The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  Emma brought a laden tray in. She placed it on a small table and sat down opposite Nicholas. He thought her quite different from Molly. Molly had been bubbly. Mrs Carter was composed. Pouring the tea, she asked if he took sugar.

  ‘No sugar, Mrs Carter, thanks,’ he said, and she passed the cup and saucer to him.

  ‘A home-made biscuit?’

  ‘Home-made?’

  ‘From a recipe of Mrs Beeton’s, called farmhouse biscuits.’

  ‘I’ll try one,’ he said, and she offered the biscuits from a tin. He took one. He tried it. It was crisp and good. He said so. She accepted the compliment with a modest smile.

  ‘Are you worried about me?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve no real reason to be,’ he said, and finished the biscuit. Its appealing flavour lingered. ‘I suppose it’s to do with your hair, it’s identical in colour to the victim’s. You read, did you, that the murderer cut off a strand?’

  ‘Yes. Poor woman. But you’re being ridiculous, aren’t you, sergeant? I’m presuming, of course, that you think the monster is going to make a nasty habit of going for women with fair hair.’

  ‘It’s a feeling I have,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it’s not doing me any good.’ She offered the biscuit tin again. He shook his head. ‘No more, thanks.’

  ‘That’s not very flattering,’ said Emma.

  ‘They’re very good, believe me,’ he said, and sipped the excellent tea.

  ‘I add a little honey to the recipe,’ said Emma. ‘If I had some capital, I’d start my own little biscuit factory. Are you always a worrying policeman?’

  ‘Not always, no.’

  ‘I thought all policemen were hardened and objective men,’ said Emma.

  ‘We do get hardened, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘I can understand that, but it’s not very fair of you to take it out on inoffensive and long-suffering women.’

  That little arrow, aimed with directness but no malice, made Nicholas smile.

  ‘Long-suffering, yes, I’ll agree with that,’ he said, ‘but inoffensive? Did you actually say that?’

  ‘Of course I said it. Compared to crooks and footpads and ruffians, the suffragettes are very inoffensive.’

  ‘The cup of tea was very welcome, and the biscuit first-class,’ said Nicholas, ‘so I’ll forgive you for trying to flannel me.’

  ‘Flannel?’ said Emma crisply. ‘Nothing of the kind. And I refuse to be forgiven. Have you ever seen your uniformed men in action against us?’

  ‘I’ve stood on the sidelines.’

  ‘And what have you observed from the sidelines?’

  ‘Nothing very creditable.’

  ‘How nice of you to make such an honest admission,’ said Emma.

  ‘I meant on the part of both sides,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Oh, dear, now you’ve spoiled yourself. Don’t you sympathize with the anger that drives my sister suffragettes into acts of provocation?’

  ‘I’m not keen on aggressive women, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘You prefer us meek?’ said Emma.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Obedient?’

  ‘I don’t picture them like that.’

  ‘Sweet and uncomplaining, then?’ said Emma gravely.

  ‘No, like you,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Like me?’ Emma looked astonished. ‘But I’m a terrible person, finicky, fastidious and fault-finding.’

  ‘Good Lord, all that?’ he said.

  She laughed.

  ‘But I can say I’m a pacific suffragette myself.’

  ‘I’m relieved,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Nevertheless, Sergeant Chamberlain, I want the vote and mean to have it.’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ he said. A little grin appeared. ‘But what would a terrible person like you do with your vote?’

  ‘My word, you really are surprising for a policeman,’ she said. ‘You’re actually quite entertaining. Are you in charge of this murder investigation?’

  ‘No, Inspector Greaves is. I’m one of two detective-sergeants assigned to help. Mrs Carter, thanks for being so hospitable. I’ll get out of your way now.’ He rose. Emma rose with him.

  ‘There’s no need to worry about me, or about strangers calling on me,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right, of course. Anyway, I think you can handle a situation, Mrs Carter, I think you’re a resolute woman.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Emma, ’is that a compliment?’

  ‘Just my impression,’ said Nicholas. He picked up his hat and opened the door. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Carter, and good luck.’

  ‘Goodbye, sergeant.’

  He stepped out. She stood at the open door. A burly man in a tight-fitting Sunday suit passed by, a small boy with him and holding his hand. A woman was following, also in her Sunday clothes, a bulky-skirted brown dress and a large round black straw hat adorned with bunches of rosy cherries. Behind her two young girls straggled. She turned.

