New Neighbours for Coronation Close, page 7
Jenny swallowed before proclaiming, ‘My Roy sometimes drinks at the Bunch of Grapes.’ She said it in a slow, calm fashion, seeking disclosure, though unsure as to whether Brenda would confirm that Roy was amongst those who consorted with prostitutes. Could that be the reason he’d changed over the years because he was getting what he really wanted elsewhere?
‘Life and soul of the party, your Roy – when he comes in.’
She felt Brenda studying her, discerning she was asking a question in not so many words.
‘I’ve never seen your old man with a tart. He’s always with the blokes, laughing and joking with the best of ’em. Always got a lot to say for ’imself ’as your Roy. Don’t like foreigners for a start. Got a lot to say on that subject. So ’ave the blokes he ’angs around with. Some of ’em are them Blackshirts, smooth as you like but dangerous. I keeps away from them meself. Ain’t got no time for politics – or for loudmouths, for that matter.’
Jenny had stopped listening. She remembered the time when she’d gone to the pub and heard him spouting about foreigners with a group of men who seemed to be hanging on his every word. Her mind turned to the report in the newspaper and the photo of men with cruelly distorted faces and one face in particular, the one that looked like Roy.
5
Rudimentary cooking at Blue Bowl Alley could be conducted on the small fireplace in each suite of rooms. Cooking a joint of meat or a big pan of stew or pan of something fried was done in the old-fashioned kitchen on the ground floor. It was next to the lean-to laundry and dominated by the huge Victorian coal-fired range that belched heat summer and winter.
Hidden by curtains made of sacking were two rooms with arched ceilings and no windows, each set with a full-size zinc bath. At one time, these rooms too had been occupied by large families too poor to pay rent for anything better. Following the families falling ill and a visit from the health department, the owner of the property had been served notice not to rent these out. He was further ordered to supply zinc baths for the tenants to keep clean and not fall ill like the previous tenants of these dank, cellar-like rooms.
‘They’ll be wanting me to provide them with running water before long,’ he’d grumbled.
The kitchen was the best of these rooms, mainly because it was always warm, sometimes too hot. The tenants from all floors tended to congregate there whilst they waited for their food to cook.
Although grateful for its heat, Jenny considered the cast-iron range something of a monster squatting in its huge fireplace. Hot coals glowed at its heart like the entrance to hell. At either side were two large hobs above two identical ovens. Fire irons hung from hooks at the side along with old rags. The rags were necessary to prevent burnt flesh when meat was being retrieved.
Hair clinging damply to her head, Jenny lifted the lid of the saucepan, smelt what was cooking and dipped in a wooden spoon.
‘Smells nice, Mrs Crawford. Fit for a king, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Isaac was sitting at the big old pine table that occupied the centre of the room waiting for his own meal to cook. He had two plates ready, one for himself and one for his wife Ruth.
Tonight they were having meatballs. ‘Thick with onions and gravy,’ he’d said to her and licked his lips. It had only just gone in, so was likely to take some time.
After having a taste of the stew herself, she passed the spoon to Isaac. ‘Here. See what you think.’
Despite his wide mouth, he sipped at the spoon daintily, the pinkie finger of his hand held aloft, more like a lady than a manual labourer.
He threw back his head and closed his eyes as he savoured the taste. ‘Mmmm. Nectar.’
Jenny laughed. ‘Hardly that. Pork bones, potatoes, carrots and onions. I only hope Roy thinks it’s nectar.’
She turned back to the range so Isaac wouldn’t see her expression. Roy had taken her by surprise and come home early that day, demanding hot water for a bath and a shave. Buckets were placed on the range and gradually she’d filled the bath.
He'd said nothing to Isaac as he’d stalked through the kitchen, merely ruffling Gloria’s hair and tapping Tilly on the cheek. In fact, the look he’d thrown Isaac had been downright unfriendly. He’d also taken a brown paper carrier bag in with him.
‘Fresh clothes,’ he’d said when she asked what it was as she took his work clothes, shook them out and hung them over the back of a battered chair.
