‘They’ve got their job to do, Maggie,’ said Mr Bates.
‘You said that before.’
‘What time did you leave the Holborn Empire, Mr Bates?’ asked Nicholas.
‘A bit after half-ten,’ said the lodger. ‘Ask me friend Roddy.’
He could still have got to Manor Place by eleven o’clock, thought Nicholas. Physically, he fitted. And curiously, for a mining engineer, he lodged in Walworth. But he still represented a shot in the dark. Unless he also had other lodgings, the use of another upstairs back room, one that he left empty most of the time, but which might hold the raincoat, the length of cord, a lock of hair and a notebook.
‘Well, thanks for putting up with us again, sir. Sorry to keep troubling you. And apologies, Mrs Wilson, for troubling you too.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Maggie, going into the passage with both men. She couldn’t help liking the detective-sergeant. ‘You’ve got your duty to do, like Mr Bates said.’
‘Fact, that is,’ said Chapman.
After they’d gone, Maggie remarked to Mr Bates that it was all very upsetting.
‘Not to me, Maggie,’ he said. ‘If you’re guilty, every minute’s a worry. But if you’re innocent you can smile at the devil ’imself.’
Trary, with Jane Atkins on her heels, came out through the school gate and saw Bobby at once, waiting on the opposite side of the street. He had something in his hand, something long and wrapped in white paper.
‘He’s there again,’ said Jane, ‘you can introduce him properly to me now.’
‘Oh, you fancy him, do you?’ asked Trary.
‘Golly, is he free then, don’t you want him for walking out with?’
‘I’m usually busy at walkin’-out times,’ said Trary, and crossed the street, Jane with her.
‘Hello,’ said Bobby.
‘Would you like to meet a friend of mine?’ asked Trary. She didn’t at all mind facing up to the challenge of a possible rival. Bobby had that effect on her, of making everything an exciting little challenge. ‘Her name’s Jane Atkins.’
‘We met before, actually,’ said Jane, fluttering her lashes.
‘Oh, so you did,’ said Trary. ‘Then you don’t have to meet again, do you? Come on, Dick Turpin, we’d better go an’ find Black Bess. See you tomorrow, Jane.’ Bobby smiled at Jane, and Jane sighed as he and Trary walked towards St George’s Road. ‘Excuse me,’ said Trary, ‘but what’s that you’re carryin’, Mr Turpin, is it carrots for Black Bess?’
‘No, it’s flowers for your mum,’ said Bobby. ‘I happen to ’ave a friend in the police force. He stopped me and asked if I’d take ’em to her. I was just leavin’ me mum’s stall to come an’ meet you.’
‘Flowers for mum from Mr Bradshaw?’ breathed Trary in gladness. ‘Oh, I think that’s nice, don’t you think it’s nice? I can’t remember when someone last gave mum flowers. I wonder what it means?’
‘Mr Bradshaw said in appreciation of Sunday tea. He couldn’t get round to your ’ouse himself, he was on duty something chronic, he said.’
‘Of course he didn’t say chronic, policemen don’t use words like that. I’m surprised you do.’ Trary was up in the air with pleasure. ‘Oh, I do like Mr Bradshaw. Wait a minute, I want to speak to you, Bobby Reeves.’
‘Don’t see why you can’t,’ said Bobby, ‘you’re natural at speakin’. Most girls are, they’re born speakin’. I suppose it makes up for not bein’ born with much common. Still, I’m not sayin’ they don’t have their good points, and they’re not bad to kiss, either. Not that I’ve kissed ’em all, you’d ’ave to spend every day at it if you contracted to do that.’
‘Oh, can’t you just show off?’ said Trary.
‘I was only sayin’ – ’
‘Yes, you’re always only sayin’, I don’t know any time when talkin’ hasn’t been comin’ out of your mouth, Bobby Reeves. I could do contractin’ myself, you know, I could contract not to let you walk me home any more so as to save myself bein’ sent deaf an’ dumb. Excuse me, I’m sure, but are you grinnin’ again?’
‘Me? Course not,’ said Bobby, ‘I’m just thinkin’ that later on, when you’re older, I’ll ask yer mum if we can walk out official.’
‘That’s a laugh,’ said Trary. ‘When I am old enough, I’ll be walkin’ out with a tall, kind and handsome man.’
