Dancing the Charleston, page 9
‘Oh, do stop worrying, Aunty,’ I said. ‘We’re going up to London and that’s that. We’ll be like Dick Whittington and make our fortune. We’ll both have heaps of money, and we’ll live like ladies and have roasts every Sunday and cake for tea every single day.’
We got to the railway station with five minutes to spare. Aunty bought our return tickets, wincing at the expense, arguing that I should go free because I could sit on her lap. I protested – I’d felt such a fool on the bus – but then the train came roaring into the station and we had to scramble over the bridge to the other platform.
The third-class carriages were at the end, and it was a long way up. Aunty went first, showing more than her calves in her shortened dress. She dragged the big case up behind her, and then reached out to grab hold of me. The guard blew his whistle before I was safely inside, and for one terrible moment I thought the train was going to start while I was still dangling there helplessly, but I jumped up, and Aunty got the door shut behind me just in time.
We collapsed onto the dusty seats, breathing heavily, both of us in a fluster.
‘First time on a train, ladies?’ said a lad sitting opposite us. He was wearing his cloth cap on backwards and had a checked handkerchief tied around his neck. He tipped his cap to us and gave us both a cheery grin.
‘Yes, and we’re going all the way to London!’ I said.
‘What are you going to see?’ he asked.
‘Harrods!’
‘There’s no need to tell everyone our business, Mona,’ Aunty said primly.
I knew she wouldn’t approve of any lad wearing his cap like that, especially when he didn’t even bother with a tie. I wished she wasn’t so narrow-minded. And I suddenly realized why the lady in the bank had mocked her when she said the word business. She said it in such a prissy, pinched-nose way. She was trying to sound like the Somersets, but not succeeding.
‘Mona,’ said the lad. ‘Pretty name. Unusual.’
‘It was my mother’s middle name,’ I said.
He looked at Aunty.
‘Oh, she’s not my mother, she’s my aunt. Mother died when I was born,’ I said, widening my eyes and using the hallowed tone that usually made people feel sorry for me.
It worked too. ‘You poor little mite. Still, nice of your aunty to look after you,’ he said, giving her a nod.
She sniffed, scarcely acknowledging it.
‘I’m Arty,’ he went on. ‘Short for Arthur.’
‘How do you do,’ I said politely.
Aunty frowned. ‘Please be quiet now, Mona. Have a little nap. You were up early. I shall do the same.’ She looked at Arty. ‘Please excuse us,’ she said curtly.
Arty pulled a sympathetic face at me. Aunty nudged me, so I closed my eyes. I opened them after a minute or so. Aunty had her own eyes closed, her lips pressed together. Arty winked at me. I did my best to wink back, though I’d never quite mastered the art. I must have pulled a weird lopsided face because he spluttered with laughter.
‘That’s enough now!’ said Aunty, opening her eyes. She bent towards my ear. ‘We’ll get out at the next station and find another carriage, away from this lout,’ she whispered.
However, she must have weighed up the time it would take to get out of the carriage with her suitcase, my bag and me, and worried that we wouldn’t have time to go through the whole performance in reverse, so she didn’t risk it. I was glad, because Arty was funny and friendly and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
‘Have you ever been to Harrods?’ I asked him, though Aunty glared at me for starting another conversation.
‘Oh, many a time,’ he said. ‘I get all my clothes there, naturally – and all the furniture in my humble abode is Harrods’ finest.’
‘Really?’ I said, impressed.
‘He’s talking nonsense,’ Aunty hissed.
‘Course I am,’ Arty said cheerily. ‘The likes of me don’t even get in the front door. They have these military chaps in green uniform who turf you out if they think you’re not out the top drawer.’
‘They don’t!’ I said, thinking he was still having me on.
However, this time Aunty looked anxious, and I wondered if he might be right. ‘As if you’d know,’ she said, trying to reassure herself.
