“But didn’t the instructions tell you how much to put in?”
“I suppose. . . .”
“Mum! I bet you’ve never even read the instructions!”
“Well, it seemed such a simple thing. Just making coffee.”
“How long have you had the. . . thing? The coffee machine?” Chris asked.
“About six months, I think. Perhaps not quite that long.”
“It’s nearly a year. And this is the first time you’ve looked at the instructions. Isn’t it?” Stephen asked.
“It was me read them,” Chris said. She sounded delighted. “That’s exactly like our Mum. Isn’t it, Vicky? She never looks at how it tells you to do things till she’s half-way through. Dad always teases her, says she thinks she knows better than anyone. He says if she had to drive a bus, she’d tell the instructor not to bother telling her how, she’d rather work it out for herself.”
Stephen had rarely seen his mother so relaxed. She looked almost as if she were enjoying having visitors. She produced a wholemeal loaf, not very stale, out of the refrigerator and they toasted it and ate it with butter and honey. “It’s luscious. Must tell Mum to get brown bread next time, it’s got more taste than that white sliced stuff,” Chris said, her mouth bulging. Mrs. Rawlinson beamed. Not one of her carefully prepared continental dishes had had such appreciation.
The door of Dr. Rawlinson’s study clicked shut, and he appeared in the doorway saying, before he saw Chris and Vicky, “Margaret, why didn’t you tell me. . .?” He stopped at the sight of the two girls.
“Dad, this is Chris and this is Vicky. My father,” Stephen said.
Dr. Rawlinson shook hands with each of them, rather over-politely, and sat down at the table next to Chris.
“Any coffee for me?” he said to his wife.
“Of course, darling. I’ll just get a cup. . . .”
“Sit still, Mum, I’ll get it.” Stephen didn’t want the chance that his mother might show her nervousness by some piece of clumsiness. As it was she managed to pour the coffee awkwardly, spilling a little.
“Are you just off somewhere?” Dr. Rawlinson said pleasantly to Chris and Vicky and Stephen together.
“No, back from somewhere. Vicky and me are on our way home.”
“Where from, may I ask? Or perhaps that’s a question you’d all prefer not to answer?”
“I don’t mind. Kensington,” Chris said.
“Kensington! The Royal Borough of. Several quite good museums. The Palace is worth a visit,” Dr. Rawlinson said.
“I don’t go much for museums,” Chris said.
“Perhaps it’s as a shopping centre that you find Kensington amusing?”
“Never been there to shop.”
“Perhaps you saw that there’s been one of those interesting baby-snatching cases there. I always find these cases present a very stimulating problem. In most instances there seems to be no financial motive. . . .”
His voice ran on, but no one was listening, until the words “evening paper” caught Vicky’s ear, and she said abruptly, “Is there something about it in the paper today?”
“About what? In which paper?” Dr. Rawlinson asked her politely.
“About the baby that was stolen.”
“I believe the police are questioning some girl. The Standard has quite a long. . . .”
“Where is the Standard?” Stephen said.
“In my study. What. . .?”
“Excuse me a minute,” Stephen said to his mother and disappeared.
“You must forgive my son’s abrupt manners,” Dr. Rawlinson said to the two girls, but addressing himself particularly to Chris.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with them,” she said.
Stephen came back with the paper folded to show the headline “KENSINGTON BABY SNATCH CASE”. He showed it silently to the girls and then sat down to read it.
“Why this sudden interest in crime, Stephen?” his father asked. Stephen got out of that one by answering, “Wait a tick, I’m reading.”
“What does it say, Steve?” Chris asked.
“They’re interviewing some girl. They say she’s been helping them with their inquiries. Doesn’t that generally mean they’re suspicious of her?”
“You three seem very much occupied with this case,” Dr. Rawlinson said.
“We’ve met the parents,” Stephen said briefly.
Dr. Rawlinson said, “Oh really,” but no more. Chris saw him look from one to the other of them. He obviously couldn’t make it out at all. Good for Stephen, she thought. He’s really got his Dad guessing this time.
