The next day, the women had a lovely lunch at Peggy and Carole’s before heading out. Madge said she fancied the walk, so Peggy pulled her mobility scooter out from its parking spot under the communal stairwell.
The quickest way to Lewisham took them up Brookmill Road. Beneath her tartan coat, Peggy wore multiple layers to keep her warm despite the frigid temperatures. Her woolly hat had been crocheted for her by Carole. It was pale pink with a darker pink knobbly bit on the end. It amused her how people went out of their way to avoid saying it looked like a breast.
It did look like a breast. Peggy wore it proudly.
At one point, the pavement widened out a bit and Baz pulled her scooter alongside Peggy’s. ‘So where’s this wildlife reserve that man was talking about, then?’
Peggy lifted her right arm and pointed. ‘Just ahead on the right.’ She still had no idea what kind of show they were due to attend. She hoped it wasn’t music – she doubted there was a single musical act both she and Madge would tolerate.
Without slowing, Baz stretched her neck out to peer into the middle distance. ‘I’ve come this way a few times, heading to the big shopping centre – and I’ve never noticed anything on this side of the road.’
Peggy shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t. It’s long and narrow and pretty well hidden behind the bus shelter.’
As they drew nearer, a hunched figure emerged from the reserve. With his hood up, it was impossible to be certain of his identity – though Peggy could guess. However much she agreed with Arthur’s aims, the man could be a bit tedious. She didn’t relish the idea of standing around in the cold, listening to him trying to persuade her of things she already knew.
Arthur secured the gate behind himself before turning to face the women. ‘Ladies. Hello. What a nice surprise. I was just finishing up here. Have you, er, are you hoping for a tour? I suppose I could spare some time.’ He fished a gargantuan set of keys from his coat pocket and moved to insert one back into the lock he’d just put in place.
Just ahead, a man emerged from the next street along, carrying what looked to Peggy’s eyes like a protest sign. Although she couldn’t make out the words from this distance, she wondered where he was heading. She loved nothing more than a good protest – she hoped it was a good one.
‘What a lovely idea,’ said Madge, striding purposefully up to Arthur. ‘Unfortunately, we can’t take you up on it today. We’re on our way to a show.’
Both Madge and Baz being who they were, they stayed to chat in the cold. Peggy was frozen to the bone by the time the women got moving again ten minutes later.
Eventually, they arrived at the multicoloured building that housed the community centre. Angry shouting echoed off a host of surfaces. The closeness of the buildings made it impossible to tell where it was coming from.
As they rounded the corner, the small square in front of the building’s entrance came into view. The ruckus was caused by a group of about eight or ten angry-looking White people – mostly men – stationed in front of the community centre. The man she’d seen emerging from the street near the nature reserve was there with his large protest sign. She was finally close enough to read it.
Teach our kids the ABCs – not the LGBTQs!
Peggy groaned. ‘At least this lot can spell. That sets them ahead of many of their compatriots.’
She turned to check on Baz, unsure how she would cope with the sight. Her friend had pressed her lips so hard together they’d all but disappeared.
The protesters were chanting. ‘It’s okay to be straight. It’s okay to be White.’
Oh, give me a break. Peggy shook her head.
One of the angry men carried an elderly boombox on his shoulder. The tinny speakers were pumping out that awful country song about small towns. As if they didn’t know they were in the middle of London.
‘Oh, Lordy,’ Madge cried. ‘What’s all this nonsense?’
‘Bunch of angry little men.’ Peggy’s fingers twitched. Part of her wanted to depress the scooter’s accelerator, running down as many of them as she could.
But they had work to do. If she got arrested now, she’d miss the show – whatever it was. She eased off the accelerator as she steered past them, though she allowed herself the small comfort of extending a two-fingered salute. She made sure to look the pricks in the eye as she did so.
‘Oi!’ someone shouted. ‘It’s one of them.’
If Peggy thought the group was angry before, the roar that rang through them told her they’d barely started. But they’d picked the wrong little old lady to pick on. A growl began to work its way up through Peggy’s core – she could take them all.
It took a moment to realise it wasn’t her they were coming for. An icy chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the winter weather.
‘Peggy,’ Madge snarled. ‘We need to get to Baz.’
A paunchy, grizzled man wearing a black T-shirt over dirty blue jeans was leading the charge. Despite his bushy beard, a brown mole was visible at the top of his mandible. Baz’s face displayed sheer terror as the man and his acolytes converged on her.
Peggy’s friend was an innocent – far from streetwise. Despite Baz’s history with the Canadian police, she’d actually spent her career in a safe, clean office studying financial crimes. Even her time with Peggy, Madge, and Carole hadn’t quite sullied her.
