Amy's Seaside Secret

by Pam Weaver

  Despite the men’s best endeavours to frustrate them, all the women employees had their work done in time for an early lunch break on Shrove Tuesday. Amy made herself look cheerful, although she still had a small ache in her heart. Inspector Fry was happy to let everybody go, for two reasons. One, any extra funding that helped to shorten the war would be a good thing, not only for the war effort itself, but because it would be credited to his personal record of service. And two, a station with skeleton staff would give him the opportunity to leaf through a few old files and refresh his memory on dates and times, in preparation for writing his memoir.

  To everyone’s delight, Homefield Park was packed with people. A few sympathetic friends were roped in to rattle the collection buckets, and before long they were beginning to fill. A WVS van had parked up near the entrance and was doing a roaring trade. Even the weather had been kind. It was cold, for after all it was still only February, but the watery sunshine gave the occasion almost a carnival atmosphere.

  The girls were challenged by members of the Excelsior cycling club, who were all avid cyclists and so extremely fit. Mr Dixon gave everyone a little pep-talk and the girls lined up, frying pan and make-believe pancake in hand. According to the rules, each contestant had to toss his or her pancake at least six times as they went round the course, which circled the lake. The race was done as a relay, so everybody had to wait for the handover and then run as fast as they could, on their own personal lap. There was a loud cheer when the referee of the local football team blew his whistle and they were off.

  In a season when there was little time for celebration, everyone embraced the occasion and the crowds, several people deep, waved their handkerchiefs and cheered like mad. Of course there was some cheating, but on the whole it was good-natured and was only done to add to the fun. Some skimped on their tosses, while others ‘accidentally’ knocked their opponent as they did their handover, and at one point somebody’s excitable dog held up the race for a minute or two, until the owner got it under control again. The referee had to restart one race several times, because the cyclists would either go before the whistle or straddle their feet over the start line, but nobody minded, when it was peppered with some light-hearted banter.

  Sadly, some obstructions were more ominous and were hardly in the spirit of the race. PC Perkins stepped across the track at an inopportune moment, almost making Molly stumble. The crowd booed him for that. In the end, the Excelsiors won the race by a whisker, but it didn’t seem to matter. The mayor had promised to kiss the girls if they won, but had to be satisfied with an awkward handshake from the men instead. Everyone had enjoyed a lot of fun and laughter, and even though most people only chucked their loose coppers into the buckets, it was obvious that a considerable sum of money had been raised, as the buckets were very heavy. People began starting to drift away, back to work or to their homes, as the police team began their run. Jock Sturgeon, a local fireman, took first prize.

  Nobody was late back for duty, and luckily everything in the town was quiet. There were three buckets of money, and it was decided that the men would take it downstairs to the basement storeroom where the records were kept. Amy and PC Perkins were dispatched to count the money and bag it up, ready to take it to the bank and onwards into the fund for Courtlands convalescent home.

  ‘Better bring us a couple of cups of tea,’ said PC Perkins as Amy trailed behind him. ‘We’re going to be down there a while.’

  Amy nodded. For once she was more than delighted to brew up. The race had brought in far more money than they’d ever dreamed. ‘Last year,’ Sergeant Goble had said before the off, ‘we only had half a bucket of coppers.’ She was also pleased because, for a change, PC Perkins was being civil towards her. They hadn’t beaten the male cyclists, but they had engendered so much goodwill that perhaps things would settle down now.

  Amy carried the two cups of tea down the cellar steps very carefully. Halfway down she heard the sound of someone clapping. She looked up to see DC Cooper leaning against the wall with an insolent expression. ‘Well done, Hobbs,’ he said, coming towards her. ‘Now you can collect your special prize.’

  Above and behind her, someone closed the door and Amy felt a stab of fear. She was alone with Perkins and Cooper.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you are doing,’ she began defiantly.

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Cooper.

