Queenie, page 10
Lighting up a Woodbine, Albie leaned against the outside of the Blind Beggar pub. It had been Queenie’s idea to meet here, but he’d never felt less enthusiastic about going out on a date. Queenie seemed a nice enough girl, but he’d been very tempted to blow her out when his mates had informed him they were going to a party up the Commercial Road tonight. His conscience had got the better of him though. Deep down he had a good heart and would hate the thought of the girl hanging around waiting for him like a lemon, especially if she’d spent ages getting ready.
Glancing at a smart woman in stiletto shoes and a pillbox hat walking towards him, Albie looked at his watch. Queenie was ten minutes late. He’d give her another twenty minutes, then go out with his mates.
‘Hello. Sorry I’m a bit late.’
Albie dropped his cigarette in shock. The smart woman walking towards him in her heels with the pillbox hat on was Queenie.
The live band was fabulous. Queenie had never jived properly before, but Albie soon taught her how to as the band played Glenn Miller songs. Everybody was up and dancing. If the war had taught East Enders anything, it was to grab life with both hands and enjoy every minute while they could.
‘I’ve had a lovely evening, Queenie. Thank you for inviting me,’ said Albie Butler, as they walked down the Mile End Road.
To say Albie was pleasantly surprised by how well this particular date had gone would be putting it mildly. Not only had Queenie turned up looking a million dollars, she was very articulate and bright for a seventeen-year-old. His mother was always telling him he chose the wrong kind of girls and he had a feeling that she would really like Queenie. His mother hadn’t liked his ex-fiancée one little bit. She’d said she was ‘shallow’.
‘Do you fancy going on another date in the week, Queenie? Any evening suits me.’
Queenie smiled. ‘Yes. I would like that very much.’
‘This is my road. I’ll be fine from here. Thank you for a lovely evening, Albie.’
‘I must walk you to your door, Queenie.’
‘No,’ Queenie snapped. ‘It’s my dad. Long story, but I’ll explain more when I see you Tuesday.’
Albie bent down and kissed Queenie on her right cheek. ‘See you at seven on Tuesday outside the Blind Beggar then.’
‘Bye, Albie,’ Queenie grinned.
Queenie’s smile soon vanished as she approached her house and thanked God that Albie wasn’t there to hear the shouting coming from inside. As she opened the front door, Viv was sitting on the stairs, white as a ghost and shaking.
‘Thank God you’re home,’ Vivvy cried. ‘Dad’s accusing Mum of having an affair with an American serviceman.’
Queenie burst into the front room. ‘Get off her, you bastard,’ she bellowed. Her father had her mother pinned to the floor and was prodding her with the poker they used to stoke the fire.
Eric Wade turned his head towards his eldest. ‘Get upstairs, you. Now,’ he slurred.
Queenie picked up the lump of cast iron they used as a doorstop. ‘I said, get off Mum,’ she hissed.
‘No, Queenie, no,’ Molly pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Please, sweetheart, put that down. Do it for me.’
Standing behind her sister, Vivian gingerly grabbed the doorstep. ‘Do as Mum says, Queen.’
Queenie let go of the object. If she got sent to jail for murder, there’d be nobody to look after her mum and Viv.
Eric went sprawling as he tried to stand up, then managed the simple task on his second attempt. He had rarely laid a hand on his daughters in the past, but furious, he slapped Queenie hard around the face.
‘No. Eric, nooo!’ cried Molly.
‘Leave Queenie alone,’ Vivian shrieked.
‘Get to bed, the pair of ya, and don’t you ever speak to me like that again. I’m your father. I put the food on the table in this house. Show some bloody respect.’
Molly stood up and forced a smile. ‘Do as your dad says, girls. Go on, go to bed. It’s late.’
Tears of pure anger streamed down Queenie’s face as she bolted up the stairs. She would never forget her first proper date. But now she would remember it for all the wrong reasons.
The following morning the atmosphere was fraught, to say the least. With rations at an all-time low, Sunday was the only day the family all sat down together to tuck into a cooked breakfast, but this morning neither Queenie or Viv was hungry.