‘You’re one of them tr—’
Peggy put her thumb and middle finger into her mouth and cut off the bigot’s speech with a whistle loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the vicinity. ‘Oi, Basil Brush! Leave my friend alone, you great gammony lout.’
Baz’s face quivered. She really was too gentle a soul for this nonsense.
Madge moved with surprising agility. She inserted her rotund form between Baz and the angry man. ‘Young man, I know you didn’t just mean to use that word. Because that word, I am informed, is offensive. And I know that you did not intend to offend my very dear friend.’
By this time, Peggy had caught up. ‘You know what, dear. I think he did mean to cause offence. He’s the sort who gets off on oppressing harmless little old ladies who don’t have the strength to fight back.’
It was true – after a fashion. They couldn’t take these guys in a physical fight. Maybe Carole could. She spent at least an hour a day in the gym, practising various martial arts and lifting weights.
‘Ladies,’ the angry man said, loud enough for everyone watching to hear. ‘I think you need some new glasses. Your friend’s a paedo.’ His minions roared with laughter and cheered him on.
Peggy steered closer, bumping into him with the shopping basket at the front of her scooter and knocking him onto his arse. ‘Oh dear. How clumsy of me. I really ought to learn to handle this thing. I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
Several people hauled the angry man to his feet while an absolute brick wall of a man leant over Peggy on her scooter. A jolt of fear ran through her, tickling her toes. She glanced desperately around for Carole. Things were getting out of hand and she needed to—
‘Gentlemen,’ called a familiar voice at the same moment as Peggy spied Carole, her bag of knitting needles at the ready.
Peggy shot a glare at Carole, willing her to understand. No.
This situation was a tinderbox. Peggy wasn’t sure how many hooligans Carole could take down before the rest of that group fought back. Madge could probably stop a couple of them with sheer force of will. But the only weapons Peggy had were words. And Baz didn’t even have that – she could talk for hours. But her words weren’t weapons.
‘What’s going on here?’ Peter asked as he jogged towards them with his hand hovering over the baton London cops carried. His new partner wasn’t far behind him.
‘Old bat assaulted me,’ the angry mole-man shouted, his finger stabbing in Peggy’s direction. ‘You all witnessed it, right?’
His friends chorused their agreement, crowding in around the four women. Someone in the group bellowed, ‘She hit Mitch!’
‘Young Peter,’ said Madge indignantly. ‘This ruffian here was being unkind to Ms Spencer. I stepped in to remind him of his manners. Ms Trent joined me in checking on our friend. Her sudden appearance must have startled him because he tripped over himself and landed on his bum.’
‘She ploughed into me with her coffin dodger,’ shouted the mole-man. Mitch, apparently.
Peter raised his hands. ‘Everyone, please be quiet for a moment.’ He glanced around the group, making brief eye contact with them all. ‘Thank you for clarifying, G— good woman. Er, Mrs Dixon.’
The tips of Peter’s brown ears flushed with colour as he turned to the mole-man. ‘Now, Mitch is it?’
He grunted.
‘Okay.’ Peter held his hand out to Mitch in a placatory gesture. ‘Now, Mitch. You’re not hurt, so I suggest you and your friends move on over there, closer to the wall. Stop interfering with people’s ability to access the community centre.’
‘Not hurt?’ Mitch pointed to his belt. ‘Care to see the bruise on me arse?’
‘No one wants to see your arse,’ muttered Peggy.
Peter placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose and raised his other arm to indicate the direction the group should head in. ‘C’mon, fellas. Right over that way. Follow PC Turner, if you would.’
When the group had moved on, Peter squeezed Baz’s shoulder. ‘You all right, Ms Spencer?’
Baz brushed tears from her eyes. ‘Thank you, Peter. I’m fine.’
Peter looked towards his grandmother like he wasn’t sure about that. ‘I’m not sure what he said. But it sounds like it might have been a public order offence. If you want to make a formal statement, I can arrange that.’
Baz smiled. ‘You’re very sweet. Thank you. But I’d rather just go and enjoy the show if I may.’
Peter nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll see you ladies around. And, Granny, I’ll see you on Sunday.’ He waved and jogged after his partner.
Madge walked alongside Baz’s mobility scooter and bent to envelop her friend in a hug. Carole appeared from nowhere and joined the pair, whispering words Peggy couldn’t make out.
Peggy waited a moment then said, ‘When you lot are done posing for the modern Norman Rockwell…’ She waved her cane in the direction of the community centre.
Baz sniffed as her friends released her. ‘Shall we?’
