The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  Trary and her talking boy had come all the way to Brixton on a tram. He’d brought two pairs of roller skates with boxwood wheels with him, the skates strapped and clipped to boots. Seated on a bench beyond the rink itself, Trary gazed in fascination at the scene. The polished rink floor was solid beneath the humming of boxwood wheels and the rasping of metal wheels. Some of the boys and girls were fluent and expert, some halfway to proficiency, and some making the tentative movements of beginners. Show-off boys sped round, weaving their way through groups of slower skaters. Tomboy girls sped after them. Proud-looking girls glided around in upright and stately fashion, ignoring the young show-off males who, of course, meant to impress them and get off with them. Trary badly wanted to become one of them, to skate in a proud, superior style, while Bobby fell about all over the rink. But she had a feeling it was going to be the reverse. At the moment, he was down on one knee in front of her. Her new shoes were off, and he was slipping a boot, with its fixed skate, onto her stockinged right foot.

  ‘How d’you know it’ll fit?’ she asked.

  ‘How do I know? It’s me that brought the boots an’ skates, Trary, not Simple Simon. I’ve seen your feet, I know about sizes.’ The boot went smoothly on, and Trary asked if he had lots of boots and skates. ‘A few,’ said Bobby, ‘we get them in sometimes with a load of footwear. Well, ’ow’s that, me young sweetheart?’

  Trary wriggled her foot inside the boot, ‘Crikey, it really does fit,’ she said, her excitement charged with nervousness. ‘But it feels ever so heavy.’

  ‘There’s a skate on it, that’s why,’ said Bobby, and tied the boot. ‘Now give us your other foot, me precious.’

  ‘You Bobby, stop usin’ romantic talk. We’re not kissin’ friends, we’re not even holdin’ hands yet. Kindly don’t call me sweetheart an’ precious.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bobby amiably, slipping the left boot on her foot, ‘we’ll keep it all for later on, when you’re gettin’ to be grown up. We’ll wait till you’re fourteen before we hold ’ands, and I’ll give you yer first kiss when you’re fifteen. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’ He tied the boot.

  ‘Well, of all the nerve,’ said Trary, ‘you’re not gettin’ to kiss me till I say so, which I might never do if you don’t stop all your grinnin’.’

  ‘Can’t help meself, Trary, you’re fun, you are, and don’t you look prettier than a bunch of roses this afternoon in yer new clothes and that fancy petticoat an’ silk stockings? You come into a fortune?’

  Since her mum had strictly forbidden any talk of Uncle Henry and the will, Trary said lightly, ‘Oh, mum’s a bit better off now, and don’t even have to go to her job at the newsagents any more. Bobby, oh, help, have I got to stand up now?’

  The rink was buzzing with movement, a three-piece band playing above the refreshment alcoves that ran along one side of the hall. And Trary knew she’d got to enter the fray.

  ‘Well, it’s best if you do stand up,’ said Bobby, ‘you can’t skate on yer bottom. You can fall on it, you can’t skate on it. Come on.’ With his own boots and skates on, he took hold of her hands. Drawing a deep breath, Trary gazed up at him. He looked ever so tall and confident, and ever so nice-looking too in his skating jersey and trousers. She felt quite proud at being with him. But she also felt doom-laden. She was sure she was going to fall as soon as she stepped onto the rink. ‘Come on, Trary,’ he said again, and brought her to her feet. She stood on the carpeted strip adjacent the rink, Bobby still holding her hands.

  ‘Don’t you let go,’ she said.

  Bobby saw the light of nervous excitement in her eyes, and the little flutters of uncertainty. He couldn’t see there was ever going to be any girl for him except this one.

  ‘I’ll hold you like this,’ he said, retaining his clasp of her left hand, putting himself beside her and placing his right arm around her waist.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Trary, ‘are you takin’ a liberty?’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Bobby, ‘I don’t want a punch in the eye, not while the band’s playin’. I’m just holdin’ you politely, for learning. Come on.’ He brought her onto the rink through the opening in the low surround, Trary moving with quivering caution. Once on the rink, her left foot immediately ran away from her. She gave a little yell. Bobby righted her. A boy and girl, bumping each other, tumbled and went down. The girl’s skirts scattered around her limbs, and her legs showed to her knees. Boys shouted in glee. The girl sat up, laughed and climbed to her feet.

