Missing Person

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Still full of sparks,’ said Boots.

  ‘And Polly?’ asked Rachel, just a little teasingly.

  ‘Ask me another,’ said Boots, who never gave anything away whenever Polly’s name was mentioned. ‘In any case, it’s my belief that when I’m out with a woman, it’s bad form to talk about others.’ He smiled. ‘Worse when the woman’s you, Rachel. Damned if you aren’t the best-looking woman in London.’

  ‘Heavens,’ murmured Rachel, ‘you want to borrow money, Boots?’

  ‘Not a penny,’ said Boots.

  ‘Well, then good on yer, lovey, for making my day,’ said Rachel, observing him from under thick lashes. Chinese Lady had three remarkable sons, all tall and highly personable, but Boots had become the most distinguished-looking of them. His wife Emily had been a godsend to the family, so Chinese Lady always said, but she could sometimes look painfully plain, and Rachel, in common with Polly, often wondered how it was that Boots, who could surely have taken his pick, had not chosen someone lovely. Perhaps he was the kind of man to prefer a godsend to a picture postcard. Polly would have none of that, and could express herself bitterly to Rachel. She had an angry bee in her bonnet at times, and had said more than once that Boots cheated her by not waiting for their paths to cross. Rachel always responded to that by saying she doubted if an upper-class deb would really have been fired up by crossing paths with a man who had the heart of a cockney, as Boots did. And to that, Polly always said blow you, ducky, for thinking with a small mind, Boots was mine from the moment he put on long trousers and I wore my first silk stockings. Emily pinched him from me.

  The trolley containing the salver on which stood the huge roast rib of beef did not arrive beside the table until Rachel’s freshly grilled sole was being served. While the waiter, on request, was taking it off the bone, the trolley chef carved the beef for Boots, and Boots slipped him the traditional silver sixpence. Then he and Rachel began to dine in companionable fashion. He introduced the subject of Johnson’s offer for the scrap metal business, letting her know Sammy was inclined to accept. As a family man now, said Boots, Sammy thinks he’s in need of a large amount of money to cover the cost of installing Susie and the kids in a castle. Say that again, demanded Rachel.

  ‘It’s something like that,’ said Boots. ‘Sammy has the kind of ambitions that snowball.’

  ‘You’re pulling one of my remarkable legs,’ said Rachel. ‘Or both. All the companies still provide Sammy with a challenge. He’d never agree to selling any of them.’

  ‘He might if he fancies himself as some kind of country squire, with Susie serving dinner in a ball gown and his kids riding around on thoroughbred horseflesh,’ said Boots.

  ‘I’m dead against that, lovey,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s no secret to you that I consider some part of Sammy belongs to me. Didn’t I pay him a penny for every kiss I had from him, didn’t I gladly show him my remarkable legs every time I fell over at Brixton roller-skating rink? I should let him disappear into the Cotswolds without a fight? Not on your life. Is the favour you want from me something to do with knocking this offer on its head?’

  ‘That’s a clever girl,’ said Boots, the light in the restaurant picking out the gleam of cutlery and glass, and the colourful hats of women. Economic depression was never visible in Simpson’s.

  ‘Clever but not cocky, that’s me, ain’t it, me dear?’ smiled Rachel, whose husband was a prosperous course bookie.

  ‘A godsend,’ said Boots, and let her know he didn’t think the sale of the business a good idea at this time, that the market was nowhere near as promising as it might be in a few years. If fortunes were to be made for all shareholders, they should wait a while. Rachel asked what would improve the demand for scrap metal. A certain amount of rearmament, said Boots.

  ‘Come again?’ said Rachel.

  ‘That’s from the horse’s mouth,’ said Boots, thinking of Edwin Finch and his knowledgeable opinions on the rise of militarism in Germany.

  ‘But you’ve never been interested in making a fortune,’ said Rachel.

  ‘That doesn’t mean I’d favour selling any old time,’ said Boots. ‘But since no-one’s hard-up, we could all afford to wait until rearmament makes the price of brass, copper and lead jump over the moon.’

  ‘Like the cow in the nursery story?’ said Rachel. ‘I bet the lumpy beast didn’t make it. Boots, are you sure you’re not at my legs?’

