On Mother Brown's Doorstep (24 page)

‘Are you sure that over the last ten days your life hasn’t seen a little difference?’

‘Are you talkin’ about excitement?’ asked Will.

‘Good question,’ said Dr McManus.

‘D’you mean I could be affected by the excitement of winnin’ a bet on a horse race or landin’ a job at five quid a week?’

‘Stimulation of an asthmatic condition can be caused by a variety of agencies, Will, external or internal. It can be caused by the air you breathe, if the air contains an irritating factor, or an infection of the nose or throat. Or simply by the infectious nature of simple excitement. Have you had a winning bet lately?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ said Will. His little grin appeared. ‘But I met a girl about a fortnight ago.’

‘What kind of a girl?’

‘Lively,’ said Will. ‘Stands up for herself and answers me back. Name of Annie Ford. Would you know her?’

‘Yes,’ said Dr McManus, ‘if she lives in Blackwood Street with her family.’

‘That’s her,’ said Will.

‘And you’ve been seeing her?’

‘Frequently,’ said Will.

‘Well, that’s a change in your pattern of life, isn’t it?’ said the doctor.

‘Hell’s bells, I meet a girl and that affects my asthma?’

‘Would you say, as a young man, that you find her exciting?’

‘She’s a saucebox,’ said Will.

‘Yes, an engaging girl.’

‘I had an idea,’ said Will, ‘that physical exertion, such
as
rowing a boat on the Serpentine, caused attacks.’

‘That and a difference in your routine might have done it. Look, next time you have an attack, make a note afterwards of exactly what you were doing at the time, what your last meal consisted of, if you’d been sneezing or not, and whether you were in or out of doors. Then come and see me again.’

‘I’ll do that, doctor, and thanks.’

Annie found him in top form on the way to the cinema, and was sure he might be a candidate for a thick ear if he secured seats in the back row. But she was spared having to set about him, for he bought sixpenny seats halfway up the stalls.

‘Lucky for you you changed your mind,’ she whispered.

‘Lucky for you, you mean,’ he whispered back.

‘Young men ought to be respectful to their young ladies.’

‘And young ladies ought to say sir to their young men.’

‘Yes, sir, three bags full, sir.’ Annie was happy. She liked being with him and sitting close to him in the cinema, their shoulders touching. She really felt like his young lady. They enjoyed the programme. A Mack Sennett comedy featuring the Keystone Cops preceded the Tom Mix film. It made the audience roar. In the big film, Tom Mix was his usual breezy self. His cowboy and Indian films often had an amusing side, and he could sometimes give the impression he was taking the mickey out of the Wild West. Will bought ice creams before the film started, and Annie said he was getting to be quite a nice feller.

They went home on a tram, Will relieved he’d had no attack all day. He thought about what Dr McManus had said. Did it excite him to have met Annie and to take her out? Well, he had to admit she wasn’t exactly unexciting, and her legs were a treat to his eye.

‘You’re a bit quiet,’ she said.

‘I’m thinking would it help to be a cowboy?’

‘What sort of ’elp do you need, then?’

‘All those wide open spaces must be good for most people. And I might leave the Army.’

‘Honest?’ said Annie. ‘Oh, that’s good.’

‘What’s good about it?’

Well, I’d like it, thought Annie, I’d like to have him just a few streets away from me all the time.

‘What’s makin’ you think about leavin’?’ she asked.

‘Cowboys and Indians, I suppose,’ said Will. The tram was running smoothly, the traffic light at this time of night, and he liked the feel of Annie close beside him, thigh, hip and shoulder. Steady, mate, he thought, don’t get excited, you might be allergic to excitement; your doctor said so. ‘Is that good?’

‘Is what good?’ asked Annie.

‘Leavin’ the Army for the wide open spaces, joinin’ the cowboys and Indians,’ said Will. ‘Didn’t you say it was?’

‘Oh, you daft thing,’ said Annie, ‘there’s wide open spaces down near Brighton in Sussex. Dad took us there once, on the train. Besides, cowboys and Indians ride ’orses. You can’t ride ’orses, can you?’

‘Not without fallin’ off,’ said Will, ‘but I can ride a bike.’

Annie laughed. Other passengers glanced at her. They saw a girl in happiness. Will saw a girl bright and alive, her hip and thigh communicating feminine warmth to his. His body, vigorous and healthy despite his asthmatic condition, stirred reactively. Steady, he told himself again.

They alighted at East Street.

Feeling peckish, Will said, ‘Fancy some fish and chips, Annie?’

‘Oh, who wouldn’t?’ said Annie, liking the offer
because
it was just the kind of treat a girl could expect from a young man when she was his young lady.