  ‘Do us an encore, darlin’,’ whooped a boy as he sped by.

  ‘Bobby Reeves,’ said Trary, right hand gripping the smooth top of the surround, ‘I hope you ’aven’t brought me to a den of hooligans.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bobby, ‘hooligans get chucked out. Right, let’s make a start, shall we?’

  Trary drew another breath and pushed forward into the unknown, Bobby’s arm around her waist. He began to teach her the basics, to lean, to push forward, one foot after the other, and to let her skates glide. Trary said her problem was not to let her skates leave her behind. Bobby said don’t let ’em do that or you’ll fall on your Jamaica Rum. Not if you hold me properly, I won’t, said Trary, and kindly don’t be rude. The band kept playing, the lively music a challenge to the show-offs and an encouragement to the beginners. Trary slowly circled the rink, keeping close to the surround. Not a girl who lacked belief in herself, she nevertheless felt she’d never be able to go round on her own. Her skates were wayward.

  ‘Bobby, you sure these skates have got straight wheels?’

  ‘Hope not, they’re supposed to be round,’ said Bobby, ‘I expect it’s yer legs that feel a bit wonky. I mean, it’s yer first time. But don’t worry, you’re doin’ fine.’

  Trary gritted her teeth and persevered. It helped just a little to see that other beginners were having problems. Even so, she didn’t want to stay a beginner all afternoon. Her left hand clung to Bobby’s, and her right hand stayed close to the top of the surround. Then her skates began to behave, to feel smoother and not so awkward, and it was suddenly exhilarating to find herself moving forward quite well. Confidence surged and she pushed with enthusiasm. Bobby let go of her to give her her head. Away she went, and disaster struck. Her skates left her behind and she fell on her bottom. Her new skirt and petticoat took umbrage and finished up any old how. Her shapely young legs, gleaming in white silk, caught a score of eyes and brought forth admiring whistles.

  A boy called, ‘Cor, you got a lovely pair of clo’es pegs there, gel.’

  Bobby arrived and brought the pink-faced Trary to her feet, ‘What’s the idea, showin’ your legs like that?’ he asked. ‘I thought you were partic’lar at keepin’ them private.’

  ‘Blessed cheek, I didn’t show them on purpose,’ declared Trary with feeling. ‘You made me do it by lettin’ go of me.’

  ‘What a life,’ said Bobby, ‘’ow did I know you were goin’ to try skatin’ on yer bottom? I told you you couldn’t.’

  ‘I’ll hit you,’ said Trary, ‘and if you let go again, I’ll box your ears as well.’

  ‘All right, Lady ’Ortense, I’ll hold you unconditional, ’ow about that?’

  ‘Stop showing off,’ said Trary, ‘just hold me proper.’

  ‘Yes, Yer Ladyship, very good, Yer Ladyship,’ said Bobby, and his arm encircled her waist very firmly this time. She saw boys and girls going round and round so easily, crossing one leg over the other as they turned corners, the girls’ skirts roomy, petticoats light and short, ankles and calves showing. The band music was infectious, the atmosphere almost like a carnival.

  ‘Oh, it’s fun,’ she said. ‘Come on, I’m ready again now, and you’d better take good care of me this time, or else.’

  ‘Yes, Yer Ladyship,’ said Bobby, and she gave him a look. She saw the grin on his face. Oh, that boy, what a handful he was. His arm squeezed her waist. Her look became haughty. He winked at her. Trary couldn’t hold laughter back any longer. It burst fro
m her.

