Rose and the Red Lion

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="12ad4c00dduajq.gif"> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="95" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 46 ><NOBR><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="46" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="91" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>More Stories</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> email: <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#A6CAF0" FACE="Times New Roman" >sonoflawrence@yahoo.co.uk</FONT></div> <div> (Not live link. Cur & paste)</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFBF0" TEXT="#080000"> <div>     </div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> Note:  This short story features in a collection called <I>'Listening to Mother</I>'</div> <bR> <div> <I><B>Rose and the Red Lion</B></I></div> <div> S T Hedges</div> <div> (4000 Words, approx.)</div> <bR> <bR> <div> IT was Saturday dinner-time. July, 1933.  I'd just turned sixteen. All five kids are in for a bite to eat. Chaos as usual, squabbling over which one's got the thickest slice of bread and dripping - you know the sort of thing. Anyway, I'm doing my best to sort things out, like you do - biggest to the biggest, smallest to the smallest. Always a right barney, meal times. </div> <div> Then there's Mum. Eight months gone again. Only just sat down. Looks done in. Well, we'd been on the go without a break since nine o'clock that morning, hadn't we?  Mind you, I have to say it, the place shone - floorboards waxed, range black-leaded, hearthstone scrubbed and whitewashed, emery cloth on the fire irons, kitchen table bleached and scraped down with a few of the Old Man's razor blades.... You name it, we'd done it. Tcher! Couldn't be otherwise. Not with our Old Man!</div> <div> I've just handed the Old Girl her first cup of tea. She's already poured a drop in her saucer, and I'm waiting for the, 'Ooh, that's a nice drop, Rose,' when, all of a sudden, we hears the key jangle out through the letter-box. It's him.</div> <div> But all unexpected, see? Taken by surprise like that, Mum's cup's down in the hearth like a shot, and she almost jumps out of her chair. (Well, she would've, if she hadn't been so far gone, if you see what I mean). And there's me, clapping hands loud as I can to shoo the kids into the backyard before he can get down the passage. They got the message alright - scarpered like a pack of rabbits. Then I shuts the door behind them and stands with me back to it, fingers crossed behind me back. Mum's staring at the passage door now, all worried like, both hands holding her 'current condition'. A moment later, the door opens. </div> <div> Ever such a big man, your grandfather. Filled up the whole doorway.  And he stands there, rocking - meaning he'd had a few, like.  Not a lot though. Then comes the smell of ale all mixed up with Mum's scrag end of mutton stew, just coming to the boil.</div> <div> Ah, but was he smiling? That was always the thing with our Old Man.  His moustache covered half his face, didn't it? So his mouth could be wide open - Huh! he might even be having a good yawn - and you wouldn't know. Not necessarily. And his eyes didn't help. Always had that twinkle, whether cheerful, miserable, spoiling for a fight, or just plain paralytic. But it's Saturday dinnertime, 'n it? Still an hour to closing. So, of course, Mum and me's wondering why he's home so early, ain't we?  </div> <div> Anyway, he's looking round, taking it all in like, giving it all the slow nod routine. Just with a look, our Mum could say anything. She glares back.  I could tell what she was thinking:  `Blimey, give us  break for Gawd's sake! We ain't had time for a proper sit down yet!'</div> <div> I'm still up against the back door, fingers crossed, just in case. (Well, till you knew what sort of mood he was in, you daren't open your mouth in our house). Then he looks straight at me, and I can feel his eyes bore right through me, like he's searching for secrets. Huh! As if I had any! At that age I wasn't even allowed out after nine o'clock at night, except to go to the pictures with Molly once in a blue moon. Still, for no reason, I can feel myself start blushing. I used to blush a lot in them days. (Bet you find that hard to believe). It used to make me so angry. </div> <div> Suddenly he says - all gruff like - 'Ah! There she is! My little canary!' And then he launches himself across the room, straight for me. I'm telling you, it's all I can do to keep standing once them bloody great hands fall on my shoulders. Ever such a strong man he was. </div> <div> Then he shouts: 'Got some good news for you, Rosie-gel! Your