The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  The service to Daisy meant you had to sit, kneel, stand, sing, pray and listen. It wasn’t half as good as following a Salvation Army band down the Walworth Road. Trary, however, liked church and loved singing the hymns. And there were moments when she could sit in reverent hope that heaven would be kind to her mum and send her a nice man in place of the one heaven had taken away. That was what the vicar had said at dad’s funeral, that a good man had been taken up to heaven.

  At the end of the service, after Daisy had fidgeted all through the sermon, she and Trary were out of the church quickly, to avoid getting mixed up with boys again. Trary, coming up to fourteen, didn’t have any special boy, mainly because she didn’t know any boy she could have a decent talk with. They were all as soppy as daft kids. And some had shiny faces, as if they’d just stuffed themselves, which wasn’t exactly appealing to any girl who’d gone hungry with her family for days on end.

  ‘Come on, Daisy, we’ll take mum’s note to the police station now.’

  ‘Crikey, I ain’t never been in a police station,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Trary, ‘but I don’t suppose we’ll get put in prison, specially after we’ve just come out of church and more specially that we’re not wrongdoers. It’s not far.’

  Daisy trotted gamely along with her bobbing, spring-heeled sister, their boaters yellow in the April sunshine. They went up through Wadding Street, where kids were running in and out of each other’s houses amid the fearsome yells of distracted parents. Older male kids called after Trary.

  ‘Oi, gel, ’ow’s yer farver down in the Old Kent Road?’

  ‘’Ere, ’ow’s yer muvver more like, bet she likes yer, don’t she?’

  ‘’Oo’s that wiv yer, yer funny talkin’ doll?’

  ‘Take no notice, Daisy,’ said Trary.

  ‘Oh, lor’,’ said Daisy, ‘I fink me tape’s broke, I fink me drawers is fallin’ down.’

  ‘You Daisy,’ said Trary in horror, ‘don’t you dare let ’em fall down, not in this street.’

  ‘It ain’t my fault I fink me tape’s broke,’ said Daisy, right hand clutching at her middle.

  ‘Oh, you blessed girl, you hold them up till we get to the police station.’

  ‘A’ right,’ said Daisy, putting her faith in the understanding of a kind and fatherly copper.

  The desk sergeant looked up as an attractive girl, accompanied by a small girl, walked in.

  ‘Hello, hello?’ he said, coming to the counter.

  ‘Good mornin’, sir,’ said Trary.

  ‘And good morning to you, miss, can I help you?’ The sergeant looked fatherly. Walworth kids had a hard time, even if some of them were holy terrors.

  ‘Well, I don’t actu’lly need help,’ said Trary. Daisy wriggled.

  ‘What’s up with the little ’un?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘Nuffink,’ said Daisy, a bit pink.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Trary, ‘but I’ve got a letter for Constable Bradshaw – oh, that’s ’im.’ She dropped an aitch in her glad surprise as Harry appeared. She waved to him. ‘Mr Bradshaw, my mum’s written you a note, can I give it to you?’

  ‘I’m comin’ through,’ said Harry, recognizing her. Putting on his helmet, he reached the counter, lifted the flap and joined Trary.

  ‘Could I whisper first?’ she asked.

  ‘Permission granted,’ said Harry, and lent her his ear.

  ‘Could I take Daisy somewhere private?’

  ‘Private?’

  ‘She’s havin’ a bothersome time with her underneath clothes,’ whispered Trary.

  ‘Sounds like a calamity in the offing,’ said Harry. ‘Bring her this way, Trary. Excuse me a moment, sarge.’

  ‘Permission granted,’ said the sergeant solemnly.

  In an interview room, with Harry waiting outside the closed door, Daisy revealed the bothersome.

  ‘Oh, you fusspot,’ said Trary, ‘the tape’s not broken, you’ve just tied it lazy. It’s too loose.’

  ‘Well, I only said I fink it’s broke,’ protested Daisy. ‘I didn’t say it was, I only said I fink.’

  Trary undid the tape and re-tied it.

  ‘You’re a monkey, you are,’ she said, ‘givin’ me fits in Wadding Street with all them boys about. Come on.’

  Outside, she gave Harry her mother’s thank-you note. He read it in the corridor. It said she was very grateful for what the Salvation Army had sent. It was an unexpected blessing, especially as she didn’t know anyone in the Salvation Army. It was like a miracle, them getting to know about her, and if it wasn’t that, then she could only think someone had been very kind, which was just as nice as a Salvation Army miracle.

