Hot Pies on the Tram Car Read online

  ‘Broth and dumplings; rice pudding: Josefina’s favourite.’

  ‘I’m afraid my Yvette picks at her food.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have to learn to be grateful for what she’s given, won’t she? ’Specially when times are hard.’ Florence had a feeling that she could have two more lame ducks to care for. Still, it was good to be needed.

  *

  Manny shut the shop at eight o’clock. There was a solitary ham and egg pie left under the glass dome on the marble-topped counter. He speared a pickled onion the size of a billiard ball from the jar and placed it beside the pie. Oh well, a cold supper he thought, but first he must clean up. He fetched the mop and bucket from the back room and began his task. Someone tried the door. He called out, ‘Sorry, sold out - we’re closed!’ He doused the light.

  He went down the basement steps and opened his front door. The gas fire would soon warm the living-room. He’d eat the pie, then go along to the pub on the far end of the Paradise row for his usual glass of stout.

  The barber’s, the butcher’s and the tobacconist’s shops were all closed. The doctor’s rooms above the latter were in darkness There was a light still showing in the baker’s front window, and he observed the bent back of the cleaner, as she moved around the shop. Poor old girl, he thought, no evening off for her. She’ll be working again by six tomorrow. Like Florence. I don’t suppose she’s ever seen the inside of the Paradise Pub, had a good laugh and a singsong. She’d be surprised to hear me render ‘The Rose of Tralee’, seated at the piano. Some say I bring tears to their eyes. One drink, that’s all, and I come over all sentimental for the place where I was born and left as a child. Maybe I sing it for another Rose now - Rose Marie, but I know she’s not for me. I could never tell her what I’ve been through; lost my best mate in the war - mustn’t think of that. I wouldn’t want her to know I sometimes wake in the night, crying out and sweating, the echo of gunfire ringing in my ears.

  *

  Florence hung the damp tea-cloths on the airer. Their supper guests had returned upstairs; Josefina was already in bed and hopefully asleep. Florence went into the sitting-room through the folded back double-doors. They only used this room, full of good, but old furniture, in the evenings. The kitchen was the hub of their home.

  Rose Marie was curled up on the sofa absorbed in her Woman’s Weekly magazine. Florence said silently to herself, was I ever that young and full of dreams? Did my hair gleam golden under the overhead light; was my skin that smooth? She’s seventeen and I’m thirty-four . . . romance has passed me by.

  She yawned. Soon be time to make the cocoa. But first she’d write a letter to Stella in Barcelona to tell her that Josefina had a new friend . . .

  TWO

  A Sunday morning in April; Florence turned sizzling bacon rashers in the pan and drank her second cup of tea of the day. She’d enjoyed her Sabbath soak, as she referred to it, before the girls were awake. She’d risen at six to light the copper alongside the deep bath, with mahogany surround. She had to siphon the water out, but it was a great improvement on the jug filling of years gone by. She used a knob of soda to soften the water rather than bath salts, but she did indulge herself with a tablet of Pears soap.

  Now, she looked younger and more relaxed than all week, in a button-through print frock and hand-knitted cable-stitch cardigan, with her hair still damp and curling at the ends, loose round her face. She’d recently given in to Rose Marie’s cajoling and had her hair bobbed, even if she’d insisted that the local barber would do.

  A polite tapping on the door, then Manny came in. She’d told him bluntly when he was first working for her she knew he existed on left-over pies all week, and that on Sundays he must eat with the family. The table was ready laid, so he sat down, so as not to get under her feet, watching as she cracked the eggs into the bacon fat and spooned a little over the yolks, the way they both preferred them. After a while, he judged she would be receptive to a little conversation.

  ‘Saw Burton, the butcher, last night.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘He said to tell you, if I remembered, mutton is good at the moment.’

  ‘Well, you remembered, and so will I. I hope it’s cheaper than the last lot.’

  ‘He has to make a living too, Florence. Folk aren’t buying so much meat.’

  ‘So I keep him going, do I? Me and my pies. We all help each other, eh?’

  Manny nodded, as she put his full plate before him. ‘Thanks, Florence.’

