by Pamela Brown
‘Yes, Daddy,’ she heard herself saying, ‘it will be nice for you to have someone in the family connected with the business…’ Jeremy was amazed at the duplicity of his sister.
‘Well, Jeremy,’ said Mr Darwin, at the end of the meal, ‘drop into the office tomorrow for a start, if you’re around.’
‘If I’m around,’ repeated Jeremy, feeling hot and cold all over. When the parents had left the room, he exclaimed, ‘Lyn! How could you go on like that—’
‘Well, you were gibbering like a baboon. Someone had to say something!’
‘But all that—building up his hopes like that—’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lyn. ‘I suppose it was mean, but I got carried away by my part. After all, I am an actress. And it’s all for the sake of the theatre, isn’t it?’
‘You’re a conscienceless creature,’ observed Jeremy, ‘in some things. I felt ghastly.’
In the Fayne household things were no better. Sandra and her mother sat sewing by the fire.
‘How quiet it seems without Maddy,’ observed Mrs Fayne.
‘Doesn’t it?’ agreed Sandra.
‘I’m so glad you’re still with me. It was even worse when you were all away.’ Sandra could not trust herself to speak.
‘And it’s nice that you’re going to do the cookery classes. That will be something to keep you occupied, but not a full-time job. I don’t think you need to look for anything else to do. You’re really very valuable to me about the house.’
‘Oh, Mummy—’ Sandra nearly came out with the whole thing, but she was interrupted.
‘Oh, darling, how tactless of me! I know you’re upset about the theatre. And we do feel for you. And we’ll do anything we can to help you, you know that. You’ve been awfully brave about it really.’
Sandra dropped her sewing and flung her arms round her mother’s neck. ‘You are sweet,’ she said, ‘Goodnight,’ and she ran upstairs to bed feeling like a traitor.
When the Halfords trooped in to say goodnight to their mother they found her sitting up in a pretty pink dressing-jacket, looking better than usual. They sat on her bed and she asked what they had been doing all day. This was rather difficult to answer, but before they could do so, she produced a bottle of mulberry wine.
‘Look, dears, the doctor has ordered me this—thinks it’ll do me good. But it’s probably ghastly. Do help me out…’
They sipped the sweet red liquid from tooth-mugs, which were all that was available, and there was a pleasant midnight feastish atmosphere, if only their hearts had not been so heavy with guilt.
‘Darling,’ she said to Vicky, ‘I think you ought to start your dancing lessons again. You’ll get terribly out of practice, you know.’
‘Can’t afford it,’ Vicky mumbled.
‘Don’t be silly, dear. Daddy can manage it. I’m sure he’d let you.’ Vicky traced patterns on the counterpane.
Mrs Halford sighed. ‘Oh, I wish I had the chance.’ It was rarely that she referred to the accident which had cut short her career as a dancer.
Vicky said quickly, ‘Oh, Mummy, I’m not being ungrateful! I’d love to—but—’
At this moment their father came in, saying, ‘Bedtime, you gang. Mother’s had enough of you for one evening, I’m sure.’
As they went to their rooms Bulldog muttered, ‘If only they wouldn’t be so nice to us—’
Vicky stopped dead on the landing. ‘Oh, why ever are we behaving in this kiddish fashion? Why don’t we go straight back and tell them what we are going to do. Then they wouldn’t be hurt.’
‘Vicky!’ expostulated Nigel. ‘We can’t. You know there’d be a lot of fuss and bother and “Why not wait till the morning?” And you know that if we don’t start now, we never will.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Vicky. ‘You’re right. I was just feeling homesick in advance, if you know what I mean.’ Nigel did.
As the clock struck twelve there were creakings on the stairs of the three houses, and six shadowy figures emerged from their front doors, carrying the smallest cases and grips that would contain a toothbrush and one change of clothing. They had banned haversacks, as they felt that these might attract too much attention. Cases were more anonymous.
It was very cold. The wind whistled down the avenue, blowing the little trees about under a moon that was constantly obscured by hurrying clouds. For a few seconds they stood in a silent group, and looked up at their homes, then Nigel said, ‘Come on,’ and they turned away and trudged off in the direction that led out of the town towards London. When they had gone a few yards, Nigel said, ‘Where are you girls making for?’