  ‘Not in here,’ said Boots, ‘but if you’d care to join the family in a game of Forfeits one day, I’ll make sure—’

  ‘Never. I’m a respectable wife and mother, and I’ve heard about your kind of forfeits. Polly told me. But listen, Boots, why should there be rearmament? Pacifism is the thing these days, thank God.’

  ‘Not everywhere,’ said Boots, and mentioned there was an aggressive element on the march in Germany. Rachel frowned and said she’d heard stories about certain happenings in Germany. ‘There’s a fanatic on the loose,’ said Boots. ‘Now, why do Johnson’s want to buy at a time when the demand for scrap metal is so low? Sammy says they’ve inspected our balance sheets for the last three years, and they know accordingly that the profits have been low. Sammy thinks they’re after a London monopoly, but I’m not so sure. The glint of a fortune has made him pie-eyed for once. I need someone to do a little digging for me. I don’t have time myself.’

  ‘I’m your digger?’ smiled Rachel.

  ‘Do you have time?’ asked Boots.

  ‘For you I do.’

  ‘Claim a fee and expenses, Rachel.’

  ‘I should worry about such a thing?’

  ‘A new hat, then?’

  ‘Another lunch?’ suggested Rachel.

  ‘You’re on,’ said Boots, and explained what he wanted her to do, examine the annual returns of Johnson’s for the last three years, visit some of their yards, enquire about prices, see what stocks they’re holding and find out what she could about their directors. Rachel was not only willing, she liked the sound of the challenge. When the lunch was over, he gave her a lift in his car to her home in Lower Marsh, off Waterloo Road. Just before they parted, she asked him if Emily knew they’d lunched together. ‘Tell a wife nothing, and she suspects everything,’ said Boots. ‘Tell her everything, and she’ll make you an apple pie.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Well, perhaps Emily won’t, either,’ said Boots, ‘but when I left the office to meet you, we were still good friends.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Rachel, ‘you’re an impossible man to quarrel with.’ The car pulled up. Boots got out, went round and opened the passenger door. Rachel alighted, not without an acceptable display of grey silk stockings. ‘So long, Boots lovey, gorgeous lunch,’ she said, and kissed him on his cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Boots. He smiled. Rachel warmed to him. ‘And bless your remarkable legs.’

  ‘Same to you, ain’t it?’ said Rachel, and away she went, a woman to catch the eye.

  On his way back to the offices, Boots drove along the Walworth Road. Its familiarity stirred memories, pre-war memories, when Lizzy went about in patched school clothes and cracked footwear, when they all wore darned socks and Sammy’s urchin look belied the fact he was already hoarding pennies and farthings. And Chinese Lady never knew how to make ends meet, but somehow always did.

  He indulged his memories by turning into Browning Street, stopping the car on the corner of Caulfield Place, where the family had lived for many years and where the Brown family now lived. The May afternoon was warm and he remembered the smell of horses when days were really hot, a smell that was always seeking to sneak in through open doors and windows. Horse-drawn vehicles formed the bulk of the traffic before the war. This kept the street cleaners busy, and it kept their wives reluctant to let them in after their day’s work unless the council hosed them down, which it didn’t, not being officially obliged to.

  Unrelenting poverty meant a permanent struggle to keep families together, and
kids like Sammy had all kinds of ways of earning a penny or two. One way was to capitalize on the prevailing nature of the traffic. The kids would shovel up horse droppings, and when they’d got a bucketful off they’d go to places like Kennington or Camberwell, where there were quite a few houses with gardens. They’d knock on doors and offer their wares to housewives.

  ‘Like some ’orses’ durves for yer garden, missus?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Bucketful.’

  ‘I can see that, saucy. I mean, how much for it?’

  ‘Tanner?’

  ‘You’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Worth a bob, yer know, missus. Good for yer rhubarb. Better than custard.’

  ‘Not for a tanner, it’s not.’

  ‘All right, seein’ yer look like me young sister that’s ’ad her picture in the papers, say fourpence, then. It’s all fresh, yer know, it ain’t last week’s. You can smell it, if yer like.’

