Hot Pies on the Tram Car

by Sheila Newberry

  ‘Oh, I thought sleep was the last thing on our minds,’ he teased.

  ‘Well, you can close your eyes while I undress,’ she ordered him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so, because—’

  ‘You feel guilty,’ he finished for her. ‘Stop worrying about what Florence would say.’

  ‘But I do!’ She stood there irresolute.

  ‘Come here,’ he said softly. ‘No more talking, leave any unbuttoning to me.’

  Some time after midnight, a cab drew up outside the house. Mrs Short paid the driver and then trod quietly up the front path. She noted that there wasn’t a light showing in Russ’s bedroom. Maybe he hadn’t yet returned from his evening out with Rose Marie. He certainly wasn’t in earlier, she thought, when she rang intending to say she’d decided to come back tonight, when Aunt Bea’s daughter turned up unexpectedly for the weekend.

  Mrs Short poured herself a glass of milk to take upstairs, she was too tired to make herself a sandwich, although she had missed out on her dinner. She went into the bathroom for a quick wash and then hesitated outside Russ’s door, before retreating to her own room.

  ‘Russ,’ she called. ‘Are you in bed?’

  There came no reply. She turned the doorknob cautiously, feeling for the light switch.

  ‘Mother, what on earth?’ Russ exclaimed, jerking up in the bed.

  Mrs Short’s astonished gaze flickered to the face on the pillow beside him.

  Rose Marie, in her confusion, sat up, too, clutching the sheet hopefully around her.

  ‘You must forgive me intruding like this,’ Mrs Short apologized stiffly. ‘We will talk in the morning, Russell. Goodnight Rose Marie.’

  When she left, switching off the light as she did so, Russ turned to Rose Marie.

  ‘I didn’t know she was coming home, honest! I’m so sorry, Rose Marie, you must feel mortified. I know I do.’

  She surprised him, as she so often did. ‘Well, as we’ve been rumbled, we might as well make the most of our illicit night of passion; it could be ages before we get another chance . . .’

  *

  Lilli had agreed to work late. She didn’t mind, because the evenings seemed to drag now Yvette wasn’t with her. Rose Marie hadn’t returned to share the flat, and she could understand that, because she knew that she was hardly good company.

  Her job had not proved as interesting as she’d hoped. The telephone callers said very little, merely stated a time when they wished Mr Solon to call. Only a few clients called at the office, and then her employer would send her out of the room to make tea, and to bring it to them ‘in about half an hour, if you will, please, Mrs Bower’.

  Mr Solon had been out most of today. When he returned, there were some clerical tasks he needed her to help with. She had been practising on the typewriter at his suggestion for some weeks now, and there were urgent notes which he required typed up. Names and places figured, which surprised her, but she told herself he must be convinced by now that she kept any curiosity to herself, and that anyway these facts meant nothing to her.

  Lilli was still slow at locating the keys. Two foolscap pages took her over an hour.

  ‘Thank you,’ Philippe said. ‘This is most kind of you. Now, Lilli, unless you wish to hurry home, I would like to show my appreciation, by asking you to dinner. The food provided to the apartment block where I live is excellent. What do you say?’

  She experienced a brief flashback to the time she and Stella took the little girls to the Golden Domes, when he turned up unexpectedly; Stella’s warning to be careful, not to agree to meet Philippe in his flat. She had been wary of him then.

  ‘I should like that,’ she said now, reaching for her hat and coat.

  He picked up the telephone receiver. ‘I will order our meal now, Lilli, then we won’t have to wait too long the other end.’

  Despite working for him for some months, Lilli still had no idea where he lived. They took a cab through unfamiliar residential areas, until they came to a tall building set well back from the road. They were admitted by a commissionaire, then took a lift up to the third floor.

  He opened the door with a flourish. ‘Welcome to my home, Lilli; I hope you approve?’

  Wide-eyed, she took in the thick carpeting, fine furnishings, the cut-glass decanters and bottles of wine ranged on the bar shelf at one end of the room.