‘We’re going as far west as we can. Penzance or thereabouts. And then coming slowly back, calling at all the theatres and trying to get work for as long as possible in each of them. If one of us gets work in any town for a bit, the other two will take any old job in the same town until the one that’s working is ready to move on. Do you think that’s O.K.?’
‘Fine,’ said Nigel. ‘Do look after yourselves, won’t you?’
‘Of course. And the same to you. Your mission is more dangerous than ours.’
The town was strangely deserted. They did not meet a soul along the windy streets. As they left the town a policeman shone his torch on them suspiciously.
‘Don’t you glare at us like that,’ murmured Jeremy. ‘We’re going off to do your job for you…’
‘Do you think we shall walk all night?’ asked Vicky rather tremulously as they passed Fennymead.
‘No,’ said Bulldog, ‘there’s loads of night transport.’
They strained their ears for the sound of traffic, but only heard the singing of the telegraph wires.
‘We are fools,’ said Sandra. ‘We could be safely in our warm little beds—’
‘Regretting it already?’ demanded Nigel.
‘No, I’m not. But I still think we’re fools.’
They trudged in silence for a while, each occupied with rather sober thoughts, then Jeremy said, ‘Really, we don’t want to go in the same direction, do we? You girls ought to turn off at the next cross roads.’ The girls did not reply, but glanced uneasily round at the dark hedgerows.
‘Perhaps we’ll come a bit further with you and then turn off to the left, I mean the west,’ said Vicky.
‘Yes, good idea,’ said Nigel quickly, feeling a little doubtful about leaving the three girls alone on the deserted roads in the middle of a cold winter’s night.
‘Listen! What’s that?’ cried Bulldog. They stood frozen like statues. Yes, faintly in the distance came the rumble of wheels. They shouted for joy.
‘Perhaps it won’t stop,’ said Sandra.
‘Oh, it must!’ It was an enormous removal van that lurched and swayed as it swung round the bends. They signalled it frantically with an electric torch and it stopped with a grinding of brakes.
‘London?’ inquired the driver, sticking his head out of the window.
‘Yes,’ cried the boys. ‘Three of us.’
‘Not the three young ladies?’
‘No,’ said the three young ladies pathetically.
‘I’ll ’ave to put you in the back,’ said the driver. ‘Not supposed to carry passengers.’ He nipped out, leaving the engine running, and let down the flap at the back of the lorry. Inside was a beautiful drawing-room suite—a couch and two chairs. The boys clambered up, and, shouting with laughter, arrayed themselves over the furniture. Bulldog lounged luxuriously back across the couch.
‘Music-ho,’ he shouted. ‘Bring on the dancing girls.’
The girls waved and they all shouted ‘Good luck’ at the top of their voices, and then the flap was closed, and the racket the passengers were making was drowned by the roaring of the engine as the vehicle started off again.
‘Chin up, girls,’ shouted the driver, and stepped on the accelerator. For a long time they could hear the lorry fading into the distance of the silent night.
8
THE STREET CALLED LINDEN GROVE
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As the lorry pulled up on the outskirts of London, Bulldog rolled off the sofa on to the floor with a bump. He sat up, rubbing his head and wondering wherever he was. Jeremy and Nigel, fast asleep in armchairs, stirred and groaned. The driver stuck his head through the dividing window.
‘What part do you want?’ he demanded. They looked at him with sleepy eyes, bewildered at waking up inside a lorry in upholstered chairs.
‘What district?’ he asked again.
‘Oh, is this London?’ asked Bulldog, staggering to his feet. ‘This is where we get off.’
‘We want the south-east side.’
‘That’s right,’ said the driver. ‘This’ll do you ’ere then.’
They began to straighten themselves and to collect their pathetic pieces of luggage.
‘Gosh, I’m stiff!’ groaned Bulldog. ‘And thirsty—’
‘What I wouldn’t give for a cup of tea—’ agreed Jeremy.
‘And bacon and eggs,’ added Bulldog.