  ‘If you two little perishers don’t come on,’ she called, ‘I’ll ’and yer over to a policeman.’ She stopped to address Nicholas. ‘You seen any coppers about what’ll take charge of me two monkeys?’ she asked loudly and for the benefit of her straggling daughters.

  ‘Try the Zoo, madam,’ said Nicholas, ‘they’ve got cages there for monkeys.’

  ‘There y’ar, you ’ear that?’ shouted the woman to the girls. ‘It’ll be the monkeys’ cage for yer if me an’ yer dad don’t get yer to yer Aunt Ivy’s on time.’

  The little girls hurried up and went on with their mother. Nicholas crossed the street. He turned and gave Emma a little salute. She smiled, then closed the door on the April sunshine, gathered up the tea things and thought about the pleasure that awaited her in the contents of the current issue of the Strand Magazine. The contents included the latest adventure of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Yes, perhaps Sergeant Chamberlain was more like Dr Watson than Holmes. That would not be surprising. Most men were not really as sharp-minded as Holmes.

  ‘What was I saying?’ asked Bobby.

  ‘How should I know?’ asked Trary, walking the paths of Ruskin Park with her new acquaintance. ‘I mean, you’ve said most things twice over. I can’t think why I’ve come out with someone who talks as much as you do, then can’t remember what it’s about. You ought to go to a doctor about it, I’ve heard some doctors can help boys like you. It’s best to have a complaint like that seen to while you’re still young, it can’t be cured once you’re grown up, no-one can help you then.’

  ‘I wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ to any doctor,’ said Bobby, watching boys getting off with girls, ‘I didn’t know I’d got a complaint.’

  ‘Course you have,’ said Trary, ‘I never met any boy who’s got a complaint more chronic than yours. Bless my soul . . .’ She paused. She liked that phrase. So she said it again. ‘Bless my soul, you might never get cured, even if you do see a doctor, you might go on talkin’ for ever and ever. No-one’ll ever marry you, ladies don’t like marryin’ talkin’ machines.’

  ‘Funny you talkin’ about marryin’,’ said Bobby. ‘Well, I’ve never thought about it meself yet, well, not till . . .’

  ‘When I get married,’ said Trary, ‘it’ll be to a nice jolly man, like my dad was, someone who won’t mind if I do a bit of talkin’ myself.’

  ‘Well, I like that,’ said Bobby, ‘you been – ’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep interruptin’,’ said Trary, ‘I can’t hardly ’ear myself think.’

  Bobby grinned. What a girl. He’d never met anyone like her. All the airs and graces too, like he’d read about in books. And she was three years younger than he was. Cheeky. He grinned again. The park was overflowing with sunshine, with boys and girls, and with strolling men and women. The white Sunday frocks of the girls fluttered, their long hair or pigtails hanging down their backs, and flowers dancing in their straw hats. Park-keepers in their regulation brown suits and brown bowlers watched to make sure rowdy boys didn’t chase squealing girls over the grass. Signs
said, ‘Please Keep Off The Grass’. Old people sat on benches, looking at young Walworth ladies promenading with their young men.

  ‘Would you like a sit-down, me lady?’ asked Bobby generously.

  ‘Kind of you to ask, I’m sure,’ said Trary, conscious that the soles of her button-up Sunday shoes were threadbare.

  ‘There’s seats, there,’ said Bobby, and they walked towards an empty bench. Two sturdy boys loomed up and stood in the way, eyes on Trary. The sunshine enriched her remarkably creamy skin, and the tilt of her boater gave her a piquant look.

  ‘’Ello, girlie, ’oo’s you, then?’ asked one boy.

  ‘Yus, ’oo’s yer muvver?’ asked the other.

  ‘None of your business,’ said Trary, putting her nose in the air.

  ‘Push off,’ said Bobby.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello, did someone say somefink, Charlie?’ asked the first boy.

  ‘Dunno,’ said the second boy, ‘I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘I fink it was streaky ’ere. Where’d ’e come from? Did you see where ’e come from, Charlie?’

  ‘Fell orf a barrer somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Charlie.

