‘Still at it, Susie?’ be smiled.
‘I’m a slave to his nibs,’ said Susie. ‘This is his nibs.’
‘His nibs would like to do some work,’ said Sammy.
‘Sammy, have you seen the contract I left on your desk?’ asked Boots.
‘I’ve seen enough to know we’re not goin’ to sign it,’ said Sammy.
‘The delivery clause?’ said Boots.
‘You spotted that too?’ said Sammy.
‘Can’t let it stand, Sammy. Not as it is. Harriet de Vere is trying it on. What they’ll do if delivery is late, of course, will be to accept the stuff at a reduced price. We’ll lose our profit, they’ll increase theirs.’
‘You happen,’ said Sammy, ‘to be speakin’ to the managin’ director of Adams Enterprises, which is me, a highly sharp business bloke already arrangin’ to smack Harriet de Vere’s posterior.’
‘She’ll like that,’ said Boots, ‘lay it on like a man, Sammy, and she’ll see a new clause is written in.’
‘I’m hearin’ things,’ said Susie.
‘Startling, perhaps,’ said Boots, ‘but glad you like that kind of action, Susie.’
‘I’m glad too,’ said Susie, ‘glad you’re jokin’.’
Boots winked, lazily, using his left eye, then asked how her brother Will was.
‘Oh, he always looks fine,’ she said, ‘but if he’s really asthmatic, he’ll have to leave the Army, won’t he?’
‘Probably,’ said Boots, ‘and he’ll have to fight for a disability pension. The Army’s bound to say his condition wasn’t brought about by soldiering. But they gave him a medical in the first place and must have passed him A1 for service or they wouldn’t have taken him on. So he’s got a case. If it comes to a fight with the Ministry of Bowler Hats, Susie, I’ll pitch in with him.’
‘Oh, that’s so good of you, Boots,’ said Susie. She knew he’d committed his help, that as a soldier of the trenches he’d stand with Will if necessary. She felt Will might need a pension if he had to leave the Army, because jobs were as scarce as ever and his asthma might limit him in what he could do.
‘Work on Harriet, Sammy,’ said Boots, and returned to his office.
‘Sometimes,’ said Sammy, ‘I’m not sure if it’s Boots who’s teachin’ me to suck lemons or if it’s me heavenly Father.’
‘Yes, he is heavenly, isn’t he?’ said Susie a little wickedly. ‘Doreen says she can’t sleep at night for thinkin’ about him.’
Doreen was the general office maid-of-all-work, although she had an office boy to help her now.
‘Well,’ growled Sammy, ‘you tell Doreen that if I catch her bringing her bed to the office to get some daytime kip, she’ll get dropped on her head.’
‘Oh, dear me,’ said Susie, ‘I’m not sure even that will cure her.’
‘Well, oh dear me for nothing,’ said Sammy, ‘then I’ll have to get your dad to chop her up, won’t I? Now can we do some work, Miss Brown?’
‘Yes, very good, Mister Sammy.’
A house damaged by fire in Rockingham Street, by the Elephant and Castle, was being demolished. The last of its walls collapsed under an iron pounding and amid spurting clouds of dust. Ten minutes later, the little gang of labourers packed up for the day. Henry Brannigan put on his long black serge overcoat, straightened his cap, and set off for his lodgings. He did not button the coat and it flapped as he walked. Tall and muscular, he might also have been handsome, but his face had lost flesh and his eyes were hollow. He lived with his sister and her husband in Stead Street, off Brandon Street. They’d given him a room after the death of his wife seven months ago.
A seemingly dour and introspective man, he did not mix well with people, but his sister, a lazy woman, did not mind having him as long as he paid his rent and didn’t make work for her. He had no children, was set in his ways at forty-five and didn’t intrude on either her or her husband.
He had a very obsessive habit when walking the pavements. He measured his strides to avoid treading on the lines that divided the paving stones. People who got in his way or stood in his way made his blood boil, for they could cause him to deviate and put him in danger of treading on a line. And if that happened, it ruined the whole day for him and it also meant bad luck.
He made a square turn into Larcom Street from the Walworth Road. Two approaching women blocked his path and intense irritation seized him. He did not check, however, he barged straight on, bruising his way between them. One woman staggered.
‘’Ere, you brute, what d’you think you’re doin’ of?’ shouted the other woman.
‘Time you learned to keep out of me bleedin’ way.’
