Packards

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Look, we got to do something. How about asking at all the cab ranks if they picked up a special fare from Trent Street that evening?’ Johnny suggested.

  Daisy was doubtful. ‘There’s so many. And they might not remember.’

  ‘But it’s a start. And it’s the only thing we got to go on. We could do it, Daisy. I’ll get a map, and we’ll mark out who’s going to go where. I’ll get Arthur to help. If all three of us do it, we could cover all the ranks in central London. Somebody must know something. People don’t just disappear.’

  So the next morning, Daisy found herself armed with a list, a sketchmap and a ten-shilling note.

  ‘To oil the wheels, if it’s needed,’ Johnny told her.

  She was very impressed with his organisation, and he was right, doing something was better than just waiting around wondering, even though she did not hold out any hopes of success.

  At midday they met up at a pub to exchange information. None of them had come up with anything, but Johnny was still sure that they would, and there were plenty more cabbies yet to speak to. They split up again for the afternoon.

  It was about four o’clock and she was getting tired from all the tramping about when Daisy came to the last but one rank on her list. She approached the most fatherly-looking of a group of cabbies who were exchanging cigarettes and gossip. He claimed not to have been working on Monday evening, but found her someone who was.

  ‘Sent round to Trent Street? Nah, would of remembered that. Sorry love.’

  Daisy thanked them and turned away, when one of the men called her back.

  ‘Here, miss – hold on. Something just rang a bell, like. I got a feeling old Smithy said something about a fare on Monday evening. You hang on here a bit till he comes back.’

  ‘Yeah, come and have a cuppa char and keep us company a bit.’

  Half suspicious that they only wanted a chance to while away the time between fares by chatting to her, Daisy agreed. She had to follow any possibility of finding something out, and anyway her feet were killing her and a cup of tea was very tempting. She gratefully sipped stewed sweet drink strong enough to tan leather and parried the men’s remarks, while one or other of their number came and went on fares. She was beginning to think that there was no such person as Smithy, when one more cab pulled up and the others called out to him.

  ‘Here, Smithy, you got a young lady waiting to see you.’

  ‘What you been up to, you dirty old man? I’ll tell your missus of you.’

  Daisy repeated her question. To her surprise and delight, Smithy nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I remember that one. Trent Street. Yeah. All paid up beforehand, like.’

  ‘You do? That’s wonderful! I been asking all day. Where did you take her?’

  The man gave her a considering look. ‘Friend o’ yours, is she?’

  Daisy sighed and took her purse out of her pocket. She opened it and pulled the ten-shilling note out far enough to be seen.

  ‘Yes, she is, and I’m blooming worried about her.’

  But Smithy did not put his hand out for the money. Instead he looked resigned.

  ‘I wouldn’t of thought you was the type, nor her neither. Specially not her. Looked bloody terrified, she did. Shopgirl, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daisy said. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, they do say nine out of ten tarts was once shopgirls.’

  Furious, Daisy rounded on him, hands on hips. ‘Just what are you saying, mister? I ain’t no tart and neither’s my friend. We’re both respectable working girls, so just you blooming well take that back.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Maybe you are, duck. I’ll take your word for it. But your pal ain’t. Respectable girls don’t go where I took her.’

  ‘Where did you take her, then? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  He mentioned a Mayfair address. The other cabbies sucked breath in through their teeth and shook their heads.

  ‘He’s right, love,’ said the one who bought her the tea. ‘High-class knocking shop, that is.’

  Daisy found she was shaking. ‘I don’t believe you!’ she cried, shouting to keep the truth at bay.

  ‘Believe what you like, girl, but it’s a fact. Not for professional tarts. It’s where the toffs like to take actresses and such like.’

  ‘Or the wives of other toffs,’ added someone else.

  ‘Yeah, that and all. Hire a room for however long they like, meal cooked by a French chef, clean sheets, no questions asked and all not a sixpenny fare from home. Very nice and cosy.’

  Daisy felt sick. ‘You’re having me on,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I was, girl. But I remember that friend of yours. Like I said, she looked bloody terrified.’

  ‘You might of warned her!’ Daisy cried.

  Smithy looked truculent. ‘Now look here, I was just doing my job. I ain’t her keeper, am I?’

  ‘You still could of asked if she knew what she was doing.’

  ‘Look, girl, in this job you don’t ask questions. I didn’t have to tell you nothing, did I? I told you what you wanted and all I get is an earful.’

  It went against the grain, but Daisy had to admit that she had found out just what she had set out to discover. It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t like it.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said stiffly. ‘You been a big help.’

  She took out the note and offered it to him, but Smithy waved it away with a great show of injured pride. ‘I don’t take blood money,’ he said.

  ‘Suit y’self,’ Daisy told him. She shoved money and purse back into her pocket and marched off.

  For the length of a street she walked without even knowing where she was going while her newly acquired knowledge slotted uncomfortably with what she knew already. Mr Edward sends for Isobel. She goes back to Trent Street, supposedly ill. She gets in a cab that has been already paid for and it takes her to a place where rich men have it off with their mistresses. It was only too obvious what had happened. The only real question was, where was Isobel now? Daisy knew what she had to do to find out. She stopped the next policeman she saw and asked for directions.

