the handle. Hiss. Whirr. Then, thin, faint and as astonishing as if it were another of his tricks, out of the big horn came music – a trumpet, a trombone, a banjo, drums. A song, our song, a song that made us a promise our father never kept, though others did: ‘I can’t give you anything but love, baby.’
At the first bars, we couldn’t help it, it was as if a voice told us to do it, we were impelled, we got up and danced. ‘Dance,’ I say, but we didn’t know how – we jumped about in time and clapped our hands. Perry watched us for a bit, smiling, then said: ‘Come on, girls, I’ll show you the real thing.’ He gave the gramophone another wind.
I can’t give you anything but love, baby,
That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby . . .
Grandma calmed down a bit, he held his hand out. She’d still got the rudiments, stout though she was; the way she danced was the only clue to her past she ever gave. Then we were all dancing, right there, in the breakfast room, and, as for us, we haven’t stopped dancing, yet, have we, Nora? We’ll go on dancing till we drop.
Dream awhile, scheme awhile . . .
What a joy it is to dance and sing!
Perry gave us a lot more than love, in those days. He added another digit to his monthly cheque to pay for dancing lessons. He was a dutiful father. He doubled as sugar daddy, too. Every other Sunday, he arrived with parcels from Hamleys and Harrods and Selfridges, he’d pull red ribbons out of our ears and flags from his nostrils, he’d sit us on his knee and feed us Fuller’s walnut cake and then he’d wind up the gramophone and we’d dance. After that, he and Grandma would have a couple of drinks and a few laughs; they were like conspirators.
But, pilgrim by name, pilgrim by nature, came the day the wanderlust seized him by the throat again. He must be up and off, he must be up and doing. He dropped off a crate of crème de menthe for Grandma, tap shoes for me and Nora. Then he was gone and left no forwarding address although the postcards came every month or so and every Christmas we’d get a hamper full of rotten fruit or a box of straw and shards that had been fine china when he packed it from places we could never find on the map. He never knew what would travel and what wouldn’t.
But one last little gift arrived on its own two legs and announced itself, not with a knock on the front door but a humble little scrabble down the area, where the family went. When Grandma went to open up, there she was, a wee scrap of humanity thin as a lathe, busted shoes, no stockings, just a shawl around her shoulders and a man’s cap on her head. She’d have been fourteen, then. She thrust forth a scrap of paper and there was our address, in Perry’s hand.
‘He said you’d give us a job,’ she said. ‘Help look after the kids, or something. He said you’d give us a roof.’
‘I wasn’t planning on running a hostel for fallen women,’ said Grandma in a huff. It was pissing down with rain, Our Cyn was soaked.
‘I haven’t fallen yet,’ said Our Cyn. ‘But I might .’
Once she got her feet under the table, she never took them out again. One of the fixtures and fittings. She was a breath of fresh air. If Grandma lingered too long down the local and forgot to grate the evening carrots, Cyn would do us a couple of lamb chops, a bit of liver and bacon. Forbidden fruit! Delish. Her kids were in and out all the time after she married that cabby, the second generation to call our grandma ‘Grandma’. It was Cyn’s eldest, Mavis, who got off with a GI which resulted in our Brenda, whom we took care of when she had her bit of trouble and brought home our precious little Tiffany, the first Black in the family.
‘Family,’ I say. Grandma invented this family. She put it together out of whatever came to hand – a stray pair of orphaned babes, a ragamuffin in a flat cap. She created it by sheer force of personality. I only wish she’d lived to see our little
At the first bars, we couldn’t help it, it was as if a voice told us to do it, we were impelled, we got up and danced. ‘Dance,’ I say, but we didn’t know how – we jumped about in time and clapped our hands. Perry watched us for a bit, smiling, then said: ‘Come on, girls, I’ll show you the real thing.’ He gave the gramophone another wind.
I can’t give you anything but love, baby,
That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby . . .
Grandma calmed down a bit, he held his hand out. She’d still got the rudiments, stout though she was; the way she danced was the only clue to her past she ever gave. Then we were all dancing, right there, in the breakfast room, and, as for us, we haven’t stopped dancing, yet, have we, Nora? We’ll go on dancing till we drop.
Dream awhile, scheme awhile . . .
What a joy it is to dance and sing!
Perry gave us a lot more than love, in those days. He added another digit to his monthly cheque to pay for dancing lessons. He was a dutiful father. He doubled as sugar daddy, too. Every other Sunday, he arrived with parcels from Hamleys and Harrods and Selfridges, he’d pull red ribbons out of our ears and flags from his nostrils, he’d sit us on his knee and feed us Fuller’s walnut cake and then he’d wind up the gramophone and we’d dance. After that, he and Grandma would have a couple of drinks and a few laughs; they were like conspirators.
But, pilgrim by name, pilgrim by nature, came the day the wanderlust seized him by the throat again. He must be up and off, he must be up and doing. He dropped off a crate of crème de menthe for Grandma, tap shoes for me and Nora. Then he was gone and left no forwarding address although the postcards came every month or so and every Christmas we’d get a hamper full of rotten fruit or a box of straw and shards that had been fine china when he packed it from places we could never find on the map. He never knew what would travel and what wouldn’t.
But one last little gift arrived on its own two legs and announced itself, not with a knock on the front door but a humble little scrabble down the area, where the family went. When Grandma went to open up, there she was, a wee scrap of humanity thin as a lathe, busted shoes, no stockings, just a shawl around her shoulders and a man’s cap on her head. She’d have been fourteen, then. She thrust forth a scrap of paper and there was our address, in Perry’s hand.
‘He said you’d give us a job,’ she said. ‘Help look after the kids, or something. He said you’d give us a roof.’
‘I wasn’t planning on running a hostel for fallen women,’ said Grandma in a huff. It was pissing down with rain, Our Cyn was soaked.
‘I haven’t fallen yet,’ said Our Cyn. ‘But I might .’
Once she got her feet under the table, she never took them out again. One of the fixtures and fittings. She was a breath of fresh air. If Grandma lingered too long down the local and forgot to grate the evening carrots, Cyn would do us a couple of lamb chops, a bit of liver and bacon. Forbidden fruit! Delish. Her kids were in and out all the time after she married that cabby, the second generation to call our grandma ‘Grandma’. It was Cyn’s eldest, Mavis, who got off with a GI which resulted in our Brenda, whom we took care of when she had her bit of trouble and brought home our precious little Tiffany, the first Black in the family.
‘Family,’ I say. Grandma invented this family. She put it together out of whatever came to hand – a stray pair of orphaned babes, a ragamuffin in a flat cap. She created it by sheer force of personality. I only wish she’d lived to see our little
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