  The two cups rattled in their saucers. ‘However much you hate me,’ she began in a measured tone, ‘you won’t stop the force having women police. Don’t forget that, as officers yourselves, you’ve sworn to uphold the King’s peace.’

  ‘And who are you, to tell me what to do?’ said Cooper, coming closer.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t report you,’ said Amy with a shiver.

  Perkins laughed sardonically. ‘Who will believe you?’

  ‘Would they take the word of two respected officers who have served in the Met,’ said Cooper, ‘or the whimpering lies of a silly little girl with ideas above her station?’

  ‘Just because I want a career . . .’ Amy began, with her last vestige of courage fading fast.

  ‘Your career,’ said Cooper menacingly, ‘ends here, darlin’.’

  Amy threw the two cups of tea at them.

  ‘You bitch!’ Perkins screamed. He lurched backwards as the scalding tea hit the front of his uniform and soaked his trousers leg.

  Amy backed away, but where could she go? She had her back to the free-standing shelves in this part of the records room, which held boxes containing evidence from past crimes. Cooper and Perkins were standing between her and the stairs. It was little use shouting for help, with the door at the top of the stairs closed. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ said Amy, as all hope of rescue vanished.

  Cooper, who was undoing the belt on his trousers, laughed aloud. ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d relax and enjoy it.’

  Perkins reached out to grab her arm. Amy fell against the shelves and, as they rocked, spilling several boxes, she managed to get to the other side, but it was a foolish move. Cooper was now able to pull her towards him and pin her against the wall. He immediately groped the front of her tunic.

  ‘No . . . no!’

  A voice in the distance said, ‘That’s enough!’

  ‘You wait your turn,’ said Cooper, his voice muffled inside Amy’s tunic. ‘You know the score – me first.’

  Although Amy did her best to fight him off, she could feel her skirt rising and his hand on her stocking top.

  ‘Coop,’ Perkins hissed next to him, ‘watch out!’

  ‘I said that’s enough, Officer.’ The voice was louder and closer, and no one could doubt its authoritative air, although so blind was her panic that it took Amy a second or two to recognize whose voice it was. ‘Touch her again, and I shall be forced to use this truncheon.’

  DC Cooper froze for a second but then sprang back, leaving Amy face-to-face with a furious-looking Inspector Fry. She pulled her clothing back into place as quickly as she could, choking back tears of humiliation and relief. Both DC Cooper and PC Perkins were standing to attention.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ DC Cooper was saying. ‘The brazen hussy led me on. Perkins will vouch for that, won’t you, Perkins?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s right,’ said Perkins. ‘She practically threw herself at him.’

  There was no truncheon. Inspector Fry was holding a fountain pen and, through the gap where the boxes had fallen, Amy could see a table, some old files, a reading lamp and an exercise book. It was only then that she remembered the inspector planned to write a book about his life in the police force.

  ‘My office!’ he barked at the men. ‘And do yourself up, before you go.’

  ‘If I could just explain,’ DC Cooper began again.

  ‘I said – my office,’ the inspector shouted. As the two men clattered up the stairs, he turned to Amy, who was trembling now. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I didn’t know what . . .’


  Inspector Fry raised his hand. ‘No need to explain anything, my dear,’ he said. ‘I saw and heard what happened.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Amy said miserably.

  ‘I want you to go back upstairs, get yourself a cup of tea, and I’ll ask the police matron to look you over,’ he said. ‘After that, you can go off-duty.’

  ‘I’m on-duty until six,’ said Amy, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sending you home now,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock, and that’s quite enough for one day.’ She went to say something, but he interrupted her. ‘Home!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ said Amy, heading towards the stairs.

  ‘And don’t you worry about those two morons,’ said Inspector Fry, packing up his things on the table. ‘Shortage or no shortage, we don’t want their type in Worthing. I’m sending them back, with a recommendation that the Chief Constable dismisses them from the force.’

  The police matron was very sympathetic. Amy wished it could have been Liz, but she worked nights. Amy hadn’t been physically hurt, but she had had a dreadful experience. Matron laced her tea with brandy, and persuaded Amy to rest on the bed in the first-aid room.

