by Pam Weaver
‘I thought you all wanted to win,’ he said pointedly. Everyone else nodded their heads eagerly and so, turning to his wife, he said, ‘Then in this regard I shall have the last say on the matter, my dear. We shall run three days a week, have a rest day on Sunday and Thursday and do an alternative exercise, like taking a swim at the local baths, another night. By the time the race comes along you will all be fighting fit. Is everyone happy with that?’ Once again he was surrounded by enthusiastic nodding, although Amy couldn’t help noticing that Mrs D wasn’t nodding and her cheeks were very pink. She also couldn’t help noticing a tiny flicker of satisfaction on her husband’s lips. This was his moment, and he was loving it.
Chapter 2
Freda Hills sat at her kitchen table and waited. She was very tired. Looking after five children and the house, when she already had a full-time job at the Universal laundry, wasn’t easy, especially now that Eddie was back home. Every part of her body wanted to be in bed, but she dared not go there. Eddie wasn’t back from the pub, and when he came in he would want her to get his tea. She’d put it on the enamel plate over a saucepan of boiling water, to keep it hot. The gravy was in a separate saucepan, waiting to be heated the moment he walked through the door. She’d once made the mistake of putting the gravy over the meal and, by the time Eddie came home, it had formed a skin. Eddie didn’t like that, and she still had the scar to prove it.
The kids were in bed asleep, all except Wally. She knew he was still up. He’d be sitting up in bed drawing. He never said anything, but he was protective of her. Just before his father was released from prison the last time he’d said, ‘If ever he hurts you again, Ma, I’ll kill him.’
‘Oh, so you want to ruin your life, just like your father, do you?’ She’d been sharp with him and it hurt her to do it, but she didn’t want him to be like Eddie. Wally had a talent and that gave him a real chance to better himself.
Of course she should have stood up to Eddie years ago. If she’d done something about it the first time he’d hit her, things might have been very different; but she hadn’t, so life had gone from bad to worse. He’d put her in hospital more than once, and when the kids came along, she was trapped. If she walked out, her kids would be taken into care. Running away with one kid was difficult enough. Running away with five of them was impossible. So she stuck it out.
Her head drooped as a delicious feeling of drowsiness overtook her, but then a sound in the passageway outside made her sit up. The dog stood to its feet and made a yipping sound. The door swung open and there was Eddie. His clothes were in disarray. His coat was open and his shirt hung outside his trousers. His flies were undone, which meant he’d either been urinating against a wall or he’d been having a stand-up in an alley with some tart on the way home. Glassy-eyed, he swayed and tried to focus. Freda turned her head, revolted.
‘Hello, love,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve got your tea ready.’
He staggered into the room and, taking the flattened cigarette from his mouth, flicked it into the sink. The dog crawled under the table.
On her way to the cooker, Freda pulled his chair out for him to sit down. He didn’t say anything, but belched loudly. ‘What are you looking at?’ he challenged.
‘Nothing, Eddie,’ she said. ‘Sit yourself down. It’s almost ready.’
‘It should be on the table,’ he complained.
She put the plate in front of him and poured over the gravy.
Eddie leaned forward. ‘What’s this?’
‘Shepherd’s pie. Your favourite.’
He reached out to touch the plate and it burned his hand. ‘Damn and blast it, woman! That was hot. What are you trying to do – put me in hospital?’ He snatched her wrist.
‘No, Eddie,’ she squeaked. His grip was painful. ‘I’m sorry. I was trying to keep it nice and hot for when you came in.’
He snatched the oven cloth from her and, grabbing the plate, threw it against the wall. Freda watched helplessly as the meat and potato slid down to the floor. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal since the day before yesterday, and now she could hear the dog under the table, gobbling it up before anyone could stop him.
Eddie grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. His breath reeked of beer. ‘If you think I’d eat that muck, you’ve got another think coming,’ he snarled. ‘I’d sooner eat a dead rat.’ He raised his hand to strike her, but a movement by the door distracted him and he let go of her. Wally had come downstairs. ‘What d’you want?’ said Eddie.