‘I do know,’ said Arty. ‘I’ve got a mate lives in London, works up Billingsgate fish market, and after his shift we play this dare game, see. Nothing too wicked – just schoolboy stuff like tipping the bowler hat off of a business gent or singing a daft song at the tops of our voices. Anyways, he suggests we go to Knightsbridge, where all the toffs do their shopping, and we bowl into Harrods, talking all fruity voiced, but this huge chap in green grabs hold of us and escorts us out the store.’
‘My goodness! Just because he didn’t like the way you look?’ I asked.
‘Well, in my mate’s case it was maybe because he always reeks to high heaven,’ said Arty, laughing.
‘Of course you wouldn’t be allowed into a place like Harrods,’ Aunty sniffed.
‘Will they let us in, Aunty?’ I asked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mona, of course they will,’ she said, though she didn’t sound certain.
‘Are you going to see your mate today?’ I asked Arty.
‘No, I’m going on a recce,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a look-see at some jewellery.’
‘In Harrods?’
‘Well, they’re supposed to have the finest gems, but it would be a tad out of my league,’ he said cheerily. ‘Likewise Hatton Garden. But my mate’s tipped me off there’s some bargains to be had at Portobello Market, so I’ll try my luck there.’
The only market I’d ever been to was in Hailbury, where they sold carrots and cabbages and apples, and chickens in cages that pecked you through the bars if you didn’t watch out. I wondered if Arty was joking again. Half the time he seemed to be talking a different language.
‘I’m getting this ring,’ he said, rubbing the third finger of his left hand. ‘For my girl,’ he added when I still looked blank. ‘I’ve been going out with this young lady for six months or more and it’s getting serious. I’m thinking of popping the question – you know, will she marry me?’
‘And will she?’
‘Not if she’s got any sense,’ Aunty murmured.
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Arty. ‘I’ve a feeling she’ll be thrilled, but I need a ring, see. No use taking her up west with me and finding I can’t afford a proper sparkler. I want to have one tucked in my pocket, ready. So what kind do you think she’d like, ladies?’ He looked at Aunty. ‘If some gent was to ask you to marry him, what kind of engagement ring would you fancy?’
‘I wouldn’t fancy any kind,’ said Aunty. ‘I’ve never wanted to marry.’
I wondered if she was telling the truth. She’d never had any gentleman followers, and always spoke disparagingly of the men in Rook Green – of all men, apart from the Somersets. I’d often been told that I had a vivid imagination but, try as I might, I couldn’t conjure up any vision of Aunty tenderly courting.
I wasn’t sure romance would ever happen to me either – though I did have a soft spot for Peter Robinson. And Roland Somerset, but he was unlikely to speak to me again, let alone propose.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Arty. ‘A lovely lady like you shouldn’t end up single. I bet you were a saucy minx back in the war.’
He was obviously teasing now. Aunty should have laughed it off or said something crushing, but she went pink and bent her head.
‘No offence meant,’ Arty added.
Aunty carried on staring into her lap. Arty pulled a face at me and didn’t say any more. After ten minutes or so his eyes closed and he fell asleep, his snores making it clear that he wasn’t pretending. Aunty winced.
I stared out of the window. We were still in the countryside, but these were new hills, new trees, new hedges. I hadn’t realized how huge the country was. I remembered lisping ‘Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son’ when I was little, loving the last line – Over the hills and far away – but I was now far, far, far away and I blinked through the grubby window, fascinated.
Every time we stopped at a station Aunty peered out, looking for the name, and then subsided back against her seat, rubbing her fingers one by one. She did this at the end of the day to ease their soreness after sewing, but it was a habit now and she did it whenever she was anxious. She moved her lips, sometimes even muttering under her breath. I wondered if she was rehearsing what she was going to say to the children’s buyer at Harrods.
The train went through such a big town that I was sure we must be in London at last, but it chugged on and on, and my own head started nodding. Then, at last, Aunty was shaking me awake, and I realized that the train had stopped and we were in a vast railway station. Doors banged violently and trains sent explosions of steam and soot across the platforms. It was all so different, so strange, that I cowered in my seat while Aunty struggled with the case.
‘Here, let me,’ said Arty, springing into action.
