Rosie’s War. Kay Brellend
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Gertie’s suffering.
‘What’s your oldest lad’s name?’ Rosie asked ‘Bet he’s quite the young man now, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, Joey’s cock of the walk, all right. Thirteen, he is, and giving me plenty of lip.’ Gertie managed a tiny smile. ‘Mind you, that one always did have too much to say for himself. Gets that off his dad.’
‘I bet your husband dotes on his princess.’ Rosie nodded at Victoria. ‘My dad calls Hope his princess.’ She gave her friend a smile. ‘Best be getting off, I suppose … be late for tea. Dad’ll wonder where we are.’ Rosie regretted drawing attention to her own circumstances; Gertie would wonder why she was referring to her father so much rather than to a husband.
‘Fine reunion this has turned out to be,’ Gertie’s mumble held a hint of wry humour.
‘Glad I bumped into you, Gertie,’ Rosie said, glancing at her daughter, clapping hands with Victoria.
‘Shall we meet up again?’ Gertie looked at Rosie quite shyly as though anticipating a rebuff. ‘The little ’uns seem to be getting along. We could take them for a stroll round a park another day. Perhaps have a picnic … if you like.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Rosie said enthusiastically. ‘We can reminisce about old times. What a to-do that was about Olive Roberts. Who’d have thought it?’
‘Never liked that woman,’ Gertie’s eyes narrowed as she reflected on the kiosk attendant at the Windmill Theatre who’d been unmasked as a dangerous Nazi sympathiser.
‘Quite hair-raising, wasn’t it?’ A gleam of nostalgia lit Rosie’s eyes. ‘We saw some times there, didn’t we? Good and bad.’
Gertie grunted agreement. ‘I miss the old place,’ she said. ‘Funny thing is, when I was at work, I couldn’t wait to finish a shift and get home to me boys, though they drove me up the wall. Now I’m home all the time I wish I’d got a job.’
‘Now Hope’s turned two I’m after a nursery place for her so I can get back to work.’ Rosie tidied her daughter’s fair hair with her fingers. ‘I want to help bring this damned war to an end.’
‘Not going back on stage?’ Gertie asked.
‘No fear.’
‘Before you disappear, you must tell me about your other half.’ Gertie teasingly prodded Rosie’s arm.
‘Tell you more when I see you next week,’ Rosie replied, turning the pram about, ready to head back towards Shoreditch. ‘How about Thursday afternoon at about three o’clock? We could meet right here outside Gamages …’
‘Suits me; Rufus goes to a neighbour’s to play cards on Thursdays.’
‘Your husband back on leave, is he?’ Rosie asked.
‘Oh …’course, you wouldn’t know that either. He’s been invalided home from the army,’ Gertie said briskly to conceal the wobble in her voice.
Rosie read from Gertie’s fierce expression that the woman felt she’d suffered enough condolences for one day. ‘See you Thursday then.’ Rosie let off the brake on the pram.
The two women headed off in opposite directions, then both turned at the same time to wave before settling into their strides.
Rosie walked quickly, aware her dad would be wondering where she’d got to, but at the back of her mind was the conversation she’d had with Gertie about the ambulance auxiliaries. Rosie wanted to do a job that was vital to the war effort and in her book there was nothing more important than saving lives. So she reckoned she knew what employment she’d apply for. All she had to do was break it to her dad that she was going to volunteer for a position with the ambulance auxiliaries.
‘Long time no see, mate.’
John Gardiner almost dropped the mug of tea he’d been cradling in his palm. He’d opened the front door while carrying it, expecting to see his daughter on the step. He’d been about to say, ‘What, forgot your key again, dear?’ because Rosie had earlier in the week knocked him up when he’d been snoozing on the settee.
Instead his welcoming smile vanished and he half closed the door in the wonky-eyed fellow’s face. It’d been a year since he’d caught sight of Frank Purves, and then they’d only nodded at one another from opposite pavements. On that occasion John had been tempted to hare across the road to throttle the man for having spawned a fiend. But, of course, he hadn’t because that would have given the game away. And John would sooner die than cause his daughter any more trouble. He kept his welcome to a snarled, ‘What the hell d’you want?’
‘Well, that ain’t a very nice greeting, is it?’ Frank stuck his boot over the threshold to prevent John shutting him out. He stared at his old business partner although just one of his eyes was on the man’s face and the other appeared to be studying the doorjamb. Popeye, as Frank was nicknamed, had never let his severe squint hold him back. ‘Just come to see how you’re doing, and tell you about a bit of easy money heading your way, John.’
‘I told you years back that I ain’t in that game no more, and I haven’t changed me mind,’ John craned his neck to spit, ‘I’ve got a wife and family, and I don’t want no trouble.’
‘Yeah, heard you got married to Doris Bellamy. Remember her. All used to hang about together as kids, didn’t we?’ Frank cocked his head. ‘Gonna ask me in fer a cuppa, then?’ He nodded at the tea in John’s unsteady hand. ‘Any left in the pot, is there, mate? I’m spitting feathers ’ere …’
‘No, there ain’t.’ John glanced to left and right as though fearing somebody might have spotted his visitor. ‘Look … I’m straight now and all settled down. Don’t need no work.’ As a last resort he waggled his bad leg at Frank. ‘See … got a gammy leg since we got bombed out up the other end of the road.’
‘Yeah, heard about that, too.’ Frank gave the injury a cursory glance. ‘Thing is, John, that bad leg ain’t gonna hold you back in your line of work, is it?’ He shifted his weight forward. ‘You owe me, as I recall, and I’m here to collect that favour.’
‘Owe you?’ John frowned, the colour fleeing from his complexion. Even so, he was confident that what he was thinking wasn’t what Frank Purves was hinting at. John reckoned that Popeye couldn’t know anything about that, ’cos if he did the vengeful bastard wouldn’t be talking to him, he’d be sticking a knife in his guts. Lenny’s actions had started a feud between the Gardiners and the Purveses that Popeye knew nothing about. But one day he would and when that day came John wanted to get in first.
‘When you chucked it all in you left me high ’n’ dry with a pile of labels I’d run off. Never paid me for ’em, did yer? Plus I had a fair few irate customers waiting on that batch of gin.’
John’s sigh of relief whistled through his teeth. He ferreted in a pocket and drew out some banknotes, thrusting them at Frank. ‘There! Go on, piss off!’
Frank looked contemptuously at the two pounds before pocketing them. ‘I’m in with some different people now. They’re interested in you, John. I been singing your praises and telling ’em you’re the best distiller in London. They ain’t gonna like your attitude when they’ve stumped up handsomely to sample your wares.’
John’s jaw dropped and he suddenly reddened in fury. ‘You had no right to tell a fucking soul about me. I don’t go blabbing me mouth off about you doing a bit of counterfeiting.’
‘Yeah, well, needs must when the devil drives, eh?’ Frank leaned in again. ‘Lost me son, lost me little bomb lark business ’cos me employees crippled themselves. A one-armed short-arse and a fat bloke wot got nobbled in France. Ain’t saying they aren’t