‘Yes, me,’ said Bobby, ‘I’m nearly that now.’
Trary’s shriek of laughter pealed, and the horse of a passing van pricked up its ears.
‘What a joke. I never met a barmier boy. And just you listen, what d’you mean by tellin’ your mum I was Lady Hortense?’
‘Well, you’re special,’ said Bobby, ‘partic’larly when you’ve got yer nose up in the air. Mind, I like you for it, Trary, I never knew any girl who could put her nose up in the air as pretty as you do.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,’ said Trary loftily, ‘you sound incurable to me. Oh, and there’s something else, what d’you mean by discussin’ my private legs with your mum?’
‘I had to,’ said Bobby, ‘you can’t talk about suitable stockings without mentioning whose legs they’re for.’
‘Oh, cheeky devil. Bobby Reeves, I’m just not speakin’ to you any more.’
‘I bet that won’t last long,’ said Bobby, ‘but while it does I don’t mind doin’ the speakin’ for both of us. Well, I’m better at it, I make more sense.’
‘D’you want both your legs broken?’ asked Trary.
‘Said it wouldn’t last long,’ remarked Bobby. ‘I said to Mr Bradshaw when he asked me to take these flowers to yer mum, I said I’d give ’em to me Lady ’Ortense when I met her from school.’
‘I bet Mr Bradshaw said you were daft.’
‘No, he didn’t, he said, “Give me kind regards to ’Er Ladyship”.’
Trary smothered another shriek of laughter. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.
‘By the way, I brought the stockings,’ said Bobby.
‘Honest? No, I couldn’t take them. What colour are they?’
‘Black.’
‘Black cotton?’
‘Silk,’ said Bobby.
Trary gasped. ‘Black silk stockings? Silk? Oh, me mum wouldn’t let me wear black silk, not when I’m only nearly fourteen.’
‘Well, would yer mum like them? They’re good as new, and they’re in me pocket, careful wrapped. I kind of favour yer mum. Has she got legs as good as yours?’
‘I’ll scream,’ said Trary, but held it back while they went through the subway. Emerging, she said, ‘I’ll probably collapse an’ pass away if you get any saucier, Bobby Reeves. Fancy talkin’ about legs, and even my mum’s.’
‘Well, I’ve never actu’lly seen them, of course,’ said Bobby. ‘I suppose she’s got some or she wouldn’t be able to walk about. I think all women should ’ave legs to walk about on.’
‘Here we go,’ said Trary, quivering with the joy of being alive. ‘It was bosoms before.’
‘Well, I happen to be well-versed in matters – ’
‘Well-versed? Well-versed? Oh, I never met such a show-off. Just don’t say one word more, you Bobby, not about anything. Oh, d’you think mum might just let me wear black silk? Only on Sundays, of course, and only with my new frock. It looked ever so lovely on me yesterday, and Mr Bradshaw was overcome with manly pleasure. Bobby, you’re quite kind really.’
‘I’m tall and handsome too,’ said Bobby, and Trary laughed and laughed, her boater quivering. People looked as if the bright, vivacious schoolgirl was making their day. Trary wondered how long it would take to properly grow up and always have silk stockings for Sundays.
It was sheer bliss when her mum, having received Mr Bradshaw’s bouquet from Bobby, inspected the stockings and said all right, just with the new frock on Sundays, then.
‘Oh, thanks, Mum,’ said Trary, and gave her a hug.
‘They’re from Bobby’s mother?’ asked Maggie.
‘Well, I couldn�
�t give them to Trary meself, Mrs Wilson,’ said Bobby, ‘it’s too private, as I expect you know. A feller can’t even mention legs to a girl, she stops speakin’ to him when he does. Only for about five secs, though.’
‘Mum, would you hit him for me?’ begged Trary.
‘Not now, lovey,’ said Maggie. ‘Bobby, would you like a cup of tea and a slice of cake?’
‘I’d like it a lot better than a punch in the eye, Mrs Wilson. I keep gettin’ ’orrifying threats, they make me feel it’s goin’ to ’appen one day, and in front of horses, carts and tram-drivers. But don’t be alarmed, I’ll still do me best to ’elp you make something of Trary. I mean, she’s got promise, don’t you think so, Mrs Wilson?’
The girls shrieked. Maggie laughed.
Trary threw her boater at Bobby.
