The treasures, p.18
The Treasures, page 18
‘To answer your question, I do like London. I can see myself here for the rest of my life,’ said Gordon, and the simple, easy way he said it made Tom jealous. ‘What makes you feel it’s not for you?’
Tom shrugged. ‘I feel as if I’m waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘For something to happen.’
‘To you, you mean?’
‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘I can’t explain it. I feel something’s on its way. Something that will change everything. Something I don’t know about yet.’
17
Summer 1958
You knew when trouble was coming because the weather was too hot. It had happened before: days of sultry, oppressive heat, people shut up in tenement flats. The smog, stench, flies and dirt were scarcely bearable some of the year but, when the sun shone for too long, they sent everyone slightly mad.
‘There are no riots in November,’ Uncle Henry remarked, as he and Tom walked up to the market one August day to find Aunt Jenny some cherries. She was not well.
The first summer here three years ago Tom had thought people were joking about the heat. How could it ever be too hot? But he had never experienced southern English heat, much less city heat. Aunt Jenny couldn’t cope and took to her bed, staying indoors for days on end. Uncle Henry started the day in crisp linen – however indifferent he was as a guardian, his clothes were always beautifully pressed, Tom never knew by whom, but they were – but, by 4 p.m. he had always wilted, his bald pate and long face glistening. He had many spotted handkerchiefs he would press to his face as he muttered oaths, cursing the heat.
The stall-holders had packed up and gone for the most part and so Henry and Tom continued up past the Electric Cinema and towards the Golborne Road end of the Portobello Road.
‘There’s a chap up here who stays open later,’ said Henry, mopping his brow. ‘Gets deliveries from Cornwall, but they’re not here till tea time.’
At the coffee bar on the corner of Portobello Road and Golborne Road, four Teddy Boys were huddled together in a knot; leaning against the windows and smoking, they were talking so intently that their quiffs bobbed in the still breeze; they turned when they heard footsteps, then resumed their closed conversation.
‘Damned hot,’ muttered Uncle Henry, glancing at them uneasily. ‘Ah, here we are, young Tom. Harold’s is still open. Didn’t I tell you it would be? Hurrah. Jenny shall have her cherries.’
Harold’s was Perlman’s Grocers, but the owner, shaking his head at Henry, said regretfully that he was closing up early. He slammed the shutters and dropped the iron bar across them, then went inside. ‘I’d clear out of here if I was you, Mr Caldicott,’ he said. ‘There’ll be trouble later on.’ And he nodded at the group of lounging boys.
‘Pish,’ said Uncle Henry, following him inside. ‘Young indolent fools, Perlman.’
‘They’ve got bars. Sawn them off railings of houses, they have. And I seen them making Molotov cocktails.’
But Henry ignored this. ‘I merely require some cherries for my poor sister, Perlman.’
‘The old trouble?’ said Mr Perlman sympathetically, bagging up large handfuls of smooth, shining cherries. ‘The nerves again, is it?’
‘Something like it, I expect. Women,’ Henry muttered, handing Mr Perlman some change. ‘Tom, let’s go. Poor Jenny was right,’ he said, tucking the bag under his arm as they left. ‘It’s a wasteland up here these days. Dreadful.’ He said this loudly enough for Mr Perlman to hear. Mr Perlman shrugged, went in and shut the door.
‘Bloody nosy fool,’ said Henry furiously. ‘Who’s he to be prying into Jenny’s life, our life? Good God, it makes me angry –’
‘Let’s take these back to her,’ said Tom, because he was worried about the look in his uncle’s eyes. ‘Aunt Jenny will be so pleased. She seemed better today, I thought, didn’t you? Stronger. Sitting up, anyway –’
‘Oh, her trouble’s all in the mind,’ said his uncle almost without thinking. ‘She’s – it all gets to her now and then, as you know.’ He mopped his brow again with a handkerchief. ‘Cheek of the fellow.’
They were walking back along the Portobello Road. ‘What gets to her?’ said Tom curiously.
His uncle began to say something, then stopped. ‘All sorts. You, mainly, young Tom. Ha! Just a joke. Onwards.’