  Amy took off her jacket and skirt and lay down in her petticoat. What with Rita going back, and missing her mum and dad, she felt thoroughly miserable. Was it all worth it? She knew, when she accepted the posting, that it wouldn’t be easy. Worthing police had had a woman officer before her. WPC Gladys Moss had clocked up twenty years’ service before she retired in 1941. People still recalled her riding her motorcycle in her flat-topped white cap and slacks. Gladys was an exceptional officer, but the prejudice against women still remained, and things had gone back to the way they were. Nobody ever said being a pioneer would be easy, but to be treated the way Cooper and Perkins had treated her was beyond the pale. Amy pulled up the thin blanket and curled herself into a ball.

  Chapter 11

  Amy slept. She had no idea for how long, but all at once she felt someone shaking her arm. It was matron. ‘Amy, there’s someone at the front desk asking for you.’

  She sat up. Her head felt fuzzy and she was aware that the top of her arm was tender. When she looked, she found that a bruise had formed – and it all came rushing back. That was the spot where Cooper had grabbed her. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Matron had filled the sink with warm water.

  ‘You’ll want a little wash,’ she said. ‘Come when you’re ready.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost three-thirty,’ said matron. ‘You must have needed the rest. You’ve been asleep for an hour.’ She handed Amy a small bar of soap. ‘I thought you might like this.’

  Amy blinked. It was scented. Where on earth had matron got a bar of scented soap from? She washed herself slowly and put her uniform back on. When she’d taken it off, one of the buttons on her jacket had been torn off. It was neatly sewn back into place now. How kind.

  As soon as she was tidy, Amy made her way to the front desk. As she walked by, several police officers came into the corridor. At first she was slightly apprehensive, but as she passed them, they all began to clap. Even Sergeant Goble came out of his office. ‘Well done, ’Obbs,’ he said gruffly. ‘Thanks to your Lark in the Park, we raised seventy pounds.’

  Amy swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He patted her shoulder awkwardly. ‘We’re all rooting for you, girl.’

  Amy blinked back the tears that threatened to flow. From Sergeant Goble, this was high praise indeed, and it gave her the courage she needed to believe in herself again.

  ‘The inspector has given you the day off tomorrow,’ the sergeant added stiffly, ‘but don’t think you can take advantage. I expect you back on Thursday. That kitchen needs seeing to.’

  Amy smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’

  When she reached the front desk, a man in a pin-striped suit greeted her warmly, but it was only as he said that he’d been to the Scout hut to see Wally’s drawing that she realized he had once been the tramp. The transformation was truly amazing.

  ‘This gentleman,’ he said, introducing a rather flamboyant-looking man dressed in a loud suit and a cravat, ‘is Christopher Cockerell. He is a connoisseur of the arts, and owns several small galleries in London.’

  The man took the end of Amy’s fingers as if they were glass. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

  ‘We’ve seen the boy’s work,’ said Montague Rowland-Carr, ‘and, not to put too fine a point on it, we would like to sponsor him through art school.’

  Amy drew in her breath. ‘Really?’

  Mr Cockerell nodded. ‘The boy has brilliant talent, and his drawing left me wishing I could see that old tramp for myself, to compare the two.’

  ‘Well, I have,’ said Amy, ‘and believe me, it is one of the most accurate portraits I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Is he still in the town?’ asked Cockerell.

  Amy glanced at Monty. ‘I get the feeling he’s moved on.’

  ‘All that remains,’ said Cockerell, ‘is for me to meet the boy.’

  ‘We asked the Scout master,’ said Monty, ‘but nobody seems to know where Wally is.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ asked Amy.

  ‘The Ardington Hotel,’ said Monty. ‘It’s in the Steyne.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Amy. ‘If I can find him, I’ll bring him to you.’

