God Save the Queen!

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Don’t cry.” Vivian leaned toward her.

  “I’m not.” Flora dashed a hand across her eyes. “Perhaps you should go and pay the bill. Those three women waiting for a table are looking daggers at us.”

  “I’ll do that.” Vivian got out of his chair, and upon returning from the cash register saw Flora standing outside the glass door.

  She smiled up at him. “A little fresh air is all it takes. A couple of deep breaths and I’m myself again.”

  “I don’t know that this air meets government health requirement standards.” Vivian placed a hand on her back and guided her past a movie theater and a pawnshop to the corner, where fellow pedestrians stood in a huddle waiting for the signal to cross.

  “You’re wrong about that.” Flora stuck out the tip of her tongue. “I can taste all sorts of vitamins and minerals. Oh, I do think,” she smiled impishly up at him, “that I’m going to like London a whole lot. I want to drink everything in, the history all mixed up with the right now. So where are we going from here? To your flea market, or will it be shut down?”

  “Not if we hurry.” Vivian glanced at his watch as they crossed at the light. “It’s only four-thirty and if we can catch the right bus—Speaking of which,” he reached for her hand, “there’s one pulling up right now. How are you at the hundred-yard dash?”

  “Catch me if you can.” Flora sprinted ahead of him, unencumbered by her long skirt, and joined the tail end of the queue seconds ahead of him. There was a moment’s concern when they thought they might not be able to get on because the bus was already standing-room-only. But two women with bulging shopping bags immediately ahead of them suddenly decided to wait for the number 98 because it took a more direct route to where they were going. So Flora and Vivian were able to squeeze on board.

  “This is fun,” she said as the bus took off and they stood swaying in the aisle. “I’m finding my sea legs already.”

  “Well, don’t get too comfortable, we’re getting off at the next stop but one. I suggest we count to fifty and start making our way to the front. Don’t worry about trampling people to death in the process, that’s the way it works in the big city—kill or be killed.”

  Vivian immediately regretted this quip because it brought back all the doubts he’d been having about his role in Hutchins’s death. And this was compounded by the return of the feeling he’d had at Oxford Circus: that someone, some bland, anonymous figure, was watching them under cover of a newspaper or oversize shopping bag.

  “Here,” he said, grabbing Flora’s hand and jostling her in front of the bus driver, “it’s time.”

  “You make it sound as if we have to walk the plank!” She turned her laughing face up toward him. “All right, never say I’m a coward. I’ll hold my nose and jump.” She suited action to words, and a second later Vivian joined her on the pavement.

  “Sorry, but we’ll have to hurry if I’m to show up for work today.” Vivian cut a corner sharply and crisscrossed a couple of streets and an alley between tall buildings so that they came out in the center of the flea market.

  There were stalls under green tent roofs on either side of the road and, Vivian explained to Flora, some of the merchants did business inside the arcade. The air was thick with the cheerful buzz of voices as the vendors talked back and forth or informed their customers that selling at these rock-bottom prices would soon put them out of business.

  “I love these places.” Flora hovered in front of a stall specializing in toby jugs.

  “What did you say?” Vivian was jostled aside by two women arguing over whether a piece was the genuine article or if the spider-web cracking in the glaze proved it was imitation.

  “Early Woolworth’s, that’s what I say,” insisted the one in the cherry wool hat. “I’ll get it anyway, just because I like the colors. Anyway, my daughter-in-law, that’s who I’m buying it for, won’t know the difference.”

  “I said,” Flora let Vivian lead her away by the hand, “that I’m glad you brought me. Can we come back another day when we’ve more time to browse?”

  “You’ve forgotten that my idea was to find you a job here with my boss, if you like him enough to stand on your feet all day getting people to invest in cake stands and grape scissors.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said Flora as they passed by a stall with an eye-catching array of art deco hat pins and ivory-handled buttonhooks, presided over by a youngish woman in a plaid coat with masses of hair piled untidily on top of her head and a voice like a foghorn. “Oh, this one looks interesting!” She stopped, captivated by a blue enameled table, set out between flowered chamber pots and brass door knockers. “You never know what you will find crammed in among the junky stuff of this sort of setup.”