‘You have to leave him, Mum,’ Queenie insisted. The bastard was still in bed and he had left more than a hand mark across her face. He’d caught her with the big aluminium ring he wore, which had left a very noticeable bruise on her cheekbone. She couldn’t tell the girls in work the truth tomorrow, she’d have to pretend she’d fallen down the stairs or something. Just like her mum always did.
‘And where we going to go, now Edna’s gone? How we meant to pay rent and put food on the table without your dad?’ Molly replied in a low voice.
‘He’s getting up,’ Vivian hissed.
Eric Wade came down the stairs with a heavy heart. The previous evening was patchy, but he could clearly remember slapping Queenie. The war hadn’t helped his anger issues. He’d seen some awful things while serving his country. Men had their heads and limbs blown off while in close proximity to him. Then he’d taken a bullet and the limp he’d been left with made him feel far less of a man than the one he was before. Eric knew he was lucky to be alive, but it didn’t seem that way at times. The war haunted him. And sometimes when he closed his eyes at night he wished that he were dead.
Tuesday arrived and after bolting down her dinner, Queenie darted upstairs to get ready. She didn’t have a lot of nice clothes. Few women did since they’d lowered the rationing coupons. She tried on her grey utility frock and was surprised at how much nicer it looked with her blonde hair, bright red lipstick, thick black mascara and stockings with the black pen drawn line up the back. Utility clothing was labelled CC41 and been introduced by the government during the war. Queenie smiled. Mrs O’Leary had kindly slipped her a couple of extra ration coupons earlier that Patrick and Daniel were getting hold of. She’d use those at the weekend to buy a more glamorous outfit.
Queenie smiled at her reflection. Working in the shop and meeting Doreen had taught her a lot about fashion. So had reading Woman’s Own, Everywoman and Star Weekly. Those were the three magazines herself, Doreen and Eliza read. They would each buy a copy, then swap them over once read. Apparently Hitler hated women looking glamorous. He didn’t want them wearing make-up or perfume back in Germany. That’s why the magazines urged all women in England to do themselves up to the nines. Not only did it make you feel better, by doing so you were also getting one over on that bastard Hitler.
Vivian sat on the bed. She couldn’t wait to leave school herself, get a posh job and wear nice clothes and make-up. ‘You look nice. Where is Albie taking you?’
‘Thanks,’ Queenie smiled. ‘I don’t know where he’s taking me yet.’
‘When will we get to meet him?’
‘Soon, hopefully. That’s if all goes well, of course.’
It was Albie’s idea they go to a pub for their second date so they could get to know one another a bit better. ‘We can hardly rabbit all the way through a film, can we?’ he chuckled.
Queenie had seen enough of Albie to guess he only owned two suits. Tonight he was wearing the grey one and as usual looked clean and smart. Not as suave as Daniel, but Daniel only wore the best clobber and had a style of his own, as did Patrick.
Albie’s choice of pub was the Hoop and Grapes in Aldgate. As he sauntered inside, lots of people made a fuss of him, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back. Queenie was impressed by this. Was Albie a bit of a force to be reckoned with, like Daniel, she wondered?
‘Hello, me old china. Who’s this lovely lady? I’ll get these,’ said the man behind the bar.
‘Thanks, Micky. This is Queenie. She’ll have a gin and tonic and I’ll have a pint of stout please, mate.’
Micky winked at Queenie. ‘Punching above his weight with you, is our Albie.’
Albie chuckled and put a protective arm around Queenie’s shoulders. ‘Take no notice, my dear. He’s only jealous.’
Albie led Queenie over to a table in the corner. ‘It’s quiet ’ere and we won’t be pestered.’
‘You seem well known in here. Is this your local?’
‘No. I used to sing in ’ere on a Sunday lunchtime. Micky’s a good pal of mine. He sings too. Everyone calls him Micky One Ear. If you look at his left ear, he lost half of it. Was bitten off by a dog I believe, but Micky likes people to think he lost it in a fight,’ laughed Albie. ‘He’s not long taken over as landlord. Gonna give me my Sunday lunchtimes back soon.’
‘Do you have a day job too?’
