‘Mum, it’s a Salvation Army food parcel, I’ve heard of them,’ said Trary. ‘Wasn’t it lovely of that policeman to speak to them for us?’
Maggie and her girls simply couldn’t take their eyes off what looked like a miraculous mountain of food. Oranges shone, and a whole twelve bananas made a cluster of bright yellow. Maggie looked at Bobby. He was looking at Trary, a boyishly cheeky grin on his face. Trary was looking at the laden table, her face glowing. Her sisters were breathless.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Maggie.
‘Bobby, Mrs Wilson, Bobby Reeves.’
‘And you collected these things from the Salvation Army?’
‘Well, no, missus, Constable Bradshaw must have, I suppose. He just asked me to bring ’em. He’s a friend of mine, well, he done me dad a good turn once, when me dad . . .’ Bobby paused. ‘Well, me dad suffered a turn of blissful ignorance once, and Constable Bradshaw kindly put a word in for ’im.’
‘Blissful ignorance?’ said Maggie.
‘Well, there was some swag about once, which me dad didn’t know was swag.’ Well, that was what his dad had sworn before the magistrate. ‘That’s blissful ignorance, Mrs Wilson.’ Bobby decided to paper over the cracks, and added, ‘Not that me dad’s simple, he’s like me, he’s just got a kind ’eart. Mrs Wilson, would you kindly excuse me sayin’ I like your daughter and don’t mind goin’ up the park with ’er tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Oh, I never met such a cheeky devil,’ said Trary.
‘Bobby, what was the policeman like?’ asked Maggie. Bobby described him.
Trary, clapping her hands in delight, said, ‘There, it was him, Mum, and we know his name now.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Maggie, and went and turned the gas very low under the frying-pan, in which there was a mound of crisping sliced potatoes and bacon pieces. She returned. ‘Bobby, where did the policeman give you this box?’
‘In the market, Mrs Wilson.’
‘I see.’ Maggie smiled, and it made Trary think that her mum was really awfully attractive. ‘And ’is name is Bradshaw?’
‘It’s Harry Bradshaw, Mrs Wilson, and ’e’s straight up for a copper.’
‘Well, when you see him, ask him to let me know which Salvation Army address to write to, as I’ve got to send ’eartfelt thanks for all this food.’
‘Yes, Mrs Wilson.’
‘You make sure now.’ Maggie had her own ideas about the source of the food. She supposed her pride ought to be hurt, but it wasn’t. The gesture was typical of what could happen to a Walworth family down on its luck. Acts of generous neighbourliness did take place, and one was grateful, not proud. ‘You tell Mr Bradshaw, won’t you, that I’ve got to write someone a letter of thanks.’
‘Soon as I see him,’ promised Bobby.
‘I must find you some pennies for bringing the box.’
‘You don’t ’ave to do that, Mrs Wilson, Mr Bradshaw’s already given me tuppence,’ said Bobby. ‘It’s been a pleasure meetin’ you and your fam’ly. Shall I talk to Mr Wilson about takin’ ’er up the park?’
‘I’m a widow, Bobby,’ said Maggie.
‘Oh.’ Bobby looked as if he’d come up against the sad wreck of the schooner Hesperus. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wilson, I didn’t know.’
‘It was five years ago,’ said Maggie, liking the boy, ‘we’re over it now.’
‘Still, it’s hard times, Mrs Wilson, I don’t know when there’s been more hard times. Well, never mind, you’ve got nice girls.’
‘I’m nicest,’ said Daisy.
‘You’re just littlest,’ said Lily.
‘I’m nearly twelve,’ said Meg.
‘I’m sixteen meself,’ said Bobby, ‘and I’ll come tomorrow, shall I, Mrs Wilson, an’ take your oldest daughter up the park? I don’t mind she’s not told me ’er name yet.’
‘She’s Trary,’ said Lily.
‘She’s bossiest,’ said Meg.
‘Oh, I don’t mind that,’ said Bobby. ‘I’ve got two sisters, as well as me mum an’ dad, and they all say I’m the bossiest one of the fam’ly. So it won’t worry me if Trary’s the same as me.’
‘I’d faint if I was,’ said Trary.
‘Can we give Bobby one of the apples, Mum?’ asked Lily. ‘And could we all ’ave one ourselves?’
‘After your meal,’ said Maggie, ‘but you can give Bobby one now.’