A letter arrived the following morning for Maggie.
Dear Mrs Wilson,
I did tell you how much I enjoyed Sunday tea with you and your girls, it took me back to the days when we had Sunday tea at home. There was always Sunday tea, even when my parents were really hard-up. Could I give you and your girls a little treat in return? Would you all like to come to the Zoo next Sunday? I believe your girls have never been to the Zoo. By the way, I’ve been talking to shopkeepers, and if you still really need a job would you like a morning one with the news-agents opposite the Albany pub? They don’t pay much, but it’s something. The proprietor, George Gardner, said he does need help in the mornings. I gave you a good recommendation.
Sincerely, Harry Bradshaw.
Oh, the dear man, thought Maggie. The family had found a new and very good friend. The girls would love a trip to the Zoo.
There were eyes covertly watching Emma, who was quietly attired as a counter assistant in a dark grey dress, the sleeves cuffed with white. The morning had not been too bad at all, mainly because customers had not been too fussy or demanding. Some often were. Women with a little more money to spend than most people in Walworth required good value, and they took time to be satisfied with their purchases. Amid the little whirrs and rings of the travelling cash canisters, a man and his wife came to Emma’s counter. The woman was nice-looking but fluttery, her hat, blouse and skirt of inexpensive origin, but worn quite attractively.
‘Can I help you?’ smiled Emma, her braided hair neat and compact.
‘Oh, I’m lookin’ for a lace-fronted blouse,’ said the woman. ‘It’s me husband’s birthday present to me. He’s got the mornin’ off from his work, so he’s come with me, although he’s got a bit of a bad back.’
‘That’s what I call making a noble effort for a good cause,’ said Emma.
‘It’s not too painful,’ smiled the husband, a man with a square chin, mild blue eyes and a friendly look. ‘It’s the beige colour blouse she wants.’
‘Yes, beige,’ said his wife.
‘Like the one on the dummy, Maudie.’
‘Yes, like that one, Herby.’
‘It’ll suit you.’
‘Well, I hope so, it’ll be a nice birthday present.’
Emma smiled at the marital cross-talk, and pulled open a drawer. ‘Size, madam?’ she asked.
‘Oh, what’s me blouse size now? I’m always forgettin’.’
‘Forget your own head next, you will,’ said the husband, and winked at Emma. Emma made a guess and lifted out a blouse.
‘Would you like to try this one on, madam?’
‘Oh, it looks nice, I’m sure it’ll fit.’
‘Best to try it on, Maudie,’ said the man, shaking his head affectionately at her flutters.
‘Yes, p’raps I’d better, Herby.’ The woman carried the blouse to the fitting room.
‘I mostly have to make her mind up for her,’ confided the husband.
‘Yes, some of us do like others to make the decisions,’ said Emma. He nodded, and since he seemed a sensible man, she asked him a question. ‘Do you believe women should have the vote?’
‘I can’t see why they shouldn’t, though I expect Maudie would forget she’d got one as soon as she had it.’
Emma laughed. The woman reappeared, wearing the blouse. Emma had got the size right. The blouse, decoratively lacy, fitted perfectly.
‘Champion, Maudie,’ said the husband.
‘Yes, it’s ever so nice. I’ll have it, shall I?’
‘My treat, Maudie, my pleasure,’ he said, and she fluttered happily back to the fitting room. He turned to Emma. ‘When you’re putting the blouse in a bag, slip in a nice pair of silk stockings and blow the expense. She deserves the blouse, and she deserves the stockings as extra. I’ll make them a surprise to her.’
‘They’ll be a very nice surprise,’ said Emma. ‘White or black or grey?’
‘Black, yes, that sounds good. Here’s a pound to cover.’ He handed Emma the banknote. Emma extracted a packeted pair of black silk stockings and wrapped them. The woman returned, carrying the new blouse. Emma took it from her.
‘Oh, I forgot what the price was, Herby,’ she said.
‘Told you,’ said the husband to Emma. ‘She’ll leave her own head on a counter one day. Never mind, Maudie, the blouse is settled for, and I’ll have to be on me way to work once we get back home.’
Emma made the bill out, put it in a canister, with the pound note, and pulled on the wire. The canister shot across the ceiling to the cashier ensconsed in her windowed cubby-hole. When it returned with the change, the blouse had been put into a stiff white paper bag by Emma. The stockings were already in the bag. The man took it, his fluttery but happy wife thanked Emma, and they departed.