Isaac had already placed a vast cauldron of water on one of the hobs at the side of the range.
‘You have it,’ he’d whispered seeing her consternation. ‘I can wait.’
If Roy had heard, he said nothing.
Thanks to Isaac’s kindness, the bath didn’t take too long to fill once she’d added her own pan of water.
She had smelled his sweat as she’d pulled off his underwear. Naked, he’d stepped into the hot water.
‘Scrub me back.’
Taking a large block of Sunlight, she’d scrubbed his back and swilled it off with a face flannel, the warm water running down his back.
‘And wash my hair. I want it looking decent tonight.’
As so many times before, she’d wondered if he was getting himself ready for a woman. Why else would he be doing all this? But she wouldn’t ask. She’d prefer him to be out so she could have the house to herself. The stark truth was that she’d prefer him to be with someone else.
‘That’ll do. Give us the soap and flannel.’
‘Your towel is on the chair.’
He hadn’t answered. He’d frowned at the soap and flannel as he’d lathered one against the other, a signal that he wanted her to leave. She’d left him willingly with his clothes and a towel.
Isaac was telling her about somebody at the fruit and veg market, how they cut the sprouting roots off potatoes to take home and plant in their garden.
‘He reckons he’s grown loads of potatoes like that.’ He shook his head. ‘Makes me wish I had a garden, but then what with my legs, I can’t see it would come to much.’
She turned to Isaac and asked after Ruth. ‘How are her legs today?’
He made a so-so signal with his hand. ‘Not so bad. A bit of dry weather makes all the difference.’ He sighed and leaned against the back rail on the pine bench where he was sitting. ‘This place will be the death of ’er, she says. Summer or winter, it’s the damp.’
Holding up a ladle, she asked him if he’d like a drop more stew. ‘There’s plenty here.’
It was the least she could do.
He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to leave you short. Anyway, I’d spoil me dinner. Ruth would cuss me uphill and down dell if I don’t eat it all up. Takes her a lot of effort to put something on the table of a night, what with ’er joints being the way they are.’
Jenny smiled. She wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘How about just a cupful?’
She held a ladleful of stew out of the saucepan, her pretty lips smiling enticement.
He nodded. ‘All right then. Half a cup, but only of the gravy and no more.’
Isaac finished the rich broth Jenny had filtered from the thick stew and was voicing his appreciation just as Roy emerged from behind the sack curtain. She saw him stall, eyes glaring at Isaac, less so at her.
Isaac wished him good evening. Roy ignored him.
She didn’t need him to say that he’d left the bath water for her to empty but had been about to ask him when he wanted his dinner.
Roy froze. His face was pink from the bath, but his look was cold. The glare he threw Isaac was one of contempt. The one he shot in her direction chilled her blood.
‘I’ll take my food upstairs,’ he said. ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle and should be only for Englishmen.’
She felt embarrassed for both herself and for Isaac.
Another icy glare sped like an arrow in Isaac’s direction before Roy headed for the stairs.
She called after him. ‘Roy?’
He didn’t look back. The sound of his tramping feet came from the narrow stairwell. Both she and Isaac raised their eyes to the ceiling. Dust puffed down from the ceiling plaster in time with her husband’s heavy tread.
‘It’s nearly…’
He didn’t give her chance but slammed the door behind him.
Hiding her fear, Jenny went back to her cooking, smiling at Isaac as though there was nothing wrong at all. As though she wouldn’t bear the brunt of whatever it was Roy was angry about.
Isaac made a show of not noticing, though she knew beyond doubt that he had.
‘My, Jenny, that was smashing and just enough. I won’t be spoiling me dinner.’
‘I’m sorry that Roy was so rude,’ she said. She plastered on a smile. Always plaster on a smile. A fixed smile hid the hurt beneath it, a shield between the truth and the world. Roy was in a mood; she could tell but felt it her duty to make excuses. ‘He’s been working nights. It’s made him tired.’