old man's only got you a bloody job lined up in the best pub in Canning Town! That's all! A bloody job!' He lifts his fist to his moustache, gives a hiccup, polite like, then digs a finger into me chest and starts prodding out, 'Which is only to say the best pub in the whole of the East End, eh, Rosie?' Only gentle prods, mind. Still bloody hurt though. Then he pinches me cheek, like always when he was full of himself. Only playful, like, but he didn't know his own strength. So that hurt an' all. `Wey Hey!' says he, `Nineteen-thirty-bloody-three looks like your lucky year, gel!' </div> <div> And d'you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking, `What's all this got to do with me going on the stage one day?'</div> <div> `Just listen to this,' he says. `Just been talking to the guv'nor. Told him all about your singing, I 'ave, and he says, “Ben,” he says, “Ben, if she sings anything like you - you what `as sung in every pub in the East End - you what helps keep this place alive - you'd better send her round sharpish - right away, like, `cos me and Tootsie's looking for a coupla trainees just at the minute, now as the  kids is all gone, like.”' </div> <div> Now Dad always did say he'd get me on the stage one day. Leave it to him he'd always said. Needn't worry myself about that. With a voice like mine, I'd be another Florrie Ford one day. A Marie Lloyd even! `Seen `em,' he'd say. `Heard `em. Stand by me, gel. Written in the stars, that is. Written in the bloody stars.' </div> <div> Anyway, all that blows out the window when I hear the next bit. </div> <div> `"A singing barmaid might be just the bloody job,” says Bill. “Righto, Bill,” I says, “You wait here. Watch my arse. I'll be back in two shakes, just see if I don't.”' </div> <div> And there's me thinking to myself, `A barmaid? After all the promises? Fame and fortune, name in lights? What happened to all that?' </div> <div> `So, Rosie-darling, just you pop yourself upstairs like a good girl and fetch that coat of yours off the bed. You'll be earning your keep afore the day's out - or my name's not Rump nor Stiltskin.' </div> <div> Well, my heart's pounding all over the place by this time, `n it?  Not because of the job, of course. No, because of Mum, and what she'll have to say to all this. Worse still, what she might <I>do</I>. Her being well on - needing more help every day - it's my job to get the kids up and off to school of a morning while she's out doing her scrub-outs, 'n it?  Then there's the bundles of washing in the afternoons. The neighbours was always good like that; used to give her all their shirts to wash and iron when they could. And - let me tell you - sixpence a bundle came in handy when the Old Man's trade was slack. Yes, Mum was suddenly the main problem, `cos Dad was obviously in a good mood. </div> <div> But I could see it was already too late. </div> <div> `Eh?' shouts Mum. `What's that you're saying, you piss-arsed-bastard! What's that?' And before he can turn round, she's rushed forward and brought a fist down right between his shoulders. He's still facing me, ain't he, so I hear the thud right through his chest. `You've done bloody what?' she screams.  Then there's another thud, and another hiccup.</div> <div> But he didn't turn round sudden, as anyone else might. No, he just sort of turns lazy like, as though he's just been tapped on the shoulder or something. It was a bad sign, I knew. I can hear myself praying, `God, stop him. Please. Stop him?' Well, once she starts she can't stop, I know that. </div> <div> So she carries on slapping him about the arms and chest while, as usual - like as if it's a point of honour - he don't raise a finger to help himself. He never did. And all this time Mum's shouting, `Leave her alone, you bastard! D'you hear me? You piss-tank! She earns her bloody keep all right, don't you go worrying yourself about that! Seeing to these kids of a morning, getting them off to school while I'm out scrubbing floors and taking in bloody washing - <I>that's</I> her job!  She don't need no other job!' </div> <div> And all this time, he don't say a word.</div> <div> `I'm eight months bloody gone again, and no one here to help me, and you're saying you've found her a job? A bloody job? I'll give you, found - `  And she sets about him again, arms going like windmills. They might as well have been empty shirtsleeves flapping on the wash line on a good drying day, for all the good they were doing. Like hitting a brick wall it was.