‘Time you learned some manners!’
He went striding on. He crossed the street, walked past St John’s Church and entered the paved path that led into Charleston Street. There he encountered a very lean man in a black frock coat. He carried a rolled brolly. One man or the other needed to step aside. Mr Ponsonby would have done so without argument, but Henry Brannigan, rageful at this new obstacle, came straight on with the obvious intention of compelling him to shift himself. Offended, Mr Ponsonby came to a dramatic halt and Henry Brannigan was brought up short by the rigid point of the umbrella. It actually dug into his stomach.
‘Sir?’ said Mr Ponsonby querulously.
‘Get out of my way.’ Henry Brannigan struck the umbrella aside. That did him no good, for the point returned at speed and dug him in the chest.
‘Manners, sir, manners,’ said Mr Ponsonby.
‘You bleedin’ interferin’ ponce,’ said Henry Brannigan, and looked down at his feet. They were no more than half an inch from a line. He quivered, it was a hair’s-breadth escape. If he’d trodden on it, it would have meant worrying about his immediate future and the advisability of changing or cancelling any plans he’d made. He didn’t like doing that, but it didn’t pay not to. Bad luck came along otherwise. As he’d told a coroner seven months ago, he’d trodden on a line coming home from work on a Saturday, and on the Sunday he’d taken his wife on a planned day trip to Brighton, not wanting to disappoint her by cancelling it. In the train, she’d got up to look out of the window, the door swung open and she fell out and killed herself. That was the worst bit of luck he’d ever brought on himself for treading on a line, and that only happened because some fool of a woman had been in his way. The coroner had the gall to make some very peculiar remarks about it, damn him.
He looked at the geezer with the umbrella.
‘Well, sir, well?’ said Mr Ponsonby impatiently.
‘Lucky for you I ain’t standin’ on a line,’ said Henry Brannigan. He did a measured sidestep and went on his way.
‘Dear me, what an unpleasant fellow,’ said Mr Ponsonby, and resumed his pigeon-toed walk.
Freddy Brown was on his way home. He’d been with Ernie Flint, his school mate, and Mrs Flint had given them both a cup of tea and a rockcake, just to keep them going until their suppers. Freddy thought his rockcake lived up to its name. Like eating a brick, it was, and tasted like one too. Must have been two weeks old. His mum’s rockcakes weren’t like that. Well, his mum knew and the whole family knew, that rockcakes were best eaten on the day they came out of the oven, and certainly not later than the day after.
Ernie had eaten his own rockcake as if he liked bricks. Freddy was going off Ernie a bit as a mate. He wouldn’t lend his bike even for five minutes. If his old mate Daisy had had a bike, she’d have lent it every day.
Well, I’m blowed, he thought, there’s that girl crackpot. He was in Brandon Street and Cassie Ford was coming towards him. Grinning kids were catcalling her. And no wonder. She was leading her cat on a long piece of string that was tied to a ribbon around its neck. The cat was padding along on the lead as if it thought it was a dog.
‘Watcher,’ said Freddy, ‘what’s that you got with you on a piece of string?’
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Cassie from under her boater. ‘What d’yer mean, what’s that on a piece
of string?’
‘Ain’t a pony, is it?’ said Freddy.
‘Course it ain’t,’ said Cassie scornfully, ‘it’s me cat.’
‘You sure?’ said Freddy.
‘Course I am. Anyway, we don’t keep ponies no more. We used to when we lived in the country, and we ’ad trained ’orses too.’
‘Trained ’orses?’ said Freddy.
‘It was when our dad used to run a circus,’ said Cassie. ‘We ’ad elephants as well. Dad used to be an elephant tamer.’
‘Was that before he used to be captain of a ship?’ asked Freddy.
‘No, after,’ said Cassie. ‘You’ve got crumbs down yer jersey.’
‘Oh, just rockcake crumbs.’ said Freddy. ‘’Ere, you got a sister called Annie?’
‘Oh, she’s the one that’s a maid to the Prince of Wales,’ said Cassie. ‘She irons ’is best shirts.’
‘Me bruvver Will met ’er last week,’ said Freddy.
‘Oh, is ’e yer brother? Ain’t ’e good-lookin’?’
‘Yes, so am I,’ said Freddy, ’it’s in the fam’ly, yer know.’
