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He was a puzzle. Jane easily remembered the little boy who used to wave to her from the street. He was younger than Michael, and compared to her advanced age of nine he seemed very young, almost a baby. His sweet smile, big brown eyes and mop of dark hair appealed to Jane’s motherly instincts. She felt sorry for him because his clothes were patched and his shoes were old and too big for his feet. But she didn’t worry about him because he was always with Bert and she knew Bert would keep him safe.
And then there were her parents. Despite her father’s tendency to explode, Jane’s parents rarely disagreed. Even in the days when her mother’s suffragette activities had irritated him to no end, he had never forbidden her from continuing. But that day Jane had walked into a full blown argument.
“No Winifred you will not!” her father was definitely angry. “You will not remove a child from someone’s care because they’re poor!”
“But George I’m only thinking of that little boy. It can’t be good for him. Bert doesn’t have a steady job or a place to stay, and I know there’s no money for food or clothes. What’s going to happen this winter?”
“And where do you think they will put that little boy if he’s taken away from Bert. They’ll put him right back where he came from, back into a home for the feeble-minded. Winifred, you of all people should know what God awful hell holes some of those places are. Bert loves that child. He will go without his own food before he lets him go hungry. The clothes are old and patched but they’re clean and the boy is well cared for.”
By now her mother was crying. Her father had sighed and put his arm around her. “Don’t cry darling. I know you only want to help, but this is not the way to do it. I’ll talk to the Admiral. Between the two of us we’ll find enough extra work for Bert to earn some money and hopefully find a place to live. You should sort out some of Michael’s clothes and toys.” Then her father had looked up and seen her in the doorway. He had abruptly ended the conversation.
Michael had not been happy about giving away any of his toys and clothes. He was terribly embarrassed that someone in the neighborhood was going to wear them, but Winifred pointed out that it was good to share with people who needed help, and it was important to be kind. This had prompted Jane to offer some of her cherished books to the collection her mother was assembling for Bert. Winifred had sighed and tried to explain to Jane that she didn’t think Jack would ever be able to read them, but Jane with the wisdom of nine years explained that Bert could read them to Jack. So Peter Rabbit and the Tale of Benjamin Bunny along with several others of Jane’s favorites had been added to the box. And it was a funny thing, Jack loved the books. He carried at least one with him everywhere he went. He would sit quietly turning the pages and murmuring to himself while Bert worked.
How long had Bert and Jack been part of Cherry Tree Lane? She couldn’t remember. She had been busy growing up and going to school. She vaguely remembered hearing that Mrs. Brill (of all people) had helped Bert find a place for Jack to stay and soon Bert stopped coming too. She hadn’t thought about them in years.
And then had come the day she bumped (literally) into Jack again. Though she was warm and loving, Jane was not a demonstrative woman. Her hugs and displays of affection were limited to her family. Walking into a solid body and finding herself in physical contact with an attractive man was a shock. And he was an attractive man. Jane had time to register the dark eyes and the beautiful shape of his hands as he started to help her pick up her flyers. The revelation that he was the little boy that used to wave up to her had made her pause. Split second memories ran through her thoughts. Home for the feeble minded her father had said. Unable to learn her mother had implied. Yet he had read the flyer at one glance. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I remember. You have the same smile.”
He was political. They had their first fight the day of the rally. Jack had spotted several people wearing B.U.F* insignia and gave Jane a warning that their group might be infiltrating S.P.R.U.C.E. Actually, said Jane they were considering an alliance with the B.U.F. The B.U.F. had done well politically on the East end of London and S.P.R.U.C.E. needed their support to help achieve its goals.
No one, said Jack, needed the support of Fascists to achieve their goals. Jane said Jack was naïve to think S.P.R.U.C.E could achieve anything in a vacuum. Jack said Jane needed to be more informed about political parties. Was he telling her what to think, asked Jane because she was perfectly capable of reaching conclusions on her own. Well obviously not, he replied, if she thought working with Mosley and his crew would be a good idea. Fascism said Jane had done a lot of good. Look at Germany, things were much better for the workers there. Jack had looked at her, his jaw tight, and replied not for everyone. He had turned and walked away.