  Then they began to move again. It had been all pitfalls so far, and it was all pitfalls for another hour. The session was for three hours, from three till six. Bobby encouraged her, held her and guided her. She just wished her skates would stop being contrary. Bobby was so accomplished, and being really nice, doing all he could to pass his skill on to her. And eventually she achieved balance and then rhythm. Suddenly, she put it all together and without any feeling of alarm. She was upright and gliding, her head a little forward. From then on, happy excitement prevailed. Everything was fun, the band, the speeding boys, the graceful girls, the laughter, the shrieks, the squeals, and the running boxwood wheels of her skates. She had never had such a lively, lovely afternoon of action and fun. At ten past five, Bobby treated her to tea and a fruit bun in the long covered refreshment arcade that was divided into alcoves in true Edwardian style. A waitress served them, a young waitress who exchanged jokes with Bobby, and of course that talking boy had to show her what kind of a tongue he had. The waitress giggled coming and going.

  When they were drinking their tea and eating their bun, Trary said cuttingly, ‘Excuse me, you boy, but when you’re with me, kindly don’t talk all the time to other girls. It’s not good manners.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got to be nice to people, Trary, specially waitresses, or you get stewed tea and stale buns. It’s best to say ’ow’s yer father to them. I was sayin’ to me mum only yesterday – ’

  ‘Here we go again,’ said Trary.

  ‘Yes, I was only sayin’ to her – now what was I sayin’?’

  ‘Something daft, I bet,’ said Trary. ‘It’s a shame, I think, that your mum’s only son can’t help drivin’ her dotty.’

  ‘Oh, most mums are dotty naturally,’ said Bobby, ‘so are most girls. That’s why we like ’em.’

  ‘Are you includin’ me, Bobby Reeves?’

  I’m specially includin’ you, Trary, you’re pretty and dotty.’

  ‘Oh, I am, am I?’

  ‘I also like you when yer proud and haughty,’ said Bobby. ‘You’re me one and only best girl, Trary.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky. After all those things you just said about me, we’re partin’ for ever, Bobby Reeves.’

  ‘Right now, Trary?’

  ‘Well, no, not right now, perhaps. We’ll do some more skatin’ first. Come along, you boy.’

  They went back onto the rink for the last thirty minutes of the session, Trary in renewed enthusiasm. Bobby made complimentary remarks about her progress, and told her she was a natural, as well as the best-looking girl skater there. Trary said that as his manners had improved, he could see her home and she wouldn’t say goodbye for ever to him until they reached her doorstep. When the end of the session came at six o’clock, she could hardly bring herself to put all the fun behind her.

  On the tram going home, she said, ‘Bobby, could we go again?’

  ‘You really liked it, Trary?’

  ‘Oh, I never had such fun.’

  ‘You were goin’ like a champ at the end.’

  ‘You’re awf’lly good yourself,’ she said.

  ‘Agreed unanimous,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Trary, ‘no wonder your cap don’t fit you, no wonder it’s always on the back of your head, your head’s too big for it. And you’re showin’ off again. Now what you doin’?’

  ‘Givin’ you a squeeze,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Blessed sauce. We don’t do squeezin’ yet, so stop takin’ liberties, specially not on a tram with people lookin’. Bobby, could we go again?’

  ‘I’ll see how well me dad did at ’elping mum out at the stall. She’s busy Saturday afternoons, she’s got to have either me or dad there, and if dad – well, never mind that.’ Bobby could imagine his dad skiving off well before the afternoon was over, and while his mum’s back was turned. And his mum was far too easy with his dad. Other women went for skiving husbands with a rolling-pin or saucepan. ‘Well, let’s hope for next Saturday, Trary.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Trary, ‘you’re quite a nice boy.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes, so we won’t part for ever until after next Saturday,’ said Trary, who was never going to admit how much she enjoyed being with her laughing, talking hooligan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sunday was fine. Little white clouds sailed serenely across the blue sky that sat high above smoky London. Summer had decided to stop shilly-shallying and to be more positive. Street kids were making crickets bats out of slats of wood, and cricket balls out of rolled-up rags tied with string. Girls were chalking hopscotch designs on pavements or tuning up for ‘Oranges and Lemons’. Last year’s conkers had either died a brave death in winter battles or been put away to hibernate until next winter.

  The desk sergeant on duty in the police station in Rodney Road looked up at the entry of a neatly dressed woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘Good morning, sergeant.’