  ‘I might as well have mine with you, cook the girls’ breakfast later.’ She sat down opposite, poured two more cups of tea. We must look like an old married couple, she thought. Yet I know very little of his life before he came here. Maybe he left a family behind him. He knows me for what I am; the one who holds us all together.

  Rose Marie was awake, but loth to rise. She could hear muted voices from the kitchen and guessed that Florence and Manny were tucking into their fried breakfast. The heroine in the serial story she was following in her magazine was accustomed to a continental breakfast of croissants and frothy coffee. She picked fuzzy-skinned apricots, warmed by the sun, for dessert, and every day seemed like Sunday.

  Josefina had returned from her ablutions and was dressed apart from her socks. She’d had her bath as usual yesterday evening, so it was a perfunctory wash, but all clean clothes for her today. She’d quickly learned to be independent after she came to live here. Now, she located a neatly rolled pair of cotton socks in her underwear drawer, put them on, then slid her feet back into her slippers.

  ‘Brushed your hair?’ Rose Marie asked, without looking up from her story.

  ‘Mmm.’ Josefina gave it a guilty smooth-over with her hands.

  ‘Leave me in peace then, eh?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will! And I’ll be out this afternoon, too. Aunty Florence said to Yvette’s mum, “Why not take Yvette to Battersea Park on Sunday? Good walks and lots to see on the river.” So I asked, of course, “Can I go, please, as well?” ’

  ‘Didn’t she mention the gas-works? Bet you don’t know Lilli invited me, as well!’

  ‘Aunty Florence said I had to call her Mrs Bower! Are you coming?’

  ‘I might. If I don’t get any better offers . . . Oh, tell Florence I don’t want my breakfast yet, please. I’d rather wait until Manny’s gone, only don’t say that, will you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with Manny? He’s very nice, he makes me laugh.’

  ‘I like him too, but . . . off you go, Josefina!’

  *

  Lilli and her daughter had few possessions, having left home with one small suitcase, but Lilli had spotted a discreet second-hand clothes shop on her route to the cinema and determined to buy a few items there after she was paid on Saturday morning.

  The clothes were not exactly chic, she thought, but clean and of good quality. Lilli bought a job lot for a florin. The shop owner was shrewd but soft-hearted. As Lilli was about to leave with her neat brown paper parcel, she selected something on impulse from a shelf crowded with dreary felt hats.

  ‘Here, dearie, this would suit you; have it on me. It’s unlikely to sell round here.’

  The white piqué hat with a flamboyant red flower fixed to the front had probably been worn just once, to a wedding, Lilli decided. She expressed her thanks.

  Now, walking along the river path on a nice afternoon, she wore the hat, and heads turned. The little girls were ahead of Lilli and Rose Marie, darting to look at things which caught their eye, but keeping in view as their elders requested. When they stopped for a while to watch the pleasure boats on the lake, Lilli suggested that she and Rose Marie take advantage of a vacant seat nearby.

  ‘I shouldn’t have worn these heels,’ she added ruefully. ‘Not for walking.’

  Rose Marie looked down at her own unsuitable footwear, with pointed toes and T-strap fastening. ‘You have to suffer to look smart! Florence, of course, doesn’t agree. She says I’ll have painful bunions when I’m old,
but I say, live for the moment!’

  ‘She’s very kind, your Florence, isn’t she? And she works so hard.’

  ‘I love her dearly, but you won’t catch me joining her in the hot pie business.’

  ‘You are a seamstress, is that right?’

  Rose Marie nodded. ‘Yes, and I must admit that can be tedious too, but it’s a skill which could lead to more interesting things. Also, we have a varied clientele.’

  ‘Ah, such as?’

  ‘Actresses and dancers. Noel Coward recommends us. He has three plays on, in London! One’s called Fallen Angels: Florence thinks that sounds—’ she hesitated.

  ‘Risqué?’ Lilli supplied.

  ‘Well, she didn’t put it like that, but I guess that’s what she meant.’

  ‘She is the guardian of your morals, is that it? Like a mother.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s my sister! Stella, though, my other sister, is not stern at all. You’re about her age, that’s why I’m glad you’ve come to live in Paradise, so I have you to talk to.’