Freda positioned herself between them. ‘Go back to bed, son,’ she said. ‘Your dad had a little accident with the hot plate, that’s all. No harm done.’
‘No harm done,’ Eddie mimicked sarcastically. ‘If he believes that, he’s more stupid than I thought. Wally by name, and a proper Wally by nature.’
Wally stepped into the room and Freda’s heart almost stopped.
‘What you need is someone to teach you how to be a man,’ Eddie went on. ‘A little bit of excitement in life – that’s what you need.’ He laughed heartily. ‘You’re coming out with me tomorra, boy.’
‘Eddie, he’s only fifteen,’ said Freda. ‘He’s too young for pubs.’
‘Who said anything about pubs,’ replied Eddie with a belch. ‘It’s about time someone plucked his cherry, and I know just the woman.’
Hilda put her fingers to her lips as a little sigh escaped from them. ‘Oh, Eddie, no. You can’t . . .’
He glared at her. ‘Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do. Get this mess cleared up, woman. I’m going to bed.’
When he had gone, although the dog had made a clean job on the floor, Wally stayed to help his mother wipe down the wall. Neither of them spoke about his father or his treats, but as they switched off the light and mounted the stairs she whispered urgently, ‘Promise me, son. Promise you’ll stay away from your father.’
The next day Amy sat in Hilda Marsden’s stuffy sitting room, wishing she could open a window. The house was clean, but very cluttered. Apart from a large sideboard in the room, she had at least three occasional tables, each piled high with books or ornaments. Her chairs were cosy, although the fabric covers were a little faded with age. The hearth was empty, the room being warmed by a rather smelly paraffin heater.
Hilda was a small woman – twittery, Amy’s mother would have called her. Her fingers were constantly fiddling with something: the brooch at the neck of her blouse, the buttons on her cardigan, the folds of her pleated skirt. She had made a pot of tea, but she had been too distracted to pour. Unshed tears stood in her eyes as she related the story of the theft of her coal nearly a week ago.
‘I thought at first it was that tramp bedding down for the night,’ she said, wringing her handkerchief in her hands. ‘I sometimes see him in the doorway of the shop opposite, but when I heard the bump, I was convinced someone was trying to break in. That was the only reason I opened the curtains. I wanted to startle them.’
‘Did you actually see the person?’
‘No,’ said Hilda. ‘I just heard this man’s voice shout, “Put that light out.”’
‘And you thought the man was . . .?’
‘The ARP warden, Mr Haskins. I shut the window and the curtains straight away.’
‘Did you hear anything else?’
Hilda shook her head.
‘A car driving away, perhaps?’ Amy prompted.
‘No,’ said Hilda. ‘I lay awake all night, but I didn’t hear a sound. In the morning,’ she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, ‘I discovered that almost half a hundredweight of coal had gone from the coal shed.’
Amy looked thoughtful. ‘If he didn’t have a car or a lorry, I wonder how he got that much away.’
By the end of the morning Amy was awash with tea. Like everybody else in the country, she drank it by the gallon to stave off hunger pangs. Food rationing was becoming ever more stringent, and a hot mug of tea helped her forget that it would be ages before he
r next meagre meal. Even though the ration since 1940 was just two ounces of tea per person per week, by the time she left Hilda she’d drunk two cups. Moving on to speak to Martha’s other contacts, Amy drank even more tea, as she listened to their tales of woe. They, too, had been victims of theft, and while these were only petty crimes, in these difficult days it was particularly galling.
Whoever was doing this had helped himself or herself to milk from the doorstep, a chicken, a bike, clothes from the washing line, tools from people’s allotment sheds; and Mrs Rainer, the local tobacconist and newsagent, had even lost magazines from a rack outside the shop. It was all very odd. Whoever had taken the coal could obviously sell it on the black market, but as for the other things . . .Well, it was as if someone was living at the expense of others. For a moment Amy was none the wiser and had few clues, until she came across some children playing with an old wheelchair.