</div> <div> I'm helpless. All I can do is watch and wonder why she can never stop herself laying into him once she loses her temper. You would've thought she'd learned after all them years. I mean, it stands to reason; he never laid a finger on her unless she started on him first. And, do you know, it was then something struck me for the first time. Just shows I must've started growing up, 'cos I suddenly realised she never hit his face. Never once did I see that woman hit his face. </div> <div> Of course, all this time, Dad's only waiting his turn, which wasn't long.</div> <div> He grabs her by the shoulders and starts the shaking routine. `How... many... more... times?  Eh?' grunting through his teeth. `Don't... bloody…talk... to me... like that... in front of the bloody... <I>kids</I>!  Show some proper <I>respect</I>, woman!' </div> <div> Now the shaking stops, and he takes hold of her wrists with one hand and steps back to make room for his swing.  <I>Bang</I>! The back of his knuckles hit the Old Girl on the side of the jaw and she goes flying across the room, an arm holding her belly, the other stretched out to save herself.  It slaps the wall by the side of the  passage door, and she leaves it there for ages while she catches for breath, still holding her belly, feeling her baby. She must've been in real pain. I can tell, 'cos I can see her fingers scratching the greasy piece of wallpaper at the side of the door. I'm still afraid to move. I daren't. Not yet. All I can do is pray she'll leave it at that - you know, call it a day, like. When I see her shoulders droop I thank Gawd, 'cos I know she's give in. I know he's won, but that don't matter, so long as it's all over for another day. </div> <div> It wasn't the worst hiding she'd ever had - not by any means - but I have to say it, them hands of hers were her own worst enemy at times. Certainly when it came to self-defence. Got her in enough trouble, they did. Only thing they were good for was raising kids and scrubbing floors year in, year out. </div> <div> <I>Inventually</I>, she trudges past us to the scullery. There's a trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth, and I want to put an arm round her or something. Well of course I do. But no. I know she'll only shrug me off. She only got embarrassed at kissing and touching, stuff like that. </div> <div> 'I do wish your mother would listen now and again,' he says, quiet like. 'I do honest.' And he sounds really sorry for himself. 'Just asks for it, she does. Just bloody asks for it.' Then he shrugs as if it's all a big puzzle to him. </div> <div> 'Righto, gel. Fetch'er coat. Let's be off.'</div> <div> And I'm thinking to myself, I know Mum asks for lots of things, like sheets and blankets for the beds instead of sleeping under old coats, shoes for the young 'uns, or curtains (Mum could never afford curtains, used to use old sugar sacks from Tate and Lyle's sugar factory up Silvertown, died navy blue to hide the print)... Oh, all kinds of stuff.  But to my knowledge she'd never asked for a good hiding. </div> <div> Anyway, without answering, I drags myself up the stairs and goes into our bedroom. We used to call it the long room after Dad split it in two with some old bits of wood and cardboard. The boys slept in the first half, while me and Florrie slept in the back. She was only about four then. Our bed lay under the window, overlooking the yard. I could hear the kids playing downstairs, and knelt on the bed to look down. </div> <div> Sam, bless him, is giving Florrie a twister, and Bob and Philip are shouting as how it's their turn next. Tom's kicking a brick as usual. If I was sixteen, Sam would've been nearly fourteen. I remember thinking he was probably old enough to start giving Mum a hand if I did have to go out to work. </div> <div> Anyway, I grabs my coat, and the next minute, we're out on the pavement, walking up the street.</div> <div> It was a really hot day.  But one of those days when, now and again, a dirty great cloud comes over and lets tip all over you.  A day so hot the steam rises off the pavements, and the slate roofs turn from shiny black to grey even as you watch. You know the sort of day, when cranes and factory chimneys wriggle in the distance, and even the tramlines have a good old stretch. </div> <div> Before we've gone ten feet, he's away again. </div> <div> 'Yes, your big chance, gel.  The one we've been waiting for. Not everyone gets a chance like this, you know. What? A well-known pub? A pub where them talent scouts are always on the look-out? No, no. And if you're to be a famous ar<I>tiste</I> one day, you got to start somewhere. Lots of famous music-hall stars started off in pubs, you know. I can tell you that for nothing!'</div> <div>  'But Dad...' I says.  </div> <div> 'Yes, gel?'  </div> <div> 'How do they know if a barmaid can sing or not if she's just standing there serving behind a bar?'