Then why do you listen to him?
Why should I care? He makes me remember the war, for one thing. I dont care what he says about Labour. I dont care who gets in, Ill get a smack in the eye either way. When they come in saying Vote for Me. Vote for Me. I just laugh. But I like to hear Churchill speak, with his dirty V-sign and everything, he enjoys himself, say what you like.
Similarly she would listen to programmes about the war and say: Well, to think all those exciting things were going on all the time. They didnt happen to us. Did I ever tell you about the bomb we had on the factory?
But there were programmes she refused to listen to at all. Or she would return from the cinema sometimes in a mood of sullen rage, saying; They make me sick, they do.
Who?
To begin with she was vague, saying, I dont know.
But later on, when she knew me, and we had begun to fight about what we thought, she would say: Oh, I know what I sayll be grist to your mill, but I dont care. Those films. They make fun of us.
There was a certain wireless programme that I thought was funny, but if Rose came in when I was listening she would say politely: You think thats funny, do you? Well, I dont, and go out until it was over.
I dont think its funny people talk in different ways, she said to me at last. Thats what that programme is, isnt it? Just to make people feel above themselves because they talk well and people like me dont. Listen to them laughing, just because someone uses the wrong grammar. Im surprised at you, dear, I am really.
I have seen her return from a film so angry she would smoke several cigarettes before she could bring herself to speak about it.
They make me sick. It was a British film, see. I dont know why I ever go to them sometimes. If its an American film, well, they make us up all wrong, but its what youd expect from them. You dont take it serious. But the British films make me mad. Take the one tonight. It had what they call a cockney in it. I hate seeing cockneys in films. Anyway, what is a cockney? There arent any, except around Bow Bells, so they say, and Ive never been there. And then the barrow-boys, or down in Petticoat Lane. They just put it on to be clever, and sell things if they see an American or a foreigner coming. Watcher, cock, and all that talk all over the place. They never say Watcher, cock! unless theres someone stupid around to laugh. Them film people just put it in to be clever, like the barrow-boys, it makes the upper-class people laugh. They think of the working-class as dragged up. Dragged up and ignorant and talking vulgarugly. Ive never met anyone who spoke cockney. I dont and no one I know does, not even Flo, and God knows she stupid enough and on the make to say anything. Well, thats what I think and Ill stick to it. And the bloody British can keep their films. I dont mind when they have a film about rich people. You can go and have a nice sit-down and take the weight off your feet and think: I wish that was me. But when they make pictures for people to laugh at, then theyve had me and my money. Ill keep my money for the Americans, You dont take them serious, and anyway they dont laugh at people with different voices in America. Thats because America is all foreigners, the way I look at it, and they cant all laugh at each other, can they? Sometimes when Ive got the ump I think Ill go to America and to hell with England, thats what I think, anyway.
Youd hate it in America. I said.
How do I know? Well, the way I look at it is. America must be like England was during the war.
Rose, now she was depressed, talked about the war all the time. At this distance it was 1950 now those six years of hardship meant to her warmth, comradeship, a feeling of belonging and being wanted, a feeling she had never been given before or since. She could talk about the war for hours and never mention death, fear, food shortages or danger.
Eight hundred people we were, in the factory. We got to know each other, by face, anyway. It was funny, everyone not knowing whatd happen next day, if their house was still standing or not, by the time they got home at nights, but at least we were all together, if you know what I mean, I used to be sorry for myself, with all the night work and everything. I used to say: When will the war be over and not think itd ever be over. But now I wish it was back. I dont mean the killing part of it, but I didnt know anyone who was killed, much, not much more than in peacetime I mean, I know they were killed, but I didnt know them. But then people liked each other. You could talk to people, if you felt like it, even upper-class people, and no one would think the worse. You got to know people. Youd think about some lardyda person, theyre not so bad, when you gel to know them, they cant help it, poor sods, its the way theyre brought up. I remember when I got scared and raids were bad, I used to go down to the shelters and the air was foul, and I couldnt sleep and the ground was shaking all around, and I wished it would all end. But it was nice, too. You could talk to the man sitting next to you in the Underground at night, and share your blanket with him if he hadnt got one, and he never thought the worse. Youd say good-bye in the morning and youd know youd never see him again, but youd feel nice all day, because he was friendly, and you was friendly too. See? And if I got real shook-up and frightened and I couldnt take the shelters, I used to go home to my mother. My stepfather was giving her hell, because he was dying of tuberculosis, only he was keeping it quiet, and we didnt know he was so ill, otherwise wed have had more patience with the old so-and-so, but he wouldnt have me in the house, he said I was a bad girl, because of being out at nights after ten oclock he just made me laugh with his dirty mind. So Id creep all quiet into mothers room and shed lock the door and say she had a headache and wed get under the bed on a mattress because of the bombs and wed talk. It was company, see, with the Germans overhead and the bombs. And Id hear that old so-and-so crying for my mother, and Id think, sod him. Of course if Id known his lungs were rotting on him with TB, Id not have grabbed my mother when I had the chance, but I didnt know. If someone had told me Id be glad to have the war back, Id have laughed in their face. Now I think: That was a good time, say what you like. I earned eight pounds a week. Where am I going to earn eight pounds a week now? Lucky I had the sense to put some in the post office for my old age. Not that itll be worth anything by then, the way moneys melting to nothing week by week as we live. But I like to think I have something there. Without the war, I wouldnt. Yes. I know, dear, its funny you can only get something nice these days when theres a war, but thats how things seem to me. People liked each other. Well, they dont now, do they? And so dont talk to me about your socialism, it just makes me sick and tired, and thats the truth.
