Echoes of Yesterday Page 11

  ‘Ready, Rachel?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Yes, I’ve only got to put me hat on,’ said Rachel, and a round white straw one was sitting on her head when she and Sammy left to catch a tram, Sammy carrying the bag containing her boots and skates along with his own. The June day was warm but somewhere the elements had managed to put together a welcome breeze. It ran around the stationary tram and nipped in to flirt with Rachel’s skirt as she mounted the stairs to the upper deck. The lace hem of a white petticoat took a coy look at the Saturday afternoon scene in Westminster Bridge Road before shyly hiding itself again. On the upper deck, empty of passengers, Rachel said, before seating herself, ‘Oh, did me skirt blow up a bit?’

  ‘A bit,’ said Sammy, who’d been behind her. Rachel giggled. ‘’Old on, don’t sit down yet,’ said Sammy, and took out a man’s large handkerchief and dusted the seat. Rachel blinked.

  ‘Oh, you are gallant, Sammy,’ she said, and she and he sat down together. Sammy thought what a nice smell she had, sort of clean and fresh and with a delicate hint of scent. And she looked clean and fresh herself. Bless me soul, he said to himself, it’s a bit of luck she’s a follower of Abraham, or I might get serious about her when I’m old enough, and blow the expense.

  Up came the conductor, an old cove who looked as if he’d come out of retirement to do his wartime bit on the trams.

  ‘’Ello, just you two, eh?’ he said. ‘I suppose you couldn’t ’ave sat downstairs to save me legs, could yer?’

  ‘Oh, we didn’t know about yer legs,’ said Rachel, ’or we would ’ave.’

  ‘I forgive yer,’ said the conductor. ‘Mind, don’t get canoodling. It ain’t allowed on the tramways.’

  ‘Might I point out it don’t say so?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Well, young ’un, you got my word for it. Still, while I’m down below and you’re up ’ere, who’s to know, eh?’

  ‘Here, mind what you’re saying,’ said Sammy, while Rachel did her best to blush, as a girl of fourteen ought to. ‘Kindly respect our ages.’

  ‘Oh, beg yer pardon, me lord, I’m sure,’ said the conductor. ‘Fares, if yer please. Where yer goin’?’

  ‘Brixton roller-skating rink,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Right, two to Effra Road, is it? That’s tuppence each, me lad. Still, yer young lady’s worth it. ’Ere, wait a bit, what’s this?’

  ‘Fourpence,’ said Sammy. ‘Four farthings, four ha’pennies and a penny.’

  ‘Found it in yer Ma’s cocoa tin, did yer?’ grinned the elderly conductor.

  ‘No, in me pocket,’ said Sammy, ‘and all ’ard-earned.’

  ‘Much obliged, I’m sure,’ said the conductor, and clipped two tickets. ‘When yer gettin’ married?’

  ‘When I’ve made me fortune,’ said Sammy, with the tram heading for St George’s Circus.

  ‘Well, yer don’t say, sonny.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Sammy, ‘marriage ain’t cheap, yer know.’

  The conductor winked at Rachel.

  ‘Got yerself a real caution in this lad, young miss.’

  ‘Yes, ain’t he funny?’ said Rachel, and the conductor departed with a grin and tested his ancient muscles going down the stairs. ‘Sammy, fancy ’im talkin’ about us canoodling,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Yes, at our ages,’ said Sammy, ‘and us just good friends.’

  ‘Still, boys of sixteen do kiss, don’t they?’ said Rachel.

  ‘What, each other?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Ugh, no, you silly, girls.’ said Rachel, and the tram rattled over the network of rails at the Elephant and Castle junction.

  ‘I’m a business bloke meself,’ said Sammy, ‘I’ve got to keep me mind on me future, which’ll start as soon as the war’s over. Me brother Boots is in France, yer know, Rachel, doin’ his bit with the Army.’

  ‘Boots?’ said Rachel, feeling happy about Sammy being beside her.

  ‘He’s always been called that,’ said Sammy, ‘and Lord Muck as well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He grew up talkin’ posh on account of ’avin’ a grammar school education.’

  ‘Oh, I’m goin’ to start a college education next year,’ said Rachel.

  ‘What for?’ asked Sammy.

  ‘My Daddy wants to make a lady of me.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be called Lady Muck then,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Oh, no, I won’t ever be that,’ said Rachel.

