by Laura Wilson
‘Know what that reminds me of?’
‘Which bit?’
‘Your Honourable Mrs Rutherford. Makes me think of all those books where posh Socialist types foresake their families to go and live with the proles, then come back and write about how they’ve got no table manners and don’t give a hoot about politics.’
‘Left Book Club stuff, you mean? George Orwell?’
‘Not just that. There was one written by a bloke who went to live in Stepney or somewhere, and some woman who became a char for about five minutes …’
‘I don’t suppose Mrs Rutherford’ll write about it.’
‘No, but it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Slum it for a bit and – in her case – play Lady Bountiful, and dine out on it afterwards. It’s not going to make a blind bit of difference to anything – and none of those people in the thirties and forties wanted it to, not really. I mean,’ Donald picked up an enamel bowl and began harvesting their last crop of peas, ‘all that tosh about the dignity of labour and the dictatorship of the proletariat was just ideas. They’d have been horrified if the Revolution had actually happened here, because whatever they may have said, that lot believed they were born to rule, and they still do. The Revolution’s never going to happen because – as you’ve just said – the workers aren’t ever going to unite because they all hate each other’s guts. They don’t want outsiders muscling in on their jobs – or their homes or their women.’
‘I’m not interested in a Revolution,’ said Stratton. ‘I just want them to stop kicking each other’s heads in.’
‘You’ll be lucky. But coming back to your Mrs Rutherford – whether she writes about it or not, it’s just like when all those la-di-da types used to go on about how spontaneous and carefree the working classes were. Now they’ve started saying it about the coloureds.’ Putting on a whinnying aristocratic tone – not actually very far from the Hon. Virginia’s own – he added, ‘My dear, they have so much vitality …’
‘She’s a nice woman,’ Stratton protested. ‘And I don’t know about you, but right now I’ve got about as much vitality as a suet pudding.’
‘Ah,’ said Donald, ‘but you don’t count. You’re a figure of authority.’
Stratton mouthed ‘Piss off’ over Tim’s head.
‘Well, you are, aren’t you? And I don’t doubt she’s a nice woman, but if she’s got any sense she’ll leave well alone,’ said Donald, throwing the last of the peas into the bowl and plonking himself down beside Tim, who immediately stretched out a hand to the pile of fat green pods. ‘All right, but not too many or you’ll get a bellyache and I’ll catch it from your grandma.’
The two men smoked in companionable silence for a few minutes while Tim crammed peas into his mouth.
‘Basically,’ Donald leant back on his elbows and blew smoke at the sky, ‘it comes down to the same thing – we’re all from different tribes.’
‘Here comes a stranger,’ murmured Stratton. ‘Let’s chuck a brick at him.’
‘Talking of strangers,’ said Don, removing the bowl of pea pods from Tim’s view, ‘Doris said Pete was here a couple of days ago.’
‘Yes, he was. He’s getting married.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s called Alison. He brought her home at Easter, but I had no idea it was that serious.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘To be honest, I don’t really know. Lovely looking, and she seems to be a good influence on him. He says he wants to leave the army too.’
‘And do what?’
‘Join the police.’
‘Following in father’s footsteps, eh?’ Donald broke into song: ‘I don’t know where he’s going, But when he gets there I’ll be glad, I’m following in Father’s footsteps – Yes! I’m following me dear old Dad!’
‘Put a sock in it.’ Stratton flicked a pea pod at him.
‘Well, good luck to him. Sounds like he’s found the right girl, anyway. How’s Monica? We’ve not seen her for a while.’
‘Neither have I. She’s been busy working on a film about Tommy Steele’s life.’
‘His life? He can’t be more than twenty-one.’
‘I don’t suppose he is, but it’s for the fans, isn’t it? Monica says he’s a nice kid. Comes from Bermondsey, she said.’
‘There you are – it’s that old working class vitality again.’ He started to croon, in a slurred, American-style drone, ‘Well, I never felt more like singing the blues—’
‘For God’s sake – you’ll frighten the boy.’
