The Camberwell Raid

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Not yours,’ said Susie.

  ‘It’s everybody’s,’ said Sammy. ‘As a start, how much d’you think Armitage would take for disappearin’ into the fog again?’

  ‘I don’t think that will work, Sammy, I think he’s a landowner or something like that, isn’t he?’

  ‘You know, Susie,’ mused Sammy, ‘it often occurred to me Rosie didn’t come from ordin’ry stock, if you leave out that mother of hers.’

  ‘I don’t know if her mother was ordinary, Sammy, but from all I’ve heard about her, I’m sure her first love was for herself.’

  ‘There’ll have to be a fam’ly conference,’ said Sammy.

  ‘No, there won’t, not this time,’ said Susie.

  ‘There’s always—’

  ‘Not this time, Sammy.’

  ‘Susie, did your parents ever teach you not to interrupt your better half?’

  ‘No, Mum never mentioned it, nor Dad,’ said Susie.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ said Sammy. Susie smiled. He gave her a frowning look, and made a subconscious note of the fact that she and Rosie both had blue eyes like Wedgwood saucers. ‘Now look, Susie—’

  ‘No fam’ly conference, Sammy. I’ve spoken to Lizzy and Vi, and we’ve all agreed not to interfere.’

  ‘Interfere? Interfere?’ Sammy went slightly hoarse with shock. ‘Listen, Susie, when there’s a cry for help from any Adams—’

  ‘There’s no cry for help, Sammy love, not from Rosie or Boots or Em’ly, and your mum hasn’t asked any of us to come round, either. It was different with Eloise, when your mum wanted to make sure we all accepted her. This time we can mind our own business, and let Boots and Em’ly and Rosie sort out any problems.’

  ‘Susie, I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling you’re beginning to talk like the Prime Minister,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Oh, d’you really think so, Sammy love?’ said Susie. ‘Aren’t you sweet?’

  ‘Susie, you’re not the Prime Minister, and it’s me you’re talkin’ to,’ said Sammy. ‘I’m statin’ it’s my firm intention to rally round Rosie and make sure this so-called dad of hers doesn’t drag her off to his castle or whatever.’

  ‘Rosie’s nearly twenty,’ said Susie, ‘and won’t be dragged off anywhere by anybody,’ said Susie. ‘Still, to please you, Sammy, we’ll all rally round.’

  ‘Well, bless you, Susie.’

  ‘As soon as Rosie asks us to,’ said Susie.

  ‘Sometimes, Susie, as I’ve mentioned before, I get a feeling you don’t always listen to me,’ said Sammy.

  ‘I always listen to you,’ said Susie, ‘I like listening to you. You’re my lover. I’m carrying more proof of it.’

  Sammy grinned.

  ‘Well, all I can say, Susie, is that if there’d been two like you, I’d have married both,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I’d have drowned the other one,’ said Susie, ‘and you can believe that.’

  Rosie and Tim, meeting Annabelle by arrangement, travelled on a bus with her to Brockwell Park to watch Browning Street Rovers playing another of their vigorous and highly diverting football matches. Not until they were off the bus and walking through the park gates did Annabelle speak about Major Armitage, when she said she simply couldn’t believe how he’d arrived out of nowhere. Rosie said she hadn’t been able to believe it herself at first. Annabelle pointed out what other members of the family had, that what was most unbelievable was the coincidence of Boots and Major Armitage both finding out they were unknown fathers.

  Tim cut in to say it was a coincidence that nearly knocked him out. Rosie said they weren’t unknown fathers now, but that Major Armitage wasn’t necessary to the family as Eloise was. So Annabelle asked why Rosie was going to spend a day with the major. To impress on him that he wasn’t necessary to her, said Rosie.

  ‘But couldn’t you have told him that when he was with you and Uncle Boots?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘I could have,’ said Rosie, ‘but he’d have thought that very unfair, my making that kind of decision when we’d only just met. So when I do see him again, I’ll be able to tell him I’ve had time to think and that we can only be pen-friends.’

  ‘Pen-friends?’ said the astonished Annabelle, a glowing brunette in a cherry-red coat and a little round black fur hat. ‘Did you actually say pen-friends, Rosie?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll write him the occasional letter and send a card each Christmas,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I hope I’ll be present when you tell him he’s only going to be a pen-friend,’ said Tim.