‘Nah. My old mum’s disabled, bless her. She’s only got one leg. Me and my brother Bert take it in turns to look after her. He works daytimes and I work the nights. I don’t just sing, I’ve got other money coming in. I’m me own person, me. Prefer earning a few bob for meself than making some other git rich,’ Albie grinned. ‘What about you? Tell me more about your job.’
Queenie told Albie all about life working at Cohen’s shop and how much she enjoyed her job. He had just gone up in her estimation if anything. Not many men would look after their disabled mother. That alone showed what a good heart he had. His brother must be a decent man too. ‘I take it you live with your mum then?’
‘Yeah. And my brother. We got a house in Whitechapel.’
‘Whitechapel!’ Queenie was shocked. She’d never seen Albie around before. ‘Whereabouts?’
Queenie’s heart sank a little when Albie reeled off his address. That was the street her mum had once forbidden herself and Viv to play in. The church on the corner had been bombed during the Blitz and it had since become a haven for prostitutes to work from.
‘Tell me more about your family, Queenie,’ Albie smiled.
Queenie spoke fondly about her mum and sister, then finally mentioned her father. She didn’t go into too much detail, just told Albie he would stagger home drunk often. Thankfully, the hand mark on her face had now vanished and the bruise she’d managed to cover up with face powder.
‘What’s your dad’s name?’
‘Eric. Eric Wade. Do you know him?’ Queenie asked, praying that Albie didn’t.
‘I don’t know him personally, but I know of him,’ Albie said truthfully. Eric Wade had a reputation all right, as a violent, drunken shitbag who terrorized the brasses. People talked in the East End and he hadn’t heard a good word about the man.
Queenie could feel her cheeks reddening. She didn’t know the half of what they said about her dad, but she could imagine. She stuttered out an excuse. ‘He got shot and was medically discharged from the army last year. Since he’s been home, things have got worse. I keep urging my mum to leave him, but she won’t. She says we won’t manage on our own, but I know we’d be happier, even if we were poorer,’ Queenie explained.
Albie leaned across the table and squeezed Queenie’s hands. His own father had run off with another woman when he and his brother were young, so he’d had it tough too. ‘The war’s had a strange effect on a lot of men who came home battered and bruised,’ he said kindly.
‘Did you get called up?’ Queenie asked.
‘Erm, no. I wanted to fight, of course. But I’m Mum’s carer. She’d never manage alone. Fancy another drink, love?’
Queenie smiled. ‘Yes, please.’
The rest of the evening went smoothly. Conversation flowed easily with Albie and Queenie liked the fact he was popular and witty. He made her laugh out loud. He didn’t give her butterflies like Daniel, but now Daniel was married with a child, Queenie had to move on. She couldn’t wait to be a mum, have sons of her own.
‘Did you have a nice evening, Queenie?’ Albie asked, as they reached the corner of her street.
Queenie squeezed his arm. ‘Yes, thanks. I really enjoyed myself.’
‘Good. You coming down the Beehive on Friday?’
‘Erm, yes. That’s if you want me to?’
Albie tilted Queenie’s chin and stared into her eyes. ‘Of course I do. You’re my girl now, ain’t ya?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
So, that’s how I became Albie Butler’s girl. And once I had my claws in him, I had no intention of letting him go.
We soon fell into an easy routine. I would proudly watch my man sing in the Beehive on a Friday and the Hoop and Grapes of a Sunday, and Albie would take me out twice in the week and on a Saturday night.
I met his mum, Ida. She was a large lady in a wheelchair who stank of piss. But she was nice enough, had a lovely kind face, and I kind of felt sorry for her. It was my idea that on my day off in the week, Albie and I take his mum out. We’d wheel her down Roman Road market and treat her to pie and mash. Ida loved going out and made no secret she thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. She was forever singing my praises to Albie.
After we’d been courting for around four months, I plucked up the courage to invite Albie round to meet my family. My dad was on his best behaviour, which I found weird, but he knew of Albie and was keen to meet him properly. As for my mum and Viv, they’d been pestering me to bring him home for months.
My mum liked Albie on sight, thought he was charming. My dad got on exceptionally well with him too. But Vivvy played up. She spent the whole time Albie was there with a face like a smacked arse and when she wasn’t asking stupid questions, she was being downright rude. In the end my dad sent her to bed and apologized to Albie. ‘Younger sister syndrome. The green-eyed monster,’ he explained.