  “Actually,” Vivian said, “this is where I work when I remember to show up.”

  “That’s about it,” rasped an unfriendly voice. Flora saw a huge man with a completely bald head and ruddy complexion ambling over from one of the other stalls to stand behind the chamber pots. She also thought she heard a small growl, but that could have been because the bald man definitely looked as though he was getting ready to bite someone. He jerked an enormous thumb in Vivian’s direction. “I don’t know why I keep the blighter on. Can’t be for the good of my health because I get a pain in the you-know-where every time I see his stupid mug.”

  “I work hard when I’m here,” Vivian answered cheerfully. “Come on, George, admit it—you love me like a brother.”

  “I’ll say.” The big man pulled a toffee from his shirt pocket, unwrapped it and shoved it into his mouth with the look of someone taking a tablet to stave off a heart attack. “My brother Bert isn’t worth spit, got himself engaged to the woman I was seeing and had the nerve to ask if I’d loan him the money for the honeymoon. Not that she was any great loss!” George was talking out of the side of his face that wasn’t bulging with toffee. “Bah! Who needs women? Nothing personal, you understand.” He winked at Flora. “But give me a four-legged female any day.”

  “Was that a dog I heard a moment ago?” she asked, dragging her eyes away from the tempting rows of merchandise.

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t me making cooing noises to attract the customers.” George bent down behind the counter, and when he reappeared he was holding a squirming bundle of rough-coated small dog with ears standing to attention. “This here is Nolly, son and heir of my little Samantha who’s stayed home today.”

  “Oh, he’s a darling!” Flora stretched out her arms impulsively. “Is he a Norfolk terrier?”

  George glowered at Vivian. “You’ve got yourself a smart one. Which means you’re not likely to hold on to her for long. Truth is, miss,” he handed her the small dog, who had his paws out in anticipation, “his father was a mutt, but Samantha is a Norfolk, got the papers to prove it. She had three pups. Two bitches that I found homes for right off the bat, and Nolly here. I decided to keep him so he could be a comfort to his mum in her old age. But trouble is, they don’t hit it off, not since he became a teenager.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me he’s a juvenile delinquent!” Flora nuzzled her face into the dog’s fur.

  “Can’t trust him an inch.” George shook his head. “Mouths off all the time, comes in at all hours, in with the wrong crowd, you name it.”

  “Wears a leather jacket and rides a motorcycle,” Vivian added to the little fellow’s list of sins. “The only thing you can say for him is that he shows up for work on time most days.”

  “I have to bring him along because he can’t be left to his own devices.” George folded his arms and scowled more fiercely than ever. “The last time I tried it he ate three cushions and a bar of soap. And with him not getting along with his mum, she’s the one who’s stuck home these days watching soap operas on the telly.”

  “What a tragic story,” Flora said while getting her face frantically licked and looking at a particular piece of merchandise on the table.

  “It could be worse.” Vivian hande
d her a tissue. “At least George hasn’t wheedled me into taking the little monster in lieu of wages.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Daddy would never part with you.”

  Flora used the tissue to dab at Nolly’s eyes, which did appear to have moistened with tears.

  “I might do just that,” George now looked thoughtful, “if I could find him a good home. I think part of his trouble is that he’s more of a woman’s dog, likes to be petted and pampered, and as you might gather I’m not much for that sort of thing. No-frills-George, that’s me.”

  Flora’s eyes shone. “Do you mean it? You really would let him go to the right person?”

  “My type of woman, an impulse buyer,” said the big bald man with a man-to-man wink at Vivian.

  “It’s not an impulse, I’ve always wanted a dog! Sir Henry told Grandpa to get me one when I was little, but Mrs. Bellows was deathly afraid of them, so that was that. Oh, if you’re not just pulling my leg, do please let me have him! I’ll be so good to Nolly, and you can see him whenever you want.”

