George watched them set off to the shops with a pang of regret, but the wind was cool and his daughter had insisted that he should stay in beside the warm fire. As soon as she had closed the front door behind them, George threw down his newspaper and hurried to the front room window to watch their progress along the street.
‘Come back soon,’ he whispered. He was often irritated by their presence, but he felt bereft the moment they left him and when they had gone from sight there was just him and the grandfather clock which ticked his life away with grim determination. He retrieved The Times and smoothed it out, folded it and placed it carefully on the table.
I’ll make a pot of tea, he decided and headed for the kitchen where he stood staring round him before stepping outside into the small garden, waiting for inspiration. When none came he went back into the kitchen, but before he could remember why he was there he became aware that someone was knocking at the front door.
‘Ah!’ He frowned nervously. He waited, holding his breath. Better not to venture out into the hall or he might be spotted by whoever it was. ‘Go away!’ he muttered. He closed the kitchen door and leaned against it. ‘There’s no one here.’
The knocking was repeated, and it occurred to him that maybe Lydia had forgotten something and had returned for it. With sudden energy he reopened the kitchen door and rushed along the passage, and he had already opened the door when he realized he had made a mistake. ‘Oh!’ he gasped.
A complete stranger stood there, a young man, smiling hopefully.
Dismayed, George began to close the door, but then curiosity overcame him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Mr Wright sent me.’
‘Mr Wright?’ George shook his head firmly. ‘Wrong address. You’ve got the wrong address.’ He waved a hand to indicate the choice of alternative addresses on either side of the house and added, ‘Try one of those.’
The man’s smile wavered. ‘Mr Wright owns the paper shop. He said—’
‘Never heard of the fellow. Now you must excuse me. I’m busy.’
‘Aren’t you Mr Meecham?’
The door had almost closed, but now George hesitated. He was George Meecham. Yes, he was. So how did this young man know that? Unless this was . . . His heart leaped at the possibility. He reopened the door. ‘Robert? Is it you?’
‘No, sir. I’m Leonard Phipps. Mr Wright told me you might have a spare room to let. It wouldn’t be permanent. Maybe a few months or at the most a year.’
But George was not listening. He held the door open wide and said, ‘Come in! Come in, Robert! This is a surprise. The spare room, you say? But of course.’
‘It’s Leonard, actually.’ The visitor stepped inside, wiping his shoes carefully on the mat and removing his hat. ‘This is very kind of you, Mr Meecham. Mr Wright has given you a very good reference.’ He laughed, fumbling in his jacket pocket for an envelope. ‘This is a reference from my last landlady – my mother, actually – just to let you know I’m an honest and upright citizen. But then she would think so, wouldn’t she! I haven’t been in lodgings before.’
Pushing the envelope away, George said gruffly, ‘No need for that!’ and led the way to the kitchen to put on the kettle. ‘My daughter Lydia will be home soon,’ he told his visitor. ‘She’s gone to buy the boy some new shoes. My grandson. I forget his name, but you’ll like him. Plucky little chap. I’ll show you the room while we wait for the kettle.’
Proudly leading the way, he went upstairs, and Leonard Phipps followed. He was a stocky young man with broad shoulders, thick sandy hair and very blue eyes.
‘That’s the bathroom.’ George threw open the door. ‘We have had one of the new geysers installed. Don’t let it deter you from your weekly bath. A very technical and temperamental machine, but it does produce hot water if it’s in a good mood.’ He demonstrated. ‘You turn on the gas jet – they call it a pilot light, for some reason – and light it and it heats the water in the cylinder above it. Takes a while, but it does work – unless someone opens the bathroom door when a draught might blow out the flames. Can be tricky, but my daughter manages it very well when her husband’s away.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Very secret, his work. Something for the government, but I don’t enquire.’
‘I see. Right.’
George laughed. ‘That’s my room –’ he pointed – ‘and that’s where the boy sleeps in the small room next to his mother. The spare room which will be yours is up these few steps . . . Here we are. Now, what do you think? You’ll be very comfortable.’