The road leading away from Perlman’s was lined with town houses blackened with grime and decay, flakes of paint almost peeling off before one’s eyes. Every other window was boarded up with rusting, corrugated iron, railings bent or sawn off. Children played in the street, while mothers sat on the steps, talking to each other. The children were dressed neatly, but their clothes were filthy, too small or too big. A few didn’t have shoes.
‘Hey!’ a voice behind them said, friendly, unguarded. Tom looked up to see Gordon on the pavement on the other side of the road, smiling at them. He was wearing a smart grey suit with sharp creases at the front, a matching trilby, and a thin orange, red and green striped tie. ‘What are you two doing up this way?’
‘Hi, Gordon,’ said Tom.
Henry tugged at Tom’s arm, like a child. ‘I say, Tom, let’s be off.’
‘You remember Gordon,’ said Tom.
‘Oh, of course,’ said Henry smoothly. ‘Hello, old boy, how are we?’
Gordon smiled, and stood to attention. ‘Major Caldicott.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Henry, entirely uneasy.
‘How’s Jenny?’ said Gordon.
‘Oh – well,’ said Henry, giving Gordon a quick, charming smile. ‘You know. Thank you so much. She’ll be awfully touched you were asking after her, old thing –’ He made to move off and seemed surprised when Gordon stood in his way.
‘You act like you don’t remember me, Henry,’ he said politely. ‘Like we weren’t all in it together during the war, and what happened after. But I remember, you know. I remember it all.’
‘I remember too, old thing. Awfully grateful to you. Awfully.’ Henry’s face was sweaty, and red patches, like raspberries, bloomed angrily on his pale, flank-like cheeks.
‘That’s good, then. Glad to hear it,’ said Gordon, and he stood back, as if collecting himself, and touched his hat to his head. ‘Off you go now –’
‘Wee Tommy Raven!’ Turning, Tom saw Robert Hillman and Tony Powell in the middle of a gang that were throwing home-made fire-crackers on the ground. They didn’t usually go up this way; this was not their patch. It was Robert, Johnny’s brother, who had called his name. Tom stared at him.
‘I don’t like you, Mr Raven,’ Robert said, smiling. His eyes were slightly glazed over and Tom thought he’d been taking purple hearts. The Teddy Boys loved purple hearts; Johnny had told him about them and Tom had seen them throwing the tablets down their throats outside the Tube like they were shots of whisky in a Western. ‘You’re always in the way, you little bastard.’
‘Hey, Robert,’ Tony said. ‘Leave him.’
‘Piss off, Tone. I said, I don’t like him. Prick.’ Robert started to walk towards Tom, but was distracted by a little girl, a toddler with curling red hair in front of him who had lost her mother. She had tripped and was crying, blocking his path. Robert stopped, lifting her up by one arm and dumping her out of his way on the pavement like she was a sack of rubbish. She cried even louder. A woman nearby picked her up and put her on her hip, giving Robert Hillman a dirty look.
‘Let’s go,’ said Tom, and he put his hand on Gordon’s sleeve. ‘Gordon – come on.’
‘I’ll stay,’ said Gordon, shaking his head, his eyes huge with a rage Tom had never seen in him before. ‘You run now, Tom, okay?’
‘But it’s not safe. Come on, Gordon. This isn’t anything to do with you and me. Come on.’
Gordon was looking around on the ground. He picked up a small stone. ‘They’ll find a way to make it our fault. Wait and see. The most depressing fact about growing up, you want to know it?’ He was nodding. ‘It’s easier when you preserve the status quo, my friend. It’s less terrifying.’ He pushed Tom, hard. ‘Go!’
‘Hey, you! Little shit!’ Tom turned, and Robert’s face was twisted, ablaze with hatred, almost insane. ‘What you doing with that n—’
Tom turned away, pulling Gordon with him, but as they turned it happened. Something landed on the road in front of them, shattering into pieces, and there was a blinding light. The little girl was still screaming, someone else was screaming, and there was the sound of yelling, and of bicycle chains rattling, and sticks and iron bars clattering against railings – when you heard one up and down the crescent, it was loud, but this was ten, twenty, like drums. Gordon shouted something, but Tom couldn’t hear him, the sound of the explosion echoing in his ears. He saw some boys further up the road. One of them was holding a green bottle, something on fire inside it.
‘Molotov cocktails!’ Gordon was shouting, and Tom heard him this time. ‘Get up, Tom, and run! Get out of here!’