  ‘No kitchen; I don’t need it, but I can make tea, or percolate coffee. The bedroom is through there; the bathroom is off it. Hang your outdoor things in this cupboard, and use the facilities, if you wish, to freshen up before our meal,’ he suggested. ‘The maid has laid the table.’ He sat down in a comfortable club armchair with his newspaper. ‘Take your time.’

  Lilli, washing her hands in a basin shaped like a shell, appreciated the hot water and delicately perfumed soap. She gazed solemnly at her reflection in the gilded mirror above the basin. She had little natural colour these days; she brushed on a touch of rouge and reddened her lips, then fluffed her hair with her comb. What am I letting myself in for, she wondered.

  The food was wheeled into the living-room on a two-tier trolley. They sat on opposite sides of the table. The waiter served them with poached salmon, garnished with slices of cucumber and parsley, with hollandaise sauce; crusty rolls with curls of pale butter. Lilli was taken back to the days before the war when she was allowed to take dinner occasionally with her parents in the long dining-hall at the château. White wine sparkled in the fine glasses, and Lilli lost count of the times Philippe topped up their drinks. The dessert was one she had not enjoyed since she arrived in England – how Yvette would have relished it, she thought – peach melba, eaten with long-handled spoons.

  Lilli felt a little muzzy, but happy, as she sat later in the other armchair, waiting for Philippe to serve the coffee. The table was cleared, as if by magic, and there was soft background music from the elegant gramophone with the curved horn.

  She was almost asleep when the cup of dark coffee was placed on the table at her elbow.

  ‘Lilli, can you hear me?’ She nodded, smiling. ‘Drink your coffee, now.’

  She sat up obediently and lifted the cup to her lips, and and made a little face. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Just a trace of cognac,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s getting late. Is it indelicate of me to suggest you are, well, a little drunk?’

  She giggled, downed the coffee in a gulp. ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes. I think it would be best if you stayed here tonight.’

  ‘Where? In your bed? Where would you sleep?’ She knew she was slurring her words.

  ‘In my bed, yes. I can use the couch in here. Come on, let me assist you.’

  Lilli lurched to her feet, felt his steadying arm around her, as they went into the bedroom.

  ‘Would one of my pyjama jackets do?’ he asked, going to the chest of drawers.

  She nodded. ‘Thank you, Philippe.’

  ‘You will excuse me. I will go through to the bathroom, allow you to get in bed.’

  Lilli flung her clothes off in gay abandon, donned the loose jacket and climbed between the fine Egyptian cotton sheets. ‘This is nice . . .’ she said aloud, in approval.

  Philippe stopped by the bed to wish her goodnight. He looked almost boyish with his hair dampened, and wearing a knee-length towelling robe.

  ‘May I kiss you, to say thank you for your company tonight?’ he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she heard herself saying, as if from a distance. ‘Please don’t go.’

  *

  Rose Marie sat at the breakfast table, listening to the raised voices in the kitchen. She wondered when it would be possible to escape, to go home.

  Mrs Short came in first, and she actually smiled at Rose Marie. ‘Well,’ she said ruefully, ‘I gather that the deed is done, and indeed that it is not the first time. I know what I told you when we met, Rose Marie, but I can see
that you two are desperate to be together, now, rather than later. If you want to marry this wretched son of mine, well, you have my blessing. You’ll be as poor as church mice, though.’

  Rose Marie jumped up and rushed over to hug Russ’s mother. ‘No, we wouldn’t! I didn’t say anything before, but Florence came into some money when she married Manny, and she generously shared her inheritance with Stella and me. If, as my guardian, she will give me her permission, we could tie the knot this summer!’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Russ said, having heard it all from the doorway. ‘Look, Mother wants you to stay, as we planned, so we don’t have to rush back to your place today and upset any plans Florence and Manny have made for the weekend.’

  *

  Florence woke first, and gave Manny a kiss. ‘Time to rise and shine, old boy.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something to tell you—’

  ‘And I’ve got something I’m bursting to tell you!’

  ‘Let me speak first. It’s Buck, he arrived last night, wanting to stay.’

