house for her, did her shopping, and was instructed to give the social services a flea in the ear if they arrived on the doorstep. Years ago in the kitchen of the Morning Star home he had learnt how to fry – sausages, bacon, bread, an egg – and something fried was good for her, so Mrs Biddle said. Sometimes, for a change, he brought her a take-away, a curry, chips with a burger, orchicken from the Kentucky. He made her hot drinks, Oval-tine or Horlicks, Ribena or Marmite or cocoa, whatever she was in the mood for. ‘I come in for a place,’ he passed on to Pettie. ‘There’s an old lady give me a room.’
Mrs Biddle says Albert is as a son to her. She would prefer it if he didn’t go out every night, but he has pointed out that cleaning up the Underground is work that has to be done. He is fortunate to have the work, he explains, a stroke of good fortune come his way.
‘You OK then, Mrs Biddle?’ he inquires after he has stuck up the Spookee stickers. ‘You manage to eat a bit?’
Mrs Biddle has eaten everything. In the sitting-room where she also sleeps she is still in bed, watching television, a game show with numbered boxes. She turns it off because when Albert is there she likes to hear his news.
‘Yeah, I been down the shops,’ he answers when she asks. ‘I paid the gas.’
‘You get the woman with the hair?’
‘Yeah, I got her. Violet she’s called. She has it on her badge.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised what she’s called, that woman.’
Albert says it takes all sorts. He stacks the dishes Mrs Biddle has eaten from, making room on a tray for the metal teapot she has herself carried to her room. For a moment he worries, reminded by the teapot of her picking her steps from the kitchen, shuffling dangerously along, the teapot’s handle wrapped in a cloth where the black plastic binding fell off years ago. A trip and she could be scalded, lying there while he’s out or asleep. But when Mrs Biddle decides to make her own tea she will not be moved from doing so.
‘No hurry on them dishes. Rest in the chair, Albert. Keep me company a bit.’
Even more than hearing Albert’s news Mrs Biddle likes to share with him the memories that keep her going when she’s alone. As Gracie de Lisle, girl assistant to Halriati the Sicilian, and before that as one of the four Singing Cowslips, she has not been unknown. When Mr Biddle married her she was professionally engaged, twice nightly at the Tottenham Grand Empire.
In the small, crowded room – rows of cottages on shelves and in cabinets, camels and elephants and reindeer on the mantelpiece – Albert hears further highlights from the theatres and the halls. The cottages are of china, dully glazed so that a sense of reality is retained; the animals are of a brown material that has been grained to resemble carved wood. Theatrical photographs are displayed in mock-wooden frames on two tables and on the walls.
‘Nineteen forty-eight, the old Hip in Huddersfield.
Puss in Boots
and the lights failed.’
‘What did you do, Mrs Biddle?’ Albert asks, although he knows.
‘Candles we had to resort to, the usherettes’ flashlights, you name it we had it. The day after Boxing Day. Spoilt it for the kiddies, they said.’
Albert never minds hearing a highlight more than once, throwing in the odd response in order to keep company with her because it’s company she’s after. He stayed with her all day the time her front-garden ornaments disappeared, and again when the social services wrote about her pension, saying it could be reduced, and again when they sent a request to know when it was she’d died. Keeping companyis the heart of looking after people, as Albert first experienced in his Morning Star days. ‘Stay by me, Albert,’ they used to say, a catchphrase it became. The time the youths laughed when the man with elephantiasis sat down to rest himself on the edge of the pavement he stayed with him until the youths went away, even though the man
Mrs Biddle says Albert is as a son to her. She would prefer it if he didn’t go out every night, but he has pointed out that cleaning up the Underground is work that has to be done. He is fortunate to have the work, he explains, a stroke of good fortune come his way.
‘You OK then, Mrs Biddle?’ he inquires after he has stuck up the Spookee stickers. ‘You manage to eat a bit?’
Mrs Biddle has eaten everything. In the sitting-room where she also sleeps she is still in bed, watching television, a game show with numbered boxes. She turns it off because when Albert is there she likes to hear his news.
‘Yeah, I been down the shops,’ he answers when she asks. ‘I paid the gas.’
‘You get the woman with the hair?’
‘Yeah, I got her. Violet she’s called. She has it on her badge.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised what she’s called, that woman.’
Albert says it takes all sorts. He stacks the dishes Mrs Biddle has eaten from, making room on a tray for the metal teapot she has herself carried to her room. For a moment he worries, reminded by the teapot of her picking her steps from the kitchen, shuffling dangerously along, the teapot’s handle wrapped in a cloth where the black plastic binding fell off years ago. A trip and she could be scalded, lying there while he’s out or asleep. But when Mrs Biddle decides to make her own tea she will not be moved from doing so.
‘No hurry on them dishes. Rest in the chair, Albert. Keep me company a bit.’
Even more than hearing Albert’s news Mrs Biddle likes to share with him the memories that keep her going when she’s alone. As Gracie de Lisle, girl assistant to Halriati the Sicilian, and before that as one of the four Singing Cowslips, she has not been unknown. When Mr Biddle married her she was professionally engaged, twice nightly at the Tottenham Grand Empire.
In the small, crowded room – rows of cottages on shelves and in cabinets, camels and elephants and reindeer on the mantelpiece – Albert hears further highlights from the theatres and the halls. The cottages are of china, dully glazed so that a sense of reality is retained; the animals are of a brown material that has been grained to resemble carved wood. Theatrical photographs are displayed in mock-wooden frames on two tables and on the walls.
‘Nineteen forty-eight, the old Hip in Huddersfield.
Puss in Boots
and the lights failed.’
‘What did you do, Mrs Biddle?’ Albert asks, although he knows.
‘Candles we had to resort to, the usherettes’ flashlights, you name it we had it. The day after Boxing Day. Spoilt it for the kiddies, they said.’
Albert never minds hearing a highlight more than once, throwing in the odd response in order to keep company with her because it’s company she’s after. He stayed with her all day the time her front-garden ornaments disappeared, and again when the social services wrote about her pension, saying it could be reduced, and again when they sent a request to know when it was she’d died. Keeping companyis the heart of looking after people, as Albert first experienced in his Morning Star days. ‘Stay by me, Albert,’ they used to say, a catchphrase it became. The time the youths laughed when the man with elephantiasis sat down to rest himself on the edge of the pavement he stayed with him until the youths went away, even though the man
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