  ‘There y’ar,’ said the first boy to Bobby, ‘yer fell orf a barrer. So just ’oppit.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bobby, and trod on his foot. He exhaled painfully. ‘Now push off,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Oh, yer bleeder,’ said the injured party, ‘yer near crippled me. Did yer see that, Charlie, did yer see what ’e done?’

  ‘Trod on yer,’ said Charlie.

  ‘’Oo’s goin’ to nobble ’im first?’

  ‘You ’ave first go,’ said Charlie, ‘I’ll look after me young pearly queen.’ He grinned at Trary. ‘Come on, I’ll take yer for a lemonade.’ He put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Trary, and trod on his foot.

  ‘Cor, strike a light,’ he gasped, ‘yer done me big toe in.’

  ‘Could’ve been yer nose,’ said Bobby, ‘me girl’s a terror. So am I. So push off. Go an’ do yer Sunday knittin’.’

  ‘Listen, I got a good mind – ’

  ‘Buzz off.’ Bobby had a glint in his eye. Two girls fluttered by.

  ‘It ain’t bleedin’ civilized ’ere,’ said Charlie, ‘let’s get after the decent stuff.’ He limped off with his friend.

  ‘I don’t know, some boys,’ said Trary, seating herself on the bench and giving her threadbare soles a rest. Bobby sat down beside her.

  ‘Good on yer, Trary, good bit of work you did,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of you. I don’t know I ever met – ’

  ‘Excuse me, I’m sure,’ said Trary, smoothing her frock over her knees, ‘but what d’you mean by tellin’ those hooligans I was your girl? Blessed cheek, I still don’t hardly know you, I’ve just come to the park with you, that’s all. And I only come because I didn’t want to be talked at through our letter-box all day.’

  ‘Well, Trary, I don’t know I’ve ever talked at anyone through a letter-box – ’

  ‘Excuse me again, I’m sure,’ said Trary, ‘but I don’t remember sayin’ you could call me Trary. I’m Miss Wilson to you, I’ll thank you to know.’

  ‘I can’t call you that, you’re not grown up yet,’ said Bobby. ‘Mind, that don’t mean I don’t want you for me girl. D’you know, I never – ’

  ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush,’ said Trary.

  ‘Yes, I never had a girl before,’ said Bobby, ‘not a reg’lar one, not till I met you. I’m glad I waited till I was old – well, fairly old – before makin’ up me mind, or I might be goin’ out with someone not ’alf as crackin’ as you. When you’re younger, like I was once, you can get victimized by yer own impetuosity.’

  ‘Impetu – impetuosity?’ Trary went green with jealousy that she’d never used that word herself, and that he’d come out with it just like that.

  ‘When you’re younger you don’t stop to think like you do when you’re older,’ said Bobby. ’imagine if I’d already ’ad a girl when I met you, I wouldn’t ’alf have felt sick. I feel fine, actu’lly. We can go out Saturdays an’ Sundays, you an’ me, I could treat you to tram rides, I’ve got a bit of money saved up. Of course, you’re too young for us to be kissin’ friends, but when you’re a bit older – ’

  ‘Listen to him,’ breathed Trary, addressing the park in general and no-one in particular. ‘I never heard anything more aggravatin’. What d’you mean, kissin’ friends? You’ll be lucky. I’m kissin’ age now, I am, but not with you. I’m partic’lar, I’ll have you know. Besides which, if you think I’m goin’ out with a talkin’ gasbag, you can think again. Of course, I can’t stop you comin’ round and bashin’ on our door and hollering through our letter-box, but that don’t mean I’m goin’ on tram rides with you.’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Bobby in admiration, ‘you can’t ’alf speak your piece, Trary. You’re better at it than me mum. I keep tellin’ her, she ought to speak a real piece to me dad, he needs – well, never mind that, the fact is I like you more all the time. I don’t know I can wait till next Saturday to take you out, I’ll probably call for yer one evenin’ in the week. Say Wednesday.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Trary, exhilarated, ‘you don’t ’appen to have won medals for your sauce, I suppose?’

  ‘I won a bottle of port for me mum in a Christmas raffle once,’ said Bobby, ‘but I didn’t get any medals. Is your fam’ly poor, Trary?’

  ‘Mum don’t have much comin’ in,’ confessed Trary.

  ‘We don’t have a lot, either,’ said Bobby, ‘it’s mostly from me mum’s old clothes stall. But I’m not goin’ to be poor all me life, I can tell you. I don’t mind bein’ poor for a bit, but not for ever. So I went up to Fleet Street last week to ask in newspaper offices about bein’ apprenticed to learnin’ a newspaper trade.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Trary.

