Ruth, Virginia and their mothers

Ruth, recovered from her outburst, very surprised at my abrupt disappearance, had arrived at Fred's, no doubt being tipped off by Vie. She, subdued and anxious to be reconciled on any terms. But this euphoria was brief. Tight lipped, she announced  her mother wished to speak to me… rather more than a "shrill clarion call".

The event took place in the Stamford Hill Wimpey. By this time, with Ruth's continual urging, I had managed to be in possession of a suit "on the book" from Burton's, a shirt, collar and tie. She had also dragged me to Finsbury Park to get my hair cut, sitting there, watching the barber's every move, being very specific for me to have a "Perry Como", whatever that may have been. The beard, it too had to go, must have come very near specification. Ruth seemed quite satisfied. Briefed carefully, not to fly off and lose my temper. If possible, avoid all discussion over the fact of my being non-Jewish. If, however, she insisted and decided to go along with the situation, provided I were to change my religion,  to accept.

The mother, a tall, angular woman, who, when younger, must have been attractive. Life had made its ravages. The long red hair had grown thin and lank ... features of her face had become hard and sharp, emphasising her dissatisfaction with everything and everyone. Heavy lines ran across her forehead,  veins stood out on her thick wrists. She had the jewelry on, posing , one hand against her cheek, elbow on the table, gesturing constantly, cigarette waving between her fingers. Emphatic, disarming.. tried to be charming. Her acting painful, three top buttons of her red blouse, open, revealing protruding chest bones under her tight stretched skin.

Gradually the mask dropped, her voice hard and thin. That too, had no affect.

Hardly knew what I was doing, listening to this barrage of garbage. Why had I placed myself in such a position? There had been other mothers ... had never been good enough for any daughter.

Virginia's mother had really established a precedent, sending two private detectives to Lea View to see my old lady. Once she comprehended what they were up to, she hit one on the head with a Guinness bottle, always kept conveniently behind the street door ... never did see the report  made on myself and my background. There had been one father. The ship had been lying at Rosyth ... cigarettes  scarce, money tight, gave him a carton of two hundred and a tin of tickler. He went out, closing the street door quietly  behind him, leaving me with his daughter ...

Thought, reasonably, Ruth's mother would be more demanding,  wondered what her price would be? Doubtlessly, if I could have come up with a Roller, house, money ... really anything tangible by way of an asset, she would overlook my lack of faith and the difference in ages.

She was quick, very quick, to seize on my poverty, attacked without mercy on this point. Trying to bring me down, but I was already down, fully aware of it, she was not. Did not even possess my bed with its carved, raised piece, or the broken gramophone case. The yellow room with the faded pink curtains had been boarded up along with the rest of the flat. The key, no longer hung in the letter box. Mrs. Yates, next door,  dead. Her son, younger than myself, had died too, of a heart attack. The rot had crept slowly, insidiously up  the concrete staircases where I had played hide and dream, landing windows gaping and smashed, filth and urine everywhere ...

Heaven had left Hackney.

Ruth's mother finally wound herself to a standstill.

In her book, she had won, hands down.

The ashtray with her dead cigarette butts,  cold, half empty coffee cups,  the only remnants of the conversation. Pulled her jumper instinctively together, buttoning it slowly, ready to go. Cigarettes and lighter stowed in her large, black shoulder bag. She half rose, saying

"Well, you won't be seeing Ruth again ... " a certain note of satisfaction in her voice.

"I don't remember saying that."

She sat down again.

Walked her out to the battered car with its large "Gliksten School of Motoring" screwed to the roof.

Once I had her in the car, the initiative became mine, having  always operated from the driving seat. The woman reacting to the changed atmosphere, had the feeling of her struggling with vague, almost forgotten stirrings of sensuality.   Possibly, for the first time since her marriage, she was in a slightly tense situation with another man.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Did a wide 'U' turn across the width of Stamford Hill,  snow drifting delicately down, oblique white lines on a dark night, friday night traffic crawling and shunting its way towards the perhaps more acceptable suburbs of Enfield and Waltham Cross. Often felt  we in Hackney were somehow excluded from this slow, determined exodus. Cars stretching for miles, a long chain of red lights reaching into infinity.

Turned along Armhurst Park away from the din. By this time, Mrs. Lascel had recovered her self-composure, crossing her knees, pulling her skirt carefully down, slowly lighting a cigarette. "make your mind up time", so far as I was concerned, had only the intangible to offer...  offered that. She, hardly impressed, only understanding one thing, 'money'. anything else hardly worth consideration. My faint offer not received with much enthusiasm, scratched about for anything ... making suggestions regarding adopting the Jewish religion, vaguely sincere about this. Maybe, I too would find a place to hang on, to deflect the occasional shots of isolated emptiness creeping into my life, my own disillusionment with everything, including myself. Perhaps religion would cure this. Not very far back in my mind,  knew that it would not. Up front, a comforting thought. Alone, regardless of whoever and whatever. This realisation,  not new. My isolation had started as a child, waiting for my mother to come out of, or come back from the pub. The few people I had been close to,  had either outright rejected, suddenly, without reason, or they  simply died.