  ‘Well, something like that, Tim, but you won’t be there, you’ll be somewhere else with Eloise,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re both coming with me for the day to let him see we’re all part of a happy family, but I’ll spend a few minutes alone with him.’

  Annabelle smiled. Although pen-friends sounded absurd, she knew it meant that Rosie, so attached to her adoptive family, was not going to take up a relationship with her natural father that would affect her relationship with Uncle Boots and Aunt Emily.

  ‘What’s Major Armitage really like?’ asked Annabelle, the football pitch in sight.

  ‘Quite distinguished, and quite the gentleman,’ said Rosie.

  ‘How does he compare with Uncle Boots?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘Oh, very favourably,’ said Rosie.

  ‘If that’s bad news for Uncle Boots, I don’t think much of it,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘I only mean they’re both very civilized,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Anyway, Rosie’s against anything that’s bad news for Dad,’ said Tim.

  ‘Well, bless her,’ said Annabelle, ‘so am I.’

  ‘Bless us all,’ said Tim.

  They arrived on the touchline, where they were greeted with exuberance by Dumpling, Cassie and all the other girl supporters, although Dumpling complained that because of her condition she was never going to get a game with the Rovers this season. It wasn’t, she said, as if she was in agreement with her condition, it had sort of come about when she had her eyes shut.

  Girl supporters shrieked.

  The teams ran onto the field.

  At this moment, Major Armitage was in conference again with his solicitor, who was still discouragingly negative. Counsel had suggested an equable arrangement could only come about through the attitude of the adoptive parents and the young lady herself. Well, damn it, Major Armitage said, as far as I could judge her attitude is all in favour of the Adams family. Counsel informs us, said Mr Harvey Arnold, the solicitor, that the most you can hope for is confirmation by the natural mother that you’re the father, this to be further confirmed by a paternity test. But he’s adamant that you’ve no hope of setting the adoption aside, no hope at all, and we’re in debt to him for this opinion. You mean I am, said Major Armitage. However, he added, I’ll see what comes of my next meeting with my daughter.

  Chapter Seven

  SAMMY ARRIVED ON the doorstep of the house in Red Post Hill on Sunday morning. Rosie, opening the door, smiled at him.

  ‘Hello, Uncle Sammy.’

  ‘Hello yourself, Rosie. I thought I’d drop in as I was passin’.’

  ‘Passing to where?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Sammy.

  ‘I mean, on a Sunday morning, where can you pass to except to church, and it’s not time yet,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Blow me,’ said Sammy, ‘it was only yesterday that your Aunt Susie was talkin’ to me like the Prime Minister, and now you’re doing it. What’s happening to Adams females?’

  ‘Uncle Sammy, if you’ve dropped in to talk to me or to Daddy, come this way.’ Rosie, elegant in a Sunday dress of turquoise-green, took him into the sitting-room on the ground floor. ‘Well, Uncle Sammy?’

  ‘Well, Rosie, the fact is there’s a bit of a fam’ly crisis, I suppose,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Is there?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Concernin’ some well-off Army gent presumin’ to be your natural dad,’ said Sammy.

  ‘If anyone’s a natural dad to me, Unc
le Sammy, it’s your brother Boots,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it, Rosie.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mention it, Uncle Sammy.’

  Sammy regarded her searchingly. She smiled.

  ‘Strike me pink, you’re a cool one, Rosie, which I might say makes you a bit like your Aunt Susie.’

  ‘My, that’s very flattering,’ said Rosie, ‘I’m a great admirer of Aunt Susie.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Sammy, ‘except I can’t get any change out of her, which puts me off-balance sometimes. However, in regard to the crisis that’s come about, I want to offer me heartfelt support.’

  ‘Aren’t you a love, Uncle Sammy?’

  Sammy coughed.

  ‘Um, all for one and one for all, y’know, Rosie,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s famous, Uncle Sammy, the Adams musketeers riding to the rescue,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Sammy.

  ‘But there’s no crisis,’ said Rosie, ‘just a little hiccup. I can see to it.’

  ‘Rosie, you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, Uncle Sammy.’

  ‘What makes you quite sure?’ asked Sammy.