There were about seven of them, aged between six and ten. They were taking turns to sit in the chair, while someone else pushed it at break-neck speed down a short incline on the pavement. Amy was in plain clothes, but she stood in front of the wheelchair and grabbed hold of the armrests as it came hurtling towards her.
‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded of the ringleader. He was a tall, skinny boy with ginger hair and freckles. His face paled at the sound of her stern voice.
‘We found it, Miss.’
‘Where did you find it?’
His friends gathered round and they took her to the underpass at Ivy Arch Road near the station. It was a busy thoroughfare that went under the railway line. Opposite the lamp post was a huge poster warning of the perils of venereal disease: ‘a great evil and a grave menace’.
‘What’s VD, Miss?’ asked a particularly cherubic-looking boy. As he looked up, his friend dug an elbow in his ribs, but he stared steadfastly at Amy with wide eyes.
‘If you like, I’ll come round your house and ask your mum to tell you all about it,’ she said, without batting an eyelid.
A look of panic came over the boy’s face. ‘No, it’s all right, Miss,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll ask me dad.’
Amy suppressed a smile. ‘I am a policewoman,’ she went on, ‘and I should like to know exactly where and when you found this chair.’
The boys looked anxiously from one to the other. ‘It was over there,’ said the cherub, pointing. ‘We saw it the day before yesterday.’
Amy’s mind was working overtime. That was just two days after Mrs Bottomley went missing. ‘Did you see who left it there?’
The boys shrugged. ‘We saw the tramp put his bundle on it,’ said freckle-face.
‘The one who sits outside Woolworths,’ said the cherub. ‘He was eating a sandwich, and then he pushed the wheelchair onto the verge and headed towards the station.’
‘My brother reckons he’s got the Crown Jewels wrapped up in that old blanket,’ said freckle-face.
One of the other boys, a chubby fellow with a runny nose, laughed. ‘He’s having you on,’ he said. ‘If he nicked the Crown Jewels, them Beefeaters would have him locked up in the Bloody Tower by now.’
Freckle-face took exception to his remark and they began a tussle.
‘That’s enough of that!’ said Amy sternly.
‘We never meant no harm, Miss,’ said another boy. ‘It don’t belong to nobody.’
‘We were only playing with it,’ said freckle-face.
Amy felt a pang of sympathy for them. She’d have to take the chair and, in doing so, spoil a perfectly harmless game. Kids had so little to play with these days. ‘I think this chair has been used in a robbery,’ she said kindly. The boys stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘I’m going to have to take it to the police station to be examined.’ She saw the disappointment on their faces. ‘But I’ll tell you what: you found it, so if you come along with me, I’ll give you a receipt for it. If nobody claims it after three months, it’s yours. If someone does come forward for it, I’ll make sure they know how honest you all were.’
The boys glanced at each other and nodded in agreement. And so Amy, pushing the wheelchair before them, led the small band of boys to Thurloe House. As they walked, she was deep in thought. After spotting the tramp the night before, this was the second time he had come to her notice. Someone had done that amazing drawing of him, which hung in the Scout hut, and these boys had come across the tramp, too. As for the chair, it had traces of coal dust on the bottom rungs, so there was a good chance it had been used to transport Hilda’s coal, but did it belong to Vera Bottomley? Wooden wheelchairs were hardly two a penny these days, and although the two incidents were separated by four miles, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that they were linked. It was certainly worth checking out.
Amy wished she had someone she could talk to. Sergeant Goble would never listen, and the new senior officers were more interested in trying to get their hands on her bottom than in discussing police matters. The only one she could talk to in a serious manner was PC Philips and he was off sick. He’d been taken ill with stomach pains that had turned out to be appendicitis, and right now he was languishing in Courtlands convalescent home after an operation. Amy sighed. If only Rita was here now. Great-Aunt Ada was right: it wasn’t easy being a detective.
Chapter 3
PC Waller glanced over his shoulder, before walking downstairs to the basement where the old records were kept. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, but as he peered through the gloom he could make out several other officers: PC Tate, PC Howard, PC Edwards and the new men, PC Perkins and DC Cooper.