‘No, I won’t. Look at him.’ Stratton leant forward to peer past Donald’s knees and saw that Tim was spread out like a starfish, fast asleep. ‘I don’t understand all that stuff.’ Don scrambled to his feet, brushing the backs of his trousers. ‘Leaping in the air and wriggling about – and you can’t make out half the words.’
‘We’re old,’ said Stratton. ‘We’re not meant to understand it.’
‘God knows what music’ll be like by the time he’s our age.’ Don nodded at Tim. ‘Oh, well. Come on chum, let’s give you a heave-ho.’
The child murmured something as Don picked him up. Seeing their faces close together Stratton thought how alike they looked – Tim couldn’t have got his sandy hair and the pale skin on which clusters of freckles were beginning to emerge like spots on a Dalmatian puppy from anyone else but his grandfather. Following the pair of them down the path to the road, he found himself wondering who his future grandchildren would take after. It was interesting that his news about Pete hadn’t prompted a question from Don about Monica’s personal life. When he considered this, Stratton realised that no one had asked about that for quite some time. It seemed that without ever having been officially informed that Monica and her friend Marion were a couple, the rest of the family had accepted that marriage and children weren’t on the cards for her … And they’d long ago given up asking him about himself.
He said goodbye to Don and Tim outside his front gate. His resolve to telephone Fenella there and then wavered when he caught sight of an envelope on the mat with Diana’s handwriting and a foreign stamp. Perhaps he should read it first and then call Fenella, or should he call first? Or maybe he ought to give it a miss tonight and call her tomorrow. After all, she might be out. Fully aware that he was making excuses, Stratton went upstairs to take off his jacket and tie. He took his time about washing his hands and face and combing water through his hair, wondering why it was that the idea of telephoning Fenella on the same evening as reading Diana’s letter seemed so distasteful. After all, he was no longer involved with Diana, so where was the problem? And what the bloody hell was the matter with him? Usually he just got on with things, and now here he was, dithering like some elderly spinster trying to choose a wedding present.
Feeling that he must do something, he went down to the scullery to see what Lilian (it was her turn) had left for his dinner. Lilian had never been any great shakes when it came to cooking, and in the year since Reg’s death she’d definitely got worse. Telling himself he shouldn’t complain – it was very kind of her and Doris to look after him in the way they had, unfailingly, since Jenny’s death – he whisked the cloth from the dishes, uncovering three slices of spam arranged around a bit of salad and some cold rice pudding for after. Wishing he’d brought back some of the raspberries from the allotment, he took the whole thing through to the kitchen where he made himself a cup of tea, cut some bread and sat down at the table.
Spent the entire voyage feeling ghastly … travelling on the train was a hoot … absolutely in my element with a whole house to decorate … Lester says it’s hotter here than in Ceylon, which I don’t think can possibly be right, but he insists it’s so … Ceylon? Of course, Manning’s last British film had been a Second World War thing set in a POW camp, the success of which had led to the offer from Hollywood. Diana had said something about it being done abroad, hadn’t she? L has already started work on a film. It’s a romantic comedy and I think it sounds awful, bu
t L seems happy enough. I’m sure it will be all right, just silly nerves on my part, & of course I haven’t said anything … People have parties all the time here, and the head of the studio has invited us to the Sands Hotel (Las Vegas!) to see Frank Sinatra … Thank you for everything, Edward. You will always mean so much to me … Good luck, my dearest. You, more than anyone I know, deserve to be happy, as I am with L.