Henry Brannigan turned into Brandon Street then, and could hardly believe the cursed nature of the day. Two kids and a bleeding cat, and even a long piece of string, all in his way. First those two women in Larcom Street, then that ponce with the umbrella, and now these two kids and a cat on a string. He had to stop. At once the cat started to use his left leg as a rubbing post. He lifted his foot and kicked at the creature.
‘’Ere, don’t you kick my cat,’ cried Cassie. He glared at her. Freddy squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll tell my dad of you,’ said Cassie. Kids, thought Henry Brannigan, bleeding kids. They all want doing away with.
‘Get it out of my way or I’ll squash it flat,’ he said.
‘Mister, you ain’t nice,’ said Freddy. ‘You touch Cassie’s cat and I’ll whistle up all the kids in the street.’
‘Get out of it before I knock yer brains out.’ Henry Brannigan swept the boy and girl aside and strode away, drawing a hissing breath as he almost trod on a line. Cassie and Freddy stared after him.
‘Well, I don’t want to meet ’im again,’ said Freddy.
‘I expect ’e lives in an underground cave somewhere,’ said Cassie, ‘with witches and ev’rything.’
‘’Ere, d’you want to be my mate?’ asked Freddy.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Cassie.
‘All right, come on, I’ll walk yer ’ome,’ said Freddy.
‘Our first ’ome used to ’ave a drawbridge,’ said Cassie, leading her cat.
‘And a moat as well?’
‘Annie fell in it once and nearly drowneded,’ said Cassie. ‘It was lucky the Prince of Wales come along an’ saved ’er, because she ’ad to go to a ball in the evening.’
What a crackpot, thought Freddy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON SUNDAY MORNING, Annie announced everyone was to go to church. Her late and adorable mum had liked her family to do a bit of church-going, about once a month. Annie always felt she had to follow the example.
Charlie, of course, shot out of the kitchen like an arrow from a bow, except that arrows never had socks down.
‘You Charlie!’ yelled Annie. ‘Come back here!’
But the front door was already closing.
‘I’ll go after him,’ said the Gaffer, and off he went too. ‘Meet you in church, Annie, if I can catch ’im,’ he called.
‘Dad, come back here! Dad, d’you hear me?’
But the front door opened and closed again, and the Gaffer took off for the Sunday morning market at a smart pace. He might catch up with Charlie there and he might not. But he could rely on catching up with a half-pint when the pubs opened. He’d done his stint of helping prepare the Sunday vegetables.
‘Well,’ said Cassie, more sure than dreamy for once, ‘Dad an’ Charlie won’t go to ’eaven if they keep dodgin’ church.’ She thought for a bit. ‘P’raps they don’t know there’s free ice cream up in ’eaven.’
‘Who said there was?’ asked Nellie, putting a heap of potato peelings in a sheet of newspaper and wrapping them up for the yard dustbin.
‘A lord did,’ said Cassie.
‘What lord?’ asked Nellie.
‘I dunno ’is name,’ said Cassie, ‘but ’e come out of ’is castle one day and said so. Everyone ’eard him.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Nellie. ‘’Ere, take these out to the dustbin.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Cassie, accepting the packet.
‘Then take your aprons off,’ said Annie, ‘and we’ll go to church.’
‘What, now?’ said Nellie. ‘It’s not ’alf-past ten yet.’
‘Oh, so it isn’t,’ said Annie, looking surprised. ‘Well, never mind, I’ll let you two off, as Dad and Charlie ’ave dodged it. But I’ll make sure we all go next Sunday, we don’t want Mum turning in her grave. You keep an eye on the roast, Nellie, only don’t try takin’ it out of the oven, I don’t want to find it’s been on the scullery floor when I come back.’ She took her apron off.
‘Annie, you don’t ’alf look nice in yer best frock,’ said Cassie, holding the now soggy packet to her chest.
‘It’s Sunday,’ said Annie.
‘It’s your bestest Sunday one,’ said Cassie. Annie’s bestest was a turquoise crepe de chine, paid for by her dad on the occasion of her seventeenth birthday. To her sisters it looked as expensively posh as real silk.
‘Annie, you do look swell,’ said Nellie.
‘Is your soldier goin’ to church with you?’ said Cassie.
‘Who?’ said Annie.
‘The soldier that’s guardin’ Windsor Castle,’ said Cassie.
‘Cassie, if you don’t stop makin’ things up,’ said Annie, ‘the cat’ll get your tongue and you’ll ’ave to do without it.’
