‘Smoke?’
‘Yes. Yes. I asked if she had been smoking, and she denied it and said, there had been some company at Mrs Polgar’s, and they had been smoking.’
‘Well, that could be. You know how it is when you sit next to anyone smoking, or even being in the room where there’s smoking.’
‘I’m not so sure in her case. You know something, Bill, I really think she should go to her grandfather for a time. He’s a strict Baptist, and he might be able to do something with her. Oh, and another thing, I don’t like this girl, Nancy, that she’s seeing so much of. I think she’s a bad influence. But how am I going to cut them off?’
‘Just write the woman a note and say you don’t think the association is suitable, that Nancy is so much older…and so on.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Well, honey, we’ll have to sleep on it, because here’s somebody who’s dying to go to bed with a woman, and if she refuses to accompany him, then she can just stay put here all night. You have your choice.’ He stood and, taking her into his arms, he kissed her, And as they went upstairs, their bodies linked tightly, Fiona asked herself again, What more could she want? But tonight there was no need of an answer.
Six
For the past four years, Katie had attended a school which had developed from St Catherine’s Academy for Young Ladies, started by a Miss Gregson towards the end of the last century. Today, it was known as St Catherine’s, a private school. It was set in deep grounds and looked like an enormous country house, with its own small chapel attached.
A bus heading for Gateshead passed the gates every half-hour, and on this particular Tuesday night, Katie was waiting for it at the indicated bus stop some yards from the main gate. She guessed she would have five minutes to wait, and, as it was bitterly cold, she began to stamp her feet up and down on the frost-rimed path.
Usually, if she were coming straight home, she would be met by either Fiona or Nell. But on this particular Tuesday night, she had arranged to meet Sammy at Mr Fenwick’s bookshop, from where they would go on to do extra practice at the Centre.
Willie wasn’t to be with them on this particular evening as he had a part in the school play and had stayed back for rehearsals. So, when she saw a car drawing slowly up as it passed the gates, in order obviously to come to a stop near her, although it certainly wasn’t her mother’s car, she had thought for a moment it would be someone from home.
When the window was pulled down, the blond head was poked out towards her, saying, ‘Hello, there. Can I give you a lift?’ She took a step back onto the pavement, saying, ‘No, thank you.’
‘Come on, come on. What’s the matter with you?’
‘I’ve told you before, I don’t need lifts.’
‘I’m not asking you to have lifts, I’m only saying, have this lift. I’ll run you to wherever you’re going. Are you going home?’
‘No, I’m not, and if I were you wouldn’t be driving me.’
She realised that the ignition had been switched off and then the car door opened. Then he was standing before her, saying roughly, ‘Look! I want to ask you something. Do I smell?’
She could have answered, Yes, you do, to me, but instead she said, ‘Look! Remember, I once accepted a lift from you, and what did you do? You stopped the car in a side road behind the station and expected payment.’
‘I did nothing of the sort. Expect payment? What d’you mean? I merely put my hand on your arm.’
‘Yes, on my arm with the intention of putting it round me. And I told you then, flatly, that I wasn’t your sort. But you didn’t seem to hear and you continued to be deaf.’
‘How d’you know you’re not my sort? You’ve never given me a chance.’
‘Look, I wouldn’t have thought you needed to make a set for me when it’s known you already have a harem.’
He laughed, a self-satisfied laugh, as if he weren’t displeased at the description. Then the laughter slid from his face as she said, in no small voice, ‘Now look here, Roland Ferndale! Our people might meet at intervals, but that isn’t to say that I want to meet you. Now have I made myself plain? And if you don’t stop pestering me, I’ll take matters into my own hands and then you may get a surprise.’
‘Oh yes? Well, we might have to put that to the test, mightn’t we?’
‘Yes, we very well might. Now once and for all, I don’t want any lifts and I don’t want any invitations to dances, pictures or anywhere else. And I’ll tell you something else before I’m finished; you’re only after me because I must have been the first one to refuse to neck with you. And all I can say for the girlfriends you’ve had, and dropped, they’re a lot of silly bitches to put themselves in that position.’