  ‘Oh, why didn’t you wake me, and say?’

  ‘I – I’m not really sure. But I couldn’t send him away.’

  ‘No, of course you couldn’t. Is he downstairs?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t be in a rush to see him. We’ll do the usual chores first. You’ve got something to say now, haven’t you?’

  ‘It will keep,’ she said. ‘If you get too excited, you’ll ruin the pies!’

  He smiled. He’d already guessed, after all. Then he paused, at the door, on his way to get washed. ‘Another thing,’ he said, ‘I didn’t hear Lilli come in last night . . .’

  FIFTEEN

  IT was after nine on Saturday morning before Florence found a moment to call on Buck. There had been no sign that he was up and about.

  She left Manny serving an early customer, and went down the steps to the basement. She hesitated, then opened the door with her key. If she knocked, she reasoned, Buck might appear in a state of undress, in view of any passers-by in the street.

  She called out from the dingy hallway. ‘Buck? It’s me, Florence.’ Then she became aware of a moaning sound from the bedroom. Without thinking, she opened the door and went in. The room was in darkness, so she crossed swiftly to the window and pulled the curtains back. ‘Buck?’ she said again.

  The groans were repeated. She went over to the bed, in some apprehension. The unmistakable stench of vomit made her clap her hand over her mouth. She had been fortunate in scarcely suffering from morning sickness, which had helped her keep her secret until she believed the early danger of miscarrying was past, but now she felt nauseous. She forced herself to turn back the blanket to reveal Buck’s face. His eyes stared back at her. For a moment she thought the worst, then she saw his lips move, heard the hoarse whisper, ‘Florence, I’m sorry I—’

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ she said gently. ‘You obviously couldn’t help it. What did Manny give you to eat last night – not those pies we had over?’

  ‘Yes, don’t blame him; he meant well.’

  ‘You should have told him you were ill,’ she stated. ‘Look, I’ll have to fetch him to help.’

  She tapped on the shop window, beckoned to Manny. Fortunately he was on his own. Florence explained briefly what had occurred. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to clean him up. Put on your rubber apron, and fill a bucket with hot water and carbolic. I’ll take care of the shop, but turn the notice back to closed for ten minutes, while I go upstairs and ring the doctor. He should be at his surgery by now.’

  When she came down again she carried a bundle of bed linen, towels and two of her late father’s calico nightshirts. She left these on a table in the basement for Manny to collect.

  ‘The doctor will be here soon, Manny,’ she called out. ‘I’ve brought a few things for you to make Buck more comfortable. I must open the shop now, there’s someone waiting.’

  Saturday mornings were always busy, as they closed at 1 p.m. Florence caught a glimpse of the doctor when he arrived, but she was serving a customer when he left. She thought, I’ll have to go along to the surgery when Manny relieves me here.

  When Manny emerged from the basement, he went round to the back area to empty the bucket, then dumped a heap of soiled blankets in the dustbin. He came in through the scullery at the rear of the shop to cleanse his hands at the sink.

  ‘I’d better get changed before I take over,’ he told Florence when she looked in.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Resting. Doc gave him a powder, like he did you that day, to settle him.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him, find out what’s what, later,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I can tell you we’re stuck with him for a few days.’

  ‘Don’t sound so doleful! I’m sure he’s grateful for what you’ve done, Manny.’

  ‘I did it for your sake, not his,’ he admitted.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you, my dear!’ The shop bell clanged, and she was gone.

  The doctor was tidying his desk. The surgery was over.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Florence began.

  ‘I expected you. I couldn’t say much in front of the patient. Sit down, Miss Flinders.’

  ‘Mrs Manning,’ she reminded him.

  He smiled. ‘You should have been to see me before this. We might as well have a chat today, after I deliver the verdict on your friend. He has had this problem, I suspect, for years; it is a chronic condition. Likely a duodenal ulcer, caused by stress.’

  ‘What can be done?’

  ‘Rest, a bland diet. He mustn’t worry so much. He is in need of good friends like you.’