‘We’ll try and get some breakfast straight away,’ said Nigel, ‘to give us a chance to collect our wits a bit.’
The driver let down the flap and they clambered out. It was a cold day, still very early morning, and a light drizzle was falling.
‘Cheerio!’ shouted the driver, hopping back into his seat.
‘Thanks a lot. Cheerio!’ they shouted, feeling far from cheery. They were in a particularly depressing area, south of the river, where the buildings were grey and gaunt, the pavements were grey and wet, and the people who scrambled aboard the rocking trams were grey and anxious-looking.
‘I feel like death,’ grumbled Jeremy. ‘I could do with a bath and shave.’
‘That’s out of the question,’ said Nigel, ‘but let’s find some breakfast.’ They trudged along the wet streets, and turned into the first café that was open. It had wooden tables between long wooden seats shaped like the church pews. A tired waitress served them with rather bad coffee and sausages and tomatoes that tasted good after the long journey. After a while they began to wake up a bit.
‘Well,’ said Bulldog, surreptitiously wiping his plate with a crust.
‘Yes. What next?’ said Jeremy.
‘Make for number five Linden Grove, wherever that may be,’ said Nigel, producing the envelope and studying it.
‘It doesn’t say where it is—just S.E. We’ll have to ask a policeman.’ Suddenly the funny side of this remark struck them, and they shouted with laughter, waking up a few tired night-shift workers who were dozing over their cups of tea before returning home to bed for the day.
‘Imagine Sherlock Holmes asking a policeman the way,’ guffawed Bulldog. They felt considerably better after a meal and a laugh, and when they left the café the sun was up and the rain had stopped.
They walked for a long way without seeing a policeman, and then, just as one came into sight, Jeremy said suddenly, ‘I say—you don’t think that our parents will be worried over our disappearing and get the police to look for us, do you?’
‘No,’ said Nigel. ‘They wouldn’t do that. Our notes will have looked after that. They’ll know why we’ve gone, and see that it would be no good trying to get us back.’ The policeman approached with a portly gait.
‘Can you tell us the way to Linden Grove?’ asked Nigel, rather nervously for all his assurances. After much head scratching and ‘Ums’ and ‘Ahs’ the policeman decided that the best way was to go to New Cross by bus, and then it was a tram-ride to Linden Grove. They thanked him and then started off.
‘I wonder if we ought to try to walk to save fares?’ suggested Jeremy.
‘I don’t think it would be worth it,’ said Nigel. ‘What we save in money we’d lose in time. And we must remember that time is jolly important. We’ve got to catch him before he spends all the money.’
They got on the bus and sat in silence until Nigel said anxiously, ‘I hope the girls are all right. Let’s ring Maddy up this afternoon and see if they have rung her.’
‘I don’t suppose they will have,’ said Bulldog. ‘It would be a trunk call, and they can’t afford it.’
They each spent an uncomfortable few minutes thinking how awful it would be if they never heard from their sisters again. Then Nigel pulled himself together and said, ‘Now look here, we must decide how we are going about this. What are we going to say when we get there?’
‘Ask for Lucky,’ said Bulldog promptly. Jeremy grinned.
‘Supposing he came to the door—’
‘My goodness,’ threatened Bulldog, ‘I’d—I’d…’ He trailed off and said in a worried voice, ‘What would we do?’
‘Two of us hold him, while the other rings for the police,’ said Nigel. ‘Bulldog and I would hold him, and you could dash for the nearest phone-box, Jeremy, because you’ve got long legs.’
‘You mean, of course,’ said Jeremy, ‘that I haven’t got the strength to hold a flea, I know—’
‘And that arrangement goes for any time we may find him,’ continued Nigel.
‘We’ll ask to see him, and if he’s not at home we’ll ask where he is. We’ll say we’re friends of his.’
‘We don’t look like friends of his,’ remarked Jeremy. They looked at each other as they got off the bus. They certainly did not look as flashy as any friends of Lucky’s would look. Bulldog and Nigel had very shabby overcoats, and Jeremy wore his old navy-blue school macintosh which was by this time rather short in the sleeve and tight at the shoulder.