‘Well! Well! So this is the result of being at St Catherine’s, is it?’ he countered, sneeringly. ‘But then you should know all about bitches, because you’re the daughter of one. My mother took her measure right away, if you want to know. Upstart, even above her betters. That was her impression.’
She sprang back from him now, her voice rising, ‘You do, and I’ll have you on your back before you know where you are.’ She had taken up a stance with her forearm held straight out in front of her and her leg ready to kick.
‘God!’ He moved swiftly towards the car door now. Yet before opening it he stood there for a moment and said, ‘If you had tried that on, miss, you would have found yourself on your back quicker than your leg could have come up. And you are what you said, a bitch. Why I ever saw anything in you, God only knows: you’ve got a face on you like nothing on earth. And your figure’s yet to be born.’
He managed to get the car started as the bus drove up; but she found she was trembling so much that she could hardly step into it.
Like its owner, Fenwick’s was an unusual shop. Stretched above two display windows was a board on which were the letters, in fading scrawl, ‘W. Fenwick & Son, Confectioners & Tobacconists’, and, hardly discernible, the date ‘1899’. The rest of the outside woodwork was smartly painted in a mahogany brown. But Mr Fenwick refused to have the original board touched.
Having entered the shop through the double doors, to one’s right was a long counter. This was given over entirely to sweets of every kind, and the racks behind the counter showed an assortment of glass jars. At the far end of this counter, facing the door, was the cash desk, alongside which ran the original counter of the shop, put there by Mr Fenwick’s grandfather or great-grandfather. It was made of mahogany and slightly curved, and behind it were pigeon-holes in which different types of cigarettes, tobacco and cigars were on display. And on the top shelf, almost touching the ceiling, were five brown jars. On the centre one, there could easily be discerned the word, ‘Snuff’.
To the left there was only half of a wall, the rest being an open archway. But covering this half-wall were two stands of paperback books. The original shop had once ended here, but the enterprising and present Mr Fenwick had bought the shop next door which had once been a private lending library, and had turned it into what he called his treasure trove, but what others termed Fenwick’s junk room. Two of the walls held the original book-racks, and these were filled with an amazing assortment of hardback books, in haphazard array. Along the third wall was a counter and, resting on this, was a conglomeration of odd china figures, plates of all sizes and patterns, a large assortment of tins and tin lids, and glass bottles of all shapes, sizes and colours. It was a present-day collector’s treasure trove. Then, to the short side that backed on to the array of paperback racks in the main shop were four wash-baskets. And in these, again an assortment, but of kitchen utensils. And the last odd thing about this room was the two mirrors set at angles above the steps on the left-hand side of the entrance. One gave a view of those down in the shop, while the other presented a part-view of what was going on in the junk room. Mr Fenwick had had them placed there some years ago, for he might be a man whose heart was set in the past, but he was one whose mind was open to the present. Although ther
e were nearly always three people in attendance—this being himself, his wife and his daughter, not counting the paper boy—things from both departments disappeared frequently. The junk room was open only from Tuesday to Thursday, because Mr Fenwick’s business and work, which was a pleasure, took him to sale rooms, mostly into the basements where the odd bits were to be found. He also dealt with Mr Parker, who was a removal man in a small way. Mr Parker would clear a house for a stated sum, a very profitable sum, and so he could afford to let the bric-a-brac and scores of tattered volumes go to his friend, Mr Fenwick. The rest of his goods would go either into the sale room or for sale at his antique stall in the market …
It was here, in Mr Fenwick’s shop, that Katie was to meet Sammy. She was well known to Mr Fenwick, although she was anything but a frequent visitor, whereas Sammy had, for years now, even as a lad, visited the junk room, that was when he had any money to spend. In earlier years he would have patronised the tips. Nowadays, he visited the room in order to sort among the books, hoping that here or there he might come across an early edition of one of his favourite authors.