Aunty hung onto the case for a moment, as if she thought he might run off with it, but there were people pushing to get off, and she had to accept his help. He took my bag too, and accompanied us along the teeming platform.
When we reached the ticket collector, Aunty fumbled frantically in her purse, but then found our tickets in her pocket.
‘There we go!’ Arty said cheerily. ‘Shall I see you two ladies into a taxi cab like a true gent?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said Aunty hurriedly. ‘We prefer to walk.’
‘It’s quite a step to Harrods! Why not travel in the Underground train?’ said Arty.
‘Under the ground?’ I said. ‘Really?’
‘Really, truly. In special tunnels. Follow me!’ he said, grinning.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Aunty. ‘We’ll catch an omnibus instead.’
‘Oh, please let’s go in the Underground train, Aunty!’ I begged. I had no idea that trains could go underground. Were they travelling through tunnels right beneath my feet? I thought of my fairy-tale book at home, and the eerie picture of the seven dwarfs trekking through a dark tunnel, holding their lamps high. The oldest went first, with his beard hanging right down to his ankles, and then came all the others in varying shapes and sizes, with a sweet little boy dwarf right at the end, so small that I reckoned he’d only come up to my kneecaps. I loved those kind, cheery little men. If I were Snow White I’d have waved the handsome prince goodbye and settled down in the cottage with seven special playmates.
I was too old to believe in fairy-tale dwarfs now, but I was still fascinated by the idea of tunnels, and decided I’d keep my eyes peeled, just in case I saw the glow of little lamps.
Aunty didn’t look keen on the idea, but when she stopped a porter wheeling a trolley of suitcases and asked if he could tell her where to get an omnibus to Knightsbridge, he shrugged rudely.
‘Haven’t got a clue,’ he puffed. ‘I’m paid to know the trains, not the buses. Can you move out the way, please – I’ve got to load these onto the train and it’s going in two minutes.’
There didn’t seem to be anyone else for Aunty to accost, so she followed Arty. There was a great crowd of people pushing to get through the entrance to the Underground.
‘Keep close and follow me,’ said Arty, diving in.
Aunty had to do as she was told because he was still carrying our luggage. She held my hand tightly, and then gave a little squeak as we found ourselves teetering at the top of a long moving staircase. ‘We’re not setting foot on that!’ she protested, but the crowd behind us pushed forward and there was no way to turn back. We stepped on and started sailing downwards.
‘Oh my Lord!’ Aunty gasped.
‘It’s like a ride at the Whit Fair!’ I said. ‘No, it’s better! It’s such fun! Don’t be scared, Aunty.’
‘I’m not scared, you silly girl,’ she said, but I could feel the dampness of her hand through our thin white gloves.
When we were on firm ground again, Arty led us this way and that, helping us to buy a ticket and taking us to the right platform. I peered down at the tracks below us, and was surprised to see a little black mouse darting about.
‘Look, a mouse!’ I said.
Aunty didn’t like mice, but living in the country she was used to them. Two ladies in short, shapeless coats saw where I was pointing and clutched each other, squealing. Then a sudden gust of wind nearly blew our hats away and Aunty clutched me fiercely. There was a great rumbling, and then a strange train without a proper engine rattled along the tracks.
‘Here you are. I’ll hand in your luggage,’ said Arty.
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ asked Aunty.
‘No, it’s the wrong line for me. Quick – in you get. Don’t want to get shut in those sliding doors, do you!’
‘Well, thank you so much for your help,’ said Aunty. ‘I’m much obliged.’
‘Goodbye, Arty. Thank you! I hope you find a lovely cheap ring for your girl!’ I called.
He pushed the case and the bag through the open door, and we jumped after them just in time. The train drew out of the platform so quickly I didn’t get time to wave to him. There were lights in the train, but it was pitch black outside.
‘We’re really in a tunnel!’ I shouted above the roar.
‘What a horrible way to travel,’ Aunty shouted back. ‘The noise!’
The train stopped at station after station.
‘Where do we get out, Aunty?’ I asked.
‘How do I know?’ she said.
I turned to the young lady next to me. ‘Is this the stop for Harrods?’ I gabbled.