  ‘I’m an Adams,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Well, so you are, Rosie, and always have been, and we know who made you one, don’t we?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Rosie, ‘the Lord-I-Am.’

  ‘Now, Rosie, you don’t want to take too much notice of what your Uncle Tommy and me sometimes say about Boots. We’re only pullin’ his leg.’

  ‘Oh, but it suits him,’ said Rosie, who was in favour of her adoptive father’s easy command of life. ‘He wears the title with a natural air. Haven’t you said he was a natural Lord Muck when he was at school?’

  ‘Bounced off him it did, Rosie, every time the street kids called him that. He took the fam’ly over by the time he was sixteen. Chinese Lady didn’t notice it, but it happened. Well, you know your dad, he does everything sort of unnoticeably. But his best acquisition was you, Rosie, which is why we don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘Uncle Sammy, you’re very sweet,’ said Rosie.

  ‘You’re a one and only, university and all,’ said Sammy with honest admiration. ‘Mother O’Grady, Rosie, you’re goin’ to outshine all of us in the end.’

  ‘I don’t want to outshine any of you,’ said Rosie, ‘only to be one of you.’

  ‘You’ve been one for years, Rosie.’

  ‘I’m happy to think so, Uncle Sammy, because I mean to remain one,’ said Rosie. ‘Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Comin’ from you, it does, Rosie. Still, now I’m here, I’d better show my kisser to your grandmother or she’ll want to know if I’ve gone off her as me everlastin’ Ma.’

  ‘Come this way, Uncle Sammy,’ said Rosie.

  When Sammy got back home, Susie waylaid him and wanted to know where he’d sneaked off to. Sammy said he’d always been incapable of sneaking off, that he’d just gone out sort of absent-mindedly. A likely story, said Susie. It so happened, said Sammy, that he found himself passing Boots’s house, so he popped in, as it wouldn’t have been family-minded to pass by.

  ‘Oh, dear, I think you’re comin’ it, Sammy Adams,’ said Susie.

  Sammy assured her it was nothing of the kind, but that he did happen to see Rosie.

  ‘Sammy, didn’t I tell you not to interfere?’ said Susie.

  ‘Crikey, Dad,’ said Daniel, he and Bess having put in an appearance, ‘you don’t half dig holes for yerself.’

  ‘Daddy, you’re only supposed to dig holes for flowers in the garden,’ said Bess. ‘Well, I fink you are.’

  ‘Anyway, what did Rosie say?’ asked Susie.

  ‘That she’s an Adams,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Well, of course she is, you silly,’ said Susie. ‘I could have told you that’s exactly what she would say. Now you can get ready to take us to church.’

  ‘Listen, Daniel, and you too, Bess me pudding,’ said Sammy, ‘when you grow up and you’re old enough to vote, vote for your mum to be Prime Minister.’

  ‘But, Dad, shouldn’t you be Prime Minister?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Don’t make jokes like that in front of your mother,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Oh, all right, Daddy, when we’ve growed up we’ll vote for Mummy,’ said Bess.

  ‘If you’re sure, Dad,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Yes, let’s see how your mum looks in a Prime Minister’s top-hat,’ said Sammy.

  Susie laughed.

  In the afternoon, Lilian Hyams allowed her milkman, Bill Chambers, to take her for a saunter around Regent’s Park. Because of his entertaining tongue, which gave forth frequent allusions to her well-dressed personability and the benefits of egg custard, she wore a smile most of the time.

  The following morning, when she was back at work, Tommy entered her office. She was at her drawing-board and looking thoughtful.

  ‘Got you beat, the new designs?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Hope not,’ said Lilian, ‘or Sammy will give me notice. Should I suffer that kind of broken heart? Not likely. Tommy, tell me, can you see me as a milkman’s lady friend?’

  ‘It’s got possibilities,’ said Tommy, ‘you might get your milk free. On the other hand, I’ve always thought someone like a rich sheik of Araby might fancy you. You’d get free jewels then, and a couple of camels.’

  ‘What for, spending time in his tent?’ said Lilian.

  ‘I ain’t supposin’ it would be out of wedlock,’ said Tommy, grinning. ‘Anyway, what milkman d’you ’ave in mind?’