Stephen said, “It says, ‘A woman spent several hours today at the police station helping the police with their inquiries.’”
“Let’s see,” Chris said, reaching across the table for the paper.
It was maddening not to be able to talk. Stephen wondered what his parents would say if he invited Vicky and Chris up to his room, but decided he couldn’t risk it. He handed the paper over to Chris and looked at Vicky. Vicky looked back at him. He could see she was still upset.
His mother was fussing around again with the coffee. His father was sitting, legs crossed, in an elaborately casual manner, studying the two girls. Vicky caught his eye and immediately looked away. She got up and spoke to Mrs. Rawlinson.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to go now.”
Chris took the hint and got up too.
“Thanks for the super coffee and the bread and things.”
Dr. Rawlinson got up.
“It’s been most interesting to meet you.”
“It’s interesting for us too,” Chris said politely.
“I hope you’ll come again,” Mrs. Rawlinson said.
“We will if we’re asked.”
“I’ll see you out,” Stephen said. He had to talk to Vicky alone—or rather with only Chris as audience. But his father came out into the hall and accompanied them to the front door. Vicky gave Stephen an imploring look. He let his father say the final politenesses on the doorstep and then, just as he was shutting the door, said, “Wait a minute. I’d forgotten something. I’ll start you on the way.”
As he thought, his father had committed himself too far now in his farewells to offer to come too. He merely said, “A very sudden change of plan, Stephen! I wonder why?”
Chris giggled. This was what she’d been told to expect. Stephen simply said, “I shan’t be long,” and shut the door firmly behind him. He ran down the steps and fell into step beside the two girls. He said, “Did you hear what Mrs. Wilmington said about someone being questioned by the police this afternoon? She said, ‘Nora’.”
“Who is Nora?” Chris asked.
“Don’t you remember? Nora Hunter. She’s the nurse,” Vicky said.
“But don’t you see? If the police really think she’s the one who took the baby. . . .”
“She isn’t the girl I saw with it. She’s quite different,” Vicky said.
“Will they arrest her?” Chris asked.
“She could have arranged the kidnap, but got someone else to look after the baby. In fact she’d have had to, or she’d have been suspected at once,” Stephen said.
“That crying girl? I’m sure she didn’t. . .” Chris began.
“Whoever did, and however much we know, I don’t see what we do next,” Stephen said.
“Tell the police they’ve got the wrong person. Now. We could go on our way home.”
Vicky said, “Chris, don’t. It’d be like this afternoon. No one. . .” and Stephen finished for her, “No one’s ever going to believe us.”
Fifteen
“Can’t you stop that bloody kid?” Skinner said, after the baby had cried for what seemed like hours in the early morning.
Maureen, aching for sleep, feeling him rigid with anger beside her, tried not answering. What she really wanted was just to let go and know nothing, but better than waking up properly and having to talk was the sort of half naps she seemed to be able to snatc
h between the baby’s wails.
“Go on. Do something,” Skinner said. He pinched her arm suddenly and hard so that she cried out.
“That hurt!”
“You’ll get hurt more than that if you don’t make that bloody kid shut up.”
“I’ve done everything I know.”
“I don’t care what you do, only stop it. Take it out somewhere. I got to get my sleep.”
“It’s dark outside,” Maureen said.
“Don’t talk.” He gave her a shove which nearly threw her out of the lumpy double bed.
She found her coat and put it on. The nights were still cold. She could see well enough by the street light coming through the curtains to pick her way round the room and to avoid the heavy furniture. She picked the baby out of the carry-cot put across two chairs and wondered what to do. The baby’s cries stopped for a moment, then began again, but louder. It wasn’t going to be enough just to hold her, she’d have to take her out of the room somewhere. But where? The baby howled and struggled. She was cold, her feet were like ice and she was wet again. She’d have to be changed, that meant putting on the light. But if she put on the light here Skinner’d just about murder her.