‘Yes,’ she told us. ‘Though you’d better be quick.’
But we weren’t quick enough: the alarming doors closed with sudden spite and the train went on.
‘You can get off at the next stop, South Kensington, and take a train back to Knightsbridge,’ said the young lady.
This time we managed to get off, and then blundered around the different tunnels. Aunty decided she’d had enough. She put down the suitcase, her hand on her chest. She was breathing heavily.
‘I can’t face going in another of those awful trains,’ she said weakly. ‘I’ve got to get some air.’
This was the best time I’d had in years – and yet my heart was thumping too, and I knew how Aunty felt. She had to screw up all her courage to step onto another electric staircase, stabbing at the moving stair with a wary foot and then withdrawing it before wobbling on properly. I stepped on behind her, helping to balance the suitcase, and at last we emerged into the daylight.
‘Breathe deeply,’ said Aunty, doing so herself. She leaned against some railings and took off her gloves to blow her nose. ‘Oh Lord, look at them – they’re grey with dust! Come here, Mona, let’s see. Dear goodness, smuts all over your face!’
Aunty’s snuffly nose had to wait while she spat on her hankie and wiped my nose and cheeks, and then took out her pocket mirror and cleaned her own face. She straightened her hat and mine, and gave me a determined smile. ‘There now. That wasn’t such a terrible ordeal, was it?’ she said.
She was the one who’d been terrified, not me, but I knew it wasn’t wise to point this out. We asked directions, and set off for the Brompton Road, which wasn’t too far away. We passed such an impressive building that I wondered if it was Buckingham Palace, where the King and Queen lived, but apparently it was the Victoria and Albert Museum.
‘Then that’s Buckingham Palace,’ I said, pointing to a vast, domed red-brick building in the distance. ‘It must be someone’s palace, even if it doesn’t belong to the King.’
‘Unless … unless it’s Harrods,’ said Aunty.
‘Oh, Aunty, don’t be silly, that’s not a shop,’ I said.
But she was right. It was Harrods. It said so in gold lettering. It rose six storeys high, not counting the central dome, with twenty-one windows shining in the sunlight on every floor. I stood on the opposite side of the road, counting them. We crossed the street, dodging motorcars, and looked at the window displays.
Aunty breathed in sharply, her face transfixed. ‘Oh!’ she whispered. ‘Such style! Such elegance!’
‘No wonder Mr Benjamin shops here,’ I said.
There were lots of entrances, all guarded by large men in green uniform, just as Arty had said. And there were dogs chained at the door – splendid creatures, totally different from the rough collies and terriers in our village. These were fancy London dogs: poodles with bizarre hairstyles, snuffly Pekinese, little pugs with anxious expressions, tiny Yorkshire terriers with ribbons in their hair.
‘Hello, you lovely little things,’ I said, squatting down and patting them.
‘Mind your fingers, miss – that little hairy one can be a bit snappy,’ said the doorman.
‘No, he likes me, look!’ I said, stroking his beautiful fur. ‘He’s so sweet! Are these dogs for sale? Oh, Aunty, can I buy this one with the little ribbon?’
‘Don’t be so silly, Mona,’ she said. ‘Harrods isn’t a pet shop. They don’t sell animals!’
‘I’m happy to say that we do sell animals, madam. Dogs and cats and parrots, and even exotic breeds. I dare say we’d find you an elephant if you ordered one specially,’ said the doorman.
I giggled delightedly.
‘But I’m afraid these particular animals aren’t for sale. They belong to customers. They leave their little doggies in our safe care while they shop at their leisure inside our emporium,’ he explained. ‘The snappy one belongs to a devoted dowager who frequently carries him in her handbag. And on the subject of bags – I’m afraid you will have to leave your suitcase with me if you wish to go into the store.’
Aunty stared at him. ‘I can’t possibly do that,’ she said.
‘Rest assured, I will guard it with my life. I’ll even give you a numbered ticket so that you can reclaim it,’ he told her.
‘But I need to take my case inside,’ Aunty insisted.