She met him that night on her way to Michael’s. He seemed to have regained most of his good humor. He apologized for leaving like he did. If she would just listen he would try to explain. The B.U.F. gained power by fear and division, convincing people that they were being victimized by other people. S.P.R.U.C.E. was different. It was about hope and working together to make changes for all the workers. It was a light and lights needed to shine. But they also needed to be protected or they would go out.
She began to realize that Jack saw his job as a metaphor for his life. It was her first introduction to his ability to find poetry in the mundane and ordinary.
He stole things. Well, he stole apples and always from the same grocer. The first time she noticed was when he walked her to her flat. He palmed the apple as they passed the cart and hid it in his pocket. A block later he tossed it to a little boy on the sidewalk. Over the course of a week she observed Jack steal apples at least four times, and each time he tossed the apple to someone else, usually a child. It seemed to be a game of some sort, but she didn’t know the rules.
Jack didn’t steal an apple the day he walked Georgie from Cherry Tree Lane to her flat. She met him midway to pick up her nephew and watched as the two passed the grocer’s cart. One of Jack’s hands held Georgie’s while the other stayed in his pocket. The grocer coughed loudly and when Jack turned he tossed him an apple which Jack caught one handed and slipped into his pocket.
He was infuriating, especially about his name. Was Jack his given name she had asked and he had simply replied no and dropped the subject. How about a surname, did he have one of those? Well of course he did, he replied, didn’t everyone? But he didn’t tell her what it was. All afternoon Jane tried to get Jack to tell her his name but he proved remarkably adept at avoiding or changing the subject. He also had an answer for everything. What if she had to leave a message for him at work? All she had to do was ask for Jack. Everyone knew him there. What if there was more than one Jack? There was more than one Jack he said. There was Jack Siple and Jack West but he wasn’t either one of them. Just say his route number or mention one of the streets where he worked and the gas company would know which Jack she wanted.
Should she trust him around her niece and nephews if she didn’t know his name? He was very sorry she didn’t trust him. Had he done something to make her think he was untrustworthy? No, but how could she be dating a man if she didn’t know his name? Oh, were they dating? He had certainly hoped so but had been afraid to ask. Now that he knew he was much happier.
How could it be, she thought, that she knew everything about Jack that was important, and yet didn’t know the most ordinary things about him? It was a relief to find out that they had friends in common. She tried to coax details from Emma, who was one of the S.P.R.U.C.E. organizers. Emma knew them both and found the whole situation highly amusing. She was quick to reassure Jane that Jack was exactly what he appeared to be, a very nice person and a perfect gentleman. But he had a streak of mischief running through him and was obviously enjoying himself. It was up to Jane to let him know when she’d had enough and wanted real information. In the meantime Emma was not providing any. Please, Jane had pleaded, just some tiny bit of knowledge. How about his birthday, Emma could at least tell her that much. But Emma would only smile saying that Jack was a Christmas present Jane would have to open all by herself. What an odd way to put it said Jane. Not really said Emma and left to attend to other matters.
Frustrated, Jane left the site of the rally and started to walk back to Michael’s house. As she neared Cherry Tree Lane she realized what Emma had just implied. The irrepressible gurgle of laughter that Jane had never quite learned to control rose up and threatened to become a full blown laugh. Poor Jack. She wondered if he loved or hated his birthday, or if he just ignored it. Either way it was definitely unique. She gave herself a mental hug and looked up at the cherry trees that had given the street its name. The trees were still covered in blossoms and the weather was warm and sunny, but Jane’s mind was months away. “Merry Christmas,” thought Jane, her smile wide and cheeky. “Merry, Merry Christmas (especially to me).”