  ‘Bring him for dinner,’ said Monty. ‘And his parents as well. We shall need to talk business.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ said Amy, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’

  She was waiting at the top of North Street when the children came out of Sussex Road School. Having spotted Barry Antell and the rest of his gang, Amy followed them at a distance. If anyone around here knew where Wally was, it would be them. To her surprise, they headed for the workmen’s hut in Station Approach. Once they were all inside, Amy opened the door. A couple of boys were smoking. They leapt to their feet, coughing and spluttering as they desperately tried to wave the smoke away. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Amy wasn’t so much interested in the illicit smoking as in a few other things. Things like a wheelbarrow and a garden trowel; some magazines; a pretty dress thrown over a piece of string suspended from one side of the hut to the other; and, in the corner, a boy’s bicycle.’

  ‘Where did you get all this stuff?’ asked Amy.

  ‘We found it, Miss,’ said one boy.

  Amy held up a piece of electrical cable and remembered reading a report that some cable had been stolen from outside a bombed house in Lyndhurst Road.

  ‘We found that in a garden,’ said Barry. ‘The house had been bombed, so it didn’t belong to nobody.’

  ‘But it did belong to someone,’ said Amy, ‘and that someone reported it stolen.’

  ‘We never stole nothing,’ cried Herbert, rubbing the end of his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘And the bicycle?’ asked Amy.

  ‘It was leaning against the wall for days and days,’ said Herbert. ‘Nobody wanted it.’

  ‘That’s because the boy who was riding it broke his leg and was taken to hospital,’ said Amy. ‘When they took the plaster off, he went to look for his bike, but it had gone.’

  ‘We never meant no harm, Miss,’ Barry insisted.

  The boys hung their heads, and Amy was convinced they were being truthful.

  ‘Does that mean we’ve got to give it all back now?’ someone asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Amy.

  ‘But what about the war effort?’ Herbert said. ‘We was saving it to buy a Spitfire.’

  Amy smiled. They meant well, but what they needed was a little guidance. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘you return the things and we’ll start again – only this time we’ll ask people first.’

  ‘Can we have the wheelchair back now,’ asked Barry, ‘to cart everything in?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Amy. ‘I told you, it takes three months from the
time you handed it in before it can be yours.’ He looked really crestfallen. ‘I came here to ask you to help me,’ Amy went on. ‘I need you to help solve a problem.’

  ‘You mean like Sherlock Holmes?’ said Barry excitedly.

  ‘Like real detectives?’ Herbert gasped.

  ‘Something like that,’ Amy chuckled. ‘You see, I’m looking for someone. Wally Hills.’

  There was an immediate shift of mood. The boys seemed suddenly nervous and afraid. ‘Never heard of him,’ said Barry.

  ‘Oh, I think you have,’ said Amy, ‘and it’s really important that I speak to him.’

  ‘He never meant to do it,’ Herbert blurted out. ‘His dad made him.’

  A couple of boys jumped on him and there was a scuffle.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Amy. ‘As far as I know, Wally’s done nothing wrong. A very important man wants to speak to him, that’s all.’ And ten minutes later she was standing outside the tattoo shop.

  ‘I never meant to steal anything,’ said Wally. ‘Me dad said we were helping.’

  ‘Helping?’

  ‘He said the lead needed changing, and the vicar had asked him to take it,’ cried Wally. ‘When I realized he was pinching it, he made me walk home and said he’d give Mum a bashing if I told the police.’

  ‘Your dad is already under arrest,’ said Amy, ‘and he’s put his hands up, because we caught him with the stuff.’

  ‘Will I have to go to prison?’

  ‘We shall have to tell the inspector what you know,’ said Amy, ‘but I’m fairly sure he’ll let you off with a caution.’

  Wally’s eyes filled with tears. ‘But I’ve done the devil’s work. I stole from God.’

  ‘You were under duress,’ said Amy.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Your dad made you do it.’

  Wally looked away. ‘I needn’t have had the tattoo, then.’

  ‘What tattoo?’ said Amy.