So they walked along the Walworth Road to the fish and chip shop near Manor Place, where Will bought two helpings of rock salmon and chips. They put salt and vinegar on, and spent a happy time eating them out of the newspaper wrapping on their way back to East Street. Annie deposited the newspaper in the wire basket fixed to the lamp-post on the corner of the street, and then Will walked her home.

In the doorway of the Ford house, the cold night darkly enclosed them. Annie looked up at him. Her face seemed misty.

‘Will, thanks ever so much for a lovely evenin’,’ she said a little throatily.

Will kissed her. He couldn’t help himself. Blissfully, Annie received the kiss, her first romantic one. Oh, help, swoony. Her mouth clung to his, and she pressed close. Ruddy fire and hell, thought Will, as warning signals arrived. Kissing a girl was doing it to his tubes? He released her.

‘Bless you, Annie,’ he said.

‘Oh, bless you too,’ she said, breathless and rapturous. ‘You’ll come in, won’t you, and see Dad and ’ave a cup of tea?’

Will’s chest was tightening, but he felt it would be like giving her a slap in the face if he said no.

‘A cup of tea sounds just what the doctor ordered,’ he said. Annie opened the door and they entered, she in a quick way, he moving carefully, nursing his condition.

The Gaffer was up, the rest of his children in bed. He greeted Will with cockney heartiness, and Annie put the kettle on. Then she set about making some corned beef sandwiches with pickle for her dad.

‘Good film, Will?’ enquired the Gaffer, sitting at the table with him.

‘Tom Mix? You bet,’ said Will.

‘Will was sayin’ on the tram that he might leave the Army and go and be a cowboy,’ said Annie, bobbed hair dancing a little as she sliced bread.

‘Ruddy good idea,’ said the Gaffer. ‘Let’s all push off an’ get away from bosses in top ’ats an’ gold watch-chains. Let’s all be cowboys.’

‘Me as well?’ said Annie, a little glow on her face.

‘I like the picture,’ said Will.

‘What picture?’ asked Annie, spreading margarine on the slices.

‘I reckon ’e means you on a cowboy’s ’orse in yer ’ighly fashionable frock, Annie,’ grinned the Gaffer.

‘Dad, you’re gettin’ as bad as Will, and if you don’t leave off I’ll make you stand in a corner.’

‘Gawd ’elp us,’ said the Gaffer.

‘Sounds fierce,’ said Will. The tightness was easing.

‘Yes, I’m the boss in this kitchen,’ said Annie, and made the tea and the sandwiches. Then she sat down with Will and her dad. Her dad tucked into the sandwiches and they drank the hot tea. Will mentioned that Susie was getting married at St John’s Church next Saturday week. Annie, at once intrigued, wanted to know who the bridegroom was. Will said Sammy Adams, and that he’d once run a glass and china stall down the market, where he’d first met Susie.

‘Oh, I know ’im,’ said Annie. ‘I mean, I saw him lots there. He’s a real lively feller, and good-lookin’ too. I bet he’s never put a girl in a—’ She stopped. The Gaffer coughed.

‘In a pushcart?’ said Will.

‘Blimey, yer done it now, Will,’ said the Gaffer, ‘that’s a word that’s forbidden in this ’ouse.’

‘What do I do now, then, duck under the table?’ said Will.

‘What’s he doin’, where’s he gone?’ asked Annie, as his head and shoulders disappeared. She shrieked, knowing that under the table she was all legs. Will’s head re-emerged.

‘Dropped me teaspoon,’ he said.

‘I bet,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t know how you can just sit there grinnin’, Dad.’

‘Well, a bloke can’t ’elp droppin’ ’is teaspoon,’ said the Gaffer, frankly tickled by what was developing between his lovable daughter and her likeable soldier. He knew Annie far too well not to realize she was in high spirits and uncommonly happy. She’d had a tough time since the death of her mum, and she’d taken on all kinds of responsibilities while doing a job as well. It hadn’t got her down, even though she’d never had much time to spare for herself or for boys. Now, when she was in her eighteenth year, it looked as if she’d got a young man. It was making her come alive. Well, Will was a bit of all right, and he’d got a nice sense of humour.

Will, remembering that a wedding guest had cried off, someone called Polly Simms, said, ‘Like to come, Annie?’

‘Come where?’ she asked.

‘To Susie’s weddin’.’

‘Me?’ said Annie, eyes opening wide.

‘There’s room for you. There’ll be dancin’ at the Institute in the evenin’.’

‘But your parents must’ve done all the arrangement,’ said Annie, ‘they couldn’t take an extra guest now, could they?’

‘Not extra big and fat ones, no,’ said Will, ‘but you’re not big and fat. We could fit you in nicely.’

Annie went warm with pleasure, then made a face.

‘Oh, I couldn’t, Saturdays are Mr Urcott’s busiest days, I couldn’t ask ’im for the afternoon off.’