  ‘Not friends who feed him pies,’ Florence said ruefully. ‘We’ll take care of him, Doctor.’

  ‘I am also concerned whether you are taking care of yourself. Hop on to the couch. Just remove your top clothes. I can feel the extent of your pregnancy through your petticoat.’

  Florence relaxed as they had told her to in hospital, and the gentle probing of his fingers was not intrusive. She closed her eyes. Did he suspect, she wondered.

  ‘Everything seems to be in good order,’ he observed. ‘You may dress.’ He sat down at his desk, to make some notes. Once more, Florence took the chair facing him.

  ‘Now, I estimate you to be around four months pregnant. Does that tie in with your own calculations?’ he asked, looking up at her over his reading glasses.

  ‘Yes. I was married almost five months ago,’ she said defensively.

  ‘I realize that you may be distressed by my next question. But I must know, for your own sake. This is not your first pregnancy, is it? You gave birth some years ago?’

  ‘Yes,’ Florence almost whispered.

  ‘You, ah, were forced to part with that baby, I assume?’

  ‘I was not allowed to acknowledge her.’ Florence realized instantly she had made a slip.

  ‘How old were you then?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I was seventeen. My father was horrified at my predicament. I wasn’t allowed out when I began to show; he said no one must know. It was a difficult birth, but my father employed a midwife – she wasn’t local – but no doctor came . . .’ She paused, recalling the pain, then, ‘I was told having another baby would be good for my health. Thirty-five isn’t too old, is it?’

  ‘My dear Mrs Manning, not at all, despite the long gap between the pregnancies. Have you told your husband the good news?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will today! Please Doctor, can I ask you not to say—’

  ‘You are my patient. Any discussion between us is confidential, I assure you.’ He rose to see her out. ‘However, I am sure your husband would not condemn you for what occurred long before he knew you. Think about it, eh?’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Florence said gratefully.

  She hurried back to the shop and to her relief found Manny on his own.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’ he asked.

  ‘About
Buck? A stomach ulcer, he thinks. Buck needs rest.’

  ‘So do you,’ he said, pulling out a chair for her behind the counter.

  ‘You guessed?’ She appreciated his obvious concern.

  ‘Yes, and, before that doorbell goes, I want you to know I’m over the moon!’

  ‘Oh, Manny, I’m so glad!’

  ‘We won’t say anything to Buck, eh, he’ll be gone in a few days, I hope.’

  ‘I promise. Well, I’m going to make him a bowl of arrowroot. That should help.’

  They had both forgotten Lilli, with all that had been going on.

  *

  Around this time Lilli awoke at last, unaware of the time. She padded into the bathroom. There were signs that Philippe had already made his ablutions; a shaving brush on the basin, with a stick of lathering soap. She turned to bolt the door. She couldn’t resist the opportunity of taking a long, hot bath. She turned on the taps and let the water run to a luxurious depth, adding bath crystals from a jar on the shelf. There was a towel on a chair, with a note, written by Philippe, saying simply, FOR YOU LILLI. With this was a new flannel and toothbrush. Had he been out to the shops already? She glanced at her watch before removing it. 2 p.m.! How on earth had she slept so long? She stepped into the water.

  Later, as she dried herself, she realized she hadn’t brought her clothes. She wound the towel round her, went through into the bedroom. The door there was still closed. ‘Where on earth are my things?’ she exclaimed. No answer came from the next room.

  The only thing she could do was to retrieve the pyjama jacket from the bathroom basket.

  She ventured fearfully into the living-room. On the table was a glass of orange juice, two rather limp croissants on a plate and a dish of jam. How long had that been there? She suddenly realized that she needed something to eat. Well, this was obviously her breakfast.

  Then Philippe came in. He looked preoccupied. ‘I had to go out. I am sorry, but I couldn’t wake you earlier to tell you. I’ll make you some coffee, shall I?’

  ‘Where are my clothes?’ she demanded, aware of her scanty attire, her bare legs.

  ‘Ah. The maid calls early for the laundry. By the way, she is in my personal employ. I thought you would be glad to have your garments cleaned.’