Tom was dizzy, so dizzy it took him a while to realize he was on the ground and could not get up. He could not see.
‘Get him!’
‘Get them!’
He blinked, but still he couldn’t see anything. Something was flowing – water, blood, what was it? And Gordon’s voice was in his ear, shouting at him to keep moving, and there were men’s voices everywhere, cursing, and the banging of metal on metal, and then he could smell more than the usual tar and smog and sewage smell that you got in some slums – something was burning. He kept blinking, then he rubbed his eyes, and it was like fire burning into them. I can’t see, he said in a quiet voice. Uncle Henry, I can’t see? Uncle Henry? But there was no answer. He scrambled to his feet again, just as someone, a tall boy with a bobbing quiff like a cockerel’s coxcomb and a face distorted with hate, opened his mouth and screamed something before throwing a bottle towards them.
The force of it blew him back: a wall of heat. Something, or someone else, landed on him. There was screaming, and thuds. Everything was on the ground, and then everything was black.
18
When Tom woke up, it was like swimming to the surface of a deep lake, pushing up through the weeds into the light. He was breathing fast, and someone’s hand was on him. He cried out when he realized he still couldn’t see, although in fact he could make out figures, the wall of his room; and then he shouted, because he could tell Helen Caught Bathing had been moved and his drawings were exposed. But no sound came out, and the hand that stroked his hair was cool, the palms callused.
‘Jenny! Where’s Gordon? They were after Gordon!’ he tried to say, but his throat was so dry it came out in a rasping whisper.
‘Darling boy,’ said the voice, and Tom blinked again. ‘Well, well. What on earth have you been up to?’
Tom shielded his eyes from the light, which was too bright, and saw the outline of a figure standing before him. He closed his eyes again. He was so tired. ‘You’re not real,’ he said.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said the voice he knew so well, and a warm hand enclosed itself around his smaller one. ‘I brought you a present, old boy, and I was hoping very much to give it to you. But perhaps you’re right, in which case I should vanish.’
‘Dad!’ Tom cried, struggling slowly up in bed, flinging his arms around his father, who, stiff with astonishment at first, hugged him back after a while, so fiercely that Tom scarcely had any breath left and simply clung to him, too weak to do more. ‘Dad! You’re really here.’ He felt dizzy, like he’d fallen over, even though he was lying in bed.
His father laughed, his kind, gentle laugh, as if it had been five minutes, not more than three years, and then, as he realized Tom was crying, said, ‘Shh. Here – I say – I’m here, Tom. I’m here! Shh. It’s all right, old thing. Yes, it’s all right.’
‘What happened?’ Tom asked his father a little later. ‘I don’t remember. Anything.’
His father told him what he knew: Tom had been knocked to the ground when the Teddy Boys started chasing the Black men and the white woman who was married to one of them. There had been running battles with white boys on the streets, people attacked, shops looted. The force of the second petrol bomb had knocked Tom backwards, and he had hit his head. They couldn’t wake him up.
No one could find Henry, so Gordon and his friends had carried him back to the house on a makeshift stretcher: a door a friend of Gordon had taken from a ransacked shop on Blenheim Crescent. They bore him back down Ladbroke Grove, stepping over the glass from smashed milk bottles and broken windows, looted fruit and veg; rubbish and sheets of discarded newspaper flew into their faces in the hot, tundra-like summer wind.
Jenny had been in bed, still ill with this flu that had laid her low for so much of the summer, but she had struggled downstairs, fainting when she saw Tom, carried in Gordon’s arms, and so they’d had to bring her round too. When she came to, she joked that she’d just wanted to be carried upstairs as well. She’d made Gordon and his friends tea while they waited for the doctor. When he arrived, Tom was still unconscious, and the doctor had said his father should be contacted, just in case. So Jenny had done so, sending a telegram, then making a telephone call, placed to Mrs Fairly, the farmer’s wife down the way, and the next day Tom’s father had arrived, having caught the first train down. But Tom was asleep, Jenny was back in bed, and Edward had to near-enough bang down the door before Henry let him in.
At first Tom didn’t remember any of it, but then he started to piece it all together, extraordinary events popping up in his brain like road signs as he tried to speak, to see properly.