  “Sounds like my lucky day.”

  “Flora, think about this,” protested Vivian, torn between amusement and concern. “George says Nolly can’t be left alone without dire results. So what happens when you go out to work? I’ve been thinking,” he addressed his boss, “that you might be able to use her here. No problem with references, I can supply glowing ones, and she does know quite a bit about antiques. Silver being her specialty.”

  “Is that so?” George scratched his chin.

  “He’s exaggerating; it’s just that I grew up around it in Mr. Gossinger’s uncle’s house and have an interest. For example,” Flora shifted Nolly into the crook of her right arm, “I’ve been looking at that teapot because it’s the genuine thing, isn’t it? Early Georgian, I mean? And, well, it has given me this shining inspiration.”

  “Which is?” Vivian raised an eyebrow.

  “Remember,” Flora turned toward him, her face full of sunlight even though clouds now obscured most of the sky, “Mr. Banda Singhh told us that the shop on Wishbone Street used to be called The Silver Teapot when Lady Gossinger and her sister Mrs. Smith lived there? Well, what I would like to do is stay at home, with Nolly for company, and start another secondhand business, under the same name. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I feel awful,” said Flora as she and Vivian cut down the alley across from the flea market, with Nolly trotting cheerfully between them on his lead. “I never really expected George to make me a present of our friend here. But being a man, your boss probably decided that because I didn’t have a handbag with me I must be totally impoverished.”

  “Or a recovering shopaholic.”

  “That’s unkind. I admit Nolly was a compulsion, but as a rule I am a very disciplined shopper.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. After all, you didn’t buy that teapot.”

  “Well, I couldn’t afford it.” Flora scooped up Nolly, who had started to yap at a poodle, making rude remarks about its haircut, forcing its owner to cut a wide berth. “Which was a shame, because it would have been a lovely talisman for the shop.”

  “Serves you right,” said Vivian unsympathetically, “for telling George what it was worth; before that he hadn’t a clue. And was asking how much?”

  “Thirty pounds, but it would have been stealing to buy it for that, especially after he had given me Nolly,” Flora said firmly.

  “And one good turn deserves another, although I’m willing to bet George got the best of it.”

  “You’re talking about my pride and joy.” Flora set the little dog back on his feet and let him drag her toward a lamppost where he promptly asserted his territorial rights.

  “No offense intended! I take your word he’s a paragon!” Vivian nipped smartly aside as Nolly toddled toward him with the look of someone who had taken serious umbrage. “I’m sure he will mature into a pillar of his community, maybe take up politics and end up sitting in the House of Lords.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he has those sorts of aspirations.” Flora took a firmer hold on the lead. “After all, he comes from working people on one side of the family. And if he moved too far up in the world he’d have to worry about dogs with proper pedigrees looking down their noses at him.”

  “You have to stop that sort of thinking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it makes me long to hit you over the head with my rolled umbrella and bowler hat and I left both of them at home,” said Vivian, as they made their way past shops where “Closed” signs were popping up all over the place, seconds before the lights went out and the iron grilles came rattling down. “Besides, I think you need to be directing all your thought processes to how you are going to stock your shop.”

  “The Silver Teapot, doesn’t it have a lovely sound?”

  A smile turned up the corners of Flora’s mouth, adding a dimple to her left cheek, but immediately her eyes turned serious. “Oh, it’s probably all wishful thinking. And cheeky to boot, because I haven’t even spoken to Lady Gossinger about it.”

  “There hasn’t been much time, given the fact that you only got the idea half an hour ago. Nobody but an ass would accuse you of dragging your feet in getting in touch with Aunt Mabel, although I do have to point out that we did pass a phone box on that last corner.”

  Nolly gave a little grunt to show what he thought of this pathetic jest, and hugged close to Flora’s ankles to let her know he was hers, body and soul. “I was so fired up,” she said, “that I didn’t bother to think that Lady Gossinger might not at all like the idea of a complete novice as a tenant.”