Stratton put down the letter. His plate, with its spam and salad, was untouched, but he didn’t want it now. There was a finality about Diana’s last words that made him wistful but, at the same time, warmed his heart. As to whether anyone ‘deserved’ to be happy – in that way or in any other – he didn’t know, but he was going to have a damn good try. He would telephone Fenella. Not tonight, but tomorrow. He felt, in an absurd, almost chest-bursting way that he knew he’d never be able to articulate, that Diana – like Jenny before her – had given him her blessing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Stratton decided to look in on Irene on his way to the station. He could hear the sounds of the Saturday market in Portobello Road as soon as he emerged from Ladbroke Grove Station. With the sunshine and blue sky, the vivid impression of colour and bustle and noise made him forget, for a moment, the rusting railings, crumbling garden walls and peeling shopfronts that surrounded the place, and reminded him of exotic foreign bazaars seen in films. It didn’t look like England at all. Close to, he could pick out vivid African head cloths, alongside chiffon scarves concealing curlers. Pork pie hats and, once, a Sikh turban, behind stalls stacked with everything from vegetables to bric-a-brac, the uneven pavements were piled high with wooden fruit boxes, and women were pawing through heaps of rancid second-hand clothing and misshapen shoes. The jostling was good-natured, white and black housewives with prams and bags of shopping were chatting to each other, and nobody was arguing. What a pity, thought Stratton, as he made his way through the crowd, that it couldn’t be like this all the time.
He paused in the grimy hallway at Powis Terrace to help a young mother who was attempting to negotiate the stairs with a bawling toddler and a pram in which a furious, red-faced baby was wedged with bags of groceries. What with the yelling of the children and the clatter and scrape of the wheels on the stairs, Stratton hadn’t registered the noise from above until they’d manoeuvred the pram safely onto the landing, knocking over half a dozen empty milk bottles in the process.
‘Thanks, mister,’ said the woman, who was already, at barely nine o’clock, whey-faced with exhaustion. Grimacing in the direction of the shouts – which were coming, Stratton now realised, from Etheridge and Irene’s rooms – she added, in a voice hollow with resignation, ‘I’ll never get him off to sleep with that lot going on. I tell you, we’ve never had a moment’s peace since we moved in.’ As she unlocked the door and shoved the pram through it, Stratton caught a glimpse of the single room where they lived. Pervaded with the smell of soaking nappies, every surface, including the bed and most of the floor, was strewn with a jumble of clothing, crockery and broken toys.
On the landing, Stratton stood for a moment, listening intently. He could hear Etheridge’s voice, loud and accusing, and a quieter male voice, whose words he could not catch.
‘What happen to “all of we is brothers together”?’ Etheridge was shouting. ‘Tell me that! Don’t fuck with me, man – where she gone?’
Stratton knocked on the door. There was silence for a second, before it was jerked open and Etheridge’s head appeared. ‘What you—’ he began, then turned abruptly away to mutter something.
Walker was sitting at the table, but on seeing Stratton he jumped to his feet, looking alarmed. Of Irene there was no sign, and the evidence of female occupation that Stratton had seen before – talcum powder and cosmetics on the mantelshelf, a pair of stockings hanging on a clothes horse – was gone. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked. ‘I came to see how Miss Palmer was doing.’
‘She not ’ere,’ said Etheridge shortly. ‘I don’t know where she gone.’
‘I see.’ Deliberately not looking in Walker’s direction, Stratton said, ‘Well, in that case, I’ll leave you to it. Might be a good idea to keep the noise down, though – there’s a lady with a small baby next door, and I think she’d appreciate a bit of hush.’
When Walker caught up with him a few minutes later, Stratton could see that one side of his face was puffed and turning shiny from a bruise.
‘She’s gone?’
‘Yesterday – while he was out. The Jew offered her a room and a job in that club, like you said.’
‘Where’s the room?’
‘Above the club, he told her. Came to fetch her in his car while Etheridge was out. Neighbours staring out of the windows …’ Walker shook his head.
‘It’s better than sending her back home,’ said Stratton firmly. ‘And I think Mr Laskier will look after her.’ Seeing Walker’s frown, he added, ‘He said that Irene reminded him of his sister.’
‘Oh?’ The monosyllable was loaded with disbelief.
‘I think,’ said Stratton, ‘that his sister may have died in the war. In a concentration camp.’
Walker’s frown deepened. ‘If things happen to people – bad things – they don’t care any more. They’re just out for themselves, like Clinton.’
‘I know. But I think Laskier’s different.’
‘Well, I hope so. Irene … She’s a nice girl.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Stratton. ‘I shall be keeping an eye on her.’ Tapping the side of his face, he said, ‘Was that Etheridge?’
‘Yes. He thinks I’m after Irene myself.’