‘Could you make it a banana, Mrs Wilson?’ asked Bobby. ‘I’m partial to bananas. I’m not sayin’ I don’t like apples, but a banana’s me fav’rite.’
‘You can have both,’ said Maggie.
‘Well, no, I don’t think I’ll do that, Mrs Wilson, I’ll just take a banana. As I’ve already got tuppence from Mr Bradshaw, I don’t know I deserve an apple as well, it might make me feel I been overpaid for just bringing you the box.’
‘Can’t he talk?’ said Trary, rolling her eyes. ‘I never heard more talk from anyone. I suppose he can’t help it, I suppose it runs in ’is fam’ly, I’ve heard things like talkin’ do run in some fam’lies. Still, give him a banana, Lily.’
‘’Ere y’ar, Bobby,’ said Lily, breaking one from the stalk and handing it to him.
‘Swell,’ he said. ‘I’d best push off now, Mrs Wilson. It’s been really nice gettin’ to know everyone. Specially Trary. Ain’t she pretty? What time shall I call for ’er tomorrow? I don’t mind comin’ round at three, say.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Trary.
‘Hope so,’ said Bobby breezily. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’
‘Not if I see you first,’ said Trary.
‘Well, we’ll all see, Bobby,’ said Maggie, ‘you can come and knock.’
‘I’ll take her on the tram, of course,’ he said, ‘I won’t make her walk. So long, then, Mrs Wilson.’ He departed whistling.
Trary drew a breath. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, ‘I just don’t believe it. I never heard more blessed cheek in all my life.’
‘Is Trary blushin’?’ asked Daisy of Lily.
‘She’s gone all pink,’ said Lily.
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Trary.
‘I fink ’e’s nice,’ declared Daisy.
‘All right, you go up the park with him, then,’ said Trary. Maggie smiled. It wasn’t often that her eldest daughter was out-talked. She’d gird herself up for the next encounter. ‘Look at all these things, pets, just look at them.’
All her girls took a mouth-watering look.
‘Mum, it’s like Jesus and the five loaves,’ said Trary, ‘you’ll have to write him a really nice note.’
‘Crikey, to Jesus?’ said Meg.
‘No, soppy, to that kind policeman,’ said Trary, ‘I’m sure he gave mum a very special mention when he was talkin’ to the Salvation Army. When you write the note, Mum, I’ll take it to the police station. I’ll take it after dinner tomorrow, in case that talkin’ boy does come round. I’m not goin’ up the park with him.’
‘I’ll dish up supper,’ said Maggie, ‘and we’ll have some of the fruit for afters.’ Oh, Lord, she thought, if everything was from him and not the Salvation Army, he must have felt her girls looked starving.
They enjoyed the fruit. They had a banana each, as well as an apple and an orange. Maggie felt almost emotional at the way her hungry girls relished what was a rapturous treat to them. And they were delighted when she finally dished out some of the dates. Her larder wasn’t empty now. There had even been eggs, in a bag on top of the pile of stuff in the crate.
‘Who’d like to put the kettle on for a pot of tea? We can use the condensed milk.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Trary, an active girl who liked being busy. She filled the old iron kettle at the scullery sink and put it on the gas ring. She felt ever so pleased for her mum, for the fact that Constable Bradshaw had been so nice to her.
The front door knocker sounded.
‘I bet that’s Trary’s boy come back,’ said Lily.
‘Yes, ’e forgot to give ’er a kiss,’ sa
id Meg. ‘I’ll go and see.’
‘No, I’ll go,’ said Trary, ‘I want to do meself the kind pleasure of puttin’ him in his place.’
Maggie smiled. Trary answered the knock. It wasn’t that talking boy. In the fading evening light, a man stood on the step, a brown-faced man with broad shoulders, good looks and a large smile. He had a brown moustache and even white teeth, and was dressed in a light grey suit and a straw boater, jauntily tipped. He was carrying a carpet bag and a medium-sized trunk with brass edges.
‘Hello, hello,’ he said, ‘what’s this I see, Walworth’s May Queen?’
‘It’s not May, it’s April,’ said Trary, not a girl to encourage familiarities, especially from strangers. ‘What d’you want, please?’
‘Does Mrs Wilson live here?’
‘Why d’you ask?’ Trary was cautious.