She pulled the blankets out of the cot and wrapped them round the baby. Good thing they seemed fairly dry. Perhaps if the baby got warm she’d stop crying. But until she did they’d have to get out of the room. The other lodgers in the house might complain, but nothing they could do to her would be as bad as what Skinner might do. She carried the baby out into the passage. It was dark here, so she turned on the light. It went on, and then off again after what was supposed to be a minute, but it was never enough to get up or down the stairs by. She got half-way down when it went out, but that was all right because the toilet was on the half landing and she reckoned she’d be all right in there with the baby for a bit at this time of night. She went in and balanced herself on the edge of the seat.
It wasn’t a very nice place to have to sit holding a baby. It was uncomfortable too. But at any rate the light stayed on, and that made her feel better. She was frightened of the dark, always had been. She wondered if the baby had been frightened of the dark in the bedroom. She couldn’t remember being a baby like this. She didn’t know if babies did get frightened of the dark and that sort of thing, or if they had to be older, knowing about what could happen to you, before they got properly frightened. Or perhaps it was the cold that had made the baby cry. She did seem to be quieting down a bit now. Maureen had got her poor cold feet under her own coat against her side to try to get them warm quickly. The baby was still half crying but she wasn’t bawling any longer. She was hiccupping a lot with sobs and her face was all red and swollen. No wonder. She must’ve been crying for two hours or more.
Maureen wondered what the time was. Last night when she went to bed she’d taken off her watch, the posh one Skinner had given her soon after they’d met—it seemed much more than a couple of months now. Skinner had taken her round to what he called the Club to meet Jakey and Ted and Bus. They’d gone into a huddle together, talking quiet and secret, and she’d been left with Sharon, Jakey’s girl-friend. Sharon was older than Maureen and thought she knew a lot more about everything. She was very thin and looked good in the expensive clothes Jakey gave her, and Maureen knew that Sharon despised her for being younger and fat and for not knowing her way around. Sharon couldn’t be bothered with Maureen and let Maureen see it. When she spoke to Maureen she did it out of the side of her mouth, sort of, and so quiet it was difficult to hear, so that Maureen found herself saying “What?” and “Pardon” all the time. Maureen hated Sharon. She’d said once to Skinner that she thought Sharon was awful the way she let Bus mess her about when she was supposed to be Jakey’s girl, and how she’d come to the club one evening wearing a see-through blouse and nothing underneath, and Skinner had said, “She hasn’t anything on her chest to hide like you have, but she’s got more of everything else that counts.” It had been Sharon who’d taken the baby, they’d decided it wouldn’t be safe to let Maureen as she was going to be the one to look after it. “If anyone sees Sharon going off with the kid, it won’t matter, see? She’ll have an alibi, a good one. What no one’U look for is Fatty,” Skinner said. He called Maureen Fatty, sometimes she thought because he knew she didn’t like it.
Sharon had taken the baby the day before yesterday. No. By now it must be Sunday morning, so it had happened the day before that. Maureen had been waiting in Skinner’s lodgings all afternoon, and it was getting on, it was nearly evening when Jakey and Sharon had come in a car, with Bus driving. Skinner’d been on the look-out, he’d gone down and brought Sharon up to his room. Sharon had the baby with her and she’d put it down on the bed and said, “Over to you, and am I thankful,” to Maureen, and then she’d gone straight out. Never looked back. Then Skinner had made Maureen change the baby’s clothes into the ones she’d bought at Marks. He was in a hurry to be gone, kept telling her to get on with it. He wouldn’t listen when Maureen had told him she’d never dressed a baby before and she couldn’t do it any fasten And the baby, who’d not been crying when Sharon brought her in, started to yell and she struggled and Maureen felt her fingers getting stupid and she was slower than ever, and Skinner standing there all the time swearing at her for not being quicker.
Then they’d gone out, Maureen with the baby and Skinner with the new blue suitcase he’d bought, and they’d got a taxi to one place, and then they’d changed into another and gone somewhere else, and then Bus had picked them up, but in a different car this time, and he’d brought them here, to Edmonton, to this house where the landlady was called Mrs. Plum and where Skinner said they’d got to stop for a bit. He’d told Mrs. Plum he and Maureen were married and that this was their first baby. Maureen had to wear a ring and remember that she was now Mrs. Deptford and that Skinner was to be called Johnny. The baby was Linda.