‘Oh, lor’, will I?’ said Cassie, not too happy about the prospect. But her irrepressible imagination chased the thought away, and she asked if the soldiers guarding Windsor Castle were given free ice cream in the summer.
‘No, course not,’ said Nellie, ‘they’ve all got to wait till they get to ’eaven, the same as ev’rybody else. And if you cuddle them potato peelings much longer, they’ll start comin’ out of your ears.’
‘I’ll just go and put my mac on,’ said Annie, ‘then I’m off to church.’
‘But it’s still early,’ said Nellie.
‘Oh, I don’t mind bein’ early,’ said Annie.
Susie was having an absorbing morning in partnership with her dad. They were working out table arrangements for the sit-down wedding breakfast at St John’s Institute. Williamson’s the caterers were looking after everything relating to food and drink. Mr Brown and Susie were taking care of protocol. Mr Brown had made a pencil sketch, and Susie had a list of everyone who would be there. They were sitting at the parlour table, keeping out of Mrs Brown’s way in the kitchen. Susie said both families and their closest relatives had better be at the top line of tables. She counted and said that would amount to thirty grown-ups and children.
‘Seems to me the Browns and Adams are a bit prolific,’ said Mr Brown.
The front door knocker sounded.
‘That can’t be Sammy yet,’ said Susie. Sammy was due to pick her up at noon and drive her to his mother’s home for Sunday dinner there. The time now was twenty to eleven. Answering the door, she found herself looking at a dark-haired young lady with wide grey eyes framed by sooty lashes, and wearing a light mackintosh and a round rain hat. The day was showery.
‘Hello,’ said Susie.
‘Oh, hello,’ said Annie. Thinking that wasn’t quite enough, she added, ‘How’d you do?’
‘I can’t complain, and I’m not,’ smiled Susie. Lord, thought Annie, who’s she? She’s stunning. ‘Are you lookin’ for someone?’ asked Susie.
‘Oh, I’m just callin’,’ said Annie, who had asked at the first house where the Brown family lived.
‘So I see,’ said Susie, smil
ing again. Neighbours were passing by, going early to church. She took a more thoughtful look at the girl. Age? Yes, seventeen, she’d bet on it. Hurt knee? No, that wasn’t obvious. All the same, she might be the girl. ‘I suppose you’re not askin’ to see my brother Will, are you?’
Help, thought Annie, is this his sister? I think I’ve seen her about. She’s really posh.
Susie looked a Sunday dream in a tailored spring costume made by Lilian Hyams, designer for Adams Fashions.
‘Is your brother a soldier?’ asked Annie.
‘That’s him,’ said Susie. What had Will been up to, saying he hadn’t noticed if the girl was pretty or not? She was all of that. And if anyone deserved her, Will did. He needs a helping hand. ‘I think you’re Annie Ford. Come in, we’ve heard all about you. Will’s wandering around the Sunday market with Sally and Freddy, my sister and younger brother. Come on in, Annie.’
‘Oh, I only called to thank him,’ said Annie.
‘Come in. Will won’t be long.’ Susie took the girl into the parlour. ‘Meet my dad. Dad, look who’s here.
Mr Brown looked. He liked what he saw.
‘I don’t think I’ve ’ad the pleasure,’ he said.
‘Well, you have now.’ said Susie, ‘this young lady is Annie Ford.’
‘Pleased to meet yer, Annie,’ said Mr Brown, rising and shaking her hand. ‘But to me sorrow, I still can’t say I know yer.’
‘Of course you know her, Dad,’ said Susie, ‘Annie’s the young lady who hurt her knee and—’ She paused, she smiled. ‘And was helped home by Will.’
‘Well, I’m blowed, so you’re her,’ said Mr Brown with a huge grin that gave Annie a sinking feeling.
‘Oh, he didn’t tell you how he helped me home, did ’e?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ said Mr Brown, and let it go at that.
‘Did he?’ asked Annie of Susie.
‘I’m Susie. Is your knee better, Annie?’
‘Oh, be did tell you.’ Annie gritted her teeth. ‘It’s not fair, I suppose everyone in Walworth knows now that he wheeled me home in a pushcart. Can you believe it? I’m seventeen, goin’ on for eighteen, and I expect even when I’m ninety there’ll be people talkin’ about how I stopped the traffic.’
On Mother Brown's Doorstep Page 8