</div> <div> He stops at this, laughs, slaps his thigh into a great cloud of dust - master plasterer, my dad - and says,  'Gaw' bless me sweetheart, you don't think you'll be serving behind the bloody bar all the time, do you? What! With a voice like yours? </div> <div> 'No-o, gel. I'm talking about when you're <I>there, </I>in that saloon - up on that stage!' And he laughs again. 'No, no, no. I told you you'd be on the stage one day, didn't I? And don't I always keep me promises?' </div> <div> 'What! Will they <I>pay</I> me for singing, Dad?'</div> <div> 'Well a course they will, silly girl. Your wages pays for your keep but anything on top is down to you. There'll be plenty of nobbins. You'll do all right for nobbins - a voice like yours.'</div> <div> ''Cor, if I had me own money I could start buying me own clothes, and some make-up, and taking a ride out with Molly now and again, and going to the pictures, and ...'</div> <div> 'A course, darlin'. A course.' </div> <div> We get to the corner. He pushes the doors open, and we go in. I knows what to expect, don't I? Well, before Sam took over, it used to be my job to go up every Saturday dinnertime and fetch back Mum's wages before he pissed them up the wall, wasn't it? But, by this time, I haven't been near the place in ages, have I? </div> <div> As you can imagine, being that bit older, the minute I steps foot inside the place every head turns, and it all goes quiet. And they're all staring at me like I'm some mare for sale up Stratford Market. Eyes pouring all over me. `Bloody cheek!' I'm saying to myself. And talk about packed! It's packed floor to ceiling with dockers, stevedores and every kind of tradesmen you can think of, all sitting in their grot and filth, straight from work. And of course, with everyone smoking ten to the dozen in them days, you can hardly see a hand in front of your face. I pulls my coat together. Ever so shy I was in them days. Then I realized that's probably why Dad asked me to wear it. He didn't approve of girls 'showing themselves off'.</div> <div> Anyway, Bill Jacobs is standing behind the bar. Dad goes straight up to him, me following, scared out of me wits. </div> <div> `Here she is, Bill, my Rosie.'</div> <div> Well! I'm not kidding! Talk about take a good look! His eyes are everywhere! All over me! I can almost feel the buttons popping off me coat!  </div> <div> He's a great big ginger man with a handlebar moustache.<I> </I>He strokes them, left and right.<I> Inventially</I>, he says: `Good-looking girl, ain't she? Nice blonde hair, greenish eyes. A lot like her mother. Better looking if anything. There Ben, can't say fairer than that. Eh? And you say she sings too?' </div> <div> Well, Dad's face lights up at this, don't it? </div> <div> “S'right. Like a bloomin' lark. Don'tcher gel?'</div> <div> Me, I'm saying nothing. </div> <div> 'Here! Why not give the landlord a song right now? Right this minute?' </div> <div> I looks up at that, don't I? Can hardly believe me ears. I'm saying to myself, 'What! He wants me to sing now? This minute? In front of all these men? He must be joking!'</div> <div> But he wasn't. And by now every eye in the place is on me again, and I remembers the barney him and Mum just had back at home. The last thing I want is to start him off again. But I can feel myself blushing. It won't be long now, I'm saying to myself, they'll all be laughing soon - just like them rotten boys at school used to. I can't tell you how shy I was in them days.</div> <div> But anyway, no one did. </div> <div> `Come on now,' says Dad `No call to be shy. We're all friends here, you know. All friends.' </div> <div> All this time I'm looking down at the sawdust, `n I? Must've trod in a puddle on the way, `cos my shoes are all wet and the sawdust is sticking to them. I used to be like that - always finding myself thinking about silly, unimportant things, when I should've been concentrating on what was going on around me. Got me in enough trouble at school, that did.</div> <div> By now Dad's coaxing me, and I know I'll have to sing sooner or later. All I need is a bit more time, know what I mean? Suddenly I remembers something he said once:  `When you're up there, gel, up on that stage, you can rest assured they're all wishing it was them, see? And d'you wanna know why? `Cos they can't do it. Ain't got the bottle.' And then something else: `Anytime anyone's trying to get the better of you, always remember, you're somebody too. Everybody's somebody. Don't ever take no old buck. Not from no one. You've got Cornish blood, remember. The Celts, and all that.' </div> <div> Okay, so it wasn't a bit the way I'd imagined it was going to be my first time. No hushed auditorium, no spotlights blotting out the crowd... but I thinks: `Bugger `em,' why not? That's it, you're somebody too. </div> <div> So I takes a long breath and I sings.