They made it the last few metres without incident. Baz looked at the angry crowd gathered on the far side of the square. ‘Do you think our scooters are safe out here?’
Before Peggy could answer, a man exited the community centre and approached them. ‘Are you here for the show? Who am I kidding – ’course you are. Come on in.’ Baz looked like she was about to ask about the scooters but he waved. ‘Bring the scooters. Plenty of space in here.’
Madge and Carole waited as Peggy and Baz steered through the wide sliding door. Baz thanked the man profusely.
He was short with heavily freckled skin and wearing a bow tie. Peggy guessed he was in his early sixties. His brown hair was close-cropped in tight curls. ‘No worries, ladies. Normally, scooters are very safe outside. But that lot show up whenever we host Royal Tea shows. And, to be honest, I don’t feel safe asking anyone to leave anything out there. Those chaps aren’t very friendly to… I was going to say they weren’t friendly to anyone – but they seem to like one another well enough. I suppose their anger’s directed at anyone they see as other, if you follow me. By which I mean, please follow me.’
He set off across the floor, elbows rocking, swaying like a duck. After a moment, he paused and turned to face the four women. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Where are my manners today? I’m Paul. Most of the time I work over at the library. But I also cover certain events here. Both run by the council, you see. We’re in the Glass Studio today. Oh, actually… I’ve been assuming you’re here for the show – are you here for the show?’
Madge stepped forwards. ‘Good afternoon, Paul. Lovely to meet you. And yes, we are indeed here for the show. Clive said he’d leave tickets for us.’ She shook the man’s hand. ‘I’m Margaret Dixon – but you can call me Madge. These ladies are my friends, Barbara Spencer, Peggy Trent, and— Where’s Carole got to?’
Peggy tilted her head. ‘You’ll have to excuse Carole. I love the woman more than life itself, but one whiff of a table with tea and bickies and she’d sell her own grandkids.’ Carole’s yellow cardigan could be spied off in the distance.
‘I see. Yes, I recognise your names. I can confirm there are indeed four tickets waiting for you. Well then, I suppose we ought to follow her.’ The small man offered his elbow to Baz, who accepted, then sashayed in the direction Carole had gone in. ‘Come on, ladies. We don’t want to miss the start of the show.’
Peggy’s hips were hurting her too much to move quickly – and Madge never moved rapidly. Or rather, not never, but never without good reason.
Still, they caught up with Paul and Baz just as they entered a light, airy space.
As Peggy followed, she asked, ‘What kind of show will we be seeing? Clive neglected to mention.’
Without disrupting Baz’s hold on his elbow, Paul clapped. ‘Oh, you’re in for such a treat, ladies. Blue’s your host – as always. And today’s guests are regulars to her shows. Di and Pfeff are familiar faces. Of course, Clive’s usually in the audience but today we’ve got Coco on the roster. That’s a last-minute swap, you understand. Might be different from the leaflet.’
None of that answered Peggy’s question – but before she could ask again, she found herself facing a trestle table loaded with tea urns, a coffee percolator, and goodies.
Carole had a mug of tea and was heaping a plate with biscuits. ‘People think that the Jaffa Cakes case was about tax, when in reality it was about the fact that oranges are part of their plot to cause congenital infertility. It took me ages to work it all out.’ Having loaded up on bickies, she took Paul by the arm.
‘What it really is…’ Carole’s voice faded as she steered him towards the seats.
Peggy chuckled to herself as she poured herself a cup of what was sure to be terrible coffee and put a couple of digestives onto a plate.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Baz made a vague motion towards Paul and Carole. ‘Should we explain about Carole’s … eccentricities?’
Madge waved a plate of biscuits dismissively. ‘Don’t you worry about Carole. She can take care of herself.’ She poured a mug of tea from the urn.
Peggy doubted it was Carole that Baz was worried about, but she didn’t say anything.
Once they had all fetched themselves refreshments, they carried their trays over to where Paul and Carole were sitting. The space was dotted with round tables, arranged such that they had chairs only on one side so everyone faced the stage, such as it was. There were dozens of people in the audience, mostly OAPs – though there were a few younger folks as well.
Paul looked up at them as they took their seats, a flirtatious glint in his eye. ‘Ladies. Everyone find something to your liking? Sorry I got carried away listening to Carole. It’s … quite eye-opening, really.’
Baz pursed her lips, stifling a chuckle.
Peggy grasped Carole’s hand protectively and smiled at Paul. His eyes followed her hand. She wouldn’t tolerate anyone mocking Carole. Not that he was – just a proactive warning in case he was thinking of it.
