The Street. Kay Brellend
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she’ll have to go to a different school and she don’t want to ‘n’ nor do I want it ’cos she’s me friend.’ Alice drew breath to renew her appeal. ‘She can’t go home ’cos of Louisa and also ’cos her mum’s took in Louisa’s friend who pays rent. There’s no room there now.’
‘And?’
‘Can she stay here for a while? Just till . . .’
‘Just till what?’ Tilly asked, but she gave a rare smile. ‘You’re too soft, my gel. It’s gonna do you no favours when yer older.’
‘So can she stop here for a while? Till the lodger moves out?’
‘Just for a while till she gets it all sorted out. I’ll take Beth in our bed fer a bit. Sarah can kip in with you ‘n’ Sophy. But you tell her that if she’s gonna expect a bit of grub Ginny’d better stump up the necessary. You tell her or I will.’
Alice rushed to her mother and hugged her about the waist. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Get off with you.’ Tilly elbowed herself free. ‘Now let’s get on. Yer dad’ll be back soon and wantin’ something to eat.’
‘I’m arresting you lot if that fire’s not out by the time I come back.’
‘You ’noose army, rozzer?’
Constable Bickerstaff took a threatening step towards the bonfire, fingers stroking the truncheon on his hip. Through a mirage materialised two men’s faces, their grins highlighted by fierce flames.
‘Aw, c’mon, mate . . . just roastin’ me chestnuts . . .’ one of the men lewdly implored for lenience.
‘You know rules are no street fires; now put the bugger out,’ Twitch bellowed. ‘It’s hot enough tonight as it is without you making it worse than it needs to be.’
As though to reinforce his argument Sidney Bickerstaff peeled his serge collar away from his sticky skin and wiped it with a handkerchief. He took a glance about. It was ten o’clock on a Saturday evening in late summer and dusk had settled long ago. It might have been three o’clock in the afternoon. Campbell Road never slept. At any time of day or night you might find it bustling with people young and old, and reeking of unwashed humanity and indeterminate rotting debris. At the height of summer the stench and noise was just so much worse. The domestic cacophony escaped through windows and doors flung wide in the forlorn hope of letting in fresh air. It wasn’t unusual at this time of year to see people sleeping on carts in the street to escape the stifling conditions in the overcrowded houses.
Sidney Bickerstaff and Ralph Franks had just passed a grizzled old fellow playing a barrel organ and stopped a group of louts from tormenting him and his monkey. The boys had scattered, shouting abuse, but Twitch knew if he turned around he’d see them peeping round the corner of Paddington Street at him. They’d simply wait till he disappeared into Seven Sisters before looking for mischief again. He knew too the street gamesters who’d hared off, after grabbing up dice and cards and coins that’d been strewn on the pavement, would reconvene on the corner outside the doss house as soon as the coast was clear.
‘I’m sweltering here,’ Constable Ralph Franks complained as he sought his older, stouter colleague as lee from the illegal bonfire. ‘We’re not coming back this evening, so might as well turn a blind eye.’ He turned to squint at the blaze. ‘Leave ’em be. With any luck they’ll burn the whole bleeding street down and do everyone a favour.’ He broke off grumbling as he glimpsed the girl he found attractive. She’d seen him too and was casting sideways looks his way while chatting to another girl. The one he fancied was a definite looker whereas that lump of lard standing next to her was ugly enough to put a bloke off his beer.
As the young constable turned away from her Connie Whitton smiled and wondered what coppers got paid and if that particular copper had a wife or sweetheart. If he did, it wouldn’t stop her. It wouldn’t stop him either; the randy git couldn’t keep his eyes off her when they met. If she took up with him, or any copper, she’d get the cold shoulder round here. That wouldn’t worry her. She was itching to get away from the lot of them. Her mother was driving her mad, taking all her wages, then collapsing on the couch she used as a bed. She never stopped drinking and moaning. Her sister Louisa stank the place out because she sweated so much and never bothered to wash. She looked across the road and saw her sister Sarah sitting with the Keiver kids on the steps outside their house. Sarah had been living away from home for months and it didn’t seem to bother her younger sister one bit to be away from her family. Connie knew how she felt.
On noticing the two policemen were heading off in Sarah’s direction, Connie sauntered over to say hello to her sister and put herself in the young constable’s way again.
‘What d’you want?’ was Sarah’s blunt reply to her sister’s cheery greeting.
‘Party goin’ on in there, is it?’ Connie cocked her head to listen to the unmistakeable sound of a piano being thumped and some raucous singing accompanying it.
‘What if it is? You ain’t invited, anyhow,’ Sarah flatly told Connie.
‘No need to be like that, Sar,’ Connie complained. ‘Ain’t my fault Louisa set about you and started it all off. Ain’t my fault either that Dad moved off to Bethnal and left you behind.’
‘He didn’t leave me,’ Sarah muttered. ‘I wanted to stay behind.’
‘What’s all that racket?’ Twitch asked, earning his nickname twice in rapid succession. He’d crossed the street to stand and glare up at the open window out of which, at that precise moment, sailed an empty brown bottle. It narrowly missed Alice’s head and smashed on the pavement. Alice jumped up and scraped shards together with her foot.
‘Just me mum ‘n’ dad ‘n’ a few friends having a singsong,’ Alice cautiously told Twitch, still shifting broken glass. She knew, as did everyone in these parts, that you had as little as possible to do with the law. She sat down again and one of her hands dived into the newspaper containing the chips she was sharing with Sarah. They’d been sitting on the pavement for some while talking about this and that and every so often going indoors to jig about on the fringes of the adults or snatch a drink of lemonade. But this weekend the temperature had soared and it was too crowded and hot in there for the youngsters to want to stay too long. They got crushed and elbowed by adults boozing and swaying and roaring out songs.
Since Jack had brought home the piano it had been a regular occurrence on Saturday evening to have a get together – and it went on for as long as limited space and sobriety would allow. Usually by the early hours of Sunday the guests who were still standing had stumbled off home and an uneasy peace was to be had till morning.
Twitch continued to gaze at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. It was a racket, no doubt about it, but if Bunk residents stayed on their own patch it meant he and Franks encountered fewer disorderly drunks while on the beat. And Tilly Keiver was one of the most difficult drunks to deal with. About to share that observation with his colleague, Twitch realised Ralph had wandered off and was talking to the pretty Whitton girl.
‘You’re fairly new around here, ‘n’t yer?’ Connie struck up conversation and lowered her eyelashes. Close to he wasn’t bad looking at all for a flatfoot.
‘Yeah . . .’ Ralph said. ‘And I wish I wasn’t.’
Connie glanced up from beneath her lashes. ‘Stay long enough you might just find something about The Bunk you like.’
‘Like what?’ Ralph eyed her calculatingly. ‘You know of some sort of compensation for me being stuck in the worst street in North London on a Saturday night?’
‘Yeah . . . might do . . . might know of something . . .’ Connie pouted. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Ralph Franks.’
‘I’m Connie