  Smiling to himself, Harry put the note away and left the station with Trary and Daisy. They had to go one way, he another. He had other addresses to check on. Never mind it’s Sunday, his sergeant had said, it’s a murder enquiry, so get on with it.

  ‘Tell your mother thanks for the note, Trary.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be pleasured to, Mr Bradshaw,’ said Trary in her most gracious fashion. Smiling up at him, she added, ‘Mum really was most awf’lly touched and kept saying how kind you were, and that your wife was so lucky to have a nice husband like you.’

  ‘I didn’t ’ear ’er say – ’ Daisy’s voice was stopped from operating further. Trary’s hand was over her mouth.

  ‘I’m not married,’ said Harry.

  ‘Well, upon my soul, aren’t you?’ exclaimed Trary. ‘You do surprise me, Mr Bradshaw.’ What a happy piece of news, she thought. ‘Oh, you should see our larder now, I don’t know when we’ve ever had so much in it, wasn’t it a blessin’ you gettin’ the Salvation Army to be so good to us? I’m not sure, but I think mum said there’s always a cup of tea for you anytime you’re passin’.’

  ‘I didn’t ’ear – ’ Again Daisy’s voice was cut short.

  ‘Well, we won’t keep you, Mr Bradshaw,’ said Trary, ‘I’m sure you’ve got lots of duty to do, and I’d better take Daisy home in case she has more bother. Goodbye, it’s been a pleasure, we all hope to see you again soon.’

  ‘So long, Trary,’ said Harry, ‘so long, Daisy.’ He watched them go on their way. The girl was adorable, her mother a fighter.

  Going down Wadding Street, still alive with boisterous kids, Daisy said, ‘I didn’t ’ear mum say about ’im ’aving a lucky wife and about cups of tea.’

  ‘Oh, Daisy, don’t you know mothers can’t always say what they’re thinkin’?’ said Trary. ‘Specially if they’re thinkin’ private.’

  ‘Oh, lor’, I fink it’s really broke this time,’ said Daisy.

  ‘What? Oh, not here, you little ’orror.’

  ‘I only said I fink.’

  ‘I’ll cut your head off,’ said Trary.

  Daisy giggled. A boy called after Trary.

  ‘Oi, darlin’, want to play muvvers an’ farvers?’

  Trary, nose in the air, journeyed haughtily on, Daisy skipping along beside her and still giggling.

  Maggie, feeling life was kinder, served up a lovely dinner of roast mutton, roast potatoes, lush green cabbage and thick onion sauce. Everyone ate with hungry relish. Halfway through, Mr Bates knocked on the kitchen door and put his cheerful face in.

  ‘Hello, that looks good,’ he said. ‘Smells even better. No, I don’t want to interrupt, Mrs Wilson, I’ve ’ad a bite to eat meself, but if I might step in and deposit an item or two?’ He stepped in. The family watched him place four large bars of wrapped milk chocolate on top of the old sewing-machine, a must in every Walworth home. ‘For your girlies, Mrs Wilson. Just a small gesture of appreciation, just a small something, yer know.’

  ‘Crikey,’ gasped Lily. Chocolate was a luxury sweet.

  ‘Crumbs,’ breathed Daisy in bliss.

  ‘Mr Bates, you shouldn’t,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ said Mr Bates cordially. ‘Well, I’ve got some Sunday papers, and am retirin’ to me comfortable quarters to put me feet up
an’ take a look at what’s news and what’s been made up. You carry on.’ He disappeared.

  ‘He’s got a kind heart,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Mum, Constable Bradshaw liked your note ever so much,’ said Trary.

  ‘Yes, you already said so, love. Twice.’ Maggie smiled, then pondered. ‘I wonder if we ought to ask ’im to join us for tea.’

  ‘Mr Bradshaw?’ said Trary.

  ‘No, Mr Bates. Just to show ’im a bit of welcome. Not to make a habit of it, though. Makin’ that kind of habit with a lodger could turn into a rod for our backs. I thought just for tea this afternoon.’

  Trary wasn’t in favour. Her sisters were.

  Daisy, Lily and Meg went out after dinner. Trary helped her mum with the washing-up. At five to three, there was a commanding knock on the front door. Trary, in deep suspicion of who it was, answered the summons.