  ‘Stella must miss her daughter, I know I could not leave my Yvette behind.’

  ‘It’s not Stella’s fault,’ Rose Marie rose instantly to her defence. ‘Her husband is the selfish one. He always wants his own way.’

  Lilli dare not say she had personal experience of that. She took a little mirror from her bag, examined her makeup, then carefully applied more lipstick. There was a mere stub left in the gilt case. She was well aware that Rose Marie was not the only one watching. Two young men in smart blazers and straw boaters were giving them smiling sideways glances. She pretended to be oblivious to them.

  ‘You don’t paint your face yet?’ She accentuated her cupid’s bow lips.

  ‘Florence said I should wait until I am eighteen.’

  ‘Actually, my mother said the same. Yet she taught me the art when the time came! Anyway, you are pretty enough without it. Did Stella get round this rule?’

  ‘Of course, because she married young and then she could do what she liked in that respect!’

  ‘She was a rebel, your sister,’ Lilli observed.

  ‘Yes.’ She thought, I couldn’t hurt Florence like she did. ‘Shall we walk back now? There aren’t so many buses on a Sunday, and we’re expected back for high tea.’

  *

  Florence had seized the opportunity, while she had the place to herself, to relax on top of her bed with an Ethel M. Dell novel. She had taken off her frock, so as not to crease it, and unhooked her corset; slipped into a comfortable cotton kimono, Japanese in style, heavily embroidered, an impulse buy by Stella from Berwick Street market some years ago. She’d discarded it when she left, so Florence had taken to wearing it. She was sentimental like that.

  As Florence dozed, with the open book resting on her stomach, Manny, in the basement flat, yawned, and tidied the newspaper he’d spread across the table.

  ‘Might have a kip,’ he said aloud, disturbing the little white cat curled in his chair. It mewed plaintively. It was a stray. He’d got round Florence, who considered that pets and pies did not go together, by promising he’d keep it out of the shop but saying that it would be useful prowling the cellar at nights. Not that he intended to shut the cat down there. It had endured enough hardship, in his opinion, and was good company.

  The hammering on his front door startled him. He wondered who it could be. He didn’t invite people into his private quarters, he met enough of the public all week. The pub was a different matter, he could come and go as he pleased there. He was popular because of his music, but he had no close friends or confidantes.

  ‘You’re the last one I expected to see!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you were a goner.’

  ‘Likewise,’ the big man told him. ‘Still, ain’t you going to ask me in?’

  As Manny stood there, irresolute, the visitor pushed past him in the narrow hall and went through to the living-room, uninvited. Manny closed the door and hurried after him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded incredulously.

  The man removed the cat unceremoniously, then sat down heavily in Manny’s chair. ‘I’m famished. Exhausted. Got any grub?’

  ‘Bread and cheese, I don’t do much cooking for myself. Will that do?’

  ‘It’ll have to. I’ve been on the road for weeks. I ain’t ate some days, Manny. Is that the moniker you still go by?’

  ‘It’s my name, isn’t it?’ Manny said sharply, passing him a thick crust and a heel of hard cheddar. ‘What’s yours?’ The tea was stewed, but it would have to do, he thought.

  ‘Well, I was known as Buck in my youth, on account of my teeth, and even though I got ’em knocked out later, that does me all right nowadays. See you’re still limping.’

  ‘Almost lost my leg, but luckier than some.’

  ‘Old Pa Flinders still around?’

  ‘He died before my time. I came here just after the war. His daughter employs me.’

  ‘Ah, Florence . . .’ Buck took a gulp of tea. ‘Best you tell her I’m here.’

  ‘It’s her day off; I didn’t ought to disturb her . . .’

  ‘We’re old friends. You may find this hard to believe, but I worked for her father when I was a lad. I delivered pies to order, then. Still got the old black boneshaker?’

  ‘No. We can sell enough pies in the shop. I’m not sure—’

  ‘You’re not sure she’ll want to see me? Well, I reckon she will.’ He brushed the crumbs from his moustache, then belched painfully. ‘Suffer terrible with me stummick . . .’