When Emma left for home at one o’clock, the watching eyes were at her back and at a distance.
Inspector Greaves was tersely dismissive of Mr Jerry Bates as a suspect. What had made Nicholas have a second go at the man? Just a feeling, said Nicholas.
‘Again? What comes next, your own crystal ball?’ Inspector Greaves was growling. ‘Or perhaps you’ll get your landlady to read your tea leaves for you.’
Nicholas was now poring over reports, hoping to find a pertinent something that had escaped him.
Mr Bates, returning from a day in the City on Wednesday evening, presented the girls with a toffee-apple each. They were all delighted, except Trary, who said thank you but she didn’t lick toffee-apples at her age.
Trary was putting her hopes in Mr Bradshaw, who had invited the family to the Zoo on Sunday. She thought there was promise in that, even though Mr Bates was making himself more at home. Still, her mum was taking that in her stride. She was ever such a cool one sometimes, when you couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Actually, Maggie was beginning to suspect that after several years as a widow, she suddenly had two men interested in her, both very pleasant. Not that she thought either of them had serious intentions regarding a widow with four girls. But it was nice to feel men could still be interested, as long as they didn’t have the wrong ideas about her.
She went to see Mr George Gardner, who ran the newsagents situated a little way past East Street. Mr Gardner, thin and harassed, told her he’d decided he’d got to have help in the mornings or he’d get run off his feet and die an early death. Maggie said she was willing to save him from that. Mr Gardner said that was kind of her, but she’d have to start at eight o’clock and work through to twelve, Mondays to Fridays. His daughter, still at school, helped at weekends. Maggie knew she could rely on Trary to see that her sisters had their porridge before they went to school. She’d take the job, she said. How much would Mr Gardner pay her? Five bob, a shilling for each morning. He couldn’t offer more. Maggie couldn’t turn down five bob. She accepted the job. Mr Gardner said he was pleased, specially as she’d been highly recommended by Constable Bradshaw. She’d got to watch kids who came in for a ha’porth of suckers, as some of them were little . . . well, no, he couldn’t repeat that in front of a lady. Maggie promised to watch them, and to start on Monday.
Emma was quite surprised when the weekend arrived and Sergeant Chamberlain ha
d not, after all, found an excuse to call on her again. Dear me, she thought, am I really to be left alone to enjoy my life in the way I’ve become accustomed to? How kind of you, Sergeant Chamberlain.
Her neighbours said the police were still out and about, still asking questions all over Walworth, they were. You could always spot their flat feet. Emma couldn’t recall Sergeant Chamberlain having flat feet.
By Saturday morning, Trary was feeling miffed. That Bobby Reeves, he’d just disappeared from her life. She hadn’t seen anything of him since Monday, when he’d brought Mr Bradshaw’s flowers for her mum and a pair of nearly-new black silk stockings for her. Mum had washed them, of course. You had to do that with second-hand things. Trary was going to wear them to the Zoo.
She had looked for her talking boy every afternoon when leaving school, but he hadn’t been there. She got haughtier about it every day. On Saturday morning, her mum said, ‘I ’aven’t seen much of Bobby since Monday, love.’
‘Who?’ asked Trary distantly.
‘Bobby.’
‘Oh, him. Well, I can’t talk now, Mum, I’m goin’ out to meet a school friend.’
Mr Bates presented his companionable self to Maggie on her return from market shopping. All the girls were out.
‘Just the lady I’m lookin’ for,’ he said.
‘I’m a bit busy,’ said Maggie, unloading shopping on which she’d spent money carefully. She was never going to get into debt any more. It irked her, of course, that she owed so much money to her lodger, good-hearted though he was.
‘I won’t keep you, Maggie. Look.’ Mr Bates produced some tickets. ‘I didn’t forget that yer girls said they’d never been to the Zoo. I’m goin’ to take all of you tomorrow, and with these tickets we walk straight in, we don’t have to join the Sunday queue.’
Maggie stared at them, hardly able to believe what a coincidence they represented. She lifted her gaze to her lodger. His smile was warm and affectionate. ‘It don’t make sense,’ she said. ‘You’re not ’aving me on, are you?’
The Lodger Page 18
