by Helen L Lowe
When the train came in, every compartment was full to bursting so he had to squeeze in and stand by the doors. At the next stop, when people got off, there she was again and now she stood right next to him. As she reached up to grasp a hand-strap her hazel eyes met his and she smiled. She was much younger than he had first thought and she was shorter, barely over five feet even with her high heeled navy PVC boots that reached up to her knees. Julian was amused to see she was dressed entirely in PVC, from her Mary Quant style navy and white checked dress to her short trench coat and peaked cap perched at a slant on her long brown hair.
‘Hi,’ she said, ‘you know I’ve been following you, don’t you?’
He said nothing but noted her expensive BBC accent.
‘Are you shy?’
‘Not normally - but I’ve never been followed before. So why did you follow me?’
‘Because I fancy you.’ She spoke loudly and emphasised the last three words.
All eyes were now on them and while she giggled, Julian was starting to reconsider her age. The train stopped at Bond Street and they stood aside as people got out. Julian sat in a seat near the doors and she sat next to him.
She leant towards him to whisper in his ear. ‘How old are you?’
‘Too old for you.’
She ignored the rebuff and moved closer. ‘Do you fancy a party? It’s tomorrow.’ Her hand appeared on his thigh. ‘They won’t all be my age if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s my sister’s birthday and she’s nearly as old as you.’
He stared up at the adverts that lined the walls above the windows and tried not to think of her warm hand still resting on his thigh. She was very pretty and cute but he always had problems taking small women seriously. The train stopped at Queensway and he stepped onto the platform with her at his heels.
‘What’s the matter?’ She had to run to keep up with his long strides. ‘Don’t you fancy me?’
He stopped and pulled her over to the edge of the passageway to avoid the commuters hurrying along it. ‘Look love, you’re very pretty. A man would be a fool not to fancy you but . . .’
‘You don’t?’
‘Yes - I mean, no.’
‘I’m too young?’
‘Definitely.’ He started walking again but he could hear her heeled boots tapping behind him. When he went up the steps onto Bayswater Road she finally caught up and grabbed his arm.
‘Are you coming? There’s free food and drink - lots of it.’
He tried hard not to look amused at her attempts to persuade him and took a moment to compare his alternatives . . . you could sit alone in the hotel bar drowning your sorrows . . . have an early night and empty the mini fridge in your room or eat and drink yourself senseless in the company of complete strangers . . .
‘Where is it?’
She searched her handbag and found paper and a pen to scribble down the address. ‘It won’t get going ‘til about nine.’ She gave him the piece of paper. ‘I’ll see you there?’
He looked at the address. It was in Leinster Gardens, a road he used to walk down to get to St Mary’s Hospital. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Samantha Stratton-Brown,’ she said, grinning cheekily, ‘but everyone calls me “Daisy”. What’s yours?’
‘Julian - Julian Hartmann,’ he said, trying not to laugh. Her name suited her perfectly.
* * *
Friday 17 March
Julian’s alarm call at 8 a.m. failed to get him out of bed, and he only just made it to the hotel dining room at 9:15 a.m. for breakfast. He read all the latest on the Thames murders and an article on how many anxious parents had contacted the police about their runaway sons. His first visit today would be to Paddington Green police station to change his contact details and give them a reminder that Sam was still missing, and after that he had the three remaining shelters to visit.
Four hours later he was walking along the Embankment in the rain watching the boats on the Thames. It had been another day of disappointment and he wondered what he would do after he had crossed off the other twenty or so shelters in the areas outside central London. A dark cloud hovered over his head. The task of finding Sam seemed insurmountable and he was starting to think he wasn’t up to the job. He stopped at a café and ordered a burger and chips hoping a full stomach would improve his mood. It didn’t but it gave him time to consolidate his thoughts.
The reason he had turned down the Registrar post in Portsmouth was so that he would have time to search for Sam and once found, if Sam was willing, for them to be in each other’s lives. From the beginning, he thought it would be a long job and now, although he had only been in London for a few days, he realised he was barely scratching the surface. So why was he feeling discouraged?
Perhaps it wasn’t the search that he was depressed about, perhaps it was his current situation at the hotel. Normally, staying in a hotel was a temporary situation, a place to stay while you were passing through. Although he hadn’t made up his mind about permanently moving to London, he was beginning to realise that the search for Sam would take a lot longer than he had hoped, and he really didn’t want to stay in a hotel for longer than a week. There was his parents’ old flat but he had to give the tenants two months’ notice, and two months in a hotel was enough to dishearten anyone.
On his drive back to the hotel, he drove down Sussex Gardens to check out Miss Johnson’s boarding house. Sussex House was at the end of a long row of terraced houses, at the corner of Sussex Place, set back from the main road with a parallel access road. The houses were huge, three floors, and most of them were in good decorative order but Sussex House needed some work. There was a boarding house sign displayed in the window and another sign saying “Full”. He parked in the access road and rang the doorbell but after a second ring, it was obvious there was no-one at home.