  They chatted away the whole length of the journey to Brixton, the June sunshine bringing colour to shops, buildings, old three-storeyed houses and women’s hats. When they reached the rink, Sammy gritted his teeth and paid the entrance fee for both of them. Inside, Rachel produced her purse and opened it. Silver glittered.

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ said Sammy, manfully fighting the pain of having parted with two bob all at once.

  ‘But, Sammy, if you’re poor—’

  ‘Well, it’s ’ard on a bloke, Rachel, I can’t say it ain’t, but yer a nice girl.’

  ‘Sammy, I do like you, you treat me lovely,’ said Rachel, with young people swarming past them to get to the rink.

  ‘Bless yer, Rachel, we’re friends, ain’t we?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Come on, then, let’s get our boots and skates on.’

  Rachel found the rink and the lively atmosphere generated by the young people utterly exhilarating. It was welcome escapism from a war that affected everyone, a war that was going on and on, with so many families losing loved ones. The knock on the door and the handing in of a telegram was dreaded by every family with a near and dear one at the Front or in the Navy.

  Here at the roller-skating rink, such things could be forgotten for three hours, and Rachel took to it like a swan to a lake, her natural grace and equilibrium, together with Sammy’s guidance, turning her from a novice into a skater within half an hour. He communicated confidence to her, and that, together with the music and the rhythm of her little boxwood wheels, put her where she wanted to be, among the flowing skaters and not with the nervous beginners skirting the sides of the rink. And Sammy’s praise made her flush with pleasure. Some of the young people who knew him as a regular made the inevitable comments as they skated by.

  ‘’Ello, is that the lady I didn’t see yer out with last night, Sammy Adams?’

  ‘Who’s yer good-looker, Sammy?’

  ‘Crikey, you got a bit of all right there, Sammy.’

  ‘How’s your pocket feeling, Sammy?’

  And, then, of course, there was the other kind of inevitable comment, from a young lout who skated straight at them, pulled up and stuck his nosy hooter close to Rachel’s face.

  ‘’Ere, look what you got ’ere, Sammy Adams, a young Yid.’

  ‘I ain’t seeing what you’re seeing, Gubbins,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Yer bleedin’ blind, then. And it’s Gibbons, if yer don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, you look like old Ma Riley’s gubbins from where I’m standin’,’ said Sammy, ‘so buzz off.’

  ‘’Oo’s goin’ to make me?’

  A sturdy seventeen-year-old youth executed a swishing halt beside Sammy and Rachel.

  ‘Want any help, Sammy?’

  ‘Kind of yer, Phil, but I can manage,’ said Sammy, with skaters in their scores skimming around.

  ‘Just a tap on his hooter’ll do it, Sammy.’

  ‘I think I can manage that,’ said Sammy, and the offensive lout faded away. The helpful youth smiled at Rachel, and left her in Sammy’s care.

  ‘Sammy, thanks ever so much,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Listen, Rachel,’ said Sammy as they began to skate again, ‘I don’t want you takin’ any notice of that sort of thing. As me mum says, if people can’t live and let live, they ain’t worth botherin’ about. There’s always some that can’t see a kid wearin’ glasses without callin’ him “four-eyes”, or “boss-eyes” if ’e’s got a cast, or “bandy” if his legs ain’t straight. On account of you bein’ approvin’ of fair profit, you’re a girl a
fter me own heart, and don’t forget it. And don’t let ’ard names ever make you cry. Well, yer see, Rachel, yer a sight better than anyone that calls you ’ard names. Rachel, yer a natural on a skatin’ rink, did yer know that? Tell yer what, would yer like a cup of tea now and a fruit bun? I don’t suppose there’ll be much fruit in the bun, nor any butter or marge even, but I’m proud of yer natural talent and I’ll treat yer with pleasure.’

  Rachel, a young Jewish girl overcome, gulped.

  ‘Sammy, I – I—’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Sammy, and took her to the refreshment arcade adjacent to one side of the rink. He was quite reckless in the way he ordered the tea and buns, and in asking for butter, if there was any.

  ‘Ever so sorry, love, but there ain’t,’ said the waitress who, like the venerable tram conductor, looked as if she had grandchildren.

  ‘What, not for me one and only girlfriend?’ said Sammy, using his cheeky blue eyes, and the waitress looked at Rachel.

  ‘My,’ she said to Sammy, ‘you’re doin’ yerself a bit proud at your age, love.’