  ‘I can smell it from here, thanks. Give you thruppence. Take it round to me back garden and empty it round me roses.’

  ‘Yer robbin’ me, missus, at thruppence. But all right, you got a warm ’eart inside yer apron, I can see that, and I don’t mind cuttin’ me price for yer.’

  ‘And I don’t mind givin’ you a thick ear, me lad.’

  ‘I s’pose you couldn’t give us a currant bun as well, could yer?’

  Kids like that, kids like Sammy, usually got a currant bun and no thick ear. Kids like that could also earn a bit for services rendered.

  ‘’Ere, missus, look at this, yer kitchen door ’andle’s come orf.’

  ‘What d’yer mean, and what yer doin’ in me kitchen, anyway?’

  ‘Well, yer front door was open and I thought I’d come in to make sure yer kitchen ’adn’t caught fire. Mrs Arbutt’s kitchen caught fire only last week in Amelia Street, did yer know? Nearly nasty, it was. About yer doorknob, missus, it just come orf in me ’and. D’yer want me to mend it for yer? I ain’t goin’ to charge yer anyfing, just tuppence.’

  ‘I ain’t got no tuppence for mendin’ doorknobs.’

  ‘Funny you should say that, missus, I’m skint meself. All right, just a penny, then, and I’ll fix it for yer.’

  Then there was the gainful pursuit of picking fag ends off pavements and putting them in a cocoa tin and taking them home. There, a kid would separate the tobacco from the paper, put it in a tobacco tin and sell it to some old geezer for a penny. The old geezer would roll his own fags with it, using Rizla cigarette papers, of which he could get a daffy for a penny.

  There was also Sammy’s own speciality, a fiendish talent for catching cockroaches, putting one in a matchbox and showing it to a girl at school. The girl would nearly die on her feet. But that wasn’t all. Give us a penny, Sammy would say, or I’ll tip it down yer neck. Oh, you rotten little beast, the girl would say. I know, Sammy would say, but I’ve got to do something to keep me old widowed muvver alive. When Chinese Lady was given the horrendous details by one girl’s mum, she boxed both Sammy’s ears. Sammy couldn’t believe he deserved that kind of reward for using his initiative.

  Post-war poverty wasn’t quite as grim as pre-war poverty, perhaps, but there was still plenty of it about.

  ‘Oh, hello, Uncle Boots, what’re you doin’ ’ere?’

  Boots turned his head. Cassie, carrying a shopping bag, was beside the car.

  ‘Where did you spring from?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘Well, I live round ’ere,’ said Cassie, ‘don’t you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I know it, Cassie.’ Boots had a soft spot for the girl. ‘I suppose I’m playing truant from my office, and ought to be on my way. But come and sit with me for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Crikey, love to,’ she said. Opening the passenger door, she slipped in beside him, her cotton frock pretty, her long black hair tied with a yellow ribbon. ‘Are you just sittin’ and thinkin’?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, yes, I was, Cassie. How’s the parrot?’

  ‘Well, he’s ever so healthy-lookin’, Uncle Boots. ‘Is feathers look lovely, but he’s still not a very good talker.’

  ‘Talking’s important, of course,’ said Boots.

  ‘Yes, I like talkin’ meself,’ said Cassie. ‘I don’t know why Freddy goes deaf sometimes when I’m bein’ important. I’m ’is girlfriend now, yer know.’

  ‘Well, that’s important,’ said Boots.

  ‘Yes, I expect Freddy’ll realize that when ’e’s a bit older,’ said Cassie, who had had a fairly hectic morning looking after Bubbles and Penny-Farving. ‘I’ve just been to the Maypole to get some groceries for me dad. Uncle Boots, would you like to come ’ome with me and see Cecil and ’ave a cup of tea?’

  Boots smiled. He’d have liked two more children, a brother for Tim and a sister for Rosie. A girl like imaginative and ingenuous Cassie.

  ‘Thanks, Cassie, but I must get back to my office.’

  ‘Well, I could take you to see Mrs ’Arper’s parrot, if you like,’ said Cassie. ‘It’s only down there, near the house where you used to live, and she’s quite nice about lettin’ me see Percy. That’s ’er parrot’s name. He doesn’t half say funny things, like “Hello, sailor,” and “I’ll hit yer.” Fancy a parrot sayin’ that.’