The room was sparsely furnished, with a large bed on which sat a pile of folded blankets, sheets and two pillows. There was a washstand with a brown and white jug and bowl, a mahogany wardrobe, a chair and table, and chest of drawers which matched the wardrobe. The floor was mainly covered with small rugs placed strategically on the wood floor. The small fireplace boasted a companion set – iron tongs, poker, dustpan and brush – as well as a brass coal scuttle in need of polish.
The young man nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s very nice, Mr Meecham. It all rather depends on the price. I do hope we can come to an agreement. I shall be pleased to speak to your daughter about meals and . . . and washing facilities.’ He gave a discreet glance under the bed to the inevitable china pot.
Seeing this, George said, ‘There is a lavatory on the ground floor.’
‘I see.’
‘There really is no need to consult with my daughter. This is my house, Mr . . . What was it?’
‘Phipps. Leonard Phipps.’
‘Mr Phipps. You can discuss a price with her, however, because there may be a matter of washing clothes and ironing them, cleaning the room, perhaps. We did a lot for poor Miss Baisley.’ He frowned. ‘If that was her name. I grow forgetful, I’m afraid.’ His frown vanished. ‘We’re a very cheerful family. And you’ll like young Adam and my son Robert.’ He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. ‘I think we shall get along splendidly. Interested in cricket, are you? I used to be a handy all-rounder when I was a young man.’
As the young man followed him down the stairs and attempted to answer, George interrupted him. ‘You’ve been promoted, I believe, hence the move to this area. What exactly do you do, Mr Phipps?’
Mr Phipps’ answer came as a pleasant surprise and brought a grin to George’s face.
By the time Lydia returned with Adam the two men were discussing the government and its perceived failures. Lydia stared at the young man, who jumped to his feet and began to stammer an explanation of his presence there. ‘I have brought a reference,’ he told her and took it from his jacket pocket in readiness.
Lydia shook her head, unwilling to accept it.
Adam started to tell him about the shoe shop and his new shoes, which he proudly produced from their box, but Lydia, shocked into silence, now sat down heavily on the sofa and wondered how she could tactfully protest at the arrangement which had been made in her absence.
‘My father, I’m sure, had no intention of giving you a firm answer or definitely agreeing to any such plan,’ she managed at last, ‘and you must understand that I shall have to consult with my husband before we can go ahead.’ She turned to her father. ‘You knew you should have waited,’ she told him.
‘I only showed him the room,’ he protested. ‘There is no need to take this attitude, Liddy.’
‘But you have raised poor Mr Phipps’ hopes, and that is hardly fair.’
George shrugged his shoulders. ‘I simply said that as far as I am concerned the room is his. That is all. If you, or that husband of yours, veto the idea then that is another matter.’ He leaned down to Adam. ‘What smart shoes your mother has bought for you, but lace-ups? Do you think those small fingers of yours are quite clever enough?’
Leonard Phipps, by this time red-faced with embarrassment, said, ‘Oh please, Mrs Daye! I don’t want to cause any problems for you. I was not expecting a definite answer today, but simply wanted to know if the room might p
ossibly be suitable and available . . .’ He swallowed. ‘I just wanted to know that I need not look any further. I have been granted a day off to arrange my lodgings and open a bank account.’
George, enjoying the situation he had created, had turned his attention to Adam, who was still trying to come to terms with the laces in his new shoes.
Lydia muttered something about ‘a pot of tea’ and withdrew. Once in the kitchen she rolled her eyes and thought angrily about her father’s meddling. As she filled the teapot, however, she thought about Leonard Phipps, who seemed a nice enough man with good manners – but what on earth would John say? Very likely he would see the other man as an interloper and would immediately veto the idea of accepting him as a lodger, which would be difficult after her father had almost promised him the room.
She sighed as she set the tea tray with three cups and saucers. John would probably protest that they had no need of extra money as his own work provided for them very comfortably, which was true, but the idea of someone else living in the house while John was away was now, after some thought, becoming quite appealing. If, as had happened several times, her father wandered off, there would be two people to go in search of him instead of one.