It was all very difficult, she kept on forgetting when Mrs. Plum called her Mrs. Deptford and looking round for someone else. She hoped Skinner hadn’t noticed. If he did he’d be angry again and she didn’t like him being angry with her. He seemed angry a lot of the time now, not like when he’d first taken her out, when he’d been nice and given her some smashing presents and she’d been so proud that at last she’d got a proper boy-friend, older than her, with loads of money. Well, on and off he had loads, sometimes he didn’t seem to have so much. But if she’d known what it was going to be like having the baby to look after, with it crying such a lot and her feeling frightened she wouldn’t know the right things to do for it, and being frightened of Skinner too, she’d never have said she’d come. Only she hadn’t said she’d come really, Skinner had made her. After he’d helped her to lift the handbag she’d wanted from the shop, he’d told her where the watch he’d given her had come from, and then he’d told her that if she didn’t do what he said he’d get her copped or worse. Sometimes he was nasty like that, and she’d think she’d run off somewhere he couldn’t find her, perhaps to her auntie in the country. Then when she’d nearly made up her mind to this, he’d be nice again and love her and say she was his girl. When he was like that Maureen thought she’d do anything for him. Especially when all he wanted was for her to look after a baby for a week. It hadn’t sounded hard, and she knew she’d be nicer to the baby than Sharon. When he was nice Maureen wanted to please Skinner because she wanted to be loved. It seemed a long time since she’d been loved by anyone.
Maureen’s bottom ached where the seat of the toilet cut into it. Skinner would have said it was because her bottom was so fat. But she didn’t like to shift her weight so as to get more comfortable, because the baby had quieted down. She was still giving an occasional hiccup, but she wasn’t crying any more. Her head was against Maureen’s arm and she just couldn’t see whether the baby was asleep or not. She thought from the even breathing and the way the baby’s head lolled, that she must be. She felt the small feet. They were really warm. If only she dared to creep back into the
bedroom, she could pop the baby back into the cot and get in beside Skinner. She yawned as she thought of this, and felt her eyelids begin to drop. She so terribly wanted to get back to sleep. She wondered if the baby would wake up again if she was carried back. If she dared she’d take her into bed with her. But she thought she wouldn’t dare because when she’d tried that the first night when the baby yelled, Skinner had been really nasty. He didn’t want the kid pissing in his bed, he said. Maureen had thought he was going to hit her, she’d taken the baby out quick.
But she couldn’t sit there all night. If only there was another room she could go where she could lie down with the baby. Her mind pictured a big room with one of those beds with curtains round the top end like rich people had on the telly. With frilly pillows and big soft blankets and fur rugs on the floor and a white dressing-table covered with bottles and bottles of perfume. In the split second before she jerked her head back and her eyelids up, Maureen dreamed that she was sitting on the top bar of the gate at the end of the lane near her auntie’s cottage. The bar bit into her behind and she clutched the bundle in her arms as she woke. The baby stirred, hiccupped and whimpered. Maureen held her breath. Then she heard the regular breathing begin again. Her own head began to drop forwards, she could feel herself sliding down towards sleep. But she mustn’t go to sleep here, sitting on the edge of the toilet seat. She might drop the baby if she went right off. It struck Maureen that if she’d got to spend the rest of the night here, she could be more comfortable. Very carefully she eased herself up from the seat and sat down on the floor. One thing about Mrs. Plum, she did keep the place clean. She found she could wedge herself up against the wall between the pipe at the back of the toilet fixture and the side wall. She had to be careful she didn’t bang the baby’s head either side, that was all. The relief of sitting solidly on the floor, instead of half balancing on that ruddy seat, was so great that for a minute the floor seemed almost soft. Her head went back against the wall behind her, then she let it go sideways against the seat. The baby didn’t wake. Waves of sleep broke over Maureen’s head and thankfully she let herself fall into them. She felt herself go and this time didn’t have to fight against going.
The Chinese Egg Page 10
