Army. Are you planning on joining up, young man?’
‘Not likely.’
‘Then the Bible Factory with your father?’ Those hands nod together as if she is praying.
‘I want to go places, get out of London. Barges maybe.’
‘So, how can we help you, John? Come to see your sisters perhaps? We are all well in this sleepy place. Mitcham must seem like quite an adventure.’ She keeps talking without leaving him room to answer.
‘Aunt, the church warden’s wife is at the window waiting for you.’
The Winnies look down at their feet. John wants to kick up the dirt around his boots just to make them see him. The aunt turns, gives a small wave and the face disappears behind draped curtains.
‘Thought I’d stay here. I can work and I never eats much.’ He hides the liquorice behind his back.
‘It is very kind of you to offer your services but I think your mother needs you more. We trundle along quite well here, do we not, girls?’ That watery smile still in place, wrinkling her skin. The Winnies smile too.
‘But I’m nearly thirteen…’ The words are lost in his mouth. The Winnies were around twelve when they left, his brothers have gone too – someone has to be coming for him; they have to. John wipes a hand across his mouth.
The aunt taps her fingers together as if she’s playing a piano. ‘It must be your birthday soon.’
He doesn’t want to tell her he was only twelve last month; he hopes there is a penny in it. She smiles, but not at him.
‘How would you like a present?’
It takes him a moment to realise she is waiting for a response this time. John nods. ‘The gate looks a bit rusty. I could fix it up proper for you.’ He scrubs a piece of paint away with his fingernail. ‘There’s lots of things I could do about the place.’
She stares out over the hedge. ‘Now, what would be the best thing for a young man such as you?’
Winifred shakes her head. ‘He won’t look after it and it will just get broken.’
But the aunt heads up the trimmed path towards the house. John isn’t sure if that is it, she isn’t coming back.
She stands on the doorstep, calls into the house, ‘Avis, my dear, a moment, please. I wish to ask your opinion on a most important matter.’
A woman inches forward; long dust-collecting skirt and pinched-in waist. The aunt beckons her to follow; they face John on the other side of the green gate. The two Winnies shoot sideways glances at him in case he makes a bolt to get inside the garden. John grinds his heel down on a pebble. He knows about people like his aunt and that woman with their smell of fresh laundry and sponge cakes: Sunday school fuckers. People like that are the reason his head hurts and his backside throbs; someone at the factory told his dad John hadn’t been for two weeks. Summer is coming; how is anyone supposed to sit in that dusty hall for hours at a time?
The aunt is still talking. John is sure blood is running down the back of his knees, or maybe it’s just sweat. The aunt brings them to attention with a small wave of her hand.
‘Now, what would be a decent, suitable gift, for a young man turning thirteen?’
‘Perhaps a puppy?’ The small woman rubs the edge of a pale blue bow pinned to her throat, pushes her head towards
the aunt. John wouldn’t mind a mutt, but he wouldn’t be able to hide it from his dad.
‘No, not in the city. Not at all suitable, Avis.’ She gives a shake of her head. The Winnies smile politely but they keep one eye on John too, beady black eyes like the parrot at home which watches him from its cage at the back door.
The woman smiles as if she is about to win the prize. ‘Perhaps a tin army?’
‘Was the Great War not enough? Oh, no, that simply would not do at all.’ Another shake of the aunt’s head, but the curls are set firmly in place.
The woman speaks again, eyebrows arching. ‘A book?’
‘Look at the boy. Much as I would like to improve his mind, he does not look capable of sitting still at all.’
They all shake their heads this time. John hasn’t moved, but he doesn’t bother to remind them of that. The woman points at his feet.
‘New shoes?’
They all laugh, in a high, glass-tinkling way. John sticks the toes of his ugly boots under the hedge. The thorns scratch his shins.
‘Boxing lessons.’
The aunt looks him up and down as if she has just noticed there is someone standing in the boots. The woman nods vigorously. ‘The vicar was only the other day extolling the virtues of the sport, keeping the young in line. Fit and healthy.’
‘Lessons, Avis? They teach it?’ The aunt angles her head towards the woman.
‘Perhaps it will build the boy up a little? He is rather skinny. Put some colour in his cheeks?’
The aunt claps her hands. John wants to bite off her fingers; his teeth snap down on his tongue, and he holds back the yelp.
‘Boxing. Yes, it will make a man out of him. A very splendid idea.’
They all smile as if it was the aunt’s idea all along. The Winnies used to grab his ankles, threaten to hang him out of the upstairs window if he even looked at anything that belonged to them. He thinks he preferred them before they came to this big house and started wearing funny clothes.
‘Win, collect my purse from the desk, there’s a good girl.’
John expects Win to snarl something back at the aunt, or frown at least, but she just goes back to the house, resurfacing a few moments later. She hands over the crocheted purse. The aunt dips her fingers inside as if she expects it to be filled with cold water, brings up one thing, then clicks the clasp shut.
‘One pound.’ She holds it out. ‘Winifred, secure it inside the boy’s coat so it does not get lost.’
Winifred takes a pin out of her hat, pulls open his jacket and attaches the note inside. He feels like a tiny baby being dressed. The aunt smiles. ‘I will be writing to your mother, so make sure you show the receipt for the lessons to her.’
And that is it, back off up the path; the woman trots to keep beside the aunt. The sun shining on them, glinting off their polished skin.
‘Who was that?’
‘Just a boy, Avis.’
‘You are so very generous. I was only saying the other day to the vicar…’
Their voices disappear with the clunk of the front door.
‘You’re done, now clear off. This is our place. And you won’t be needing them sweets.’ Win snatches back the brown bag.
‘You’ll have to learn to look after yourself, John.
He
won’t be around forever.’ Winifred opens the gate then fastens it behind her and Win. ‘The tram’s back the way you came.’
They turn the corner and are gone. John kicks the gate, kicks a pebble, sets off after it towards the stop. The road slams back up into his feet as he stomps along: past flowery gardens, on to a high street of striped awnings and pyramid window displays. He will show them all, do something with
that money, make it rich, then they will be sorry. They will all be begging to stay with him then, and he’ll let them as well. Make them sleep in the outhouse with his dog, clean his library of books, and dust his tin army, all two miles of them when lined shoulder to shoulder. He’ll have everything. John listens to the rustle of the paper against his shirt.
A tram is coming, heading away from the city. He could get on and go south, south, south, until he hits France and then keep going some. He could be anyone out there, not a Munday. No one to say,
Don’t you look like your dad?
John can’t breathe, can’t look at the old woman in the fat hat at the stop in case she knows he is planning to run away. But he doesn’t know where the tram is going. The ticket collector stares down at him. If he steps on, his mum wouldn’t be there to make cups of milky tea, his dad wouldn’t give him the second read of the newspaper or a borrow of the bike, and money never goes far, he’s heard his dad say that a thousand times.
Another tram crosses in front, John jumps on. It is going back the way he came: home. He goes straight to the gym, pays membership up-front for the year.