An hour later that same day, when John arrived home Lydia met him in the hall. He kissed his wife and hugged his son and Lydia opened her mouth to begin the little speech she had rehearsed about the presence of Leonard Phipps and the possibility of him becoming a lodger. However, her father forestalled her as they entered the room where Leonard Phipps was still waiting to know his fate.
George said, ‘Hullo again, John. Meet Mr Phipps who is going to be our new lodger. You’ll like him. Very solid sort of chap. Has to be. He’s a policeman.’
Four
When Dolly came downstairs on Monday morning she found Sidney alone at the breakfast table with a basin of beef dripping which he was spreading on to a thick slice of bread cut from a large cob loaf. There was no sign of Don.
Sidney glanced up, chewing furiously, swallowed and said, ‘He said to tell you he loves you and he’s had to rush to get some stuff up to Manchester on the train.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘What? Already? He was away yesterday and all!’
‘Don’t give me that look, Dolly. You can’t blame me.’
‘You mean he’s gone off without even telling me? Gone back to work?’
‘Got it in one!’
‘For how long? I mean, is he coming back today?’
‘Might. Might not.’ He indicated the bread. ‘Help yourself.’
She shook her head. ‘But we was only wed Saturday!’
‘You’ve got a good memory.’ He pretended not to notice the quiver in her voice. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be back. Like a bad penny, our Don. Don’t you want any breakfast? Beef dripping.’ He indicated the basin. ‘Tasty, that is.’
She sat down reluctantly. ‘I like marmalade.’
‘Shame we haven’t got any.’ He took another large mouthful.
After a moment she gave him a coy smile. ‘Hope we didn’t keep you awake last night!’
‘I’m used to it.’
‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘Used to it? You mean he . . .’
‘You weren’t the first woman in his life, Dolly. Be sensible.’ He washed his bread and dripping down with a mouthful of tea. ‘And just lately you two were up to it most lunchtimes if I remember rightly. Bed springs going nineteen to the dozen!’
Dolly said, ‘You shouldn’t have been listening!’
‘You made enough noise!’ He helped himself to another spoonful of sugar and stirred the tea vigorously.
Dolly said, ‘Or porridge. Got any porridge oats?’
‘No.’
She gave an exaggerated sigh and poured herself a cup of tea.
‘So, what’s it like being married, Mrs Wickham?’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know, really. I mean, nothing’s very different. I’ve fallen out with me ma, but that’s Don’s fault for not letting her come to the wedding.’ She gave him a long look. ‘You didn’t turn up either.’
‘My guts were playing up something chronic.’
Dolly pursed her lips, disapproving of the way the conversation was going. ‘How is it that Don works so hard and is away so often and you’re always hanging about here doing nothing?’
He gave the question earnest consideration. ‘I help him out from time to time.’
‘You?’ She tossed her head at the very idea. ‘When do you help him out? You’re not a salesman.’
‘He has certain jobs that need a partner. Certain important jobs. Then it’s me. Me and him.’
‘Pull the other leg. It’s got bells on!’
‘OK then. Me, I’ve got a private income,’ he said, grinning. ‘Family money. My grandfather left me money.’
Dolly’s eyes widened. ‘He left you money? Just you? What about Don?’
For a moment he hesitated. ‘He lived with us, but he never liked Don even though he was better looking when he was a kid. Grandpa was a cantankerous old sod, but I was his favourite. I was named after him, and he liked that. Sidney Archibald Wickham. That was his name. Proper old moneybags, he was.’
‘Well, I think that was really mean. Two brothers, and he only left money for one.’ She broke a piece of crust from the loaf and nibbled it absent-mindedly. ‘I don’t think I’d have liked a man like that. Having favourites. Poor Don.’
‘Don was a bit of a brat, that’s why. Always dodging off school or getting the cane. Always answering back. I’d like a pound for every time he got a clout round the ear from someone. Used to throw clods of earth at the old man’s cat just to annoy him. He had this mangy old tabby – it must have been a hundred in cat years – but the old man adored it. Lord knows why!’