Isaac was silent. His eyes were downcast. One set of bony fingers stroked his silky beard.
‘There. I’ll leave you a bit more gravy…’
She was about to pour some from the saucepan and into the cup, but Isaac’s hand, gnarled with a lifetime of work, covered the cup.
‘You are very kind, but I have had enough.’
The sudden change in his manner confused and hurt her.
‘Right. Then I’d better get going and give Roy his dinner.’
All the residents left their crockery and cutlery in the kitchen. The alternative was to take it up and down the stairs along with the prepared food. She certainly wasn’t looking forward to traipsing upstairs, but Roy was in a mood. Lingering would only make matters worse.
Lid on the pot, dish and tea towel tucked beneath her arm, Jenny paused by the door. She looked back at Isaac. He’d pulled a newspaper from his pocket. His brows furrowed as he read it and his shoulders were hunched. She wondered what he was thinking about, possibly how rude her husband had been. His frown deepened; his eyes fixed on the front page of the newspaper. He sighed. Shook his head. Her overall conclusion was that he was feeling despair over something in the newspaper.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ she asked.
Isaac remained sitting stiffly, eyes downcast, skimming over the front page of the newspaper. Bony fingers forked over his forehead. He nodded in an oddly abstracted manner that made her think it was not entirely down to Roy’s behaviour.
She felt it her duty to make amends, to apologise for something she had not said or done, but to cling to the excuse that he was tired. ‘Don’t worry about Roy. He’ll be over it by tomorrow.’
Isaac came out from behind his hands. Unblinking, he gave her a look that made her feel naïve and fearful. At one moment, she interpreted it as sadness, but the next minute she changed her mind and thought it was fear – more than fear – outright terror. ‘Your husband and others like him will never be over it. Never.’ He shook his head and wrang his hands in front of him, one set of long bony fingers pulling on the other.
She didn’t understand what he meant and that made her angry. ‘Well, I can’t stand here wasting time. He’ll be wanting his dinner before going out.’
Isaac lifted his head and looked at her. ‘He is going to a meeting.’ It was a statement not a question, one that she thought he had no business making. How could he know more than she did?
She frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’ Her voice quivered.
Isaac sighed. ‘He wears black. The Blackshirts wear black. That is where he is going.’
She vacated the kitchen swiftly. Her heart pounded. The brown paper carrier bag. Why hadn’t his appearance struck her in the same manner as it had Isaac? Her mind went back to those awful photos on the front page of the newspaper. The riot. The fighting, the set jaws, curled lips, and hard angry faces.
She’d only read a few sentences before turning the page, too upset and disgusted to read the reasons why these men had been out for trouble. It was all about foreigners, colour, race and religion. These people, these Blackshirts led by a man named Oswald Mosley, went out looking for trouble, and if they couldn’t find any, then they made it. That was what the newspaper had inferred. And it hadn’t stopped if the despair etched on Isaac’s face was anything to go by.
Her thoughts were in a greater stew than the one she carried in the saucepan. As she climbed the stairs, some of what she’d read came back to her. It was their aim to infiltrate trade unions and similar associations, to recruit working-class men, especially those who had fought in the Great War and felt passed over by their country, left without jobs, homes and the self-respect that came with it.
She raked over the article in her mind, trying hard to remember other details, principally the name of the organisation. She was almost at the door to her humble home when it came to her. The organisation was called the National Union of Fascists.
Trembling inside and out, she heaved her hip into the door of the top-floor rooms. Roy was standing at the window, his back to her, looking out. His broad frame dressed in black blocked out the light. Where had these new clothes come from?
She drew in her lips as she set the saucepan, plate and cutlery on the table.
Her heart was pounding and her throat too dry to speak, yet she had to say something.
She licked her lips and tried to sound normal, as though downstairs had never happened. ‘Better eat your dinner before it gets cold.’
He spun round on her; his look as black as the new clothes he was wearing. Before she could make a move, he grabbed her hair.