  ‘It’s me advanced charm,’ said Sammy.

  ‘You got yer share of that all right, me lad,’ said the waitress. ‘Still, I won’t tell a lie, I’ll see what I can do.’ Away she went, plump and elderly and as goodhearted as any cockney ever born.

  ‘Sammy, I’m ever so glad I met you,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ said Sammy, ‘I just ’ad the same coincidin’ thought.’

  Rachel laughed. It was the best afternoon of her life, despite the uncomfortable minute on the rink. And when the waitress brought the tea and buns, she conveyed some good news.

  ‘Not a word to Kaiser Bill,’ she whispered, ‘but I sliced ’em open meself and buttered ’em meself. Mind, it might taste a bit like marge, but better than dry buns, eh? Oh, and don’t open them up, or they might get looked at.’

  ‘Thanks ever so,’ said Rachel.

  ‘My, yer a lovely gel, you are,’ said the elderly waitress. She smiled at Sammy. ‘D’yer know that, me lad?’

  ‘She’s me fav’rite bun-eater,’ said Sammy.

  ‘That boy’s a reg’lar caution,’ said the waitress to Rachel, and went away smiling, having left the little bill on the table.

  ‘Sammy,’ said Rachel, ‘would yer let me pay?’

  ‘Well, I would,’ said Sammy, ‘but if I did, I’d be a disappointment to me whole fam’ly, and they’d talk about me be’ind me back. No,’ he said, steeling himself to stand the pain, ‘it’s my treat, Rachel.’

  They enjoyed the tea and buns, after which Sammy bore new pain stoically by giving the waitress a penny tip. She told him not to throw his money about like a reckless millionaire. Sammy said he was going to teach himself to be careful in future.

  Rachel spent the rest of the session on the rink with him, except for the occasional brief rest. Exhilaration prevailed, and when they finally left at six o’clock, she was flushed and glowing.

  ‘Oh, I did enjoy meself,’ she said.

  ‘A natural, that’s what you are, Rachel,’ said Sammy.

  Outside, Mickey Gibbons stood waiting.

  ‘Still got yer female Yid with yer, I see,’ he said to Sammy.

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Sammy.

  ‘She’s a bleedin’ Yid.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Sammy, and conked the lout’s hooter with a balled fist. Down he went. ‘Now you’re bleedin’ yerself,’ said Sammy, ‘all over yer face. Don’t get lippy again, Gubbins, I ain’t in favour. Come on, Rachel.’

  On the home-going tram, Rachel said, ‘I don’t like bein’ a trouble to you, Sammy.’

  ‘Now, Rachel, didn’t I tell you not to take any notice?’

  ‘Yes, Sammy.’

  ‘Gubbins won’t come it again.’

  ‘No, Sammy. Oh, my life, didn’t you conk ’im a beauty? Can I feel yer muscle?’

  ‘No charge,’ said Sammy, and Rachel felt his biceps through his sleeve.

  ‘Crikey,’ she said, ‘ain’t you manly?’

  Up came the conductor, this time a stout middle-aged bloke.

  ‘Fares, hif you please, ladies an’ gents.’

  Buffalo Bill, thought Sammy, this is me most ruinous day in all me life. He dragged ha’pennies and pennies out of his suffering pocket.

  ‘Two to Lower Marsh,’ he said. ‘Is there any discount?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Stout-and-Middle-Aged.

  ‘We’ve already paid from Lower Marsh to Effra Road,’ said Sammy, ‘so is there any discount on the fares back?’

  Rachel smothered giggles. Stout-and-Middle-Aged regarded Sammy with a grin.

  ‘You’re comin’ it a bit, ain’t yer, ’Oratio?’

  ‘It’s the war,’ said Sammy, ‘I’m makin’ contributions, so I could do with a bit of tramways discount. Say twenty-five per cent, if I give yer thruppence instead of fourpence?’

  ‘Just for yer cheek, I’ll call it fourpence.’

  ‘Thought you would,’ said Sammy, and paid up with a faint sigh.

  When they reached Lower Marsh, he saw Rachel to her front door at the side of the shop. Rachel let herself in, then turned in the passage.

  ‘Sammy, I did ’ave a lovely time with you,’ she said, ‘I never met anyone nicer or kinder. Could I give you a kiss?’