‘So are you rich?’
‘From time to time!’ He laughed. ‘Maybe you picked the wrong brother!’
‘I feel rich. Look!’ She held out her left hand and waggled her fingers. ‘My ma says it’s glass, but what does she know about anything? I think it’s—’
To her surprise Sidney grabbed at her hand and eyed the ring through narrowed eyes. ‘When did he give you this? When exactly did he give you this?’
‘It’s my wedding ring. Don forgot to buy a gold band so he gave me this instead.’ With an effort she snatched her hand from his grasp. ‘At least he worked for it. It wasn’t just handed to him on a plate by his grandfather!’
Sidney was staring at her as if he had seen a ghost. ‘When did he give you that ring?’ he repeated.
‘I told you. Saturday.’ She could almost see his brain working – thoughts whirling round in his head.
He leaned forward suddenly. ‘Want to know if it’s real? I mean, he might have palmed you off with glass, like your ma said. I know a chap who could tell you the truth. He’s an expert, this chap. But you’d have to let me take it to him.’
‘I’d better not.’
‘He won’t know.’
‘I’m not supposed to take it off. Not ever.’ She was weakening. How wonderful to have it approved by an expert! She would tell her mother. That would put her nose out of joint and serve her right.
‘So what do you say?’ he asked.
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. He might find out. I’ll think about it. How’s that?’
‘Not much to think about, is there? Either he lied to you or he didn’t.’ He leaned closer. ‘Either he’s taken you for a fool or he hasn’t!’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Well, I’m off. Don’t forget to do the washing up!’
Dolly blinked, outraged for a moment, but then she rallied. ‘And where are you off to in such a hurry if you don’t work?’
He put a finger to his lips. ‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me!’ he told her. He reached for a jacket from the hooks behind the door, punched his arms into the sleeves, wiped the remains of his breakfast from his mouth with the back of his hand and was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Dolly sat there f
or a long time, struggling with her feelings. On the one hand she was now a married woman and ought to feel happy, but on the other hand her husband had disappeared. She felt neglected and wanted to run home for a cup of tea and one of her mother’s rock cakes, but that was out of the question. Her mother would gloat. As for doing the washing up! She stared round her. That would be skivvying, wouldn’t it?
She wondered what her sister Mavis would think of missing the wedding. No doubt she would also be annoyed. Jealous, too. Dolly smiled. Then her smile faded. Ma would tell Mavis that there were no marriage lines.
Maybe she should go back to Clarence Street to the Rose and Garter, ask them where the reverend lived and then collect the marriage lines.
She was still undecided when the postman arrived and handed her a couple of letters. One was for a Mr John Daye.
She ran after the postman, waving the envelope. ‘You’ve given me the wrong letter,’ she told him breathlessly. ‘No one of that name lives at number sixteen. I know because I live there now I’m married!’ She waited for his congratulations. ‘Saturday,’ she elaborated. ‘Don’t you recognize me? I used to live opposite.’ She pointed helpfully.
He handed it back. ‘It says number sixteen, Mansoor Street. That’s where I deliver it. There must be an office on the top floor. See?’ He ran a finger under the address. ‘PSD. Third Floor.’
‘But it must be a mistake,’ she insisted. ‘There’s only the ground floor and the first floor where the bedrooms are – unless the third floor means the attic. Anyway, what does PSD stand for?’
‘Don’t rightly know and don’t care. Not my job, miss, to know everything. I just deliver the letters.’
‘It’s not “Miss”, it’s “Mrs”. I told you. I’m married. Mrs Donald Wickham.’ She smiled, suddenly cheerful again. ‘We were wed Saturday. A private ceremony!’
‘Well, that’s as may be, but that letter stays where I delivered it. Most likely it’s one of those special drop-off places where a firm doesn’t have shop or an office but has an address so people can write to them.’ He thrust the envelope into her hand again and walked quickly away before she could delay him further.
The Great Betrayal Page 5