‘You are never again to feed that old Jew. I don’t put food on the table for you to give away. Have you got that?’
She yelped. A fiery tingling broke out on her scalp, the feeling of a handful of hair being pulled out by the roots. What with downstairs and now this, a new realisation dawned. The fear she’d learned to live with was cracking. There had to be something better than this life she led. Live or go under. For the sake of her girls, she would not go under. The time had come to stand up for herself and in doing so, for them.
She grasped his hand and tried to pry his fingers from her hair. ‘You didn’t put the vegetables in that soup. Isaac gave them to me. Every week, he gives me vegetables. If he didn’t, we’d starve to death.’
He flung her away from him, then grabbed her back, his eyes blazing. ‘And what did you give him in return!’
‘Pennies,’ she shouted. ‘Nothing but pennies.’
She knew what he meant. Had Isaac had his way with her. Isaac was disabled and gentle, a kind man who didn’t deserve to be the subject of distorted truth.
In nightmares, she sometimes saw monsters, men whose features caught in light and shade made them look demonic. That’s how Roy looked now, blotches of anger staining his cheeks.
‘If he’s laid a hand on you, I’ll kill him. If you let him, I’ll kill you too.’
Despite the pain from her tugged hair, she managed to shake her head. ‘And I’d turn you in. I swear it, Roy. I swear it on my daughters’ lives, you hurt the old man and I’ll turn you in.’
The moment she saw the twitching of a pulse beneath his eye, she knew she’d said the wrong thing. Not only had she stuck up for Isaac, but she’d also threatened him. Dressed in his black shirt, his hair gleaming, muscles bursting against his sleeves, he was a new man, one opposed to anyone who didn’t conform to the fascist model.
In an instant, he’d been demeaned because she had openly stated that some of the ingredients in the stew were not paid for by him but given her by Isaac Jacobs, a crippled Jew who was as poor as they were. Unfortunately to Roy’s mind, and that of these people he was consorting with, Isaac was lower than them, less than a dog, less than anything living.
Without giving her chance to question what he was doing, or to say sorry, or to say anything, he grabbed her wrist. His glance went to the stew. She knew what he was going to do.
‘Don’t Roy. Please. Don’t!’
She pleaded, dug in her heels, leaned backwards in an effort that he wouldn’t succeed in his intention.
Smelling of shaving soap, his face was as a monstrous mask of the man he had become, eyes wild, mouth a twisted sneer.
‘I’m master in this house. You do as I say. And don’t you forget it.’
Although she resisted, crying out and only barely stopping short of a scream, his grip tightened on her wrist. She tried to jerk back, but it was no use. Her hand went into the hot stew.
In order that her girls wouldn’t hear and come running, Jenny’s scream was muted. That’s what she always did, although on this occasion another reason held sway. Roy wanted it to burn, to scald, to hurt enough to warrant a scream. The stew had been brought all the way upstairs so had had time to cool down. It was not scalding hot, but she made the right noises, just enough to massage his ego and reaffirm his superiority.
‘Now just listen to me,’ he hissed, his fingers tangled in her hair. ‘You’re not to ’ave anything to do with Isaac Jacobs. Is that clear?’
She eyed him silently. The change that had occurred earlier seethed in her belly. She was careful not to let it erupt in her eyes. In her heart of hearts, she wanted to defy him, but her fear for what might happen to her and the children – the workhouse, destitution – silenced her. Every married woman counted on a man’s wage, but in time she would find a way out of this. There had to be something better and somehow, somewhere, she would find it.
He wagged a warning finger close to her face. ‘And I don’t want you ’aving anything to do with ’is missus. Got it?’
She neither nodded nor spoke but hung her head as though she was both beaten and obedient. She gritted her teeth when he squeezed her hand.
‘I don’t want you giving ’im any food, even a stale crust. I work bloody ’ard to put food on the table. If it weren’t for the likes of ’im, there wouldn’t be the unemployment there ’as been. Lucky for you the new gaffer thinks the same way that I do.’