Chapter Four
I had come to England with pounds of tinned food in my trunk as to a starving country, prepared to tighten my belt and to suffer, as the newspapers back home continually assured us the British people were suffering. But I will always think of that house in terms of good eating. Not only was the whole place perfumed with the smells of feasting every evening. On Sundays there was a real feast, the emotional climax of the week.
On Sundays Mrs Skeffington cooked a roast and two veg for Mr Skeffington, On the floor above the Skeffingtons Miss Powell cooked a roast and two veg for Bobby Brent.
But in the basement preparations for Sunday dinne; began on Saturday afternoon when Flo went to the market, assisted by Jack, and came back with baskets laden with food. By now she had appropriated my meat coupons and Roses. It was understood we should all share Sundays food. Its only right. Flo said, All them cigarettes, and Ill never get round to paying you back, sweetheart. I dont know why it is, but theres something about cigarettes thats too much for me. Well, you just give me your meat ration, and youll not be sorry, I swear it.
On Sundays we all slept late. About twelve Flo knocked on my door and on Roses, and said, smiling with pleasure: Were starting now. Come on down.
In the basement, the children played on the floor among the puppies and the kittens, the men sat in their white singlets over the Sunday newspapers, and Flo and I and Rose began work.
That Mrs Skeffington, that Miss Powell, theyre cooking their roasts again, Flo said. Thats their weeks ration gone and Wheres the sense. Ive told them. Ive told them over and over. But Mrs Skeffington, she says her husband kills her without he gets his roast Sundays. And Miss Powells the same. Ah, my Lord, its enough to make you cry, the waste of it.
Meanwhile, Rose and I were preparing vegetables and beating butter and sugar.
Ah, my Lord, but say what you like, I talk and I talk, but what can you do with this Government, no eggs, no meat, no fat, nothing but flour and water, and you expect me to cook with that? Rose winked at me; Dan smiled over the edges of his paper.
Yes, and look Here Flo flung open the doors of her food cupboard. See that? See that butter, for a whole week? The grocer couldnt give me extra, well, its not my fault, is it now, if the food tastes of nothing at all.
Flo had cooked English until the year her Italian grandmother came on a visit. It so happened that her mother had to go off unexpectedly to visit a relation in hospital. Flo and her grandmother were alone in the house together.
And no sooner had she set foot on our soil, the old cow broke her leg. There she was, propped up stiff as a dead rabbit with her bum on one chair and her heels on another, groaning and carrying on, and saying: Im going to die. Die, my fanny. Shed the energy for a fifty-year-old, though she was seventy-nine and shed lived out two husbands and one or two men on the side. She said: You look after me, my girl, or I wont give you permission to marry. I said: Im married already, you old witch that was my first husband, what died all those years ago but Ill look after you. I wouldnt see ray worst enemy die of starvation. We liked each other, see? Flo interrupted herself in an explanatory way. Well. I put on my apron and cleaned up for her and cooked her dinner and she began to wail like a baby with a pin stuck in it. She said: I dont mind dying of a broken leg, if thats Gods will she was a Catholic, see? You mustnt mind that, everyone is in Italy, so she said, its just a habit with them, like we have a Labour Government in with us. But Im not going to die of your English cooking, she said. You must learn to cook or your husband will die of it.
And what had you cooked? asked Rose, playing her part in the tale.
Fish and chips, like always.
Whats wrong with fish and chips? asked Dan, obediently, as Flo looked at him, waiting for him to contribute.
Whats wrong? Why, thats all I knew.
Best food in the world, said Dan grinning.
Yes, but you know better now, dont you, sweetheart?
Youve just broken me in, he said.
My God, the ingratitude. Flo said to me, Do you hear? When we started courting, he knew nothing but fish and chips. And when I cooked real food, like my granny taught me, hed grumble, grumble, grumble, grumble. Hed come to the back of my kitchen in Holborn, and Id feed him all the best bits, and hed carry on like he was being poisoned.
Dan nodded, and went on with the News of the World.
But now he knows.
Eat what Im given, he said, grinning.
Ah, my Lord, listen. Well, you can talk if you like, but I know you wouldnt go back to the old ways. Just as I wouldnt, once my granny had taught me. When she left to go back to Italy, hung in between two great black slicks with the gammy leg all crooked, like a witch she was, she said: Flo, she said, now youre fit to get married, she said. And I was married all the time. She didnt like my first husband and I dont blame her.
Meanwhile, pots were bubbling all over the stove, and the oven was crammed.