</div> <bR> <div> `Roses are shining in Picardy </div> <div> In the hush of the silver dew.</div> <div> Roses are shining in Picardy,</div> <div> But there's never a rose like you…'</div> <bR> <div> Now I don't know what put that song in my mind, but Dad used to sing it a lot. He used to say that, when they were down the trenches, you could guarantee the lads singing it every night.</div> <div> Anyway, imagine my surprise when I see a few of the older ones putting down their glasses and taking their caps off. And it's all dead hush! Dad being so well-known, I'm thinking it must be out of respect for him, me being his daughter. </div> <div> But something happened to me that day. All of a sudden, I realised that, never in my whole life, had I wanted anything so much as this - to sing in public. After the first minute, I don't feel scared at all! Not one bit! In fact, I'm enjoying it. I'm thinking the worst thing that could happen now would be for Bill Jacobs to say he didn't like my singing. Or perhaps my tits were too small! (He'd certainly taken a good enough look). So anyway, I gets to the end of the song.</div> <div> Now I knew I'd started off a bit shaky, but thought I'd got into my stride by the end, so I'm  expecting a few polite claps, you know? Tcher! Nothing! Sod all! Total bloody silence. 'Oh well,' I'm thinking, 'no singing career for me,' and I'm staring at my shoes again. Have you ever noticed how beer stains in sawdust can be interesting if you look close enough?  No, of course you haven't. Don't have sawdust on the floors these days, do they? Anyway, I find myself dragging the top of a circle with my toe, and thinking it looks like a sad mouth, only needs some eyes and a nose, when, all of a sudden, it happens. </div> <div> Before I can finish, there's a great burst of whistling and cheering, and clapping, and you can hardly hear yourself think.  It's like a <I>preluge</I>, every man in the bar stamping his foot, drumming the table, tapping his glass. And not just in the public bar, neither - the saloon as well! And they couldn't even see me! </div> <div> I could hear things like:</div> <div> `Nice one, Ben.'</div> <div> `Chip off the old block there.'</div> <div> `Whatever it is, Ben, she's got it.' </div> <div> I can feel me cheeks blazing again, but this time it don't matter. I knew I'd done something important. An achievement is what Miss Nash would've called it. Always her favourite, I was. It was her gave me that great long list of books to read the day we left school and told me to get myself down the library and do some studying if I wanted to get away from the East End. But of course, I never did.   </div> <div> Then it struck me. All this is thanks to him. Dad's known all along how I was born to be a singer. Well he would, wouldn't he? Before the Great War, he'd been there himself, hadn't he? There on the stage of the Hackney Empire; many a time. Yes, he'd been a <I>real</I> pro. I turns to look at him. </div> <div> I don't mind telling you, it still brings a lump to my throat when I think of it.  He had just the smallest tear in the corner of one eye, and he's looking round the bar, taking in every face, his eyes saying: “That's my gel, that is. That's my bloody gel. What do you think about that then? Eh? Ain't she a darling?” I was touched, I don't mind admitting. All of a sudden he's not the old bastard I'd always taken him for.  I could see there was another side to him.</div> <div> And of course, the thing that comes to mind then is Mum. Want her there, don't I?  Want her to see him like this, what with her thinking him such a strong man and all. I'm thinking to myself, I bet she's never seen him cry.  If only she was here now. If only she could see him now, this minute, I bet she'd love him too. There, that just goes to show how much I knew in them days, eh? It took years before I realized she worshipped him.  Of course, that was after your father walked out on us all.  Yes, the Old Girl worshipped the ground he trod.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>End</B></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>Return to index</B></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Copyright is reserved on all personal creative material, which may not be copied for redistribution to third parties without prior written consent. </div> <div> ©<FONT SIZE="1" COLOR="#A6CAF0" FACE="Times New Roman" > S.T. Hedges 2003</FONT></div> <bR> <div> <I><B><IMG SRC="140f4040.gif" border=0 width="500" height="4" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></I></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>