It was just after three o’clock when he walked into the soup kitchen and the place was empty but he could hear voices in a kitchen leading off from the main dining room. Julian knocked on the door before entering. There was a woman stirring a large pan on a stove and Miss Johnson was sitting at a table peeling potatoes.
‘Good afternoon - sorry to interrupt,’ he said, looking directly at Miss Johnson.
‘Hello again,’ she said, taking the potatoes over to the sink.
‘I was wondering about that room you mentioned.’
‘It’s still available. Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I finish in a minute if you have the time this afternoon.’
‘That would be great, thanks - I’ve got the car outside. I can give you a lift back.’
‘Now that would be lovely. I was fully prepared for a soaking on my way home. This rain seems to be going on forever.’
’I’ll wait in the car – it’s parked in the side road.’ He walked back out onto Praed Street and around the corner to the mini.
While he waited, he had doubts about his decision. There was something about Harriet Johnson that didn’t feel right. She really liked him, he got that message loud and clear, but her manner was a bit strange. Perhaps it was his own perceptions of what a voluntary worker in a soup kitchen would normally look like. Harriet was glamorous, elegant even, and definitely in the market for finding a husband but in his personal experience, a relationship with a landlady was bad news.
CHAPTER 5
It was the first time Harriet had been inside a mini and she was surprised how roomy it was. It was also the first time in years that a man, other than a taxi driver, had driven her anywhere. When Dr Hartmann had parked the car and opened his door to get out, Harriet stayed where she was. She saw him stop after he had taken a few steps towards the house, just a moment’s hesitation which to his credit was barely more than a few seconds, before he walked back around the car and opened her door. He stood aside to give her room but she held her hand out towards him. Again, there was a slight hesitation before he took her hand in his and held it
while she climbed out of the car.
It was the kind of gesture that would have been perfectly normal fifty years ago and nowadays very few men would have stepped up to the mark but Dr Hartmann had exceeded her expectations. When she was standing next to him, she waited three seconds, silently counted to three, before she released his hand and she saw a blush on his face before he turned away.
In the house, she led him into the centre of the large hall. It was imposing with a wide staircase winding its way up to higher floors and a chandelier hanging from a long chain from the top of the house down to the ground floor.
‘Lots of people are surprised by the hall,’ she said.
‘I can see why. It’s very impressive.’
The room was on the first floor, in the front, looking out onto Sussex Gardens. It was a large L-shaped room with a high ceiling. The main living area was twenty feet by fifteen, ample space for the old-fashioned settee, armchair and coffee table. The smaller part of the L-shape was arranged as a bedroom with a double bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe and a chest-of-drawers. The two tall casement windows filled the room with light and a well-used desk stood in front of them.
At the far end of the sitting room there was a folding door separating a kitchenette area from the rest of the room. It only housed a small cooker with a hob and oven; an old-fashioned kettle for the hob, a sink and drainer, a work surface, four cupboards and a fridge but it was adequate.
Harriet saw a fleeting smile on Dr Hartmann’s lips as he stroked the top of the old desk. He would take the room. She was sure of it.
‘Bed linen and towels are provided and laundered if you wish for a small fee,’ she said, giving him time for a second look. She led him out onto the landing and into a communal bathroom. It was a large draughty room but very clean and housed an old-fashioned free standing bath, a sink, and a bathroom cabinet which had a mirror and a two pin socket for an electric shaver. A separate toilet was next door.
‘There’s also a toilet on the second floor and the ground floor, and there are fire extinguishers on each floor.’
They were on their way back down to the ground floor when a loud crashing sound came from downstairs.
‘Excuse me one moment.’ She walked quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen, carefully closing the door behind her.
There was no one in the kitchen and the back door was locked but the door leading to the cellar was slightly ajar. Harry was the last person in the cellar and she was guessing that he had left in a hurry and hadn’t done a proper close down. All he had to do was follow the procedures they had worked out together to ensure nothing was left to chance. What was it about following rules that men found so difficult? House rules were a necessity not some feminine whim.
At the top of the steps she felt along the wall for the switch and flicked the light on before quietly descending. The cellar was in a mess. The crashing sound had been a stack of shelves that had fallen on its side. The concrete floor was covered in paint and cleaning products but her initial worries were unfounded; the shelves must have fallen over on their own because everything else in the cellar was fine.
Before she returned to the hall, she composed herself and adjusted the balls in her jock-strap. Dr Hartmann had been waiting for four minutes and was reading the notice board by the phone.
‘Sorry about that - I have a workman in the kitchen replacing the boiler.’ She took him into a large room that was set out as an office at one end and a sitting room at the other.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No, thank you - I’m fine.’
She was a little put out by his refusal and hoped it wasn’t a sign of a stubborn streak.