  *

  Florence came to with a start. Had she been dreaming? Then the rapping on the door was repeated, and she heard Manny call, ‘Florence, are you there?’

  She pulled the kimono round her, tied it in place. Her hair was tousled, but, after all, it was only Manny, she thought. She padded to the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘I’m hardly decent,’ she answered doubtfully. ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you here; he might hear—’

  ‘Who, Manny? All right, close the door after you.’ She saw his pale face. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve had a shock, I can tell.’

  ‘He says he worked here years ago. He’s obviously been living rough. He says you’ll want to see him—’ he gabbled.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Buck.’

  Now the colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Buck’ she repeated. Then, ‘Yes, he worked here, but it was years before the war. He was a young man then; I don’t suppose I’d recognize him now. My father, well, he gave him the sack. At the time, I thought that was unfair, but . . . do I gather you know him, too?’

  ‘We were in the army together, in France, 1916. He went missing, presumed killed. I was in hospital, injured, at the time. It was like seeing a ghost, Florence.’

  ‘Look.’ She’d regained her composure. ‘Give me ten minutes to tidy myself, and then bring him up here. I’ll sort this out, don’t worry.’

  ‘He might ask you for money.’

  ‘If I consider he’s in need, I’ll help him. I owe him that. Off you go, then.’

  *

  ‘You’ll have to give me an ’and with me boots,’ Buck told Manny. ‘I had to struggle to get the bleeders off.’ He twitched his toes in the felted, holey socks. ‘I need a bath. Reckon Florence’ll let me use her tub?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Manny wrestled with the first muddy boot.

  ‘I lived down here in the basement, that time. Just you, is it? No lodger in the spare room? You can put me up tonight, can’t you?’

  ‘Well, you can’t stay upstairs, the rest of the house is all women. I told Florence I knew you in the army, but believed you’d been lost in action. I’ll keep quiet about the rest of it, and I expect the same of you, regarding myself.’

  Florence appeared quite composed. She held out her hand to Buck. ‘It’s been a long time, Buck. I’m sorry to see you’ve obviously hit h
ard times.’

  ‘You ain’t changed much, I’m glad to see, Florence. No hard feelings, eh?’

  ‘I don’t bear grudges. Well, you’ll have to get cleaned up before the girls come back and then you and Manny can have your supper with us.’

  ‘Girls? Young Stella still with you?’

  ‘Stella’s grown up, married and gone away. I look after her little daughter as well as a younger sister; we lost my stepmother not long after she was born.’

  ‘You never married?’ Buck queried.

  ‘No, did you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he answered evasively.

  ‘Well, I’ll get the copper going again. Some of Dad’s clothes are still in the hall cupboard. Help yourself; you’re welcome to keep them. Have a cup of tea while you’re waiting on your bath. Has Manny offered you a bed for the night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Manny affirmed reluctantly. ‘I’ll go, if you don’t mind,’ he emphasized, ‘to make the room ready. I’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she asserted.

  *

  Rose Marie and Josefina parted company with Lilli and Yvette at their door. They were surprised to discover that Florence had a visitor, a burly fellow looking ill at ease in an old-fashioned suit, with a whiff of camphor balls. He and Manny were seated either side of the kitchen stove. Florence was putting the finishing touches to the supper table. She turned to introduce them. ‘My sister and niece, Rose Marie and Josefina; this is Buck, who once worked here. He and Manny are old comrades, too, they were in the army together.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Buck said. With his moustache and shaggy eyebrows trimmed and his hair oiled back he looked better, despite the deep lines which seamed his face.

  ‘And you,’ Rose Marie responded, smiling. ‘We must go and tidy up, Josefina.’

  ‘Bombay toast,’ Florence said, a little later. ‘My grandfather was out in India, in the army during the troubles, and he brought the recipe back. I thought it would make a change for high tea. It’s really just scrambled eggs with capers and anchovies, and a good shake of cayenne pepper. So watch out, it’s rather hot.’ She put a generous spoonful on each round of well-buttered toast, two for the men, one each for the girls and herself.