They were passing a men’s cheap ready-made clothing shop, and with one accord they stopped and looked in the window. Displayed in many garish colours were some broad-brimmed hats like Lucky’s. They looked at them longingly.
‘Just the thing!’ breathed Nigel.
‘Quite cheap,’ said Bulldog.
‘And hideous,’ added Jeremy. They looked at each other.
‘Do you think we can afford them?’ asked Nigel with a frown.
‘They would be a help,’ said Jeremy. Secretly, all three were longing to possess one.
‘Yes,’ said Nigel, and they dived into the shop.
The dapper little proprietor was quite hurt at the gusts of laughter with which his brand new line of hats was received.
‘Oh, Bulldog!’ groaned Nigel. ‘What a thug you look!’ Although the man kept reassuring them that they were ‘all the go at the moment’ they could not bring themselves to buy the more brightly coloured shades, but were satisfied with grey, brown and dark green. Handing over the money for their purchases they suddenly felt very guilty, thinking of the girls on the high road, imagining them weary and starving…
‘I can’t think what we’re doing, buying hats at a time like this,’ murmured Nigel. Then they strutted out on to the pavement, wearing the hats very self-consciously.
‘Of course, with that macintosh, Jeremy, you look incredible,’ remarked Nigel. ‘For goodness sake take it off.’
‘No, I’m cold,’ objected Jeremy, then, ‘oh, well, I’ll take it off before we reach Lucky’s.’
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Bulldog.
‘Did it hurt?’ inquired Nigel sarcastically.
‘Fooey to you. No, what I think is this. We ought to call at both the houses on either side of Lucky’s as if we think that that’s where he lives, and try to find out anything we can from them. They might know if he was home, whereas his mother, if she got suspicious, might pretend he wasn’t.’
‘A good idea,’ said Nigel. ‘Hey, this looks like the right tram.’
They took tickets to Linden Grove, and the tram swayed and rattled and clanged over the lines. The boys began to feel nervous, wondering what lay in store for them—whether this would only prove to be the beginning or the end of their quest.
‘Here we are!’ shouted Nigel suddenly. ‘There’s the beginning of Linden Grove. Quick…’ They leaped off the tram while it was still in motion, and Bulldog’s beautiful green hat rolled into the wet road.
He picked it up and brushed it carefully
with his cuff. Then, tilting it on his head at a jaunty angle, he said to the others in a passable imitation of Lucky’s accent, ‘Smashin’, eh? Lead on, boss. I’m right behind yer.’ And they struck off down the shabby street called Linden Grove.
The numbers decreased towards number five. At the end of the road they saw a black brick wall that formed part of a railway embankment. It was a depressing little street—not by any means a slum, and yet, somehow without hope. The trees that they had expected from the name were non-existent, and slatternly women peered out at them from behind grubby lace curtains.
‘Fancy living here!’ breathed Jeremy. ‘I shouldn’t think it would be any encouragement to an honest life.’ They reached number five. It looked exactly the same as the two houses that joined it on either side.
‘Let’s go to number seven and number three first,’ said Nigel in a whisper. They opened a rickety garden gate that led into a tiny patch of blackened earth where bits of old newspaper blew about, and knocked on the blistered front door. Their hearts were in their mouths. It seemed the first real step in their amateur detection. But there was no answer. The sound of the knocker died away, and there was no answering movement inside number three. It was a most unkind anticlimax.
‘What a sell…’ murmured Bulldog. Disconsolately they decided to try number seven. Here, a tousle-headed little girl with adenoids answered the door and gaped at them.
‘Is your mother home, dear?’ asked Nigel kindly.
‘Ain’t in,’ said the child suspiciously.
‘Well, is your father home?’
‘Ain’t.’
‘Well, is anyone at home?’
‘No, they ain’t.’ And she shut the door abruptly. They laughed ruefully.
‘So much for your brilliant idea, Bulldog,’ said Nigel. ‘No, we’ll have to go straight to the horse’s mouth.’
In the patch of earth in front of number five someone had made gallant efforts to grow something, but what it was one could not discern from the tangle of brown and withered leaves. Now that the boys were actually here, it didn’t seem such an important moment as they expected. They knocked, and immediately there were movements inside the house.