‘Well, if she’s got a room to let, which I believe she has, I’m just what her doctor ordered.’
‘Beg your pardon?’ said Trary.
‘Give her my compliments, and tell her Mr Jerry Bates is requestin’ to be her lodger.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Trary put her head round the kitchen door.
‘Mum, could you come a minute?’ she asked.
‘Who is it?’ asked Maggie.
‘If you’d come a minute?’ said Trary, and disappeared. Maggie got up. Trary was in the passage. The front door was closed. Trary beckoned and went into the parlour. Mystified, Maggie followed. ‘Mum,’ said Trary quietly, ‘I didn’t want the girls to hear, but a man’s just called askin’ about the room to let. He saw the card in the newsagent’s window. I thought – well, he’s tall and well-built, and everyone’s supposed to be keepin’ a lookout for strangers, specially men lookin’ for lodgings.’
That was what had come to be on the minds of the people of Walworth following the house-to-house calls of the uniformed police. Trary and her mum hadn’t discussed the murder, because of the younger girls, but it had been on their minds, as had the advisability of being wary of strangers.
‘Trary?’ Maggie saw the set look on her daughter’s face. ‘Lord, is that what you’re thinkin’, he might be the one that – oh, is he still there?’
‘No, I told him you were out, that you wouldn’t be back till late. I told him he could call again in the mornin’. He said it would be a pleasure, he said he’d be here at half-past nine. Well, you see, Mum, if it is him, I think the police ought to be here waitin’ for him, don’t you? I think I ought to go round to the police station now, and tell them. Perhaps Mr Bradshaw might be there, I could talk to ’im, couldn’t I?’
‘Trary pet, you’re a brave an’ clever girl, that you are.’ Maggie eyed her eldest daughter with visible pride. Neither of them knew it, but what Trary had proposed coincided with what Emma and Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain had arranged under similar circumstances. Trary, quick-witted, had seen it was the best and most obvious thing to do. ‘But I’ll go, lovey.’
‘No, don’t you think it’s best if you stay with the girls, Mum? I can describe the man, can’t I? I mean, suppose he doesn’t call back tomorrow mornin’? That might mean he went away suspicious about me saying you were out and tellin’ him to come back in the mornin’, and if he’s suspicious that means he’s got something on his mind, don’t you think so? Mind, he was as cheerful as anything, and ever so fancy, and a bit saucy as well, he asked me if I was Walworth’s May Queen.’
‘Oh, ’e sounds a very cheerful gent, lovey, at your age I’d’ve liked to be asked if I was a May Queen,’ said Maggie. ‘Still, you did right, we can’t be too careful.’ She mused. ‘I don’t know I’m sure a man that’s done a murder would walk around lookin’ for lodgings the day after, though, specially not in the same neighbourhood. But all right, you go to the police station, then, and I’ll stay with the girls. Oh, they’re up to something.’
There were yells and squeals from the kitchen. Maggie didn’t have too much trouble on the whole with her girls, but they had their moments of argument and quarrel. She returned to the kitchen to restore order, and Trary put her boater on and went to the Rodney Road police station. She was hoping to see Constable Bradshaw again. In the space of a day, Trary had decided that if he wasn’t married he’d do very nicely for her mum.
He wasn’t there. But she met none other than Inspector Greaves himself, the man in charge of the case. She also met Nicholas Chamberlain. She thought the detective-sergeant homely, friendly and manly. To Trary, manly was admirable. She thought Inspector Greaves grizzled and fatherly, if a little bit awesome. She was surprised how encouraging he was, how carefully he listened to her, and she liked the smile Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain gave her. Inspector Greaves told her she was the most sensible girl he had ever met. Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain told her, after he had seen her home, that she was a peach of a girl.
He would be there himself in the morning, he said, with a colleague. He spoke to her mum. Maggie agreed to receive the man, whom Trary said was a Mr Bates, if he did come back. She’d receive him in her parlour. Nicholas would be in the street, with Chapman, and knock on the door five minutes after Mr Bates had arrived.
Maggie’s parlour was comfortable enough with its solid, upholstered Victorian sofa and armchairs, but lacked any pictures or ornaments. There had been one lovely picture, a large one, of a storm at sea, a depiction of the Spanish Armada meeting its doom, which her husband had acquired just before they were married. But that was in pawn now, with the other pictures, all the ornaments and the nice pieces of china kept in the corner cabinet. There was a bare look to the walls, the mantelpiece and the hearth. The brass companion set, a wedding present, was in pawn too. So was the lovely brass fender. The pawnbroker had offered her money for the fender, and Maggie was presently thinking she’d have to go and accept his offer.
