48 - Reward

Smug is as smug does, and Martin, committing his latest potboiler to the blogosphere, leaned back and reflected on nine-hundred words in just two hours. “That,” he reflected “is worth a congratulatory mint toffee.”

Reaching for the jar he found it empty. In the waste-basket lay seventy-five accusing square cellophane wrappers. They formed a neat epilogue to his efforts, as if to say ‘You will have dentures long before you have a published novel.”

47 - Simply Pendleton

Pendleton’s place in society was secured by virtue of good fortune – everyone else’s. For it was generally held that so long as Pendleton was there to be every con-man’s patsy and a host to misfortune, the lot of the rest of humanity was much improved. Our lives were all the safer while he was around to detect life’s banana skins and twisters.

Take Pendleton’s history with the humble hotdog. Hotdog stands being 10 cents a dozen in downtown New York and – despite the odd citation from the mayor’s health officials - providing fresh dogs straight from the griddle, Pendleton would go shopping in the kind of deli where they came from the cooler in sealed bags.

The assistant at such an emporium would likely take a stiletto to the end of the packaging and place the whole thing in the oven, perhaps going so far as to brush aside a roach or two. Turning to Pendleton, he’d accept with muttered Italianate curses the proffered haphazard nickels, dimes and cents, then offer Pendleton the hot meal in mute recompense.

Pendleton would hereon attempt that competency known principally only to the fairer sex: multi-tasking. For Pendleton would at one and the same time follow the sidewalk to the subway station and, on the move, try to open the end of the hotdog pack; the closed end.

In a split second, Pendleton would discover with horror that the dog was sliding gracefully southwards from the stiletto scar and make a grab for it. The bread wrapping would disintegrate, and Pendleton would be found crouching over a hot wiener in the region of his groin. At this point, some young lady from The Bronx would appear from around the block.

Depending on just how high-class an area of The Bronx she hailed from, she might then glance down at Pendleton’s crotch, then quickly up, and continue rather more hastily on her way. Or, and this was the more likely option, she might attract the attention of one of New York’s Finest to this molester of American motherhood and makers of apple pie.

Like I said, Pendleton made all our lives safer and oftentimes a good deal more agreeable; afterwards, in the bar.

46 - Street Life (3)

Each week Edna needs to be helped from the car to the wheelchair in which she sits out the hours at the day centre. The carer doesn’t strap up her feet, and so they drag along the ground because she has long elegant but fortunately unfeeling legs.

Placed to one side in the large sitting room, she is unresponsive until the music and movement therapist comes and sets up her mp3 player. The down-lighters in the ceiling catch her eye just as the music begins, and mentally she looks herself over, stretches tall, and counts herself in.

She smiles, because it has been drummed into her (“Smile girls, smile! I must have all my girls smiling.”), and joins number 5 high-kicking her way across to the centre-stage turntable. Edna is once more a Tiller Girl and tonight is Sunday Night at The London Palladium.

45 - Curtains

Pink, Paisley-patterned and pencil-pleated; they were the home-made curtains of my childhood at 44 St Peter's Street, and they kept out the sun as it intruded on my innocent sleep. Soon they were lined by ma, so that the light was kept in and the Luftwaffe couldn’t find their way to the docks and the railway sidings.

A dreadful old thick blue-serge curtain from the ‘glory ’ole’ was put up in the Anderson Shelter to protect me in my modesty. Then ‘uncle’ Jim began his visits, and the turncoat curtain protected him instead.

After we were bombed out of number 44, the wardens covered ma’s shattered body with the torn fragments of one of the biscuit-brown parlour drapes. I gathered all my worldly possessions in the other to run from the growing gossip.

A green and grey striped rubberized linen curtain stopped the whole ward watching the sister as she prodded and probed me in my pain. The same grey and green curtain stopped me seeing where they took my baby.

I call her Betty. I don’t even know if my baby was a girl or a boy, but she has to have a name. What sort of a mother would let her baby go into the world without even a name? What do you take me for!

I wonder what colour her curtains are? Does she ruche them? Has she got her fella to put up a pelmet for her? I hope they keep her warm and safe.

44 - Thanksgiving 1929

“Abigail, liebchen, don’t mess mommy around now. We got two days to sort our Thanksgiving shopping, and now papa is a executive we gotta make an impression. You ain’t gonna see the parade if you don’t toe the line, missy!”

“Momma: I don’t want to go down that street by daddy’s store. I don’t like to see all those sad people.”

“Now you stop right away! I told you there ain’t no people like you said.”

“There are, mommy; they rain down on the sidewalk and on the automobiles.”

“Child, stop that talk I said. There are no people fallin’ out of the sky. ’Himmel: you got such dreaming of bad dreams in you I’m outa my mind.”

Greta grabs her daughter and drags her round the block towards Macy’s.

“Tribune!” calls the vendor. “Stock crashes. Billions lost”

Greta screams as a sack of tomatoes explodes on the avenue in front of her. A sack with arms and legs awry.

“Mommy; it’s started,” sobs Abigail.

43 - The Cooler

When I woke up this morning, I was not feeling blue; quite the opposite in fact, for I found it was true that I'm at my best early: that's when I am on fire ... I'm real hot! At least that's what I think but my wife she says definitely not - no good woman. Yes, I think I'm on fire but she puts out the flames that I got. She may be right. Oh you are, are you? Yes'm I'll put out the trash ... Okay, okay - anyone here know a cheap divorce lawyer? Yes, honey: cheap like me. So what're you doin' listenin' to my songs anyway, if you don' like 'em? Is that right? Well look ...

42 - Street Life (2)

Meg sighs, retrieving the invitation from the floor. “BBQ Friday: Dress to Impress,” it orders. Sadly, her acned legs have defeated the Ladyshave and mum Eve has run out of Immac.

“I bet that cow Sylvie’s on the counter at Boots. No way am I going to let her have a laugh.”

Meg rummages further through the bathroom cabinet and then lights upon the wax candles on the side of the bath …