  ‘My Walworth milkman,’ said Lilian. ‘My life, Tommy, I should fall in love with a dairy roundsman?’

  ‘Up to you,’ said Tommy.

  ‘I let him take me to Regent’s Park yesterday, and we fed the ducks,’ said Lilian.

  ‘You mean he’s actually started courtin’ you?’ said Tommy.

  ‘I’ve got odd feelings about that,’ said Lilian.

  ‘I felt a bit lively when I was courtin’ Vi,’ said Tommy.

  ‘How lively?’ asked Lilian.

  ‘I’ll keep the details to meself,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Tommy, a milkman, would you believe,’ said Lilian.

  ‘Does he belong to a synagogue?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Not much,’ said Lilian, ‘he’s a Gentile gent. Should I worry about that?’

  ‘Well, you’re lookin’ great, Lilian, like you’re ready to be courted,’ said Tommy. ‘By the way, how do Sally and Cassie look in their weddin’ gowns now you’ve finished ’em?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Lilian, ‘even if I do say so myself.’

  ‘Take a bow, then,’ said Tommy, ‘and before I forget, I came in to tell you Miss de Vere wants you to ring ’er about the new designs after two-thirty this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s a change from her wanting to ring Sammy or Boots,’ said Lilian. ‘Why couldn’t she talk to me now?’

  ‘She was rushin’ off somewhere,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Hoping to waylay Boots on the way, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Lilian.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave it to you to remember to ring ’er,’ said Tommy. ‘That’s if you can take your mind off your milkman.’

  ‘Hoppit,’ said Lilian, and Tommy departed grinning.

  Later that day, when Lilian phoned Harriet de Vere, the buyer referred to one of her designs, a white dress with blue stripes.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ said Lilian.

  ‘Love the style,’ said Harriet, ‘but we’d like the blue to be navy. Could you do a new sketch?’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ said Lilian.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Harriet.

  Lilian did a quick sketch. The result looked like a milkman wearing a blue and white striped apron.

  Something’s closing in on me, thought Lilian, and the chink of milk bottles is ringing in my ears.

  Meeting frequently in Kennington Park, Dusty Miller and Ginger Carstairs were still busy finalizing and polishing up their plans.


  March went out with a bit of a noisy rush, and April came in to offer a hint of spring, which was very welcome to the people of Walworth and elsewhere because March had acted up something chronic at times. March in a paddy could make South London’s old Victorian houses feel cold and draughty, which never did a lot of good to old people’s chilblains.

  Cassie and Freddy were gradually furnishing their house in Wansey Street with the aid of Freddy’s savings and what Mr Eli Greenberg, the well-known rag and bone merchant, could offer in respect of valuable bargains good as new. They were also putting in some highly necessary decorative work. Concerning that, Cassie said she realized now what a labour of love was. Freddy said yes, the house was a bit of all right, and he was already holding it in kind regard on account of it being their first marriage abode. Cassie said yes, wasn’t it blissful labour, decorating it together? Freddy said he couldn’t agree more, but could she stop waving her paint brush about?

  ‘Yes, all right, Freddy beloved,’ she said. ‘Oh, Dad’s goin’ to help us again at the weekend when we start rubbin’ down the upstairs doors.’

  ‘Well, good old Gaffer,’ said Freddy. They were painting the door to the scullery, Cassie on one side, he the other, the open door wedged. He was having to keep alert, because whenever Cassie put her head round the door to say something, her paint brush came round too. ‘Will that be another labour of love?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Cassie. ‘Dad’s always loved me, and I know he’s learned to love you.’

  ‘Was it hard goin’, arrivin’ at that state?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘No, not very,’ said Cassie, stroking on magnolia paint. ‘Well, when you consider that a lot of Germans ’ave actually learned to love Hider, it must’ve been easy for Dad to learn to love you. “Cassie,” he said to me once, “Freddy could get to be quite likeable in a crowd.” Wasn’t that a promisin’ remark, Freddy beloved?’

  ‘Cassie, would yer mind not callin’ me beloved at football matches?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘It makes some of the Rovers fall about legless, that’s why not,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Oh, poor dears, I am sorry, they must be gettin’ feeble in their old age,’ said Cassie. ‘Freddy, has Sammy given you the cheque for fifty pounds yet?’