  ‘Well, here I am, I’ve come round,’ said Bobby, ‘and am I glad, I’ll say. You must be the best-lookin’ little girl in Walworth. I was tellin’ – ’

  ‘Just a minute, whoever you are,’ said Trary, ‘what d’you mean, little girl? I’m gone five feet and nearly fourteen, so kindly don’t come round here callin’ me little.’

  ‘I’m five eight meself,’ said Bobby blithely, ‘and I was tellin’ my dad he ought to see the girl I’m goin’ up the park with. I see you’ve got a nice Sunday frock on. Ain’t it pretty, Trary? Shall I come in an’ say hello to yer mum?’

  ‘You can go and jump off a bridge, that’s what you can do,’ said Trary, and shut the door on him. She waited for the cheeky devil to knock again, but no knock came. She re-opened the door. He was leaning on the gate, cap on the back of his head, his knitted brown jersey and brown trousers obviously his Sunday best. ‘Haven’t you gone?’ she asked accusingly.

  ‘I don’t mind waitin’ till you’re ready,’ said Bobby, ‘then we can walk to the tram stop. It’ll be nice in the park, the sun’s shinin’. I’ll look after you, Trary, and you can tell me about yerself now we’re friends.’

  ‘I’m not goin’ to any park with you,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because with all your sauce an’ blessed cheek, you’re a talkin’ hooligan,’ said Trary. ‘You don’t think my mum would let me go out with a talkin’ hooligan, do you? My mum’s partic’lar, and so am I.’

  Maggie appeared then. She hadn’t been able to resist finding out what was going on. Things had suddenly got better for her family, and everyone was more perky. And Trary looked very alive and challenging.

  ‘Hello, Bobby, you’ve come callin’ for Trary, then?’

  ‘Yes, how d’yer do, Mrs Wilson, I did promise I’d come, and I don’t like not keepin’ a promise. Besides which, I didn’t want to disappoint Trary. Don’t she look a treat in ’er Sunday frock? You don’t mind me takin’ her for a tram ride to Ruskin Park?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ said Maggie.

  ‘He’ll be lucky,’ said Trary, ‘I never heard a more cheeky devil.’

  ‘I’ll bring her back, Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘I’m goin’ to have a fit in a minute,’ said Trary.

  ‘I’d like you to bring ’er back, Bobby, of course,’ said Maggie, finding it hard not to smile.

  ‘Mind, if she wanted to, she could come and ’ave Sunday tea with us afterwards,’ said Bobby. ‘I told me mum she was a nice-behaved girl.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, I’m sure,’ said Trary, ‘but when you get home with a black eye and a broken leg, you can tell your mum that the nice-behaved girl done it.’ She frowned. ‘Did it,’ she said.

  ‘Well, go an’ put your hat on, love,’ said Maggie. ‘It’ll be nice for you, a tram ride and a walk in the park.’

  ‘All right, you boy,’ said Trary, ‘I’ll come to the park, then, but I’m not walkin’ to the tram stop with you. We’ve got lookin’ neighbours, and I don’t want them lookin’ at me walkin’ with you, they’ll think I’ve come down in the world. You walk first and I’ll follow. I don’t mind gettin’ on the tram with you, as long as there’s no-one about. And would you mind stoppin’ your grinnin’? When you’re not talkin’, you’re grinnin’, and sometimes you’re talkin’ and grinnin’ together. Well, now I’ll go an’ put my boater on. You can start walkin’.’

  Maggie laughed. Trary was giving Bobby such a hard time that it had to mean the beginning of a special kind of friendship. Trary had her own way of dealing with unwanted boys. She just put her nose in the air, spoke a few well-chosen words, and left them wondering if their proper place was in the Zoo. Bobby looked as if he was going to be different. All her well-chosen words bounced off him, and her nose in the air only made his grin widen. You could tell he was taken with her, and the fact that she couldn’t put him off was a challenge to her. Maggie was sorry she was going to miss the rest of their afternoon’s conversation.

  ‘I got you, Trary,’ said Bobby, ‘I’m off to the tram stop, then. So long, Mrs Wilson, I’ll see she gets ’ome safe and don’t do any wandering about, seein’ she’s only young.’ And he strolled off whistling.

  ‘You just can’t believe his sauce,’ said Trary. Maggie smiled. ‘Still, I suppose I’d best do what I said and follow him, or he’ll come back and talk us to death through our letter-box.’