  Twenty minutes later and she was at the end of the street. She looked down the row of white- and cream-painted stucco fronts and impressive pillared entrances. No use going down there. She found her way into the mews at the back, went through the pretty garden, heady with the scent of June roses, and knocked at the kitchen door.

  ‘I got a message for one of the chambermaids,’ she told the girl who answered.

  ‘Who, Betty or Ethel?’

  Daisy took a breath and plumped for Betty.

  A girl of about her own age appeared, and leant against the door jamb, her arms folded across her aproned front and an unhelpful expression on her face. Daisy described Isobel, and gradually the expression changed. Betty almost looked sympathetic.

  ‘Yeah, poor little cow. Gawd, was she in a state. Never seen nothing like it, I ain’t. ‘Course,’ she added, ‘we ain’t supposed to say nothing about who comes here, on account of this place is supposed to be the best kept secret in town. More’n our job’s worth, it is, to say anything.’

  She paused significantly. Daisy was very glad she had not forced the ten-shilling note on Smithy. She passed it to Betty, who whipped it into her pocket with the skill of a conjurer. She settled herself more comfortably and lowered her voice.

  ‘Yeah, few days ago, weren’t it? Monday or Tuesday? ‘Course, we ain’t supposed to see who comes in and out of here, it’s the footmen what answers the door and sees to the customers. We just do the cleaning. But Jim, he says to me, “For Gawd’s sake go and do something about the bint in the first-floor back. We got to get her out of here and the place put to rights or before we know where we are the afternoon lot’ll be here.” So in I goes and there she is, all huddled up in the bed like someone’s given her a right doing over. Won’t say nothing to me, just sobs and says to go away and let her die. Well, I can’t do that, can I? So I gets some water
and cleans her up. Blooming mess there was and all. Blood on the carpet, blood on the sheets. I said to her, “You shouldn’t be doing it when it’s your monthlies, you’ll get something nasty, you will,” but she says it wasn’t that, so I suppose it must of been her first time, poor cow. Didn’t look like she enjoyed it much, but then who does, first off?’

  Daisy murmured agreement through the sick feeling of horror that gripped here. She could feel Isobel’s pain and terror. She wanted desperately to take her in her arms and comfort her.

  ‘What happened to her?’ she asked.

  ‘Motor come for her, didn’t it? I got her dressed and tidied up a bit and took her out round the back here. Someone’s looking out for her, anyway. Not that she wanted to go, mind you, but as I said to her, it’s better’n being chucked out on the street, ain’t it?’

  No amount of questioning or the promise of a bigger bribe would get a description of the motor out of Betty, and in the end Daisy gave up. Exhausted now, but filled with fury at the way Isobel had been treated, she made her way back to the pub where they had arranged to meet.

  Johnny and Arthur were already there, sitting at a corner table with pints in front of them. Both had a despondent slump to their shoulders. Arthur spotted her first and alerted Johnny, who looked up with hope in his eyes. The sensible lie on her lips nearly died. She ached to run across the room and see his face light up as she told him that she knew that Isobel was still alive. It would be worth almost anything to have him hug her and tell her how clever she was. Almost anything. Just in time she checked herself It wasn’t worth having him tackle Mr Edward again and get chucked out, which was certain to happen. She couldn’t bear that.

  So she walked across to them, shaking her head.

  ‘No luck,’ she told Johnny.

  He thumped the table in frustration, making the beer slop over.

  ‘Us neither,’ Arthur explained, unnecessarily.

  ‘I was sure it was going to work. It was our only hope,’ Johnny said. ‘I thought it was a good idea.’

  Daisy put her hand on his arm. ‘It was a good idea,’ she said, and longed to tell him just how well it had worked.

  ‘Not good enough. I failed.’

  ‘You tried. You didn’t just sit there and give up,’ Daisy pointed out.

  Johnny took a long breath and let it out again. ‘Yes. Well. Sorry, Daisy, what do you want to drink? Port and lemon? How about a brandy? You look like you could do with it.’

  They sat gloomily over their drinks, going over the day’s fruitless search.

  ‘I’m sure she’s still alive,’ Daisy said, in an effort to spread some brightness. ‘I just know she is. I feel it.’

  Johnny squeezed her knee, sending a rush of pleasure through her.

  ‘You’re a brick, Daise. You’ve been a real pal. There’s not many girls’d spend their Sunday tramping round London talking to a lot of cabbies. If there’s ever anything I can do for you –’

  Pleasure turned to pain. A brick. A pal. Tears burnt in her eyes. All she wanted him to do was to stop thinking of her like that. Fat chance there was of that.

  ‘’S all right,’ she said gruffly. ‘She’s my friend and all, y’know.’

  Isobel’s disappearance was the talk of the store. For the next couple of days Daisy found herself accosted by all and sundry hoping for some fresh news on the story, but she could only tell them that she knew nothing. Then on Wednesday, one of the typists actually stopped her outside the staff lavatories. Daisy was surprised. The typists did not usually deign to speak to the shopgirls.

  ‘I hear your little friend has resigned.’