‘But you didn’t tell him anything?’
Walker shook his head. ‘Better for him to think that. I can look after myself. And he’ll find out where she’s gone soon enough.’
*
This, thought Stratton afterwards, was undoubtedly true but somehow he didn’t think that Etheridge would pursue Irene if he thought that she had, effectively, been poached by someone higher up the food chain. It was entirely possible that Gloria would get wind of it and, putting two and two together, give Etheridge a piece of her mind … Not that it would stop him finding other fish to fry, of course, but it would mean that in all probability he’d leave Irene alone …
As it was close by, Stratton decided to see if Laskier was in his office and walked round to Westbourne Grove. The basement door was opened by one of the largest men that Stratton had ever seen. Several inches taller than his own 6 foot 3, he was built like a brick shithouse, with colossal feet, hands like shovels, and an unstable look in his eye that suggested he might attack without warning. He made a rumbling noise like a cement mixer, then said in gravelly, heavily accented English, ‘Mr Perlmann no here. Play tennis.’
Blinking at the grotesque image of the portly Perlmann bulging in a tennis shirt and shorts, Stratton said, ‘It’s Mr Laskier I want.’
‘What is it, Jan?’Laskier appeared and, murmuring something to the big man in what Stratton supposed must be Polish, ushered him inside. The disorder he’d noticed on his two previous visits seemed to have got worse. Now there were piles of papers on the floor as well as the other surfaces, and a third man, almost as big as Jan, with thick curly hair and shoulders that made Stratton think of a bison, was sitting with his feet up on one of the desks, staring at him with barely concealed hostility. A large, hairy Alsatian sprawled by his chair. It didn’t move when Stratton walked in, but followed his progress across the room from under flickering eyebrows. Laskier, who looked – if it were possible – even more tired than he had before, gave the pair of them a despairing glance.
‘Can I have a word with you in private?’
‘If you wish.’ Laskier turned to the two men and said something else in Polish, whereupon they left, taking the dog with them.
‘Who were they?’
‘They collect the rent, help with the houses …’
‘Perlmann’s charity cases?’
‘He helps them, yes. Jan –
the one who came to the door – he isn’t quite right here.’ Laskier tapped his temple. ‘Something happened in the war. An injury on his head. Danny finds some small jobs for him to do, to make him feel as if he is useful.’
‘Poor chap. How’s Irene doing?’
‘Mr Walker told you, did he? She’s getting settled into the flat. The manageress lives up there, so she’s not on her own.’
‘That’s good. What about Etheridge?’
Laskier frowned. ‘What about him?’
‘What’s his position with Perlmann?’
Laskier sighed. ‘I asked Danny about the new flat he’d promised and he told me it was a favour because Etheridge had been collecting rent for him. I had not known this.’
‘Was that to stop him going to the Rent Tribunal?’
‘I have no idea. Danny is impulsive, Inspector. He makes arrangements and he doesn’t remember to tell me.’
‘Would Etheridge have tried to stop Hampton encouraging people to go to the Tribunal? Warned him off?’
‘Danny would never ask him to do something like that.’
‘You really are loyal to him, aren’t you?’
Laskier stared at him. ‘He saved my life,’ he said shortly. ‘Anything else you want?’
‘Do you know about this party that Etheridge and Mrs Rutherford are planning?’
Laskier shrugged. ‘I heard something. It’s not important.’
‘Not important that Etheridge is working for Mr Perlmann and cosying up with the Rent Tribunals lot at the same time?’
‘Danny doesn’t think so.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Ach …’ Laskier shook his head. ‘What I think … I think it’s complicated. Do you know, Inspector, that Virginia Rutherford’s father was one of the men who gave Danny a start in this business?’
Stratton recalled Perlmann saying that Mrs Rutherford was the daughter of an earl. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Please, Inspector, sit down. Long story, if you want to hear …’ Waving him towards the chair recently vacated by one of the Poles, Laskier dragged another one over to the other side of the desk and sat down facing him, arms on the table. ‘You know how the houses here were built in the time of Queen Victoria?’