As Katie crossed the shop towards the archway, she turned and smiled in acknowledgement to Mr Fenwick’s nodding. He was serving a customer. But she was a little puzzled when he lifted his hand and put his finger up and wagged it towards her.
There were five people in the junk room, but Sammy wasn’t there. Well, she would look around.
As she pulled out what looked like an almost new book from one of the racks, Mr Fenwick appeared and beckoned as he hissed, ‘Missie!’ And when she approached him, he said, ‘You are looking for young Master Love?’
He had given Sammy this title years ago, but it had been a derisive one then, because he was then an urchin, and they have light fingers, urchins. But over the years he had come to know the boy, then the young man, and there was no derision in the title now. ‘He…he’s gone not more than three or four minutes ago. He had found what he wanted. I have it on the counter.’ And now he nodded as he said, ‘I think it’s a find, too. Anyway, it’s a ninth edition, which isn’t bad. He scooted out quickly as if he had forgotten something and he asked me to say he’d be back in a few minutes. All right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Fenwick. Anyway’—she looked back and around the room—‘I won’t get bored.’
‘No, indeed, you won’t, miss. Indeed, you won’t. Not in my shop.’
They parted, laughing, and Katie began her browsing through the books while she waited…and waited…and waited.
Sammy had come to the shop a good half-hour before he was due to meet Katie. As Willie had been chosen to take part in the Christmas play and had stayed behind for a rehearsal there had been no argument about why he wanted to go to that stinking shop again: Willie wasn’t interested in books, even if they were clean. He had enough of them at school to contend with, he said. But he made one exception: if they dealt with cars, then that was different.
Sammy was happy to be on his own, especially in Mr Fenwick’s. His love of books had grown over the years. He had a tendency towards ancient history, and also, whisper it even to himself, poetry. And a short while ago on these shelves he had discovered what was left of a book of Donne’s poems. It had been scribbled over here and there, and there were pages missing. But someone, at one time, had read the book and likely loved it; for in the margin he had written:
I too have done a brave thing;
But a braver thing still I have done,
I haven’t spoken of it.
A new batch of books had been thrown onto the shelves near the archway. They looked a poor lot, and he liked going through poor lots; it was here that you found the treasures. There were regulars who came here, but never spoke to each other: they were out for the same thing, first editions. And yet he had never heard of anyone finding one. But an early edition of any kind was valuable.
There had been children in the house where these particular books came from. They hadn’t been scribbled on, but they were well-thumbed, and some pages were torn. He laughed as he read a rhyme in one of the books and at the way it had been set out;
Fix It
He said the clock wanted taking to bits
And when I did it he nearly had fits.
Funny,
People never say what they mean;
Fancy
Making such an enormous scene.
He was still smiling at the scene the little rhyme presented to his mind, when, his hand picking up another book, he almost said aloud, Never! But yes, it was. Yes, it was. What edition was it? Oh, the ninth. But, nevertheless, it was a find, and it was volume three, so there must be two other volumes here somewhere. My! My! Lord Chesterfield’s Letters To His Son. He had read bits and pieces here and there about him whilst reading up about conditions in England leading up to the Napoleonic battles. He rubbed his fingers over a page. It was the original paper all right, beautifully thick and deckle-edged, and which had browned in part with age. Oh! Good! Good! He put the book under his oxter; he wasn’t going to put it down: there was a wide boy along there and he was a searcher too. He now thumbed quickly through the rest of the books on the shelf, but to no avail. But there was a higher shelf. There could be some up there. Mr Fenwick might sort out all his utensils but he didn’t do anything about the books he gathered. His head went back as his hand went up to the higher shelf. Then his whole body was arrested, for in the mirror set at an angle, seemingly above him from where he stood, he saw a passing face. It was Mamie’s. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be doing rehearsals at school. His hand came down from the upper shelf and he moved a step to where he could get a better view of her. He was seeing her back now. She was at the paper counter, but there was no-one serving there: Mr Fenwick seemed to be on his own this evening. Then his mouth dropped into a gape and he moved his head a little to the side. Now he could see all of her. She had picked up a thick magazine and was moving along the counter to where the evening papers were stacked. And that which she did next kept his mouth agape, for with a quick movement she placed a magazine in the middle of the paper, then bent it double. Now she was standing next to a taller girl. He could see her profile: it was her friend Nancy. Then he saw Mamie do something that made him gasp aloud: her right hand hovered close to a standing grid that held Mars bars, Polos and such. Then, before he could blink, he saw her twice slip a handful of packets taken from the grid into the open school bag of the girl standing close to her. And at this, the girl turned and walked slowly down the shop and out of it. But Mamie waited at the counter until Mr Fenwick had returned from serving another customer. Then, as she passed some money to him she also presented the paper lengthwise. He watched Mr Fenwick nod at her, and then she walked out.