Albie just laughed Viv’s antics off, but I was furious and confronted her the next day. ‘Don’t like him,’ was the only explanation I got before my sister stomped off. I didn’t bother arguing with her after that. Mum hit the nail on the head when she said, ‘Her nose has been put out of joint.’
Mrs O’Leary liked Albie too. ‘He’s handsome and he’s kind, Queenie. I could sense that the moment he walked in. He’ll never lay a hand on you, believe me, and I’m a good judge of character,’ said Mary, clasping her rosary beads. ‘I know you had your heart set on our Daniel, but you let that boy go now, Queenie.’
Like any couple, Albie and I had our ups and downs. One night he put his hand on my right breast and I responded by slapping him around the face and not speaking to him for the best part of a week.
Mary had told me, ‘Make Albie wait until he marries you, love. Get that ring on your finger first, otherwise my boys will be after him.’
‘But what’s it like, Mary? You know, properly – not what happened to me before. If I marry Albie, I’ll need to know what to do.’
‘Lie back and think of Ireland – or England in your case – darlin’. Sex is only enjoyable for men. No pleasure for us women. But it provides us with the biggest gift of all: children. Where would I be without my two boys? You’re a beautiful young woman, Queenie, and this is your time to shine. Don’t be worrying about that Doreen. As I’ve told you before, lushes are only good for one thing to men. Sex. Albie’s taken with you. You’d have handsome children with him, let me tell ya. I’d snap him up if I were you, providing he treats you right, of course.’
So that was that. The end of my sex education – and I was still none the wiser. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t.
Nobody was more surprised than me when Terry Marney got down on one knee and proposed to Aggie Brown on her birthday. We were in the Beehive at the time. Aggie squealed with delight, threw her arms around Terry’s neck and shrieked, ‘Yes!’
I was genuinely pleased for Aggie. Terry was a decent, hard-working lad and he and Aggie were very well suited. I couldn’t help feeling just a tad jealous at the same time though. She had told me only the previous week that they’d already discussed how many children they wanted. Albie and I had never discussed anything of the sort and the one time I had tried to broach the subject, Albie had laughed it off, treated it as a joke.
I still hadn’t got around to telling Doreen and Eliza I was dating Albie. I had planned to, a few months earlier, when Doreen was loved up with Jimmy Foster.
All weekend I had rehearsed what I was going to say, ready to blurt out on the Monday morning that Albie had asked me on a date. But when I got into work that day, Doreen was bawling her eyes out with Eliza consoling her. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘It’s Jimmy. He’s married,’ Doreen sobbed.
‘Oh no,’ I mumbled. At thirty, Jimmy was a lot older than Doreen and he’d been a bit unreliable. A couple of times, he hadn’t turned up for a date and had come up with some cock-and-bull excuse. I had wondered did he have a girlfriend, but I was stunned he was married. ‘How did you find out?’ I enquired.
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? I lost my virginity to him. I feel such a fool,’ Doreen wept.
Seeing as I was the one who’d introduced Jimmy to Doreen and brought him over to our table, I could hardly then admit I was dating Albie Butler, the bloke Doreen’d had designs on in the first place.
So I kept schtum, said sod all. But secrets always have a way of worming their way out into the open, don’t they?
Queenie was showing the latest stock to Mrs Ackerman, an extremely wealthy Jewish lady who tended to buy in bulk, when she heard a familiar voice behind her asking the price of something.
Queenie froze. It was Trappy Linda, who worked behind the bar in the Beehive. Desperate not to be recognized, Queenie quietly suggested Mrs Ackerman try on the items she’d already chosen. The changing room was out the back.
‘No, thank you. I’d much rather try everything on together,’ Mrs Ackerman snapped.
‘Queenie!’
Cringing and blushing, Queenie had no alternative but to turn around. ‘Hello, Linda.’
Linda grinned. ‘Albie said you worked in a shop, but I didn’t know you worked in a posh one like this. Well expensive this clobber, ain’t it? Any chance of a discount for Albie’s favourite barmaid?’ Linda chuckled.