  ‘Well, Rachel,’ said Sammy, ‘I’m not much on kissin’.’ Kissing could mean that the bloke let himself in for horrendously costly treats. ‘Me female relatives go in for it a lot, yer know, so to stop ’em always kissin’ me I charge ’em a penny a time. It don’t always stop them—’

  ‘Oh, I’ll give you a penny for one, I’d like to,’ said Rachel, and produced the copper coin in no time at all.

  ‘Well,’ said Sammy, stepping into the passage, ‘I—’

  ‘Here,’ said Rachel, and pressed the penny into his hand. She put her arms around him, lifted her face and pursed her dewy young lips. Finally, she closed her eyes.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Sammy, and kissed her. Her Cupid’s bow quivered in bliss. A little sigh came from her as Sammy released her mouth. ‘I ’ope that was worth a penny to yer,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, thanks ever so much. Sammy, could I pay you for another one, just because you’ve been so kind?’

  Crikey, thought Sammy, I think I might be on to something here.

  ‘Well, all right, Rachel.’

  Another penny changed hands, and another kiss landed very nicely on her rosebud lips, and another little sigh followed.

  ‘Oh, ’elp,’ she said.

  ‘Was that one too many, Rachel?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Well, I’d better get ’ome now,’ said Sammy, ‘you’ve got yer Sabbath evening to have with yer dad. Here we are.’ He handed her the bag containing her boots and skates. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Rachel.’

  ‘I never did ’ave such a lovely afternoon, Sammy.’

  Sammy fell into a hole.

  ‘Pick you up at two again next Saturday?’ he said, his brain suffering temporary damage.

  ‘Sammy, oh, yes, thanks ever so much.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Sammy faintly, ‘I’ll scrape up the money some’ow.’

  ‘Sammy, I’ll pay, really I will.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Sammy, and gave her hand a little pat and left.

  Tommy and Lizzy were at home, and Emily too. She’d been invited to Saturday high tea. All three made a minute examination of Sammy when they learned how much he’d spent on Rachel Moses.

  ‘He don’t actu’lly look ill,’ said Tommy.

  ‘But ’e does look awful poorly,’ said Emily.

  ‘His eyes are all glazed over,’ said Lizzy.

  ‘I ain’t surprised,’ said Sammy, ‘I’m near ruined.’

  ‘Oh, you poor boy,’ said Lizzy, ‘give ’im a kiss, Em’ly.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sammy, ‘but it’ll cost ’er a penny. I ain’t in the habit of lettin’ anyone kiss me for
nothing.’

  ‘You Sammy,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘it’s time you stopped talkin’ about money.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t in favour of talkin’ about old Mrs Purser’s varicose veins,’ said Sammy.

  Emily giggled.

  Chapter Twelve

  The days out of the line passed peacefully for the West Kents in their farm billets. A Company under the command of Major Harris relaxed each day, and each evening passes were issued to the many men who wanted to go into town. There in the estaminets they raised Old Harry along with men of other regiments. The Military Police sorted out those who raised Old Harry above the rooftops, and took each man’s name, rank and number. Major Harris, on receipt of the MP’s crime sheets, dropped them into his wastepaper basket. Since he was going to be asked to take his men into hell, crime sheets could precede them there.

  Boots was finding himself a favoured presence at the farm. Madame Descartes was giving in to the whims of her daughter and making him more than welcome. She even allowed him into her farmhouse kitchen to boil a kettle and to make tea for himself, English style. As for Cecile, she was giving in to the beguiling sounds of summer, discarding all the greys and blacks of widowhood and presenting herself in colourful raiment to Boots, never mind that a light dress was hardly suitable for farm work. She regularly prevailed on him to help her transfer the herd of cows from one field to another, or to the milking shed, and Boots came to know that lumbering cows had a wanderlust, or so it seemed. One knocked him over when his back was turned, and up came Cecile to laugh down at him.

  ‘Clumsy, clumsy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not half as much as these perishing cows of yours,’ said Boots, propping himself on his elbows. Cecile went down on one knee beside him, her smile teasing. Her lips, lightly carmined, looked moist. There was a temptation to kiss her. Did she want that? She looked as if she did.

  ‘You are bruised, yes?’ she said.

  ‘Numb,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, poor bloke,’ said Cecile, and he laughed at the way she had taken to using the word. ‘What is funny?’ she asked.

  ‘You are, Cecile.’

  ‘’Ow can everything be so funny to you, when you – when—’ She stopped.

  ‘When I’ve just been knocked over by one of your cows?’