Shoplifting! Dear God! And she was supposed to be at…Oh! There was something fishy here. He now dived into the shop to where Mr Fenwick was about to attend to another customer, and pushing his find at him, he said, ‘I…I found this. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m…I’m waiting for Ka— Miss Bailey, she’s to meet me here.’ He gulped. ‘Will you tell her I’ll be back in a minute? I’ve just remembered something.’
‘Yes. Yes, indeed, Master Love. I will give her your message. Yes. Yes. And you found something? My! My! Let me have a look.’
Sammy did not wait for Mr Fenwick’s comment on his find, but hurried out of the shop and was just in time to see the two girls disappearing round the end of the long street to where there was a crossroads. And when he reached it, there they were, going down Pembroke Avenue and acting like silly little kids, pushing at each other.
His first idea was to go and grab them, and from this distance he could do just that. But then, where were they going? And what were they going to do with their spoils? Oh my goodness! Mrs B would go mad when she heard about this. As for Mr Bill, Lord! But that girl had been acting strangely for a long time now: everybody in the house seemed to be fed up with her. But shoplifting! And so expertly done, it was obviously not the first time.
No, that was the result of experience and practice. He saw again, in his mind’s eye, the taller girl lifting the flap of her school bag to allow Mamie to drop in her spoils. Well, he would get to the bottom of this. And if he didn’t wring her neck for her, someone at home would. They were walking up Woodbine Grove now. Well, Woodbine Grove went nowhere. It ended in a narrow piece of wasteland, beyond which was a larger building and, attached to it, another house. A joinery business was carried out here. It was through the gate leading to the house that, in the lessening daylight, he thought the girls had disappeared.
Before crossing the space he paused, and when he reached the gate and gently pushed it open, his hand came in contact with a heavy iron chain with a lock on the end, which suggested that this gate was usually kept closed.
Slowly now, he went up by the side of a blank wall, then into a large yard that was partly illuminated from a window at the far side of a door. Quietly, he passed the door, to stop to the side of the window. There were curtains down each side of it, but they hadn’t been closed. Slowly bending forward, he looked into the room and if his mouth had given evidence of his surprise at what he saw through Mr Fenwick’s mirror, now it simply gaped open, for he was looking onto a table on which was spread an assortment of chocolate bars, Polo mints, and small cards to which were pinned brooches, earrings and such. The woman was moving them around a table as if sorting them out, smiling as she did so and talking. He could hear her voice, but not what she was saying. Then the expression ‘Good God!’ came from his lips as he saw Mamie, who was standing at the far side of the table, lighting a cigarette and doing it deftly. When he saw her draw on it and puff out the smoke, he could contain himself no longer. It seemed that he sprang from the window, kicked the door open and was into the room in one leap. And he so startled the occupants that they almost fell to the floor. One staggered back against a cupboard, crying, ‘What! Oh! What d’you want? Get out! Get out!’
The Bondage of Love Page 10