‘Well, come to the Institute when you’ve finished work,’ said Will.

‘Oh, I’d love to,’ said Annie.

‘Good,’ said Will, ‘and now I think I’d better push off. Good night, Mr Ford.’

‘Best of luck, Will,’ said the Gaffer.

Annie saw Will to the front door.

‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said.

‘It’s been a lovely evenin’,’ said Annie, wondering if he was going to kiss her again. ‘Oh, and thanks ever so much for the weddin’ invite.’

‘Wear your high fashion knockout,’ said Will. ‘Like to go to Ruskin Park on Sunday afternoon?’

‘You’re gettin’ quite nicer all the time,’ she said.

‘Hope I can keep it up,’ said Will, and went off with a smile, but without kissing her.

I’ll have to go and see Dr McManus again, he thought, and ask him if kissing a girl is fatal to me asthma.

AT THE SOUND
of the front door closing the following evening, Mrs Queenie Watts said to her husband, ‘’Enry’s out ev’ry evenin’ now reg’lar as clockwork.’

‘Doin’ ’im good,’ said Stan Watts, ‘makin’ ’im more human. ’Ere, what’s this out ’ere on top of the copper?’

‘Oh, just some of ’is shirts,’ said Queenie, ‘I offered to put ’em in me Monday wash, if I’m up to doin’ it.’

‘But ’e uses the laundry, don’t ’e?’ called Stan from the scullery.

‘Yes, but I offered. I ’ad a weak moment, I forgot about me chronic back.’

‘What’s ’e use three shirts in a week for?’ asked Stan. ‘They’re bleedin’ best shirts, look at ’em.’

‘I can’t see from ’ere,’ said Queenie, lumpily lazing in a fireside chair, ‘but I take yer word for it.’

‘’Ere, yer know what three best shirts in a week mean, don’t yer?’ said Stan. ‘’E’s got a fancy woman, that’s what’s takin’ ’im out reg’lar ev’ry evenin’ about the same time. ’Ere, wait a bit, there’s a bloodstain on the cuff of one shirt, Queenie. I ’ope that don’t mean ’e’s cut ’is fancy woman’s throat.’

‘Oh, yer daft lummox, Stan. You don’t suppose, do yer, that ’e cut ’er throat last night and ’as gone back tonight to bury ’er somewhere? ’E just ’appened to nick ’is wrist when ’e got back ’ere last night, ’e told me so, and ’e showed it to me. It’s only a small nick.’

‘Well, ’e’s got some woman all right,’ said Stan, ‘dressin’ smart like ’e does an’ goin’ out so reg’lar in ’is
new
overcoat. And ’e don’t look these days as if the rozzers are ’unting ’im down.’

‘’E couldn’t help lookin’ like that,’ said Queenie. ‘It was Matty fallin’ out of that train that did it to ’im. ’E’s gettin’ over it at last.’

‘And ’e’s got a fancy piece that’s ’elping ’im,’ said Stan.

‘Time ’e ’ad a little bit of what ’e fancies,’ said Queenie indulgently.

After a nice homely supper of fresh haddock and poached eggs with Madge, Henry Brannigan took her for a walk along the Walworth Road. He, as usual, measured his strides whenever they reached a patch of light. Madge, as usual, fitted in with him, even though she was cheerfully disposed this evening to ignore the superstitions. Henry, however, was very set in the way he observed all the rules, and she didn’t like to go against him.

‘That one near caught the both of us,’ he said, as they came out of the light cast by a shop window. Some shop windows always showed light, but most had their shutters up.

‘Still, we both beat it,’ said Madge.

‘Well, good for both of us, eh? Like a drink? Say a port an’ lemon?’

‘That’s nice of you, Henry. I don’t know I ever met a man more gen’rous than you, nor more kind.’

‘I ain’t ever sure meself that dibs do a bloke much good by bein’ kept in ’is pocket,’ said Henry Brannigan. ‘Dibs, yer might say, is there to be spent when there’s something worthwhile to spend ’em on. A good woman’s worthwhile, Madge, and it ain’t nothing to do with bein’ gen’rous. And I don’t know I’d call meself kind, I’m more rough and ready, like.’

‘A rough diamond, then, that’s you,’ said Madge, full-bodied and hearty, and surprising herself in her liking for taking walks with this strange and earthy man. The night was fine, the inky sky studded with a million tiny stars, the day clouds of early April swept from the heavens by a wind that had come and gone.

They crossed the road when they reached East Street, darkly empty of stalls. The tramlines, straight and true, faintly glimmered. They stepped over them, Madge doing so with a little laugh as they made for the pub on the corner of Penrose Street. The lamp above its door illuminated the paving stones. Madge, just a little bit careless then, trod on a line. Henry Brannigan emitted a sharp hissing breath.