‘Are you interested in taking the room?’
‘What’s the rent?’
‘Well, as I said – it’s one of my better rooms - the rent is five pounds per week - usually paid monthly if that’s convenient and I’ll need a five pound deposit. If you wish to have blankets, pillows, bed linen and towels provided there’s an extra two pounds deposit to pay. There’s a small extra charge if you would like the linen and towels laundered.’
He smiled at her. ‘Ok, I’ll take it - with all the extras.’
‘Good, I’m pleased. I’m sure you’ll be happy here.’ She felt her cheeks flush hot and turned away hoping he hadn’t noticed. His smile had quite taken her breath away. She walked over to the large calendar on the wall behind the desk. ‘When would you like to move in?’
‘Tuesday, if that’s ok with you?’
‘Yes, that would be fine. You could pay eleven days for the rest of this month and start paying monthly on Saturday the first day of April.’
They exchanged the money and a receipt.
‘Here are your keys, the silver one is the front door and the other for your room - and here is some information about the house.’ She gave him a sheet of paper which gave relevant information regarding rubbish collection, laundering and the procedure for evacuation in case of fire. There was also the full address, a phone number for the pay phone in the hall, and another page with a list headed “House Rules”.
* * *
When Julian left the house, he sat in his car and reflected on the last thirty minutes. Harriet’s behaviour at times was definitely strange or perhaps old-fashioned was a better description. Would he regret taking the room? Maybe, but he had already decided that the longest he would stay there was three months. That allowed two months’ notice to the tenants in his parent’s flat and another month to redecorate and furnish it before moving in.
On an impulse he drove over to the large elegant Victorian house in Kensington Garden Square and stopped the car outside. His parent’s flat encompassed the whole of the ground floor and included the back garden and off-road parking accessed through the large double gates. The sight of the house brought back good memories and he was pleased with his decision to move back in.
He made another impulsive decision and drove over to the squat in Ladbroke Road. This time he wasn’t leaving until he got some answers. He found a hotel card in his pocket and checked through the various bits of paper Miss Johnson had given him. After writing his new address and phone number on the back of the card, he crossed out the hotel details on the front. He decided not to attempt the back garden again and knocked loudly on the boards that were nailed over the front door. Typically, there was no response. He tried again, louder and longer, and this time a window on the first floor cracked open.
‘Hi - it’s Sam’s father again.’
‘He’s not here, mate.’ It was a man’s voice.
‘I need to talk to someone and not through a window.’
‘Piss off. ’
‘If you want me to make things difficult for you I’d be happy to oblige. Squatting may not interest the police but drugs? Well, that’s definitely something they’d be interested in.’
The window closed and he waited. Eventually, there was a sound behind the front door and it opened a few inches. He could see through the cracks in the boards nailed over the doorway that it was the same girl who had rescued him from Ringo.
‘What d’you want?’
‘Has Sam been back?’
She shook her head.
‘I really need to find him - is there anything you can tell me about him that might help - does he have any friends he sees regularly - is there somewhere he goes frequently - a pub, perhaps?’
She turned and spoke to someone behind her before answering. 'He used to go to the Coleherne for tricks.’
‘The Coleherne in Earls Court?’
‘Yeah - Sam used to love it - said it was easy money.’
Julian passed the card through the gap in the boards. ‘I’m moving to this address. Please, give him the card if you see him but if you don’t and you know something about his whereabouts, call me - there’ll be a fifty pound reward if it helps me find him.’
He walked back onto the pavement feeling like he had been punched in the face. Sam going to a gay pub
for tricks could only mean one thing. When he arrived back at the hotel he drank all four mini whiskies in the fridge and tried to ignore the voice in his head that was trying to butt in . . . you’re your own worst enemy . . . how can you have the audacity to preach to a sixteen-year-old lad about addiction when you’re no better . . . in fact, considering your age, you’re worse . . . it wittered on in the background as he lay on the bed. If he had more whisky to drink he wouldn’t hear the voice at all; that was the way he usually played it.
* * *
The rain had stopped sometime while he was asleep so it was a pleasant ten minute walk to the party. He had no problems finding Daisy’s address, having walked down Leinster Gardens many times when he used to live in his parent’s flat. There had been some wild parties back in his student days and he had been young enough to party all night and get to lectures at the hospital on time the next day. Now he was lucky to make it past midnight.
The sound of the R & B beat from Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” could be heard from the corner of the road so he just followed the music. The door was opened by an oversized man with frizzy hair and a long untamed beard. He was wearing a full length orange kaftan.
‘You invited?’
‘Daisy invited me.’
He raised one eyebrow and looked unconvinced. ‘You’re not Daisy’s usual sort.’ He moved his considerable bulk to one side to allow Julian to pass. ‘The drinks are in the kitchen through there.’ He pointed to a doorway which was packed with people. ‘Daisy’s around here somewhere.’