  Daisy was so shocked that she could only gape at the girl and say, ‘What?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know? Oh yes, they got a letter from her in Staffing. Addressed from some hotel, saying she had found alternative employment. I think we can all guess what that means. Sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘Oh piss off,’ Daisy told her.

  She spent the rest of the day wondering just how soon Johnny would find out.

  When she arrived back at Trent Street, there was a letter waiting for her. Recognising Isobel’s writing, she snatched it up and rushed upstairs.

  The address inside was not a hotel, but a road in Camberwell. She read:

  Dearest Daisy,

  Please do not tell anyone about this letter. Nobody else must know where I am. This is very, very important, Daisy. Once you have read it, please destroy it. You must not tell anyone. I should not be writing to you at all, but my dear friend, I would like to see you so very much. Is it possible that you might call on me? Wednesday evening should be all right, but if there is a motor car outside, please do not knock, but try again the next week. Also, would you please not mention anything to the maid about your being at Packards.

  I know this must all sound very strange, but I cannot tell you how much it would mean to me to see you again.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Isobel.

  For a long time, Daisy sat staring at the letter trying to make out the significance of the dos and don’ts. Then she did what Isobel had asked. She memorised the address and tore the letter into tiny pieces and went to flush it down the toilet. It seemed a melodramatic thing to do, but until she had seen Isobel face to face and found out what was going on, she was not going to take any chances.

  31

  ‘NO, I DON’T like those. Try the peach.’

  Isobel cringed inside. Another undressing. How much longer was this going to go on? An array of tea gowns, camisoles and underskirts had already been tried on, each one paraded up and down the fitting room for Mr Edward to make his judgement. Now they were on to the knickers. Hot with embarrassment, Isobel stood as the assistant took off the pair that he didn’t like and held out the peach-coloured ones for her to step into. She still hated being naked in front of him in private. To be dressed and undressed before him like this, with the dressmaker and her assistant looking on, was one long humiliation. Both women were well aware of her position. The dressmaker did not once ask Isobel whether she liked whichever undergarment she happened to be trying. Every remark on shape, colour and attractiveness was addressed to Mr Edward. Isobel might just as well be a doll with no senses or feelings. That was all she could expect, now that she was a kept woman.

  ‘Now, those are very pretty. Sir has excellent taste. What is more, you won’t find coloured silk knickers like those in any other establishment in London,’ the dressmaker boasted.

  ‘Turn round. Slowly,’ Edward ordered. Isobel obeyed. Sprawled on a little gilt and velvet sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him, Edward considered her. ‘Yes, very alluring. I’ll take those, and probably the pink ones as well. Try them on.’

  He was enjoying it, she knew that. Not just enjoying seeing her in a series of exotic undergarments, but enjoying her sense of shame. Even if she had been capable of putting on a show of not caring, he would have seen through it, for he knew just how much she was hating it. That had been the whole point of the expedition. He could easily have ordered a selection of garments to be delivered to the house, for they did not need to be fitted like dresses.

  At last it was over, and she was allowed to get dressed. At his insistence she was still wearing her Packards outfit, right down to the silver racquet brooch.

  ‘My little shopgirl, always ready to serve,’ he frequently said. ‘What would my sister say if she knew just what services you are now providing?’

  She should have enjoyed the ride home in the cab. It was not often that she saw the outside world now, and Mayfair in high summer was buzzing with life. The elegant squares were bright with leafy trees and summer flowers, the Season was at its height. Shining carriages and motor cars went by, carrying ladies resplendent in the latest fashions. Brighter colours had taken over from the dreamy pastels that had been so popular, and the women looked like exotic birds in flame and chrome and magenta, their fair complexions protected from the
sun by pretty parasols and hats piled high with ribbons and flowers. Once, Isobel would have gazed at them with fascination, but not any more. The ride was spoilt by Edward speculating out loud on what they should do when they got back. Isobel felt sick. It was horrible enough to have to do it. Talking about it was repulsive.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Edward asked. ‘Don’t you like it? There are so many things you don’t like, you’re a veritable mine of prudery.’

  He reached down and pulled up her skirt, then ran his hand up her leg and over her thigh. Isobel went rigid. Her eyes went to where the driver sat on the other side of the glass screen, the back of his head and his thick red neck only feet away. Edward grinned.

  ‘Do you think he knows what I’m doing? He must be wishing he was sitting here in my place instead of in the driver’s seat. He’d love to have his hand where I’ve got mine, even if you are still wearing these schoolgirl drawers. When your new things arrive, I want you to wear them under this ugly skirt. The contrast will be most exciting.’

  His fingers moved expertly between her layers of petticoats and found the way into her drawers. Her flesh shrunk from his touch.

  ‘All afternoon I’ve been looking at this lovely creamy body. It feels even better than it looks.’

  Greedily he moved over her belly and between her legs. Isobel winced and tried to bite back a cry. She was continually sore and bruised there. Instinctively she tried to move away from the probing and rubbing, but that only made him rail at her, his breath harsh and ragged in her ear. ‘Come now, that’s no way to behave. You should be very grateful to me, I’ve just spent a fortune on pretty things for you. Show me how grateful you are. Come on.’