The cheerful, smiling Mr Jerry Bates wasn’t put off by the obvious.
‘It’s a tidy house you’ve got, Mrs Wilson, I can see that. I’ve been places, yer know, and seen all kinds, and I always say if someone keeps a tidy house, you can lay to it you’ll get a good bed with a decent mattress.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t offer no-one a bed that didn’t have a decent mattress,’ said Maggie, hiding her nervousness as she studied him. His boater was off, his brown hair thick and wavy, his moustache handsome, his wide eyes full of light and good fellowship, and he looked as if he’d spent lots of time in the sun.
‘I can offer references,’ said Mr Bates. ‘I last had lodgings with a fam’ly in Dartford.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Maggie. She was having an awkward and nervous time. Mr Bates was different in every way from the oily, smirking Mr Hooper. He was very open and frank in his manner, and so cheerful. Just the kind of lodger she’d like. Oh, Lord, he couldn’t be the man the police were after, he surely had to be just a man looking for lodgings. ‘What fam’ly d’you ’ave yourself?’ she asked.
‘Just me old ma and pa, and they’re in Australia, near Sydney. That’s a place, I can tell yer, Australia.’
‘Oh, my parents – ’ Maggie was interrupted by a knock on her front door. Swallowing, she said, ‘Excuse me a minute, Mr Bates.’
‘Pleasure,’ said Mr Bates.
Maggie knew who it was, of course. While she was out of the room, Mr Bates contemplated the ancient wallpaper and the absence of hanging pictures. There weren’t many houses, even in Walworth, where the parlours contained not a single picture, not even one of a Highland stag at bay. Unless the occupants had pawned everything. Amid the murmurs of voices at the front door, Mr Bates counted the lighter patches, square or rectangular, on the wall-paper. Six. All with ‘Uncle’ now, of course. No ornaments, either. And the fire was empty of fuel, the hearth bare. This was a case of a woman with her back to the wall. She’d welcome a lodger. And maybe some charitable gestures.
The murmur of voices became louder. The parlour door opened and Maggie reappeared. There were two men with her.
‘Oh, Mr Bates,’ she said,
‘these gentlemen’s from the police, they’re doin’ the rounds of houses and makin’ enquiries, like.’
‘Morning, sir,’ said Nicholas briskly, ‘sorry to barge in, but the enquiries concern the – ’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Mr Bates, coming to his feet, ‘it’s Sunday, yer know, and it’s a bit much, disturbin’ this lady and her neighbours on a Sunday mornin’.’ His cockney accent had a twang to it. ‘Don’t think much of that meself.’
‘It’s a murder investigation, sir,’ said Nicholas.
‘Murder?’ Mr Bates sobered up. ‘That’s different.’
‘And most people are at home on a Sunday morning.’
‘True,’ said Mr Bates, ‘I grant yer that, inspector.’
‘I’m Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain, sir, and this is Detective-Constable Chapman. We understand from Mrs Wilson that she’s a widow and has no lodger at the moment. Our enquiries, of course, concern – ’
‘Men,’ said Mr Bates, and nodded. ‘One man in partic’lar, eh? Well, I read about the murder. Nasty. Don’t like that kind of cove meself.’
‘Neither do we,’ said Nicholas. ‘However, Mrs Wilson did tell us you were here, asking about a room she has to let. Would you mind answering a few questions?’
‘I get you, sergeant,’ said Mr Bates cheerfully, ‘so go ahead. I wouldn’t want Mrs Wilson to think I’d got something to hide.’
Maggie already thought nothing of the kind. She already thought Mr Bates was quite genuine.
Nicholas was quizzing the man. Handsome devil. Fine build. Hearty. Healthy. Frank eyes. Friendly smile. All the same, there were men whose smile was like that on the face of a tiger before it sprang.
‘Your name, sir?’
‘Jerry Bates.’
‘May I ask why you’re looking for lodgings, Mr Bates?’
‘Because I’m a travellin’ bloke, a minin’ engineer, just up from Australia.’
The Lodger Page 5