  ‘Mornin’, ma’am, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you know Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain of Scotland Yard?’ asked Emma.

  ‘That I do, he’s been almost livin’ here these last weeks. Well, on and off, you might say.’

  ‘We all might say,’ smiled Emma. ‘He’s interviewed me several times concerning the murder enquiry. Could you let him know I’d like to see him?’

  ‘Concerning same case, ma’am?’ enquired the sergeant.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He might just be on duty today.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to drag him out on a Sunday if he’s not. Tomorrow would do. I’m Mrs Carter of fifteen King and Queen Street.’

  ‘Right. Mrs Carter.’ The sergeant scribbled. ‘Any partic’lar message, Mrs Carter?’

  ‘Just say I hope to be of help.’

  ‘Right. That makes it urgent in my book. I’ll take details, if you like.’

  ‘I’d prefer to give them to Sergeant Chamberlain.’

  ‘Very good, Mrs Carter. I’ll see if someone can get hold of him.’

  ‘How kind. Thank you,’ said Emma. She turned on her way to the door. ‘Incidentally, sergeant, do you support votes for women?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Ah yes or ah no?’ smiled Emma.

  Stolidly, the sergeant said, ‘I’m not permitted as a police officer to disclose me political views.’

  ‘Coward,’ said Emma, and left.

  The sergeant lifted the phone off its hook and made a call to Scotland Yard.

  At ten minutes to three that afternoon, Nicholas arrived at Emma’s house. King and Queen Street again had an air of Sunday quiet. He knocked. Emma answered. He noted the crispness of the lace on her light-brown blouse.

  ‘Afternoon, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘Why, it’s you,’ said Emma.

  ‘Weren’t you expecting me?’

  ‘Was I? Oh, yes, I suppose I was. But I thought tomorrow, perhaps, I didn’t want to disturb your Sunday.’

  ‘You’re not.’ Nicholas was businesslike.

  ‘Then do come in,’ she said. He could never fault her composure. She always gave him the impression she was in control of herself and events. He stepped in. She closed the door, took his hat and hung it on the door peg.

  ‘How are you, Mrs Carter?’

  ‘Perfectly healthy, I’m happy to say. Do sit down. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘I’d really like to know why you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ murmured Emma, ‘are we a little bit grumpy today?’

  ‘Do I sound as if I am?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it,’ she said. ‘I’ve met very grumpy policemen. You’re not one of them. Let me see – oh, yes, of course you want to know why I asked to see you.’ She smoothed her skirt. ‘I was followed home on Friday night.’

  ‘What?’ He shot the word at her.

  ‘Yes. I went to a friend’s flat in Sou
thampton Street, off the Strand, to meet her and other suffragettes, and we had a rousing discussion on how best to get our views across to our leaders. I suggested we presented these views in the form I’d written down, addressing them to the general committee, not to Mrs Pankhurst, and that copies should reach every committee member. We – ’

  ‘Yes, very interesting, Mrs Carter, but could you come to the point?’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Emma.

  ‘Never mind oh dear,’ said Nicholas, ‘I want to hear about the person who followed you home.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Emma. ‘I keep forgetting you’re a policeman, you have so many nice ways. Well, I got back to Browning Street on a tram at about five past eleven.’

  ‘Five past eleven? By yourself?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not an offence, is it?’

  ‘My God, women,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to be old-fashioned,’ said Emma. ‘When I got off the tram, I noticed there were two or three couples in Walworth Road, but Browning Street was empty of people. However, I think I was followed all the way down it, and all the way home.’

  ‘You think?’ Nicholas was slightly exasperated by her calmness. ‘You mean you’re not sure?’

  ‘I mean there was a man behind me, definitely, but there’s the possibility he may not have been following me, just walking in the same direction, on the way to his own home. But I began to hurry, of course.’

  ‘Didn’t you turn your head and look?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him, about twenty yards behind me.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘I couldn’t say precisely. It was very dark.’

  ‘Mrs Carter, there are street lamps in Browning Street.’

  ‘Yes, but far apart. I can say he was fairly tall, and I had the impression he was muffled up.’