  ‘Well, it’s a funny old world, Cassie,’ said Boots, ‘full of funny old people and funny old parrots. But I still don’t have time to see Mrs Harper’s. Never mind, I can at least drive you home.’

  ‘Crikey, ain’t you a sport, Uncle Boots?’

  ‘Sometimes, I hope,’ said Boots, and drove away. Going up King and Queen Street, he remembered his many ventures into the East Street market when he was young and Chinese Lady, always so busy herself, prevailed on him to do some bargain shopping for her.

  Cassie interrupted his thoughts. ‘Oh, look, that’s ’er, Uncle Boots, that’s Mrs ’Arper, the lady with a talkin’ parrot.’

  Boots saw the woman on the other side of the street, coming from the market. She was wearing a costume and a brown hat with two old-fashioned green feathers.

  ‘Well, she seems all right, even in a funny hat,’ he said, driving on. Arriving at Cassie’s home in Black-wood Street, he asked her how she was off for pocket money. Cassie said she was earning some this week by minding the children of a Mr Rogers in the mornings. But as she wouldn’t be paid till Saturday, she was sort of poor at the moment. So Boots gave her a shilling. Cassie, wide-eyed, asked what a whole shilling was for.

  ‘To help you feel a bit richer, Cassie, and for being you.’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite nice, ain’t I? I ’ope Freddy realizes it.’

  ‘He’s a lemon if he doesn’t,’ said Boots. ‘’Bye, Cassie.’

  Cassie, watching him drive away, thought oh, lor’, I didn’t really thank him properly for the shilling.

  Boots reported to Emily when he reached the offices.

  ‘Rachel’s goin’ to investigate Johnson’s?’ said Emily.

  ‘Just an idea of mine, Em.’

  ‘Why can’t you just have a talk with Sammy?’

  ‘Because at the moment, old girl, Sammy only wants to be told what he wants to hear. I need some information, the kind that’ll put his mind back on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘But suppose the information makes the sale look good?’ asked Emily.

  ‘Then I’ll have to rubbish it a bit,’ said Boots.

  ‘What?’ Emily looked shocked. ‘Boots, you wouldn’t, you’ve been honest all your life.’

  ‘Have I, Em? Who said?’

  ‘Well, I don’t count what you got up to in the Army and in the war. Boots, Chinese Lady would ’ave fifty fits if she thought you hadn’t been the soul of honour in any dealings with Sammy.’

  ‘Bless the old lady,’ said Boots, ‘who knows better than she does that there are always problems, and that most of us have to work our way around them?’

  ‘Don’t get clever,’ said Emily. ‘Did you enjoy your lunch with Rachel?’

  ‘Rachel’s a
lways entertaining,’ said Boots.

  ‘Well, just remember one thing,’ said Emily, ‘it’s me you’re married to.’

  ‘Well, that’s the way I like it,’ said Boots, making a move.

  ‘Half a tick,’ said Emily, ‘I was just thinkin’.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You won’t want a big supper this evening, not after your lunch at Simpson’s, I bet,’ said Emily.

  ‘True,’ said Boots.

  ‘But tomorrow evening I could make a nice apple pie for afters,’ said Emily. ‘Apple pie’s your fav’rite.’

  ‘So are you, Em,’ said Boots, and laughed.

  Chapter Nine

  AS SOON AS Dan was home from his work, Tilly came down to the kitchen.

  ‘How old are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Come again?’ said Dan.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-one,’ said Dan.

  ‘Then you should’ve grown up years ago,’ said Tilly, sumptuous figure vibrant with aggression. ‘You must’ve been retarded to take up with that dotty female on a flyin’ trapeze—’

  ‘Tightrope,’ said Dan.

  ‘And you must’ve been brain-damaged to ’ave children by ’er without marryin’ ’er. What a daft case of infantile delinquency. There’s twelve-year-old kids in Walworth that’ve got more sense. But just because that barmy woman landed you with them gels, don’t think you can land me with ’em every day. You get ’er home here.’