In his little room, a festive atmosphere developed. Tom apologized for scribbling over the walls. Jenny said that was fine, and started to cry, then laugh rather manically. Edward opened a bottle of cherryade; Jenny produced some more Fry’s Turkish Delight; Henry suddenly appeared – apparently someone had tried to steal his wallet and he’d had to give chase, which is why he’d ended up far away from Tom – and Edward told a funny story about his journey down, Henry chiming in afterwards with a story about having his pocket picked after D-Day, on leave in Leicester Square. Tom, sitting in bed and smiling along, could not quite believe it; they were all there, in this little room, for the first time, together. A sort of family.
So he did not tell them his head ached dreadfully now; when he sat up black spots danced in front of his eyes, growing larger, obliterating more of his vision, and he couldn’t seem to blink them away.
‘I hoped I’d see you again, my darling boy,’ his father said when it was just the two of them again. ‘But I didn’t expect it would be this dramatic. You could have just dropped me a note!’ He gave a rather forced hearty laugh.
Tom closed his eyes. He felt less dizzy and sick that way. ‘I didn’t see the point.’
‘I rather got that impression,’ said his father, which Tom, through waves of confusion, found rather a strange thing to say. ‘Well, I’m here now.’
‘You won’t go, will you?’ said Tom. ‘Not … right away, I mean,’ he added, trying to sound brave. ‘But stay, just a little bit.’
‘’Course I will, Tom!’ his father said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ His voice sounded thick, and strange. He looked older too. His thick dark hair was streaked with silver, and his five o’clock shadow, always prominent, was noticeably less so now. Tom clutched his father’s worn, callused, dear hand.
‘I wish you’d written,’ he said eventually.
‘I did, old boy. Every week. And I was rather sad when you told Jenny you didn’t want to hear from me.’
Tom kept blinking, unsure as to whether he’d heard right.
‘Dad – that’s not true.’
‘It is, my boy. She wrote me an extremely firm letter.’
Tom struggled to sit up straight. ‘No, Dad. Jenny told me – she said you didn’t want to hear from me. She said you’d said it was easier not to write. That I should write you one letter and then a clean break was best.’
‘She – no, I didn’t do that, Tom. I wouldn’t ever have done that.’ His father said something under his breath. ‘All this – you – oh, Jenny. I didn’t say that. I wrote to you at least once a week, for months.’
‘But I didn’t get any letters from you. None. I just thought you’d – stopped bothering.’
‘God dammit, Tom, no. God, Jenny.’ Edward climbed out of the bed. Tom watched him, trying to quell the rising tide of panic over the black spots that kept arriving and vanishing in his vision, like blots on a reel of film.
‘Dad –’
‘Has she mistreated you, Tom?’ He caught his son by the shoulders. ‘Beaten you? Has Henry – done – done anything?’
‘No, Dad, honest.’ said Tom. ‘We keep ourselves to ourselves. I do most of the cleaning and the cooking, though, neither of them knows one end of an egg from the other.’ He paused, waiting for his father to laugh. ‘They’re mostly in their rooms, Dad – I’ve no idea why they wanted me with them. They’re really not very interested in children.’
‘She promised me –’ His father was standing up in the small, cold little room, his fist pressed to his forehead. ‘Did she say anything to you? Anything about your mother? And me?’
‘No, Dad.’ Tom could not see his father’s expression clearly enough – he could not see anything at all beyond blurred, expansive shapes, like large woolly monsters. ‘No, but she’s sad. She cries a lot. She gets letters from Gordon once a month, and they make her cry.’
‘What kind of letters?’
‘I don’t know.’ Tom paused. ‘I saw one once. She left it on the sideboard. It had an American stamp on it. I don’t know why they can’t come straight to the house.’ His father was very still. Tom said, faltering, ‘Once she didn’t get any for ages and she went to bed for a whole week.’
His father was quiet for a while. He stared out of the window, across the rooftops, where smoke from fires and police sirens filled the air. ‘Ah, Tom. I’m sorry. What a fool. Yet again. Listen to me. Jenny’s played a trick. On both of us. She likes being the one at the controls. Only she’s very bad at it. But, you have to understand, she was doing it for the best. For the best. God dammit –’ He caught his son’s hands. ‘Never again, you understand?’