  ‘Printin’,’ said Bobby, ‘newspaper printin’. Constable Bradshaw, a friend of mine, put me up to it.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t he kind?’ said Trary, already fond of Harry.

  ‘He told me newspaper printin’ is where the good wages are. Go up and show your face, he said, and ask about bein’ taken on as an apprentice. They might chuck you out, he said, but they won’t do a hanging job on you. Well, I went in everywhere. I didn’t exactly get chucked out, but they all said not this year, Mr Reeves.’

  ‘I bet they didn’t call you that,’ said Trary.

  ‘Yes, they did,’ said Bobby, ‘they have to talk polite to you in case you don’t buy their paper. Next day I saw Mr Bradshaw and told ’im no luck. He asked did I go to the Daily Mail, which was a thrivin’ paper, he said. I said I didn’t see any Daily Mail offices in Fleet Street, so he told me where it was and to try me luck there. He said to ask for Lord Northcliffe.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Trary.

  ‘Yes, ask for Lord Northcliffe, he said. So I went up and went in, and I said could I see Lord Northcliffe. I said please, of course. The bloke at the desk asked was I a friend of ’is Lordship, and I said not yet I wasn’t, but I would be if he’d give me a job as a printin’ apprentice. The bloke gave me a funny look and asked what my name was. I told ’im and he took me to see another bloke down in some basement. I asked was he Lord Northcliffe, and he said no, he was Harold Briggs and hoped I wouldn’t mind about that. Well, he ’ad a talk with the first bloke, and Mr Briggs kept laughin’. Then he asked me questions about meself an’ me fam’ly, then he wrote things down on paper an’ told me all right, they’d take me on. He said men like me was few and far between – ’

  ‘Men? Men?’ said Trary. ‘I bet he didn’t say men, I bet he said talkin’ gasbags.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t say men exactly, but he did say I was to be a teaboy and runner first off, and learn in between, and I was to start on the last Monday in July. I’m not gettin’ much wages, not at first, just seven bob a week, but he said I could count on favourable prospects. So what d’you think, Trary?’

  ‘Crikey, favourable pro
spects?’ Trary looked at him with new eyes. ‘Would you like a piece of chocolate?’ She took the wrapped bar, the present from Mr Bates, out of her little handbag. Bobby gazed at it. ‘Our new lodger gave us all a bar each,’ she said.

  ‘You got a new lodger?’ said Bobby. ‘That’s a help for yer mum. Is he a bit of all right?’

  ‘He better be,’ said Trary. Undoing the wrapping, she broke off a piece of the chocolate bar and gave it to Bobby.

  ‘All this?’ he said.

  ‘Look, it don’t mean I’m your girl,’ she said.

  ‘No, but a big piece like this does mean you’re gettin’ fond of me,’ said the irrepressible Bobby.

  ‘Oh, you daft lump,’ said Trary. She was young, not yet fourteen, but the suggestion that this cheeky ha’porth thought he could start courting her was more comical than embarrassing. Because of the death of her dad, Trary, as her mum’s eldest daughter, had had to be a support as well as a blessing to her. She had an outlook and a resilience that equated her with maturer daughters of hard-pressed mothers. But she was still young in years, and knew it was laughable to have a boy talking as if they could go courting. Even so, it was laughable in an enjoyable way.

  Bobby looked at her, a grin on his face.

  The sunlight was dancing in her eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Trary arrived home, the kitchen table was laid for tea, and her mum was ready to put the kettle on. Trary noticed shrimps, a whole heap of them, in a basin.

  ‘You didn’t go to tea with Bobby and ’is fam’ly, then?’ asked Maggie, whose harassed look had eased considerably.

  ‘That boy, he never stops talkin’,’ said Trary. ‘And no, I didn’t go home with him, not knowing him all that much.’ Trary did actually like to take her time making new friends and establishing new relationships. ‘But d’you know, he had the sauce to say I was his girl.’

  ‘Did ’e kiss yer?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘I don’t allow unknown boys to kiss me,’ said Trary haughtily.

  ‘She’s blushin’ again,’ said Meg.

  ‘Crumbs, ’e must’ve give ’er six kisses,’ said Lily.