Paul swallowed. ‘Er… You ladies are in for a real treat today. Bluebird and Di always put on a fabulous show, of course. It’s a shame Sue can’t make it – she’s such a laugh. Still, Coco is good fun too. And, as I say, Pfeff is a cracking performer.’
Madge took a sip of her tea and frowned slightly. She set the mug down. ‘I’m still not clear, Paul. What kind of show is it we’re here to see?’
Paul opened his mouth to reply before closing it again. Out the corner of her eye, Peggy spied a short man in a rumpled suit with a mop of wild white hair shuffling towards the stage. He mounted the single step and took hold of the podium at the front. She was about to suggest to Paul that one of the old dears had got himself a bit lost when Paul responded to Madge’s question.
‘Why, my dear, it’s a drag show of course.’
The man at the podium faced away from the crowd for a few moments; he fluffed his hair and patted himself down before turning to face them. He set a few sheets of paper on the podium and tapped them before wiping his hands on his trousers as though the papers had been sticky, muttering to himself as the microphone kicked into life.
‘Why is Boris Johnson here?’ asked someone.
The man on stage looked up at the crowd and started as though he hadn’t expected anyone to be present. He smiled – awkwardly at first but rapidly gaining in charisma. The hair, Peggy now saw, wasn’t white but pale blond. Despite herself, she found it difficult not to chuckle. It was a very good impression.
The man, who Peggy realised was actually a drag king, rested his elbows on the podium. ‘Good morning, ladies, theydies, and gentlefolk. Ahem, ah, er… And, er, that is, it is Thursday afternoon. Or rather, er… As your Prime Minister, I’ve been invited here today—’ It was, of course, Tuesday.
Paul cupped his hands to the side of his face and shouted, ‘You’re not the Prime Minister anymore, you blond twat.’ Peggy joined the audience in heckling the performance.
‘Ah, yes. Quite right. Er. Well, as I say, at any rate, I’ve been invited here today to welcome you to this, er…’ He ran his finger down the length of the page. When he lifted his hand again, the page stuck to it. He crumpled it and tossed it aside. ‘Er, as St Thomas Aquinas once famously said, carpe diem and welcome to the Glass Studio at the, er, one of the fine community centres in Lewisham. Ah, er…’
He ran a hand through his already mussed hair. ‘Oh, yes, that’s in London, I’m led to believe. My friend Lizzie lives just up the road over in Greenwich. Er, well, ipso facto, caveat emptor and at any rate she’s not Prime Minister anymore either.’
‘Too bloody right she’s not,’ hollered Peggy.
Madge glared at her for interrupting the show but at least a dozen other people in the audience booed loudly – it seemed to be expected.
After running his fingers through his hair yet again, the drag king rifled through his notes a bit. ‘Er, yes, right. As I say, without going all the way ab initio as they say… I am De Pfeffel, your host. And today’s spectacle for your viewing … well, er, and listening, I suppose … enjoyment is, ah, Royal Tea.’
A queen with a large blue wig done up in a 1940s style roughly shoved De Pfeffel aside. ‘All right. That’s enough from you, Mr Johnson.’ She twirled around so everyone could admire her flower-printed dress with its full skirt. ‘I am actually your host, Bluebird Sofa. And while we all know I’m the one you’re here to see, we also have some excellent performers for you to look forward to.’
Bluebird waved at a plus-sized Black queen in a big blond wig. ‘The lovely Shady Diana, Princess of Whales.’ She put an emphasis on the H that left no ambiguity as to Wales the country or Whales the outsized ocean inhabitant. ‘And lastly, we have a queen you may know. Give it up for Coco Celeste!’
The crowd broke into applause as the curtains at the edge of the theatre space parted and a petite queen in a red evening gown appeared.
Peggy almost knocked over her lousy coffee when Madge slapped her elbow, hissing, ‘It’s Clive!’
Peggy turned to her friend and glared. ‘It’s my hips that don’t work properly anymore. My eyes are just fine. Better than yours, in point of fact.’
‘Just you wait and see.’ Bluebird held the final note of the song out for multiple heartbeats, betraying herself as a highly trained vocalist. ‘Thank you, thank you. You’ve been a lovely audience. Thank you so much for joining us this afternoon. Next week you can catch us at drag bingo over in Bermondsey and the week after that we’re in … oh, I don’t even remember. Be sure to grab a leaflet on your way out. They have all the details that I’ve forgotten.’
As the audience members shuffled out, a squealing, keening sound caught Peggy’s ear. Within seconds Clive – or rather Coco – pranced over to their table, squeaking with excitement. ‘You came! I’m so glad you made it. I told Blue you were going to help. She’s so pleased. Why don’t you give us a bit of time to get changed? We’ll join you as soon as we can.’