  “You’re far from that.” Vivian got on the other side of Nolly and slipped an arm around Flora’s shoulders. “Uncle Henry was always talking about the wonderful job you did with the gift shop at Gossinger.”

  “I was only helping Mrs. Warren.”

  “Now this is absolutely no time for false modesty. They didn’t start making any money worth talking about until you got in on the act. In addition to the other stuff you brought in, think of all the silver polish you sold. Uncle Henry said it was impossible to keep on the shelf.”

  “That doesn’t count because it just sold itself,” said Flora. “People would come back again and again, filling up shopping bags with half a dozen bottles at a time if they had to travel a long distance. There’s nothing like it on the market when it comes to removing tarnish without leaving any of that horrid white stuff. And of course visitors could see for themselves the superior shine it gives just from looking at the Gossinger silver collection.”

  “You see, you’re a born salesperson! I’ll take a standing order, whether or not there’s a discount for buying in bulk.” Vivian slackened his pace. Despite the clouds blanketing the sky, it was not chilly enough to make their walk unpleasant. “I have a couple of elderly female relatives whom I never know what to give for birthdays and Christmas, and I’m sure they would appreciate some relief from the usual bottles of lavender water and jars of bath salts. But let’s get back to the matter of Aunt Mabel. Why don’t you let me talk to her?”

  “Because I refuse to hide behind your trousers.” Flora stuck out her chin. “She might have trouble saying ‘no’ to you and that wouldn’t be fair. I have to approach this in a businesslike manner and hope that she doesn’t want too much rent.”

  “Then let’s suppose that all works out,” Vivian responded cheerfully, “how are you going to set up stocking The Silver Teapot? I know you said you have a little money from your grandfather, but will that be enough?”

  “Have you ever been in a secondhand shop?”

  “Of course!”

  “We’re not talking about classy antique places,” Flora informed him crisply. “More on the lines of Oxfam, with the difference being that instead of the proceeds going to charity, I will be the lucky beneficiary in this case. What I’ll do is talk to people like George and find out the names of suppliers of cheap but cheerful stuff�
��like oil lamps and china dogs. That will keep me going until I can get into what I really like.”

  “Such as silver?”

  “That would be the ultimate.” Flora bent to pat Nolly who was suddenly tugging on his lead in an attempt at going in the opposite direction. “Oh, dear, do you think he’s homesick already? What’s a mother to do?”

  “Ask him if he’d like to stop for fish-and-chips.”

  “I don’t think it’s right to make empty promises.”

  “Flora, he’s a dog. But if you must be so sensitive to his feelings I’m prepared to follow through, although you don’t suppose he would prefer a curry?”

  Nolly, having taken another sideways lunge, growled, and Vivian hastily said, “Fish-and-chips it will be.”

  “Oh, good!” Flora beamed at them both. “Because all this talk of high finance has me starving and I remember you didn’t finish your omelet, Vivian. Do you want to go in there?” She pointed to a fish-and-chip shop three doors down. “Or would you rather wait until we get back to Bethnal Green and go to Mr. Singhh’s place?”

  “This is fine.” Vivian disappeared inside the door, leaving Flora waiting on the pavement with Nolly. “What’ll it be?” He stuck his head back out. “Haddock or cod?”

  “Haddock, please.”

  “Why not? Considering you can write the meal off as a business expense. Vinegar on your chips?”

  “Uhhmm!” Flora thought this one over.

  “Don’t tell me you have to ask Nolly or I’ll start pulling out my hair.”

  “Vinegar, please.”

  Seconds later Vivian was back out on the pavement, handing over one of the two newspaper-wrapped bundles. “Is something wrong?” he asked as they walked, with Nolly doing a sideways trot, toward a bench screened by a tree overhanging a wall adjacent to the bus stop. “Come on, I can tell there’s something wrong,” he persisted as they sat down. “That’s a frown masquerading as a smile on your face.”