‘Anybody see you coming down here?’ asked Perkins.
PC Waller shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Why? What’s this all about?’
DC Cooper unfolded a piece of paper and held it up for them all to read. It wasn’t easy in the half-light and without his specs, but somehow Waller managed it by squinting:
A Lark in the Park Pancake Race challenge. We, the underscored, challenge anyone – male or female – to take us on in a pancake race around Homefield Park. Entrants 2s. each. Collection on the day. All profits to Courtlands convalescent home. Tuesday 22nd February 1944 at 1.15 p.m., rain or shine.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked PC Tate.
‘What’s wrong?’ exclaimed Cooper. ‘From what I can gather, the men do a pancake race on Shrove Tuesday. Firemen against the police, am I right? They’ve done so for years. These names on the bottom of that list . . . they’re all women!’
Tate shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters,’ cried Cooper. ‘Let them get away with this and it’s the thin end of the wedge. Before you know it, women will be taking over every damned thing. That’s why they need taking down a peg or two.’
‘It’s only a pancake race, lads,’ said PC Tate good-naturedly.
‘Only a pancake race today, but who knows where it’s going to lead us next week,’ said Perkins darkly.
‘Oh, I don’t think a girl like Amy—’ PC Edwards began.
‘She’s the worst of the lot,’ DC Cooper said toxically. ‘She may be in skirts, but you mark my words, she wants to be a bloody bloke. Give in to her, and they’ll all be after our jobs before long.’ Cooper looked behind him, then leaned forward. ‘They might even decide to sit the sergeants’ exam.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ scoffed PC Howard. ‘That would mean we’d have to take orders from a woman.’
‘Precisely,’ said Perkins, and PC Howard looked startled. ‘It’s time these women realized they don’t belong in the police force.’
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ cried Cooper. ‘They’ve taken over on the buses, haven’t they?’
‘And the ambulance service,’ said Perkins. ‘We have to nip this in the bud right now.’
‘How can we?’ asked Waller. ‘We can’t order them to stop.’
‘But we can make sure they don’t win,’ said Cooper.
‘That’s not very likely anyway,’ commented Howard.
> ‘Could be,’ Perkins said. He turned his head this way and that, before whispering furtively out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I hear they’re in training.’
‘How much training does it take to run like a girl?’ PC Howard chuckled. And all the men, except Cooper and Perkins, roared with laughter when Howard began to mimic his idea of a girl running.
‘Well,’ Cooper began, ‘if you don’t mind looking like a right idiot when you come in last . . .’
PC Tate patted his rotund belly. ‘It’s a bit late for me to get fit. The bloody thing is less than three weeks away.’
DC Cooper grinned. ‘There’s more ways than one to kill a cat.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
Perkins lifted his arms. ‘Gather round, chaps. Now here’s what we’ll do . . .’
Amy logged the wheelchair as missing property and sent the boys on their way. Lettuce Bottomley still languished in the police cells, although, if Amy had her way, not for much longer. Having been brought in yesterday, Lettuce was being interviewed this afternoon. Sergeant Goble, who was being very offhand just lately, refused to let Amy speak to her, so she had no choice but to wait in the corridor until Lettuce was moved into the Interview Room. At 1.15 p.m. DC Cooper and the daytime police matron brought Lettuce out of the cells. The girl had her head down and so, to attract her attention, Amy pushed the wheelchair forward slightly.
‘Lettuce,’ she called out quickly, before anyone could stop her, ‘does this belong to your grandmother?’
Lettuce shook her head. Amy’s heart sank. Not the right chair? She had felt so confident . . .
‘Are you sure?’
‘Granny’s chair has green paint on the armrest.’
Amy’s shoulders sagged.
‘Get back to your typing, girl,’ the DC snarled. ‘If I catch you talking to the prisoner again, I’ll report you to the inspector.’
‘Have you arrested her then?’ asked Amy, alarmed.
‘I didn’t do it, Amy,’ Lettuce cried out as they pushed her roughly along the corridor. ‘You must believe me. I’d never do anything to harm my grandmother.’