  ‘Oh, I expect you could ’old your own, pet,’ said Maggie, feeling sure she knew why Trary had ironed her Sunday frock.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emma, just about to make herself a cup of tea, alerted to a knock on her front door. King and Queen Street was enjoying Sunday afternoon quiet. The closure of the nearby market at midday was always the beginning of the quietest hours of the week. Some children went to Sunday school, others went to the nearest park, and the rest called a truce. Hard-working parents put their feet up and enjoyed a blissful forty winks.

  Emma came out of her kitchen and ascended the little staircase to her bedroom at the front of her house. Silently she slid the window up. She put her head out just as the knock was repeated. On the pavement, at her door, was yesterday’s plainclothes policeman, Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain.

  ‘Hello there,’ she called.

  Nicholas looked up. He saw the sunshine gilding her braided hair, and he saw the smile on her face.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Chamberlain. I’ll come down.’ Emma closed the window and appeared at her door a few moments later. ‘Come in,’ she said.

  ‘This isn’t really an official call.’

  ‘On a quiet Sunday afternoon? I should hope not.’

  ‘I happened to be passing,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Really?’ said Emma, her cream brocade dress giving her a touch of elegance, something not too common in Walworth, where ladies’ attire was practical blouses, homely shawls and coarse skirts in the main. In the summer, however, girls flaunted their bows, their sashes and their bright hair ribbons. ‘Well, Sergeant Chamberlain, perhaps you could now happen to step inside, before my neighbours spot you again and think I’m capitulating.’

  Taking his Homburg hat off, Nicholas stepped in. Most plainclothes policemen wore Bowlers. Nicholas went along with Inspector Greaves in favouring a Homburg.

  ‘Capitulating?’ he said. ‘I think you’re ahead of me.’

  ‘Am I?’ said Emma. ‘I’m sure Sherlock Holmes would make the right deduction.’

  ‘I think my Inspector sees me as a Dr Watson, not a Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Well, I rather like Dr Watson,’ said Emma, ‘he’s more lovable than Mr Holmes. Mr Holmes would look down his fine nose at women’s rights. Dr Watson would lend his sympathy and support. Where was I?’ Emma knew precisely where she was. She was teasing the opposition. ‘Oh, yes, capitulating. I meant, of course, that I didn’t want my neighbours to think I’d gone over to the enemy by inviting one of them to Sunday tea. If Mrs Pankhurst got to hear, she’d have me shot at dawn.’

  ‘She’s formidable enough to give the order,’ said Nicholas. ‘I li
stened to her once, in the line of duty.’

  ‘You’re in favour of votes for women?’ asked Emma.

  ‘I’ve an open mind.’

  ‘That means you sit on the fence,’ said Emma. ‘That’s almost cowardly, you know.’

  ‘I do know. I’m more at home chasing crooks.’

  ‘Don’t you think you come down a little heavily on suffragettes?’

  ‘Only when you’re naughty,’ said Nicholas, and she made a little face at him. ‘Anyway, as I was passing, I thought I’d knock and see how things were with you.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Emma, ‘but what things?’

  ‘Oh, visits or enquiries from strangers.’

  Emma gave him a look of curiosity.

  ‘That doesn’t really make sense to me,’ she said. ‘The stranger in question, the man recommended by Mrs Buller, has obviously found lodgings now. You seem to think he’s still interested in me. Why?’

  ‘Ask me another,’ said Nicholas.

  Emma laughed.

  ‘Well, since you’re here, worrying unnecessarily, would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked. ‘I was about to make one for myself. I usually do at this time on a Sunday.’ It was almost three o’clock.

  ‘I won’t say no.’

  ‘Find a place for your hat, then. Anywhere will do. Then please sit down and I’ll make the pot.’ Emma departed to her kitchen. Nicholas placed his hat on a chair and sat down. He thought the room very pleasant. She might be a suffragette, but she had a very feminine touch. In his book, only a woman could turn a house into a home and place her special mark on it. Men had a different purpose in life. He thought of his wife, a Lancashire girl who had been in service in London, and how she had made a home of the flat in which they started their married life. A sweet girl, she had died in childbirth six years ago, when she was only twenty and he twenty-five. He had lost them both, wife and child. It had made him feel how much harder and more difficult life was for women, and how vulnerable they were, despite their own kind of strengths. He understood the aims of the suffragettes, but their aggression dismayed him. They spoiled for him his image of women, or perhaps the image of what he wanted them to be. He liked them to be like Molly, who had blessed his life all too briefly.